“Out of the question.”
I will tell your sister. Miranda’s thoughts carried.
“Another night.”
Miranda headed for the door. I jumped up and grasped her arm.
A long silence ensued.
“Change your dress,” I snapped. “Wear something dark.”
She smiled.
I tightened my hold. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
She kissed my cheek. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do.”
* * * *
In the lavish courtyard, the party thrived.
The sparsely lit enclosure ensured a good view of the starlit sky and the thumbnail moon. The stone fountain spewed out water from its center and more from within that. Our hosts were Venetians and they’d decorated accordingly. Fifty or so guests chatted. Wine flowed.
Miranda and I lingered in a corner. She’d dressed in her finest blue gown and looked exquisite. Dreaming of this moment, she’d prepared for this very night, down to the finest details.
But her expression was vexed. “You want me to choose?”
“Yes.” I gestured with a nod to the mingling guests.
A waiter passed by carrying a tray of wine glasses. Miranda waved him away and then changed her mind and grabbed one. The remaining glasses clinked. The startled waiter moved on.
“That’s how it works,” I said dryly. “You find the ones you like, and then you seduce them.”
Her hands trembled. “You know nothing of who they are?”
“It’s easier that way,” I lied.
Miranda looked conflicted.
“Take your time.” I watched her.
A nervous rash spread down her neck, disappearing beneath the line of her black lace bustier.
I rested my hand in the arch of her back. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”
“No, I can do this.” Miranda pressed her hand against her chest.
I blew a puff of cold air onto her throat.
“That’s not actually helping,” she said.
I stroked her arm. “You come to terms with the fact that they love and are loved.”
“Don’t.”
“Or the fact that when you do take them, their fear is overwhelming.”
“I know what you’re doing.” She was breathless.
“And of course, disposing of their . . . corpses.” I perused the courtyard. “During the act, their thoughts feel as though they’re yours. If they’ve made plans for tomorrow, you’ll know them.”
Miranda’s eyes watered.
“And you’ll also know,” I stared at her, “that they’ll never realize those plans.”
“You choose.” She looked away. “Make it quick.”
“Very well.” I strolled into the crowd and smoothly interjected conversation with a small gathering. I discreetly pointed to a pretty young man.
Miranda shook head no.
Of course, I’d chosen the youngest guest who wore an expression of wonderment and conveyed a zest for life. I worked my way around, taking my time to find the most alluring, yet innocent guests.
After ten minutes, I returned to Miranda’s side. “None of them?”
She squinted. “I need more time.”
An uncomfortable silence.
“Him.” Miranda stared off into the crowd.
She’d chosen a rotund, middle-aged aristocrat. He munched on a pastry and crumbs fell out of his mouth and sprinkled onto his shirt.
“To be your first?” I asked gently.
“Does it matter?”
“Consider this, your first kiss, your first glass of wine, your first—”
“All right, all right.”
“Or your first lover?”
Miranda stormed away from me, past the fountain, and headed out.
* * * *
A crack of the whip and our carriage rumbled over uneven ground. With Miranda’s hand in mine, I kissed it. She pulled away.
“To survive, you have to do that every night,” I said.
She wiped away a tear.
I stared out of the window. “I miss daylight.”
She kicked me.
We rocked over the dirt roads, speeding past overgrown fields. The trees hung low, their branches bashing the window.
Miranda looked puzzled. “Where are we going?”
“A detour.”
Within minutes, we’d pulled up outside a graveyard. I assisted Miranda out of the carriage and guided her along the worn trail. Out of sight of the horseman, we stopped before a tall mausoleum.
Miranda read the inscription on the tomb entrance. “Carmen Casimiro?”
“But Carmen does not lie alone,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“She has company.”
Miranda’s gaze settled on the bouquet of rotting flowers.
“Sometimes, when a person is transformed . . .”
“Yes?”
I turned to face her. “It goes wrong.”
“What?”
“I appear normal to you. Able to pass for ordinary. Or may I say extraordinary.”
“Handsome.”
“Dashing even.” I winked. “A romantic idea of what it is to be immortal.”
“And I want that.”
“I know you do, my love.” I lowered my voice. “But there are risks.”
“What kind?”
“I thought that before we take that leap into the realm of the not going back, I should show you Deloris.”
“Deloris?”
I stared at the mausoleum entrance.
“She’s in there?” Miranda asked, whispering now.
“As we speak.”
“Does she know we’re out here?”
“Of course.”
“She’s a—”
“Immortality is just too much to bear for some.”
“What?”
“I thought I’d wake her so that you could get an idea.” I leaned against the door and listened.
“Wait!”
“She’s quite harmless, just a little—” I gestured that Deloris was crazy.
“Are you saying that could happen to me?”
“That’s one of the risks, yes.”
“What’s another?”
“That it doesn’t take.”
“What does that mean?”
“That when I turn you, I take too much.”
“You’re lying. There’s no one in there.”
I wrinkled my nose. “This takes me back.”
Miranda glared.
I tried the handle. “Locked from the inside.”
“You bastard.”
“Soon after I was turned, I slept in one of these.”
“Whatever for?”
“If you stray too far from home, you can get caught unawares by the morning.”
“Then I won’t.”
“And who will you feed upon, your neighbors?”
She bit down on her lower lip.
“Talk about bringing attention to yourself, Miranda.” I knocked. “Waking the undead usually pisses them off. Good thing for us I’m a good talker.”
Miranda lifted the hem of her gown and sprinted off. I followed her back to the carriage.
The horseman cracked his whip and we headed home. Deloris. Surely I could’ve come up with a better name.
Had I turned Miranda prior to our evening soiree, her natural desire to find a victim would have facilitated the act. There was no remorse on my part for ensuring that my friend would not be joining the ranks of the undead.
I kissed her forehead. “I adore you.”
She gazed at me for the longest time and then broke into a smile.
“You’re perfect the way you are,” I said, with a sense of relief that I’d done the right thing.
“I’ll always love you, you know that?” She reached for my hand and squeezed it with affection.
“When you get up tomorrow, I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
I stared out of the window. “Watch the sunrise for me.”
Chapter 33
“WE’VE SEARCHED EVERYWHERE.” Miranda sobbed, tears staining her cheeks.
With my heart in my throat, I stared down at thirteen-year-old Ricardo, who leaned over a warm bowl of chicken soup.
“Where is he?” I demanded. “You were with him last.”
Ricardo shrugged and dipped a piece of bread into his soup.
I half expected Jacob, barely six years old, to burst in through the kitchen door and shout about his adventures – the tree he’d climbed, the castle he’d defended, or the imaginary army he’d taken on and won.
“Ricardo, you must tell us,” Alicia said.
Something about his uneasy smile, the way his eyes reflected nothing, it was as though he tried to hide something. He was his father’s son.
He shifted in his seat. “Jacob ran away.”
I slumped next to him and drew upon my last remnants of patience. “What are you talking about?”
I caught visions from Ricardo’s wandering mind and grabbed his wrist.
“He was frightened.” Ricardo fixed his gaze on his spoon.
“Of what?”
“You.” He yanked his wrist away.
I reached for the bowl and threw it against the wall. Soup splattered.
“You scared him,” Ricardo said.
My fingernails dug into my palms.
“He was terrified.” His tone was strangely even, reflecting nothing of the moment.
“And yet you remained behind?”
“I’m not frightened of you.”
“You’re lying.” I caught a sob. “Where is he?” I tried to stay calm, but I could feel the tingle of my fangs.
Ricardo’s expression portrayed innocence. “I don’t know.”
Lines of brown soup trickled down the wall and met the floor.
“Tell me,” I snapped.
“Ricardo!” Miranda said, her voice firm.
When I glanced at my palms, there were beads of blood. I’d punctured my own flesh with my fingernails. I leaped from my chair.
Ricardo flinched. “Jacob knew that you killed my father.”
Alicia sat beside him. “What are you talking about?”
“We overheard you.” Ricardo glared up at me. “You admitted murdering my father to Aunt Miranda.”
“Dear God.” Alicia sighed.
Ricardo rose. “You lied to Mama that Papa fled Spain.”
“Those were not my words.” I glanced at Alicia.
“What has this got to do with Jacob?” Alicia asked.
Ricardo glanced at a discarded knife on the table. “What did you tell my father before you killed him?”
Alicia looked horrified.
“My father was a good man,” Ricardo muttered. “A fine politician. He would never want for us to live in this squalor.”
Another wave of anxiety, a terrible sense of despair at not seeing this coming, I scoured Ricardo’s thoughts. “No!”
“What?” Alicia gasped. “You’re scaring me.”
“He sold him,” I said in disbelief.
“How could you know that?” Ricardo’s thoughts carried.
* * * *
I turned the hourglass over.
Sunaria convinced me of the wisdom of remaining composed and staying focused on getting Jacob back. Together, we’d flown to the docks, the place where Ricardo admitted having taken Jacob.
We scoured the port and soon confirmed that Jacob had been seen with a lone sailor. Ricardo had sold Jacob to him for pennies. More money had changed hands here in the admiral’s office.
Glaring at the portly, middle-aged man, I stared him down as sand trickled through the narrow timer, pooling into the base.
“By the time it’s empty,” I pointed to it, “you’ll have told me where the boy is.”
The admiral coughed. “As I’ve already told you, I have no idea where the boy is.”
My gaze fell onto the hourglass.
“You’re mistaken.” He shifted his stare to Sunaria.
Meager maritime furnishings revealed the gentleman’s profession. Beads of perspiration spotted his brow. Fire roared in the hearth and flames lapped in the grate.
I turned the hourglass over. “This time when it’s empty, I’ll kill you.”
Hooves clipped below just outside the window. Foreign accents drifted in from the sailors working late into the night. This was business as usual for the bustling dock.
But not in here.
From where I stood, I could see the vast, white sails of The Pride unraveling as it sailed out of the harbor.
He bolted for the door.
With my teeth buried in his neck, I tried to extract the information, but I was so full of panic, I had trouble grasping anything. A mishmash of images, though nothing definitive, and nothing to grab hold of.
The mariner slumped to the ground. “What the hell are you?”
“Which ship is he on?” I yelled.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because our next stop is at your home.”
“The Pride,” he mumbled.