Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte
The Aerie
Draven’s Private Library
Her spectacles fogged over instantly. “Oh, bother,” she muttered, tearing the frames from her face. She could see well enough without knowing if she was in immediate danger, but she couldn’t see a thing under the lenses adjusted to the warmth.
Well, marginal warmth. Certainly warmer than being outside in the wind.
She stood in a small foyer with a staircase to one side that curved along the tower’s wall and a door to another room. Silence filled the space. No voices. No jailors threatening captives. No cries of agony. Not even a clanking of chains.
Charlotte returned her spectacles to their normal resting spot on her face and continued her exploration, starting with the door immediately before her.
“Now this is a library.”
And definitely not a prison cell.
She turned in a slow circle to take in Draven’s private library.
Shelves laden with books lined both the lower and upper levels of the room. The dark wood had been polished to a sheen. Lemon and wax scented the cold air. Thick rugs with vibrant patterns covered the stone floor. Oil lamps, currently not burning, promised a soft glow with their flame safely behind a glass. Two richly upholstered navy-blue armchairs sat by an empty fireplace. Charlotte could easily picture herself curled in front of the fire for hours.
A heavy wooden table stood in front of tall windows framed by blue velvet drapes. The late afternoon sky was a slate gray beyond the glass. A gust of wind rattled against the window.
To call the library stunning was an understatement. This was the kind of library little Charlotte dreamed about and the kind that made adult Charlotte’s mouth water. She could easily imagine piling the table with stacks of books and covering the surface with papers as she took notes. Or curling up in the plush chairs by the fire to settle in with a thick book.
Bliss.
The books, though, the books…Every shelf was packed with books and collectible objects. The objects were interesting enough, but Charlotte had spent the last year surrounded by Lionel’s treasures. She struggled to find enthusiasm for rare and wondrous items. The books, however, she had little trouble finding enthusiasm for.
Some spines looked well worn, indicating they were often read. The leather binding on others gleamed as if they were fresh from the printers. Many volumes were stacked on top of one other, stuffed into any available space. Her fingers itched to pull down a volume and start exploring.
A carriage clock ticked on the mantle. Ten minutes past the hour. She had time before Orianne returned.
Why shouldn’t she explore the library? She wasn’t expected anywhere. Her dinner would be delivered to her rooms on a tray, whether she was there to receive it or not. Any attempt she would make now to investigate the depths of the Aerie Orianne would thwart. Unless she could somehow sneak past her guard, now was her only opportunity.
Only one concern remained. The library’s door had been locked. Yes, Draven said she was free to go anywhere except the restricted areas, but did a locked door mean the library was restricted? A restricted area would have guards. Surely. Still, the feeling remained that being in the library was rude and violated Draven’s trust.
Oh, that was humorous. Trust. So far, the vampire lord’s behavior had been unpredictable. He was at once coolly logical, negotiating the terms of her stay, then menacing and threatening. Then almost tender as he tended her injury. Now he was absent entirely.
All week long, Charlotte had been filling her notebook with questions to ask Draven. When they discussed terms, it had been unclear if the exchange of a night of her time for a question was a one-to-one trade. One night. One question. At least she assumed as much. If any more questions were answered, they would be a bonus. With that in mind, she considered her list of questions carefully to make them count. Not something that could be answered with a simple yes or no. An open-ended question, one that invited a lengthy response.
But what did her questions matter if he ignored her?
Stubborn resolve settled over Charlotte. It was familiar, like a favorite shawl, and wrapped around her. Papa called it her look. She had worn that look all through school, when the professors told her there was no future for a female academic and gently suggested that she find a husband willing to indulge her eccentricities.
Well, those people underestimated her stubborn streak, and so did the vampire. She’d find the answers to her questions in his library, with or without his help.
Charlotte removed the coat, draping it over the back of a chair near the fireplace. First things first, she got the fire going and lit the oil lamps.
“He’s very lucky that he has such an impressive library,” Charlotte said to no one in particular, rubbing her hands together to warm them.
The library at Vervain had been the thing that attracted her to Lionel. Charlotte often visited while his nephew, Jase, recovered from a beast attack. Yes, in hindsight, it had been Lionel who savaged Jase, but that wasn’t the point. Lionel had books. Lots of books. Mostly popular fiction, but all highly engaging, recently published, and unread by her. He had a standing order with a bookshop in Founding to send him the newest releases once a month.
Charlotte read out loud to Jase in his convalescence. Mostly he slept and she read to an empty room. Then Lionel would join, slouched in a chair on the far side of the room. He never said much, but he watched her with an intensity that made her blush. Soon she found herself eagerly anticipating these moments when she’d glance up from the book to find Lionel watching her.
At the time, she found such attention flattering if a bit confusing. Charlotte had an unfashionably plump figure, an eccentric manner, and lacked the fortune to compensate. Thus, she resigned herself to being on the shelf.
So, yes, she had been flattered but perplexed as to why the wealthy, handsome older man took an interest in the plump historian. Now, in retrospect, she understood that his behavior was more of a monster stalking prey.
This time, she marched straight into the monster’s den, rather than be caught unawares.
Charlotte ignored those thoughts and focused on getting the fire going. Soon a soft glow filled the space. The fire crackled merrily.
“Where to start?” she said, inspecting the nearest shelf. Gold lettering gleamed in the lantern light. She dismissed those books as too new. What she wanted, ideally, would be a list of all the prisoners currently being held in the Aerie. Or the more reasonable expectation of a grand library, a catalog of the collection, but she failed to spot a large, conspicuous tome waiting on a table. She’d be happy with a collection of journals or diaries. Anything dating from the time of the original colonists.
The next shelf held potential. None of the books had embossed titles on the spines, pointing to them being handmade or old. She randomly pulled down a volume, only to discover that it was filled with detailed weather reports over the last three years, meticulously recording the snowfall, temperature, air pressure, and wind direction.
Interesting, but not what she needed.
She moved on, realizing she needed a better strategy than picking books at random. The books with the most wear and no dust were ones Draven read frequently. That could give her insight into the mind of the vampire. While all the shelves were dusted, some had a layer of dust on the top. Those could be the oldest books in the collection.
Choices. Choices.
She could be interrupted, and who knew if she would have another chance with unfettered access to the library. She needed to choose wisely.
Except there were no old and dusty books. There were no well-worn books. All the books were immaculate, as pristine as the day they came from the printers. In fact, now that she looked closely at the library’s contents, the more she realized this was a showpiece, meant to impress.
Annoyed, she grabbed a book at random and sat down by the fire. She should have realized sooner. After all, she spent the last year living in her dead husband’s museum to his ego. Lionel had filled Vervain with trophies and treasures. The house was nothing more than a showpiece, which was well and good in its way, even if it glorified the man while avoiding saying anything of substance. Glorified the myth of the man.
Her father’s study, while humble in comparison, was stuffed with books and papers. Every surface was covered with opened books, notes, pens, pots of ink, and unfinished cups of tea. Charlotte herself had managed to put her mark on the library at Vervain in much the same way.
This library, though, was impersonal. Not lived in. It was a museum.
A tomb.
Yes, Charlotte saw it now. Draven was as absent here as he was from her company. Annoyance stirred in her because the legendary sword used as decoration in the dining room really should have been her first clue.
A blue drinking cup made from the strange plastic material favored by the colonists. The remains of white lettering and a design of three stars clung to the plastic. Enough remained for Charlotte to recognize the colonial logo. It matched the worn one on her mother’s compass.
Three stars for three ships.
Her father would give his right hand to be here now.
There was a display of silver knives, all neatly organized on a rack. Jewels studded the handles, making them ornamental rather than useful.
Another ornament sat by itself on a shelf. An original plasma gun, judging from the design. Having never seen one in person, she recognized it from diagrams in her history books. The power cells were long dead, but the candlelight caught the orange strip that ran along the side, gleaming like there might be one more shot left in the old thing.
Draven had an impressive collection.
Charlotte ran a finger along the barrel. Not even Lionel had a plasma gun.
One book was on its side and not properly shelved. She cracked it open. A tight, cramped hand filled the pages interspersed with sketches. A journal or a research notebook?
Charlotte took the book to the nearest light for closer inspection. The sketches were fascinating. It was human, but rougher and cruder. The brow was wide and heavy. Most noticeable were two tusks protruding from the lower lips. The lips stretched around the tusks, distorting the face into something monstrous.
She had never seen such a creature before.
The same image—person?—repeated throughout the book. Notations accompanied the creature. “Aggression is unpredictable. Subject becomes violent with little warning.” The words were clinical, even cold.
A smile plastered itself across her face, and she wanted to scream with excitement. This was exactly the type of primary source material she wanted. She desperately wanted to run and share her discovery with someone, ideally Solenne, but perhaps Jane would do. Later. Nothing in the world would prevent her from reading this notebook.
She briefly glanced around for a paper and pencil for note-taking. Alas.
More observations followed, almost all recording physical changes. The same removed, clinical tone remained.
“Subject gained a centimeter in height overnight. Is aggression a response to pain?”
“Observed an increase in muscle mass.”
“Epidermis layer thickened. Leathery quality. Loss of sensitivity.”
As the entries shifted from observing physical changes to behavioral, frustration leaked into the writing.
“Subject does not seem oriented to person, place, or time. Attempts to trigger fundamental memories have failed. Subject did not recognize close family. I fear he is lost.”
“Sedation wore off quicker than expected. Subject destroyed the scanner. Uncertain if we can repair it at this time. Perhaps we can salvage parts from other equipment.”
As the writer’s frustration grew, exclamation points and underlining crept into the pages. The handwriting did not become more erratic, as one might expect. It remained as neat and small as ever. However, droplets of ink decorated the page, as if the writer held the pen too tightly and stabbed at the page.
Awareness of being watched pricked the back of her neck. She tensed, the way a hunted animal might moments before the ambush.
The vampire stood in the doorway, snow on his coat and a frown on his face.
The sight of him, so unexpected and so intense, startled her. She jumped, snapping the book shut and cradling it to her chest.
“I see you’re making yourself at home,” Draven said, his tone as cold as the wind rattling against the windows.
Draven
The Aerie
Draven’s Library
Charlotte held the notebook to her like a shield, never mind that it was more than a century old and irreplaceable.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on Draven, but the sight of his new bride lifted his fatigue. How remarkably pleasant to find her in his quarters. Firelight flickered and danced across her face, warming her skin and giving the scene a comfortable domestic quality. He could almost believe she had been waiting for his arrival and not that he caught her snooping.
“You have a terrible habit of being where you oughtn’t,” he said, tossing his coat and gloves onto a sloppy pile on a nearby chair.
Melting snow would stain the upholstery, but he could not care at the moment. He was tired, hungry, and unkempt. The wind had stolen his hat, leaving his hair to fly wildly about, despite using a tie to bind it back. At the end of his impromptu journey, he found his sanctum breached by the very person he took the impromptu journey for. How aggravating.
“My husband gave me leave to wander as I see fit.”
Oh, the pointed tone of an impending argument. Good. Now Charlotte got to share his foul mood. What a treat for everyone involved.
“I never would have thought you indulged in temper tantrums. Very well,” he said with a dramatic sigh, like it pained him to indulge her, and collapsed into a chair nearest the fire. He waved a hand at her. “ That does not belong to you.”
Something like anger sparked in her eyes, but that could have been the firelight. Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths. Rather than the accusations he expected, she spoke in a calm voice. “It’s amazing. The observations recorded here can completely change the way we understand the early days of the colony and the mutation.”
“It changes nothing,” he snapped, irritation not far below his calm exterior. For years he took measurements and recorded observations and nothing came of his work. Only bitter disappointment. It was certainly nothing for Charlotte to gush excitedly over.
She flinched at his harsh tone. For a moment, only a moment, Draven regretted his words.
He brushed back a stray lock of hair, utterly unmoved by her response because he was a two-hundred-year-old vampire, and he was above petty human emotions like guilt. Nonetheless, he did have manners. He could be a polite monster when it suited him. “Forgive me. That was rude. I am tired from my journey and require a meal.”
At that, her eyes went wide as if alarmed. She made panicky little squeaks. A better response, but still not what he craved.
“Not you,” Draven said, “though you are a sweet morsel, I’m sure. My nutritional needs are mostly conventional, with the occasional…exception.”
At that, her cheeks darkened. Embarrassment was not what he hungered for. He couldn’t quite express what he did crave. A hot meal. Certainly. A long soak in a hot bath to drive the cold from his bones? Yes again. Charlotte on her knees, lips around his cock? Without a doubt. He doubted he’d be able to satisfy all three desires that evening. How frustrating.
“Ah, yes,” she said, her voice softening. “I’m afraid my behavior is also rude. I beg your forgiveness. At the risk of repeating myself, you did say I had free run of the Aerie.”
“A pretty little non-apology.” His voice remained cool even as he made a tutting noise. Was he being needlessly cruel? Certainly, but if he was to be unsatisfied that evening, he saw no reason to be nice about it. “I said you were not to go into the restricted areas. That was not an invitation to my personal space.”
For a moment, she wavered, as if she might fold and close herself off, like a wilting flower.
He had gone too far. Disappointment mingled with exhaustion and frustration. What he felt was not guilt. The emotions stirring within him were a complex bouquet, and he should thank Charlotte for inspiring such a human reaction. Would he? Absolutely not.
Still, a wilting flower. What happened to the bold woman who exchanged vows with him? He could tolerate such a bland creature if he must. Wilting flowers rarely wander into places they shouldn’t. Shame and a dose of fear would keep Charlotte safely in her place. A tedious place, certainly, but safe.
This bride might last long enough for an attachment to form.
Still, he longed for the bold woman to return.
Then the improbable happened. Charlotte stamped a foot and lifted her chin in defiance.
Finally.
“And how am I to know that? From all the useful signs and handy labels? Perhaps the map you provided?” she asked.
For all the rebellion in her words, she still clutched the notebook, he noted.
Ah. The monster’s widow found her resolve. The monster inside Draven practically vibrated with anticipation. This is the response he craved. She would be interesting. Fun. He could sink his teeth into her.
The bit of him that clung to his humanity warned him that he should be cautious. He ignored that voice. It was frightfully easy. The instinct that demanded he pull her close, taste her, devour her was so much louder than the one quietly whispering that he needed to keep her at arm’s length for her safety.
“Lemoine gave you a tour. I cannot imagine what more you required,” he said.
“Madame Lemoine,” she said, her tone soured, “said she was far too busy and gave a very abbreviated tour.”
“She showed you the library. You like books.” That should have been enough. The search of Charlotte’s trunks produced a number of novels, in addition to her box of vampire-slaying contraband.
“Have you actually seen that sad excuse for a library?”
“Yes,” he replied in a dry tone.
“In the last decade? It’s three shelves in a closet. Hardly edifying. This,” she gestured to his private library as a whole, “is edifying.”
“This,” he mimicked her gesture, “is not yours.”
With those words, he sprang up from the chair and plucked the notebook from her grasp. Her mouth went into a circle, shocked and appalled and all those things proper ladies were when confronted with rudeness.
“This is very old and fragile,” he said, returning the notebook to its place. “Now, at the risk of repeating myself, I am tired from a difficult journey. Why are you in my private sanctum? Do not,” he warned, leveling a stern look at her, “blather on about how you could not know. You knew or would not have been so embarrassed that I caught you. And the door was locked.”
Her cheeks flushed again. It was a rather pretty color. Instead of answering, she countered with her own accusation. “You are a poor host and a worse husband. Believe me, I should know. My first husband tried to murder me on our wedding night.”
“Are the accommodations inadequate? Not up to your standards?” he asked, not the least bit concerned that he had failed in his duties as a host. “I admit, my hospitality is out of practice. I haven’t had to impress a socialite from Founding in more than a century. Most of our residents are from the West Lands. They’re easy to dazzle. Or perhaps you enjoy being difficult.”
“I am not difficult—”
“Truly. You’re as gentle as a bunny in a spring meadow,” he interrupted.
“And I’m not a socialite from Founding,” she snapped, speaking over him. Taking a moment to gather herself, her nostrils flared. She countered with her own question. “Where have you been for the last week?”
He could answer but, if he were being honest, and that was a rare and fleeting thing, he enjoyed riling her up. “On business.”
“For a week?”
“Yes. Unavoidable. Terribly inconvenient but needs must. Now I believe I am owed an apology for the invasion of my privacy.” He tucked back that flyaway strand of hair again, his tone flippant. To drive home how completely unbothered he was, he sank into the upholstered chair nearest the fire.
“The invasion of your privacy?” She gaped at him.
“This is my inner sanctum.” He waved a hand to the library. “It’s been breached. Clearly, I’ll need to install new locks. That old one failed.”
“I had a key.”
“Oh, yes, which is a clear invitation to unlock any door you encounter. Say no more.”
“Do not mock me.” Her hands clenched at her sides and her eyes positively sparkled with rage. “You begged me to be your bride, and someone poisoned me on the day we exchanged vows. Did you comfort me or even bother yourself to know if I’ve recovered? No, you vanish for a week. I won’t apologize, and I won’t accept such a flimsy excuse. Away on business. When the path down the mountain is impassable? If you have regrets about our bargain, just admit it. That is the honorable thing to do.”
Honorable. Him? She was amusing.
“Oh, my delicious little muffin, I was away on your business.” He produced Marechal’s letter from his waistcoat pocket and held it in an outstretched hand. When she did not immediately take it, he wiggled it. “For you.”
Charlotte gave the letter a scathing look before tearing it from his hand. She angled herself to the fire to best read by. She read aloud, “Dear Charlotte, I find myself in the strange position of reassuring you that I am not held captive by the vampire. My companion and I are sheltering in a lodge approximately halfway down the mountain. You may recall that we noted the structure when we made our ascent.”
Charlotte glanced up from the paper. Firelight glinted on the lenses of her spectacles, hiding her expression. Displeased, if Draven had to guess from her posture.
“We are well, and we will see you when the snow melts,” she continued. “That is earlier than our agreed date, but the vampire’s sudden arrival has me alarmed. As soon as it is safe for us to make the return journey, I will do so. Your friend, Luis.” She fell silent. The crackling of the fire filled the room.
Carefully, she folded the page. “Obviously, the letter is false but I must compliment your penmanship. It nearly passes as Luis’s handwriting,” she said.
“It is by Marechal’s hand,” he said. Then, because she seemed to hold stock in the concept, he added, “On my honor.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What a carefully worded reply. Yes, I can believe that Luis wrote this. No, I do not believe the contents.”
“Nothing he wrote is unbelievable.” Draven would know. He had read the letter several times, searching for a hidden message.
“Please stop insulting my intelligence. He made it down the mountain? The impassable snow-covered mountain? And you followed him for…for this?” She waved the paper in the air.
“Impassable for most. Not for me.”
“Because you can fly down the mountain? Or perhaps the gravity of your ego can bend the winter weather?” She balled up the letter in a fist.
“Because I am experienced and not a Founding socialite who didn’t know enough to bring a proper winter coat to the mountains!”
“For the last time, I am not a socialite. I am a historian!”
Their shouts reverberated in the room. They stood facing each other, only inches apart. Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed. and her chest heaved.
Once the shouts faded, there was the howl of the wind and a low thrum. Eventually, Draven realized he was growling.
“My apologies. I’m behaving badly—” Charlotte started.
“Don’t.” He pulled her to him, his hand on the back of her head and an arm around her waist. His lips covered hers in a crushing kiss.
She melted against him, opening herself and meeting his demands with enthusiasm. He pulled back. She panted, her heart pounding loud enough to drown out all other noise. There was only her. In his arms. Her pulse raced, fluttering under the delicate brown skin of her throat.
“Do not apologize to me for being yourself. Ever,” he commanded.
She blinked slowly, as if coming to her senses. “The night of our wedding, there was a creature in the corridor.”
“There was no—” he started, then stopped. Lies would only insult her. “The Aerie is not safe.”