“You know,” he said lightly, “I am impressed.”
I frowned despite myself.
“You trapped me without technically violating my compulsion.” There was genuine admiration in his tone now. “That was clever.”
I remembered every loophole I’d exploited. A progeny could not directly harm their sire. Could not conspire against them. Could not willingly allow harm to come to them. So I hadn’t harmed him. I had merely obeyed. Prepared his coffin. Ensured he rested comfortably.
Then I’d arranged for gravity and the Atlantic Ocean to handle the rest.
Bogdan laughed softly. “Perhaps that is why you survived so long.”
My throat constricted. The others hadn’t. Dozens over centuries. Maybe hundreds. Some were destroyed by vampire hunters. Some were driven mad by the bond between them and Bogdan. Some were simply worn down by eternity beside Bogdan.
But me? I had endured. Mostly because I learned early that survival depended upon becoming useful without becoming interesting. Except, it seemed I had failed at the second part.
Again.
Bogdan settled back against the mantle and regarded me thoughtfully. “You know what fascinated me most about you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You were furious when you realized what was happening.” His smile widened. “Most mortals cry. Beg. Bargain. You tried to stab me with a candlestick. It was delightful.”
I closed my eyes.
Ireland had smelled like wet earth and peat smoke when I was human. That was what I remembered most clearly. Not hunger, though there had been plenty of that. Not fear, though there had been even more of that. I remembered the scents. The smell of damp wool drying by weak fires. Mud clinging to hems. Bread baked thin because we needed to stretch the flour for another week. Salt air rolling inland from black cliffs that looked beautiful from a distance and cruel up close.
I had been the eldest daughter. My mother had died bringing Billie-sized twins into the world who only survived a few days themselves, and after that our house had slowly collapsed inward around grief and poverty. My father worked when there was work. My younger brothers sometimes stole turnips. My sisters cried from hunger often enough that eventually they stopped crying altogether.
And I became useful. I cooked, cleaned, mended, and mothered children while still being one myself.
Bogdan had once told me that was the first thing about me he found fascinating. The way I loved people despite exhaustion.
At eighteen, I thought love itself could keep things alive. Then the letter came. I could still remember my father holding it with trembling hands near the firelight, sounding out the words slowly because reading had never come easily to him. A wealthy lord with a remote estate was offering good wages with room and board provided.
It was a miraculous opportunity for a respectable young woman.
My father cried that night. I heard him through the wall while my sisters slept curled against me for warmth.
The next morning, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You’ll have a better life there, Winnie.”
What he meant was,You’ll survive there. And perhaps more importantly,They might survive here if you go and send a portion of your wages home to us.
So I went.
I remembered the crossing vividly. The sea was gray and wrapped in a violent wind. Rain needled into my face while the boat rocked hard enough to make several passengers sick over the side.
I’d never been farther than the neighboring village before. Everything felt enormous. The island itself looked cursed when it finally emerged from the fog with its jagged cliffs. The dark stone manor perched high above the sea. There was no nearby village, no visible warmth anywhere.
I should have run in the opposite direction immediately, but poor girls rarely got the luxury to hone their instincts.
Bogdan met me at the front door. I thought he was beautiful, which is a horrible truth I hate admitting.
He had looked to be thirty. Tall and elegant, dressed in immaculate black wool despite the weather. His hair had been shorter in those days, though still dark as midnight, and his eyes had fixed on me with such startling attention that I immediately forgot every prepared sentence.
“Miss Winifred Carrington,” he had said warmly. “Welcome.”
No one had ever spoken my full name like it mattered before.
