Chapter 12
Damon
The late autumn crowd had packed the Bell in Hand Tavern to the point I needed to shove my way outside to get some air.
Max remained inside, holding court over an impromptu poker game at a tiny corner table, gleefully ridding a trio of men of their hard-earned money.
I met his gaze through the wavy glass of the window, feeling that familiar jolt of lightning when he winked and crooked a finger in my direction, but I was in no mood to play the pretty distraction tonight.
Not on the eve of a new adventure.
After fifteen years of extensively traveling this country, we’d grown tired of the vagabond lifestyle.
I’d mentioned my desire to see the ocean again, thinking perhaps we’d return to Max’s former haunt of San Francisco but, being the extravagant provider he was, my mate suggested we travel across the ocean instead.
His expression had shuttered when I asked if this meant we were headed to the Philippines—understandable, after the recently failed revolution—so I’d immediately suggested Europe as an alternative.
I suppose we have an eternity to get to know each other at this point.
We’d been in Boston for about a month, and had another week to go before we stowed away on a cargo liner bound for Liverpool. While we rarely remained in one place this long, we made exceptions for larger cities, as it was easier to disappear into the crowd after feeding on the local population.
Although it’s become more difficult to blend in as of late…
“Dracula!” A woman shouted and I tensed, but it was only a passerby reacting to the cloth-bound paperback her friend had pulled out of her purse to discreetly share.
How salacious.
The novel had first been published in England a few years ago, but then American newspapers serialized it until it was republished Stateside. Now everyone seemed to be on the lookout for blood-sucking monsters disguised as distinguished gentlemen—either to stake or to fuck.
While the word “vampire” was never explicitly used in Dracula, some particularly incriminating traits had made their way into the text, no doubt thanks to author Bram Stoker’s Irish heritage.
The same heritage as Mattie…
Last I’d heard, Mattie had taken over as Madam at the House of Eternal Moonlight and had somehow grown even more wealthy than Roulette. This was all relayed secondhand by fellow travelers, as I couldn’t bring myself to return to Opalite—despite Max offering to “compel the entire bloody town.”
Bloody is certainly how we left things.
After fleeing the scene of my mate’s vengeful massacre—and ushering me into his world—we’d holed up in that abandoned church for several weeks as I learned what it meant to be a vampire.
Once I’d mastered the basics, we secured a hotel room in the nearest boomtown, making ourselves regulars at the poker tables and saloons, and throwing our ill-gotten winnings at the finest ladies of the evening.
It was all for appearances, since publicly participating in human vices distracted from the inhuman ones we shared.
My first feeding took place in the brothel, on a dove not much older than me. Max massaged her feet and sent her into a peaceful sleep while I drank my fill, careful to stop before ending her life completely.
Unlike what happened to…
There was a time I considered traveling back to Opalite, just so I could track down the monster who’d killed Pearl.
Max gently explained the rival vampire had most likely left town soon after we did, since the townsfolk would have been vigilant—thirsty for blood of their own—and it was far easier to prey on a blissfully ignorant population than an informed one.
It may have seemed counterintuitive to be venturing to the very continent where vampire legends began, but neither of us looked “the part” to those now informed but still ignorant.
Max, because of his heritage and me because of my authentic Western clothing that had suddenly—annoyingly—taken on a legendary status to the literary crowd.
“Look, William! It’s Quincey Morris!”
Why can’t we be holed up in a shipping container already?
Quincey Morris was, of course, the caricature of a gunslinging American that Stoker had inexplicably included in his gothic tale.
Between that and sensationalized dime novel adventures, everyone from the West was thought to be a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy.
The issue was I liked dressing this way—felt far more comfortable in clothes meant for the dusty trail than those worn for a city soirée—but it was times like these where I considered finding a new fashion to explore.
“Howdy, pardner…” the one called William slurred, close enough that I could smell the booze on his breath. “You gotta gun under this loooong coat of yours?”
I had to restrain myself from reacting as he slid a hand beneath my duster to clumsily grope at my hip.
Unfortunately—fortunately for him—I was not wearing my gun belt.
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts didn’t prohibit carrying firearms, but did require proof that the defendant had “reasonable cause to fear an injury” in a court of law.
I feared no one, but also had no desire to bring unnecessary trouble into our lives.
The drunk who’d spotted me squinted at my face. “Why are you all painted up?”
“I’m an actor,” I repeated my go-to lie, wondering why Max hadn’t stepped in yet to disperse the rabble.
There’s no way in hell he hasn’t noticed what’s happening out here.
I could practically feel my mate watching the scene unfold, which sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine. Since these men were already living on borrowed time, I saw no harm in dragging out the conversation a little longer.
No harm to me anyway.
At least, no harm I mind.
We still enjoyed this game, where I attracted attention—sometimes on purpose, sometimes by simply existing—and Max punished everyone involved. My “punishment” usually consisted of a hard fuck and enough forced orgasms to send me into a stupor, but playing with our food first always set the mood.
“An actor?!” my interrogator scoffed. “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show was in town months ago…”
“Maybe he got left behind, Johnny,” William snickered, unwisely throwing an arm over my shoulder and pulling me closer.
“Or maybe there’s another reason…” Johnny muttered, crowding me against the window, thinking the few inches he had on me meant something. “Maybe he’s painted up like a whore because he is one.”
Excuse me?
It wasn’t that the assumption was uncalled for—especially in this ever-encroaching age of Victorian morals and “natural beauty”—or that I hadn’t been offered money in the past for my services, or accepted such an arrangement.
Why this boozehound’s drunken declaration stung so badly was a mystery, but I was seriously considering snapping Johnny’s neck to make myself feel better.
“Careful…” a familiar voice cooed from behind the man towering over me, but exactly who the warning was for was unclear. “That’s my whore you’re breathing on.”
Lord help me.
Even after all this time—even knowing we had an eternity together ahead of us—Max’s word had me wanting to immediately drop to my knees, belligerent audience be damned.
“You both should leave,” he continued, his compulsion causing the men to blessedly give me space. “Go draw straws to see who will take whose cock in that alleyway over there.”
“Max!” I hissed as my would-be customers stumbled away, arm-in-arm. “You can’t—”
“Oh, they were both thinking about it.” He waved a hand in the direction of the retreating drunks. “And don’t be so negative! For all we know, this will be the start of a beautiful love story.”
I swallowed thickly but forced a smile. “Just like ours, huh?”
Max cocked his head and observed me silently. I knew he wasn’t accessing my thoughts, because he’d lost the ability to read my mind after turning me into a vampire, and while I appreciated that he never had, it felt like yet another wall between us.
Walls of my own creation…
“No,” he replied, and it took me a moment to realize he was answering my original question. Stepping closer, he discreetly hooked his pinky around mine. “No one has a love story like ours.”
I want to believe that so badly…
Unfortunately, there was something broken inside me, something that fifteen years with this attentively doting man hadn’t fixed.
I wished Max could infiltrate my thoughts, not only so I wouldn’t need to explain whatever the hell was going on with my brain but perhaps he could figure out a way for me to fully return the love I was being freely given.
The irony was that I loved Max in a way that was borderline unhealthy, but I still held myself back, unable to give him all of me.
You can’t lose what you never have.
“You look ethereal tonight, pet,” he said, driving the knife in deeper. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” I snapped, for no other reason than my own frustrations with myself.
Max sighed and looked up at the moon, as if seeking guidance from the goddess he’d adopted. “Then you’re handsome,” he said, meeting my gaze again. “Dashing, refined, a ravishing, ravenous god among lowly humans.”
I laughed and playfully shoved him away, unable to maintain my sour mood in the presence of his shenanigans. “You are a ridiculous man.”
“And you might simply be hungry,” he teased before canting his chin down the street. “Come. Let’s take a stroll to the docks. Find our supper and discuss the adventure that awaits us overseas.”
I chewed my lip, deep in thought as I walked beside him, but he didn’t pry. Max waited for me to speak, and while I was grateful for his patience, I would have preferred he fill the empty space between us with his voice, his confidence.
“Do you feel like something may be missing?” I hesitantly asked. “Between us, I mean…”
Max stopped in his tracks, his normally placid expression looking as close to horror as I’d ever seen it. “Are you not… happy, Damon?” he whispered, his deep brown eyes desperately searching my face. “I-I thought you wanted to go to Europe—”
“I am! I do!” I practically shouted, grabbing his hand, public morality be damned. “I’m simply concerned you’re not getting what you need.”
From me.
Max’s panic turned to confusion. “You give me everything I need. The only thing that would make me feel more fulfilled was if I had two of you.”
Absolutely ridiculous.
“That sounds like a nightmare,” I muttered, giving him a nudge to start walking again. “I don’t think you’d survive it.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I could see both of you ganging up on me. I’d have no hope of survival, but I don’t believe I’d mind a little death from the likes of you.”
“We wouldn’t murder you completely,” I teased. “Only slightly.”
Since I don’t think I could live without you.
Once we reached the relative privacy of the docks, Max offered me his arm, and we inconspicuously strolled in the direction of faint voices.
Suppertime.
“Please don’t doubt fate, pet,” he murmured as our meal came into view. “I’ll make a believer of you yet.”
“I hope so,” I replied as my fangs elongated, the thrill of the hunt buzzing through my veins.
Because I want so badly to believe.