The Knight Of The Rose (10 page)

“Agh! David!” My heart splattered in my chest; I looked up from my precarious squat on the

ground to the vampire perched on the windowsill like a pterodactyl. “You scared the living bejeezus

out of me.”

“Sorry.”

With the papers in hand, I stood up, tapping the edges to forc e them into a neat stack. “What

were you doing out there? You ruined my homework pile. Now I have to reorder these before I hand

them into Dad tomorrow.” I held up the papers.

“I’ll do it for you.” David shrugged, obviously in no hurry to remove himself from the path of

the whipping breeze beyond the glass.

“Why are you just sitting there? Are you hiding something?”

“Nope.” He shook his head, and one of hi s eyes narrowed slightly into his smile as he looked

over my wet, towel-covered body—but the other eye held that pained ache behind it—the ache that’d

been there since he found out my true feelings for Mike. “I’m just admiring the view.”

“You better mean the stunning pa noramic view of the hills and my backyard, David Knight.”

I dumped my disordered papers on my desk and took a step back.

“So—bowling?” He smiled and jumped down from the ledge.

“Do you want to?”

“As long as I’m wit h you, then I’m happy.” He slowly pushed the window closed behind

him; the last of the intruding wind blessed my senses with a waf t of orange-chocolate. I breathed

deep and opened my eyes t o the fresh and suave boy in front of me, with his wet ha ir brushed back

off his face—for once—and a black puffy zip-up with a grey hood resting over his V-neck shirt. He

looked like a man, not so much like a teenage boy.

After clearing my throat, I said, “Okay then. Bowling.”

He smiled down at me, his eyes becoming small with warmth. “You shouldn’t stand in front

of me like this, my love. You make me think inappropriate things.”

Oh, sorry.
“So—” I took a wide step back and turned toward my wardrobe, “—are you any

good at bowling?”

“You forget—” he used a louder voice to call out as I di sappeared into my wardrobe, “—I

lived through the fifties. Bowling was huge then.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re good at it,” I stated, slipping my emerald-green sweater over my head.

“True. It’s more like I have to
try
to be bad. I’m a little too precise. I’ve also been known to

break a pin or two.”

I turned around, buttoning up my jeans, and my cheek meshed straight into the rain-dotted

fabric of David’s jacket. “Hey? How did you even know I was finished getting dressed in here? I

could’ve been naked,” I scolded.

He tapped his temple and grinned.

Hmpf! “Is there any point in me even dressing in a different room—with you and your mind-

reading invading my privacy?”

“Etiquette?” He shrugged. Then, as his eyes traced over the low, r ounded neckline of my

sweater, he ran his finger acr oss the skin above it and smiled. “I like this . Your skin looks like a

white rose petal.”

“Does that mean it’s going to die in the winter—like my heart?”

David looked sympathetic. “Are you up for a little outing today?”

“I can’t. I have a few notes and references to finish on my paper.”

“Which paper?” He took my hand and led me out of the wardrobe.

“The mythology one—on vampires.”
The subject you told me not to do.

David smiled and nodded to my suddenly very neatly reordered pile of papers. “You mean

the report I just finished for you—the one on
Angels
.”

“Angels?” I ran over to my des k and flicked through the pages. “No! I spent
hours
working

on that, David!”

“I know. And it was a great report. But I told you not to do vampires—you didn’t listen.”

“But, why?” I spun around and leaned on the desk. “What does it matter?”

“Because you know things you shouldn’t, and if you happen to publish any minor detail of

fact, and my Set were to somehow find out, I could be punished, and you—” His words trailed off.

“I…what?”

“You could be killed. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Killed?”

“Shh.” He rested a finger to his lip. “Your da d doesn’t know I’m here, remember. Look, I

didn’t want to tell you that because I didn’t want you to worry. I just hoped you’d listen to me—for

once.”

“That was naive.” I smiled.

David smiled too. “I know that.
Now
.”

“So, that’s what you were doing—when I came out of the bathroom?”

“Yes.” He laughed and wiped his hand across his jaw. “
You
actually snuck up on
me
—for

once. The evidence was still in my hands. I had to leave it on the windowsill and hope it didn’t blow

away while you were standing there.”

“You could’ve just told me the truth.” I stepped into him and tucked my arms along his ribs.

“That would’ve made me change my mind.”

“I’ll remember that for the future.” He kissed the crown of my head.

“So—what punishment?”

“Huh?”

“You said they would punish you if I published any facts—what would they do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a seven-day-burial, a month being tortured by the First Order, or a

personal favourite of my Set...a complete draining.”

“Draining?”

“Mm.” He nodded, pressing his lips into a tight line. “They drain every ounce of blood from

your arteries and leave you parched and partially insane in a dark room for a few weeks.”

“How do they drain you? You heal so fast—how do they get the blood out fast enough.”

He rolled his forearm over and lifted his sleeve. “They place a metal vise, right here—” he

pinched his fingers, then spread them outward over the skin a few inches above his wrist, “—

it holds the arteries open—prevents healing and closing of the wound.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you would ask these questions and not let up

until I tell you, well—” he stopped with a non-committal shrug, “either that or not speak t o me for

three days.”

“Okay, well, with t hat in mind, a paper on An gels will be great.” I pointed up t o his face.

“And I better get an A.”

David laughed. “Don’t worry, you will. So—” he scratched his nose, “an outing then?”

“Where to?”

Without a response, he walked away and open ed my bedroom door, then, when he turned

around, his face was lit with a smile. “I thought I might teach you a little about history.”

Our hands linked back together. David pulled me close to him, clasping my arms around his

back.

“You know, I live with a history professor. There’s not much
you
can teach me.” I laughed.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he mused. “Come on, meet me at the front door in twenty

seconds.”

“Twenty?”

David grinned, raising his brow, and with l ess than a sweeping breeze, he disappeared out of

the window—closing it behind him.

“Ara?” Sam opened the front door when someone knocked. “Prince Charming is here.”

“I told you not to call him that, Sam.”

Sam snickered loud enough for the sound to carry up the stairs.

Do me a favour
, I thought, for David’s purpos e,
tie his shoelaces together when he’s not

looking.

“I see you two still haven’t managed to find common ground.” David walked thr ough the

door and looked up expectantly at me.

“Hard to find a way to relate to a serpent,” Sam said, keeping his nose in his book. “Maybe

I’ll just have to dumb myself down a little so we can hold a decent conversation one day.”

Quietly, I huffed, grabbing my jacket as I flicked out my light and shut my door. God, I hate

it that David won’t use his powers for cool stuff. He’s so boring.

“Good morning, Ara.”

“Morning, David.” I stomped down the stairs, forgetting to leave my moodiness in my room.

“Sleep well?” he asked, pecking me on the cheek.

“Better than ever before.”

Sam groaned and rolled his eyes. “Mushy.”

“Grow up, Sam,” I said.

As I cl osed the front door behind us, a mighty cras h sounded beyond, fol lowed by Sam

yelling out, “Hey! Who tied my laces together?”

I looked at David; he shrugged and smiled.

After a long drive we pull ed up outside a cemetery, and an uneasy quivering gurgled in my

stomach; each dome-shaped bubble popping with the image of my mum’s and brother’s graves.

“David?” I grabbed his sleeve and folded myself against his arm. “What are we doing here?”

“Come on—it’s okay. I’m here with you.”

He took my hand and led me toward the iron gates. We passed under them, David, as if

nothing were out of the ordinary, and me, closed off and tense, jumping at the sound of a cr ow

cawing.

“I don’t like it here.”

“You will. I’m taking you to an older part of the cemetery—there are trees there and it’s not

so—” he looked around the yard; I looked too, at the way the low cloud in the sky made everything

look dark grey and… “Eerie,” he said finally.

“Yeah, eerie is exactly what I was thinking.”

He laughed softly and held me close as we strol led past rows and rows of headst ones,

laughing at odd names and trying to calculate how old people were when they died.

“See that stone there?” David pointed to a cra cked plaque, barely able to stan d within the

stone grasp of its template.

“Mm-hm. Marcus Worthington—died eighteen-forty?”

David nodded. “He’s a friend of mine. Goes by the name of Philippe now.”

“So...he’s not actually buried there?”

“Nope. In fact, about three percent of the graves in any ancient cemetery are actually empty.

The bodies either still living, or removed for scientific research.”

“Freaky.”

“Mm. I suppose it is.” As we came upon a small hill, David looked up to the giant, tower ing

oak tree at the top, sheltering five, short, grey headstones from the threatening storm. “See that group

of graves up there?” He pointed with a straight arm.

“Yeah.”

“That’s my family’s plot.”

I swallowed. David grinned and walked ahead.

Oh boy, when he said history, I had no idea he meant
this
kind of history. “Are we supposed

to be here—” I looked around as I stood beside David, w ho stared down at the f irst stone with his

arms folded and his face awash with a smile of thought, “—it’s very quiet.”

“Of course we can be here. See this—?” He dropped a hand and pointed down. “Here l ies

Thomas Arthur Knight. Beloved father and husband. Died nineteen-oh-five.”

My eyes traced the length of his arm and fell upon the weathered tablet. “Who was he?”

“My father.”

My head whipped back up to look at David. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled

down at the cement name-tag.

“Well, who was this?” I stepped around the base of the grave, where the cof fin would be

under the grass, and dusted some dried orange leaves off the next stone. “Mary Elizabeth Knight?”

“My mother,” his tone softened on the word.

I looked back at the stone with wide eyes, kneeling down to dust a few more leaves from the

base, then traced my fingers over the stone carving of letters. “Died in ch ildbirth, nineteen-eighty-

five.” The inscription on her headstone made me sad. She never made it to mot herhood; they

couldn’t even give her the dignity of citing that she’d been
a beloved wife and mother
? Only
died in

childbirth
. It seems so cold.

“It wasn’t cold, sweetheart. Not intentionally.”

Dusting off my jeans , I pressed my hands to my knees and st ood back up. “Even still, it

sounds
cold.”

“I know.” He nodded, consider ing the resting place of his mother. “My father was destroyed

when she died. He allowed the priest to take charge of the burial. And things were different back

then—my father was expected to put up a strong front, but his gr ief was so deep that he became a

recluse—mourned her in isolation.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Yeah. The worst part is—” he pointed to the word
Mary
, “—no one ever called my mother

by her real name. She was known as Elizabeth.
That
name should have marked her final rest ing

place, but the priest didn’t know.”

“Why didn’t you change it?”

“Uncle Arthur wanted to. He and my mother we re...close, but m y father forbid him . Even

when Father passed, Arthur would not go against the right of a husband.”

“Wow—how noble of him.”

“Well,” David took my hand and led me away

, “he’s been around a while. He’s old-

fashioned.” When we stopped in front of the next two headstones , David smiled and rocked on his

heels. “These two are the best.”

The two cement slabs sat closely, side by side, and the first read;

Jason Gabriel Knight—

Executed in captive at war. 1919

But it was the second one that grabbed my attention straight away; my heart jumped into my

chest when I saw his name written there, even though I was standing right beside him;

David Thomas Knight—beloved son and hero of war.

1895-1921.

“Why did you die?”
What an odd question to ask someone who’s holding your hand.

“There was an explosion. A bomb.” He nodded with a nostalgic smile. “There was no way

anyone could’ve survived it. Pe rtinent to our laws, I had no choi ce but to move on and become