Page 75 of Barely Breathing

As horrific as this is, I can see there’s more to the story that he’s not saying. I see the shame in him. I see how it’s eating away at him, piece by piece, the centuries of guilt compounding upon itself.

“How young?” I asked softly, pausing on my way to him.

A ripple works over him, and he presses his lips tightly together. “She had just turned fourteen when they married. And she was nineteen when she died.”

I read once that girls as young as twelve often married. Life expectancies were different back then. But, still, as a modern woman, I can’t help but feel repulsed by the idea.

“And she turned you?” I clarify, remembering what Elizabeth had said during their argument.

“Sired,” he corrects. “Yes, she is my sire.”

“But you’re male, so you were given the power,” I conclude. As much as I hate Elizabeth and think she’s an evil bitch, I can get where that would make her angry.

“I will not deny that it had something to do with it, at least in the beginning. But my sister does not have the temperament to lead others. She is selfish and cruel and will stop at nothing to grab power for herself.” His eyes meet mine, and I see the sadness. “But she is my sister, my blood both human and vampiric, and I cannot end her.”

I resume walking towards him, but something in his expression tells me to stay back, that he would not welcome my comfort at that moment.

“I should make sure that the werewolves are expelled from the foyer and Astrid has made it to safety.” When he speaks, his tone is cold and in control. It is the old Costin, the one I cannot read, the perfect master vampire. “Stay here. I will have somebody bring you to the dining hall. I do not know what human food they have in the kitchen, but you must eat something and get back your strength. It has been a long morning.”

With that, he leaves in a blur of movement.

I stand amongst the destroyed office and stare after him, trying to process everything I have learned—my recovered memories of the shipyard, the sins of his past, the grievances of his sister. Exhaustion fills me, but I know I cannot give in to it. There is a battle ahead, and I’m going to be forced to fight it whether I want to or not. Too much is at stake.

Chapter

Twenty

Costin’s dining hall feels more like a medieval great room than any place meant for eating. Or an abandoned movie set. It reminds me that I’m in the home of someone born when even dining was a show of power, when lords held court over feasts that lasted days. Astrid’s weekend parties have nothing on those guys.

If I close my eyes, I can imagine knights filling the room, their drunken, boisterous laughter ringing out as serving wenches walk between them refilling goblets. In reality, it sounds like a tomb. The only noises are the ones I make.

Today, those goblets wouldn’t hold wine, and the feast would be of a live variety.

I can’t forget I’m dating a vampire. I can’tromanticize what he is because of lust. I have to remember his darkness, not just the glimmers of light I want to see. As much as I hate it, Elizabeth’s words stick in my head. There is so much I don’t know about him.

I might not wish for his vampiric fate, but I empathize with him. I can’t imagine being forced to survive only on blood and moonlight.

Blood and moonlight. Everything keeps coming back to that.

The thick stone walls rise to a vaulted ceiling where wrought iron chandeliers cast flickering light from gas candles made to look real. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantle carved with scenes of hunts—though I notice the prey looks suspiciously human. The hearth is large enough to roast an entire deer, as they would have in Costin’s human days when feasts meant survival through winter.

Tapestries depicting ancient battles hang between tall windows that must be rigged to show false daylight, as we’re underground, and sunlight would kill the vampire guests. The fabric has faded over centuries, but I can still make out knights on horseback, their banners carrying sigils I don’t recognize. I wonder if any show Costin’s family crest from when he was human nobility. The thought issurreal—this man once lived in actual castles, commanded actual servants, and arranged actual medieval marriages. While I grew up watching cartoon versions of his world, he lived it.

The table could seat fifty, lifted above the others on a platform and stretching longer than my apartment when I tried living on my own. Dark wood gleams with age and polish and is scored with marks that might be older than America. I sit alone at one end, pushing food around my bowl and running my finger over the wood’s scars. I wonder who sat here before me and stabbed the surface to forever mark it like a name carved into a school desk. A few feet away, I see what appears to be claw marks, evenly spaced fingers from when someone must have been pulled across the surface.

I rub my clean face. Thankfully, the dried blood is gone. However, the aches still linger.

I take a bite of the stew, but I don’t taste it. Everything feels like dirt in my mouth. My body needs sustenance after the memory recovery and Elizabeth’s visit, but my mind can’t focus on eating. The silver settings and crystal glasses feel like artifacts from a museum, making me intensely aware of how out of place I am in this world. Out of everything, I doubt the silver is real. If it is, it would be reserved for trusted human guests. Vampires don’t like touching the metal.

The amulet hums against my chest, stronger than before Draakmar woke. Since confronting him head-on in the underground city, his presence feels palpable. Like he’s inside my thoughts, trying to tell me something just beyond my understanding. The stone’s protection seems to have changed too. It’s less a passive barrier and more an active conduit to give me the dragon’s messages.

Too bad I don’t speak cranky dragon. The ancient’s messages are hard to decipher.

Draakmar is older than this room, older than Costin’s human memories of nobility and power, heck, older than humanity. His agitation has been growing since Elizabeth left as if the dragon is trying to warn me to be careful. I touch the stone, hoping for clarity, but all I get is that familiar sense of ancient power and growing urgency.

I try to message back with my mind,“Use your words, Draakmar. Your human words.”

I don’t think the creature hears me.

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