Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
JADEON
I flew into the dungeons. “Ingrid! Are you all right? Let me see your… You look fine. You’re okay.”
I was horrified Orpheus had been able to get into the castle undetected, and I cursed myself for letting my guard down. After sensing him, I had almost tripped over myself trying to get to Ingrid.
“Jadeon, who the hell was that?” Ingrid asked.
“What are you doing down here?” I lifted her into my arms. She was badly shaken. We made our way up the stone stairway, through the foyer, quickly ascending the sweeping staircase. When we reached my bedroom I placed her down upon my old bed, covering her with a blanket.
“He said he knew me, but I don’t recall… ”
“He’s an old acquaintance.”
I tried to grasp what Orpheus wanted with Ingrid. The knot in my stomach distracted me. I pulled Ingrid toward me and hugged her, attempting to put thoughts of Orpheus out of my mind and hoping she would too.
He had kissed her, and as this realization swept over me, so did the jealousy. She was my friend, my sacred find, and I had already privately sworn to protect her.
Alex appeared at the door and stared at me wide-eyed.
“He’s gone,” I said to him.
“What did he want?” Alex asked.
I looked at Ingrid and tried to answer that question.
“What did he say?” Alex asked.
Ingrid sighed and pushed off the blanket. “It didn’t make any sense.”
“He’s gone now,” I said.
“He moved so fast, I mean he came out of nowhere,” Ingrid said.
“It’s dark down there,” I said. “Things can appear . . . different.”
“I thought it was you or Alex,” Ingrid said, “so I followed you down. But it was—”
“When I said make yourself at home, I wasn’t referring to the dungeons, Ingrid.” I sighed, trying to make light of it.
“How embarrassing. Who the hell is he?” she asked, her fingers tracing her lips, still plump from his kiss.
“Orpheus,” Alex said.
I glared at him—a warning not to reveal anything else. “He is an acquaintance of ours. He’s a little . . . unruly.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a little crazy,” Alex said.
“Does he have a criminal record?” Ingrid asked.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ingrid snapped.
“It means no. A drink. Alex, bring wine. No, something stronger,” I said.
Ingrid’s face flushed. “He was very . . .”
Her thoughts carried on a current of infatuation. He’d stirred a delicate fever of lust within her. And in me, a rush of jealousy—his stark cruelty a vicious thing.
Orpheus haunted me still, long after stealing everything. Death was never his desire. Torture was his art, and I was his unwilling masterpiece.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I reassured her. “Come on, we’ll go to the drawing room. I will make it up to you. I promise.”
“I’m fine, I’ll bounce back.” Ingrid sighed.
I guided her out of the room. “Come on, let’s go and get ourselves a stiff drink,” I said.
“Perhaps some tea?” Alex offered, following.
I wanted her now, with a desire that defied reason, even as I knew she could never be mine. Ingrid was unattainable. The knowledge that Orpheus had made the move on her only made my desire for her grow sharper, more urgent.
I studied Alex, concerned that he too was shaken. He closed his thoughts to me before I could examine them.
I turned my attention back on to Ingrid. “I do hope this hasn’t ruined your visit.”
“Goodness, no,” Ingrid said. “Before all this, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. You have a lovely home. This place is huge. So many exquisite antiques. I adore antiques.”
“Perhaps that’s why we get on so well,” I jested.
Ingrid did well to bluff her decorum. But I wasn’t fooled. I was determined to extinguish Orpheus’s dark spark.
We settled within the anteroom. I uncorked a bottle of Chateau Leoville-Loire 1972, poured Ingrid a large glass, and watched her sip from the dark red vintage. Both Alex and I appeared to sip at ours and attempted to recall the taste.
Alex had purchased takeout. Having flown to the mainland and back in record time.
We both prodded our Chinese food as Ingrid, with her healthy appetite, devoured hers.
As the evening progressed, Ingrid relaxed, lulled by Alex’s beautiful piano playing which he performed with his usual mastery.
Alex even persuaded me to play several duets with him much to Ingrid’s delight.
The space awakened to the cascade of notes, each one shaped by centuries of devotion, it was spellbinding and otherworldly.
Soon the aged wine took its effect, and she was lost in the semblance of the room, warmed by both the fine wine and the roaring fireplace. She sat on the luxurious couch, crystal glass in hand, absorbed in the music. Conversation flowed as we naturally wooed her.
As the midnight hour approached, Alex made his excuses to retire to bed.
“Alex, you and I, we need to talk,” I said.
Alex stared off.
“Later then?” I pushed for a response from him.
He was clearly hurt. Orpheus had not come to him. Even as Alex’s hate burned, so did his painful secret of adoration. Even as his infatuation cut me deep, I grasped how the one made might succumb to the one who had turned him.
“You’re okay?” I whispered.
Alex nodded then left the room.
Conceding to Ingrid’s request, we headed out on another tour.
On arriving within the armory, I reached up and took down one of my old fencing sabers, easing it from its casing, and proceeded to provide Ingrid with a demonstration.
I swung the fine epee this way and that as if masterfully dueling with an invisible opponent, moving forward with assured expertise, impressing Ingrid with my obvious skill.
A flicker of pride stirred in me that she had turned her affections toward me once more, her gaze filled with admiration.
Next, we made our way toward the library.
I took my time carefully selecting then removing from the tall shelves, one book and then another, using the stairs when needed to reach some of my most cherished.
The antique vellum books were the oldest and most valuable within the collection, and most of them Ingrid noted were first additions and out of print.
We fervently viewed the many pages, admiring the bindings and fine font, agreeing that books were no longer produced in such a unique fashion.
“I have a great collection of originals,” I said. “Do you like Shakespeare?”
On seeing Ingrid’s expression, I pretended I was joking.
Ingrid was drawn to me, her attraction as clear as mine was to her.
She studied me, fascinated. Years of pretending to be human were paying off.
This was a dangerous game I played, and I questioned my motives for allowing her to get so close and see so much.
However, my desire to be both accepted and feel affection was undeniable.
She reminisced about her encounter with the stranger in the dungeons.
Orpheus’s recondite effect upon her was no different from how it influenced anyone.
His seductive ability had deeply affected her.
Orpheus would draw his victims in, seducing them and then push them away, leaving them wanting.
In order to protect Ingrid, I knew what I had to do—inflict such an indelible impression upon her that thoughts of me would push out all traces of Orpheus.
Taking her firmly by the hand, I led Ingrid down the stone stairway to the lower chambers of the castle and into the darkest room.
It had been many things—once a torture chamber and more recently a bedroom for Alex.
Now, it was just a clandestine four-walled chamber.
I’d managed to persuade my brother to find another more appealing place to sleep.
Despite its darkness and chilly temperature, I hoped Ingrid would feel safe with me and nudged her inside. I lingered at the open doorway, pausing for a moment, reconsidering.
Take Ingrid home and then forget her.
I followed her in. “This room was used by my ancestors to subjugate witches and the like,” I explained. “The accused were brought here to be tortured, part of a soul-cleansing ceremony. They were then taken to another place, one far from here, to be offered up in sacrifice.”
Ingrid’s eyes adjusted to what little light was in the room. “Where were they taken?”
“Stonehenge.”
“They must have been terrified,” she said.
“They were.”
“Because they weren’t witches, were they. Just women accused of witchcraft.”
She wasn’t wrong, of course, but steering the conversation toward the inconvenient fact that they were in fact vampires, and that now I counted myself among them, was hardly the direction I’d hoped to go.
Ingrid explored. She noted the heavy wooden door, the only exit from the dark chamber, admiring its design. Carried by her imagination, Ingrid observed me lighting the candles upon the altar and within the sconces. Flickering flames threw shadows. The arcane light danced on the central table.
“Look at this.” She rubbed dust from the wall.
“What is it?” I asked.
“An inscription, see. Haven’t you seen it before?” she asked.
“No, I’ve never noticed it. What does it say?” I wondered if Alex had written it as I did not recall seeing it.
Ingrid read the faded letters. “The truth will out.”
“The truth will come out?” I repeated.
“It’s a Northern expression, it means that . . . well I suppose it speaks for itself,” she said.
I rubbed my fingers over the painted stone. “It’s signed.”
Ingrid and I studied the scribe.
“Fabian Snowstrom!” I read.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, I know of him. But I . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” It was not so much the fact that Fabian Snowstrom had written on the wall. It was the fact that the signature was dated last May. “Alex must have written it,” I reasoned.