The Story of Son(8)

“Fletcher does not call me anything. Mother used to call me Son. So I suppose that is my name. Son.”

“Son.”

His palms rubbed up and down on his thighs, the red silk of his robe moving with them.

“How long have you been down here?”

“What year is it?” When she told him, he said, “Fifty-six years.”

She stopped breathing. “You’re fifty-six?”

“No. I was brought down here when I was twelve.”

“Dear Lord . . .” Okay, clearly they had different life expectancies. “Why were you put in this cell?”

“My nature began to assert itself. Mother said it was safer for everyone this way.”

“You’ve been down here for all this time?” He must be going insane, she thought. She couldn’t imagine being by herself for decades. No wonder he couldn’t meet her eyes. He wasn’t used to interacting with anyone. “Down here alone?”

“I have my books. And my illustrations. I am not alone. Besides, I am safe from the sun here.”

Claire’s voice hardened as she remembered nice, little old Miss Leeds drugging her and throwing her down in this cell with him.

“How often does she bring you women?”

“Once a year.”

“What, as some kind of birthday present?”

“It is as long as I can go without my hunger becoming too strong. If I wait, I become . . . difficult to handle.” His voice was impossibly small. Ashamed.

Claire could feel herself getting viciously angry, the flush blooming up the skin of her throat. Man, Miss Leeds had not been matchmaking with a kind heart as she’d talked about her son up in her bedroom. The woman had seen Claire as food and her son as an animal.

“When was the last time you saw your mother?”

“The day she put me down here.”

God, to be twelve and imprisoned and left . . .

“Will you eat now?” he asked. “You can see I am unharmed.”

Her stomach growled. “How long have I been here?”

“For dinner, only. So not long. There will be two breakfasts, one lunch, and one more dinner and then you will be free.”

She glanced around and saw there were no clocks. So he’d adapted by telling time through meals. Jesus . . . Christ.

“Will you show me your eyes?” she asked, taking a step toward him. “Please.”

He stood up, a towering force draped in red silk. “I will leave you to eat.”

He walked by her, his head turned away, the chain dragging over the floor. When he got to the desk, he turned the chair around so it faced away from her and sat down. Picking up an artist’s pencil, his hand paused over a piece of thick white paper. A moment later, the lead began stroking across the page. The sound it made was as soft as a child’s breath.

Claire stared at him and made up her mind. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the food. She had to eat. If she was going to get them both out of here, she was going to need her strength.





3


Claire finished everything that was on the tray, and as she ate, the silence in the room was oddly unstrained considering the situation.

After she put her napkin down, she shifted her legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows, tired, though not in a drugged way. As she glanced at the tray, she had an absurd thought that she couldn’t remember when she’d last let herself actually finish a meal. She always dieted, leaving herself a little hungry. It helped keep up her aggression level, made her sharp, focused.

Now, she felt a little fuzzy. And . . . was she yawning?

“I won’t remember this?” she asked his back.

His head shook, that mane of hair waving, nearly brushing the floor. The red and black combination was stunning.

“Why not?”

“I will take the memories from you before you leave.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I know not. I just . . . find them among your thoughts and bury them.”

She pulled the duvet over her legs. She had a feeling that if she pressed him for more details, he would have none to give—as if he didn’t understand himself or his nature all that well. Interesting. Miss Leeds was human as far as Claire could tell. So clearly the father had been . . .

Shit, was she actually taking this seriously?

Claire put her hand up to her neck and felt the faded bite mark. Yes . . . yes, she was. And though her brain cramped at the idea that vampires existed, she had irrefutable proof, didn’t she.

Fletcher came to mind. He was something different, too, wasn’t he. She didn’t know what, but that odd strength coupled with his obvious age . . . Not right.

Silence stretched out, the minutes fluid, passing through the room, draining into infinity. Had an hour passed? Or half of one? Or three?

Strangely, she loved the sound of his pencil’s soft strokes over the paper.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

He paused. “Why did you want to see my eyes?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It will complete the picture of you.”

He put the pencil down. As his hand came up to push his hair off his shoulder, it was shaking. “I need to . . . come to you, now.”

The candles began to extinguish one by one.