floor in front of her. “At the time, I didn’t fully realize what it meant to be a vampire. I thought all it entailed was drinking a little blood to survive, and I was willing to do that, to do anything, to stay with my family.” He laughed, a cold, bitter laugh. “How incredibly foolish I was! I didn’t return to the party. I spent the rest of the night trying to come to terms with what had happened. I convinced myself that everything would be all right, that I’d be able to hide what I was from Abigail and my children. I spent the next day buried under a pile of straw in the stables. When I woke that night, I was ravenous.”
Daisy stared up at him, afraid to hear the rest.
He stopped in front of the hearth, his hands resting on the mantel. “I could hear the beating of the hearts of those in the house. Servants. Guests who had spent the night. Abigail. My children. I climbed down from the hayloft, my only thought to feed.”
“You didn’t…?” She imagined him bursting into the house, mad with need, fangs bared, attacking his wife and his children.
Slowly, he turned to face her. “No, but I would have. Instead, I attacked one of the grooms who had come in to feed the horses. The thirst…it was more powerful, more painful, than anything I had expected. He didn’t survive. When I came to myself, when I saw what I’d done, I knew I could never face Abigail, never trust myself to be with her or our children. I saddled a horse and left the estate. I never went back.”
“Never?”
Erik shook his head. “I sent her a letter, told her I was going to America, that I was sorry…” It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. His only solace had been knowing that he was leaving her and his children well off financially, and that she wasn’t entirely alone. Her parents had lived close by, as had his. He knew they would look after his family.
“So, you never saw them again?”
“They never saw me again. I didn’t go to America. I couldn’t leave them. I stayed out of sight, but I was never far away. I watched my children grow and marry and have children of their own. And when my great-grandchildren were grown and doing well, I left the country.” Unwilling to return to his homeland and resurrect unhappy memories, he had never gone back.
“What happened to the vampire who made you?”
“I destroyed her.” As though exhausted by the tale, Erik dropped onto a corner of the sofa. It had taken him fifty years to find Iliana. His only regret was that her suffering had been quickly over, while his heartache remained to this day. “I’m curious about something,” he said after a time.
“What?”
Afraid he was opening a topic of conversation he didn’t want to pursue, yet driven by a burst of uncharacteristic curiosity, he found himself asking, “Why didn’t you trash the paintings when you trashed the rest of the house?”
Chapter 13
Daisy frowned, wondering why he had waited so long to ask, and then she shrugged. “I thought about it,” she confessed, “but I couldn’t do it. They’re wonderful!” She made a broad gesture, encompassing the room’s blank walls. “Why don’t you hang a few in here where you can see them? It seems a shame to keep such masterpieces in a room where no one can see them.”
She had never seen such beautiful artwork. Most of the paintings had been dark in nature—storm-tossed seas, sinking ships, winter-starved wolves skulking beneath barren trees, a mounted knight battling a fire-breathing dragon. Her favorite had been of a lonely-looking castle on a windswept promontory.
“Who’s the artist?” Daisy asked. “I’m no expert, but they looked like they were all painted by the same hand.”
“Indeed, they were,” he admitted, pleased that she had seen his work and admired it. He had often thought of hanging a few of his paintings, but it seemed like the height of vanity to cover the walls with his own work.
“I’d love to have one, but I’m
Daisy stared up at him, afraid to hear the rest.
He stopped in front of the hearth, his hands resting on the mantel. “I could hear the beating of the hearts of those in the house. Servants. Guests who had spent the night. Abigail. My children. I climbed down from the hayloft, my only thought to feed.”
“You didn’t…?” She imagined him bursting into the house, mad with need, fangs bared, attacking his wife and his children.
Slowly, he turned to face her. “No, but I would have. Instead, I attacked one of the grooms who had come in to feed the horses. The thirst…it was more powerful, more painful, than anything I had expected. He didn’t survive. When I came to myself, when I saw what I’d done, I knew I could never face Abigail, never trust myself to be with her or our children. I saddled a horse and left the estate. I never went back.”
“Never?”
Erik shook his head. “I sent her a letter, told her I was going to America, that I was sorry…” It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. His only solace had been knowing that he was leaving her and his children well off financially, and that she wasn’t entirely alone. Her parents had lived close by, as had his. He knew they would look after his family.
“So, you never saw them again?”
“They never saw me again. I didn’t go to America. I couldn’t leave them. I stayed out of sight, but I was never far away. I watched my children grow and marry and have children of their own. And when my great-grandchildren were grown and doing well, I left the country.” Unwilling to return to his homeland and resurrect unhappy memories, he had never gone back.
“What happened to the vampire who made you?”
“I destroyed her.” As though exhausted by the tale, Erik dropped onto a corner of the sofa. It had taken him fifty years to find Iliana. His only regret was that her suffering had been quickly over, while his heartache remained to this day. “I’m curious about something,” he said after a time.
“What?”
Afraid he was opening a topic of conversation he didn’t want to pursue, yet driven by a burst of uncharacteristic curiosity, he found himself asking, “Why didn’t you trash the paintings when you trashed the rest of the house?”
Chapter 13
Daisy frowned, wondering why he had waited so long to ask, and then she shrugged. “I thought about it,” she confessed, “but I couldn’t do it. They’re wonderful!” She made a broad gesture, encompassing the room’s blank walls. “Why don’t you hang a few in here where you can see them? It seems a shame to keep such masterpieces in a room where no one can see them.”
She had never seen such beautiful artwork. Most of the paintings had been dark in nature—storm-tossed seas, sinking ships, winter-starved wolves skulking beneath barren trees, a mounted knight battling a fire-breathing dragon. Her favorite had been of a lonely-looking castle on a windswept promontory.
“Who’s the artist?” Daisy asked. “I’m no expert, but they looked like they were all painted by the same hand.”
“Indeed, they were,” he admitted, pleased that she had seen his work and admired it. He had often thought of hanging a few of his paintings, but it seemed like the height of vanity to cover the walls with his own work.
“I’d love to have one, but I’m
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