A Tale of Two Vampires
Page 19

“Not that I know of. He likes to go hunting, but he does that in a number of places.” Pain flickered across her face as she clasped her hands together. “I can’t thank you enough for coming back through the centuries to make sure this tragedy will not happen. Truly, it is a miracle that you are here with us now. Fate has indeed been kind to us in that you have been sent to save Papa.”
“I don’t really believe in fate that way,” I said slowly, more than a little uncomfortable by the fervent light in her eyes. “I believe people make their own futures, rather than being a bit of flotsam that gets picked up by some random happenstance. But back to the subject at hand—I guess if your uncles aren’t around, then this wasn’t the year your father was killed, which frankly makes me very happy because I don’t want to see anyone killed, let alone someone as lickable as Nikola. Likable! I meant likable! Not lickable at all.”
She shrugged again. “I do not mind that you find my father sexually attractive. He is attractive, and my mother has been dead for many years. He is lonely. He desires women, but does not take them when they are offered to him. It is most perplexing. My brother says—but you are not interested in that. I must consider how best to approach the subject of my uncles with my father. Needless to say, I am grateful that you have traveled so far to save him.”
“About that…” I said with obvious hesitation. “See, the thing is, I didn’t come back in time to save Nikola. That is, I would if it was feasible, although your dad is kind of bossy and has some seriously antiquated ideas. He seems very nice once you get past those points, even if he is a vampire, but there’s more to saving him than showing up and warning him that at some point in the future his brothers are going to off him. For one, we don’t know when that is going to happen…. Wait a sec.” A faint memory returned to me. “Your dad said he was more than three score, right? A score is twenty years, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s over sixty?” I shook my head. “He doesn’t look older than maybe thirty or thirty-two at a stretch.”
“He is a Dark One. They do not appear to age unless they desire to do so.”
“Gotcha.” I let go the idea that I was turned on by a sixty-plus-year-old vampire, and focused on what was important. According to Nikola, Imogen was just twenty, and the faint memory I had of her saying she was twenty-two when her dad died told me exactly when the event was going to happen: two years in the future.
I closed my mouth on that knowledge, though. If saving Nikola had the potential to mess up the future, the thought of how things might change if either Imogen or he was in possession of the date of his death was even worse. “If only we could get around this stupid paradox,” I murmured more to myself than to Imogen.
“Paradox?” She was back to frowning again. “What paradox?”
“The one that happens if you change the past. OK, it’s been a moot point up to now, but there’s been a lot of speculation about what would happen if you changed something minor in the past. The most popular conclusion is that even something so simple as stepping on a bug could have major ramifications down the line. So imagine how something as big as stopping a man being murdered could affect the future.”
Imogen crossed her arms. “Are you saying that you will allow Papa to be killed?”
“No, not at all. At least…” I bit my lip. “At least not until I can figure out a way to do that without upsetting the future.”
“Is your future life so important that you would allow my father’s life to be taken from him?” Imogen demanded, suddenly reminding me of Nikola at his most outraged.
“My life is no great shakes, no, but that’s just my situation. There are millions of people out there who probably have perfectly wonderful lives, and saving Nikola might change that.”
“I don’t see why,” Imogen said scornfully, getting to her feet. “He is but one man. I shall consider best how to deal with this situation. Until then, you must get some sleep, or you will not be recovered enough to feed my father.”
I glanced at her in surprise. “How did you know that Nikola had knocked back a pint or two of my blood?”
She shrugged a third time. “There is something about you that tells me you have allowed him to feed from you. That is good. I believe it will do much for him to have someone he admires be the source of his nourishment. Now, if you will excuse me, I must think upon all that you have told me. I must warn him, Miss Iolanthe.”
“Io, please. Iolanthe is such a mouthful.”
“You must call me Imogen, then. Io, hear me—I cannot let my father be harmed, even if we have no proof that my uncles would do anything so heinous.”
“I know, I know, but there’s the whole messing-up-time thing to consider….” I gnawed on my lip again. “We don’t have to act rashly by rushing the situation. It’s not like your dad is in danger right now.” And wouldn’t be for another two years.
“Perhaps not, but I will not risk his life for anything.”
“Think, but don’t act. At least not yet,” I warned her. “I really don’t want to go back to a future where lizards are ruling the world because we warned Nikola about his future trip out into the woods with his brothers.”
“While I, on the other hand, would prefer anything to seeing my father destroyed.” She gave me a look that said I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself, which I admitted I was. The door closed softly behind her, leaving me in a warm, silent room.
“Now what am I going to do?” I asked the room.
No one answered.
“Thanks a lot, life!” I climbed into bed, and gave in to the exhaustion that had been pulling at me with leaden fingers.
Nine hours and a handful of minutes later, I sat at a table and stared down at the plate before me. “You’re kidding, right?” I leaned forward and sniffed. My nose wrinkled in response. “Would you mind if I asked if this meat is fresh? Because it’s seriously green on that edge, and brown on the rest, and I don’t think meat is supposed to smell like that.”
The thin young woman who had gravely informed me her name was Elizabet adjusted her ruffled headwear—some sort of cap with a bit of dirty ribbon tied around it—while holding an obviously stunted arm against her midsection. She said with a sniff, “Master loves pheasant like this. Cook made it especially for him a week ago Sunday.”
I flinched and pushed the plate away from me. “You know, I think I’ll just save this for Nikola, then. I’d hate to deprive him of his rancid pheasant. You wouldn’t happen to have some fruit, would you? Apples? Peaches? Something like that? Maybe with a piece of bread? Fresh bread,” I added hastily, not wanting to appear like a demanding guest, but at the same time not willing to risk my intestinal happiness.
“Aye, if you like, although Master says no one does pheasant like Cook.”
I said nothing more, just smiled as she took the plate and a tankard of murky-looking water back to the kitchen.
I wandered out of the small sunny breakfast room a short time later in possession of two apples, and a cup of goat’s milk. I drank the latter, and was munching on one of the former while considering what I needed to do.
Obviously, locating the woods and returning to my own time was the top priority. Second to that, but much less important, was the opportunity to examine what life was like in the eighteenth century. If only I had my camera, I could document my amazing experiences. “Hmm. That’s not a bad idea, actually. Hey, you, footman…”
The flaming servant with the salmon-colored wig sashayed into the room, pausing to admire himself in the surface of a highly polished silver urn that sat on a small table in the main hall, his lip curling at me in an “I smell dog poop” sort of expression. “My name is Robert, not footman.”
“Sorry, Robert. Do you happen to know if there is some paper and something to write with that I could use?”
The footman, with another expressive curl of his lip, allowed that there was writing paper in the ladies’ sitting room. I toddled off to a small room at the back of the house, pausing at the entrance when Imogen looked up from where she sat at a beautiful oak writing desk.
“Oh, my apologies. I didn’t know anyone was here. Robert said there was some paper here. I thought I might just make a few quick notes about what I’ve seen and done for historical purposes. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I can come back another time.”
“No, do not leave.” Imogen rose from the desk, folding a piece of paper and tucking it up her sleeve. “There are many household tasks for me to perform now that Papa is home. You are welcome to use my desk and stationery to make your notes.” She smiled, and paused at the door. “Papa loves to take notes about things. Benedikt—that is my brother—Benedikt is forever teasing Papa that he should be an alchemist, but Papa says he’s already discovered the secret of perpetual life, and does not wish to discover anymore.”
“Huh? Oh, because he’s a—” I made bitey motions with my fingers.
Imogen nodded.
“This is really personal, but do you drink blood like your father? You never said anything about that when I met you in my time, not that I suppose you would announce to a total stranger that you were a vampire and all, but still, you don’t look at all how I imagine vamps look.”
“I am a Moravian, not a vampire,” she said primly, then gave a negligent one-shouldered shrug. “I can drink blood if I desire, but I much prefer wine. I will leave you to your notes. If you have need of more paper or quills, ring the bell.”
It took me a bit to get used to the quill and ink method of writing, and I managed to spill ink all over one sleeve of the pretty dress that Imogen had loaned me (she had wanted to give me one of gold brocade and old rose watered silk, but I managed to talk her down to something she called a work dress, which was a flowers-and-birds-patterned cotton dress that opened in the front to reveal a pale green underskirt), but soon I mastered the quill and was happily scratching away on some hand-laid paper.