Charleston Past Midnight (17 page)

“Want a beer, Calla? We have Foster’s or Boddingtons.”

Before I can answer her, Ambrose cuts in, “Your shot, sweetheart. I’ll get her drink. What’ll it be, little lady?”

I watch as she leans her slim body over the emerald green velvet of the carved pool table. All grace and cool poise, she lands the shot and grins wide before exclaiming, “I’m catching up, darling!”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Bring your best, babe, but you know who always cleans up in the end.”

“Oh, you’re in for it then!”

The infectious electronic beats of Skrillex throbs from a subwoofer mounted over the massive flat screen TV that’s hanging on a nearby brick wall.

“So, what’s it gonna be, then?” He waits for my reply.

“Foster’s sounds good.”

“Excellent choice, I’m a total fiend for the Boddingtons, so with you being so generous and all, I like you already. Back in a sec.”

He strides out of the oversized game room and disappears into the kitchen. I watch Alina come toward me, stopping just a foot away from where I’m sitting on the tall, round pub table to ask softly, “How are you feeling?”

I answer honestly, “Physically, amazing. Mentally and emotionally, well, it’s an awful lot to process, you know?”

She watches me a moment before saying, her voice thoughtful, “Yes, I remember. Just know that it can take quite a while to come to terms with the newness of everything. It won’t happen overnight. Essentially trading one existence for another is nearly beyond comprehension for anyone. But I’m sure that Severin told you—as family, we stick together and from what I’ve seen in my newer existence as a vampire, we’re some of the good ones. Count yourself lucky.”

I shudder to think of others prowling around out there like Valdon.

Ambrose saunters in, three beers held in a triangle in his long fingers. As he hands me the bottle of Foster’s, Alina surprises me by asking, “Did he tell you how I came to be turned?”

Caught off guard, I stare into her wide eyes and say, “Yes, he did.”

She touches my knee lightly and says, “Good. It’s important that you know each of our stories so that we can better understand each other. And Severin, he told you his, I presume?”

“Yes.”

The balls make a hard ‘snick’ sound as Ambrose lands two in a row in the corner pocket.

He calls out in his thick British accent, “And what about my grizzly tale, did he grace you with that juicy tidbit yet?”

Hesitantly I shake my head. “No, he didn’t.”

“Care to hear it then?”

I swallow and respond, “Very much.” Mentally bracing myself because I’m sure that his stoic, multi-layered façade hides something darker, a fierceness, which as with Severin, oozes deadliness.

He nods to Alina, indicating that it’s her shot. I watch him tilt the yellow can of Boddingtons up to his lips. He takes a long drag of the ale before setting the can down on a nearby table.

His glacial eyes meet mine and in a totally emotionless voice he begins, “I was twenty-four years old and a first lieutenant in the British Cavalry. The year was 1754, and we were in a raging battle with the French for the Northern Territories. Back then we were fortunate to still have the Cherokee fighting alongside us. My guide was the best—a fierce fucker too. Watched him kill countless men with his bare hands. Anyhow, he and I and six of my men were in charge of running a load of badly needed supplies from
Fort Saint-Frédéric
South to Fort Carillon. Both are now in what is designated as the state of Maine. Back then, on horseback in the fucking pounding snowstorm that was heaving down on us, the journey was supposed to take two days. On the second day, we were ambushed. We were traveling alongside a steep gully and before we knew it, we were flanked on every side.”

“Was it the French?”

“Fuck yeah. I wish it was only them. We could’ve taken out those pussies. They had a dozen Mohawk warriors with them. Knew the second I saw them that we were done for. Don’t know what you’ve learned in history classes, Calla, but I can tell you right now, the Mohawks butcher first and never bother with questions.”

“Oh my God.” I shudder.

“Fucking right. Anyhow, that dusk we became the entertainment for the French Cavalrymen who watched the Mohawks methodically pluck each man away from our group to slaughter and scalp them one by one until all the snow surrounding us was stained red. You see, they like to toy with their victims. They’re notorious for focusing on the weakest ones, taking them out first, saving the real fighters for last, when their appetite for death is worked up to a rabid level. My guide and I knew what was happening, and when there were only three of us left, we did the only thing that we could do. In a last ditch effort I gave the command and we took off in separate directions, sprinting hard for the cover of the forest. Within seconds I heard the screams of agony as they caught and tortured the others but I was too intent on escape. I’d just made it a few steps inside the tree line when an arrow drilled through my left calf. I kept going, hopping awkwardly on my good leg, praying that I could find somewhere, anywhere to hide. There was nothing but snow and trees that were not large enough for a body to hide behind. I knew then that I was doomed. Unable to move efficiently, I braced myself behind a sturdy tree and gripped my loaded musket. The Indians are natural born trackers. I knew I didn’t stand a chance. The blood trail from my wound alone was a dead giveaway, but still, I sure as hell wasn’t going down without taking a few of those fucking bastards with me.”

I watch as he takes another long drink. Steeling myself for the gore that’s yet to come, I glance at Alina, who seems upset and sad. She’s sitting in the chair opposite mine, nibbling on her full bottom lip.

“Didn’t have to wait long, either. With a loud shrieking shout, one huge warrior came charging for me, his feathered tomahawk poised high up above his head. He moved fast but somehow I had just enough time to flip my musket up beneath my shoulder and fire on him. Stopped the fucker right in his tracks, which pissed his mates right off. Two of them came gunning straight for me. I had no time to reload so I stabbed the first one who reached me with the end of the bayonet attached to the muzzle of my gun. Got him straight in the gut, but it didn’t stop him. He laid into me with that sharp blade and started whacking me in the arm and once in the shoulder before I got him straight through the neck. He fell right at my feet and that’s when I felt the arrow. It was shot from the trees, so fast and hard that it drilled straight through my lower sternum. I tried to move but I was stuck to the tree. The flint tip was buried deep in the oak behind me. Two more were coming fast, so I had no choice but to heave myself off the shaft, feather tips and all.”

My hands fly up to cover my mouth. I am shocked at the gruesomeness of his story. An involuntary whisper falls from my lips, “Oh God, Ambrose.”

He seems stoic, unaffected as he rolls the birch pool stick between his palms. “That’s when things began to get really fun. See, I was running on pure adrenaline and survival instinct at that point, so I hadn’t a clue how much blood I’d lost from both the hack job and the arrow hits to my leg and chest. I didn’t understand why, when I tried to walk, I only dropped to my knees. I reached for the knife at my hip and pulled it out of its sheath, ready for some ‘up close and personal’ combat. I was intent on taking at least one more of those assholes down as they surged forward, but before I knew it, one of them had a firm grip on the top of my hair and the other was grinning wide, his blade pulled back. They were about to scalp me alive.

“I swung forward, but my movements at that point were clumsy and uncoordinated. I kept trying, but with no luck. He just kept jumping back from my blade. They were toying with me and I hated every
fucking
minute of it. I didn’t know if they understood English but I yelled at them to get on with it. Called them every name I could think of, furious at myself for not fighting harder.

“Then the unimaginable happened. Out of nowhere, this stunning woman appeared behind the Indian who stood before me. He turned, shocked as shit to see a provocatively dressed siren standing in the midst of a bloody fight in the middle of the fucking woods. Without a word she shook her head at him, reached out, and with both palms against his cheeks, twisted once. I heard his neck snap. The other Mohawk instantly released me and went for her, his tomahawk gripped tightly in his right fist. She grinned at him, and that’s when I saw her fangs. From my knees, I looked up in awe as she plucked the weapon straight out of his unyielding grip, like it was a flower on a stem. She flipped it once in her hand and let it fly in the same motion. It drilled him straight between the eyes, and he dropped like a lead weight. I was too fucking freaked out to move an inch as she smoothed a length of her gleaming hair and took two strides to where I was planted in the snow. She knelt down before me in her lavender and silver gown and whispered that she was about to take the pain away, that I shouldn’t be frightened. I knew I was about to die, but I had to know the name of the strange woman who was about to kill me. I asked her in a strangled voice and she answered me in the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard, ‘Katerina.’ Then she tore into her wrist with those dagger-like fangs of hers and brought it to my lips, softly ordering me to drink. I was in no position to refuse, so I opened wide and did just that, half-thinking that I must already be dead, that this was either heaven or hell. And that’s when I began to feel the unbelievable raw power of her blood surge through me, warming me from the chill of death and swiftly healing my wounds at the same time. She traced us away before the remaining enemies came to check on the hold-up. And there you have it. That’s my tale.”

I stare into his eyes, stunned by his confession. “She saved your life that day.”

He picks up his beer and tips it toward me. “Indeed she did.”

“Who is Katerina?”

His brows draw together. “Severin hasn’t told you already?”

“Only that she was the female vampire who turned him. He didn’t share many details, except that she also had visions and that she’s dead.”

He watches me carefully as he says, “She was both Severin and my maker. You’re right, she took her own life in the year 1843.”

“But why would she do that?”

He cracks his neck twice before leaning back against the rail of the low pool table. “After three centuries, she was tired of dodging Valdon. She couldn’t face an infinite future on the run from him. He wanted her, nearly had her several times, but she always managed to slip away. She knew that he would never stop giving chase and she grew weary of always trying to be one step ahead, always looking over her shoulder. She wanted to end it, on her terms. And she did. Who fucking knows the real deal? She wouldn’t talk about what happened between them before Severin and I came into play. All we know was that he was a threat and because of that fact, he is our enemy. See, vampires grow more powerful as they age, and as far as we know, he’s the oldest one around—over five hundred years. We’ve yet to come up with a plan to annihilate the fucker, and believe me, we’ve thought about it … a lot.”

I may be overstepping boundaries but I’m inquisitive by nature so I have to know. “How did she do it—end her life, I mean?”

“We found her in the gardens at our place in Spain. I suppose she decided it was time to take in one last sunrise. Not sure how long it took to kill her. All we found was scraps of her dress and a charred pile of ash. Severin about went mad, blaming himself for not finding a way to eliminate Valdon. I suppose he still blames himself; I can see it in his eyes during the rare times that her name comes up. If you haven’t guessed already, he’s a man of excessive honor, Calla, and although he wasn’t in love with her, she was his creator, at least for this existence. He felt a fierce loyalty and responsibility to protect her. He failed and he carries that burden. Heavily. I feel awful as well, but I’d rather think of it this way: everyone has a right to choose their own fate. It’s a personal decision.”

I ponder everything he’s told me. He moves over to cup the back of Alina’s neck before dropping a tender kiss on her lips. She nuzzles into his snug tee and I look away, wanting to give them a private moment. With all this information swirling around in my newly energized brain I’m beginning to feel the vastness of my future. Suddenly I want to go outside, to escape the walls of their underground house, but I’m exhausted and there will be plenty of time to explore with my newly heightened senses.

I stand and tell them good night as I make my way out of the modern room, back down the hall toward Severin’s door. Reaching out for the handle I hear Ambrose’s voice call out to me, “Don’t leave until he returns for you, Calla.” I blink and step inside.
It wasn’t a request.

What has happened to me, to my future? I’m uncertain of anything except my love for him. I hope it’s enough to help me survive because I know one thing: no matter how long it takes I’m going to find a loophole, a firm plan to take out that bastard Valdon. There’s no fucking way I’m giving up and going down in a pile of ash like Katerina. No
damn
way.

Chapter Nineteen

Three Years Earlier, Meeting Street Girls’ Dormitory, Charleston, SC

Brotherly Love

“H
ey, Calla, Stacie at the front desk just called up. There are two military dudes here to speak with you. They want you to come downstairs.”

I glance up quickly from my history notes. Immediately my hands begin to sweat and tremble.
No, no, no ….
Brant was deployed to a remote area of Afghanistan four months ago and I’ve been on edge every day, worrying for his safety.
Please, please, let it be him coming home early for some weird reason and not something else ….

On unsteady legs, I grab my cardigan, slide on my flip flops and make my way to the staircase. My legs feel heavy and my head throbs with blood as I rush down to the lobby. Men aren’t allowed past the lobby of the girls’ dorm. I hesitate before pushing open the chipped steel door. As it swings wide I stare into the eyes of the two MPs. One look at their grim features and the earnest set of their eyes, and I know it’s horrible. They’re here to either tell me that he’s dead or gravely injured. My body is shaking as I try to cross to them, desperate to know the truth.