Haven (16 page)

Seconds later, the junkie went limp and the attacker released him, stepping back as the man slid to the ground like a rag doll. My gaze was involuntarily drawn to the crumpled form on the ground, deep red blood trickling from a pair of puncture marks on the guy’s neck.

The attacker took a step back, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His shoulders rose and fell—once, twice. I was holding my breath, just waiting . . .

And then he turned, blond hair glinting in the dim light of the moon, familiar eyes reaching out to me through the hazy fog. Recognition washed over me like a dousing of ice-cold water, and I gasped.

Holy hell and God in heaven.

It was Aidan. Of course it was. Hadn’t I known it all along?

As I sat there gaping in shock, he reached up and wiped a smear of ruby-red blood from his mouth with his sleeve. As he did so, I saw a flash of oddly long canine teeth. Long and sharp. Looking suspiciously like . . . like
fangs
.

That was the last thing I saw before I passed out cold, right there on the sidewalk.

I
awoke to the sensation of speed. Panicked, I began to flail around, but strong arms held me tight.

“I’ve got you,” came Aidan’s voice beside my ear.

“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Where . . . what are you . . . how—” I swallowed hard, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Shhh,” he murmured.

Immediately I felt a calming sensation. I wanted to protest, to tell him not to manipulate my mind that way. But I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but swallow, over and over again. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, praying for my stomach to settle, for the freaky sensations to go away.

There was a popping noise, followed by a rush of air, and
then . . . nothing. Scared out of my wits, I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see . . . I don’t know what. But all I saw was a front door, painted a shiny black with a big, brass lion’s-head knocker in the center and a mail slot down below. On either side of the door was a column of stained glass. I had no idea where he’d taken me, but we weren’t downtown anymore, that was for sure.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the door swung open. A well-dressed elderly man stood inside, gaping at us both. “Master Gray,” he said with a nod, moving aside as Aidan carried me in. The old man’s bushy gray brows knitted together as he peered down at me. “Is she injured?”

“Just scared, I think. Here, take her bag and draw her a bath.”

“Of course. Right away.”

I felt something slip over my head and realized it was my overnight bag. I shivered violently, and felt Aidan’s arms tighten around me.

“Is he . . . did you . . . kill him?” I finally managed to ask.

“No. Though perhaps I should have.”

“He was going to . . . to . . .”

“You’re safe now, Violet. Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up. We can talk later.”

“I can walk,” I said, struggling against the confines of his arms.

“That’s what you think,” he answered with a chuckle. “C’mon, Trevors will have your bath ready soon.” He carried me away from the front door, across a huge foyer lit by a glittering chandelier, and up a curved staircase. There was marble everywhere—marble and gilt and crystal.

“Where . . . where are we?”

“My home,” Aidan said quietly. “Don’t worry, we’re still in Manhattan. Just off Fifth Avenue.”

A door opened on its own, then another. Fear shot through me. Still, I clung to Aidan. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image in my mind’s eye was even worse. Aidan, fresh blood on his mouth, blood from the junkie’s throat . . .

I won’t hurt you, Violet.
His voice, in my head.

I just nodded, exhaling slowly. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I had to concentrate on breathing, because if I thought about anything else, I might lose it.

“There you are, sir. Her bath is almost ready, and I’ve laid out fresh towels and a robe in the dressing room. Will you be needing anything else?”

“That’s it for now, Trevors,” Aidan said, and my eyes flew open, darting around, taking in my surroundings.

We were in a bathroom done in deep blue and gold. An enormous tub sat in the center, fragrant steam rising from the water. Beside the tub, thick towels the same blue as the walls
were piled on a chair that looked like an antique, like something that belonged in Gran’s living room. Gold velvet drapes were tied back from a large bay window with tasseled cords, fleur-de-lis-patterned shades covering the panes of glass.

Aidan gingerly lowered my feet to the plush patterned carpet, then reached across the tub to turn off the faucets. “Here, take all the time you need,” he said, and I couldn’t help but notice that his teeth were back to normal now. “There’s a new toothbrush and some toothpaste in the closet over by the sink; help yourself to whatever you can find. Soak for a while, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

I nodded mutely.

“When you’re done, the dressing room is through there.” He pointed to a curved door on the far side of the room. “Trevors left you a robe. I’ll know when you’re ready.”

Aidan left me then, shutting the door softly behind him. A click sounded, and I realized that he’d locked the door from the inside, as if to reassure me that I had complete privacy, that I was safe. Of course, if he could lock it with his mind, then he could unlock it too. But he wouldn’t. Call me crazy, but I truly believed that.

I swallowed hard, wincing at the nasty taste in my mouth. I found the toothbrush and toothpaste and turned on the faucet, glancing up at my reflection in the oval, gilt-framed mirror
above it as I did so. I looked awful—pale and disheveled, with a terrified look in my eyes.

Yeah, what do you expect? You almost got yourself jumped by some junkie, then you watched your maybe-boyfriend bite the dude’s neck and suck him dry before you passed out cold. Good times.

I finished brushing as fast as I could, desperate to get into the tub and scrub away the grime, the filth, the memories. In seconds I’d stripped down to nothing and climbed the marble steps that led to the tub, sighing with relief as I stepped into the hot water and sunk down to my chin. Spying a pair of buttons below the faucet, I punched one, firing up the jets. I closed my eyes as the water frothed, the steady hum of the motor soothing my jangled nerves. The water was the perfect temperature and scented with lavender, and I inhaled deeply as I laid my head back against the marble.

Still, I couldn’t get my mind to relax. All I could think about was the fact that Aidan was a vampire—there was no denying it, not now. I’d seen the proof. He’d been transformed, his eyes glowing red, his canine teeth elongated. I didn’t need one of Dr. Blackwell’s books to spell it out for me. A vampire— creature with fangs, drinks blood, hides from the sun. Not a big fan of garlic or crucifixes.

How could I face him, knowing the truth? How could I sit
there, looking at him, knowing that he was a . . . a monster? Because that’s what a vampire was—a monster. An undead
thing
that went around hurting people, sucking their blood. Killing them. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it down, forced my hands to stop shaking.

Because that didn’t describe Aidan. Or did it? I had no idea what he did when he disappeared, no idea where he went, even. I squeezed my eyes shut. One hot tear trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away, wishing I could turn back time, that I could forget all this crazy vampire stuff and just be a normal kid with a normal boyfriend.

I reached for a bar of soap, brand-new, and began to scrub my skin with a lathered-up washcloth. I stopped only when my skin began to burn, nearly rubbed raw. Still, I didn’t feel clean. Not entirely.

With a sigh of frustration I switched off the bubbles and flipped open the drain. I had to face him. I had to learn the truth, had to reconcile the Aidan that I knew—that I cared about, damn it—with the monster I’d seen. And then . . . then I could decide what to do. Taking a deep, calming breath, I stood and reached for a towel, trying to force my racing heart to slow. I had to give him a chance to explain. He deserved that, at least.

He said he wouldn’t hurt me, after all, and I believed him.

Minutes later I was wrapped in a soft terry robe, sitting
on a velvet chaise by a crackling fire in what I supposed was Aidan’s dressing room. A big armoire stood against one wall, a standing mirror beside it. Other than the chaise I was sitting on, there was no furniture in the room. Still, the room was as big as some of our bedrooms back home.

A knock sounded softly on the door, and I sucked in my breath.

“Violet? Can I come in?”

“Yeah, I . . . it’s fine.” I cleared my throat and clasped my hands together in my lap. They’d have to stop shaking at some point.

Without making a sound, Aidan stepped in and closed the door, leaning back against it and watching me from across the room. It was as if he wanted to stay as far away from me as possible. Whether this was for his benefit or mine, I had no idea.

“So now you believe me,” he said softly. His blue-gray eyes looked so sad, so haunted. He looked exhausted, vulnerable— nothing like the killing machine I’d just seen in action. “My God, Violet. I could feel your fear, your revulsion.”

“Just . . . just tell me everything,” I said, trying to make my voice steady and sure. “Who are you, really?”

“I’m Aidan Gray, just as I said. The fourth Viscount Brompton, or at least I would have been. Instead, I am this.” He spread his arms wide. “A monster.”

Gooseflesh rose on my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself. Hadn’t I thought exactly that, just moments ago? I pushed aside the prickle of guilt, willing him to continue.

“I was born into privilege in 1875,” he said, his voice hard. “The son of a peer. I was schooled at Eton, and set to take a grand tour of the Continent before continuing my studies at Cambridge.” He paused, watching me, as if he were gauging my reaction.

“I was seventeen then, arrogant and rebellious,” he continued on. “Just days before I was to leave on my travels, I accompanied my parents to the opera. Though I didn’t enjoy the music, I found I very much enjoyed watching one of the opera dancers, a beautiful girl with eyes the color of emeralds. Just like yours, Violet. Isabel intrigued me. I went backstage to meet her that very night.

“After that, I spent every spare moment with her, abandoning my travels. I even set her up in a small town house in Soho Square, where I spent most of my nights.”

“But . . . but you were just seventeen,” I muttered. His
nights
, he said. Which meant in bed, with her. The jealousy I felt surprised me, caught me off guard.

He shook his head. “Those were different times. I was considered a man at seventeen, and as a viscount’s heir, I possessed a sizable income and a great deal of independence. Still, my
father was not pleased. One night I went to the opera house as I always did, to accompany Isabel home. I waited outside the theater door, as was our custom, but she never appeared. I hurried to Soho Square, but all her things were gone. She left no note, nothing. For weeks I searched for her, my heart broken as only a young, besotted boy’s can be. I hired a Bow Street Runner, and for several weeks heard nothing. Finally, I received word that she’d been seen in Whitechapel, working in some seedy public house.

“I went looking for her, and ended up in an alley somewhere, my valuables stripped away and my throat slit. It would seem a vampire stumbled upon me in that state, had a little snack, and then turned me, though I’ve no idea why. I was simply left there, unconscious, with no memory of what had happened to me. I went back to the town house, to recover from what I thought to be my injuries. Yet suddenly I had these unexplained . . . abilities. After that, I was quickly able to track down Isabel.

“Turns out my father demanded her dismissal from the opera, and threatened her if she continued our association. Still, I needed her, and she agreed to shelter me. Not wanting to return to the town house where my father would no doubt find us, we holed up in Whitechapel instead. Isabel said I would often disappear at night and come home in the morning disoriented,
sometimes covered in blood. Though we could barely credit the notion, we both suspected what I had become.

“Soon after, there was unrest in the streets. A mob formed, claiming there was a monster in Whitechapel, out hunting at night. They had tracked me down, and they surrounded us, carrying torches and calling for my head. We tried to flee, to evade them. But”—his voice broke—“they got Isabel. I tried to save her; tried everything I could think of, but it was too late. Isabel was dead, and it was entirely my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” I argued, but he ignored me, continuing on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Dr. Blackwell was in London then, the leading authority on preternatural folklore. It’s a brilliant cover—cloaking it all in myth and legend. Anyway”—he waved one hand—“I went to him, told him my symptoms, and he confirmed what I’d already come to believe. I spent many years in seclusion after that, trying to come to terms with the impossible. Still, I inherited everything upon my father’s death, thanks to the unbendable laws of primogeniture. They had no idea what I’d become, of course. God only knows I wished I was dead instead.”

Again he paused, watching me intently.

“Go on,” I urged, feeling oddly detached, as if we were sitting around a campfire, telling scary stories. It was all just so surreal.

“Those were my darkest years by far. Then, just before the Great War, I decided to fight this curse, to try and cure it. I traveled extensively throughout the Continent, learning everything I could about vampirism, trying to sort out the myths from the truth. I met others like myself. Now and then we would form loose alliances, stay together for a few years, but eventually we’d part ways. Most did not share my optimism that a cure could be found. I refused to give up.

“But things have become more complicated in the modern world. It’s not always easy to get access to the kinds of biological agents and chemicals I need. When I heard about Winter-haven, learned that Blackwell was here, I set sail for New York on an ocean liner where several passengers fell inexplicably ill with anemia.” He paused, smiling at his own joke.