Page 22 of Thomas
Just like always, it warmed him. He hated feeding from inanimate objects—glass, plastic or otherwise—but the quality of this blood gently soothed the deep aches rooted within him. Like a narcotic, it numbed the pain. Or at least, temporarily distracted him? The delicious, smoky and spicy-sweet nature of it danced across his palate and gave him a comforting sense of nostalgia. For what, he couldn’t discern.
Thomas didn’t know how it was possible, but it was clear to him that he was drinking Lord Cameron Dwight Ashford’s blood.
The hallway was silent when Thomas opened his door and stepped into the corridor. He’d taken a few generous sips from the fancy glass of blood, eaten the muffin, left the fruit and showered. As he closed the door to his rooms, he felt slightly better. Perhaps his lack of feeding had exacerbated his sudden depression? He’d need to manage that better going forward.
It stood to reason that the upper library was in the same location as the lower library, except on the second floor. Thomas could follow the parallel path he’d normally take to the lower library, or he could follow his senses. Having just drunk of him, his sense of Lord Ashford felt even stronger than usual—as if Thomas were a lost ship drawn to a lighthouse.
He walked around a corner, and then another, until he came to a door set ajar. Cameron’s gingery scent wafted through the opening and soft yellow light emanated from within. Thomas stepped up to the door and tapped it twice with his knuckles.
“Yes?” Cameron called.
Thomas stepped inside. “Hello.”
Cameron was bent over and rifling through a box of papers. He paused and stood straight. “Good morning…”
This was a library for certain, but dustier and much less organized than its lower-level equivalent. Lennon had been right in that it was an absolute mess. There were stacks of books on shelves, but some had fallen over to lie awkwardly on their sides like dominoes. Boxes of papers and files littered the space in droves. A patterned throw rug with tassels covered the hardwood floor, and there was a worn leather sofa, a live-wood coffee table and an antique lamp with a shade made from opaque stained glass.
Thomas walked forward, taking it all in and being careful not to step on anything. This room didn’t match anything about Cameron. It felt classic but antiquated. Dowdy and dim with its dark-wood shelves and cobwebbed corners.
“How are you today?” Cameron asked, watching Thomas as he moved toward the large circular window, the only source of natural light in the entire room.
“I’m alright,” Thomas said, peering through the glass. The winter gardens were just below—austere and frost-covered. The wind rustled the dry brush and naked tree limbs, making everything shiver and sway. Beyond, the rolling hills of Upper Avalon were set against a charcoal-colored sky. Thomas narrowed his eyes. He could see something interesting in the distance, like a grand pavilion… a Roman structure? “Thank you for the beautiful bouquet of tulips, and the card.”
“You are welcome. I hope that I haven’t completely bungled this. Truly, I only mean to be candid with you. To my detriment I am plain-spoken and terrible with… sugar-coating?”
Thomas turned from the window to take him in. “I don’t need sugar-coating. I much prefer plain-speaking, actually. My emotions are my own to wrestle with, and it is a work in progress. What you said yesterday at lunch elicited a strong response within me, but I am not angry with you. If you assumefault every time I have a mental breakdown, we’ll only exhaust ourselves. Do you understand my meaning?”
Nodding, Cameron dropped his palm from his neck. “I do, yes. I understand.” He wore a beautiful, vibrantly red cable-knit sweater and a pair of loose-fitted trousers. Lord Ashford was as tall as Thomas but much broader in his upper chest, back and shoulders. His presence felt solid and warm. Words like “lumberjack,” “brawny” and “strapping” flitted across Thomas’s consciousness when he looked at him.
“What is this room, exactly?” Thomas asked, focusing his thoughts and stepping over boxes and piles of books to reach the worn sofa.
“Storage,” Cameron said, sighing. “All of my father’s old furniture and decor. His records and accounting—tax receipts, ledgers and contracts from decades upon decades of running Upper Avalon. I mean to come up here once a week and organize things, but I’m quickly overwhelmed and then abandon the effort.”
Thomas plopped down on the sofa and found it surprisingly comfortable. “Ah, you’ve inherited his dealings, then?”
“More like he abandoned his unorganized piles of shit and leftmeto deal with it.” Cameron’s hazel eyes flickered over to Thomas. “My apologies for the uncouth language.”
“Shit, fuck, goddamn. Now we’re both uncouth.” Thomas smiled. Cameron grinned and shook his head. Thomas went on. “Your father didn’t give you any direction as far as managing his old records?”
“No. He and my mother left this estate two decades ago and have never returned.”
“Two decades?” Thomas balked, quickly doing the math. “You were twenty?”
“Nineteen, actually. They traveled extensively for most of that time. Now they’ve built a new home for themselves inAdelaide, Australia. They check in quarterly to ask about the estate, make absurd demands and pester me about getting married.”
Thomas crossed one leg over the other at the knee. “Huh. What about Rachelle?”
“What about her?”
“How old was she when they left?”
“Nine. We’re ten years apart.”
“They lefther alone with you as her sole guardian when she wasnine?”
Cameron shrugged. “Lennon helped me with her a lot. It was the two of us, really.”
“And they don’t care to see how the estate is being run for themselves? They must… really trust in your capabilities.”
