11. Barnaby
Chapter eleven
Barnaby
I should have been a little more prepared for her question, but I hadn’t thought it all the way through when I followed her back to her apartment. Still, I manage to come up with something on the fly.
“Come to my home,” I say in my gentlest tone. “Only some of my collection resides in the bookstore, but the vast majority of my prize possessions are at my house, in my personal library.” I lick one of my fangs surreptitiously. “I believe there are some collectibles there that would pique your interest.”
Maisie arches a brow, her arms still crossed over her chest. She is quite pissed off at me, enough that I know it will be a project to dig myself out of the hole I’m in.
“You want me to come check out your home library?” she says, arching an eyebrow.
It does sound rather silly when she puts it like that, but she loves to learn and ask questions, and I think there are many items among my shelves at home that would whet the appetite of her curiosity.
If she’s willing to give me another chance, that is.
“Yes. I will serve you a meal, and then perhaps I can show you some of my more valuable treasures?”
She looks skeptical. “A meal? But you don’t eat, do you?”
“I can still cook.” I’m very much interested in the pink flush that spreads across her pale, freckled cheeks.
“Oh. Okay. Well, then, um...” Her eyes dart away from mine. “I guess that would be fine. When?”
“Tomorrow? After I close up shop?”
What I’m proposing is dangerous, but I have no choice. Not seeing Maisie for a few days was too much for me. As much as her scent makes me crave her, it also makes me desire her company. I enjoy her, truly, and I don’t want this ugly energy between us to persist.
“Fine. I’ll go to your house.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. My cheeks feel stiff at the unfamiliar motion.
“I will see you tomorrow night, then.” I tip my head, then turn to glance at the station I’ve set out for the fair. Grimy children are tossing puzzle pieces at one another, and my hands curl into fists. “Now I must go and take care of this.”
Maisie gives me a small, pitying smile. I am happy to see it on her again.
“Go,” she says, flapping a hand. “We’re on for tomorrow.”
With a thankful nod, I turn and storm back over to my station, where I call for the children’s parents. Hastily they pick up the thrown puzzle pieces, and I thrust a free bookmark at each of them before urging them to leave.
But tomorrow night, I’ll get another chance. I hope I don’t ruin it.
The following morning, all the groceries I requested are already on the table when I wake. Adeline took care of them, making sure I would have everything I need tonight to make a fine meal for Maisie.
The last time I cooked was when I was still alive. I did not build this house with the intention of cooking in it, though it does have a modest kitchen and I’m grateful for that now.
All day at the bookstore, I’m consumed with the thought of tonight. I look up recipes, curious at how more modern ingredients might improve the meal I have planned. I’d intended to make root vegetables, game hen and an apple pie, but discovered while researching that better, more modern spices could be introduced to the pie to bring out the apple’s natural flavor.
When it comes time to close shop, I find Maisie standing out front waiting for me.
“I don’t know where your house is,” she says, twisting one of her toes on the ground. “Can I drive behind you?”
“I did not drive,” I say. “I walk. But it is a long way, so if you have your car, then we ought to take it.” I don’t care much for cars, but they are a necessary evil in modern times .
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m in the lot out back. Come on.”
She leads me to a vehicle unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s shiny and chrome and looks more like an airplane than a car. There is also no door handle.
“Sorry,” Maisie says, hurrying back to the passenger side to help me. She presses a button, and a handle pops out. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I glare down at it. “Unnecessarily complicated.”
Her face falls, and I regret it immediately. With a sigh, Maisie returns to the driver’s side and we both get in. The seats are black, and there are screens everywhere.
“I thought this was a car,” I say. “But it appears to be the interior of a spaceship.”
Maisie laughs as she pushes a button and the vehicle turns on. “What about a little bit of both?”
Then she zooms out of the parking lot. I grip the door as she comes to an abrupt stop at the street.
“Where to?”
Encouraging her to go more slowly, I guide Maisie down the darkened streets and deeper into the woods. We hit the dirt road that will take us around the cove, and the undercarriage of her low car grinds as it hits a pothole.
“Not even paved?” she asks, aghast.
I shake my head. “No construction machinery is allowed out this far. It would disturb the wildlife.”
“What kind of wildlife?”
“You don’t know? Hallow’s Cove is home to a rare owl. I worry that overdeveloping the forested areas would damage that habitat. ”
Again, Maisie is quiet as we drive down the darkened road. She slows down even more, as if she might hit one of those rare owls by accident. Thank goodness.
Finally, the trees around us recede and the manse appears. I show Maisie where to park next to my own vehicle, which is sheltered in a carport. When we get out, she checks the underside of her spaceship for damage. It’s clearly precious to her.
As we head inside, though, she pauses in front of my car.
“Really?” she asks, gaping at it. “This must be from the 80s!”
“Indeed. I purchased it new in 1981.”
She runs a hand over the faux wood paneling. “A Wagoneer. Wow. Haven’t seen one of these in... well, forever, except at car shows.”
“It is good for the dirt road,” I say by way of explanation. She simply shakes her head in awe.
I urge her to follow me into the house and show her where to deposit her shoes at the door. “Don’t worry. Adeline keeps all the floors well swept.”
Maisie cocks her head. “Adeline?”
“My housekeeper.” I lead her to the kitchen, and her eyes travel over everything—the floors, the walls, the furniture, even the ceiling.
“That’s a lovely chandelier,” she says. “And the wood grain in this floor is gorgeous.”
I’m glad that she appreciates it, as each of these details was a conscious choice when I had the manse built many decades ago .
“Please, sit.” I gesture to the table. Obediently Maisie pulls out one of the chairs and makes herself at home. Fetching a glass from a cupboard, I pop the cork of a bottle of wine and pour. When I set the glass in front of Maisie, though, she frowns.
“You didn’t have to get me wine. I know you don’t drink.”
“I told you I would provide for you tonight. Please, allow me?”
Taken aback, she clutches the wine glass tight. “All right.” She exhales. “I’ll let you.”
The way she says it, though, I wonder what other things she might let me do.
Maisie
I am mesmerized by Barnaby as he busies about the kitchen, dicing an onion, then switching to a pan to cook it. The wine he chose is impeccable, despite the fact wine isn’t really my thing—but he seems intent on providing me a certain dining experience, and I’m a willing recipient.
I sip as I watch. I don’t want to distract him, so I don’t make conversation for the first twenty minutes. Eventually, though, Barnaby turns to me and cocks an eyebrow .
“You aren’t typically so quiet.”
I flush. “Are you saying I don’t know how to shut up?”
“Sometimes,” he says, but his lip twitches playfully as he turns back to what he’s doing.
Did he just make a joke at my expense? I think I like it.
We make light conversation as Barnaby puts something in the oven and sets a timer. When it goes off, he brings over a bowl of salad, a plate of root vegetables soaked in a sweet-smelling sauce, and an entire Cornish hen to the table.
“What on earth?” I ask, gaping at the rather large meal. “I can’t eat all this alone.”
“Don’t worry. Whatever you don’t eat, I’ll set it aside for Adeline.”
I still can’t believe he has a housekeeper. Who keeps house for a vampire?
Feeling self-conscious that Barnaby isn’t going to join me in eating, I try to be civilized as I slice off a piece of chicken and add it to my plate. He has something in his hand—a tall glass that looks like it’s also filled with wine.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Protectively, he curls his hand around the glass, as if hiding it from my view. “Cow’s blood.” There’s shame in his voice. “From the local butcher.”
So that’s how he survives without taking human blood.
“Doesn’t look like it tastes very good,” I say, observing the sour look on his face.
Barnaby shakes his head. “It truly does not. But it’s how things have to be.”
I puzzle over this as I continue eating, and a companionable quiet falls. The meal he’s made is wonderful and reminds me of meals my mom made on holidays.
“How long has it been since you drank human blood?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.
Barnaby’s eyes widen, then they dart away from my face. He furrows his brow as he looks down at the glass of blood.
“That’s not a story to tell over dinner,” he grumbles.
I get the sense once again that he’s hiding something—perhaps from that same period of time he glossed over when he told me his story about being turned. I wonder what it’ll take for him to tell me the truth.
“I see.” I tilt my head. “What about after dinner?”
Something in Barnaby’s expression changes in a way I don’t quite understand. His eyes bore into mine, and they’re darker than before.
“Perhaps,” he says carefully, “we could talk more then.”
Barnaby has still not looked away as he sips his blood. I’m much more self-conscious about how I’m eating, and I try to take smaller, cleaner bites. His gaze darts down to my mouth, then back up to my eyes, and a sudden, unanticipated shudder of need runs straight from my throat down to my belly.
Wow. How does he look so fucking sexy with just a look ?
I thought that was it, but then Barnaby produces a pie from the oven, and it’s just as magical as dinner was. Finally, I’m stuffed as full as the Cornish hen I just devoured, and I set my plate and utensils aside. Barnaby collects them, but when I offer to help with the dishes, he rolls his eyes.
“You are a guest. Stay put.”
So I remain seated as he clears the plates and washes them by hand, even though there’s a dishwasher installed next to him. I get the sense it’s never been used.
When he’s finished, Barnaby offers me a hand. I’m surprised by the gesture but take it gratefully. He doesn’t let me go as he leads me out of the dining room and into the rest of the house.
First, we visit a sitting room, with matching couches and chairs organized around a low table. It doesn’t look as if this room is used often. The next one, though, appears much more lived in. A fire is lit in the fireplace, though I don’t remember seeing Barnaby light it when we arrived. Deciding to keep my questions to myself for now, I follow him into the softly lit den, where a single chair and ottoman sit next to the fireplace.
What’s most marvelous about this room, though, are the bookshelves. They line every wall, and each shelf is packed to the gills with books. Most of them appear to be canvas- or leather-bound—certainly there are no mass market paperbacks among them.
“Wow,” I mutter, approaching one of the shelves. I’m about to reach out and pull out a book when a hand lands on mine.
The smell of Barnaby fills me up, and almost on instinct, I lean back into him. He sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t move away as his hand guides mine back to my side. There, he twines his fingers with my own, and it sends an electric shiver up my arm.
“These are some of my most precious treasures,” he says into my ear, making the hair on my neck stand on end. “Many are older than I am.”
Now I understand. I wonder if they might simply fall apart in my untrained hands. He reaches out with his other arm and plucks a title from the shelf with his long, delicate fingers. Then he opens it in front of me so I can see the pages clearly.
“This is my favorite novel,” he says, his voice even quieter now, but closer.
“What sort of story is it?”
“A love story.” He shuts the book again and releases my hand, then sets the book gently in my outstretched palm. “Perhaps you would enjoy it.”
With that, he walks away, leaving me standing there, now cold from his absence.
Tucking the ancient book carefully under my arm, I follow him to the fireplace. There he sits down in the chair, and I hover next to him, not sure where I should go.
Then he pats his lap. My eyes fly up to his, because certainly he doesn’t mean for me to sit there.
“Would you like to read some together?” he asks, but there’s a distinctive, seductive lilt to his voice.
“You were going to tell me your story,” I say with petulance .
“Hmm. That is a sordid tale, though. I would much rather spend my time with you thinking of... better things.”
I have to admit that it appeals to me, too. I want him close to me again, to feel his cool, expert hands on my body.
No. I want to know what he’s hiding, what part of his history he’s so intent on keeping from me. I want to fully understand him before we move any deeper into this, because I’m certain that it’s tied to the reason he left me that night in my apartment.
I sit down on the ottoman instead, and disappointment falls across Barnaby’s face.
“Please,” I say, settling the book in my lap. “I won’t judge you. I just want to know.”
He studies me for many long, silent moments, before he finally closes his eyes and sighs.
“Fine. If you insist.”
“I do.”
When they open again, there is a deep sadness in them.
“You will not look at me the same way again, I promise you that.”