“Don’t push me away.” Throwing his earlier words back at him feels like a cheap shot, but I have to do it. If this is going to work, then I have to know everything there is to know about him. Demons aren’t as scary when you bring them into the light. I should know, I’ve had them most of my life.
“I… I don’t want to,” he admits
“So don’t. Let’s just talk.” I want to ease him into it, not force him. He’s just as bad as I am when backed into a corner. “I’vetold you all about my problems. Why don’t you take a turn for once?”
“My problems? That’s a tall order with a long story,” he groans.
“I don’t have an approximation on time,” I say with a glance around the room, searching for a clock. My phone is still in the coat check room with all of our other belongings. With a sigh, I continue, “But I’m sure we’ve got enough to spare.”
He considers this for a moment, but hesitates. “We’ll be here all night.”
“Fine by me.” I flip to my back and stretch, purposely exaggerating as I arch against the bed. “We can just have a sleepover in your big fancy bed.”
Gray groans and buries his face into the comforter. From its downy cushion, I hear his grunt, “Fine.”
I roll back to my side and run a hand through his hair, coaxing him to look up. After a minute, he drags himself up again, and our eyes lock. There are so many things I want to ask, which is par for the course when it comes to him. I could avoid this altogether and instead ask about his cousin, about how they’re related, or any number of things that aren’t related to what just happened. But I don’t, because sometimes you just have to ask the hard questions.
As gentle and as understanding as I can be, I reach for his arm and ask, “Will you tell me about Francesca?”
Gray
Ibarely remember anything about the twenties that isn’t covered in red.
Red dresses, red suits, red lights strung up around crowded rooms full of illegal booze and bad jazz. Red is the color of passion, fury, andblood. Always blood. Beautiful dresses and finely tailored suits made with careful hands ruined when I ripped them open, bled them into my open mouth until I more than had my fill. A glutton if there ever was one, and a guiltless bastard without a shred of humanity left to dwell on. I never remembered their faces or the colors they wore. Just the blood.
Red, red, red.
Eventually, it wasmyblood that flowed over theirs. It floodedmy memory, sinking into the cracks and drying over like it did in the slats beneath my knees. Memories of hot and wild nights spent sampling flappers and their curious dates became like the flecks of dust clumped together in the coagulated recesses of my mind. I could scratch at it, but my memory was as clear as mud in the early days spent chained in the tower. I was so used to staring into the dismal abyss of my prison that when Father Bane eventually brought in a new face, I wasn’t even aware they were there.
“Is he conscious?” a woman asks.
“He is, sister.” Father Bane’s voice is as familiar to me as my own. “Nothing to fear, though. He is completely tame in this state.”
“Can one truly tame a vampire?” The woman sounds skeptical.
“In God’s house, yes,” Father Bane booms with unerring confidence. “Still, I recommend caution in his presence.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Very good.” Father Bane’s boots bump against the floorboards, shaking me from my daze. Two thick hands pull at my shoulders, righting me to a sitting position against the wall. “Wake up. You have a visitor.”
A low groan escapes my hollow chest. It’s all that I can manage in my state.
The young woman he’s brought along gasps. “Father, is he well?”
Bane laughs. “Worry not for this creature’s health, sister. It is already damned.”
The woman doesn’t speak again. I make no other noise. Our conversation is cut abruptly short by the force of Bane’s grip, plunging a cool glass bottle past my dry lips, feeding me today’s ration. The blood isn’t fresh; it never is. The pitiful dose does little to replenish any of my strength, which is his intention. He doesn’t want me to be strong, he wants me to be compliant.
“Just one vial a day, sister. No more, no less.”
“Yes, Father.”
I have nothing to say, no energy to spare for the young woman who is now my caretaker. If it’s no longer Bane tending to me daily, then that’s a small relief. And when I sink into the blackness brought on by starvation, I am less plagued by nightmares involving his hands brutalizing me awake again.
“Sister Francesca,” says the woman when I am finally conscious. I am lucid each time she brings my rations, but this is the first I’ve been aware of her. She smells like lavender, wool, and the cool autumn air outside, which gives me some indication of the season. “My name is Francesca.”
I say nothing.
