Page 32 of Mongrel
A look of utter defeat is etched on Bowie’s face that further breaks my heart.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “We will save them.”
“Andras, there’s more you should know.” He hesitates. “I haven’t been completely honest with you. I may as well give you all the bad news at once, and if you decide you’d rather be done with this and with me, I’ll understand. I won’t blame you.”
My heart can’t take much more. Bowie has been reluctant to speak of his past. I know he hides something that hurts him. But I haven’t gotten the impression he’s been dishonest. Not to me. “You lied?”
“Well, not lied exactly, no. I haven’t done that. But I haven’t told you the entire truth either.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He opens his mouth.
I stop him with a hand to his mouth and a shake of my head. “Whatever it is, it can wait. The bath water is cooling. You should get in while it’s still warm. Let me think.”
His lips stiffen beneath my fingers. I remove them. He nods and climbs off the bed.
I shuffle the pillows against the headboard so I can lean against them. My thoughts drift to Esther and her missing older sister, Bethie. I will save her and the others. If I have to kill this Báthory woman to do it, I will.
Bowie moves slowly, his body curving in on itself. Maybe I should have let him tell me whatever it is he needs to say to unburden himself. But I have so much to absorb. Can I handle his confession too?
Hugging one of the many decorative pillows to my chest, I watch Bowie undress. Because of course I do. Despite what I’ve learned and whatever else he might tell me, I can’t take my eyes off him. His back’s to me, so I can look without being seen.
My eyes follow the elegant arch of his spine, the rounded curves of his backside, the muscles of his thighs, his calves. His body is a work of art, but it’s his mind I’ve grown to admire. His quick wit and clever chatter, his understanding and patience, most of all, the kindness he so easily showers upon me.
I can’t imagine whatever he’s hidden from me is going to change the way I feel about him. He already knows my secrets. Surely I can accept his.
Bowie sinks into the water with a titillating moan of pleasure. The sound bounces pleasantly around my ears, tingling my senses. His luscious raven hair hangs over the side of the wooden tub, begging to be touched.
My fingers trace the embroidery on the fancy pillowcase, over the tiny ridges and back, over and back. Curiosity swells. The thought occurs to me that it might be simpler this way—to learn whatever burden Bowie carries and for him to tell it—while we’re apart, him with his back to me rather than face-to-face in bed.
“Bowie?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think you could tell me now?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, I start to feel silly. Perhaps it was a dumb idea. Maybe he wants to see my reaction for some reason, or maybe it’s just weird to tell a story from a bathtub. I shouldn’t have asked.
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” His voice, when it comes, is a relief. It’s low and carries the stress of recent events with each word. “Trust you to have thought of it.”
I feel better. Whatever he’s about to tell me, I can handle it. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” He’s motionless in the water, the back of his head resting on the edge of the tub and tilting his chin upward so if his eyes are open, he’s looking at the ceiling.
I take my eyes off him and look at the ceiling too.
“I didn’t want to be a vampire,” Bowie begins. “I still don’t, but it’s too late now.”
This isn’t new information, though this is the first time Bowie’s said as much so bluntly. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable with himself.
I know what that feels like.
He continues, “My father turned me off as an unsuitable heir when he caught me on my hands and knees for the stable master.” Bowie wags a finger in the air. “He didn’t bother to turn off the stable master, mind you. ‘Too hard to replace a man so good with horses,’ he said. I was nineteen. Catherine would inherit, which was fine by me. I adore her, obviously, and she’s smarter than I’ll ever be, not to mention far better suited to run a noble estate.”
He’s selling himself short, but I don’t interrupt to say so.
“She and Jakob were engaged at the time. She was sixteen, Jakob my age. I told her I was going to Debrecen but that I’d return for her wedding. If Father didn’t like it, oh well. He wouldn’t stop me from seeing her happily wed. It was a love match, you see, Catherine and Jakob. Luckily for both of them, the match was also advantageous for Father, as the union ensured no one would complain if the daughter inherited rather than the son.”
