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Shrugging, Haven gestured to the book. “Bram Stoker’sDracula.Have you heard of it?”
Cy shook his head and handed it back.
“Probably for the best. A scary story with more truth than fiction. Though I’m not sure Lord Tepes would appreciate me saying that. It doesn’t portray his ancestors in the best light.” Haven chuckled. Gingerly, he seated himself in a black velvet-covered armchair and sprawled comfortably, putting lean limbs on display. Cy averted his eyes, settling himself in for a long, uncomfortable stay.
“Who taught you to read?”
Cy hesitated. The memory was so personal, so close to his heart. “My mother,” he said, unsure why he’d admitted it aloud.
Sitting up, Haven studied him. “In captivity?”
“Yes,” Cy said through gritted teeth. Where else?
“Testy, testy,” Haven enunciated, leaning back in his chair again. “Weren’t you the one who kept insisting on making conversation?”
Cy crossed his arms in front of his chest stubbornly. He had been attempting conversation to pass the time. To know more about the vampyre who both intrigued and infuriated him. But his mother was off limits.
“So your pet mother taught you to read in captivity.” Cy cringed at his lackadaisical tone. “Tell me, what sort of things did she read you? Did her master know she was doing such a thing?”
“I’m not talking about her with you,” Cy growled.
“And I’m not asking about yourmother.I’m asking about the types of books that were read to you. That’s a safe enough topic, isn’t it?”
Cy groused, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Fiction, mostly. Anything the vampyres would let us have. Nothing with any sort of lore that could be used to sniff out their secrets.”
“Of course not. That would be unwise. But your masters did allow you to read? That sounds like a truly miserable existence, indeed.”
Haven’s sarcasm duly noted, Cy felt himself grow hot at the temples. “What do you know about it? I was a slave! A slave allowed to read and write, but a slave nonetheless!”
Pursing his lips, Haven nodded. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. Assuming that some types of slavery might not be as…horrific as others.”
“Riley said the same thing. That being a pet is…better somehow.”
“Isn’t it?” Haven met his eyes, crimson crashing into burnt umber, like lava melting into stone.
“Slavery is slavery. In the end, a slave has nothing, is nothing. Being taught how to read was a gift from someone who loved me. A gift not even vampyres could take away. But you could never understand that. You were likely taught to read at some fancy vampyre school by some vampyre noble who encouraged you to do so in order to keep the division between the vampyres and the humans. Literacy is only one way you’re better than us, isn’t it?”
Haven smiled, but this time it looked almost sad on his smooth features. “That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?” Cy spat.
“The vampyres didn’t teach me how to read.”
“No?”
“No. You’re not the only one who had a mother who loved you.”
Silence fell between them. The question Cy wanted to ask, he knew, was forbidden. So they remained still and quiet as Haven turned back to his book.
Cy wasn’t sure what to make of this vampyre. A part of him hated Haven, felt such anger and frustration and annoyance in his presence. But still another part wanted to know more, to learn all there was to learn about this strange, complicated man. There was something more to Haven, something different than all the other vampyres Cy had ever encountered. And he was determined to know why.
Finally, he asked, “Why are you keeping me here? In your personal quarters? Surely there are pets’ quarters on the train, aren’t there?”
“I need to keep you close if you’re going to make it to New Avalon alive.”
“You said there are plenty of livestock to feed from.”
“You’d prove more of a challenge than the typical cattle. Vampyres like to feel they worked for their food. It inflates their egos.”
