Chapter 17. William
william
“It’s a list,” says Trevor.
“A timeline,” Zach corrects him.
William forgets to pretend to blink or breathe as he stares at the words overhead. The first sign that his history has not been forgotten.
Five different time periods are spaced out across a long line, and underneath the numbers are a series of corresponding events.
1300s: The Massacre. Known to humans as the Black Death. 1449: The Treaty of Mutual Survival. Known to vampires as simply the Treaty, since it is their one and only accord. 1700s: The Great Fires.
“What is the Immortal Registry of 1670?” asks Salma. That amendment to the Treaty was a Legion-sponsored initiative that ordered all vampires living in human societies to register with their local Legion of Fire precinct.
William can feel Lorena’s eyes on him. No doubt her brain is searing with questions, but he is burning for answers himself.
“1775: The Spell,” reads Tiffany. “There’s nothing after that. What do you think it means?”
“It has to be witchcraft,” says Salma, sounding delighted at the thought.
“Try taking a picture of it,” Trevor says to Zach, and the latter raises his camera, then inspects the display.
“Nothing,” he says in disappointment.
William flips the power switch again, and light floods the space. The switch is so high on the wall that Trevor is the only other one of the group who might reach it.
“This should be our club.” Trevor’s eyes grow rounder as he pans his gaze across everyone but William. “We can keep studying the LUB, only we’ll give it another name, something people won’t want to join. Like … history club. So it’s just us five.”
“We’re six,” says Salma, “and I’m in.”
“So am I,” says William, to Trevor’s dismay. The boy is annoying, but the vampire cannot deny he was correct about this room having more secrets to share.
William leaves the basement before the others so they will not see the path he takes to his room. Who left that timeline for him? Did they know that history was going to be changed? Why did they leave him here, alone?
The first tower is roped off at the base because the structure is unstable.
The paint along the stairs has mostly chipped off, the walls are webbed with cracks, and some of the steps have caved in.
Yet William darts to the top and opens the door to what looks like a bombed-out version of Lorena’s penthouse.
Not a shard of glass covers the wide window, leaving the room open to the elements.
There are no light fixtures or pieces of furniture, nor is there need for them.
The vampire’s vision is perfect even in the dark, and after so many centuries spent sleeping, he does not yet require rest. It will likely be a few more years before he has a regular sleep cycle.
William stole a box of uniforms from the administrative offices, surprised to find a size large enough for him, considering he is the tallest student here. He is even bigger than most of the staff, except for Director Minaro.
When a human is turned, their bones stretch, giving them extra height. If not for the plainness of her scent, he would suspect Minaro was a fellow immortal.
At the bottom of the uniform box, William stashed his original suit, its fabric far more durable than these modern cotton threads.
The room’s walls are bruised and punctured with crevices and loose stones. William strides up to one of the larger pieces and removes a chunk of rock to reveal a hole with a few items stuffed inside. He got the idea from his old hiding spot at Harvard.
He reaches into the wall and pulls out the three framed portraits, Hamlet, his family portrait, and his eulogy. The entirety of his possessions.
He lays all six items on the dusty floor, panning across Grandsire, himself, and Leonardo the Bloody.
In the family portrait, he focuses on his parents.
Theirs was the rarest kind of relationship because their feelings for each other never wavered in intensity, even after they were turned.
Friends used to refer to them as Franklin and Ismelda, the vampire versions of Romeo and Juliet by Chanterelle Harrington.
They would not have abandoned their only child if they could help it.
Only one being was powerful enough to have overruled his parents. William looks at Grandsire’s portrait, the steely eyes and curled mustache and stern expression. Why did they not leave William a letter or some kind of explanation? Why all the games?
And why has William not had a damn drink in days?
He cannot be expected to function on so little blood. As his Familiar, Lorena has a duty to him.
It is time his needs are met.
WILLIAM SEES the three of them go in, then he waits.
While her friends shower at night, Lorena prefers mornings. So she is usually the first to leave the bathroom.
He watches as she walks out, holding a small towel and toiletry bag. When he does not sense anyone approaching, he sweeps her up and whisks her away.
She gasps when he sets her down in the folds of a heavy velvet curtain, far from prying eyes or patrolling ears. He wanted privacy, but he overestimated how much space they would have in here.
“What—what is this?” she asks, sounding out of breath.
“You agreed to be my Familiar.” His gaze trails down from her lips to her chin to the arch of her neck. The fabrics of their clothes are brushing, and he grows distractingly aware of the points where they are making contact.
“The FDA,” she whispers, and he forces his eyes to travel back up to hers.
“What?”
“The Food and Drug Administration. It’s a government agency. They recommend a person wait eight weeks between blood donations. I looked it up online when we were at Harvard.”
“Eight weeks?” That is absurd. “The Familiar does not set the rules.”
“You do understand that I need my blood to survive,” she says, and as usual, he is not sure if the sentence is punctuated with a period or a question mark.
“As do I,” he points out. “Unfortunately for you, I am more powerful, so my needs come first.”
Her eyes widen and widen, until she looks almost deranged. “So I’m your personal blood bank until I die? Fuck that! And fuck you. If you’re going to kill me, do it now.”
Lorena closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, like she is steeling herself for whatever comes next. Every time he thinks he can predict what she will do, the girl surprises him.
Yet she is right. He must do this eventually, so he should just accept her sacrifice and get it over with.
“What about the recording?” he cannot help asking.
She opens her eyes. “Wow. You’ll just betray anyone, even the only ally you have.” Her gaze is so scorching that he can practically feel the heat emanating from her body. “Doing whatever it takes to survive—who does that remind you of? You sound a lot like that inferior man, Mr. Rochester!”
“These games will not work on me,” William warns her, his fangs descending in anticipation of feeding. “If you are trying to tame me, you will only get hurt.”
“I won’t be useful to either of us if I lose too much blood,” she says, the sharpness in her voice weakening at the sight of his fangs. “You fasted for a long time and survived.”
William has no intention of hanging around here for eight weeks. Not when he needs to be out there, searching for his parents and hunting down others like him.
On the other hand, he does have a lot to catch up on before he ventures out, and the LUB could still be hiding more secrets. Besides, what are eight weeks to an immortal?
“Help me find answers,” he says at last, “and you can earn your time.”