A Kiss So Deadly (Ivymoore Vampires Book 1) by Sylvie Wrightman (4)

George really did care about Jack.

 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” I said, tipping my chin up. “Just so we’re both clear.”

 

George took a long moment to process this. He nodded. “Right. Well, before you can insult me further, thus irking me out of my unnaturally good mood, I’m going to show you to your own bedroom and feed you, like a proper host. So try to be semi-grateful, huh?”

 

I couldn’t think of a reply to that. I didn’t want to be trapped in George Vanderpool’s fancy house, but I was still technically a guest here, and I wasn’t exactly observing the best etiquette by insulting my host to his face. I sighed a long-suffering sigh. Then, silently, I nodded.

 

George led me back upstairs.

 

❧

 

Florrie, the Vanderpool’s cook, brought up food to my bedroom. The plump, middle-aged mortal greeted me with a warm smile and placed a silver service tray on my king-sized bed. As Mrs. Vanderpool had promised, the entrée was a blood pudding . . . served with scalloped potatoes and a vinaigrette salad on the side. I stifled a laugh at that; clearly, the woman still wasn’t entirely clear on the blueblood diet.

 

I waited patiently until Florrie left the room, then proceeded to devour the porridge in what was the most unmannerly, unladylike fashion in which I had ever indulged myself. I didn’t realize until that very moment how hungry I had been ever since I’d run away from Ironweld Place. I had missed food. Good, proper food.

 

My guest bedroom was somewhat smaller than George’s, but it was every bit as well decked and much, much cleaner. Floor-length windows looked out onto the main street, where the afternoon sun was already setting, and the snow was falling more rapidly than ever, collecting fast on the sidewalks. I heard the happy shrieks of children outside and spied a snowball fight a few doors down. The sights and sounds served as a kind of lullaby, and my eyelids drooped with every passing second until, with a content stomach, I curled into the bed and fell fast asleep.

 

When I woke, it was in a cold sweat. My stomach knotted as George’s words from earlier came rushing back into my memory:

 

You know he fancies you, right?

 

Have you seen the way he looks at you?

 

Angrily, I tried to brush the questions from my mind. George had only been playing with me. He’d been trying to confuse me, embarrass me, throw me off kilter.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

But last night, back at Jack’s house, when I had confessed that I’d wanted him to kiss me. . . . He’d been so gentle. The way he’d touched my arm, the way he’d drawn me closer to him, the way he’d said my name. . . .

 

“Ada.”

 

A chill passed over me. I shook my head and pushed myself off of the bed, wiping at my eyes as though the motion alone would bring me clarity.

 

How could I be so distracted right now, thinking of Jack and his voice and his touch and his stupid, stupid mouth? I was supposed to be planning. I was supposed to be concocting a way to stay out of my family’s control but to somehow see Clarissa again and explain everything to her. Clarissa would understand. And then she would help me to plan a possible way to say “no” to Desmond without losing my family forever.

 

Jack Sargent most certainly did not fall anywhere into that plan.

 

I creaked open my door. The hallway was dark now, lit only by the flicker of a distant chandelier in the stairwell. George’s room was two doors down, and the door was slightly ajar. From one end of the hallway, which led to the stairwell, I could hear laughing and shouting. George’s relatives must have been in the midst of their dreaded Christmas dinner.

 

I crept out and padded in the opposite direction, toward George’s room. There, I knocked softly before pushing the door open. I don’t know what I’d expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t Jack and George laughing in front of a roaring fireplace. Jack was sitting, legs crossed, his complexion rosy in the firelight. His hair was back to its normal golden color.

 

I closed my eyes in relief at the sight of him.

 

“Oi! Are you in or are you out, Aldridge? Shut the door!”

 

I opened my eyes on George, who was brandishing a bottle of blood liquor at me as though it were a dangerous weapon. I shut the door behind me and approached the boys, my eyes scanning about the fireplace for some sort of chair.

 

George caught on. “Too hoity toity to join the men on the floor?”

 

“No,” I said proudly. “Just weighing my options.”

 

I whipped the skirt of my dress with a flourish and took a seat on the oriental rug, just across from the two of them. George leaned back and retrieved an empty glass tumbler from the fireside. He filled it a fourth full of the red liquor in his possession and handed it over to me.

 

I eyed the beverage suspiciously. “What kind is it?”

 

“Transylvanian,” said George. “Excellent stuff.”

 

“You don’t have to drink it,” Jack said softly, “if you don’t want.”

 

I looked up quickly at Jack’s voice. I wondered if he was thinking about a certain fiasco in Port Erin, when a little too much alcohol had led me to puke all over his fish and chips. He had been so kind to me, even then. . . .

 

“I think I could rather use it, actually.”

 

I then proceeded to down the tumbler's contents in one go.

 

My throat burned, and though I was acutely aware of the blood liquor making its way down my digestive tract, I only smiled pleasantly at the boys and set the glass down with a triumphant clink.

 

George raised his eyebrows. “Not bad, princess.”

 

“You’re feeling better?” I asked, turning to Jack. "You look much better." 

 

My voice was quivering. Azazel, no. Why was my voice quivering? Maybe he’d only attribute it to the vodka. Maybe—

 

“Much,” said Jack. He stretched out his leg and shook his bare foot in my direction, the slightest smile playing on his lips. “Just like new. George always does a good job of patching me up again.”

 

A thought occurred to me. “And Nelson? He won’t be worried?”

 

Jack’s smile only grew. “I’m sure he and Roisin are very well occupied. Even if not, he’s used to George kidnapping me at a moment’s notice. He’ll be fine.”

 

“Yeah,” said George. “Why you worried ‘bout Nelson? It’s Jack and me here who are the lonely bastards this cold Christmas eve-uh-ning.”

 

I blinked at George, then at Jack, who looked like he was laughing at some unspoken, inside joke.

 

“He’s . . . blitzed, isn’t he?” I whispered to Jack.

 

Jack sighed. “George gets touchy around the holidays. I try to make sure he doesn’t break stuff in the drunken stupor." 

 

“I am NOT gonna breaky-breaky stuff!” George cried indignantly, flailing an arm in Jack’s direction. “I’m feeling, like, really warm and fuzzy, actually.”

 

As though to prove his point, George proceeded to curl into the fetal position, his head of hair tucked against his knees. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought it was a little bit adorable. As it was, I just let out a small laugh.

 

“Right,” said Jack. “I think that’s enough for one night, huh?”

 

With concentrated effort, Jack got to his feet and then, with even more effort, lifted George from his mound on the floor—a ball of limp limbs and drool—and dragged him toward his bed.

 

“Ada,” he said, once he got there, “I hate to ask, but. . . .”

 

I realized then what Jack was after. Stumbling to my own feet, I joined him by the bed and, after a couple failed tries, finally succeeded in depositing George on his bed.

 

I watched in rapt attention as Jack skirted around the bed and rearranged George’s arms and legs into more comfortable positions, wrapping the duvet around him. Then he nudged George’s drooling mouth toward the edge of the bed, where he’d positioned an empty rubbish bin.

 

“Night, mate,” he said, rumpling up George’s already disastrous hair. "Take it easy, huh?" 

 

George made a half-hearted swat in reply and mumbled something incoherent.

 

It was only now that I realized how inconvenient a time I’d chosen to arrive. George was out cold, and I’d thrown back more than two shots’ worth of potent Transylvanian blood liquor. And Jack was—oh Azazel, oh Azazel—he was looking straight at me from across the room.

 

Was this the look that George had been talking about? I was frozen in place. My throat felt warm, my limbs useless.

 

Calm down, Adaline. He’s just looking. A normal, utterly blasé look. George has made you completely paranoid.

 

But last night, whispered a sibilant voice in my mind. Last night, last night, last—

 

“So!” I said, far louder than I’d intended, stumbling away from the bed. “I should probably leave you alone, then. You know. To . . . to undress?”

 

Oh heavens, what was I even saying.

 

Jack raised a brow.

 

“I mean! I mean, I mean . . . you know, to get to bed. Get ready for bed. And—get—to—it. Bed. That is.”

 

“Mm, yes. Bed.” Jack nodded. He looked amused, which only flustered me more.

 

“Great,” I said, backing toward the door. “I—I really shouldn’t have interrupted. That is, I didn’t know you and George were . . . I mean, I didn’t know that he was so close to—you know, turning in for the night? And you've just recovered. You should be resting." 

 

Jack was laughing at me. Not out loud, but I could see it in his eyes. I could see it in the slight shake of his shoulders. He was laughing at me, dammit.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

 

“I’m fine,” I said vehemently.

 

But all I could think about were stupid George’s stupid words:

 

Have you seen the way he looks at you?

 

“So, good night, then!” I flung open the door and scurried into the hallway.

 

Which bedroom door was mine? Think, Adaline. Two doors down. On the left. That’s your door. Now, just open it. Quickly.

 

My hand slipped on the door handle. When had my palms begun to sweat?

 

“Erm, need some help?”

 

Jack was peeking out from the threshold of George’s room, watching me.

 

“No.”

 

He crossed the hallway, and I tried and failed to keep breathing normally.

 

“I fucking know how to open a door, Sargent!” I shouted, but my voice wavered on his name as he came to a stop only inches away from me.

 

His hand wound around my waist.

 

“W-w-what are you doing?” I asked, though it sounded more like a hiccup than anything else.

 

Then I realized precisely what he was doing: opening the door. He’d just reached around me to open the door. Nothing out of the ordinary. Entirely prosaic. So why was I nearly hyperventilating?

 

Jack noticed. The laughter disappeared from his eyes.

 

“Ada?” he said, concern thickening his voice. “Really, are you all right?"

 

I nodded mutely. I was staring at his mouth. Why was I staring at his mouth? Where should I be staring? At his eyes! His eyes, his—

 

But I wasn’t looking at his eyes. I wasn’t looking anymore. I was on my toes, and I was grabbing his shirt collar, and. . . .

 

I was kissing Jack Sargent.

 

His mouth was soft. So surprisingly soft. But his lips remained still and motionless, as though they’d been turned to stone.

 

Panic sparked in the back of my mind. He isn’t kissing me back.

 

I pulled away with a soft, embarrassing cry.

 

Bad move, Adaline. Very, very bad move.

 

I stumbled, my back knocking against the open bedroom door. I couldn’t help myself, though. Despite the building terror in my gut, I lifted my eyes to Jack’s.

 

His pupils were wide, his cheeks drained of that usual warmblood color. He stood very still. Then, he cleared his throat.

 

“Um. Did you . . . did you mean to do that?”

 

I swallowed.

 

What the hell sort of question was that?

 

How could I have possibly meant to do anything else?

 

I felt as though I was burning, slowly, from the inside out. Surely my face had to be a splotchy mess of red by now. I must’ve looked frightful. My eyes stung suddenly, and my vision blurred.

 

Oh no. No. I was not going to cry in front of Jack Sargent. I should be focusing my energies elsewhere—like on planning how to murder George for ever planting the idea in my brain that Jack wanted this.

 

“What do you think?” I said, my voice trembling with anger. “Yes, you bastard, I meant it. And if you didn’t like it, then you can just—”

 

My voice stoppered up, cut off by something wholly unexpected. Jack had crossed the space I’d put between us in an instant, and he was kissing me. His lips, so still before, now pressed against mine with heated urgency. I wasn’t sure if I had wrapped my arms around his neck first, or if he been the one to first wind his arms around my waist. I wasn’t sure how we ended up tumbling deeper into my dark bedroom, or how the door closed, or how my back ended up pressed against it. All I knew was that we were kissing, and I didn’t want to stop, not for all the air in the world.

 

My movements were shaky and tentative at first, as though my limbs had been startled into life after long disuse. Then I heard a low, hoarse sound emit from the back of Jack’s throat, and my mind was suddenly plunged into a swirling haze. My lips were searching, pleading, though for what I hadn’t a clue.

 

I was vaguely aware that I was moving, but it wasn’t until my hips were pressed against a cushion of pillows and quilts that I realized in what direction. Jack’s warm hands had moved away from my shoulders—one down to the waist of my dress, the other clenching into a knot of hair bunched at my neck. My own hands had found new resting places as well, against the creased fabric of Jack's shirt.

 

His lips left mine, but only to press down, hot and quick, along my neck. Then Jack’s nose was buried against my throat, his breathing shallow, his hands stilling in my hair and against my stomach. I shook my head, dissatisfied.

 

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t stop.”

 

There was a pregnant pause. Then Jack's lips crashed against mine, this time more urgent and more familiar than before. My fingers dug into his shirt, scraping against the hard muscles beneath the fabric. A musky, inky smell surrounded me, and all was heat and limbs and mouth on mouth. I heard myself whimper—a low, fragile sound—and then—

 

Nothing.

 

Air. Cold air.

 

I reached up, but my hands caught at nothing substantial. My lips were left needy. My eyes fluttered open.

 

Jack was staring down at me, his eyes wide and anxious.

 

“Are you okay?” he whispered. “I mean . . . I mean, you want this?”

 

Hazily, I nodded. Why was he talking at a time like this? Didn’t he realize that what was of utmost importance right now was placing his lips back on mine, his hands back on my skin?

 

I hadn’t known it could be like this. I hadn’t known that I could literally ache for a touch, to feel a dull burn inside that I was certain only one person could cure. Desmond had never made me feel this way. His kisses hadn’t always been unwelcome, but it had always been Desmond and Desmond alone who wanted more, who pressed for it, asked for it, desired it.

 

But this. . . . This was what the desire felt like: a thick, burning fire licking through my veins and sending my heart into a frenzied flutter, clouding my brain and pushing words heedlessly from my tongue.

 

“I just didn’t think—” I shook my head, hitching in an uneven breath. “I didn’t know it could be so . . . so right. With a mortal-made. . . .”

 

I shook my head again, words bleeding and jumbling, losing all meaning. Why couldn’t he just touch me again?

 

But I realized in a sudden panic that Jack wasn’t on the bed anymore. He stood stooped over by the fireplace, his back to me.

 

I pulled in a ragged breath, then pushed myself onto my knees.

 

“What?” I whispered. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

 

“With a mortal-made?”

 

I blinked in confusion, looking down at my lap. I was suddenly acutely aware of how wrinkled my dress was and how the loose fabric hung so unceremoniously along my waist, exposing my bare legs in the moonlight. Nervously, I tugged the fabric down to cover my thighs.

 

Jack turned around. “What, am I like—like an experiment to you?”

 

I still couldn’t understand. I stared at Jack, uncomprehending. My shoulders began to shake.

 

“N-no,” I said. “No, of course you’re not. It’s just, everyone says that mortal-mades can’t. . . . I mean, that they aren’t nearly as. . . . They’re idiotic rumors, that’s all.”

 

“Rumors?” Jack repeated. “What, rumors that a mutant like me couldn’t even kiss you properly? So, what? You wanted to try it out, to see if I could?”

 

“N-no,” I stammered, realizing now the real import of this conversation. I couldn’t stand the way he was looking at me. He looked so uncertain. So angry.

 

So unlike Jack.

 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted you. I swear, I wasn’t thinking about your—your blood status. That doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t!”

 

Jack laughed. It was an awful, low, humorless laugh. He held his hand to his face, shielding his eyes from me. I felt ill watching him.

 

How had something so lovely gone wrong so fast?

 

“Azazel,” he whispered. “Well, I’m so grateful that you chose to ignore my blood status out of the goodness of your heart while we were making out. God forbid we’d taken it further, right? I mean, that would’ve taken some inhuman amount of forbearance to stomach the fact that I’m—”

 

“Stop it!” I shouted, surprising even myself with the force of my words. “Just stop! I am so sick of you throwing that back in my face. I know I said some terrible things to you before, but—but people can change. I’m not constantly thinking about the fact that you’re poor or mortal-made or that we’re not in the same social circles. That isn’t the only thing that runs through my brain on a daily basis, Jack Sargent.”

 

“Really?” Jack spat back. “Because it sounds pretty fresh in your mind right now.”

 

“Get out.”

 

I pointed my trembling finger at the door. My voice had gone cold, lifeless, hard. It was a tone that generations of Ladies of the House of Aldridge had perfected before me. “Get out of this room.”

 

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “What, then? Is this how you dismiss all of your inferiors? Did I not perform well enough for you?" 

 

“Get the hell out.”

 

I didn’t need to say it again.

 

Jack was already gone.

 

The bedroom door slammed behind him with a thud of finality, and the cold Aldridge demeanor that I had held onto for this long now broke in a single anguished sob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

19

According to Plan

 

“Clara? It’s me. I know that by now you must’ve heard about what happened, and I hope you aren’t worried. The last thing I wanted to do when I ran away was upset you. I can’t explain everything in a voicemail, but I promise there’s a reasonable explanation for what I did. I know that if I tell you, you’ll understand. Will you let me explain it to you, please? I miss you. I . . . I need my sister. I want to visit you at Carrington Manor and talk everything through, but I’ve been afraid that you’ll tell Mum and Dad about it, and I don’t want that. Please, don’t tell them I’ve contacted you. Not yet. Just call back and let me know if I can visit you and Vance. If you’re there to help me see straight, I know that we can sort things out. I do.”

 

I sat staring at the phone receiver. I’d left, erased, and re-recorded four voicemails before this one, and the message still didn’t sit well with me. It seemed so desperate, so melodramatic. I wished that I could simply summon Clarissa there, into my bedroom at the Vanderpool’s, and tell her everything in person. I just wanted to hug Clarissa, cry snotty, stupid tears into her shoulder, and ask for her advice. Clarissa was in love with Vance. She knew what it was to be in love, and she wouldn’t want anything less for me. She would never insist that I marry Desmond.

 

Would she?

 

How can you expect for Clara to sympathize with your matters of the heart when you can’t even figure them out for yourself?

 

“Shut up,” I whispered aloud, desperately trying to quiet that unwanted voice inside.

 

Then, with resolve, I hung up the phone with a definitive clank.

 

That was that. I’d done the irretrievable thing. I had used the phone in my guest bedroom to place a call to Carrington Manor. Soon, Clarissa would listen to it. Then everything would change.

 

I’d set a plan into action. Still, that didn’t mean I could shake the hollow feeling that had been worming around me all night.

 

You won’t marry Desmond because he’s a cheater, said that same steady voice inside. Very well. But why on earth would you throw yourself at a mortal-made? Have you really stooped that low, Adaline?

 

“Stop,” I whispered louder, pressing my hands to my ears.

 

It was too late. The voice inside had dredged up the memories that I was fighting so hard to keep down:

 

Jack’s mouth on mine, his hand grazing down me waist, his fingers winding up in my hair—all so tender and warm and right.

 

No.

 

Wrong.

 

It was so very wrong. A mistake. I shouldn’t have let it happen. What had I been thinking? Hadn’t I decided that Jack didn’t fit into my plan? Just because I had run away from home didn’t mean I was cut off from my family name and reputation—not forever. Just because I refused to marry Desmond Prescott didn’t mean that I had to go out and prove my independence by snogging a warmblood of all people.

 

“With a mortal-made?”

 

“Did I not perform well enough for you?”

 

I shut my eyes, tears stinging my skin. I was so confused. I couldn’t think straight. I had stayed up all night crying, arguing with myself, until I’d dug into my jacket pocket and removed the little slip of pink notebook paper on which Clarissa had written the number to Carrington Manor.

 

And so I’d made the call. I’d set a new reality into motion, and all before sunrise.

 

Only as the first rays of dawn crept into the room did I slump onto my pillow and fall fast asleep.

 

❧

 

I woke to the sound of shouts. Outside, a gaggle of boys and girls were conducting yet another snowball fight. The roads were cleared, but icicles clung to the branches outside my bedroom window, and I watched as passersby tread with caution on the icy sidewalks.

 

It was Boxing Day. This morning, families would be celebrating together and children playing with new toys and shoppers bustling in and out of stores in search of holiday sales. Today, by rights, I should have been at Onyx House. I should have been sleeping in my own canopy bed, waited on by the family maid, Daisy. I should have been drinking hot blood tea and reading for pleasure or perhaps trying on one of my new Christmas dresses. I should have been anticipating Desmond Prescott’s proposal.

 

How far removed I was from that reality now—estranged from my family, dependent entirely on strangers, left to my own devices.

 

I was tired of it.

 

I wasn’t ashamed to admit it to myself anymore: I missed the comforts of home. I wanted to be back at Onyx House.

 

I would have to face Jack. I would have to explain to him how last night had been a mere matter of jumbled emotions and poor judgment and hormones. I would explain that I had decided to leave for Carrington Manor, and I would sort out my future there, with my sister’s help. There was no reason to involve Jack Sargent in any of that process. I shouldn’t have involved him in the first place.

 

What a stupid decision it had been, calling him from that payphone. It would've been better for me to go hungry in that drafty room above Coffin Street Books rather than ever speak a word to George Vanderpool.

 

Stop holding a pity party, Adaline. Stop acting like a scared little girl. You made an adult decision, and now you’ve got to deal with the consequences. Pull yourself together.

 

Do something.

 

I opened my bedroom door and stepped out, edging around a silver tray stocked with a plate of blood tea, as well as beans, toast, a half grapefruit, and a fancy fluted glass of yogurt. I knelt and brushed my knuckles against the small teapot. Cold. Florrie had probably left the meal hours ago.

 

Down the hall, George’s door was cracked open. I swallowed hard. I had done hurried work of my makeup and was acutely aware that my hair still looked straggly and my eyes watery from lack of sleep. I had been wearing the same dress since the Christmas party. What had I come to in the past few days?

 

I creaked open the door.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Afternoon, princess.”

 

George sat on the bed, hands behind his head, feet crossed atop a throw pillow. Propped on his knees was a glossy copy of Nightspeed Monthly. His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked like he was in a surprisingly pleasant mood.

 

“Erm. Afternoon.”

 

I glanced around the room. Where was Jack?

 

“Taking a shower,” George supplied, eyeing me with a knowing smirk.

 

“Who? Oh.” I shrugged nonchalantly, as though I hadn’t wanted to know that very piece of information. “Well, doesn’t matter. It’s you I wanted to talk to.”

 

Now that I had drawn nearer to George’s massive bed, I noticed that he was dressed up, wearing a pair of nice slacks, a button-up shirt, and a yellow tie.

 

Once again, George anticipated my next question. “I’m going out today,” he said. “Jack can’t save me from all obligations. Some big to-do at the Savoy, and Mum’s insisted that I show my face to the dreaded relatives at least once this holiday season. It’s gonna be an even bigger crowd than last night’s. Uncle Horace will be there, and apparently he’s set on leaving me a shitload of an inheritance, so I’ve gotta convince him that I’m respons—why the hell am I telling you this?”

 

“I’ve no idea.”

 

“Huh.” George made a face and returned his gaze to the centerfold of his magazine—a team portrait of the Dublin Hawks.

 

“I wanted to tell you,” I said, “I used the telephone in my bedroom. In case your plan showed any special charges. If so, I’d be happy to pay the cost.”

 

George turned the page of his magazine. “That’s what you wanted to see me about?”

 

“Well. I just wanted to tell you. If the call cost a thing, I’m good for it. That’s all. And also that I’ll be expecting a call today, so if you happen to answer it, please direct the message to me.”

 

George snorted. “I never answer our phone. The voicemail will catch it, not worry.”

 

I nodded slowly, glad to have resolved that issue at least.

 

“Who’d you call?”

 

I crossed my arms. “I don’t see how it’s your business.”

 

“It was my phone line. So yeah, it’s my business.”

 

“Fine. My sister, Clarissa.”

 

“Her name is Clarissa?” George guffawed.

 

“Oh, honestly!” I snapped, grabbing the magazine from George and hurling it on the floor. “Just tell me if I owe you anything.”

 

“Well. Since you asked so nicely. . . .” George smirked, then said, “My mother doesn’t know the going price for a bloody apple. She burns money hourly. You’re fine.”

 

Finally satisfied, I nodded. Then, with some regret, I picked the magazine off the floor and placed it back on George’s lap.

 

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled. “Just a bit high strung today, I guess.”

 

“Today?” George muttered, opening the magazine once more.

 

I shot him a dirty look I was fairly certain he did not see. Then, getting to my feet, I crossed to the door.

 

I stopped at the threshold. “Are there any protections on your house that I should be aware of?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m duskstriding back to Jack’s house to collect my things. You may remember how yesterday you most unceremoniously ripped us away without giving me the chance to fetch my belongings." 

 

George made a face. "You won’t have any trouble duskstriding back here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

“Good,” I said. “Then you should know that once all of my things are gathered and I hear back from my sister, I intend to leave.”

 

At this, George finally disengaged from his magazine. “Wait. What?”

 

I sniffed haughtily. “I’ve intruded on your family’s hospitality long enough. And you’ve made it very clear that you don’t want me here. I thought that my departure would be agreeable.”

 

“Riiight.” George scratched at his nose. “Does Jack know about this?”

 

“Why would that matter?”

 

“I dunno,” George said slowly. “I just think your departure might not be so, uh, agreeable to him.”

 

“Don’t worry, it will be.” My voice had turned brittle.

 

"Wait a second." George's eyes brightened in realization. "Did you two have a fight or something? Damn. I can’t believe I missed it! I knew I shouldn’t have started drinking so early.”

 

I felt myself growing weak in the stomach, weak in the legs. I headed for the hallway, but George called out again.

 

“Hey! Hey, reconsider, would you? If you leave, he’s gonna think I scared you off or something.”

 

I smiled bitterly at that. “Don’t worry, that’s not what he’ll think. He’ll understand. He’ll be happy I’m gone.”

 

❧

 

I darktore myself on the way there.

 

I appeared in Jack’s bedroom with an unsteady crack!, fresh from the eternal void, and felt an immediate burn in my right hand, followed by the cold trickle of blood down my fingers. I’d managed to slice off all the flesh from my knuckles.

 

I staggered to Jack’s bed, clutching my hand to my stomach.

 

Of course I knew better than to duskstride when I was emotionally distraught. But I had a plan, didn’t I?

 

I had a plan, and I had to see it through.

 

“Jack?” called a man’s voice. “Is that you?”

 

Jack’s door swung open, and I found myself staring up at a wide-eyed Nelson.

 

“Oi!” he cried. “What happened to you? Where’s Jack?”

 

I shook my head, trying to swallow down the pain and form words, but without success.

 

“Just sit tight,” said Nelson. “I’ll be right back.”

 

I heard Nelson’s footsteps clatter down the hallway, followed by a distant rummaging sound. I was losing blood. It seeped from my hand into the silk waist of my dress, staining the emerald fabric in a sinister blot. I knew charms that could heal the brunt of the damage, but it was my charming hand that was injured. I wouldn’t be able to fix this darktear on my own.

 

Moments later, Nelson came clambering into the room, carrying a small brown bottle and a handful of gauze. He took a seat next to me on the bed, and the bed frame groaned warningly under his weight.

 

“All right, let’s inspect the damage here, shall we? This might hurt, but we’ll get you patched up.”

 

Despite the pain ripping through my nerves, I handed my bloodied hand over to Nelson and watched in muted fixation as he poured the rust-colored contents of the bottle over my knuckles, then wiped away both liquid and blood with a bunched-up piece of gauze. With calm precision, he wound the remaining gauze around my knuckles, binding them so tight that I let out a pained cry.

 

“Sorry,” Nelson said. “I’m really sorry, but the worst of it’s over, see? We’ve got you all bound up and slathered in iodine. That was Dad’s sure-fire cure for all the scrapes around here. That said, I think you’re going to need more than a mortal cure for that to heal entirely. Nasty business, darkmares. I remember Jack nicking himself all the time when he was first practicing duskstriding. Darkmares. That’s what they’re called, right?”

 

“Darktears,” I corrected in a hoarse whisper. Then, “Thank you.”

 

Nelson shrugged. “Sure thing. Let me wash up, huh? Then you can explain to me why you’re sitting on Jack’s bed bleeding and looking generally miserable.”

 

In the time it took Nelson to wash up, I managed to regain some composure. My satchel was under Jack’s bed, where I’d left it, so at least I had what I’d come for.

 

When Nelson returned, he rejoined me on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, his eyes watching me intently as though I were some wild animal capable of darting away at any moment.

 

Those eyes reminded me of someone.

 

Of course, you idiot. They remind you of Jack.

 

“Did Vanderpool scare you away?” Nelson asked. “He can be a real pill.”

 

"You knew it was him, then?” I asked. “Jack said you would." 

 

“Of course. George kidnaps Jack every year. Well, every year since his brother died.”

 

I stiffened. "What?" 

 

“You know George had an older brother? Went to your school. He died in some freak magical accident three or four Christmases back. Apparently, the kid was the family favorite—golden boy, and all that. They didn’t take it well. George has a rough time of it around the holidays.”

 

I felt cold. Colder than usual. “I didn’t know that,” I whispered.

 

No wonder, I thought, with dawning realization. No wonder George didn’t want to be alone during the holidays but also didn’t want to be around his family. I couldn’t imagine spending two weeks at home in Onyx House if I had lost someone as precious to me as Clarissa.

 

And you called him a terrible friend. Bravo, Adaline.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Nelson, “he’s still a prick. I just give him some leeway. Honestly, I think he and Jack are good for each other.”

 

I nodded but said nothing.

 

Nelson poked at the satchel in my lap. “So what, you moving out?”

 

“Yes,” I said, straightening up. “I’m going to stay with family for the rest of the holidays. But I can’t say how much I appreciate you letting me stay here. Really. It—it meant a good deal to me.”

 

A year ago, I would never have imagined myself here, in this position, sitting in a drafty bedroom and thanking a mortal for his hospitality. And I certainly would’ve never imagined a mortal telling me what Nelson was telling me now:

 

“I hope you visit again.”

 

I gave him a disbelieving look. “I completely upset your entire holiday. I turned things topsy turvy and ate your food and imposed upon—”

 

“Doesn’t matter. That was half the fun.” Nelson smiled warmly. Genuinely.

 

Why did he have to look so terribly, uncannily like his brother? I didn’t want to be reminded of Jack now.

 

I got to my feet, slinging the satchel across my shoulder. “Would you give my best to Roisin?” I said. “Brennan and William, too. They were . . . lovely.”

 

Surprisingly lovely for mortals, I had meant to say. But before I had, I’d envisioned that look Jack always gave me when I said something apparently offensive, and I thought better of it.

 

“Of course,” said Nelson. “You tell Jack not to get too wild over in Posh Town, eh?” He eyed me. “By the way, are you sure you want to just pop on out like this? I mean, that’s what got you darkmared in the first place, right?”

 

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m in better control now.”

 

And with one last parting smile, I raised a hand in the air, concentrated all my effort, and cut a gash into the air before me.

 

I duskstrode away.

 

❧

 

I had to talk to Jack. I knew that. I had to face him for the first time since last night, look him in the eye, and tell him everything that I had planned to say:

 

It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have kissed. I’ve called Clarissa. When she calls back, I’ll leave.

 

I’d repeated that trail of words in my mind again and again, until they were so deeply rooted in my memory that they could roll off my tongue in an even, measured cadence.

 

But just because I could say the words didn’t mean that I wanted to. It didn’t mean that I wanted to creep down the halls of the Vanderpool House in search of Jack. He wasn’t in George’s bedroom. Neither was George, who I assumed was out and about with the dreaded relatives at the Savoy. I tried the handles of other rooms in the hallway. All locked.

 

I crept down the stairs and through the grand atrium again, keeping on the lookout for some sign of movement. Dusk was already creeping through the windows, casting strange shadows on my path as I made my way down the first floor hallway. I buttoned up my velvet jacket as I walked, effectively covering the bloodstain on my dress.

 

Then I stopped in my tracks. I’d heard something.  It was faint, but distinguishable—the sound of music—and it was coming from behind two closed doors, just past the atrium. I backtracked to its threshold, pressed my ear to the crack in the wood, and listened.

 

It was a melody I did not recognize, but its unfamiliarity did not lessen its beauty. It was soft, minor, and lilting. An oboe carried it first, buoyed up by a swell of cellos. Then a mournful interlude of French horns cut through the melody, parceling it into soft echoes and variations. The music made my chest tighten in a terrible but somehow pleasant way.

 

I creaked open the door. The room here was a library, its walls stacked with shelf upon shelf of books. At the center of the room, the figure of a golden-headed man stood stooped over a wooden table. On the table sat a record player, upon which a thin black vinyl spun around and around. This was where the music was coming from.

 

I leaned in closer to get a better view, but my clutch on the door handle slipped, and I stumbled forward into room. The music stopped abruptly, followed by a thin, humming sound. Then, slowly, the young man at the table turned to face me.

 

“Ada,” he said.

 

“Jack.”

 

This was going to be so much worse than I’d anticipated.

 

A long, staticky pause stretched out between the two of us. I shoved both hands into my dress pockets. If Jack couldn’t see them, then he wouldn’t know how badly they were shaking.

 

“I think,” I said, “that we need to talk.”

 

Jack wetted his lips. He turned a switch on the record player and the humming sound stopped. Then he faced me fully.

 

He said, “I thought that you’d left.”

 

His voice was paper-thin, and I took a few steps closer, straining my ears to hear.

 

“I thought,” he said, running a hand across his forehead, “I mean, after what George told me, I thought you’d left to see your sister and just—just—”

 

I frowned. “You thought I’d left without telling you?”

 

“Well. . . .” Jack squinted at me. Then he leaned against the table, shaking his head. “Yeah. I did.”

 

Something within me shriveled and died at that thought.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t have the decency to thank you for your hospitality? To even say goodbye? You have that low an opinion of me?”

 

“Can’t be as low as your opinion of me, I’m sure,” said Jack.

 

He was looking at me all wrong—eyes hard, jaw set. Like I was something foreign to him. He’d never looked at me that way before, not even on that day aboard the Pale Maiden, when he’d tried to make polite conversation with me and I’d responded by telling him off.

 

He’d always been the one to smile at me, to shrug off my insults. But did there come a time when even someone like Jack Sargent lost his forbearance? Had I tested him one time too many?

 

That doesn’t matter anymore, Adaline. He isn’t part of the plan. He can’t be. Now say what you’ve been practicing all this time. Say what you came to say.

 

“It was a mistake,” I whispered. “We shouldn’t have kissed.”

 

Jack nodded. “All right.”

 

That wasn’t the reply that I’d been expecting.

 

But then . . . what had I been expecting?

 

“All right?” I repeated. “You think it was a mistake, too?”

 

“Obviously,” Jack replied, sounding perfectly casual. “I mean, it ended in a veritable shouting match. I thought you were going to throw a vase at me or something. We shouldn’t have kissed. We’d both had a little bit to drink, and we were alone in a dark bedroom, hormones raging. It happens.”

 

I gaped.

 

What’s wrong with that? countered the voice inside. He agreed with you. Now move on. Tell him the rest of what you’ve planned to say.

 

But I was taking an uncomfortably long time to say anything at all.

 

Jack began to look uneasy.

 

“For the record,” he muttered, “you kissed me first.”

 

Indignation rushed through me.

 

“Only technically,” I snapped. “You were the one looking at me like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“You know exactly how. Stupid—stupid bedroom eyes!”

 

“Bedroom eyes?”

 

“I was not just a tipsy girl suffering from some uncontrollable biological urge, Sargent. We’re not animals.”

 

Jack hesitated. “Technically, I am.”

 

I shot him a vicious glare. “You know what I mean. It may have been a mistake, but that doesn’t mean it was a primal, dirty thing to be ashamed of.”

 

“I never said it was primal or dirty,” said Jack. “I thought it was pretty bloody won—”

 

“I called Clarissa,” I spat out. “The moment I hear back from her, I’ll be leaving.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Jack’s voice went flat. He gave a thin-lipped smile. “So that’s that.”

 

“Look, Jack,” I said, wondering why I felt so close to sheer panic. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Letting me stay at your place, feeding me, listening to me. All of that was far more than I would expect from anyone in your position.”

 

“In my position?” Jack made a frustrated noise. “What do you—k”

 

“You’re not a part of the plan!” I burst out.

 

Silence.

 

Then Jack asked, “What are you talking about?”

 

“You,” I said, motioning lifelessly at Jack. “This. It isn’t part of the plan. I need to set things straight. I need my sister. I need my family. I’ve thought this through, and I can’t live in a world without them. They’re my world, Jack. My friends, my home, my name, my way of life—that’s all I’ve got. And I’m going to find a way to set things right again without—without—”

 

“Without marrying Prescott.” Jack was looking at the floor. He gave a single, short laugh. “Right. Got it.”

 

“It’s been several days.  I think my family will see reason if I sit down and talk to them.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cos that worked so well last time, what with your aunt casting a compulsion char—”

 

It happened on instinct. I had him backed into the wall, his back rammed against a bookshelf, my charming hand pointed at his throat. It was terrifying how natural the action had been.

 

“You don’t ever speak of that again,” I hissed. “Not to another soul.”

 

Jack hadn’t so much as lost his composure. Carefully, he set his fingers on my trembling hand. Then, with cautious intention, he pushed it down to my side. All the while, his eyes never left mine.

 

“I would never do that,” he said evenly.

 

I backed away, my head swimming.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know why I. . . . Of course you wouldn’t.”

 

What had possessed me to do that? To come close to hurting Jack? This wasn’t me. I was acting like—

 

Like Lenora.

 

“I understand,” Jack said softly, “You want to set things right at home. And it’s selfish of me, wanting you to stick around even though I know you’re on bad terms with your family. I dunno. I just thought that if you’d run away, it meant that you. . . .”

 

Jack didn’t finish his thought. My gaze fell to my hands, and I picked mindlessly at the gauze wrapped around my knuckles.

 

“So, look,” he said. “Just suppose that I’d been born a blueblood. . . .”

 

“Jack. Don’t.”

 

“I mean it,” Jack pressed on. “Suppose I were a blueblood. You know, a Roarke or an Easton. And I didn’t have a wildly unattractive genetic defect. And I was filthy rich. And suppose you and I moved in the same circles, and I’d been living in a decent part of the school, like the North Wing. Would I have been in the plan then?”

 

“Don’t talk like that,” I whispered. “It isn’t fair.”

 

“Just tell me.”

 

“I can’t answer something like that,” I said miserably. “It’s complete nonsense. If you’d been all those things, you wouldn’t be Jack anymore.”

 

“Sure I would,” said Jack. “I’d just be rich and attractive, and you’d be, you know . . . allowed to want me.”

 

”But you are poor!” I cried, exasperated. “You’re poor and you’re mortal-made and you’re a shapeshifter. Those are all parts of you. You wouldn’t be the Jack I wanted without them.”

 

No.

 

Oh no.

 

Jack had gone completely still.

 

It was happening again: that uncomfortable phenomenon when I started inhaling a little too little and exhaling much too much.

 

I stumbled backward, over the library rug.

 

“I need to check the phone,” I wheezed feebly. “Clarissa could have called back. There could be a voicemail—”

 

“You want me?”

 

My mouth had gone dry. “I didn’t say—”

 

“You did.” Jack took a step forward, countering my own step back. “You said that you wanted me.”

 

“Why does that even matter?” I nearly shrieked. I was teetering on the edge of something—a sob or a laugh or quite possibly a panic attack. “God, Jack, you’ve the thickest skull imaginable. It doesn’t change anything. My family—”

 

“Doesn’t it matter that I want you back?”

 

“Stop.“

 

“I can’t.”

 

It was then I noticed that Jack’s eyes had turned a strange hue. Cool dread seized me.

 

They were turning silver.

 

“That’s the real trouble of it,” he said. “I can’t stop. I’m probably certifiable. How else could I let myself fancy someone who treats me like the scum of the earth?”

 

“Jack—”

 

“I mean, it’s terrifically unhealthy if you think about it. Do you know when I think it started? When you puked all over my fish and chips at Mahogany Coffin. How demented is that?”

 

It was happening right in front of me this time. A shoot of hair just above his ear was fading from dusty gold to silver. Still, Jack went on.

 

“And I told myself, ‘It’s going to hurt like hell if you let yourself do it.’ You know? In what universe does me falling for Adaline Aldridge end well? Who does that? I should be committed.”

 

“Jack, calm down,” I said, grabbing his arm. “You’re—you’re changing.”

 

Jack tensed under my grip. His silver eyes widened. Slowly, he touched his hand to his hair.

 

“I—I am?”

 

I nodded, trying not to look as terrified as I felt.

 

Please don’t have a fit. Not now.

 

“Are you okay?” I whispered. “Do you need to sit down?”

 

He shook his head, jerking away from me. “No. No, I’m fine.”

 

But even as he said the words, he doubled over with a sharp, pained gasp.

 

“Oh my god,” I gasped. “Oh god, where’s your medicine?”

 

“It isn’t—” Jack shook his head. “I didn’t bring any with—”

 

“What?” I glanced around frantically, then spotted a settee in the corner of the room. I grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him toward it, then sat, tugging him down with me. “Okay. It’s okay. Just breathe, all right? Breathe.”

 

It was all I could think to say. He was heaving in short, erratic gasps now, and his face had blanched to a terrifying shade of white.

 

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” I pressed my palm flat against his chest. He was scalding hot, sweat wicking through his shirt.

 

I was not going to choke, not like last time when I’d been paralyzed with fear. I was the top of my class at Ivymoore. Wasn’t that good for something?

 

A soothing charm. Cast a soothing charm, Adaline. Calm him down.

 

This would be hard, almost impossible work with my charming hand injured.

 

“Stay still,” I ordered Jack, meeting his eyes. They were wet and dilated, and the silver of his irises had only intensified in the past minute.

 

I closed my own eyes. I concentrated. Then I placed the tips of my fingers at Jack’s sternum and whispered with careful precision, “Soothe.” When I was through, I snapped my eyes back open, searching Jack’s features for some kind of change.

 

But nothing had changed. If anything, he looked paler.

 

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Think, Adaline. Try something else. Another plan.

 

“I’m going to duskstride back to your place,” I said. “Okay? I’m going to duskstride there and get your medicine, and I’ll bring it back.”

 

“No!” Jack slumped forward, his hand digging into the fabric of my jacket. “Don’t—don’t leave me alone. Ada. Don’t.”

 

He was shivering. His shoulders shook convulsively, sending tremors through my own body as I wrapped my arms tightly around his back. I couldn’t leave now. What if I left and, when I came back, I found him. . . .

 

No. I wasn’t going to entertain that thought.

 

“You need to breathe,” I said, pressing my forehead to his shoulder. “Jack, breathe. I’m right here with you. Breathe with me. Please. Please.”

 

My movements had become blurs, disjointed entirely from my thoughts. I was rubbing my hand in circles on his back, I was breathing in deep, over-large breaths, clinging to the dogged hope that he’d do the same.

 

He couldn’t die. Jack Sargent wasn’t going to die like this, not locked in my arms on Christmas holiday, right after he’d just told me that he was falling for me. Whatever happened next, he was not going to die.

 

His breaths were growing more and more ragged. He felt hot, so hot under my hands.

 

Then, suddenly, everything stilled.

 

I couldn’t hear his heartbeat. I couldn’t hear his breaths. A deathly silence flooded my ears.

 

It lingered for a full five seconds.

 

And then Jack's chest bloomed with warmth.

 

He choked in one long, labored gasp, as though he were surfacing from deep water. I pulled away, placing my hands on either side of his jaw, forcing his bleary eyes to meet mine. The tell-tale warmblood color was returning to his cheeks.

 

It had passed.

 

The fit had passed.

 

“O-w-w,” rasped Jack. “That hurt.”

 

I burst into tears.

 

Then I flung my arms back around Jack, burying my face against his chest.

 

“I hate you. Jack Sargent, I hate you so much. I thought—I thought—”

 

Jack released a hoarse, labored cough. “Y-y-eah. I kind of thought so, too.”

 

I pulled back again to look him in the eyes. With shaking hands, I swept away the damp tendrils of silver hair that clung to his forehead.

 

I opened my mouth to speak. But I stopped short. My gaze had caught sight of something behind Jack. Someone. The tall, elegant figure of a woman stood silhouetted in the library’s threshold.

 

“Linnie,” whispered Clarissa. “What on earth are you doing here?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20

Sisterly Care

 

“Clara.”

 

I had never known a more welcome sight than my little sister standing in George Vanderpool’s library.

 

For days, I had been so far removed from everything familiar, from family, from comfort. Clarissa was all of those things, and I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I had missed her.

 

I rose from the settee as though in a dream, still not entirely trusting my senses. Then I crossed the room and threw my arms around Clarissa in a tight embrace.

 

“You’re here!” I cried. “Did you call? I didn’t expect you to. . . .” I stopped short, frowning. “How on earth did you find me?”

 

Clarissa pushed out of our embrace. That was when I saw that she had been crying. She wasn’t looking at me, though. She was staring past me, at a figure sitting slumped on the settee.

 

Jack.

 

I glanced back in alarm. Jack was sitting upright, but his head was propped against the wall for support. His hair and half-lidded eyes were both still a shocking shade of silver. Even if the fit had passed, he still didn’t look well.

 

“Who is that?” Clarissa whispered, regarding Jack as though he were a feral animal. “Linnie, what’s going on?”

 

“He’s no one,” I said quickly. “Nothing! The trouble is that he’s sick, and I’m the only one home to tend to him. I’m going to see that he can lie down somewhere, and then I promise I’ll be back. I’ll come right back here, and then we can talk and . . . and we can leave. Together. Promise.”

 

Clarissa shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Who—”

 

“Please,” I begged. “Give me five minutes, and I swear I’ll be back.”

 

I returned to Jack, kneeling beside him and taking his clammy hands in mine.

 

“Can you walk?” I asked in an undertone. “We need to get you to bed.”

 

Jack nodded weakly, making no comments or arguments whatsoever. He pushed off the settee to his feet, but his balance wavered, and I quickly slipped an arm around his back, steadying him. Jack, in turn, clutched a hand around my shoulder. He was wincing from pain—something residual, I guessed, from the fit.

 

Together, with slow but sure steps, we walked to the library door. As we did so, I caught Clarissa’s gaze in my periphery. She looked confused. No. More than confused, she looked . . . horrified. I tried not to worry about the convoluted explanation I would have to give Clarissa when I came back down these stairs. Instead, I focused on getting Jack up them, and into George’s bedroom.

 

Jack leaned very little of his weight on my shoulder, but he did stumble up every other step on the way to the third floor. He gripped my arm more tightly on the landing, bracing himself against the wall and heaving out long, labored breaths. At last, we made it to George’s room, and I helped Jack over to the bed, where he promptly sank into the pillows with a shuddering sigh.

 

“Is it going to happen again?” I whispered. “The paralysis?”

 

Jack shook his head weakly. “I dunno. I’ve never had two fits so close together.”

 

With difficulty, Jack held his left hand upright and murmured a low, long string of syllables under his breath. It was charmwork, but I didn’t recognize it.

 

The end of Jack’s fingertips glowed a faint blue. The light pulsed for a few seconds, then faded altogether. Jack lowered his hand with an exhausted sigh.

 

“What was that?” I asked.

 

“George’s charming hand and mine—they’re bound. We cast the binding years back. It’s a way of letting each other know when the other’s in trouble. He’ll be back soon.” For the first time since the fit had passed, Jack’s eyes met mine. “You don’t need to stay here. You shouldn’t. Your sister will think—”

 

“I won’t leave you until George shows up,” I said firmly. “What happened back there. . . . I feel responsible. I’m not going to just leave you here alone. What if the fit hasn’t passed completely? You said this hasn’t happened before.”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Jack pushed himself up against the pillows, and I could tell that the movement was paining him. “I don’t need you here. Your sister’s waiting. She’ll start assuming things if you stay up here. I know you don’t want that.”

 

“But it’s my fault that—”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Jack interrupted. “George will be here any minute. Just go.”

 

Tears stung my eyes. “Jack, if I leave now, I probably won’t ever speak to you again. You know that, right?"

 

He shifted his head away from me, turning toward the large bedroom windows. “Do what you need to do.”

 

“What you said earlier?” I whispered. “If things had been different—”

 

“No. You were right. That doesn’t change anything.” Jack’s voice was limp. “Please, go before I do something else to make a complete ass of myself.”

 

“I really think I should—”

 

Jack turned back toward me, his silver eyes blazing. “Just. Go.”

 

I stared. Then, quietly, I rose from the side of the bed.

 

“Fine,” I whispered. “If that’s how you want it.”

 

He turned his back to me again, curling on his side, his expression unreadable.

 

“Goodbye, Ada,” he said.

 

That was all.

 

As I left the room, a bitter, taunting voice surfaced in my mind:

 

You’ll never be called Ada again.

 

❧

 

“Clara, please, say something.”

 

We were at Carrington Manor, alone in Clarissa’s bedroom.

 

Once I had returned to the Vanderpool library, Clarissa had duskstrode us away in quiet, concentrated silence. She had said nothing since that time, but instead was pacing the length of her tapestry-lined bedroom. With one hand, she convulsively turned the diamond bracelet hanging from her opposite wrist. I had never seen the bracelet before; it must have been a Christmas gift from Vance.

 

“I’m sorry,” I tried again, stepping into Clara’s path and gently catching her hand. “Whatever explanation you want, whatever questions you have—I’ll answer them all. Truthfully. Anything you want to know. Just talk to me, Clara.”

 

Clarissa released a feathery sigh. Tears beaded her eyelashes, and the sight of them filled me with unspeakable guilt. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t intended to upset my sister. I’d done it all the same.

 

“I’m afraid,” Clarissa said at last. “I’m afraid to ask you my questions, because I can’t imagine how the answers will be comforting.”

 

I pressed my thumb against her palm. “Ask me.”

 

“Linnie, you disappeared. For days! Don’t you know how worried the entire family has been about your safety? And then to receive a voicemail like the one you left! And of course I had Vance track down the number you had called from, and of course he came back with a strange address. And I had to duskstride to a stranger’s house, to find you doing heaven knows what with your time. How could you be so selfish? You positively ruined our holiday, and you’ve thrown your reputation into jeopardy. Why would you do that? What sort of disagreement with Mummy could possibly—”

 

“They’re forcing me to marry Desmond.”

 

Clarissa stopped short, her long lashes fluttering. Then her nose wrinkled delicately in confusion. “What?”

 

“Did Mum tell you that?” I asked, anger steeling my words. “How she and Aunt Judith are forcing me to reconcile with Desmond, to agree to marry him despite everything?”

 

“Oh dear. No, she didn’t say that.”

 

Clarissa gave a troubled sigh and sank to the edge of her canopy bed. Even when she was distressed, Clarissa was a picture of beauty. Not like me, who turned into a white-faced, puffy-eyed monster when I was even the least bit irritated.

 

“I won’t let them force me into a marriage,” I said, resolute. “Not after what he did to me. I don’t love him, Clara. How could I? How can I ever love him after what he did?”

 

Clarissa touched her fingertips to her forehead, brow creased in thought.

 

“Perhaps it was selfish of me to run away,” I whispered, “but I don’t regret it. I won’t let them dictate my future.”

 

“Oh dear,” Clarissa repeated. “It’s all that wretched Desmond’s fault! I don’t know what he could’ve possibly seen in another girl when he had you.”

 

“I wasn’t giving him what he wanted,” I said, surprised by my own frankness. “I wasn’t keeping him satisfied.”

 

Clarissa’s wide blue eyes got wider.

 

“That isn’t your fault, though,” she said softly.

 

“Mum said it was. Aunt Judith, too. And there Father was, going on about upholding my duty to the family, and Lenora was her usual pleasant self. Clara, it was awful. I wanted you there. I missed you so badly.”

 

Clarissa’s tears brimmed over her eyes. At last, she pulled me into a hug.

 

“Darling,” she said between sniffles. “Oh, my poor darling. I had no idea.”

 

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” I whispered, tucking my head into her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to ruin your holiday with Vance. I know how special this was to you.”

 

Clarissa sighed and shook her head, wiping her eyes with the backs of her wrists. “Mummy only told me yesterday. They’ve been trying to keep the matter hush-hush. Vance and I had no idea until then. So if it puts you more at ease, you didn’t ruin our holiday entirely. I only wish you had called me from Ironweld Place instead of. . . . Did you really climb out that second-story window?”

 

I nodded, and as I did so, I felt a surge of unexpected pride. I would never admit it to Clarissa, but the remembrance of that night filled me with much more excitement and self-satisfaction than it did regret.

 

“But whose house were you in?” Clarissa pressed. “That warmblood’s? It certainly wasn’t anyone that we know.”

 

By this, Clarissa meant that the Vanderpool house didn’t belong to anyone worth knowing—anyone within our tight-knit, blueblooded circle.

 

“You wouldn’t know them,” I said. “The family's mixed. His mother's a mortal." 

 

Clarissa looked ill. She held her hand to her mouth.

 

Now was not the time to tell Clarissa that I had spent the majority of my holiday in the East End house of a bona fide fanger. Or that I’d attended a party with mortals.

 

“So, the man with the strange hair,” said Clarissa. “The one who looked like death incarnate when I arrived . . . he’s a warmblood?”

 

I steeled myself. “Well, yes. But that wasn’t his house. And he’s more than a warmblood, he’s—he’s—”

 

Don’t be such a coward, Adaline. Say the word.

 

Clarissa gasped. “I remember him now! He was that foul man from Mahogany Coffin, wasn't he? The one who was touching you. You said he was a fanger.”

 

“He’s mortal-made, yes,” I whispered. “Clara, don’t look at me that way! I was desperate. I wasn’t thinking properly. I needed somewhere to stay, and I had to go someplace where Mum and Dad wouldn’t find me. I couldn’t just traipse up to one of our family friends’ doorsteps and ask them to harbor me while I ran away from home.”

 

“But a fanger.” Clarissa appeared to be gagging on the word. “I had no idea things were that dire. That you were so desperate.”

 

Something ruffled within me. I wanted to tell Clarissa to stop using the word “fanger” in reference to Jack Sargent. But I couldn’t make a request like that now, not when I was attempting to convince Clarissa that I’d been entirely unaffected by my stay with two blood inferiors.

 

“I was fine,” I said. “Anyway, it’s all over now, and that’s what matters. I’m here with you.”

 

Clarissa shook her head. “When I first arrived, you were . . . you were touching him.”

 

“I told you,” I said, “he was sick. He has this condition. I was helping him. It would’ve been cruel to let him suffer. Inhumane. The same as it would’ve been to let a wounded dog suffer without tending to its wound. It was common decency.”

 

“A condition?!” Clarissa looked queasy. “It isn’t contagious, is it? I’m sure it’s something he inherited from his parents. Mortals have the most unthinkable diseases.”

 

“No!” I cried, genuinely annoyed with Clarissa now. “No, it isn’t contagious. It’s magical, not mortal. It’s . . . not important what it is. The point is that I was helping him. That’s all.”

 

“How else did you help him? And his friend? Why on earth did they even let you stay with them?“

 

“He fancies me!” I blurted.

 

Clarissa looked even queasier. “He what?”

 

“The mortal-made, he’s got a thing for me. I knew that, and I used it to my advantage.”

 

“Did you flirt with him?”

 

“God no, Clara!” I tried to look equally disgusted by the suggestion. “Of course not. I only had to bat my lashes for him to hand me the moon and stars. It was pathetic, really.”

 

And when you say pathetic, you mean the most selfless, beautiful act that anyone’s ever performed for you, Adaline Aldridge.

 

“Then you didn’t. . . .” Clarissa shuddered. “I mean, he didn’t . . .I mean, both of you together, that didn’t—”

 

I shook my head hastily. “Don’t be so vulgar. I can’t believe you’d even suggest that I’d seduce a fanger just for a place to live. I’m a Lady of the House of Aldridge, not a common whore.”

 

Clarissa gasped at the word.

 

“Well, that was the implication, wasn’t it?” I demanded. “For your information, I can make my way in the real world without begging and, heaven forbid, selling my body.”

 

“Really, Linnie!” Clarissa sniffed. “You’ve clearly been in horrendous company to be speaking so crassly. I wasn’t accusing you of any impropriety. I know you’re far above it. But two men like that most certainly are not.”

 

I let out a short laugh. The very thought of Jack Sargent ever trying to take the slightest advantage of me was so absurd, so completely unthinkable—

 

Pain burst in my chest, sudden and unexpected.

 

Jack.

 

Jack, who had kissed me so sweetly, who’d told me that he was falling in love with me.

 

And I wasn’t ever going to speak to him again.

 

“Well,” said Clarissa, “if you’re quite sure you’re all right. Still, I do wish you had phoned me immediately. If it had really bothered you so much, I wouldn’t have told Mummy and Daddy. You could’ve stayed here for Christmas. Vance is such an angel, I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded.”

 

“Vance.” I sighed. “He must have the worst opinion of me. It’s good of him to let me stay, even now. You must thank him for—”

 

Clarissa interrupted me with a tutting sound. “None of that nonsense,” she said. “You’ll be able to thank him in person. And his father. We’ll all have dinner tonight, and that will set everyone more at ease. Then you and I shall sort things out, and we’ll go to Onyx House in the morning, as I’d already planned.”

 

The fear boiling in my gut must have shown on my face, because Clarissa reached over and squeezed my hand with a reassuring smile.

 

“We’ll set everything aright,” she said. “Now, don’t take this wrong way, Linnie dear, but you look positively dreadful.” Her nose crinkled. “And you smell it, too. I’ll have Devons draw you a nice hot bubble bath, hm? Wash all the dirtiness off. And then you can change into one of my prettiest dresses for dinner.”

 

I wanted nothing more than to hug Clarissa again. My sister knew precisely what I needed. But my dress was still caked with dried blood and, as Clarissa had just pointed out, I smelled rank. The best way of showing my gratitude would not be a hug, but a prompt departure to the tub.

 

So I departed.

 

I soaked for far longer than necessary, until my fingers and toes had thoroughly pruned. For the first time in nearly a week, I took my time with my makeup and hair until I was satisfied with my reflection in the vanity mirror. Then I dressed in Clarissa’s velvet blue evening gown, and though the dress cinched a little too tightly in the waist, I managed to pull it off with the customary Aldridge finesse.

 

If only Jack could see me like this, not all frumpy and disheveled and pale-faced like before.

 

My eyes widened. Where had that thought come from? Even if Jack could see me like this, what good would it do? Would I only want to torture him further, remind him of what he couldn’t have? I shouldn’t have even been thinking about Jack, period. He was behind me. My plan was ahead.

 

So why was he still on my mind?

 

Because you like him. You want him. You admitted that to him. Why can’t you admit it to yourself?

 

“Linnie! Vance says—” Clarissa stopped short in the doorway. “Darling! Why ever are you crying?”

 

I wiped hastily at my eyes. “It’s nothing,” I snuffled, turning my face away. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

 

“Are you not feeling up to supper, then?” Clarissa didn’t sound too pleased, but I could tell that she was still trying hard to be kind. “If you’re feeling that poorly, I can always have—”

 

“No, no! I’m quite all right.” I blotted my face with a tissue, reversing as best I could the damage done by my running mascara. “I don’t want the Carringtons thinking I’m rude.”

 

I got to my feet, smoothed out my dress, and cast Clarissa a bright, charming smile that I reserved only for special occasions when smiling was the last thing I wanted to do.

 

“Now then,” I said, “let’s not keep the gentlemen waiting.”

 

❧

 

“Nasty weather we’ve been having.”

 

It was thirty minutes into dinner, and Vance still hadn’t breathed a word about the fact that I had run away. I was certain that Clarissa had told him not to, and for that I was grateful. All the same, it was uncomfortable to sit across from Vance when he knew that I had been in a tiff with my family, had run off, and had spent the past several days in a strange residence. I imagined that, despite his polite exterior and talk about the weather, Vance was judging me. If I were in his position, I would be judging myself, too.

 

The only person present at the dinner table who was completely oblivious to my predicament was Mr. Ronan Carrington, Vance’s father, who sat at the head of the lavishly laid table, sawing his knife into a particularly succulent cut of blood steak. Mr. Carrington possessed an alarmingly commanding presence. He was a broad-shouldered man with a sharp jawline and long, perfectly styled hair. It was clear that Vance had inherited most of his features from his handsome father. I had no way of knowing what he had inherited from his mother; she had died many years back.

 

I had heard things about Ronan Carrington—whispers and rumors circulated around my blueblood circles. He was widely believed to have been instrumental in a plot to oust Maximus Holt from his position as High Vampiric Councilor. The whole affair had happened several years back, when I’d been in secondary school, but I could still remember the Sanguinary Sentinel headlines about blueblood riots and Holt’s eventual resignation. The man had been a mortal-made and therefore entirely unsuited for the position. My own parents had been outraged at his appointment and only too happy to see the vampire removed from the High Council altogether. As had I, of course. I hadn’t even questioned the ethics of Mr. Carrington’s tactics until this very evening, as I sat across from him, cutting my own blood steak into tiny pieces.

 

Mr. Carrington hadn’t spoken a word the entire dinner, not even to acknowledge my presence. He had been intently focused on a stack of paper beside his place setting. Only now did he glance up from his reading, fix me in his sights, and speak.

 

“Your father, Miss Aldridge, does he still play golf?”

 

“U-u-uh.” The question was so wholly unexpected that I first looked to Clarissa and Vance, though for what I wasn’t sure—permission to speak, perhaps? Affirmation that Mr. Carrington was, in fact, speaking to me?

 

I recovered soon enough, however, and assumed a more graceful and eloquent air than before.

 

“He does, sir, when time allows. I’m afraid that his work has kept him quite busy of late, but I know he enjoys it as a pastime.”

 

“Unbeatable during our Ivymoore years,” Mr. Carrington grunted, returning his attention to his papers. “I challenged him several times. Never once won. Keen muscular intuition, Mortimer. It is a shame that he had no son to inherit his better qualities.”

 

My knuckles whitened around my knife and fork. I was used to such comments, of course. I had heard more than one family friend sympathize with my parents’ inability to produce a male heir, and I heard disparaging remarks made about my gender nearly every day. But for some reason, Mr. Carrington’s careless remark irritated me more than usual.

 

If Jack were sitting at this table, he would speak up right now and inform Ronan Carrington that you’re at the top of your class.

 

But Jack wasn’t sitting at the table. Vance and Clarissa were, and they said nothing in response to Mr. Carrington’s comment, only went on chewing their food.

 

Much later, after more dull pleasantries were exchanged and after Vance and Clarissa had whispered and giggled a dozen sweet nothings into each other’s ears, Vance addressed his father.

 

“I’ll be leaving with Clarissa for Onyx House in the morning, as planned. I should be back by dusk.”

 

Mr. Carrington nodded lazily, returning his gaze to his papers.

 

“Give my best to Mortimer and Hortense,” he said through a yawn.

 

Vance nodded stiffly. Then the three of us left the dining room together.

 

We came to a stop outside of Clarissa’s room. Vance's hand had been threaded through hers the entire walk up the stairs, and even now he seemed loath to let it go. He looked into her pale blue eyes in a way that filled me with a terrible, longing ache.

 

Jack had looked at me that way the night before.

 

“I take it you sisters have important matters to discuss.”

 

I looked up in time to find that Vance was finally ripping himself asunder from Clarissa.

 

“Sorry, sweet thing,” Clarissa murmured, placing a kiss against Vance's shoulder and twirling a strand of his hair around her forefinger. “I’m afraid we do.”

 

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight, Adaline.”

 

Vance gave me a polite nod—as polite and noncommittal as all his remarks at the dinner table. Then, he turned to Clarissa and swept her into a deep kiss, his hands framing her cheekbones. Clarissa made a giddy little squeaking noise in return, and I averted my eyes as the happy couple proceeded to make out far longer than was comfortable for a third party. At last, they parted, and Vance walked down the hallway with swift strides.

 

Clarissa turned to me with a blanched, guilty expression. All the same, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face, and I couldn’t blame her for that. Clarissa was happy. She was in love and engaged, and our parents approved entirely on both those counts. I wasn’t going to begrudge my sister that happiness. I was just grateful that Clarissa wasn’t incapable of sympathizing with my own unhappiness.

 

“Oh Linnie,” Clarissa sighed, flopping gracefully onto the bed, “we’ve so much to talk about.”

 

I climbed onto the bed next to her and laid out on my stomach in an exhausted, far less elegant sprawl.

 

“I’ve thought it all through,” I said. “I have a decent plan. Everyone knows that you’re Mum’s favorite. I’m sure that if you told her very sweetly that I was scared when I ran away and that you think Desmond is deplorable and would never suit as a husband. . . . I think she might actually listen to you.”

 

Clarissa furrowed her brow. “You want me to say all of that to Mummy?”

 

I looked over with a desperate expression in my eyes. “Could you please? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m so afraid that they won’t have changed their minds at all. But you—you’re a breath of fresh air, Clara. They’d listen to you. Mum wouldn’t want to upset you by upsetting me.”

 

“No,” said Clarissa, “that’s very true. Mummy never likes to see me anxious. But oh dear, it’s such a complicated matter! Do you really think they’ll forget about the match altogether?”

 

“I only know that if anything will change their mind, it’s you.”

 

It was possible. My mother had such a soft spot in her heart where Clarissa was concerned. But my real concern wasn’t my mother, or even my father. It was Aunt Judith.

 

I didn’t know why I hadn’t simply told Clarissa about the compulsion charm that Aunt Judith had performed on me. Something about it had been so unthinkable, so dreadful, that I wasn’t sure I could ever bring myself to talk about it again. Saying it out loud would make it more real somehow. And how could I tell Clarissa, of all people? It was next to impossible to tell my sister that the woman who’d tucked her into bed over summer holidays had cast a dark charm.

 

Then why was it so easy to tell Jack?

 

“Whatever happens,” Clarissa said, tugging the pearl clasps out of her soft hair, “we’ll sort through it together, hm?”

 

I couldn’t count the number of times I’d looked at Clarissa that day and wanted to weep. This was what I needed: someone to listen to me, to sympathize, to promise that things would be better. I’d needed my sister so badly. When Clarissa reassured me, I really did believe that everything would be well again. It would be like I had never run away.

 

Except that you did, and Jack Sargent saved you, and the two of you had a snogging session, and you both admitted that you’ve got a thing for each other, and then you left him, even while he was recovering from one of those awful fits. You don’t even know if he’s okay. You don’t know if George showed up after you left and made sure that Jack wasn’t dead or paralyzed from the neck down or—

 

“Linnie? You look ill.”

 

I glanced up to find Clarissa stooped over me, her pretty face distorted with concern.

 

“I’m fine,” I said, propping myself on my elbows. “Nervous about tomorrow, that’s all. It’s your responsibility to distract me.”

 

Clarissa giggled at that. “Well. I do have a topic of conversation that would prove quite distracting. It’s just, what with your own to-do, I didn’t want to seem insensitive.”

 

I pushed myself into a full sit, my eyes huge. I knew the voice that Clarissa was using. It was breathy and twittery and particularly soprano. It was the voice she always used when she was talking about Vance.

 

“Clara,” I said slowly, “tell me.”

 

Clarissa bit her lip and giggled again. “Well. Well. Vance and I . . . um. We—we. . . .”

 

I gasped. “Clara, you didn't! When?”

 

“Christmas Eve,” Clarissa said, going giggly again. “Oh, is that too cliché?”

 

I shook my head. “N-n-no. No, it isn’t cliché, I just can’t believe—”

 

“We didn’t plan on it,” Clarissa said, fiddling with the lace sash of her gown. “It just happened, really.”

 

Then, impishly, she raised her eyes and added, “Several times.”

 

“Oh. My. God.”

 

“I know!” Clarissa burst into giggles again and rolled over onto her stomach. “I know, I know!”

 

Then, at my silence, she lifted her head from the duvet. “You’re not judging me, are you? You don’t think I’m some uncouth, graceless slag?”

 

“Of course not,” I said quickly, running my hand along Clarissa’s back. “Dearest, you are the furthest thing from a slag. But . . . but you were safe, weren’t you?”

 

Clarissa blushed even more. “I’m not stupid. Of course we were safe. I know that contraception charms are only ninety-eight percent effective, too, so I took a birth control draught just to be sure. You should be very proud of me.”

 

“Birth control draught?” I said, quirking an eyebrow. “You said you weren’t planning on it.”

 

Clarissa tittered. “Well. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

 

I collapsed beside her on the bed with a wondering laugh. “Good heavens. Little Clara, all grown up.”

 

“Mm. More grown up than youuu.”

 

Clarissa shot a tickling hand against my side, and I promptly ducked away from it, tickling Clarissa back until we were both breathless with laughter.

 

After all, it was far better to be laughing about it than crying in a corner because my baby sister had lost her virginity before I had.

 

When the tickling match had calmed down, I fixed Clarissa with a more serious face.

 

“Did it. . . .” I hesitated, and then decided to go through with my whispered inquiry. “Did it hurt very much?”

 

Clarissa nodded. “A bit, yes. Do you know, though? Not nearly so bad as I thought it would. Mummy made it sound like such an absolute terror. Like it was something as unpleasant and blasé as sorting laundry. But I think it’s different when he loves you.”

 

Neither of us would ever admit it, but this was the first time that either of us had come close to admitting out loud that our parents did not love each other.

 

Hortense and Mortimer Aldridge respected and supported each other. I never doubted that. But it was the little things that had begun to clue me in, once I was old enough to know what the little things meant: how my father failed to kiss my mother goodnight, how they never held hands when they went out for an afternoon stroll, how they came home separately from parties—my father always much later than my mother.

 

“Vance was divine,” Clarissa sighed. “He was so attentive and gentle. Though, I must say, the act is a good deal less . . . refined than I imagined it. A rather messy business. I thought—”

 

Clarissa’s next words were muffled. I had slapped my hand over her mouth with a wicked smirk.

 

“Clara, I’m very happy for you,” I said, “but that is the most detail I ever want to hear about your sex life.”

 

Clarissa giggled again and shrugged like an innocent. “I only thought you’d like to know for future reference.”

 

I shook my head forcefully. Then, sinking back into the duvet, I stared up at the gauzy canopy drooped above Clarissa’s bed and sighed. Future reference. When might that be, exactly? If there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that I was never, ever going to share a bed with Desmond Prescott. And if not Desmond, then what other possible qualified suitor was there? I wasn’t so naïve to think that if my parents agreed to let me break things off with Desmond they would magically forget about marrying me off to some wealthy blueblood heir.

 

There was Evan Roarke. He was a few years younger, but he was decent enough to look at, and he and I had actually carried on some halfway decent conversations. Lilith had a brother, Declan. He was a third year, brilliant, and very fit. Lilith frequently whined about what a prat Declan was, but I had crushed on him when we were younger. That was a silly line of thought, though, I reminded myself. The Spencers were technically un-pure. Only very technically; a mortal-made had married into the family centuries back. All the same, it had tainted their blood status, and while Lilith was suitable friend material, Declan wouldn’t be suitable husband material.

 

Still. Better material than Jack Sargent, who you’ve been thinking about this entire time.

 

My breathing slowed. I looked askance at Clarissa, irrationally afraid that my sister could somehow hear my thoughts.

 

Come on, Adaline. You’re thinking about it still. You’re wondering what it would be like with a fanger. You’re wondering if it would’ve been like last night. If it would feel just as wondrously right.

 

“It’s rather stuffy in here, isn’t it?” Clarissa let out a languid sigh. “Best get dressed for bed.”

 

She tapped my nose with an affectionate smile.

 

“Don’t wear that worried expression. Everything will be better soon. I can feel it.”

 

Tomorrow. Onyx House. My parents. Desmond Prescott. It all came rushing back, and I wondered how on earth I could’ve been distracted by the thought of Jack Sargent's hands on my skin. Something was wrong with my mind. It was very possible that Jack had passed on a communicable warmblood disease after all.

 

One that affected the brain.

 

I shook my head, concentrating on the real issue at hand: getting back into the family’s good graces. By this time tomorrow, all of my worries and fears would come to an end.

 

I could only hope that it would be the end that I wanted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Above all, the blueblood must remember this: Preservation of our line is crucial. There can be no greater contribution to vampirekind than the continued procreation of purely vampiric offspring. When in conflict with this worthy endeavor, all other considerations and obligations must be laid aside.”

 

- The Silent Scourge: On the Dangers and Depravity of Mortal-Mades

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21

Proposal

 

I sat cross-legged on the floor, in the middle of the wood-paneled study of Onyx House. The room was dark, lit only by a flickering gas lamp in the far corner. I did not move. I could not. Though my mind screamed commands to my limbs, they did not obey. They did not even listen.

 

Snow was falling around me in a soundless flurry.

 

But that was wrong.

 

This was all wrong.

 

It couldn’t be snowing here, inside these walls. I looked up, desperate to find the source of the snowfall, but all I could see above my head was a yawning, black abyss.

 

I tried to cry out, but my tongue, like my body, remained heedless to my wishes. I felt my heart beating wildly beneath my ribs, a damp thudding sound, alarming in its incessancy.

 

Then I caught sight of it: a flutter of golden wings from out of the corner of my eye.

 

The linnet.

 

It swooped into sight again, and then, gracefully, the small bird circled downward and downward until it landed in my lap.

 

It looked up at me, its black eyes intent. Then it gave a low, quivering chirp. Like me, the linnet was frightened. I wanted so desperately to reach out and stroke its downy feathers, to whisper words of reassurance.

 

But I could do nothing. I was frozen and helpless.

 

The linnet began to tremble.

 

Then the snow turned blood red.

 

❧

 

I woke screaming, my body drenched in sweat, my hands gripped into the satin sheets of Clarissa’s bed.

 

The lights flicked on, and a moment later, an awakened and alarmed Clarissa was by my side.

 

I looked up at my sister in a daze, then rubbed at my eyes, willing them to focus. My head throbbed, my heart pattered wildly. I felt weak and sore in the deep places of my bones. Even now, I struggled to think properly, to convince myself that I was safe, that there was no linnet, that there was no bloodstained snow.

 

“Linnie,” Clarissa whispered. “I thought the nightmares had stopped.”

 

I sank back against my pillow, sweat-sopped curls of hair sticking to my cheekbones.

 

I thought so, too.

 

❧

 

We took a mortal train to London, and from there a taxi cab to Onyx House. Clarissa stood beside me on the pristine, tree-lined driveway, clutching a massive satchel in one hand, while Vance and the cab driver struggled to remove her two giant suitcases from the car. Clarissa had never been a particularly light packer.

 

When the unpleasant business of paying off the mortal driver was through, the three of us faced Onyx House’s ivy-covered facade.

 

“I’ll head in first, shall I?” Vance said after a pregnant pause. “Break the tension a bit.”

 

He walked ahead of us, opening the front door without so much as a knock. I was rather impressed by the move, since Vance knew full well he’d be greeted by none other than his fiancée’s parents.

 

Of course, my parents were overjoyed by the match between Vance and Clarissa—even more than they had been by Lenora’s marriage to Alistair Prescott. It had never been any secret that, out of all the intended suitors for the Aldridge sisters, Vance was the best pick of the lot. Still, this was Vance’s first time seeing the family after his proposal to Clarissa, and I imagined that there would be a deluge of questions waiting for him, courtesy of my mother.

 

That is, until I appeared on the scene. Clarissa hadn’t warned our parents that she would be bringing along her runaway sister this morning. I had a feeling that my appearance would overshadow Vance's visit. Perhaps that had been what Vance was banking on. And perhaps that meant that Vance wasn’t so very brave after all. . . .

 

Clarissa squeezed my hand. I hadn’t realized until now that it was shaking.

 

“I’ll be there with you,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

 

I nodded, trying to swallow the lump that had been in my throat all morning, throughout our four-hour journey.

 

“Ready?” Clarissa asked me.

 

I nodded again, even though I wasn’t close to ready. The truth is, I never would be. I just had to steel my resolve and go through with this.

 

Hands clasped, Clarissa and I entered Onyx House.

 

Vance was already shaking my father’s hand when Clarissa and I arrived in the front parlor. For a moment, all was quiet. Then Mother let out an astonished gasp, and Father dropped Vance's hand as though he’d been stung. Both of my parents stared at me as though I were a specter—and an unwelcome specter at that.

 

“Adaline,” my mother said in a wildly unstable voice. Her gaze shifted to Clarissa. “How long has she been with you?”

 

“Just since last night,” Clarissa said quickly, adding an appeasing smile. “Far too late for us to contact you. We were afraid you’d be asleep. But isn’t it wonderful, Mummy? She’s safe and sound, and we’ve brought her home.”

 

Mother said nothing. She and my father still stood transfixed, neither of them wearing particularly nice expressions. I felt small. I wanted nothing more than to back away, into the endless void, and duskstride myself away.

 

But that wouldn’t do. I hadn’t made plans just to give them up so easily. I wasn’t going to run away a second time. I was going to stand my ground.

 

I slipped my hand out of Clarissa’s.

 

“Mum, Dad.” I nodded at both my parents. “I apologize for causing you undue worry and for any shame I may have brought upon the family name. Running away was a rash decision, and I am willing to accept the full consequences for my actions.”

 

I had rehearsed the lines so often for the past day. I knew every syllable, every practiced rise and fall of intonation. But as I finally spoke them, they tasted like ash in my mouth.

 

Still, my parents said nothing. I had not been expecting a warm or loving reception. But this. . . This silence. I wasn't prepared for it.

 

“You mustn’t blame her!” Clarissa cried, crossing the room in a graceful stride and taking Mother’s hands in hers. “Adaline wasn’t thinking clearly. She explained it all perfectly to me. I’m sure if you spoke to her, if you heard what she has to say, you would understand. She doesn’t love him, Mummy. It isn’t right. You should marry the one you love, shouldn’t you?”

 

“Clarissa.” It was my father who spoke, his voice deep and strained. “This matter does not concern you. You’ll kindly take Vance into the dining room. Vivi will wait on you there. Your mother and I shall speak to your sister in private.”

 

Clarissa wavered for a moment. Then, her crystalline blue eyes clouded over. I had seen this look on my sister countless times before, since she’d been old enough to toddle. It was an inevitably each and every time Clarissa didn't get precisely she wanted—whether it was the prettiest porcelain doll in the nursery or the most expensive gown in the shop. For a brief moment, Clarissa lost her composure entirely. She shoved Mother’s hands away and stomped her foot angrily.

 

“This matter does concern me! Linnie is my sister, and if she’s not happy, then I’m not.”

 

I saw my mother’s lower lip wobble, as it always did when Clarissa threw one of her tantrums.

 

“Mortimer. . . .” she began, but Father gave a sharp wave of his hand, and she went silent.

 

“Clara, my sweet.” Vance placed a hand on Clarissa’s waist, his lips at her ear. “Perhaps it would be best if we left them alone.”

 

Not so brave at all, I thought derisively. Though I really couldn’t blame Vance. Of course he didn’t want to be embroiled in family drama that had nothing to do with him.

 

Clarissa glanced at me uncertainly. If I asked, I knew that my sister would stay by my side. She had promised. But it was selfish to put Vance and Clarissa in this position. I had been the one to run away, to cause a rift. This was my responsibility, and mine alone.

 

“I’ll be all right, Clara,” I said, pleased with the steady way I managed the words. My parents couldn’t possibly know the fear that was seizing me. I was terrified to be left alone with them.

 

Clarissa still look unsatisfied, but Vance leaned back in and whispered something inaudible that cleared the clouds from her eyes.

 

“Very well,” she murmured, slipping her hand around Vance's proffered elbow. “We’ll wait in the dining room.”

 

Together, the two left the great room through black wooden doors that heaved shut behind them. Even as they closed, I saw Clarissa cast back one last anxious glance. Then they were both gone, and I was sealed up in the dark room with my grim-faced parents.

 

“Take a seat,” said my father.

 

It was a command that left no room for discussion. I sat in the worn leather armchair nearest the fireplace. My parents remained standing.

 

No words were exchanged for one full, excruciating minute. I could feel Father’s dark gaze bearing down on me. I saw Mother wring her hands against her taffeta afternoon gown. I waited. I knew that my father wished to be the first to speak. This silence was part of his speech. It was part of my punishment.

 

“You have disgraced us.”

 

I lowered my eyes to my lap. I couldn’t look at him.

 

“You have disgraced me,” Father continued, “your mother, your sisters—the entire name of the House of Aldridge. Did you even think, when you pulled that reckless stunt, of the trouble and embarrassment you would cause your family?”

 

“No,” I whispered truthfully. “I wasn’t thinking at all.”

 

“Do you know how difficult it was to conduct a search for our missing daughter while simultaneously keeping the shame of your actions from reaching the general public? What our acquaintances would say if they discovered that our daughter had willfully disobeyed her parents and run away from home to God knows what hovel in London?”

 

“I wasn’t in a hovel—”

 

“It is of no concern to me where you were!” Father slammed his hand down on the mantelpiece, whipping around toward me with a visceral glare I had never before seen him wear. “Your mother and I do not wish to hear what you did, who you saw, or what other sins you committed abroad. All you need know is that your flirtation with rebellion is over. I will not be made a public figure of shame because I cannot control my own daughter.”

 

“Lenora and Clara play the marionettes very well,” I said icily. “Isn’t that good enough for you?”

 

“How dare you speak to your father that way!” cried my mother. “I don’t know where you’ve picked up this insolence, Adaline Lyra Aldridge, but it has no place in this house.”

 

“Insolence doesn’t, but dark charms do?”

 

Mother made a choking noise. She and my father exchanged a troubled look, and I knew that I had struck a sensitive nerve.

 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I pressed. “What Aunt Judith did—you see nothing wrong in it.”

 

“Judith’s method of discipline was unwise,” Father said coolly. “It was out of line. But for you to so flippantly dismiss the use of the dark charms demonstrates just what a naïve perspective—”

 

“Naïve?” I flung the word back. “I'm not naïve. I know charmwork inside and out, Father. I’ve made careful study of it, made top marks in all my classes. But we're trained to defend ourselves from dark charms, not to practice it on others. That’s as it should be.”

 

“Listen to your daughter lecture,” my father laughed to my mother. “I suppose, Adaline, that it’s all very black and white in the classroom, isn’t it?”

 

“It is black and white,” I shot back. “There's a reason certain charms are banned.”

 

“And who do you suppose did the banning?” my father demanded. “Laws are made by the weak—those who are too afraid of the powerful. Dammit, girl, you’re smarter than this. Do you honestly believe all the drivel they feed you in that school? Do you think that a couple of essays make you a qualified judge of dark charms? You presume to disparage this family with your schoolgirl code of morality!”

 

I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re defending her. What she did was wrong. Compulsion charms should never be tampered with. Civil vampires have believed that for centuries, and yet when I say so you treat me like I’m nothing more than a child!”

 

“You are a child!” roared my father. “You are my child, and you live under my roof, and so long as you intend to carry on my family name and fortune, there are certain behaviors that are absolutely unacceptable. One of those behaviors is running away. Another is refusing marriage to a man that your mother and I have deemed to be the most appropriate match.”

 

I crossed my arms tightly. “He isn’t an appropriate match. He isn’t appropriate at all! Do you want for your child to be the laughing stock of your social circle? Everyone knows now that he’s a cheater. I’ll be marrying an unfaithful man. You want for me to have that reputation?”

 

“You speak,” said my mother, “as though you still had a reputation to salvage. Your aunt was right before: No other prospective suitor will want you if you turn down Desmond. The two of you have been courting for far too long. They will assume you have already lost your virginity to him, and no man wants a spoiled bride. And they will assume—rightly so—that you are unable to contain your temper, that you are incapable of honoring and obeying your husband. Tell me, Adaline, please, what suitor desires that?”

 

I blurted the first name that came to mind. “Evan Roarke.”

 

Mother scoffed. “Your second cousin? Believe me, dear heart, I know his mother only too well. She would never agree to a match like that. She has a strong prejudice against your father’s line. An inferiority complex that the Roarkes have always suffered from. Believe me, as a Roarke, I would know.”

 

“You will marry Prescott,” my father said. “Your mother informs me that you’ve already sent him an apology, and he’s sent his own reply, offering his forgiveness. He expressed a wish to visit Onyx House. Your mother and I anticipate a proposal during this visit. You will accept.”

 

I sat up taller in my chair. “And if I don’t?”

 

My father walked from the mantelpiece to where I sat. He stooped to my eye-level, the way he had before when I had been a little girl and he had knelt to answer one of my childish questions. Unlike those times, though, there was no warmth in my father’s eyes, no smile on his lips.

 

“If you don’t,” he said, “then I will no longer call you my daughter. You will no longer be welcomed into this home. Your inheritance will be split evenly between your other two sisters. Do you understand what I am saying, Adaline?”

 

I understood very well.

 

I nodded, just once. Cold determination had gripped me.

 

“Now then. What are you going to do?”

 

I spoke without hesitation. “I’m going to accept Desmond Prescott’s proposal of marriage.”

 

❧

 

I sat in the conservatory, on a wrought-iron bench beside my mother’s prized collection of geraniums. I was wearing my best dress—a black, floor-length gown lined with silk fringe and diamond teardrops that unabashedly showed off the curves of my hips. I wanted to look my best. This was a special day, after all.

 

There was a slight tapping at the conservatory’s glass door. I did not turn to face it. I heard the slide of a latch, the creak of the door, and swift footsteps against the tile flooring. Still I did not turn. I waited until Desmond had circled around my bench and kneeled at my feet before I bestowed a glance upon him.

 

He took my hands in his. He pressed a long, profuse kiss against my knuckles—no longer bandaged, but still tender. His lips were cool and dry, just as I remembered them.

 

“Linnie, I swear, what happened before—I’m never going to make that mistake again. I swear it to you. I love you.”

 

I watched Desmond closely, my mouth sealed shut. His dark hair was cropped close along his ears, his jaw line as sharp as I remembered it. He was handsome, there was no denying it. He had a spotless pedigree. He was well liked by his peers. He did tolerably well in school and, regardless of his marks, he would land an excellent job. All the same, he was a Prescott, not an Aldridge. His family’s name did not have near the reputation that mine did. His father was close to bankrupt. His inheritance was not a tenth of what mine would be.

 

I smiled down at him. Only I would need to know that it was a contemptuous smile.

 

Removing my hands from his, I said, “Of course you do.”

 

Desmond nodded passionately. “Yes,” he said, “of course I do. That’s why”—he fumbled at the inner pocket of his dress robe, then produced a green velvet box—“that’s why I’m asking you to be my wife.”

 

He opened the box. The diamond was stunning. It was, I noted with satisfaction, larger than both Lenora’s and Clarissa’s engagement diamonds. The stone was offset by a circlet of emeralds embedded in pure silver. It was decidedly in my taste.

 

I extended my left hand, curling my delicate fingers ever so slightly in Desmond’s direction. He looked up at me with a cautious expression. I arched an eyebrow.

 

“Is that a yes then?” he asked.

 

“It’s a yes.”

 

A relieved smile broke across Desmond’s face.

 

He had such a disarming smile.

 

He took my hand in his and gingerly slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit snugly, perfectly. I was still smiling when I suddenly gripped my fiancé’s hand, my nails pinching into the soft skin of his palm.

 

He looked up in alarm.

 

“Linnie—?” he began.

 

I shook my head, placing a forefinger against his lips.

 

“I want you to listen to me, Desmond,” I said. “Listen carefully. I’ve accepted your proposal. Now I’m going to tell you my terms. You need me. I know that. I’m the best you can do. When you and I tie the knot, you’ll have the benefit of my social standing and of my wealth. You need that from me, as much as Alistair did from Lenora. You think you’ll be as lucky as him, and perhaps you will be. But on my terms.”

 

I pinched harder into Desmond’s palm. He did not move. His eyes were wide, locked on mine. I knew that I was doing it again: I was behaving just like Lenora. But this time, I didn’t fight the inclination; I welcomed it, reveled in the cold and emotionless power it gave me.

 

“You’re a bastard,” I said crisply. “I don’t know how long you were cheating on me before, but I know you’ll do it again. You’re probably doing it even now.”

 

Desmond tried to speak, but I only pressed my index finger more firmly against his mouth.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t love you. In fact, I’m not sure I ever have. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I hold the trump card, don’t I? If I refused to marry you, you’d be a shame to your parents. You’d have no chance of lifting yourself up in society, of the dowry that you’re after, would you? You’re powerless without me, so you’ll do as I say. No more giving the orders. No more telling me who I can and can’t cavort with, when I can talk, what I can talk about. And no more touching me. No kissing, no slipping your filthy hand around my waist. I don’t want any of that. If you dare to so much as rest a finger on me, Desmond Prescott, I swear I’ll make you suffer for it.”

 

I removed my finger from Desmond’s lips. I wasn’t done talking yet, but I knew that I had petrified him into silence by now. He was staring at me as though I were some unearthly creature that had sprouted wings and horns and breathed out fire.

 

“You’re in no place to judge me,” I said. “In no position to give me orders. And you know that, don’t you? You’ve known it all along.”

 

I smirked, releasing Desmond’s hand entirely. “Get up off of your knees. Kiss my hand, and then go back into the hallway to be congratulated by my father. You’ll then make your excuses. You have pressing matters at home and won’t be able to stay for dinner. Then you’ll leave. I don’t want to receive any calls or letters from you. I don’t want to see you aboard the Pale Maiden. You and I will sit together in the dining hall and the North Wing sitting room on occasion, to retain the façade that we’re happily engaged. Otherwise, I don’t want your vile presence anywhere near me. Understood?”

 

Desmond rose to his feet. He shook his head wonderingly.

 

“I underestimated you.”

 

His words were cool and unaffected, but I could see his jaw trembling.

 

Good. He was right where I wanted him.

 

I leaned back against the iron bench, crossing my legs in a slow, deliberate manner, well aware that it showed off the curves of my body to their best advantage. I folded my hands primly in my lap. Let him stare at what he couldn’t have.

 

“I’m sure,” I said, “that you won’t make that mistake again.”

 

❧

 

“But I don’t understand.”

 

I sat in my childhood bedroom, at my marble vanity, dressed in a nightshift. Clarissa was making careful work of unthreading the plaits I had wound my hair up into for dinner that night. Her fingers worked with adroit precision, even as her words faltered. Her composure was clearly rattled by the events of the day.

 

Clarissa had been shock-faced when I’d emerged from the parlor and announced my intention to accept Desmond Prescott’s proposal after all. I had politely ignored her questions all day, both after the events of the conservatory and throughout dinner. Clarissa was distraught, and it pained me beyond measure to see her that way. But I couldn’t let my guard down in front of my parents, and not even in front of Vance. I’d remained placid and smiling and had gently told Clarissa that I had merely “changed my mind on the matter.”

 

But tonight, after dinner, when we were left alone in the bedroom, I finally allowed myself to drop the near-catatonic exterior I’d assumed for the day. I didn’t realize how exhausting the act had been until I sat down at the vanity and let out one low, cleansing breath. My cheeks ached from smiling, and my back was weak from straining to achieve good posture the entire day through. And in my chest, I felt a small but discernible hollowness. I winced and rubbed at my sternum in an attempt to alleviate the unpleasant sensation.

 

“Linnie?”

 

I glanced up at the reflection of my sister in the mirror. Clarissa looked concerned; she also looked angry.

 

“Linnie,” she said, “why are you acting like this?”

 

I sighed. Then I reached up and clasped Clarissa’s hand in mine.

 

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful with you before.”

 

“What do you mean?” Clarissa stopped her work with my hair and took a seat on a nearby ottoman. “What haven’t you been truthful about?”

 

“My plan.”

 

“What plan?”

 

“My plan to make things right again,” I said. “I never really thought that Mum and Dad would let me refuse Desmond. There was the hope—and I think perhaps Mum might have given in if it weren’t for Father and Aunt Judith.”

 

“Aunt Judith? What does she have to do with—”

 

I shook my head tiredly. “I suppose deep down I wanted you to be able to convince Mum otherwise, but I only had to be in that room with them for thirty seconds to know where things stood. I could never convince them, and neither could you or anyone in this family. I think I’ve known that ever since I left Ironweld Place. I just kept hoping. . . . Well, hope is a very silly thing, isn’t it?”

 

Clarissa’s eyes were tearing up. “Darling, don’t talk like this. You’re frightening me. The way you’ve been acting all day, like you’re perfectly happy to wear Desmond’s ring when I know it isn’t what you want—you’re not happy.”

 

“There are more important things than being happy,” I whispered. “Family is one of them. And I don’t mean Mum and Dad. I mean you, Clara. If they were to cut me off, we wouldn’t be able to see each other again."

 

Clarissa shook her head. “Mummy and Daddy would never—”

 

“Yes, they would,” I cut in. “A year ago, I wouldn't think them capable of it. But I’ve seen Father look at me in horrible ways today. Ways he’s never looked at me before. I understand now: They value the family name more than they value me.”

 

Clarissa looked ready to refute the statement. In the end, though, she said nothing.

 

“You know that’s true,” I said. “I need you in my life. I need a future, too, and I don’t have that if I don’t have any money. I don’t come into any part of my inheritance until my twenty-first birthday. If they cut me off now, I’d be destitute. I can have the best marks and the best incentive in the whole of the vampiric world, and I still wouldn’t be able to get off my feet, not without some sort of financial support at the outset. I’ve thought it through, and it’s impossible. I care more about family and a future than I do about marital happiness. It’s as simple as that.”

 

“It isn’t simple at all, though!” Clarissa cried. “You shouldn’t have to decide between the two.”

 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t. But I must. And if I must, then I’m going to at least do it my way. I’m still going to remain independent. I have the upper hand, and Desmond knows it. We’re going to play by my rules from now on. He won’t control me. And to me, that’s what’s most important.”

 

“But it’s so very wrong.”

 

“It’s unfair, yes.” I smiled without feeling. “But you at least are lucky enough to have both a future and a happy marriage before you. Think on that instead, Clara.”

 

“I can’t think on something like that when you’re so unhappy!” Clarissa rose to her feet, a sort of wild energy animating her limbs. “I see what you’re doing. Don’t think that I’m blind. I’m your sister, Linnie. I know you. You’re acting like her. You’re putting on Lenora’s little Ice Queen routine, acting like nothing bothers you, like you’re untouchable. But you’re not her. You’re not that. You aren’t cold and calculating, Adaline. You weren’t made for a loveless life. It’s going to kill you.”

 

I shrugged, threading my fingers through the remaining kinks of my long, chestnut hair. “Then I die young. You know I never wanted to outlive my beauty, anyway.”

 

Clarissa wiped away the tears trickling down her cheeks. “It isn’t right,” she whispered again, sinking into the bed.

 

But I could see the truth settling over Clarissa, could see realization darkening her eyes. It wasn’t right, but it was the way things would have to be.

 

I felt tired, not just with the events of the day, but with an aged sort of weariness. I felt as though I had grown decades. My father had called me naïve that morning. I refused to be called naïve again.

 

This had been my plan all along, and nothing would throw me off course.

 

It wasn’t until after the lights were off and I lay alone in my childhood bed that I allowed myself a solitary tear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look for the sequel

 

A Bond So Deadly

 

Summer 2018