A Vampire's Rise (3 page)

Start anew.

To survive this, I had to win Roelle’s approval. Though his visits had lessened, when he did impose himself into my dark prison, I presented the air of a boy humbled but strong, respectful and yet resilient.

His brow furrowed as he considered me with an oddly conflicted gaze.

I chose my words carefully. “Sir, I can fix that.”

About to head out the door, he glared back.

“Your jacket pocket,” I said. “My grandfather’s a tailor. He taught me—”

He left and slammed the door shut.

Within two hours, I’d been provided with a needle and a fine thread, and given the opportunity to mend Roelle’s jacket. Kneeling in the corner next to my all too precious, near fading candle, I sewed the finest stitches.

When Roelle returned, he brought bread and cheese, and I gulped the cup of milk he offered. He examined his neatly sewn jacket, with a thoughtful expression.

* * * *

After several weeks, Roelle freed me from the cellar.

But he warned that if I attempted to run away, he’d personally deliver me to the jail. To prove his point, the day before my release, he made a noose out of coarse rope and hung it around my neck.

Understanding came quickly.

With decisive steps, unable to speak, I followed Roelle up and out of the dark.

Daylight appeared different.

Within the interior of the mansion, ostentatious decor hindered homeliness. The house seemed more of a statement of power than a family residence. Enough opulence to make any visitor unwelcome.

I couldn’t fathom why a part of me missed my small, dark cell.

Roelle appointed me as his personal manservant, his way to keep me close. He provided a damp, empty room close to his, though I rarely slept there due to Roelle’s insistence that I sleep in the corner of his bedroom, perhaps to allay his loneliness.

As master of the Bastillion empire, Roelle ruled the household with fierce intimidation and no one challenged him. His abuse on the small boy, who cleaned his matador apparel and carried out other chores, went unnoticed. If anything, the staff admired his courage in taking on the unruly son of the Velde family.

I clung to Roelle and gradually found an eerie comfort in his presence and strived to perform my errands well.

That cell still threatened to eat me up again.

Within his office, I set to work sorting out his desk and, as instructed, not disrupting any further his already disorganized filing. My thoughts drifted back to that beautiful señorita in the mausoleum, then dared to wander back further.

I’d shamed my family.

My father, the ultimate hero, had fought in England’s battle of Blore Heath. I’d overheard him telling Ricardo that many Lancastrians perished during the battle that they eventually lost. The defeated leaders fled the country and my father too had found wisdom in placing distance between himself and the land he’d never called home. The scars went deeper than his war torn limbs. A few days before my sixth birthday, he’d died.

As the eldest, Ricardo had been tasked with supporting our family.

Ricardo stood in the kitchen doorway, his expression strange as he glanced down at the object he held in his right hand. Alicia, our six-year-old sister, a year older than me, clapped her hands with excitement as Ricardo slapped the bloody bull’s ear onto the table, its tendrils hanging. My sister went quiet and I knew that this moment was meant for me, this precious gift that represented a matador’s bravery, bestowed from the bullfighter himself, and I felt unworthy to touch it. Sensing my reticence, Ricardo winked at me. Our mother regarded the specimen with a glint of pride, though the quiver of her lips exposed her fear, and she yelled that it would leave a stain.

And it did.

Roelle and I had never spoken about the events that led to my brother’s death, though on several occasions I’d felt compelled to open up to him and try to shed light, find the truth. Doubt sealed my silence.

Somewhere far off in the house, Roelle could be heard shouting at a servant. Thoughtful, trying to retrieve even more from my shaky memory, I stole into the well-stocked library.

* * * *

Eventually, I slept in the servant’s quarters. The firm, musty bed felt like luxury.

Once a week, Roelle arranged for one of the city’s finest teachers to visit. Señor Machon provided much of my early education and under his strict tutelage, I studied hard. Such an indulgence was an unusual occurrence for a lowly servant, though the gossiping staff soon became accustomed to my schooling. Roelle reassured them that he had every intention of putting my education to use as his office boy. He hated dealing with the boring details of running the estate and thought it a fantastic idea that he could educate me to do it.

I looked forward to my lessons. Eager to present to my teacher numerous questions, I hauled large books borrowed from the library down the corridor. Machon patiently answered. He shared his belief that the world, previously considered to be flat, had been proven to be round. He presented ancient Greek texts that supported this theory. Sworn to secrecy, he warned me that such thinking brought accusations of heresy.

Wide-eyed, I nodded and although I’d hesitated to question the meaning of heresy, I fully understood that I’d been entrusted with something very special. Señor Machon reported to Roelle that he considered me his best student.

I found the courage to request a visit home, after all. Cook had told me my village could be reached in half a day.

“Maybe,” Roelle said.

I looked out beyond the estate wondering if my mother would ever visit. Jealousy seeped in when I thought of my sister nestling in my mother’s arms, and I wondered if they’d forgotten me.

My new life absorbed my time, the passing of which softened the faces of my past.

Chapter 4

AT EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD, I towered over Roelle.

At just over six feet, wearing the clothes he’d purchased for me, I presented the very image of a young gentleman. Although my quiet demeanor disconcerted the staff, my dark locks, hazel eyes, and sharp features easily enamored them. Head down, I engaged in my duties, often avoiding interacting.

For my birthday, Roelle presented me with one of the estate’s best stallions. He personally taught me how to ride. With boredom rose his wickedness. He’d strike the horse’s rump, causing the animal to rear up. As I hit the ground with a thud, I could hear his laughter.

I had my revenge while cleaning Roelle’s office. I’d rummage through his private papers, eager to discover something that might embarrass him. I soon found where he hid the key to a secret compartment in his desk. Inside, he’d stashed letters.

Reading one of them by candlelight, it became clear that my progress had been followed by a Felipe Grenaldi. Puzzled, I replaced my find, wondering why this man would be interested in me.

Shoved behind a stack of wooden boxes, half-hidden, rested an upside-down artist’s canvas. I’d never noticed it before. I eased it out, turned it over, and laid it on the desk, pondering on the portrait of four men standing closely together, all dressed in matador apparel. One of them was my brother, Ricardo, his likeness masterfully portrayed. My stomach wrenched and my throat tightened.

In the picture, Roelle had flung his arm affectionately around the shoulders of a man whose face had been blacked out with what looked like ink.

On hearing someone approaching, I quickly put the painting back.

* * * *

Despite my seeming promotion, Roelle never let me forget my place and often provided chores that would easily remind me. One wrong move could result in a threat of returning to that cellar. Therefore, I strived for perfection, very often going over tasks I’d already completed.

One late evening while I was tidying Roelle’s bedchamber, he entered carrying matador apparel. I recognized the embellished gold braid that swept up the breast of the jacket and along the shoulders. The small, black buttons had been fastened with fine, scarlet ribbon. This suit had been my brother’s. Roelle slid it into the wardrobe.

I reached for Roelle’s black leather shoes and polished them.

He relayed with a smile, “In your mother’s letter, she insisted I take it.” He studied me. “Not sure who to give it to yet.”

Discreetly watching him preen, I steadied my hands and swallowed hard, unsettled by a wave of uneasiness. In the newly shined reflection, my brother stared back. It was my own image. A quick glance confirmed Roelle hadn’t noticed my reaction. He sauntered out.

I faced the mirror, placed my hand upon the glass, then traced my reflection. My stone-faced expression concealed so much, even from me.

A creak caused me to spin round.

Roelle leaned against the doorframe. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” He approached, grabbed my arm, and dragged me over to his closet. “Get in.”

I resisted.

Roelle opened the door and shoved me in. He turned the lock and removed the key. I’d never liked the dark, or confined spaces. I started to perspire.

“I’m not angry with you, Daumia.” He pressed up against the closet door. “This is your best vantage point.”

He disappeared.

With my shoulder against the door, I gave it a shove and cracked the wood. Just as I went to give it another thrust, I heard voices. Roelle had returned with someone. I peered through the keyhole.

The blacksmith’s daughter allowed Roelle to undress her and as he did so she giggled nervously. Despite the fascination, this felt wrong. Roelle threw her playfully onto his bed.

Her plump legs wrapped around Roelle’s hips and her fleshy arms pulled him closer. His trousers were halfway down.

I felt used. Something in the tone of his voice as he spoke, the way she whimpered in response, sent shivers up my spine.

Roelle glanced in my direction.

My sweat-soaked shirt stuck to my skin.

Fourteen bricks across and twenty down. Paint covering the last few . . .

Roelle had put me in there and kept me in there.

At that moment, I knew that I had more honor than him and my pride arose. The headboard banged against the wall. With my hands over my ears, I tried to block out that noise, as well as their groans.

I thought back to the books I’d read and the ideas they’d inspired—that painting and my brother’s happy expression, and the mystery of the obscured face. I considered the rest of my chores yet to be completed.

The closet door opened and a smug Roelle held a silver goblet of red wine and offered it to me. The girl had gone.

Sitting on the end of his bed, keeping some distance from him, I stared into my empty cup. Roelle topped it up again. I drank and he talked. Not really listening to his self-important droll, I phased out. The drink tasted good, if not bitter, the warmth of the liquor a welcome sensation. It softened my mood and as I took another sip, it made me desire more.

That painting could very well be my last chance of capturing Ricardo. I leaped up, but my legs failed me and I slumped to the floor. The drink slipped from my grasp and bounced along, stopping at the edge of the worn rug. Roelle’s laughter almost impeded his ability to get me back onto the bed. From the rim of the goblet, the last few droplets of wine trickled out onto the corner of the rug’s tasseled fringe.

I fell asleep.

* * * *

I heaved over the bedside, grateful that Roelle had provided a chamber pot. I wondered if he also had a head that pounded. The rug’s red stain was the only trace of last night’s weirdness.

Roelle sat up. “Your mother’s dead.”

I used my sleeve to wipe the vomit from my mouth. My voice broke as I asked, “When?”

“What does it matter?”

My jaw gaped.

“A week ago,” he said.

“And my grandparents?”

“What about them?” He looked surprised. “They died years ago.”

The empty wine bottle rested on the side table. A cruel trick of its contents to lie like that, soften one’s feelings yet later produce such ghastly symptoms. And yet Roelle seemed unaffected.

“Go and help Miguel in the stable,” he said. “He needs a hand.”

I headed for the door.

“Daumia,” he called after me.

I faced him, wondering if this dragging pain in my chest would ever let up.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said.

I imagined what it would feel like to smash the empty bottle over his head.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said. “Where you stare off and waste time. My time.” Roelle slipped into the shoes I’d just polished.

Black wax stained my hands, polish ingrained under my fingernails.

Halfway down the stairs, I stared back up at Roelle’s bedroom. That painting had been defaced and yet he’d kept it.

Back in the office, I went straight for the portrait. I turned it over and studied it more closely. In the left-hand corner, in small scratchy handwriting, the subjects’ names were written on the back: Ricardo Velde, Felipe Grenaldi, Roelle Bastillion, and Aaron Luis.