Page 37 of Kept 3
“Is it silver?”
“No, we don’t know what metal it is, or where it came from.”
“How did you get it?”
“It was buried with Alexander.”
“You dug him up?”
“I didn’t. Other hunters did a long time ago. This weapon was given to him to hide and protect for eternity, stolen apparently from the original vampire. Legend says it is the only thing that will kill him or her.”
“Huh.”
I hand the weapon back and watch as he re-sheathes it in his boot.
“I haven’t forgotten our deal, Josephine,” he says, looking back up at me once he has secured the weapon. “One more week, and if you haven’t found anything, we will get you out of here.”
I nodded then and left. That week was up tonight.
Usually when my eyes tired from reading, I would take a walk around the newly established gardens to get some fresh air and a little rain, or fog or snowfall, before returning to cook and later, dress for dinner. My days and nights at Ereston have begun to feel like a comfortable blanket, one that no longer chafes or itches quite so much, perhaps because I know I won’t be under it for much longer.
But today, I hadn’t taken a walk. It was snowing quite heavily, so instead, I was busy putting faces to names in the hall of portraits for all the former Lady Montagues, and there were many. I wonder idly if he has pictures somewhere of all the women he has kept over the years but decide probably not. I am so intent on studying their faces, I don’t realise I am also being studied.
Turning, I frown as I see Nicholas leaning casually against the wall opposite. He is dressed in jodhpurs and a tight, white polo shirt, unbuttoned casually at the neck, a glimpse of his chest, just visible. I know that now the days are shorter, and his new outdoor lights have been installed, he has been enjoying riding in the early evenings and nights. Horses don’t interest me, but him in jodhpurs and knee-high leather boots, whoa.
My breath hitches in my throat at the sight of him, but I try to act nonchalant.
“You seem very intent on your study,” he says, quietly.
“They all look the same,” I shrug, “like little barbie dolls, all lined up, one after the other.”
He says nothing, and I turn back to the paintings.
“How did you meet them all?” I wonder out loud, as I continue my slow traverse down the hall, past portrait after portrait.
“Gerald mostly,” he murmurs, “I don’t go out of my way to find women. But Gerald has a very active social life.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange,” I turn to him, frowning, “that Gerald introduced you to all your past wives?”
“No,” he says, although I can see that now I have mentioned it, he is considering the matter, “not really. Like I said, I don’t socialise much.”
“And you never loved any of them,” I muse, turning back to the portraits and shaking my head sadly. It was a statement, more than a question. I already know the answer.
“No.”
“Maybe if you had found one yourself, you might have fallen in love, rather than taking Gerald’s recommendations.”
“Maybe I simply needed to drop my journal in a park,” he murmurs, his beautiful eyes meeting mine as I turn to look at him.
I blush and quickly turn back to the portraits.
“He will be here this week,” he says gently, “tomorrow most likely.”
“Who?”
“Gerald. And with him will come someone I am sure you will be happy to see.”
“Margarita!” I squeal, turning to him and smiling in delight, his own face mirroring mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
