35. Piper
Chapter thirty-five
Piper
Tristan continues to explain...
“Sebastian Ashcroft is the kind of danger that smiles.”
Tristan tells me this over a second cup of coffee, two apple scones, and the kind of tension that makes breakfast feel politically significant.
Apparently, I now live in a world where breakfast can include the phrase vampire Houses without anyone calling emergency services.
Murphy sleeps beneath the table with his enormous head resting across one of Tristan's polished shoes. Tristan doesn’t move his foot.
"He will be pleasant to you," Tristan says. "Well dressed. Polite. Careful never to appear threatening, at least at first."
"That's comforting."
"It is not meant to be."
"Good, because it failed."
A faint smile touches his mouth and disappears quickly, as if he no longer trusts himself with expressions near me.
I hate that I notice. I also hate that I miss his smile.
That's unfair. A woman should not discover a man's fangs and then immediately have to deal with missing his smiles. It seems legally questionable.
"Sebastian built House Ashcroft over the last two centuries," Tristan continues. "He is considered a new House, a younger House. Old Houses dismiss him as ambitious. But they’re fools."
"Because ambitious people get things done."
"Precisely, Piper."
I look down at the letter on the table. Pale gray paper. Black wax. Elegant handwriting. The whole thing screams tasteful menace.
"So what does he actually want from me?"
"I believe influence. For the vote and his chance at power.”
"And if charm doesn't work?"
"Then pressure will."
"What kind of pressure?"
"Legal. Financial. Social. Then physical pressure."
"Fantastic."
He leans back slightly.
"Sebastian will most likely try to make you feel isolated, confused. A human surrounded by vampires receiving conflicting advice. He’ll pretend to offer clarity, assistance, protection. He may imply that I have used you."
I stare at him. "Have you?"
The question lands harder than I intend. Tristan does not look away.
"No."
"But you did hide things from me … And I suppose everyone else did too. To be fair, I couldn’t just arrive and hear that you’re a vampire …" I mutter. "But now all of you are telling me I need to trust you because someone worse wants something."
"When you put it that way, it sounds unforgivable."
Tristan lowers his gaze. "You don’t need to trust me because Ashcroft is worse. You don’t need to trust me at all," he says. "Not yet. Perhaps not ever. You only need to understand that you have choices, and several powerful men will try to convince you otherwise."
I breathe out slowly.
"Okay. I'm putting you in the column labeled possibly not manipulation."
"Your faith overwhelms me."
"It shouldn't. It's a very small column."
This time his smile stays for almost two seconds.
Progress. Terrible, inconvenient progress.
I reach for my notebook, which I brought from the library because apparently trauma does not erase my need for office supplies.
"Explain the Houses to me like I'm a property investor who accidentally acquired vampire Switzerland."
His brows lift.
"Vampire Switzerland?"
"You know, neutral territory. Important vote to break ties. Too many banks. Probably excellent chocolate somewhere."
"Not inaccurate."
"Great. I retain branding rights."
I open to a clean page.
At the top, I write:
THINGS I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BEFORE BUYING GLENHAVEN
Vampire occupancy situation.
Blood-feeding on site.
Political time bomb.
My dog has terrible judgment.
Tristan reads upside down.
"Murphy may object to number four."
"He can file an appeal."
Under the table, Murphy snores.
"Denied," I say.
Tristan's mouth curves again. He looks almost younger when he does that. Which is a ridiculous thought, because apparently he predates indoor plumbing and most reasonable government systems.
"Tell me what I need to know," I say before my brain wanders somewhere dangerous.
He does but not in a lecture. I would have thrown a scone at him.
He speaks carefully, answering the questions I ask and only those unless he thinks I need context.
The Accord. His position as Keeper and Owner with a vote.
Nine Houses. Each older than some countries, richer than I want to contemplate, and civilized in the way sharks might be civilized if they discovered tailoring and offshore accounts.
They settle disputes by law. Mostly.
They remain hidden. Mostly.
They do not wage open war. Mostly.
They live wealthy, complicated lives and vie for power. Mostly.
"I'm hearing a lot of mostly," I say.
"Mostly is often the best civilization can manage."
"Cynical, aren’t you."
"Experienced."
I write that down.
MOSTLY = DANGER WORD.
The morning stretches. At some point, Mrs. MacLeod returns and replaces the coffee.
She says nothing about the notes, the vampire constitutional crisis, or the fact that I’m sitting across from the man I ran from yesterday.
She simply adds more butter to the table and pats Murphy's head on the way out.
"She’s pretending not to hover," I say.
"Mrs. MacLeod has never pretended anything in her life."
The house around us grows brighter as the rain stops. Gray light slides across the polished table and touches the Ashcroft letter like a warning.
I tap the page with my pen.
"So as Glenhaven owner, the Ninth House, your vote mattered. It broke ties.
“But now ownership and the vote have transferred to you."
"But you hold occupancy. You’re still the Keeper?"
"Unclear. But I can advise you … If you allow it."
I look at him. That’s such a Tristan statement. Careful. Honorable. Infuriating.
My pen stills. The words do something to me I don’t want them to do. I look down quickly and underline Ninth Seat so hard the paper nearly tears.
"Okay. So legally, I hold the vote. Can I refuse it?"
"No. You could abstain.”
"Tell me again why I can’t just sell the castle back to you?"
He hesitates. My stomach drops.
"Because the transfer has already been recognized by the registry. Normal registry and vampire registry. It’s final as far as the Council and Accord are concerned."
“What else do I need to be concerned about?”
“Some will insist you cannot hold the Seat because you are human. Others will claim ownership is enough. Some will argue I remain the only lawful Keeper. Others will say my authority ended the moment the title transferred.”
“And Sebastian?”
“Will choose whichever interpretation gives him the most power.”
“And this annual meeting, the Convocation, is in seven weeks? So what I’m hearing is someone arranged this crazy sale because they want to manipulate the American woman into a vote or making a mistake or listening to them. But some of the Houses won’t want me in the Council because I’m human?”
“Correct. And a few might want to marry you for power.”
“What!”
“The old Houses always made alignments with marriage. It’s their way. But at least one House, Stewart, is ultra conservative and will think a human Keeper or voter will be blasphemy. Only a few of the Houses are as honorable as Sinclair.”
“Sound like a mixed bag of intrigue and complications to me … Can they force me to attend something?"
"Yes. If the Council is formally summoned to a special Convocation, all Houses must attend … but I will not let anyone take you anywhere against your will."
The words come too quickly. Too intensely. The room tightens around them. He seems to realize it at the same time I do. His face closes. The controlled mask returns.
But I’ve already seen what was under it. Not duty or neutrality, but something far more dangerous. Fear for me, and protectiveness.
"Can you stop them?" I ask quietly.
His eyes hold mine.
"Yes."
Not I would try. Not perhaps. A simple yes. A shiver moves through me.
"I need some air. I mean I need to walk."
"I'll send Mrs. MacLeod—"
"No. You, Tristan. I need you."
The word hangs there. Tristan's face changes. Hope looks terrible on him. Not because it makes him weak. Because it makes him beautiful.
"I mean," I add quickly, "I have more questions, and you’re the current information desk for all this vampire nonsense. I need to talk to you in fresh air. Open spaces have fewer hidden blood rooms."
He flinches. Damn it. I should not care. But I do care.
"That was mean," I say. “I’m sorry.”
"Thank you."
"For being mean?"
"For noticing."
I hate him a little for that.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair. Murphy wakes instantly, because the word outside apparently transmits through fabric and hope and dog ears.
"Yes, fine," I tell him. "You're coming, too."
Tristan opens the breakfast room door. He doesn’t touch me as I pass. There was a time, just days ago, when his hand at my back would have felt old-fashioned and charming.
Now the absence of it feels louder.
We walk through the entrance hall and out into the courtyard. The world smells washed clean. Rain glistens on the stones. The hills beyond Glenhaven Castle roll under low cloud, green and shadowed and ancient in a way that suddenly feels less like scenery and more like evidence.
Murphy bounds ahead, nose to the ground, delighted that nobody in this household understands normal stress responses.
Tristan walks beside me, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate.
Armor.
"Manners are armor," I say.
"What?" he says quietly.
"You use manners like armor."
"Yes," he says. "I suppose I do."
"Why?"
"Because hunger is not mannerly."
The answer stops me. He stops too, several feet away. I look at him properly in the pale morning light. His face is calmer now, but shadows linger beneath his eyes. He looks tired.
Can vampires look tired? Apparently yes.
"Every five days," I say. “Because of the affliction. Do other vampires need blood that often?"
“Not generally. When first turned, you’re always hungry, but after that, no. We can survive on stored blood, animal blood, blood wine, take longer intervals. The older one is, the longer one can go without."
"But not you."
“Correct. Because of my Maker."
The word carries history. And hatred. And maybe shame. I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets.
"Will you tell me about him?"
"Yes, but not today."
It’s the first answer he doesn’t give me. Oddly, I respect it.
"Okay."
We continue along the garden path. The gardens after rain are painfully beautiful. Dark roses hang heavy over the stone wall. Lavender bends in wet clusters.
"Why the MacLeods?" I ask. “How did they come to serve you?”
"Because one of their ancestors saved me. From myself."
I wait.
"His name was Ewan MacLeod. He found me after I had gone too long without blood. I had locked myself beneath the chapel and intended never to emerge."
A coldness moves over my skin.
"You were starving yourself?"
"I was afraid of what I would do. What I had done in the past."
"What happened?"
"Ewan cut his own hand and forced it through the bars."
My stomach twists.
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he was either very brave or very foolish."
"And then?"
"I fed. I fed enough that it quieted the monster. And then he made me swear that if I meant to live, I would live with rules. To feed on schedule to beat down the beast. Never allow hunger to become another person's burden without their choice. Take what is offered."
I stop walking again. He takes two more steps before he realizes, then turns. The garden is quiet around us.
"That's why Justin wasn't afraid," I say. "Because this has rules and history."
I think of the way Justin looked at Tristan with concern instead of terror. It doesn’t make the image less shocking.
"Does it hurt them?" I ask.
"Only briefly, when I first bite."
"Do they get weak?"
"Sometimes. But Justin and Liam trade off. And we take precautions."
"And you hate it," I say.
"Yes." His answer is so bare that I must look away.
Murphy barks from near the greenhouse conservatory, chasing absolutely nothing with heroic commitment. I focus on him until I can breathe normally.
"So," I say, "you are a vampire with a rare blood condition, a castle job, a secret political vote, a solicitor who specializes in undead constitutional law, and a donor family with workplace safety protocols."
His brows lift.
"When phrased that way, I sound quite modern."
"You are not modern. You look confused by most electrical outlets."
"I understand electricity."
"You stared at my laptop this week like it insulted your lineage."
"It makes an unnecessary number of noises."
I laugh. I don’t mean to. It just happens. The sound surprises us both.
For one breath, we’re back in the before times. Tristan looking at me as if my laugh is something he’s been waiting centuries to hear.
Then the after times return. My smile fades.
We reach the old greenhouse conservatory that’s partially broken down. Inside, the air is cooler and smells of damp earth and stone. Plants that have grown wild through cracked tile. The iron frame arches above us like the ribs of some elegant dead creature.
I run my fingers over a rusted support.
"This can be saved," I say automatically.
Tristan's voice comes from behind me. "I know. You say that often."
"Because usually it's true. And if not, I say it anyway and make it true through stubbornness and poor financial judgment."
"That sounds like you."
I look away. Here, in the ruined conservatory, it’s just stone and wild plants and a man who is not a man standing several careful feet away.
"I don't know what happens next," I say.
"Neither do I."
That surprises me.
"I thought you always knew. You're six hundred years old."
"Age does not prevent confusion. It only gives it more elaborate furniture."
A smile tugs at my mouth.
"That was almost funny."
"I shall treasure the praise."
I turn back to the broken glass and the climbing vines.
"I need the truth from now on. Will you promise me that?"
"You have it."
"If this is my castle with a terrifying accidental vampire vote attached, then I should know everything. Even the ugly parts."
"There are many ugly parts."
"I figured."
"Some may change how you see me."
I nod.
"Truth," I say.
"Truth," he says.
"Good," I say. "And I’m going to need that whiteboard."
Lord Tristan Sinclair laughs without hiding it. A little thrill runs through me. I must be crazy.
“Might I suggest something, Piper?”
“What?”
“A picnic lunch. We can take the horses. You haven’t seen the entire property you own yet. You must eat. And we will be outside … away from blood drinking rooms. Just fresh air and a lovely picnic. We can continue the discussions and education.”
He looks hopeful. And it does sound good.
“Alright.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. MacLeod to pack a lunch for us.”