31. Piper Finds Tristan
Chapter thirty-one
Piper Finds Tristan
The east corridor is quieter than the rest of the castle.
Less renovated. More private. The air smells faintly of cedar, smoke, and old stone.
I pass the music room with its covered piano and sheet music stacked in careful piles.
I pass a tall window looking out toward the gardens, where rain beads on the glass like scattered mercury.
By the time I reach the third door, my heartbeat is loud enough to embarrass me.
I lift my hand. Stop. Lower it.
This is stupid.
No. Running was stupid. This is something else.
I knock. Then knock again.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then his voice comes through the door.
"Come in."
He sounds calm. Sad. Subdued.
I open the door. Tristan stands beside a desk near the window.
He’s dressed in yesterday's clothes, though less perfectly than usual. His waistcoat is unbuttoned. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the forearms. His hair is slightly untidy, as if he has run a hand through it more than once and hated himself for each lapse in discipline.
On the desk rests a small leather case.
Inside it, neatly arranged, are a miniature portrait, several letters tied with ribbon, an old ring, and a journal so worn it looks as if breathing near it might be considered vandalism.
Not luggage or clothes. Just pieces of a life.
He looks at me. Not at my throat or my pulse.
"Miss Monroe."
That hurts more than it should. He didn’t call me Piper.
"Don't."
His jaw tightens.
"Piper."
My name in his mouth nearly undoes me. Murphy trots past my legs and goes straight to him.
Tristan does not smile, but something soft passes through his eyes as he lowers one hand for Murphy to press against. Then he looks back at me.
"I did not expect you to come."
"I can see that."
His gaze flicks toward the leather case. A faint flush touches his cheekbones. He closes it gently.
"Mrs. MacLeod told me you were here … You’re leaving?”
"If you ask me to."
The words are quiet. No drama and no accusation. That makes them worse. I step fully into the room and close the door behind me.
"That is not what I asked."
He goes still.
"Are you leaving?"
His eyes hold mine. "I’m preparing for the possibility."
"That sounds very dignified. But it's insane."
"Piper—"
"You live here. It’s your castle, your home. How long have you lived here anyway?"
He’s silent.
"How long?"
"Nearly six centuries."
The room loses air. Last night the word vampire brought other words with it. Immortal. Ancient. Impossible.
But hearing him say it so plainly is different. Nearly six centuries? I grip the back of a chair.
"Right," I say faintly. "So. Longer than the plumbing."
"Considerably."
"Longer than America."
"Yes."
"Don’t say that too smugly."
"I would not dream of it."
A breath escapes me. Almost a laugh mixed with a sob. His expression softens, and that’s dangerous, so I look away.
"You were just going to leave," I say.
"If my presence makes you feel unsafe—"
"I didn't say that."
"You ran away, from the stables."
"I had a fairly strong reaction to discovering your mouth on someone's wrist with fangs, drinking blood."
His eyes close briefly.
"Yes."
"Do not look noble about it."
"I’m not attempting to look anything."
"Well, you're doing it anyway."
That gets the smallest, saddest smile from him. Then it vanishes.
"You have questions."
"I have about nine thousand."
"I will answer what I can."
"No." I fold my arms, because otherwise my hands might shake. "You’ll answer all of them."
His gaze sharpens. Then he inclines his head.
"All right."
That simple agreement takes some heat out of me. Damn him! I wanted resistance. Resistance would be easier.
I look at his mouth before I can stop myself. The lips that kiss so well.
He looks away first.
Good. No. Not good.
I hate this.
"Do you kill people?" I ask.
The question comes out flat. His answer is immediate.
"No, not now." I wait. His hand rests on the closed leather case. "But I have," he says.
My stomach turns.
"Not in three hundred and fifty years."
I laugh once, sharp and humorless.
"That’s not as comforting as you probably think it is."
"I know."
"Did you enjoy it? Killing?"
"No."
Something in his voice tells me that’s not the whole answer.
"Did you ever enjoy it?"
The silence changes.
"Yes." The honesty is brutal. My fingers tighten around my arms.
"When I was made into vampire, I was not what I am now. I was hungry. Cruel. Unchecked. For the first century, I thought restraint was weakness." His throat moves. "I learned otherwise."
"How?"
"By becoming something I could not bear to remain."
I don’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t excuse himself. Somehow that makes it harder to hate him.
"Justin," I say.
"He’s not my victim."
"I saw you bite him. Drink from him."
"He chooses it. The MacLeods have done so for generations."
"Why?"
"Because vampires survive on blood. And because without fresh blood, I lose control."
The room goes very still. Even Murphy seems to sense the shift. He lies down at Tristan's feet, head on his paws, watching me.
"Every five days I need fresh blood."
The number lands with a cold finality.
"Sometimes I drink sooner, to be safe."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I become a danger to everyone near me."
I step back before I mean to. He sees it. But he doesn’t move toward me.
"That’s why I should leave if you wish it," he says.
"Stop making it sound reasonable."
"It is reasonable."
"It's horrifying."
The word is so quiet it almost isn't there. The anger in me falters. I didn’t expect him to agree. I expected defenses. Explanations. Beautiful sentences about curses and ancient burdens.
But Tristan only stands there in the morning rainlight and lets the truth be ugly.
"Is Justin scared of you?" I ask.
"No."
"Is Liam or Mrs. MacLeod scared?"
"No. Mrs. MacLeod has been terrifying me for the last fifty years."
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It is wildly inappropriate. It’s also possibly the first full breath I have taken all morning.
Tristan's eyes warm for half a second. Then he schools his expression again.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.
"Because every person I have ever told eventually looked at me the way you did yesterday."
The words strike exactly where he intends them not to. I look down. I remember my voice: Do not touch me. I remember him flinching.
"I was shocked and scared," I say.
"I know."
"I’m still scared. And angry."
"I know. You should be."
"Stop agreeing with me."
I rub both hands over my face.
"This is impossible. And completely insane. And the worst part is that everyone here has known the whole time."
"That was my fault."
"No, it wasn't. They all have mouths. And do not be charming right now."
"I apologize."
The smallest crack opens between us. Not forgiveness and not trust, yet. But something human. Or whatever the word is now.
I sink into the nearest chair because my knees have opinions. Murphy immediately comes to me, as if switching legal representation.
Tristan remains standing.
"Can you sit?" I ask.
"Yes."
"That wasn't a vampire question. I mean, will you?"
"Ah."
He sits in the chair across from me, slowly, leaving a careful distance.
"Sunlight?" I ask.
"Unpleasant. Not fatal unless prolonged because I have this, an enchanted day ring."
"Garlic repels you?"
"No. I like the scent."
"What about crosses?"
"No problem."
"Can you eat food?"
"Yes, but I do not require it."
"Well, you cook beautifully."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment. It was an accusation."
His mouth twitches.
"Then I accept the charge."
"Do you sleep in a coffin?"
"No."
"Do you own one?"
His brows lift.
"Piper."
"What? It's a valid question."
"I do not own a coffin."
"Have you ever?"
"No. But I owned a light-tight room before my day ring."
"Do you turn into a bat?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Fairly."
"Because this castle has a lot of attics."
"I shall alert you if anything changes."
I should not laugh. I do anyway. It comes out shaky, and then I hate myself for it because laughing feels dangerously close to forgiveness.
Tristan watches me as if the sound hurts him. Or saves him. Maybe both.
The castle holds its breath.
Finally I look at the leather case.
"What is that?"
His gaze follows mine.
"A few things that are mine."
"Because you thought I would throw you out."
"Because you might."
I stand. He stands too, instantly. That annoys me.
"Sit down."
He sits.
I cross to the desk and touch the closed case but do not open it.
"This castle is yours," I say.
“The legal opinion has not been rendered.”
"Don't lawyer me. I’m too tired."
I look back at him.
"I don't know what I want yet. I don't know if I trust you. I don’t know if I should stay or can stay."
His expression changes then. A wound under glass.
"Of course," he says.
"But Tristan, you are not leaving. Not now, not tonight, probably never."
"Piper—"
"No."
I lift one hand.
"I’m not forgiving you yet. I’m not saying this is fine. I’m not saying I won't scream later. I am saying I cannot decide anything while you are standing here with your tragic little box of ancestral sadness like some immortal eviction notice."
For one long second, he simply stares at me. Then, unbelievably, he laughs.
Not much. A huff, a broken thing. But real. The sound catches in my chest and pulls.
I look away quickly. The room softens around us in a way I don’t trust.
So I move toward the door. Murphy rises.
"Not you," I say. "Stay with him."
Murphy looks between us.
"Yes, I know he's morally complicated. Stay."
Tristan's eyes move to mine. Something passes between us. Gratitude, grief, longing, all the stupid dangerous things.
"I need time."
"You may have all of it."
"That's a very vampire thing to say."
"I suppose it is."
I open the door. Then I turn back.
"Tristan."
He rises again despite my earlier command. This time, I let him.
"I’m still afraid," I say. "But not only of you."
His face changes.
I don’t explain.
I’m afraid of what he is. But I’m also afraid of the way my chest hurt when I thought he might leave.