Chapter Four
Barely one hour after Charlotte had fallen asleep, the booming thunder jolted her awake. Purple flashes of lightning illuminated the sky outside her tall, arched window, and heavy rain lashed against the glass, rattling the frame.
While she normally loved storms, this one felt more like an omen.
It had been eighteen hours since she had unlocked the mirror, and her uncle and cousin had been found dead.
Their corpses were discovered in their chairs at the gentleman’s club, so nobody suspected she was involved.
Despite getting away with murder and getting her wish of having the house to herself again, she couldn’t leave her room.
Although she’d had her uncle and cousin’s things placed in their bedrooms, their tobacco smoke and cologne still clung to the drapes and carpets.
What was once her favorite place to be had become a graveyard of her family’s possessions, reminding her of not only what she’d lost, but what she had done too.
Charlotte swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the creaking, cold floorboards. With a heavy sigh, she curled her fingers into the fabric of her white nightdress and walked over to the window.
The wild storm battled behind the dark clouds blotting the night sky.
Howling winds ripped through the gardens, swaying the chestnut trees stationed along the wrought-iron fence.
She glanced at the patch of grass where daffodils used to flower each spring, smiling when she recalled last picking a bouquet of them for her mother.
With a hard swallow, she turned and looked away from that patch of grass.
If she allowed even a drop of pain in, she was afraid it would drown her entirely.
Lightning veined through the sky, lighting up the gardens, which appeared endless with their symmetrical flowerbeds, decorative statues, and pond. She stared at the shadowy corner hidden under long tree branches, unable to look away, as if the darkness was glaring back at her.
A shiver slid down her spine, along with a sudden urge to retreat.
Another flash cracked across the sky, revealing the ghost of her cousin, standing in the fog by the pond, his face contorted into a silent scream. Her heart stammered, and she gripped the windowsill. As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.
With a gasp, she pulled the heavy drapes closed and backed away slowly. Picking at her cuticles, she glared at the drapes before grabbing a candlestick from her bedside table.
Regret ached deep in her chest, and she rocked back onto her knees.
Even though they deserved it, she wasn’t sure she could survive their haunting her.
With a deep breath, she reminded herself of the awful things they had done.
Her uncle was known for beating his last wife, and her cousin was no better, sending maids away after compromising their virtue.
Four loud knocks echoed through the empty halls, making her jump. She flicked her eyes to the door, every muscle in her body tensing. The sound had come from the front of the house. The rattling of the metal knocker was unmistakable.
Another three bangs resonated, and she slowly turned to face the door. Whoever had turned up was persistent, and if it wasn’t for her ancestor’s warning about witches and vampires, she wouldn’t be so worried.
Quietly, Charlotte crept down the corridor, her aching, bare feet freezing against the cold ground.
She listened intently from the hallway as the door opened and the housekeeper, Edith, conversed intelligible greetings to whomever had arrived.
As she reached the top of the staircase, she peered down to see the visitor.
A woman with eyes the color of oak removed the hood of her silver cloak.
Her coiled amber curls fell to her shoulders, accentuating her distinctive diamond-shaped face and straight, long nose.
“I understand it is late,” the woman said, her tone clipped. “But I am here on the matter of Theodore and William Lovett’s deaths. I’m with the Pinkerman Detective Agency. May I speak with a Miss Charlotte Lovett?”
“Oh my. Yes, of course. Please come in,” Edith said shakily, stepping aside, allowing the woman into the foyer. “I will see if my mistress is still awake. Would you like some tea while you wait?”
“Please, thank you.”
Edith walked with the woman into the parlor room, and Charlotte ran her tongue across her parched lips.
A detective was in her home. They couldn’t have known she was behind it.
Yet, she couldn’t shake the anxiety building in her core.
Her father had often lamented that she was a terrible liar. Her face told stories, he’d said.
Quickly, she hurried back to her room, clutching her chest as she walked inside. With a shaky exhale, she looked at the lone candle flickering on the bedside table, the shadows of the room darker than before.
With another step inside, the floorboard behind her creaked, and the door slammed shut.
Fingers clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.
What the blazes…
Before she could process what was happening, a second hand gripped the back of her neck, spinning her around with surprising force, trapping her between a wall and a muscular body.
She wriggled against the intruder, testing her boundary, but it was as if she were pushing herself against stone.
Slowly, she tipped her head back to meet the intruder's furnace-gray eyes.
Her stomach clenched at the intensity of his stare and a flush of heat crept through her chest and neck as she held his gaze, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of every curve of his body pressed against hers.
“Don’t scream,” he ordered, his voice a low whisper as he bridged the gap between them.
She nodded once, and he tilted his head to the side, his rain-soaked dark locks curling over his forehead. As he got closer, she breathed in the scent of his cologne—musk, smoked wood, and cedar. Her pulse quickened, drawing his eyes to her neck.
Slowly, he released his fingers one by one, as if he was testing her to see if she would call for help. Once he’d removed his hand entirely, she heaved in a deep breath.
A surge of raw alertness charged through her nerves, and a tingle built at the base of her spine, creeping upward and into her shoulders.
“Charlotte Lovett?” he asked gravely, his full lips parting slightly.
“Yes,” she answered, her breath hitching when he accidentally grazed his fingers against her forearm. “Who are you?”
“Nathaniel Sallow,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I’m here to help you.”
She’d heard that name before, in her ancestor’s voice, all wrapped in warning.
“You’re a vampire,” she stated, noticing the subtle way his eyes flicked to her throat. “The first vampire.”
He drank her in with his predator stare—pointed, magnetic, and endless. Looking into them felt like falling—dizzying, weightless, and deadly.
“You’ve heard of me, yet, until today, I had not heard of you.” He pulled back just an inch when she didn’t answer, barely enough room for her to breathe comfortably. “Are you afraid?”
She wasn’t sure what she felt, but it wasn’t fear. “No.”
The subtle tremor around his lips betrayed the calmness of the rest of his face. “How intriguing. You do not fear death?”
Of course she did, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that.
“Why? Are you going to kill me?” she asked pointedly, her breath stammering on the word.
“Not today,” he said, leaning down. She breathed in the scent of the soap in his hair, a woodsy, citrus laced smell that made her heart race.
Her stomach somersaulted when he licked his lips.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t been that close to a man, other than her repulsive cousin, in years since the man who broke her heart.
Clearing her throat, she asked, “Can you move back a little?”
An unsettling smile curved his mouth. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but the tingles she was feeling were entirely too inappropriate. Everything about him was designed to lure prey into a false sense of security, before tearing them apart, but goodness, did he have to be that handsome? Did all vampires look him?
After a few seconds, he relented, the tendons in his neck and arms roping when he inched back as if doing so was a strain on his body. His fingers gently swept against hers before he took a step back. Shockwaves pulsed through her clammy palms and into her chest.
Without breaking eye contact, he ran his hand over his short, dark stubble, then into his hair.
“Better?” he asked and pushed his sleeves up his forearms.
No.
“Yes,” she said, and pressed her fingers to her chest, surprised at the way her body missed his closeness. “I have a visitor, actually.”
“I know,” he said. “She’s a witch. Comes from a dangerous family.”
“Let me guess,” she said with a hard swallow. “An Avery?”
“You know them.”
She peeled herself away from the wall and turned to face him, hyperaware of her state of undress. It didn’t help when his eyes raked over her body, his fangs showing when he dragged his bottom lip between his teeth.
“I’ve heard of them. I was told they want me dead, just like you.”
“Except I do not want you dead.”
“You said, but that begs the question of why?” she asked, recalling the lie he’d been fed. Her ancestor had said he wouldn’t listen to reason, that vampires were savage creatures, yet this one appeared entirely in control of himself.
“I don’t want to become mortal yet,” he explained. “Not when my enemies are plotting my downfall.”
Yet. There it was. He was planning to murder her, just not right now. Well, not if she had anything to do with it.
“Killing me will not make you mortal,” she stated simply, holding his stare.
“Is that so?” he asked, his resonant, baritone voice vibrating in her ears.