Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
While we work together making it nice for them, I can’t help but smile at him adoringly, to the point where I think I’m weirding him out a little. The thing is, I’m remembering being Lucy. I remember the times we had guests over at the house in Marylebone, how Valtu really sank into his role as Count Aminoff and turned into a thoughtful host. He always wanted everything right, from the black roses placed in their gothic-looking vases, to the orange-scented soaps in the bathroom. Everything about it screamed tasteful elegance, with a macabre touch.
Looking back, I realize all those guests that came over were vampires. I didn’t know it at the time—he never told me he was a vampire until I was literally dying. I wasn’t surprised though, even in those sad, final moments. I always suspected there was something strange and unusual about him. But since even as Lucy I had felt strange and unusual, I chalked it up to two misfits finding love with one another.
Actually, now that I think about it, the way I felt as Lucy, like there was something more to me that I didn’t realize, and how out of time I felt, out of place with most people other than my closest friends who were a little odd as well, is quite similar to the way I feel today. How I’ve had a hard time getting people to like me, how otherworldly I feel at times, how I’ve gone through life feeling like I just don’t belong, and I wonder how much of that is just me being neurodiverse and how much is actually my past spilling over. How can you not feel at least a little different from everyone else when you’ve already lived before?
After we finish with their room, we head downstairs and Valtu goes through his alcohol selection, bringing out only finest wines and spirits for his friends.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to make them something to eat?” I ask, wanting to be put to use.
“They’re vampires, love,” he says, inspecting a dusty bottle of red he had deep in a cabinet. “We don’t need to eat food.”
“I know you don’t need to eat food,” I tell him, opening the fridge for something that would pass as snacks. Everything in here is for my benefit. “But I know you enjoy the taste of it. You and your garlic everything.”
He grins at me and takes out another bottle.
“Do you mind if I get something together for them? I’d like to be a good host too.” I quickly add, “I know it’s not my house.”
It’s just, when we did have a house together, that was my job.
“I would be honored,” he says, coming over to kiss me on the head, then walking off with the wine, disappearing around the corner to the sitting room.
I stare at his ass for a moment, admiring it, then turn my attention back to food. Vampires aren’t the healthiest of eaters so I’m assuming the carrot and celery sticks I have won’t fly. Instead, I make a quick charcuterie board with some meats from a nearby butcher and a selection of cheeses. I’m finishing with a touch of red pepper jelly and a dollop of antipasto when I hear the grand piano being played from the other room, a rich, sad song that immediately makes me feel emotional.
I smile to myself, hit with yet another warm memory. The way he would play piano in London each evening as I sat there with a hot cup of tea, the sound filling the house with beauty. He was so good at playing everything back then, and obviously over the years his skill has only improved.
I place the board on the counter and then go to the sitting room.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, leaning against the doorframe and watching as he plays, his long fingers moving masterfully across the keys. “Who is that by?”
“A Dutch composer,” he says, keeping his eyes closed as he plays. “Joep Beving. The song is called Etude.”
“Let me guess, you knew him way back in the day.” I don’t know how he’s been able to know everyone famous. I mean, I was alive in the 1880s too and I’m pretty sure Valtu is the most notorious person I know.
He smiles and glances at me. “I believe he was born in the 1970s. I don’t know him at all. You know, just because I was born three hundred years ago, doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with music from today. I know all the new composers, and I happen to hear the radio from time to time.”
I laugh at that. Valtu abhors the radio. If it’s ever on he’s quick to turn it off unless there is classical music playing.
Suddenly the doorbell sounds, a melodic but loud clang that makes my heart jump.