21. Winnie
WINNIE
The first thing Bogdan did after Conrad left was laugh—a low, satisfied sound from somewhere deep in his chest—as he strolled through my cottage with leisurely calm, like we were entertaining company instead of narrowly avoiding disaster.
“Well,” he murmured. “That was unpleasantly close.”
I stood at the kitchen table exactly where he’d left me, every muscle in my body rigid with restraint. Or rather, compulsion.
My sire watched me from across the room with the same patient amusement a cat might reserve for a wounded bird. I hated that expression. Hated that after all these years it could still pull me back through time.
I wanted to run after Conrad. I wanted to jump into the car and tell him everything. I wanted to scream at him to take the children and leave town and never come back.
Instead, I stood perfectly still while Bogdan removed his gloves finger by finger.
“You always did have dreadful taste in men,” he said conversationally.
My jaw tightened. “He is not?—”
“Oh, please.” He waved one pale hand dismissively. “You nearly climbed into his lap right in front of me.”
Heat crawled up my neck despite myself.
Bogdan noticed immediately. Of course he did. His gray eyes brightened with amusement. “How darling.”
I fucking hated him. I hated that even now, after all these years, hatred was safer than fear.
Fear fed him. Fear entertained him.
Bogdan drifted toward me with that same elegant, unhurried grace that had once fooled me into believing he was civilized and cultured.
What he was, was monstrous.
He reached out absently and gathered a section of my hair into his hand, examining the strands thoughtfully. “You’ve kept yourself well.”
The gesture was casual. Mindless. The way someone might stroke the ear of a favored hunting dog.
I swallowed hard and stared past his shoulder. “I don’t understand. You were buried at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Mmm.”
“I chained your coffin with rowan ash.”
“Yes.”
“I watched it sink.”
“And yet.” He smiled. “Here I am.”
My insides twisted violently.
I still remembered that night in terrible detail. The cliffs were wet and slippery from the storm. The chains tore through my gloves, burning my skin as I dragged the coffin inch by inch. There was absolute certainty that if I failed, I would never be free again.
For over a century afterward, I had believed I’d succeeded. No progeny truly ever escapes their sire, but I had managed distance.
Then the recent floods came. Weeks and weeks of relentless storms battering coastlines across Europe. Entire villages swallowed by rising waters. Cliffs collapsing into the sea. And in all that chaos, a coffin had finally broken loose from its prison.
Bogdan moved past me toward the sitting room. I followed automatically. Another compulsion. Never let him out of sight unless dismissed. The order settled over my nervous system like iron hooks.
He sank elegantly into one of my armchairs and glanced around the cottage. “You’ve made yourself quaint.”
I said nothing.
His gaze drifted toward the shelves filled with labeled herbs and recipe books and carefully organized tea tins, then to my planner on the kitchen counter.
His lips parted just a fraction, a quiet twitch of recognition settling over his features. “Ah.”
My stomach dropped. Slowly, Bogdan stood and crossed the room. I moved instinctively to intercept him.
Pain exploded behind my eyes immediately. The compulsion hit so hard my knees nearly buckled. He looked back at me mildly. “Careful, poppet.”
I froze.
He studied the calendar for a long moment. CJ piano lessons. Bianca museum trip. Billie science fair. Meal prep notes. Grocery lists. Little hearts drawn beside important days.
Bogdan smiled faintly. “You’ve been nesting.”
Humiliation flooded through me. “I’ve been working.”
“You, my dear, are pretending. Playing house, yes?”
His fingers brushed lightly across one of the notes Billie had added in crooked handwriting: BUG FACT BOOK DUE FRIDAY
“How long have you been playing housekeeper?”
“Nanny.”
“Mm.” He looked around again. “I suppose it suits you.”
I hated how much that hurt. Because it did suit me. That was the terrible thing. After all these years, after all the wandering and hiding and surviving, I had finally stumbled into something that looked an awful lot like happiness. I had finally found someone waiting for me to come back.
“You love them.”
I stayed silent.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You truly do.”
Another pause.
“How unfortunate.”
I turned away before he could see my face.
Bogdan wandered toward the fireplace, trailing his fingers across the mantle as though reacquainting himself with the century.
“You know,” he said lightly, “I am impressed.”
I frowned despite myself.
“You trapped me without technically violating my compulsion.” There was genuine admiration in his tone now. “That was clever.”
I remembered every loophole I’d exploited. A progeny could not directly harm their sire. Could not conspire against them. Could not willingly allow harm to come to them. So I hadn’t harmed him. I had merely obeyed. Prepared his coffin. Ensured he rested comfortably.
Then I’d arranged for gravity and the Atlantic Ocean to handle the rest.
Bogdan laughed softly. “Perhaps that is why you survived so long.”
My throat constricted. The others hadn’t. Dozens over centuries. Maybe hundreds. Some were destroyed by vampire hunters. Some were driven mad by the bond between them and Bogdan. Some were simply worn down by eternity beside Bogdan.
But me? I had endured. Mostly because I learned early that survival depended upon becoming useful without becoming interesting. Except, it seemed I had failed at the second part.
Again.
Bogdan settled back against the mantle and regarded me thoughtfully. “You know what fascinated me most about you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You were furious when you realized what was happening.” His smile widened. “Most mortals cry. Beg. Bargain. You tried to stab me with a candlestick. It was delightful.”
I closed my eyes.
Ireland had smelled like wet earth and peat smoke when I was human.
That was what I remembered most clearly.
Not hunger, though there had been plenty of that.
Not fear, though there had been even more of that.
I remembered the scents. The smell of damp wool drying by weak fires.
Mud clinging to hems. Bread baked thin because we needed to stretch the flour for another week.
Salt air rolling inland from black cliffs that looked beautiful from a distance and cruel up close.
I had been the eldest daughter. My mother had died bringing Billie-sized twins into the world who only survived a few days themselves, and after that our house had slowly collapsed inward around grief and poverty.
My father worked when there was work. My younger brothers sometimes stole turnips.
My sisters cried from hunger often enough that eventually they stopped crying altogether.
And I became useful. I cooked, cleaned, mended, and mothered children while still being one myself.
Bogdan had once told me that was the first thing about me he found fascinating. The way I loved people despite exhaustion.
At eighteen, I thought love itself could keep things alive.
Then the letter came. I could still remember my father holding it with trembling hands near the firelight, sounding out the words slowly because reading had never come easily to him.
A wealthy lord with a remote estate was offering good wages with room and board provided.
It was a miraculous opportunity for a respectable young woman.
My father cried that night. I heard him through the wall while my sisters slept curled against me for warmth.
The next morning, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You’ll have a better life there, Winnie.”
What he meant was, You’ll survive there. And perhaps more importantly, They might survive here if you go and send a portion of your wages home to us.
So I went.
I remembered the crossing vividly. The sea was gray and wrapped in a violent wind. Rain needled into my face while the boat rocked hard enough to make several passengers sick over the side.
I’d never been farther than the neighboring village before. Everything felt enormous. The island itself looked cursed when it finally emerged from the fog with its jagged cliffs. The dark stone manor perched high above the sea. There was no nearby village, no visible warmth anywhere.
I should have run in the opposite direction immediately, but poor girls rarely got the luxury to hone their instincts.
Bogdan met me at the front door. I thought he was beautiful, which is a horrible truth I hate admitting.
He had looked to be thirty. Tall and elegant, dressed in immaculate black wool despite the weather. His hair had been shorter in those days, though still dark as midnight, and his eyes had fixed on me with such startling attention that I immediately forgot every prepared sentence.
“Miss Winifred Carrington,” he had said warmly. “Welcome.”
No one had ever spoken my full name like it mattered before.
The manor, on the other hand, had frightened me almost instantly. It was deafeningly quiet with far too few servants. Entire wings were shut away behind locked doors. Meals were only taken after sundown.
Bogdan had watched me constantly. At first I thought I imagined it. Then I realized I could physically feel when his attention settled on me.
I fascinated him. Which should have terrified me more than it did. The problem was that he was lonely. Or at least he wore loneliness convincingly. He asked me questions no one had ever asked before.
What books did I like?
Did I enjoy music?
What did I think happened after death?
Did I resent God for letting me be born into poverty?
Did I want children?
No one had ever cared what I thought about anything. Certainly not men. Certainly not wealthy ones. I was so young then. So painfully easy to impress.