Chapter 13
Haven
Standing before my bedroom door, my hand still hovers over the handle, knees locked.
The need to cry again is becoming too great, and I squeeze my lids closed to try and keep the tears at bay.
Why did I believe that I could stay away from Henri for two nights?
Why did I think things could get easier for us?
At the sound of hurried footsteps, I turn toward the stairs. It’s Avrum, and from the look on his face, he isn’t as confident as he was when I’d left him, and that makes more nausea roll through me.
Suddenly, his arms are around me, bringing me close. I bury my face in his chest, enjoying the feeling of him surrounding me like a wall. Protected.
He kisses the top of my head.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” I say, my voice muffled by his shirt. “He knows.”
He squeezes me a little and it soothes me somewhat. “No, no,” he whispers, and kisses me again. “He doesn’t know about us.”
I peer up at him, and his hold loosens. “But he wants me to go to his bed, Avrum. If I go, he’ll drink from me and—” I can’t even utter the words out loud.
“No. I won’t let him.”
I want to tell him it’s foolish to think that he can keep Henri from me, but I don’t say anything. A part of me longs to believe what he says is true and he can really keep me safe from such a monster.
When Avrum steps back, I wipe my wet face with the back of my hand and then hear the creaking of the wooden stairs. Seconds later, Lysander appears and hurries over.
“Malcolm?” is all Avrum says to him.
I had heard that name before from Henri, but I don’t know what it means or why Avrum is bringing it up now to his friend. Lysander only blinks.
“Do you know him?” he presses.
The blond Frenchman glances at me. “Yes,” he replies with a short sigh. “I know him.”
“Who is he?” Avrum grows impatient, while I still don’t understand the importance of this man’s name.
But the discomfort in Lysander is becoming more obvious. He straightens, his gaze passing between the two of us.
There’s a moment of stiff silence.
Then, finally, Lysander answers. “He is my father. My creator.”
I glance at Avurm, whose eyes are wide in shock.
“You and Henri share the same creator?”
A growl rumbles in Lysander’s throat. “What does it matter? Our creator is the only thing that links us. Nothing more.”
Avrum steps in front of me, forming a wall between me and his friend. I don’t know why it matters either, but apparently to Avrum it does.
“You never told me this,” he snaps.
“My life is no concern of yours, Avrum.”
There’s another tense pause between them. Avrum’s glaring at him now, his anger at this news obvious.
“Like I said,” Lysander goes on, “we share a creator. That doesn’t mean I would call him brother.”
“Then why are you here?” he barks back.
“I needed a place to stay.”
From the tension in Avrum’s shoulders, he doesn’t believe him, and now I’m wondering if I should, either. I don’t know much about their kind, but it seems this information about Lysander and Henri sharing a creator isn’t good. It’s clear Avrum feels betrayed in some way.
“Will Malcolm be a threat to us?” Avrum asks him. “Better yet, will you be?”
“I surely won’t,” Lysander says. “Whether these guests of Henri’s could be used to your benefit or not, I cannot say. They could provide a distraction for Henri, but they are far older than he, and therefore, far wiser. They could also make things difficult.”
I’m feeling ill again. If Lysander is much older than he looks, and he and Henri share a maker, does that mean they share a past, too?
“Who is Linna?” I throw the question at him, remembering the name Henri had used for me during his nonsensical ramblings.
Lysander looks taken aback suddenly. “Linna? Do you mean Lady Caroline Beatrum?”
“Who is she?” Avrum throws back before I can answer.
“She became Henri’s mother through marriage, and she became Henri’s lover not long after. Henri’s love for her was obsessive.”
His mother and his lover? Disgusting.
“Henri calls me Linna,” I mutter. “Why?”
Lysander’s gaze shifts between us. “It seems Henri has made a connection between you and her.”
Henri thinks I’m a woman born centuries ago? “I don’t understand… She must be dead by now. It was so long ago.”
He half-shrugs. “Henri is not of the most stable of minds. He may think Caroline has been reborn—”
“Through me?” I gasp. He took me from my home because of a past lover? “He’s raving mad, that’s what he is!”
“Completely.” Lysander nods.
Avrum turns his narrow eyes back to Lysander. “How do you know all this? I demand an explanation.”
Lysander’s lips press into a hard line. He doesn’t want to tell us.
Avrum growls. “Lysander.”
“Henri and I met soon after I was changed by Malcolm in the year sixteen hundred and three. We both craved revenge for what he had done to us, what he had taken away…” His tone turns pained at that, and he glances away. “We went our separate ways and had no contact for hundreds of years.”
“Not until you came to Greystone Manor,” Avrum adds for him.
“Yes, a little over two years before you arrived.”
“And Malcom… Should we be worried about him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “He is one of the very first of us, and he is deranged. He believes he is God on earth. And he curses those with the vampire gift to live for eternity with their sins. Henri’s been searching for him since his change.
He wants to prove to him he’s been wrong in marking him a sinner. ”
I shrink back, taking all the new information in. This Malcolm does not sound like a man I ever want to meet. “What will we do?”
“We will have to be twice as careful. That’s all,” Avrum says. “We still go through with everything as planned.”
“What about tonight?” I question, remembering Henri’s order to have me come to his bed. “If he drinks from me, then we can’t…”
“We will have to come up with a distraction tonight for Henri as well,” Lysander puts in. “Until then, you should be hidden.”
Avrum grunts. “He’s right.”
“She can stay in the attic until we know it is safe.”
The attic? “Now, wait just a minute—”
Avrum turns to me with fierce determination. “Do you have the short sword that I gave you?”
“Yes,” I choke, my throat suddenly dry. “In my room, hidden in the armoire.”
“Keep it on you at all times,” he says. “If someone finds you there, don’t hesitate to use it.”
I can only stare up at him, unmoving. This is all happening so fast. The thought of hiding out in the attic all night, just waiting to be found, and then using a sword to potentially kill someone makes my head whirl.
Avrum leans down and places a swift kiss on my lips, which wins us a snorting sound from Lysander. But he ignores it. “Go into the attic and don’t leave. I will come for you when it’s safe.”
There are still so many questions I want to ask. Like what’s going to happen when Henri starts looking for me? He’ll suspect something’s amiss. Or how will I know if something’s gone wrong and Avrum’s in trouble?
“But—”
“I will come for you.”
And before I can blink, he and Lysander are gone.
Avrum
Iburst through the manor’s back doors, the freezing night air hitting me in the face and leaving my skin prickling.
I struggle to keep up with Lysander’s frantic pace.
His blond hair whips side to side as he runs ahead.
Snow falls from the dark sky above, the thick flakes cling to the naked trees and sticking to the ground at our feet.
At the forest line, I can see a group of rowdy men already gathered in a thick circle. Their heads bob up and down, their shouts sounding more like explosions in the late-night silence. When we reach the crowd, Lysander slides in between the close-knit bodies, and I follow.
As he pushes his way to the front, he ignores the angry protests of the others around us. I don’t understand why he’s brought me here in the first place, but Lysander must have some plan he hasn’t included me in yet.
Before I can ask him what’s going on, Lysander steps into the center of the circle, where two men are locked in another battle with swords.
One is Cornelius, his broad, heavily muscled arms unmistakable.
His opponent is a younger man, younger than me, with much smaller arms that shake with weakness against Cornelius’s powerful blows.
Lysander unsheathes his own sword and steps in front of the young one.
“Enough with this petty quarrel,” he shouts to Cornelius, making a show of it. “It is more of a lover’s waltz then a duel between men.”
What is he doing?
Provoking a fight now? But why?
The crowd falls silent, and Cornelius’s weapon hovers in the air, his eyes darting to Lysander instead. A snarl forms on his lips.
“Or are you afraid to lose to me again?” he teases.
“Oi! Get out of the circle,” Keagan calls from the opposite side. “This isn’t your fight.”
“I want it to be,” Lysander replies and turned his attention back to Cornelius. “Can your pride handle a little rematch?”
He’s gone mad.
Cornelius’s blinks and his eyes flash black. He waves his hand at the boy, shooing him away. “Get out,” he growls, and when the boy gathers up his weapons and runs for the safety of the circle, a monstrous grin transforms Cornelius’s face.
Lysander takes his place. “Ready to be embarrassed for a second time?”
“Cornelius, this isn’t wise!” Keagan shouts from the crowd.
“Shut your mouth,” he snaps, before turning back to Lysander. “Raise your sword.”
The moment his weapon lifts, Cornelius lunges.
Lysander’s sword catches his just above his shoulder, before it can meet skin. He shoves Cornelius back easily and lets out a mocking laugh. “You’re right. There is no need to talk. Your lack of skill speaks for you.”
Keagan hisses. “Come on! Silence him for good!”
The crowd shouts in agreement, but I’m locked in place, my heart thundering. I should stop this, but my feet stay glued in place.
Roaring, Cornelius rushes forward again, his sword swinging wildly.
Lysander dodges the first blow, keeping low. His gray eyes are full of excitement as they roam his stance, studying him. When he jabs at Lysander’s middle, he spins away with ease. In return, he lays a hard kick in the center of Cornelius’s back, sending him flying forward.
He stumbles over his own feet, but is able to quickly right himself, spin, and come at Lysander again, full force. His blade moves too fast for me to see.
Sparks fly with every block Lysander lands, igniting the darkness. As they dance around the circle, the crowd is forced to shift to avoid getting in between the blows. For the first time, I notice strain in Lysander’s stance and tension on his brow.
My stomach twists with worry.
Cornelius’s sword slashes through the air. There’s a terrible ripping sound and Lysander gasps, leaping back. His sword falls onto the snow-covered ground.
I lurch forward, fear consuming me. “Lysander!”
No one moves. Lysander stands there with his one arm extended. His sleeve is cut from the elbow to the wrist, the loose material dangling there from the arm.
Blood? But is there blood?
I don’t see any, but what I do see is just as shocking. Jagged, fleshy scars crawl up and down Lysander’s forearm, intertwining and circling in an artistic way. In a pattern of some sort. It reminds me of a branding, something I’d do to the horses back at my family’s farm to claim them as ours.
Good God… What is that?
Our kind doesn’t scar after being changed. Our wounds heal. So, this must’ve been done to him before he became a vampire, when he was still human.
I move closer to help him, but Lysander holds out a hand to stop me. His shoulders rise and fall with his labored breathing and, slowly, Lysander picks up his sword again.
That was incredibly close, but with no blood drawn, the fight isn’t over.
Cornelius’s laughter booms, followed by Keagan’s high-pitched cackle. The muscles of Lysander’s jaw clench and he twists the sword’s handle in his grip.
“Quite unnecessary,” he murmurs as he adjusts his feet and raises his weapon higher. “But I suppose that is my fault for allowing this to go on for so long. Come. Let’s finish this.”
This time, he strikes first, aiming for Cornelius’s side.
The blow is blocked, but barely, causing more violet and blue sparks to burst in between them.
Lysander goes after him again and again, reminding me of our lessons in the attic and how relentless he was during training.
Metal clashes and the crowd howls with delight.
Cornelius twists to avoid the blade, but his feet tangle.
It’s not long before Lysander has Cornelius so mixed up that he stumbles over himself and lands on his knees with a hard thud.
Lysander stands over him, the tip of his sword pointed at Cornelius’s chin. The memory of their previous duel comes back, and I’m sure the others are thinking the same thing.
That’s when Lysander meets my eyes, and there’s a shift in his expression. Sadness, and a hint of regret lingers, too.
But why?
He lifts the blade high.
Then it hits me—
“Lysander, no!” I shout, but my cry is silenced by the whistling of Lysander’s sword.
There’s a blood-chilling scream, a terrible sloshing sound, and then a soft thump.
Cornelius’s body falls on its side, warm blood spilling from the open neck, melting the snow around it.
His head lands nearby, the wide eyes still staring up in surprise.
When Lysander turns, everyone takes a step back. Blood splatters his shirt, black jacquard vest, and pale face.
I can’t move, barely breathe.
“Get Henri,” Lysander mouths to me.
But there’s no way I read his lips right. He can’t be serious. He’d just murdered one of Henri’s guards. If I get Henri, Lysander will be severely punished. Killed.
Suddenly, Keagan’s sword is at Lysander’s throat, and the other members of the guard in the group step forward with their weapons raised.
“Someone get the lord!” Keagan demands, his words slurred with fury. He kicks Lysander in the calves, sending him to his knees. “Drop your weapon.”
Lysander does so without any hesitation. His eyes, though, never leave me.
“Get Henri! Someone! Now!” Keagan grabs him by the arm and jerks him hard. “You’ve done it this time, you French bastard. I’ll see to it that you are killed for this.”
“Go on, get him,” Lysander’s thin lips say to me again. “Get Henri.”