Edward

Eleisha felt only confusion when the heavy merchant ship stopped moving. The tiny hold space she and William shared reeked of rotting rat corpses. Sailors had long since ceased to check on the hold’s two passengers.

“We’ve stopped, William,” she whispered through cracked lips. “Perhaps we’re in port.”

“Time for lunch, then. Yes, yes, must be time for lunch.”

Too weak to argue or answer, Eleisha left him and crawled up the cargo hold stairs. Their good fortune that the ship had reached dock at night suddenly occurred to her. What would have happened had they docked during the day, while she and William slept? Would the sailors have begun to unload wooden boxes around them?

“William,” she called quietly, “we have to get off right now.”

No answer.

She hurried back to find him crouched over. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t leave. Haven’t had tea. Haven’t had lunch. Wait for Julian.”

“Come on.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder. “We have to get off now.”

They also had to hide from the crew. Even without a mirror, she knew what a skeletal sight she must be. She only had to look at William to imagine her own condition. They both smelled of filth and dried blood. But she understood his fear. What sort of land was America? What sort of people lived in this place?

Peering up on deck, Eleisha saw a busy crew. No one paid attention to the hatch door. A wide plank extended to the dock. It was surprisingly easy for Eleisha and William to slip past the sailors, off the ship, and run toward some faded wooden shacks on the shore.

They hid in the mud by a decaying wall, William panting in wordless panic. Eleisha looked around. Now what? Not since Julian pulled her from the bedroom closet had she felt so out of control.

“Well, I must say.” A smooth voice flowed through the night. “This is hardly what I expected. Two fugitives in rags?”

She leapt up, casting about for a stick or a rock. “Who’s there?”

“Oh, calm yourself.”

A man of medium height stepped into view. He wore the most outlandish costume she’d ever seen. His short, dark hair was topped by an absurdly wide-brimmed hat, and a black cape with purple silk lining billowed out over a too-large white shirt. “What do you think?” he said, smiling. “I thought to look the part. Julian has no imagination, you know.” He stepped close enough to see Eleisha clearly. “Oh, dear.”

Positioning her body in front of William’s, she asked, “Who are you?”

“This is Lord William Ashton, is it not?” The man’s foppish manner faded by the second.

Hope, or the barest hint of it, made her cautious. “How do you know that?” She stumbled from weakness and then caught herself.

“Julian sent me a letter by clipper ship. It arrived a week ago. He asked me to meet you here. I owe him a favor.”

“Can you help us?” she whispered.

For an answer, he reached out and caught her as she collapsed.

“What have you been feeding on?” His tone sounded hard now, completely serious.

“Rats.”

“My God.” He grasped William’s wrist. “Come, I have a carriage.”

Eleisha didn’t remember how he managed to get them both to the carriage. But her coherence returned as he led them into a building with red velvet wallpaper and a sign that read “Croissant House Hotel.”

“I have guests,” he snapped at the desk clerk. “Have fresh towels sent up at once.”

“Yes, Mr. Claymore.”

He led them into a room of braided rugs, velvet couches, curved wooden tables, and fringed, floor-length drapes.

“Are you a lord?” Eleisha asked.

“Moi? Hardly.” Some of his earlier joviality returned. “No one cares a whit for such things here. The only thing that counts here is money. If the Prince of Wales showed up tomorrow without a dime to his name, they’d ignore him completely. I am simply Edward Claymore.”

“What’s a dime?”

“Oh, dear.”

He helped William over to a couch. “Would you like to rest, Lord William?”

“Time for tea. Yes, it’s time.”

Edward looked at Eleisha. “Is he delirious?”

“No, he’s always like that. It’s an illness.”

“That’s impossible. We can’t become ill.”

She sank to the floor. Nothing this man said made any sense. He seemed nearly as much at a loss himself. Her physical appearance stirred him into action again, and he hurried into a second room. She heard the sound of splashing water.

“I’m running you a bath,” he said. “Go ahead and climb in. You’ll feel better when you’re clean. Then we must talk. I promised to meet you, not play nursemaid.”

Eleisha walked in and beheld a porcelain tub with a metal spigot on one end. Steaming water poured from the spigot directly into the tub. She stared in amazement, then took off her clothes and stepped in. When the depth reached a dangerously high level, she called, “Mr. Claymore, how do you make the water stop?”

Her amazement grew when he walked in without even knocking. Startled for an instant, she leaned over to cover herself.

“Oh, please,” he said. “I should think you’d be past that by now.”

He turned some tiny levers, and the water ceased flowing. Then he looked up at her thin, pale body and dull hair. “How long has it been since you’ve really fed?”

She knew she should be burning with shame, sitting there naked . . . but somehow, she wasn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“Since you’ve hunted?”

The warm bathwater felt soothing, but she stared at Edward in confusion, wanting to understand him, wanting to communicate.

“When did Julian turn you?” he asked.

“Turn me? The night we left, I think. He opened his wrist and put it in my mouth. Then he put us on the ship.”

“Without telling you anything?”

“He told me to take care of William and stay in the darkness.”

Edward fell silent. Small drops of water dripped from the spigot into the overfull tub. What was he thinking? Eleisha could tell that she and William were somehow a great deal more trouble than Julian had led this man to believe. Finally he picked up the soap.

“Lean back. Your hair is filthy.”

“Shouldn’t someone stay with William? He won’t remember where he is.”

“I put a blanket over him. He’s lying by the fire.”

“Thank you.”

In a world turned upside down, Eleisha sat quietly in the water, letting Edward wash her hair and face and neck. Back in Wales, during her infrequent baths, she was so modest that she kept her shift on in front of Marion. But she somehow felt connected to this man standing beside the tub, as if his ministrations were commonplace. He was gentle and thorough, making her rinse twice. She tried to reach for a towel afterward, but he stopped her.

“No, don’t get out yet.” Indecision weighed heavily on his face. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Putting his own wrist to his teeth, he ripped pale skin down to open veins. “Open your mouth.”

She didn’t argue or question or even wonder at her own lack of character for obeying him like a child. The blood in his arm didn’t taste like anything. Her consciousness barely registered the physical action of sucking or drawing at all. But heat and energy pushed through her with a tingling satisfaction unlike anything in her memory. Strength and speed and desire to live seemed tangible, attainable again. William must be cared for, protected . . .

“That’s enough.”

Edward’s voice broke through as he disengaged her tightly clutching fingers from his wrist. Realization of what had just taken place sent her spinning into the void again.

“What am I?” she asked.

With an expression close to—but not quite—pity, her newfound caretaker dampened a cloth and wiped her mouth. “Julian should be disemboweled for this. An old man and a child. But I feel your gift . . . I think. We’ll stay here a few nights, and you’ll understand.”

She watched him wrap a cloth around his wrist and then let him dry her with a thick purple towel. Neither one spoke.

 
Sitting by the fire the next night, she felt safe and clean for the first time in weeks. Their hotel room delighted her senses with its reds and purples and velvet textures—nothing like Cliffbracken. Edward had somehow arranged for a black silk evening gown to be delivered, fit for Lady Katherine. Eleisha found it pretentious and a needless waste of fabric, but it brought coos of approval from Edward and words such as “marvelous.” She wanted to please him. No matter what hidden emotions motivated him, his actions were kind.

While he might have been unwilling to answer many of her personal questions, he proved to be a wealth of information about their location.

“You landed in Southampton, one of the oldest cities this country boasts—still young by decent standards. Actually, I live on the lower west side of Manhattan. Wonderful place, teeming with life. The whole city keeps burning down, and they just build it right back again. Marvelous. We’ll begin traveling back later this week.”

He chatted on while boiling her a cup of mint tea. “Here, now,” he said, “try a sip of this. It’s one of the few mortal pleasures we can still enjoy—in weak doses. Something about the mint gives me a sense of comfort.”

She sipped from a bone china teacup. “It’s good.”

“Wonderful stuff. But that’s about the extent of what you can consume, except perhaps dark, very fruity red wine. Julian did tell you not to eat any food, didn’t he? Our bodies can’t pass waste anymore, so alien substances just sit and rot. I’ve heard terrible stories. But a few liquids in small doses seem to agree and dissipate.”

“It’s nice to drink tea again.”

“Quite. Try to get Lord William to take a little. He’s weak. I tried feeding him from my wrist last night. He wouldn’t swallow, just spat and choked.”

“That happened the night we left Wales, too. But on the ship, he seemed to draw more energy from the rats than I could.”

Edward’s dark eyebrows knitted. Tonight he wore well-tailored black trousers, a pressed white shirt, and a dinner jacket. She liked the way he combed his hair straight back so his pale forehead was bare.

“Can you tell me what happened before all that?” he asked.

Talking over tiny sips of tea, Eleisha started with Lord William’s first signs of illness and worked her way to the nightmare journey to New York, watching Edward’s face shift from wonder to disgust and back again. She left nothing out.

“Well, that explains my part in this,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a selfish bastard and Julian knows it. He’s probably trying to absolve his own conscience without really helping you. He sent me a message to meet you, knowing I can’t stand filth or imperfection. I should have cut and run, leaving—pardon my bluntness—an ignorant child to care for the old coot. You would have failed and probably been beheaded by some Irish immigrant from the old country. That great fear-emanating pig could comfortably blame everyone but himself.”

Eleisha glared at him. “You’re being unfair. Julian loves his father. He never wanted this. You didn’t hear the things Lady Katherine said to him.”

“It’s quite rude to be loyal to someone I’m criticizing. Please don’t do it again.” He took her empty cup. “But we’ll just disappoint him. I think you and Lord William might remain safe a bit longer.”

She smiled up at him, thinking how vain and shallow the man behind this charming facade must be.

Not understanding him at all.

When she woke up on the third evening, Edward’s bed lay empty. She searched the hotel room without finding him. A physical emptiness like hunger agitated her, and his absence brought her close to panic. William slept heavily on the couch, as though too weak to move.

Where had Edward gone?

This absolute dependence upon him bothered her, but nothing could be done about it now. To strike out with William on her own would be stupid, probably suicidal.

She was on the brink of walking down to the lobby and asking for messages when Edward swept in, carrying a struggling, yowling burlap sack, his handsome face etched in anger.

“For God’s sake, help me.”

“What is it?” Eleisha asked.

“An alley cat. Lord William has to feed on something. This is madness. If he can’t hunt, he should be put out of his misery.”

“No.”

“Then you feed him! I’ve got claw marks up both arms.”

“A cat? We have to kill a cat?”

“Have you a better idea?”

“Why do we feed on blood anyway? That’s the madness, not William’s age.”

“It isn’t blood; it’s life force.” Edward grew calmer. “And we ought to feed him so we can go hunting ourselves. I just hope this works. No one sells a handbook for the care and nursing of wrinkled-up undeads, you know.”

He appeared so frustrated, Eleisha took the bag.

“William,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

His lids fluttered. Without thinking, she reached in, caught the cat with both hands, and snapped its back, not caring that it raked her hand. Weeks ago, the thought of breaking an animal in such a fashion would have sickened her. Now the act seemed merely an unfortunate reality. Biting into the cat’s throat, she tore fur open to expose veins and white, daisy-chained vertebrae.

William’s eyes snapped open.

“Here,” she said, putting it to his mouth.

He bit down greedily, as though starved, red liquid spilling down both sides of his chin. Eleisha kept expecting to feel guilt or nausea but didn’t. Edward left the room.

He came back a moment later with her black gown. “Get dressed. It’s our turn.”

“For what?”

“To hunt.”

“Couldn’t you have brought something back for us?”

“Oh, capital idea. Just waltz them past the desk clerk and dump their bodies out the window, I suppose?”

“Whose bodies?”

As those two words escaped her lips, Edward started in surprise. Some form of realization flickered in his eyes. “Get dressed, Eleisha,” he ordered. “And do something with your hair.”

Twenty minutes later, they were walking down a Southampton street, her hand inside his arm, striking the sharp image of a wealthy couple. But something felt wrong. She sensed it in his silence, in an intimate tension so thick she had to hold on to him to keep from running.

“Where are we going?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

An enormous number of strangers passed them. How could so many people live in one place? How could there possibly be enough food and water? And they were all dressed in such various forms. Edward sported a tailored brown suit tonight. Similarly dressed gentlemen tipped their hats to him, and factory workers in rags moved out of his way.

“It’s so crowded,” she said.

“Wait till you see Manhattan.” Her companion finally spoke. “There are sixty-four thousand Irish immigrants alone.”

“Sixty-four thousand?”

“That’s why I live there. No one is ever missed.”

She pulled her hand away. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do.” He ran a hand across his face and suddenly motioned to an alley. “In here.”

Pushing her up against a brick wall with his chest, his face moved closer until she could see tiny swollen blood vessels behind green irises.

“Can you read, Eleisha?”

“Let go of me.”

“Can you read?”

“A little.”

His grip reminded her vaguely of Julian’s strength—only Edward moved more like a tree, flexible and solid at the same time. Unable to disengage him physically, she fingered the fabric of his jacket and dropped her gaze.

“You’re hurting me,” she murmured.

His hands jerked back as though she were on fire; a mask of fear flickered across his face. “Don’t you ever try using that on me again!” he spat. “I’ll drop you in the East River.”

Her actions had been instinctive, without thought. “What did I do?”

Stomping his feet on the ground while walking in a small circle to regain control of himself, he muttered, “Should’ve thrown myself in the river when that clipper ship hit dock.”

“Why did you bring me out here?” she asked.

“To hunt! You really don’t understand, do you? I’ve never seen any vampire who could seep power like you before she’d even made a kill. God knows what you’ll be like in a few months.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How can you be so dense? Don’t you have the slightest clue? We are dead, Eleisha. And we aren’t dead. We’ll never get any older, but have to draw life from those we kill. I fed you from my own arm. Where do you think that blood came from? A cat?”

She stared at him. “You killed someone?”

“I’ve been killing for the past twenty-six years,” he hissed softly. “That’s what we are. It’s what we do. And I can’t believe that I’m actually standing here, explaining this to you.”

“I won’t murder other people.”

“Then you’ll starve. Life force from animals won’t give you enough energy. After a while, you’ll grow too weak to move at all and live forever in a state of frozen, emaciated agony. No one will take care of Lord William, and the same thing will happen to him. Isn’t that a pretty scene?”

For the first time in her life, Eleisha experienced hatred, not for Julian who had done this to her, but for Edward who told the truth. Rational or not, she hated him for forcing the reality of existence on her and for leaving her no control and no way out.

“Follow me,” he whispered. “Don’t ask questions, and just follow me.”

With no other choice, she walked behind him out of the alley and into a small pub. The smoke and human smells and crush of bodies caught her senses. Wooden tables, pints of beer, men playing cards, brightly dressed women in tight corsets . . .

What a different place. So busy and unaware of itself. Everyone so intent on individual activities.

Then she noticed Edward’s face. All traces of stress and pain had vanished, leaving only foppish, cynical humor. “Gregory, old man,” he called to the bartender, “marvelous apron tonight. Did you wash it?”

Several heads turned in pleasure at the sound of Edward’s voice. Eleisha observed the cheerful effect he had.

“Black heart,” one of the barmaids said, smiling. “Matilda’s nearly wasted away just waitin’ for you to come back in.”

“How many times have you been here?” Eleisha asked softly.

“Once. Last week.”

The extent of Edward’s popularity kept everyone’s attention on him as he flirted with barmaids, teased the bartender, and joked with customers. But his eyes never strayed far from the door. No one besides Eleisha noticed a lone sailor who paid his tab and left.

“I’ve kept you all from serious drinking long enough,” Edward said a moment later. “Off to a late supper now.”

Laughing over loud protests, he handed Eleisha her cape, and they stepped outside. What happened in the next few moments took place so fast she almost couldn’t follow the order of events. They caught up with the sailor outside another alley, and Edward suddenly jingled a change purse.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you dropped your pouch.”

When the sailor turned to see who had hailed him, a relaxed smile curved his lips. “Oh, hello. Don’t think that’s mine. Someone else might have dropped it.”

“Are you sure? It struck the ground right behind you.”

Holding it out like an offering, Edward waited until the sailor leaned over to inspect the purse. Before the actual movement registered, both men disappeared inside the alley, and Eleisha heard bones cracking.

Just like the cat.

Her companion had chosen a good time and place. No one else passed by to hear the struggle. Not that it was much of a struggle. She moved into the dark alley mouth only seconds later to see Edward leaning over a slumped form.

“It’s time,” he said.

“I can’t.”

But as she looked at the open throat, exposed veins, red fluid running down onto the ground, a hunger—and not a hunger—sent her memory into a wavering haze. Had this source ever talked and moved and danced? Or was it just a source? A wellspring?

“This pulls at you,” Edward whispered. “Don’t let yourself think.”

He reached out and gently took her wrist. No pulling back. No fighting. She let him draw her forward, and then knelt down on her own.

The experience was similar to feeding on Edward’s arm but more intense. The warm liquid was sweet. Heat raced through her while pictures of ocean waves and fistfights and a brown-haired woman etched themselves into her brain. After the initial physical connection, she was no longer conscious of her mouth on the sailor’s throat, only the strength and pleasure and energy his life force brought.

Just as she could take no more, she felt his heartbeat stop. When she lifted her head, she saw torn-edged flesh and two dead eyes staring up into empty space.

Euphoria faded.

Edward’s hand touched her hair. Turning, she hid her face in his chest, forgetting she might get blood on his jacket, not hating him anymore.

 
On the fourth night, they began traveling to Manhattan in Edward’s carriage.

“The trip should take three days or so if we don’t dally,” he said, falling into his charming fop routine. Perhaps he played it so often the personality had become part of him. “I know a delicious little dress shop on Market Field Street. It’s divine. We’ll buy you something low-cut in red taffeta.”

A handsome pair of bay horses trotted ahead of the carriage, pulling it away from the Croissant House Hotel. Eleisha felt sorry to be leaving. The hotel room had grown comfortably safe.

“Once more into the breach, dear friends,” Edward called, snapping his whip in the air.

Despite the fact that he seemed genuinely glad to be heading for home, he was also avoiding any serious conversation. Not that she blamed him. What could they say? Last night had been brutal and emotionally exhausting. She didn’t want to think about it, much less discuss it. And getting William into the carriage had been a nightmare. Although stronger from feeding on the cat, he was also more aware of his surroundings and terrified that Edward might be taking him back to the ship. Eleisha’s coaxing and comforting did little to help. In the end, Edward lost his patience, slapped William hard enough to daze him, and then carried him outside like a sack of potatoes past the openmouthed desk clerk.

All in all, it hadn’t been an easy night. Edward’s empty chatter soothed Eleisha while she rocked William back and forth, assuring him there was no ship in sight.

She felt surprisingly safe beginning a new journey so soon after finishing the last one. But her trust in Edward was profound. He may not have been an overwhelming force like Julian, but he was strong and careful, no matter how frivolous he might pretend to be.

“Do you live in a house?” she asked.

“No, a hotel suite. You’ll like it.” He glanced over at William. “Can you put him to sleep?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Because we’ll have to cross W-A-T-E-R in a short while, and he’s going to throw a fit.”

“Can’t you go another way?”

“No. Haven’t I shown you a map of New York yet? We’re on Long Island. Southampton’s cut off by a small bit of the Peconic Bay. Just a sliver, but we need to take a ferry.”

“How much farther?”

“About ten miles.”

She hated to talk in front of William as if he weren’t there, but Edward made sense. She continued rocking the old lord until he drifted off. Ten miles later, the carriage moved right up onto the ferry without stopping. William slept through the entire process.

“Capital,” Edward sighed when they had safely crossed. “I was afraid I’d have to hit him again.”

“You need to be more patient.”

“If I’d resorted to patience, we’d still be sitting in the hotel.”

His tone waxed humorous, though, good-natured. She smiled up at him, pretending they were a brother and sister escorting their grandfather on holiday, playing Edward’s foppish game and forgetting reality if only for a little while.

 
Here, Wade became aware of himself briefly as the clear images of Eleisha’s story switched to flashes and impressions rapidly shifting past him like the pages of a book.

Yet he still felt what she had once experienced.

Upon arriving at Edward’s “home,” she was delighted with his lavish hotel suite, and the new world that he showed her. But no longer a servant, she’d had trouble at first adjusting to the hotel staff waiting upon her, laundering her clothes, lighting the fire, cleaning the rooms . . . changing her bedding.

Images raced by as time flowed on.

The next seventy years passed in a flash of scenes. Edward moved his little family to a new hotel suite about once a year, and Eleisha was glad to let him handle their living arrangements, their money, ordering their clothes . . . their entire existence. She always hunted with Edward. Otherwise, her only concern was to care for William, and she was content to let Edward take care of everything else.

Still half lost in her mind, Wade could not truly pinpoint when the change began.

But one night, she wanted to order a gown to her own taste—something simple. Then sometime later, she wondered why she did not have her own bank accounts for the money Julian sent.

She said nothing of this to Edward.

But their world was changing.

She started hunting alone.

The scene crystallized again, and Wade forgot himself.

 
Eleisha ripped the bastard’s throat out and watched him fall back with a soundless scream. Pig. A nearly black Manhattan alley hid his flailing arms from the outside world, not that anyone cared. With one hand, she pulled up the torn shoulder of her red taffeta dress, and with the other, grasped the back of his head.

This time the blood tasted good through her teeth, over her tongue, dripping in warm rivulets down her bare shoulder. She saw pictures of rape and whiskey, a red-haired girl being beaten, the hanging of an Irish steelworker, no beauty, no music.

She finished feeding and dropped him, feeling less remorse than usual.

Wiping her face carefully, she slipped back out onto the street. A white-bearded gentleman in his early fifties stopped at the sight of her torn but expensive gown.

“Are you hurt, my dear?”

Human nature still escaped her. This man possessed kind eyes, his concern genuine. But had her face been painted and her dress cheap dyed cotton, he wouldn’t have stopped to nudge her dead body. She didn’t really want his gallant services, but walking around with ripped clothing would attract attention.

“No, sir. Thank you. I walked past an exposed nail.” She glanced about in pretended distress. “Could you please hail me a cab?”

Pleased to be of assistance, he stepped toward the street, found her appropriate transportation, and lifted her inside the cab as though she were a kitten.

“You are most kind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said, bowing slightly like a knight standing over a slain dragon.

The cabbie pulled out and followed her directions to Bridge Street, to Edward’s hotel suite. She’d never stopped viewing any of their various residences as Edward’s.

Apparently the aging Sir Galahad must have paid for her trip, because once she stepped down, the cabbie pulled away without a word.

Eleisha turned and headed up the stairs of the Green Gem Hotel to find Edward sitting on a velvet couch reading the newspaper.

“Hello, angel,” he said over a cup of tea.

She smiled absently, noticing how comfortable he always appeared inside a lavish hotel suite they would simply abandon in another few months. Didn’t he ever wish to stay in one place and make it a home?

William tottered out of his bedroom, messy silver hair hanging in his face. “Eleisha,” he said, smiling in a moment of coherence. “Time for supper?”

He and Edward had begun avoiding each other of late. Instead of becoming accustomed to William’s condition, Edward was growing more repulsed with each passing year. This bothered Eleisha.

“Yes, time for supper,” she said. “Just let me change, and I’ll get you a rabbit.”

She’d arranged for a local butcher shop to bring in live rabbits—for a substantial fee. Money meant nothing. From what she understood, Julian sent them enough money to support ten people in style. Edward believed he was doing her a service by managing their finances. He supplied her with spending money, and he always told her, “You only have to ask.”

But for some reason, lately, she didn’t like having to ask.

“Why are you changing clothes?” Edward lowered his paper and looked up over the top of his teacup. He was especially dashing tonight in a brown silk waistcoat.

“A thief on the pier tried to rob me,” she answered.

“Is he still with us?”

“No.”

“Good girl.”

He could still make her smile.

 
Two years later, Eleisha stood staring out yet another hotel window.

She didn’t hear him approach, but wasn’t surprised when Edward peered over her shoulder.

“See anything you like?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Shall we go to Delmonico’s?” he asked in a bright but forced tone. “Have something upscale for supper?”

She tilted her head back to look up at him. His green eyes were sad.

Neither he nor she seemed able to speak of anything beyond the moment. They rarely hunted together anymore—or rather she rarely wished to hunt with him.

“Of course,” she said, feeling guilty. “I’ll get my cloak.”

He nodded in relief, but his eyes were still sad.

 
Summer was approaching.

William was sitting on the velvet couch one night, carving a new set of checkers and talking quietly to himself. It troubled Eleisha that he only ventured out into the main sitting room now when Edward wasn’t home . . . No, it more than troubled her.

Tonight, she wore a comfortable muslin dress—that she’d purchased herself—and was walking around the hotel room in bare feet.

“Are you tired of carving, William?” she asked. “Would you like to play chess?”

“No, no. I’ll stoke up the fire,” he said.

“All right.”

She knew this was his answer for when he was content with his current activity. So she looked about the suite, wondering what to do with herself, trying not to let herself think. Lately, all she could do was think—to mull doubts and questions over and over again.

She had longed to ask Edward for the answers for years now, but at the same time, she resisted having to accept anything from him, to need him, to depend on him.

And so a few weeks ago, she’d gone to a library to do research on the undead. The wealth of material astounded her. She was bursting to know . . .

Turning her head, she heard Edward’s light footsteps on the stairwell, and a moment later, he swept in through the front door with a “Tallyho” and a bottle of red wine.

“Hello, darlings,” he called. “Daddy’s home. Look what I’ve found. A bottle of 1865 cabernet sauvignon. We should celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Think of something. You’re the clever one.” He frowned, staring at her. “Good God, what are you wearing?”

William stood up and quickly shuffled toward his room.

Suddenly, the whole facade of their existence came crashing down around Eleisha. She wanted to scream but did not know how. She whirled to face Edward, and his cheerful expression shifted to caution.

Her feeling of hysteria faded, replaced by a cold sense of calm.

“Edward, how many of us are there?”

He put the wine down on a polished table. “Well, there were three of us the last time I counted. Has someone come to visit?”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. Why on earth would you ask me that now?”

“Because there should be more. Because we had to come from somewhere. Who made Julian?”

This conversation was difficult for both of them. But she had to know.

He looked older somehow, almost defeated, just standing there, locked in her eyes. Finally he moved over to the fire and sat down in a mahogany chair. “I thought you might ask me where I came from . . . a long time ago. But you didn’t. Did you never wonder who made me?”

“Julian did.”

“No.”

Eleisha froze, still staring at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped.

She didn’t speak, and he glanced away.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked.

“The beginning.” Her voice sounded cold to her own ears.

“I don’t know anything about that.” He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “I only know of a Norman duke from the twelfth century who was turned. Nobody knows who made him, but in the early nineteenth century, he made three sons: Julian, Philip Branté, and a young Scottish lord named John McCrugger.”

Now that he was actually speaking of these things . . . of things that mattered, she didn’t want him to stop. She walked over and sat on the floor beside his chair.

“Which one made you?”

“McCrugger.” The tight tension faded from his face, as if he too suddenly wanted to talk of the past. “I was just an ignorant young man looking for work—and failing. He came to London on business, and I tried to pick his pocket. He took me back to Scotland and gave me a job as his manservant. Later I took over the house accounts, and finally, he turned me out of convenience.”

“What?” she gasped.

“Sounds coldhearted now, doesn’t it? I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to experiment with his power, but he said that he’d trained me well and never wished to go through such training again.”

“What happened to him?”

“Julian hunted him down and killed him . . . and I think he killed the old Norman lord as well. I don’t know why. To the best of my knowledge, neither one had wronged him. He seemed to be going on some sort of murder spree, but he never went after Philip or Maggie.”

“Maggie?”

“Margaritte Latour? Philip’s whore? Did you never meet her?”

The memory of Maggie remained vivid. “Yes, once. She’s not someone you’d forget.”

“She’s the final player. There are only six of us left as far as I know.”

“As far as you . . .” She trailed off as something he’d said struck her. “Why did you say ‘murder spree’ if he only killed two other vampires?”

Edward paused for a long moment, as if deciding how much to share. “Because later, Maggie and I corresponded out of . . . concern for ourselves, trying to figure a few things out. She hinted there were others.”

“What others?” Eleisha asked in fascination, moving closer.

“I don’t know!” He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again, trying to calm himself. “Remember I was only a servant. Except for Maggie, the others were noble. I was certainly not in the loop.”

“You said Julian left them alone, but he left you alone, too?”

His face grew pained. “Yes. My master had gone to Harfleur that winter, and I was managing his French villa in Amiens . . . He owned homes in several countries. He showed up one night with no warning and told me to pack, that we were going back to Scotland. We went down together to give instructions to our grooms . . . and Julian came out of the shadows by the stable. I watched him cut McCrugger’s head off and then he just turned around and said, ‘Go,’ like some homicidal, self-important god. I ran like a coward for America and never looked back.”

Eleisha’s mind raced.

“But I’ve read . . . Edward, don’t be angry with me, but I’ve been reading at the library. Some of the accounts suggest larger numbers of us across Europe.”

His green eyes widened. “You’ve been . . . ?” He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I know those old stories, too. All myth and folklore. We each feed at least once a week. What if there were even twenty vampires living in Manhattan? Twenty deaths a week? We’d depopulate the area too quickly for secrecy.”

He was right, of course, but the picture still didn’t make sense. Those written accounts couldn’t all be fictitious, could they? Mass hysteria?

“What if—”

“Enough!” he snapped, and then his expression softened. “Enough for one night.” He looked down at her simple dress and bare feet in disapproval. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s comfortable.” She paused. “And I would like to buy a few more—just for evenings at home.” Her jaw clenched. “I’ll need some money.”

“You only have to ask.”

She looked over to note that William had not come out of his room.

 
Less than a year later, Edward came home to find her standing by the window again.

She was holding an envelope in her hand, the address written in a familiar black script of blocky letters and numbers.

“A love letter from Julian?” Edward asked flippantly. “What does the old boy have to say?”

Then he saw her face, and he stopped walking. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She held up the envelope. “He’s agreed to begin sending our stipend to me directly . . . in Oregon.”

Edward blinked, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“I’m taking William, and we’re leaving,” she said.

His mouth fell open in shock. He dropped into a chair, his dark eyes shifting back and forth.

“William’s grown afraid of you,” she rushed on. “Admit it, Edward, the sight of him makes you ill. I’ve arranged to buy a house in Portland, Oregon. We need to start over . . . someplace new.”

“You can’t be serious,” he choked. “You’re just doing this to frighten me, to make me treat the old nutter more kindly. If that’s what you want, you could have just said so.”

“I am serious. We leave next week. I’ve booked a private car on a westbound train.”

Edward stood up stiffly, slowly, and walked past her, even closer to the window. He was composed now, unable to express himself, trapped by his own facade. They were both quiet for a moment, and then he said, “I’m keeping the painting.”

In the early 1870s, he’d befriended a visiting French Impressionist named Gustave Caillebotte. They shared several weeks of intense conversation—typical of Edward—and in the process, Caillebotte made a portrait of Eleisha sitting on a green velvet couch. She found it vain. Edward adored it.

Moving up beside him, she wanted to comfort him, but didn’t. Neither one spoke. They had nothing more to say.