Chapter 7 St. Augustine
SEVEN
st. augustine
My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the wooden walls of our private car.
Cyrus puts his third book of the night down, turning toward me.
He glances at the book I’ve made my way halfway through.
Honestly, I’m proud of myself. Either the fact of being a vampire made it easier to decipher, or I’m a genius. I’m going with the latter.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I set the book heavily in my lap. “I seem to stay that way.”
He hands me a bottle of blood he pulls from his satchel. “Violet, don’t let yourself go hungry. You have a modicum of control, but if you let it go too long, you risk the possibility of losing that control, and you can fill in the blank.”
“Thank you.” I take the bottle, forcing myself to drink slowly.
A soft knock on the door encourages me to sit upright. “Come in,” Cyrus responds. The wooden pocket door slides open, revealing a middle-aged woman. Long dark hair is piled high on top of her head, and she’s dressed in a dress that boasts her place in society. “May I help you?” he asks.
She smiles weakly. “I’m terribly sorry for bothering you, but something called me to you.” What the hell, screams through my mind.
Cyrus smiles, showing a mouth full of perfectly white teeth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.?”
“Ducour,” she answers. “Mary Ducour.” Her cheeks turn red as she speaks.
I watch in awe as Cyrus takes her hand into his, lifting it to his lips and kissing it gently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ducour.” He turns toward me. “This is my wife, Violet.”
Wife? I smile, hiding the confusion. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ducour.” I do my best impression of Southern grace.
“You both are so…beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he responds graciously. “Is there something we can do for you?”
Mary closes her eyes. “No…I don’t think so.
I was just drawn to you. Oh, my. That sounds a little off kilter, doesn’t it?
” She stumbles slightly with the shift of the train.
Cyrus grabs her arm, steadying her. She looks at him with a mixture of awe and confusion.
“I apologize. I don’t know why I came here. Do you know why?”
Cyrus smiles. “I’d imagine it’s because you sensed us.” He moves toward the door, pulling our visitor with him. He turns, facing her completely. I watch as her pupils dilate, taking her somewhere different. “You are drawn to us because we are vampires, Mary.”
“You’re vampires,” she mutters. Her voice sounds monotone and flat.
“That’s right. Vampires are dangerous,” he continues.
“Vampires are dangerous,” she repeats.
“From now on, Mary, when you feel energy like ours you need to stay away. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she answers. “Stay away.”
Cyrus pulls back, breaking eye contact between the two of them.
Mary blinks rapidly for a few minutes before her pupils return to normal.
She turns, looking between the two of us.
“I am terribly sorry to have disturbed you. I must have gone into the wrong room. Please excuse me.” The look on her face has changed from complete admiration to nervousness in an instant.
She doesn’t say another word as she exits the room, closing the door behind her.
“What was that?” I ask once she’s down the hallway. “She was drawn to us?”
He huffs a laugh. “Many people have the ability to sense we’re different. Most steer clear, trusting their feelings, while others are drawn to it.”
“That’s how Harrison gains donors. People like Mary who are drawn to him.” My words are a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” he confirms.
“What did you do to make her leave?”
“That, my dear, was your first lesson. Compulsion.”
“You hypnotized her?” I ask, trying to put his words into language that makes sense.
“In human words, yes. In vampire words, no. I simply used her mind to teach her to stay away from others like us. Most wouldn’t have let her live or, worse, would make her a donor until the only thing left is a skeleton.
” My mind flashes back to Dorothy and her lifeless body lying on the wooden floor of Harrison’s home.
“Is compulsion something I can do?”
Cyrus smiles. “Yes. I’ll teach you.”
“Mr. Knight, I apologize,” Rupert says, sliding the door open. “She snuck past me.”
“No harm,” Cyrus answers.
“Yes, sir. Would you or the Miss care for something to eat?”
“We came prepared,” he answers. “Thank you for your service, Rupert.”
The man bows grandly. “My pleasure, sir. We will be in St. Augustine in an hour.” He turns, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.
“Does he know what we are?”
“He does.” Cyrus doesn’t offer any explanation, and surprisingly, I don’t ask. He nods toward the large book I’ve been working on. “Enjoying the text?”
“No,” I answer truthfully. “It’s all about flowers. Or at least I think it is.”
Cyrus laughs. “Horticulture of the Southern United States,” he says, flashing a warm smile. “One of my favorites.”
“You’re joking…right?” Instead of answering, he opens his thick book and continues reading.
An hour later, the train pulls to a stop in front of a wooden platform. “We’re here,” Cyrus announces, gathering his books and carefully placing them inside his bag. I resist the urge to ask one of the many questions floating through my mind. “Shall we?” he asks, offering me his arm.
Looping my arm through his, we walk slowly and methodically through the door, down the hallway, and into an empty train car. “Where are the people?”
“I’d imagine Rupert took care of removing them for us.”
“Is he a donor?” I whisper.
Cyrus smiles, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “No, he’s not a donor. In fact, I think the thought of that would offend our conductor. Rupert is an old friend whom I’ve helped several times throughout his life. No compulsion, no bonding, just friendship.”
He leads me toward the door where his friend is waiting with an umbrella.
As soon as we exit, Rupert holds the umbrella high above our heads, blocking the sun.
Cyrus hands the man a small fold of cash as he follows us to an unassuming black car.
“Thank you, Rupert.” He turns to me. “After you, my dear.”
I slide onto the dark leather seat, moving to make room for my buyer, who slides in next to me. “Good morning, Simon,” he greets the man behind the wheel.
“Good morning, sir.” Without another word, we’re moving through the streets of St. Augustine, the first of many places I’ve never been. The cobblestone streets are narrow and boast a totally different architecture from New Orleans.
“St. Augustine was founded by the Spanish in 1565,” Cyrus says, answering my unasked question. “It is widely considered the oldest occupied settlement in America.”
“That’s before the pilgrims settled in Jamestown,” I remember, proud of my history lesson popping out at the right moment.
“That it is.” He points at one of the homes that lines the street. “The architecture here isn’t that old. Most of what was original was burned or destroyed by the British in the early 18th century. These homes were built many years later.”
I look at the homes passing quickly by my window. “They’re different than what I’m used to, but I like it.”
“Yeah, the French and Spanish don’t always agree on style.” Our car comes to a stop in front of one of the grand homes. “We’re here.”
The driver is at Cyrus’s door a heartbeat later.
Cyrus slides out, offering a hand for me to follow.
Stepping onto the curve, I’m in awe of the home in front of me.
The two-story house is made of white limestone and boasts bright blue shutters.
From the street, the nondescript front door is nothing more than heavy wood, hewn most likely from a nearby tree.
The balcony that covers is a work of art. Large pillars line the front of the home, encasing a railing that matches the color of the shutters. Plants of every shape and size are scattered throughout the outdoor space, making it resemble a garden more than a balcony.
“You really do like plants,” I say with a smile.
“I told you that was my favorite book. I will never lie to you, Violet.” He offers his arm, leading me toward the wooden entrance.
We enter what I assume to be the bottom floor, only to discover we’re in a vast garden instead of his home.
Flowers of every shade provide a rainbow of color.
Everything is in bloom, and the greenery that surrounds us is, in lack of a better word, beautiful.
The energy filling the space is peaceful, and for the first time in a while, I take a deep breath.
“This is nice,” I announce.
“Yes, it is. New Orleans is livable, but this is home.” He leads me through the garden into the main house.
We enter the living space, which is surprisingly small.
Through a narrow door is a dining room with an attached kitchen.
His space is decorated with furniture from all time periods.
A mixture of antique wood, Victorian, and everything in between is the perfect mix to make his house a home.
“I love it,” I say with a smile.
“I’ll take your bags upstairs,” the driver interrupts.
“Thank you, Simon.” Cyrus offers me his arm. “I’ll show you to your room.” We climb the narrow stairs with barely enough room to move side by side. Upstairs, we pass two doors before stopping at the third. He opens the door wide. “This should be to your liking.”
The room is small but lavishly decorated. A large four-poster bed takes up most of the space, sitting opposite a wardrobe nearly as large. “This is perfect. Thank you.”
“I had the quilt made for you,” he says, moving toward the door.
Turning my attention toward the fabric, I run a hand over the smooth stitches of the light purple cover. “I imagine I’ll get a lot of deciphering done on this quilt.”
Cyrus smiles at my sarcasm. “We don’t sleep, but we do rest. I’m glad you like it. I wanted it to match your name.”
“It is beautiful,” I answer truthfully.
“When you’re ready, I’d like to begin our lessons.”
My stomach knots, thinking about lessons. “Today?” I ask.
“If that suits you. I’d like to change clothes, as I’d imagine you would too.” He dramatically pulls a watch from his pocket. “How about thirty minutes?”
I shrug, not knowing what time it is. “That sounds perfect.”
He disappears through the door next to mine, leaving me alone for the first time since yesterday.
The last time he left me alone, I nearly killed someone.
I open the suitcase that magically made its way on top of the handmade quilt, and unload the dresses I brought.
Opening the wardrobe, I’m surprised to find more of the same quality couture hanging on the racks.
Like the dresses in New Orleans, these are of the finest fabrics and design.
I slide the ones I brought alongside the ones already in place.
Gathering a pair of soft cotton pants and a knit sweater, I move to the bathroom on the other side of the room.
Just like his apartment, this bathroom is stocked with every product known to society, along with a few I’ve never seen. Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and prepped for whatever he has in mind. I slip on a pair of red flats before heading downstairs.
Cyrus is sitting in a leather chair with one of the many books opened on his lap. “You look nice,” he comments as I enter the room.
“This old thing? I found it in my wardrobe,” I tease. Cyrus laughs at my weak attempt at humor.
“I’m glad you like them.” He closes his book and stands in front of his chair.
For the first time since meeting him, I take in his size.
He’s nearly a foot taller than me, making the top of my head barely reach his shoulders.
He’s changed into a pair of tweed pants and a loose-fitting button-down shirt. “Are you ready?”
“Depends on what I’m ready for.”
“Training,” he answers with a wicked smile.
“Training for what, exactly?”
He sighs. “First, we will turn you into a vampire.”
I scoff. “I’m already a vampire…aren’t I?” I wrinkle my forehead in confusion. Truthfully, I don’t know anything about being whatever I am. For all I know, he may be right. Maybe there’s a ritual?
Cyrus laughs deeply. “I can almost see the wheels turning in your head.”
“How will you make me a vampire?”
“By teaching you how to control your temptations. How to get what you want, how to be stronger than those around you, and how to never be a victim again.”
I look into soft blue eyes, not sure how to respond. “Okay,” I whisper. “When do we start?”
“Now,” he answers, turning me toward the kitchen. Standing at the sink is our chauffeur from earlier. His back is turned, and he’s wearing an apron covered in blood.
“Simon?” Cyrus says toward the man. “Let’s begin.”
He turns toward us, holding a large knife to his neck. I turn quickly toward Cyrus. “What is he doing?” Turning back toward our driver. “Simon? No…”
Before I finish my words, Simon slides the knife against the skin of his neck, slicing an artery along the way.
The smell of fresh blood overtakes any sense I had moments ago.
My thoughts change from concern for the man about to take his life to an overwhelming need to feed on the life force leaving his body.
I feel my teeth descend a heartbeat later, preparing to drink every last drop.
Cyrus pulls my arm, keeping me in place. “Fight the urge,” he whispers. “Don’t give in to the temptation.”
“How!” I scream. The sound that exits my lips doesn’t sound like me at all. I continue fighting against his grip, my body begging to drink the red liquid.
“Violet,” his calm voice says behind me. “Fight it. Think of a place or time where blood isn’t your main source of food. Think of a time when you were human, when you were not a vampire.”
“How is this teaching me to be a vampire?” I spew.
“Violet!” The timbre of Cyrus’s voice knocks me from the blood-induced stupor back to reality. I turn, finding my teacher’s face transformed into the face of a monster. “You must fight,” he continues.
Something overtakes me, and I do as he demands. I stand straight, smoothing the wrinkles of my blouse, and focus on the last time I was with my friends. The last time I was with Ramona.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his face transforms back to the man I know. “Go into the living room,” he orders.
“What about Simon?”
“He’ll heal. Go now.”
For once, I don’t ask questions and leave them alone in the kitchen. Moving to the couch, I sit uncomfortably, not sure what the hell just happened. Was that a lesson, or did I just witness a murder?