Vampires of Eden (Alexander #2)

10. Daniel

CHAPTER 10

Daniel

P rince Blondie is uncomfortable as we pull out of the parking lot and traverse the winding roads of Seze. His posture is rigid and he avoids eye contact.

Surprisingly, I’m not uncomfortable. The enclosed space of his car is warm and filled with an invigorating scent. Oranges? I couldn’t tell what it was out in the open. But in here, Alexander’s essence is clearer. Sharper. It’s… nice. Like something bubbly that you might want to guzzle on a hot summer day.

Despite the pleasant air of his aroma, there’s a bitter undertone. That unmistakable musk of another vampire’s essence entwined within his own. A biological and archaic warning signal that says, “Stay away! This vampire is taken.”

As far as I know, Alexander isn’t taken. Not anymore.

So, why am I getting that warning from his scent?

Not that it even matters. Why am I thinking about this?

Discreetly, I glance over at his stony expression in the fading afternoon light. I’ve committed myself to being nicer to him, but it’s not going great. When Oliver lived with us, I didn’t talk to him very much and Leoni was always on my back about that. I didn’t dislike Oliver. He was just so young and… fidgety. I’ m like an old battered dog and suddenly there was this eager puppy in the house. I didn’t feel like being bothered.

Alexander doesn’t exude silly puppy energy, though. How old is he? He’s obviously young, so he might be close to Oliver’s age. Usually, these arranged royal couplings have a ridiculous age gap where the older vamp with more money chooses the younger, more malleable mate. Not always, but it’s pretty standard.

Alexander navigates us away from the village and onto the narrow two-lane road that splits the lower valley. The sun has dipped below the horizon, so the sky above the mountain range is painted in hues of coral and gold.

I haven’t said anything for the first fifteen minutes or so into the ride because it’s clear that he needs to decompress. After a while, the fact that I don’t know how old he is nags me.

“I remembered you,” I say as an opening. It’s random, but what’s not random at this point?

His eyes flicker over to me before focusing back on the road. “What are you talking about?”

“From my performance at the álvarez Estate. You asked me once if I remembered you, and I do now. You were with your father, right?”

“Yes,” he says, then goes quiet. There’s a lengthy pause where I think he’s finished, but then he speaks up once more. “It was a long time ago.”

“Right… how old were you back then?” I narrow my eyes. Real discreet.

“Fourteen.”

The math calculates quickly in my head. We’re eight years apart. Huh. He is the same age as Oliver. Interesting. Their vibes couldn’t be more different.

“How old were you?” he asks.

“Twenty two.”

“Oh, you’re the same age as Raph.”

“Who is Raph?”

“My manservant. He turned thirty this year. ”

“Ah, your servant,” I nod. “Where is he now? This manservant. You float around a lot on your own, so I wasn’t sure if you had one.” Maybe, secretly, I was hoping that his being so independent meant that he didn’t actively participate in the practice of employing ranked vampires in roles of servitude to the upper class. How silly of me.

Alexander shrugs with both hands on the wheel. Ten o’clock two o’clock, like a responsible driver. “I don’t know, he lives his own life, mostly—when he’s not stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” I ask, skeptical. “Isn’t it his job to be at your beck and call? His role is a servant , after all.”

“Yes, but… our relationship isn’t like that. ‘Manservant’ is his formal title but he’s more like… I don’t know. An annoying older brother? Or maybe my best friend?”

A laugh bursts from my chest because I couldn’t hold it in this time.

“What?” Alexander asks, casting a guarded glance my way.

“It sounds odd. He’s your servant, but like a brother or best friend. Don’t you pay him?”

“Yes, of course?—”

“You wouldn’t pay a brother or best friend to hang around with you. To pick up your dry cleaning or manage your schedule or whatever he does. Does that seem normal to you? Does that seem genuine?”

Alexander is silent for several beats and the air in the car stiffens. I felt righteous in this declaration, but without warning, a flash of self-consciousness heats my face as I backtrack and consider my tone.

I’m failing at being nice.

Miserably.

“Maybe it’s not normal,” Alexander says, staring intensely through the windshield. “But given our situation, I consider myself extremely lucky. Our relationship is genuine and he’s one of the few vampires in my life that cares about me—not just because he’s my servant. And I pay him because I want him to have autonomy and a good quality of life. It might be unorthodox or funny to you, but I don’t care what you think. Who are you to sit here and judge and question what’s probably the only real relationship that I have left in my miserable existence? You don’t know shit about it.”

Shifting, I look away from his stern profile and through the windshield. The sky above is still coral, but a deeper shade has manifested in the distance, like indigo. The gold lining along the horizon has morphed into copper.

Well, fuck me.

I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I? See—this is why I should stay in my protected bubble. I’m not equipped to interact well with others anymore. I don’t know how to be nice . “You have something like a switch, you know?”

“What does that mean?” Alexander asks, his tone impatient.

“You flick it one way and you’re all charming and princely. But if it’s flicked another way, you’re razor sharp. Biting.”

“Is this another criticism?”

“No,” I say calmly. “More like an observation. It’s interesting. I’m not judging you, Alexander.”

He doesn’t respond, but rolls his shoulders and adjusts slightly in his seat like I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“I don’t have a switch,” I go on in his obstinate silence. “I’m not charming and radiant, and I never say the right things. I just say whatever it is plainly and this is the way I am. But I… don’t want to be hurtful. You told me before that what I said was hurtful. I’m sorry.”

As I watch him, I find that I suddenly am remorseful. Not half-heartedly but genuinely. I don’t know how else to express it. All of this feels weird, but I’m trying.

“I don’t understand you,” he says, his eyes still focused on the road. “You keep being callous, then you apologize for it.”

I chuckle, shrugging. “That’s fair. I don’t understand myself most days.” Especially not lately. The fact that I’m making an effort and feel guilty. That something about this situation is getting under my skin when I’ve been perfectly content in my apathetic existence for years.

Alexander keeps staring out the windshield with a distinct intensity. He couldn’t possibly be this focused on the simple task of driving.

I want to know what he’s thinking, so I ask. “What are you thinking?”

Another weighted pause settles before he responds. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes...”

“Why don’t you play the piano anymore?”

A fine sliver of pain slices through me—as if I’ve been cut with a very sharp blade. A hairline incision across my heart.

Not that question. Not yet.

Instinctively, I deflect. “How do you know that I don’t?”

He frowns. “Well, there’s no piano at the safe house in Nantshire, and I didn’t notice one at the vineyard cottage.”

“Maybe I play somewhere else.”

“Like where? In the mountains?”

“Could be. Or maybe at a local rec center.”

“What local rec center?—”

“Or a bar in town? A church? Or the total opposite—some seedy underground organization that’s kept secret from you upper-crust vamps. Some place with neon purple lighting that’s rife with orgies and drunken debauchery. I could be playing anywhere.”

I expect him to laugh, but Alexander shakes his head. The car is deafeningly silent. I’ve lost him again. Sighing, I sit back. “Ask me a different question.”

“No.”

“Ah, come on,” I say, teasing. “One more. I’ll behave myself.”

“We don’t need to talk to each other during this ride.”

“But that’s boring.”

“If you insist on talking, then why don’t you ask a question?”

Ask him a question… Why are you coming to the house in Na ntshire? What are you running away from? Why is your existence miserable? Why do you smell like you’re still emotionally entwined with another vampire? Why do you sense me?

Searching, I glance around the car. None of those questions are appropriate. Not now, anyway. I need something simple. Innocuous.

When I turn my head, an object in the back seat catches my eye. There’s a red plush toy in a plastic package sitting in the bend by the seatbelt latch. It looks like… a stuffed chili pepper? I narrow my eyes to read the label, then smile.

“Why do you have a ‘cat-nip-filled chili pepper’ sitting in your back seat?”

“ Ah —shit. Can you… Would you do me a favor and grab that, please? I keep forgetting to take it inside when I get home.”

Leaning, I reach and grab the package. “Someone has a pet cat at your estate?”

“Yes, me.”

“Interesting. What’s the cat’s name?”

“Her name is Buffy.”

Sitting straight in my seat, I pause. “Buffy? As in, The Vampire Slayer ?”

“Yes. Just set it in the cupholder, please?”

Doing as asked, I stifle my grin. “Fan of the show?”

“I am.”

“I liked the first and second seasons,” I offer.

“The first and second seasons are fun.”

“Agreed. It starts getting a little dark by season three. I stopped watching halfway through.”

“Season six is probably my favorite,” Alexander says casually. His hands slide down the steering wheel in a noticeably more relaxed gesture. “It is dark, but I love the way its shot, and every episode is written with a specific intention. It’s my comfort show.”

“I get that. It’s an enjoyable series. Classic 90’s American television.” The stiffness in the air has dissipated somewhat. I relax my shoulders. “Tell me about Buffy, your cat—is she short haired? Long? What breed?”

Alexander shifts, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. The road is empty aside from us, so he quickly maneuvers with one hand to unlock the device. He slows the car and his eyes flicker between the road and the glowing screen as he drives. “She’s a long-haired calico. Here.” He hands me his phone and I accept it with both hands.

It’s a video. I press play and a lovely cat artfully covered in brown, black and white splotches trots toward the camera. She has intense green eyes as she meows. Alexander is talking in the video—he calls her “Buff Buff” and tells her she’s beautiful. The cat loves this attention as she meows and nuzzles the camera lens. The video ends. Wow.

“She’s gorgeous,” I tell him.

“She is. Clever, too.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Seven years. I’ve had her since she was a kitten. She was a stray. I found her in one of the villages we were touring. She was all matted and scraggily-looking. I asked around and nobody wanted her, so I snuck her home.”

I snicker. “Are there more photos?”

“Um, yeah, just swipe left and there are a couple more in that set.”

Swiping with my finger, there are several bright, adoring shots of Buffy. One where she’s cleaning her face as she sits on a plush comforter. Another with her sitting upright and regal on the corner of a desk in what appears to be a stunning library. The sunlight streams over her like a professional portrait.

I swipe once more and flinch because the next photo isn’t Buffy. It’s Oliver. Mostly the side of his face, but his baby-blue eyes are bright as he looks into the camera with subtle confusion.

As if I can’t deviate from the rote behavior of swiping, I do it once more. It’s Oliver again, but this time he’s frowning into the camera. Clearly displeased. Still, the shot is undeniably cute. Like the pictures of Buffy, it glows with the warmth and candidness of a spontaneous moment—with the obvious affection of the photographer behind the lens.

An odd emotion pulls at the edge of my heart. A twinge of something that I can’t immediately process. Brushing it off, I close the app and hand the phone back to him. “She’s pretty,” I reiterate. “They say that people who prefer cats are very different compared with those who prefer dogs.”

“How so?”

“Cat people are non-conformists, but also more flexible and open-minded. It takes patience to put up with a cat’s bullshit, you know? Cats don’t just automatically love and bow down to you like dogs do. You have to earn their respect and trust.”

Alexander breathes in a soft laugh. A discreet huff through his nose. “That… almost sounds like a compliment, but since it’s coming from you, I’m sure there’s an insult there if I read between the lines.”

“No insult,” I say. “I’m not always a jackass.”

“A mean jackass.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve made that point enough times, now. I get it.” I glance over and he grins as he drives. The stern set in his brow has finally relaxed and I sit back, feeling more at ease myself. “What other shows do you like? Have you ever watched Supernatural ?”

If he’d been drinking something, I swear he would have done a spit take. His vivid eyes go wide as he looks at me, then back at the road. “Are you kidding? Of course I have.”

This launches us into a rather obscure and detailed exposition about Supernatural for the remainder of the drive. We both agree that season seven and the Leviathan arc is our least favorite season. We don’t see eye-to-eye on which season is the best, but we both loved the Fan Fiction and Baby episodes. Alexander also has a huge crush on Castiel. If he ever had the chance to attend one of those comic book conventions that humans throw, he’d dress up as that character. Personally, I think Crowley is more interesting. But that’s just me.

Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the cottage. Time has flown by, and as he brings the car to a stop, I find that I’m not quite ready to leave this oddly contented space we’ve established. Outside of Leoni, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a harmless conversation with another vampire like this since… well, ever?

Part of me wonders if, once I exit the vehicle and this night passes and brings a new day, will I be capable of fostering this again? Will we be back at ground zero?

Why the fuck do I care?

Why does it bother me?

“Thank you for the ride,” I say, grabbing the door handle, hesitating.

“You’re welcome.”

I push it open, but pause. I take a breath and turn to meet his eyes. “Do you… want to come inside for tea? You know, for restitutions sake.”

His smile is polite. Distant. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer. You don’t need to do that.”

Why the hell did I say it like that? God. “Alright… are you coming to Kat and Roland’s this week?”

“Probably. That’s the plan.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

I step out of the car, close the door and head up the steps. All the while kicking myself for being incapable of inviting someone inside like a normal vampire. For being self-conscious about it in the first place, and above all, for wanting him to stay longer. I expect to hear the car turn and pull off on the gravel with lightning speed, like he can’t get away from me fast enough. But he doesn’t move.

At the door and while pulling the cottage keys from my pocket, I look back. He’s watching. I turn away, feeling stupidly insecure again as I fumble with the keys. What is he waiting for?

Finally, the lock clicks and I push the front door open. Alexander maneuvers the car to turn around, and as I step over the threshold and turn on the sitting-room light, I hear the car drive off and back down the lane.

Was he waiting to make sure I got inside?

After closing the front door, I lean against it, resting with my eyes closed in the silence. A faint warmth like a quiet shimmer swells within my chest. This space inside of me has been empty, hard and cold for so long and I don’t… I don’t know what to make of it. What any of this means.

Most Eden purebreds are awful. They’re raised to be classist, arrogant and rigid sticklers for the rules. But, Alexander…

He senses me and he’s interesting. Not awful.

Sighing, I push off the door. On the whole, I’ll call this progress toward my healing journey. When I tell her, Leoni better be proud. I want my fucking gold star.