Forcing myself to be calm, I reached up on my tiptoes and ran a finger across the canvas of the painting. It was thick with dust and as I wiped it off it floated away in clouds, smelling heavily of musk mixed with that of expensive cologne, which already hung in the air. I waved my hands in front of me, coughing and spluttering. I can see – or rather smell – why they left the doors open. I grabbed one of the magazines to try waft the dust away, but took one look at what was on the cover, blushed, and dropped it, realizing just who this room must belong to.
‘Crap,’ I breathed, backing away towards the door. I didn’t bother to check whether anyone was outside as I practically fell out of one door and through another into the bathroom. It slammed behind me and I was relieved to find it had a chunky bolt for a lock, which I slid across.
Turning, I was once again struck by the grandeur. The whole room was almost entirely made out of red marble, even the bath. The shower was of the same larger-than-it-needs-to-be proportions and would fit three and still leave room to move. It was spotless too: there wasn’t an old toothbrush or squeezed-to-death tube of toothpaste in sight.
I fiddled about with the shower dials for a while, confused by the settings until water poured from the shower head. I began to strip down, but caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and stopped. I was not a pretty sight.
My hair looked as though electricity had been passed through it and bits of twig clung to the knots. There were countless cuts and grazes dotted about my neck and mud was smeared across my face, mixed in with my smudged make-up. The rest of my body did not look any better. Dried blood caked my arms and my feet were brown and muddy and I realized I must stink. But it was my eyes that looked the most pitiful. They looked old and weary, as though they had seen a hundred years of suffering, not two days.
I shook my head and turned away, disgusted and angry. I continued to strip down and stepped in, letting the water run over my sore muscles.
I got out when the water ceased to feel warm on my skin. I grabbed a towel, dried myself and got dressed, slipping back into the T-shirt and jeans. I wrung as much water as I could out of my hair and darted back to ‘my’ bedroom, freezing as I noticed somebody had been in and tidied up.
The blanket that I had moved the day before had been spread back out on the bed, the sheets tucked in. The plate of food had been removed and, right on cue, my stomach growled. I ignored it, dropping onto the bed. But it only got worse and I realized I would have to go and search for Lyla to get some more food. She didn’t seem that bad, but the prospect still wasn’t a great one.
Outside in the corridor, things were still quiet, although I sensed that wasn’t because everyone was asleep. I passed the double doors, unnerved at the fact the room must belong to Kaspar. When I reached the top of the staircase, I leaned over, thinking I could ask the butler where Lyla was. Just as I did, Fabian emerged from the downstairs corridor. I jumped, trying to scamper back into the shadows but he spotted me and smiled.
‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully, stopping. I didn’t reply but eased back towards the banisters, eyeing him with caution. ‘Hungry?’ he asked. The mention of food set my stomach off growling again and he chuckled. ‘Guess so. Come on, I’ll find you something.’ He gestured for me to follow him and started walking towards the living-room door. When I didn’t follow him, he paused, smiling again. ‘I’m not going to do anything to you. I promise.’
He looked sincere enough and I scrambled down the stairs until I caught up with him. He opened the door and led me across the living room and through another door. It was like stepping through a time portal. Whereas the main entrance hall didn’t look as though it had changed in hundreds of years, the passage we walked down was thoroughly modern and, as we entered the kitchen, I was hit by an array of stainless steel and glass counters, cabinets and tables, although the floor was made of the same marble as the entrance.
Fabian rounded the breakfast bar and began searching through the cupboards. ‘Do you like toast?’ he asked, his head popping up above the counter. I nodded, hoisting myself up onto a stool. ‘Toast it is then,’ he said, dropping a couple of slices of brown bread into a toaster. I watched him as he pulled a plate from another cupboard, fascinated by his fluid movements. He met my gaze.
‘Hey, I know I’m inhumanly hot, but you don’t have to stare.’ A huge grin appeared on his face and he winked.
I blushed a tomato red and my eyes hit the floor before bouncing back up to him. ‘I wasn’t staring.’
He put his hands in the air. ‘Sure,’ he chuckled. ‘Good to see you talking though. You don’t strike me as the shy type.’
He’s right, I thought. I’m not usually shy, but then again, I’m not usually being held captive by vampires.
I continued to watch him as he pulled the door of the fridge open and took the butter out. Before he closed it again, I caught a glimpse of several tall bottles containing a red liquid that didn’t look like wine. I shuddered.
‘I’m sorry I can’t do anything nicer than toast, but we only keep snacks in here,’ he nattered, spreading the butter on the bread, which was burnt around the crust. ‘The servants usually cook downstairs when we actually want food and not blood.’
He slid the plate towards me, took one look at my face and then spoke again. ‘Okay, you have questions.’
I nodded, biting on my lower lip. ‘Can I ask anything?’
For a second, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, but it soon disappeared. ‘Of course,’ he replied. I didn’t speak for another minute or two as I rehearsed what I wanted to say in my head. He said nothing, pouring a glass of juice and pushing that in my direction too.
‘It’s real, all of this, isn’t it?’
He placed his elbows on the counter and rested his chin in his hands, watching me with as much fascination as I had watched him. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I don’t want to believe any of this, but I do. I’ve seen too much not to.’ I tugged on a strand of hair, picking out patterns in the marble floor.
‘‘How many have you killed?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you that,’ he murmured.
‘How many?’ I repeated.
‘Hundreds, thousands, maybe … I lost count,’ he said. I felt my eyes widen and I leaned away from him. That many? He shook his head. ‘Don’t look at me like that, that is a pretty good track record considering I am two hundred-and-one.’ The calm blue of his eyes dissolved and became black.
‘What about the others?’ I managed to whisper, my voice hoarse as I fought back the horror.
‘Kaspar, thousands, and Cain, around thirty, but only because he isn’t full-fledged yet. I’m not sure about the others.’
My fingers gripped the edge of the steel counter, warming the spot they touched. ‘Can’t you drink donor stuff?’
‘We could.’
‘But you choose to kill people instead.’
‘No,’ he hissed and I was taken aback at his sudden change of tone. ‘We choose to drink from humans. We don’t set out to kill them.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I breathed. ‘Was that the plan when you killed all those men in Trafalgar Square? Because it didn’t look like you were just dropping by for a pint to me.’
His eyebrows lowered. ‘That was different.’
‘Was it?’
He didn’t answer and I went back to my toast. Aware that he was watching me, I lowered my head and hid behind my hair, which was drying and twisting into ringlets. It chilled me that he could talk of the people he had killed as though they were just numbers and not people with loved ones and hopes and dreams. It chilled me even more that he wanted my approval.