Chapter 2 Iris #2
My whole body feels warm despite the cold house, and I'm suddenly, viscerally aware of how close he's standing. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Close enough to see the way candlelight reflects in those pale eyes.
Close enough that I wonder if vampires can hear heartbeats. Because mine is racing.
"You're cold," he observes, and it's not a question. His voice is smooth and cultured and does absolutely nothing to help my current situation. "The house has not been warmed in three weeks. I will start the fires."
"I can..."
But he's already moving, disappearing into the next room with that same unsettling fluid grace.
I stand alone in the entrance hall, surrounded by weapons and winter silence, and try to process what just happened.
Grandmother left me a vampire.
Not a cat. Not a familiar in the warm, fuzzy sense of loyal animal companion.
A vampire. An ancient, powerful, devastatingly attractive vampire who is magically bound to serve me and who expects me to... what? Command him? Feed him? Treat him like Grandmother apparently did, like a weapon to be maintained and used?
A vampire I apparently want to kiss despite knowing him for all of five minutes.
A vampire who has no choice but to obey me.
"No," I whisper to the empty hall, though I'm not sure if I'm refusing the situation or my own treacherous thoughts. "Absolutely not."
By the time I work up the courage to follow him, the cottage is already warming.
I find him, Cadeon, in the main sitting room, kneeling in front of the fireplace with wood and kindling arranged in a perfect geometric pattern. He doesn't use matches. Just holds his hand over the wood, and flames spring up obediently.
Magic, or vampire ability? I don't know enough about vampires to tell.
The room is... well, it's more of Grandmother's aesthetic.
Heavy furniture. Dark colors. A massive desk positioned to face the door, because of course Grandmother would want to see anyone entering before they saw her.
Bookshelves line the walls, filled with grimoires and texts that could no doubt could level continents.
And more weapons. A sword mounted over the fireplace. Throwing knives arranged in a decorative fan pattern.
I'm starting to remember why I never visited. Well, besides the fact she loathed me.
"Your quarters are upstairs," Cadeon says without turning around. "Second door on the left. Your grandmother's room is the first door. I've taken the liberty of airing them both."
"Where do you sleep?"
He glances at me over his shoulder, and there's something almost like confusion in his expression. "I don't require sleep in the traditional sense. I rest during daylight hours in the cellar. It's warded against sunlight."
Of course it is. Of course Grandmother had a vampire-suitable cellar.
"Right. Okay." I set my bag down carefully, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "So. We should probably talk about... all of this."
"There is nothing to discuss." He stands, brushing ash from his hands with precise movements. "The bond is absolute. I serve House Ashwood. Your wishes are my commands."
"I don't want to command anyone."
The words come out sharp, and he goes very still. For a moment, we just look at each other across the warming room.
"What you want," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral, "is irrelevant to what I am."
It's the emptiness in his tone that gets me. Not anger or resentment. Just... nothing. Like he's reporting the weather. Or waiting for punishment.
"How does it work?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "The feeding. You said you need to feed from me within three days."
"Yes." He moves to the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out what looks like a ceremonial knife.
Silver, with symbols etched into the blade.
"The ritual is simple. You offer your wrist or throat, but the wrist is traditional.
I take what I need. It will weaken you temporarily but cause no lasting harm. "
He says it so clinically. Like we're discussing crop rotation.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will weaken. Eventually, I will enter a state similar to starvation. It is... unpleasant."
"But not deadly?"
"Not immediately." A pause. "Your grandmother fed me regularly. Every seven days, precisely."
Of course she did. Grandmother was nothing if not efficient.
I look at him, really look at him, and I see what I missed before.
The way he holds himself so carefully still, like movement costs him.
The shadows under his eyes that might be exhaustion or might just be part of being undead.
The way his hands, now resting at his sides, tremor almost imperceptibly.
"When did she last feed you?"
"Four weeks ago." He says it without inflection. "The week before she died."
Four weeks. He said he needs to feed every seven days.
"You're already weakening."
"It is manageable."
"That's not..." I take a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "Okay. We should do the ritual. Now. Tonight. And then we need to talk about... everything else."
He inclines his head in what might be a bow. "As you command."
"It's not a command." I stop myself. This is going to be a much longer conversation than I have energy for tonight. "Where do we do this?"
"Here is sufficient." He gestures to the desk chair. "If you would sit, Mistress Ashwood."
"Iris. Please just call me Iris."
He hesitates, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Confusion? Suspicion?
"As you wish... Iris."
He says my name like he's testing out a foreign word.
I sit in the nearby armchair and try not to think about what I'm about to do.
Cadeon moves to kneel beside me with that unnatural grace, and somehow the formal position makes this feel even more intimate.
Wrong on every possible level, but when I open my mouth to protest, he's already taking my wrist in both his hands.
His fingers are cold. Gentle, reverent even, but cold.
He looks up at me, those pale gray eyes meeting mine, and for a moment I see something flicker in them. Hunger, yes, but also hesitation. "This will hurt," he says quietly, his voice dropping lower. "Only for a moment. I apologize."
"It's fine. I've had worse. I once spilled hot wax on my..."
He bites down, and I forget whatever I was going to say.
It does hurt. A sharp, cold sting that makes me gasp, but then, like he promised, the pain fades. What replaces it is... unexpected.
Heat.
It starts at the bite, then spreads up my arm in a slow, liquid wave. Not unpleasant. The opposite of unpleasant, actually, which is confusing and more than a little alarming. My whole body suddenly feels warm, almost feverish, like I've had too much wine on an empty stomach.
And through it all, I can feel the bond activate, the magic flaring to life like a cord pulled taut between us.
Through it, I feel him.
Emptiness. That's the first thing. A vast, aching nothing where emotions should be. But underneath it, buried so deep I almost miss it...hunger. Desperation. And something else. Something that feels almost like relief. Gratitude. The echo of a feeling so old he's forgotten how to name it.
His mouth is gentle against my skin, despite the sharp points of his fangs. I can feel him drinking, can feel the pull of it, and that strange heat keeps spreading, spreading, spreading, down my spine, pooling low in my belly, making my breath catch.
This shouldn't feel like this. Should it?
When he finally pulls away, I'm dizzy. Flushed. My heart is racing in a way that has nothing to do with blood loss and everything to do with the way he's looking at me now. He’s still kneeling, still holding my wrist, his lips slightly parted and stained with my blood.
For just a second, his expression isn't empty. There's something raw there. Vulnerable. Almost... hungry for more than just blood.
Then he blinks, and it's gone.
He's still kneeling, but he bows his head, avoiding my eyes.There’s tension in his shoulders, and his hands are shaking worse than before. He releases my wrist carefully, almost reluctantly.
"Are you..."
"Thank you." He stands abruptly, still not looking at me, and there's something different in his voice. Rougher. Less controlled. "You should rest. The bond will have weakened you temporarily. By morning, you will have recovered."
He's moving toward the door before I can respond, and I'm suddenly, desperately tired. From traveling all day or maybe having your entire understanding of my inheritance upended. Of course I knew my grandmother had a familiar but I’ve never met him.
Never even seen him. A lot of mages have them, I just never liked the idea of binding myself to another living creature. Plants are complicated enough.
"Cadeon?"
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"We're going to figure this out," I say to his back. "The bond, the cottage, all of it. Together. Okay?"
For a long moment, he doesn't respond. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:
"As you wish."
He disappears into the shadows of the hallway, leaving me alone in my grandmother's study with a bleeding wrist and the growing certainty that I am in way, way over my head.
I wrap my wrist in the handkerchief from my pocket, and look around the room. At the weapons. At the cold, perfect order of everything.
This is what my grandmother wanted me to inherit. This power. This control. This ancient vampire who expects to be commanded like a tool.
"Well," I mutter to the empty room. "She's going to be very disappointed."
Somewhere in the cottage, I feel Cadeon's presence through the bond. That vast, terrible emptiness.
I'm definitely going to need more brandy.