Keystone (Crossbreed #1)(14)
“That’s the courtyard,” he said, catching the direction of my gaze.
We passed a quaint sitting room on the right, no more than six by six with a long bench on the back wall and two chairs that faced each other. Most of the doors in the hall were closed until we reached a large open room on the right. I caught a glimpse of one of those giant globes on a stand. This place probably had secret passageways and a labyrinth made from hedges.
After making another turn with more windows overlooking the courtyard, he fell back a step and entered a room on the right.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” he began as I moved past him. “Don’t go exploring and sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Viktor laid out the offer, but you’re not an official member of the club until he says so. Some of these rooms are private, and the doors are closed for a reason.”
I turned on my heel. “Afraid I’m going to discover your My Little Pony collection? Don’t worry about me. Just go back to your coffin and let me settle in.”
“You’re an insufferable child,” he grumbled, exiting the room in a swift movement. “And for feck’s sake, put on a bra.”
“It’s not my fault you don’t have a heater.”
I wiggled my fingers in a farewell when the door slammed. Annoying Christian might actually be kind of fun. He seemed offended by my very existence. Most Vampires were loners, and women were merely a recreational pastime. They probably could have made more women among their kind, but they didn’t. Their elders had laws that frowned upon making new younglings without approval—although I’m sure they made exceptions—but most Vampires didn’t seem to want the responsibility. Younglings were impulsive and slaves to bloodlust, the insatiable desire to drink blood. Thankfully I’d never had that problem, and maybe that was why I didn’t understand it. I’d targeted a few young Vampires who’d purchased slaves off the black market to feed on.
Sickos.
I stood with my back to the wooden door and took a moment to look at my room. The ceilings were high, the walls and floor made from grey stone, and there was a fireplace on the left with no mantel. This wasn’t the penthouse suite by any means. The furniture was rustic and made of wood, from the armoire on my right to the end tables by the bed. Not a four-poster or even a sleigh bed, just a plain wooden headboard on a frame that was lower to the ground than modern ones. A small desk and chair filled the far right corner. I turned to my left and looked at the large floor mirror leaning against the corner wall.
“Do I really look like that?” I whispered, approaching my reflection.
A weary-eyed girl gazed back at me, her black hair unkempt and tangled from the rain. She looked haggard in her baggy shirt and ripped jeans. When I’d first turned, men found me attractive, but now I could see why it had become harder to lure some of them into private rooms. Most bathroom mirrors just showed the top half, so seeing the full scope of what I’d devolved into was rather depressing. I still had my long legs going for me, and I played up my features with dark lipstick and a little eyeliner. But I looked malnourished, my skin was pallid, my clothes stained, and there was even dirt beneath my fingernails.
Or was it blood?
“Disastrous,” I muttered, wondering if I smelled as bad as I looked.
This was what street life had done to me.
I turned away and approached the window straight ahead, stepping onto a white rug. I traced my fingers along the metal lattice on the leaded windows. The arched window was wide, expressive, and each sash opened inward. I deduced by all the turns we’d made that my view was the back of the mansion.
The first thing I did was drag the rug in front of the fireplace. Then I set my bag on the bed and noticed my weapons were missing.
“Oh, you’re kidding me,” I said in disbelief.
Viktor wanted me to be part of his elite organization, and yet he didn’t want me armed?
I turned in a circle and noticed there wasn’t a lamp in the room. The rain outside had cast a dark shroud over the property, and all I had were lanterns affixed to the walls and candles on the tables. I peeked in a drawer and found fresh candles and a box of matches.
“Putting on my makeup should be fun,” I mused.
To the right of the bed was an open doorway, so I went to investigate and discovered a bathroom behind the wall. The sink and oval mirror on the left were basic, and the standing shower straight ahead had a glass door that offered no privacy. But what caught my eye was the claw-foot tub within a recessed wall on the right.
“Hello, darling.”
I ran the tub water and stripped out of my clothes. It was pure torture waiting for the tub to fill, and I turned away from the mirror after catching a glimpse of the bruise on my back—a reminder of my failure. The small window on the wall with the shower brought in enough light, but I retrieved some matches and lit the square lanterns on either side of the sink.
Most people would have found the room basic and uninviting, but those people hadn’t spent the past two nights sleeping in a Dumpster.
Steam rose from the tub, and I slipped into the clean water, groaning at the blissful feel of that heat all around me. I took most of my showers in truck stop restrooms. Only on rare occasions after working odd jobs did I have money to spend on a motel room, and I’d forgotten the simple pleasure that a hot bath could bring.
I soaked.