Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alexandru
The storm arrives in the late afternoon, rolling in from the west. Rain lashes the windows of my study. Thunder roars in the distance.
A book is open in my lap, but I am not reading it.
I keep reliving the kiss. Hearing the soft sounds she made. Feeling her heartbeat against my chest.
When I know better than anybody what the bloodline she carries is capable of.
Humans have pathetically little inkling of the true power of ancestral lineages and tendencies. They think what their great-grandparents did or were capable of has nothing to do with them.
The na?veté in this is staggering.
How desperately did I dream of making the Renfields suffer? The rage of it sharp even now, even after all this time.
And not only have I been lenient with this one, but I kissed her.
I force my mind back onto the book, an account of Trajan’s campaigns in Dacia, but I find my mind wanders. I extend my awareness through the manor. Ms. Renfield is gone. I felt her leave some time ago, her presence fading as she drove toward town.
But Gregor is here. I find him in—
I go still.
He is in her office. In Ms. Renfield’s private space. And what I feel from him is not the usual gray fog of his endless penance.
It is a hot, tight knot of resentment.
Truly?
I am on my feet before I consciously decide to move.
The walk from my study to her office takes less than a minute. My footsteps making no sound on the marble. The door is ajar.
Gregor stands in the center of the room, his back to me. On the small table where Ms. Renfield works on her coin towers, there is nothing but scattered coins.
He destroyed it.
Deliberately. I can feel the satisfaction in him, the vicious pleasure. Something that brought her peace.
“Gregor.”
He turns. His face is blank, but I can feel the defiance beneath it. “Overlord.”
“You will rebuild that. Exactly as it was.”
He says nothing. Does not move.
“Now.”
Something flickers in his eyes. For one moment, I think he might refuse. That would be interesting. That would give me an excuse to remind him what I am capable of.
But he is not that foolish. He never has been.
He moves to the table and begins gathering the coins.
“When you have finished,” I say, “you will go to the roof. The gutters require cleaning. You will use a spoon.”
Lightning splits the sky as if on cue, followed by a crack of thunder that rattles the windowpanes.
“The storm, overlord—”
“Do I stutter? You will clean every gutter on this manor. You will use a spoon. And you will not come down until you are finished or I grant you permission.”
He bows his head. “Yes, overlord.”
Good. Never before has he moved against a Renfield. I will not have him start now.
“Begin with the reconstruction. I want it completed within the hour.”
With that, I return to my study.
I stand at the window, watching the rain, listening to the distant sounds of Gregor’s careful work. The small clicks and taps of coins being assembled.
Later, I hear the creak of the roof access door. The scrape of his footsteps on slate tiles. The howl of wind.
Even this does not calm me.
How could I have kissed her?
I am a thousand years old. I have bedded duchesses, courtesans, and warriors. I have felt nothing for any of them beyond the momentary satisfaction of appetite.
But this Renfield.
Outside, Gregor scrapes at the gutters with his spoon.
Good. Let him suffer. Let us both suffer for our foolishness.