Page 53 of Blood Lust

The hierarchy of vampires is reasonably straightforward—a council with representatives from around the world that set the general rules. Stay hidden. Cities across the planet hold multiple covens, one being the “leading” coven for the area. Usually, the oldest vampire will be the leader, as it is with ours, and as the leading representative, they will travel for diplomatic and disciplinary reasons.

Leland is on a diplomatic mission this time, in another state, helping a coven establish footing after overtaking another. The council cares little for who is in charge where, but they care a great deal if infighting leads to discovery. Particularly apt at the art of remaining hidden, my maker has gone to ensure the transition goes smoothly. The coven that had been removed were troublemakers, leaving bodies as they pleased and risking our anonymity as a species.

Before he left, I had wished I was going along to assist him, but eying Wren in the corner, engrossed in her latest project, I am grateful I was left behind.

As the second oldest and Leland’s first creation, I have taken the role of second in command. I can’t go with him everywhere, even though I long to ensure he stays protected. If he has one weakness, it is his damn honor.

Old fashioned, he’s never adapted to using more modern methods to deal with rogue vampires, sticking to his sword. I think it is stupid when we have plenty of assault weapons lying around. Guns may not kill us, but they can mangle a body enough to get it out of commission until you have time to take the head. Leland doesn’t think it is a fair fight and refuses to use them. It worries me. It always worries me.

“Tell me about your human life,” I hadn’t even heard Wren come up behind me. She wraps her arms around my middle, and I turn in her embrace.

“It was pretty boring. Medieval times weren’t filled with much to pass the time.” I touch her face with the back of my hand, relishing the softness of her. She takes that hand in hers and gives it the gentlest of kisses.

“Come with me.” She leads me to the part of the living room that she’s claimed as her workspace. The corner with the best view of the city. She positions me in front of a chair and then pushes me down. I reach for her, expecting her to climb into my lap. Instead, she pulls away and sits across from me. “Describe your life for me. Tell me what it was like to be a knight.”

I am a little disappointed not to have her sitting with me, but what my lovely wants, my lovely gets.

Reliving my human days isn’t the easiest. Those memories are foggier than the ones I have created as an immortal. After seven hundred and thirty-two years, I have plenty of memories, but I do my best. I explain how and why I became a knight, describe the training it took, the honor it brought me, and the battles I faced. I give her the clearest memory I have, the day I died. For some reason, our deaths stuck with us easily.

I watch as her hands move across the paper, a pencil between her fingers. I imagine what she is drawing. Will it be some imposing battle scene? Will I see myself with armor?

“What about your family? Did you return to them at all after you turned?” I sense this question holds more weight than it seems to. She misses her parents. Is playing dead going to be too difficult for her?

“I never saw them again.” I study her face, though she doesn’t look up from her paper. The words smooth over her, and I see no change, no reaction. I try to reach out to her mind and see what she is feeling, but she volunteers nothing. Wren has learned the intricacies of our connection in a way that surprises me. Maybe having her memory has something to do with it.

“I’m fine, Oz.” She insists, eyes still focused on her work.

I don’t believe her.

“Don’t cut your eyes at me, Oswald.” The audacity of learning my full name. Let alone using it?

“Where in the hell did you learn that name?” Her pink lips curve in a smirk as she continues, ignoring me. Her slightly too-large front teeth are visible, making her look like a chipmunk up to no good. How had she gotten this little nut of information? “Wren…” I want an answer damn it.

“Sir Oswald Hurst, born in twelve ninety-one, died in thirteen seventeen.” My mouth drops open, and Wren looks incredibly smug. “Rolando digitized the records, remember? I’ve been reading while helping with the archive website.”

Irritation flows through me. I hate the name, Oswald. Even as a human, I despised it. I was so grateful when the times progressed, and I was able to adopt a nickname. I could’ve just changed it, but that didn’t feel right. It was a gift from my parents and my only connection to my human family. “Don’t ever call me that,” I grumble.

Light dances in her eyes, so pleased to have a way under my skin. “Only when you’re in trouble then.” Laughter tickles the edges of her voice. I relax my shoulders, no one calls me that, but if I have to hear it from anyone, there is no one better. I will be her Oswald, her Sir, her knight in shining armor if that’s what she needs me to be. I’d rather be the evil stealing her away and keeping her to myself, but we have centuries for role play.

“Do you wish there was a way to have your parents in your life?” I ask, finally digging at the wound she doesn’t want to show me. I won’t let her hide from me. She knows I won’t.

Something resembling pain shines in her eyes for the briefest of moments and is gone just as fast. I feel guilty, but I want to know so I can help.

“Yes, and no.”

Well, at least she’s straightforward.

“I know I could have them for a time. Pop up in a few days, weeks, or months, and pretend it was just memory loss that kept me away. But I would always have to leave eventually. How long would I have? A couple of years, max? Better to rip the band-aid off and let them mourn now than hurt them with distance later.” I study her. She says this, but her heart wishes it is different. She’s right. If we keep her family in her life, we can get married and invite them. We can move away. They would still be in touch, but the distance we’d have to maintain would hurt them slowly until they died.

This way, they can mourn now. Then they can move forward and find happiness again.

Hopefully…

Wren doesn’t care if it hurts her more to do it this way. She’d rather her parents’ grief be as smooth as possible. Her selfless compassion truly astounds me sometimes.

“Done,” a tone of pride fills Wren’s voice as she turns her sketchbook towards me. I take a sharp breath as I revel in her creation.

It’s me, but not in the way I expected.

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