Sunder (4 page)

Briton nodded. “I am told I resemble my great-grandfather a fair amount. But people generally call me Briton though, not Nicolai. Briton is my second name. Nicolai is very old country.”

She nodded, giving Miles a look. “Yes, yes of course. You youngsters need to have your independence.” Miles rolled his eyes.

Briton spoke with a laugh, “Indeed. Ms. Whitburn, may I introduce my friend, Miles Xavier.”

She nodded slightly. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Xavier.”

Miles’ old face turned into the sweetest of smiles and he bowed slightly, taking her hand in his and kissing it once. “The pleasure is all mine, my dear Ms. Whitburn. You will forgive my being so forward, but it has been a long trip on my old body, and I would just about die for a hot bath.”

She blushed and made a sound similar to a giggle, “Call me Betsy. I will draw you a bath right away.” She turned and walked down the hall with Miles.

Briton let them leave him there at the front door. He was stopped in the entrance, seeing it all around him. He could see his family moving about in the house, like ghosts. He wished they were there to haunt the old place, but his kind didn’t haunt. You needed a soul for that.

His family’s things were still there, in their very spots. The old table in the hall his mother put the post on, and the old chair he had sat in millions of times tying on his skates or readying to go hunting with the family. He looked back at the street; no other houses sat on the street and the lamps seemed spaced more than they would have been on any other street. His father’s doing.
The land was all owned by his family—by him now
.
The last of his family.

He closed the door and looked up at the mark above the door. It made a chill crawl up his spine. He knew the charm still protected the old house, and he knew if he were smart, he would find the sister who would inherit from Betsy’s sister and make sure everything was up to snuff.

He walked into the kitchen to see the fresh bread and jam and homemade pickles, just as he had remembered. Betsy’s mother had been the very same with the comfort food. Briton smiled, thinking about how happy Miles would be here. He hoped deep down that it would be for a very long time, hoped being the operative word.
Of course that all depended on the Michaels clan.

Betsy walked into the kitchen and smiled warmly. “It’s amazing how much you look like him. Please forgive me if I stare, it’s uncanny though. I only saw his photos, but I remember his face so clearly. If I’m not mistaken, he left town after the great fire. His family died in the fire.”

Briton nodded, forcing himself to not rage at the memory of the dreaded night. “I’ve heard the story from my mother. Sad tale.”

“Was a sad night for
certain.
The whole town still mourns it. So many died. We lost family too, my great-grandmother and my great-great-aunt.” She frowned and walked to the fridge. “Can I get you a snack or some leftovers? I had lamb for dinner.”

He shook his head. The flames of the fire were still licking at the windows of the carriage as he watched them burn to death. Her great-great-aunt and great-grandmother had died trying to save his family. The hunters had taken so much that night.

“Briton, son. You okay?”

He snapped out of it. “Sorry, what?”

“Tea? I was offering you some tea.”

“No, thank you. But I was wondering if the town still has a Harvest Ball on October 21
^st
, like it used to?”

Her face lit up, making her old blue eyes sparkle again. “Yes, of course. Your father must have told you about that. Your great-great-great-grandfather actually started the Harvest Ball.
It’s
tonight, if I am not mistaken. I’m too old now for such frivolities. I don’t go anymore.”

“Nonsense. You must come.” He smiled.

Her face blanked. “You speak so formally for one so young. The other young people in town don’t talk like you. They spend all day walking about like mindless zombies, playing on those hand-held devices and wearing their pants to their knees.”

Briton blushed, looking down at his hands. “I am with Miles at all times. He frowns on cell phone use and baggy jeans. I speak the way he speaks, I suppose. Not to mention, he forced me to attend Oxford. I’m lucky I escaped without an accent.” That was a true story. Miles had Briton finish his gentlemanly training at Oxford. It had given them years of staying in the same place while he had been a student.

She giggled and nodded. “Indeed, although I would swear you have a slight one.”

If only she knew how right she was. His Icelandic accent was one that had stayed his whole life. Briton looked up at her, giving her an intense stare. “You must come to the Harvest Ball tonight.” He didn’t want to talk about the things that made him sad anymore.

Again she nodded, but it was less animated than before. “I must, you are very correct. Will you accompany me?”

Briton felt a slow smile cross his lips. “Excellent idea. I seemed to have arrived in town just in time for it.”

She pointed to the hallway, seeming still somewhat frozen in her mind “Shall I show you to your room?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I know the way.” He walked out of the kitchen, seeing her puzzled face but was preoccupied by the life-and-death situation he would be faced with, in a few short hours. But would one of them be willing to die just to kill him?

He looked around the room as he changed.
It was so similar to before
,
it was frightening
. The whole house was like going back in time.

He showered and lay on his bed for some time, staring up at the ceiling. He had no plan, just a request. He needed them to allow him sanctuary. From there he hoped they would be willing to reinstate the haven it had once been.

Finally seeing the sun go down, he got up and dressed in the suit he had brought. He would be overdressed a little in his new Pal Zileri grey suit. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed, wishing it was like the last time he had gone to the ball. His brothers and his parents had been with him. Now, completely alone, he would grace the town with his presence, whether they wanted it or not. He normally didn’t bother with worry or fear. There wasn’t much point to it, but he couldn't help but feel apprehensive. He was about to feel something he hadn’t since the night of the fire—vulnerability.

At least he would look incredible while doing it. His dark hair was longer than he preferred and styled messily, to fit the trends. His thick eyebrows suited it, but he looked like he should be cutting down trees as opposed to wearing a designer suit. All he needed was to grow out his beard and he would be a mountain man with that bushy hair.

His dark-blue eyes twinkled as he recalled his mother always commenting on his thick hair and how unruly it was. Had she been alive to see 2013, she would have told him his hair’s era had finally arrived.

He suited the town of Wolfville, more so than his brothers or father had. Their Viking looks had been more from a dark blond or red-haired descent. He was the only one with dark-brown hair, like his mother. He had gotten her olive skin too. She had been a slave his father had stolen from an Italian friend’s villa. They had fallen in love while Briton’s father visited. She was like Helen of Troy, only no wars ensued.

They snuck off in the night and he brought her to Finland, where he was living at the time. He lied about her rank in society and married her. She had been strong enough to survive the things she bared for him. When his mother gave birth to the last of the six sons, his father turned her. After that she was never able to walk in the light of day without shade or a parasol. The bitten never were able. But that hadn’t dampened her spirits. She had been a wonderful mother and a loving wife.

The rest was history.

The romance of the story always made it a favorite of Briton’s. Had he been a regular man, he imagined he might have been a great romantic.

But he knew what he was didn’t mix well with the world of romance. Not that it mattered anymore. It seemed like romance had died off a bit. Like Betsy had said, the kids were caught up in electronics and baggy pants. They didn’t know the desperate feeling of a pair of eyes watching you from across the room, undressing you and seducing you. The roaring twenties were the best time for that.

The young didn’t know what they were missing. At least it would be easier for him to blend in, if they didn’t lift their faces above the screens on the things in front of them.

He walked to Miles’ room, opening the door. He stopped in the doorway when he saw the older man dressed and ready for the ball instead of sleeping.

“Sorry for barging in, Miles. I honestly thought you would be sleeping. I was going to leave you this note.” He held the paper in his hand.

Miles waved a hand in the air, brushing it off. “Bah, my room is always open to you. You know that.” He turned and faced him. “Now, how do I look?”

Briton smiled. “You look fantastic. Years younger than seventy, no doubt.”

“Well, I will be having a small pick-me-up before I go, and then we are off.” His grin turned sly. “I’ve asked Betsy to accompany me to the ball. She is readying as we speak.”

Briton shook his head and turned from the room. “You old dog.” He walked down the stairs to wait for them both,
then
they would make their way to the SUV. Moments later, Miles walked down the stairs with much more of
a pep
in his step. His skin even seemed to be less wrinkled.
Him and his elixirs.

Briton felt a worried look cross his brow, before he could stop himself from making it. Miles shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. I save them for the important nights.”

Briton whispered, raising an eyebrow. “Betsy is important enough for that? You’ve known her a total of two hours.”

Miles smirked. “She is a happy bonus. The important thing is you and the Michaels family. I won’t let you down by being a crippled old man, unable to help you.”

Briton reached his right hand out to the frail old man who now seemed to glow with health, “You’re the best friend my father ever could have asked for and the best mentor I could have ever asked for. I could help you, if you like.”

Miles took his hand. “No, as much as I want to be here for you, I do not want an eternity of this life.”

“I do not blame you. Had I been able to choose, I would not have chosen it either.” Briton shook his head. “Perhaps, if my entire family hadn’t been slaughtered things would be different.”

“I have loved and lost and lived. Those are the things that make all of this somewhat short journey worth while.” Miles sighed. “I know you have done those things too in your many lives, and if I could break your curse, I would. You’re the son I never had. As you well know, my own son never got past eleven, so I have always seen you as mine too.”

Briton nodded. “I believe your son would have been a better man than I, Miles.”

Before Miles could come back with a retort, Betsy made her descent. She was dressed in an old ball gown, no doubt from years earlier, when she was much younger. It was out of date by about twenty years at least. Briton had to give it to her though, she still looked fit enough to wear the dress. The gown was a dark-blue with three-quarter sleeves and a pale-blue skirt trimmed with black lace along the bottom. It looked very ‘Marie Antoinette’ and gothic. The round neckline was respectable for an aging woman. She had a dark-blue sapphire necklace hanging just above the bodice. Her white hair was up in a bun, and in his mind, he compared her to the fairy godmother in Cinderella, the Disney cartoon.

“Betsy, you look amazing,” Miles spoke softly.

She blushed and spoke equally as quietly, “Oh Miles, stop. Now you two look handsome. I feel like the belle of the ball coming with two dates.”