Page 58 of Ruin

“And those men?” Claire’s voice was softer now; her curiosity edged with concern.

I sighed. “I know Sam told you about them. They were dangerous. We are in a wealthy region. Our people are well-off and generally safe, which means they often let their guards down. I must keep them safe.”

Claire’s eyes were fixed on the horizon just beyond the glass doors, her expression thoughtful.

I continued, “The kind of people who come here and try to disrupt our peace.” My head shook as I tried to explain. “They would not just steal. They are dangerous. Many lives were saved that night,” I finished, meeting her eyes with a stoic resolve.

She had to believe me.

Claire took a deep breath before abruptly changing the subject “I don’t have a phone. I’m technically here on a work trip. All my things are at the hotel. Can I take some time and process everything, alone, in my hotel room tonight?”

I felt a pang of sadness wash over me that I hid beneath my composed expression. “You’re not a prisoner,” I said, trying to convey my sincerity.

She spoke again, her voice begging, “I know. It’s just a lot to process, and I do have a life that I need to take care of.”

I saw the conflicted look on her face and understood her needs, but her emotions were firing too rapidly for me to decipher her sincerity.

My silence hung in the air until she spoke again. “It’s not that I don’t want to be here…with you…it’s just a lot to take in.”

I nodded, my gaze drifting toward the terrace as I responded, “And you know it’s impossible to run away from me, right?”

Claire’s anxiety spiked, and I sensed her growing discomfort.

“I do not mean for it to sound that way. I can feel that you are turning anxious,” I said, trying to soothe her. I spoke again trying to control her rising anxiety. “I just meant, if you decided you did not want this life with me, you would be free to return to your life. But that does not mean I would not be close behind. Like I have said, you are like a magnet to me. Being away from you is painful—it would be impossible for me to stay away from you.”

Claire nodded subtly, her voice low “Even if I wanted to run…I don’t even know when my flight is.”

I chuckled softly, feeling a hint of nervousness as the silence enveloped us.

“How did you become a vampire?” Claire asked, looking deeply into my eyes as she pulled me hundreds of years into the past.

Chapter Twenty-One

Arik

1666

The bedroom door felt like a leaden barrier between me and the inevitable as I pushed it open. The low, mournful groan of the hinges echoed through the suffocating silence. The air inside was thick, almost suffocating, laden with the pungent scent of smoke that clung to my lungs with every breath. A fire blazed in the hearth, the flames licking hungrily at the logs, casting a shifting tapestry of light and shadow across the cold, unforgiving stone walls. Despite the heat radiating from the flames, a deep chill burrowed into my bones, one that no fire could warm.

“My son.” His voice came, frail and cracked from the bed. A voice that once commanded men with unyielding authority, now reduced to a mere whisper, as fragile as the dying embers in the hearth. My father’s hand, skeletal and trembling, stretched out toward me, a desperate lifeline in the darkness of the room.

I hesitated, my gaze lingering on the familiar yet suddenly alien surroundings, as if searching for a way to delay the moment I dreaded. The priest in the corner was a ghostly presence, his whispered prayers merging with the crackling of the fire, his face half-hidden in the shifting shadows. Every step I took toward the bed felt like walking through quicksand, each movement slow and laborious, pulling me deeper into the inevitability of what was to come. The weight of grief and fear pressed against my chest, each breath a struggle against the pressure building within me.

“Father,” I finally managed to whisper, though my voice was brittle, barely more than a breath, as if the very act of speaking might shatter the fragile calm to which I was clinging. Tears, long held back, began to spill over, hot against my skin as they traced a path down my face, soaking into the fabric of my collar. I could no longer hold them at bay, and with each drop that fell, the reality of the situation grew heavier.

“The time has come,” my father rasped, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves, each word a painful effort drawn from the depths of his being. His breath rattled in his chest, the sound a harsh reminder of his failing strength. It was as if each syllable he spoke brought him closer to the edge of an abyss from which there would be no return.

I stood frozen, rooted to the spot, my heart clenching painfully as I watched life drain from him with every labored breath. Another tear escaped my eye, falling onto his hand, the touch of his skin startlingly cold against mine. His fingers twitched, a feeble attempt to hold on, and he pulled me closer, his grip surprisingly firm for a man so close to death. It was a final act of connection, one last effort to bridge the growing chasm between us.

“My son…” His voice was no more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of all that had been left unsaid between us. “This is a precarious time. Our people…they are not safe.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, filling the room with a sense of dread that settled deep in my gut. I wanted to demand answers, to make him explain what he meant, but the words lodged in my throat, choked by the intensity of the moment. I could only watch as he turned his head slightly, his gaze flicking toward the priest, a silent acknowledgment before he returned his focus to me.

“You must not tell anyone what I am about to tell you,” he continued, his voice trembling with the effort it took to speak. “I fear…you will be marked with madness…and lunacy should you choose to do so.”

I frowned, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. What secret could be so terrible that even in his final moments, my father feared its revelation? This man, who had faced death and destruction without flinching, was now burdening me with a fear that cut deeper than any sword. The weight of it pressed down on me, a mantle of responsibility that I neither wanted nor was prepared to bear.

“Behind the portrait in the hall,” he went on, each word slower than the last, as if the effort to speak was draining the last of his strength. “Is the name of a man. Go to him…. Do what he says. All will be well.”