mudroom, and made his way to the kitchens—as the pull of warm blood drew him on.
He heard a woman humming just a little off-key.
He stopped in the shadows of the doorway.
She stood by the table putting loaves of fresh-baked bread into large Tupperware containers. None of the servants had ever dared ask why he required no meals, but of course they had to feed themselves.
This woman looked to be about thirty. Her brown hair was woven back in a loose braid. She wore jeans and a wool sweater. Few servants wore uniforms these days even in the great houses, but here, any semblance of such formality had passed away.
Julian didn’t even know her name.
He wished she looked younger and that she had wheat-gold hair, so he could pretend she was Eleisha and make her suffer.
Without speaking, he allowed some of his gift to seep out, to drift into the kitchens, and she looked up in alarm, seeing him there in the doorway.
Even without his gift, he knew the sight of him would frighten her. He hadn’t bathed or changed clothes in weeks, and he was holding on to a sword.
“Sir . . . ?” she stammered, stepping away from the table. “I’m sorry. I did not know you were out of the . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence and backed toward the other doorway on the far side of the room. Her breathing was ragged.
He emanated the full power of his gift and watched in satisfaction as the alarm on her face changed to terror and her mouth locked in an O shape.
She froze.
He dropped the sword and strode toward her, grabbing her shoulders, turning her around, and slamming her against the table. She could not even scream as wave after wave of fear passed through her.
With his feet planted on the floor, he lifted her a few inches and bent her backward over the table, pinning her with his chest, basking in the terror and warmth her body emitted. He was starving, but he didn’t want this to end just yet, so he cut off the power of his gift, banishing her induced fear and letting her feel panic of her own accord . . . of him.
The glaze in her eyes cleared and she began struggling wildly.
“No!” she shouted, trying to push him away, and then she screamed, “Liam! Liam, help me!”
Julian didn’t care if she shouted for help, and he doubted anyone would hear her. The others were probably upstairs at the other end of the manor. Her breasts were pressed against him, and he enjoyed the feel of her struggles for a few more seconds, and then he drove his teeth into her throat, draining blood so fast that she stopped screaming.
He knew that he was supposed to see her memories as he drained her, that others of his kind saw the entire lives of their victims in the fleeting moments before their death. But Julian saw nothing.
He just reveled in the blood, in the sweet strength of life force flowing down his throat.
Her struggles grew weaker. He drank until her heart stopped beating.
Then he dragged her body through the kitchen by one arm—stopping long enough to pick up the sword. He dragged her all the way into the study, through the passage leading to the old dungeon, and he dropped her in the guard room a few feet from the spot where he’d drained his father.
Neither of the other servants even knew this part of the manor existed.
He felt better, stronger.
Gripping the sword tighter, he headed back up the passage into the study. He had blood on his shirt, and he could feel smears on his mouth. Thinking more clearly now that he’d fed, he decided to go to his own chamber upstairs and clean himself up. But as he walked toward the doors, the air in front of him shimmered, and Mary suddenly appeared, transparent magenta hair glowing in the lamplight.
“I found them,” she gasped, again making unsettling sounds as if she could still breathe. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew she was dead.
“They’re in Portland,” she rushed on, “staying in some old church.”
She seemed about to say more when she saw the blood on his face
He heard a woman humming just a little off-key.
He stopped in the shadows of the doorway.
She stood by the table putting loaves of fresh-baked bread into large Tupperware containers. None of the servants had ever dared ask why he required no meals, but of course they had to feed themselves.
This woman looked to be about thirty. Her brown hair was woven back in a loose braid. She wore jeans and a wool sweater. Few servants wore uniforms these days even in the great houses, but here, any semblance of such formality had passed away.
Julian didn’t even know her name.
He wished she looked younger and that she had wheat-gold hair, so he could pretend she was Eleisha and make her suffer.
Without speaking, he allowed some of his gift to seep out, to drift into the kitchens, and she looked up in alarm, seeing him there in the doorway.
Even without his gift, he knew the sight of him would frighten her. He hadn’t bathed or changed clothes in weeks, and he was holding on to a sword.
“Sir . . . ?” she stammered, stepping away from the table. “I’m sorry. I did not know you were out of the . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence and backed toward the other doorway on the far side of the room. Her breathing was ragged.
He emanated the full power of his gift and watched in satisfaction as the alarm on her face changed to terror and her mouth locked in an O shape.
She froze.
He dropped the sword and strode toward her, grabbing her shoulders, turning her around, and slamming her against the table. She could not even scream as wave after wave of fear passed through her.
With his feet planted on the floor, he lifted her a few inches and bent her backward over the table, pinning her with his chest, basking in the terror and warmth her body emitted. He was starving, but he didn’t want this to end just yet, so he cut off the power of his gift, banishing her induced fear and letting her feel panic of her own accord . . . of him.
The glaze in her eyes cleared and she began struggling wildly.
“No!” she shouted, trying to push him away, and then she screamed, “Liam! Liam, help me!”
Julian didn’t care if she shouted for help, and he doubted anyone would hear her. The others were probably upstairs at the other end of the manor. Her breasts were pressed against him, and he enjoyed the feel of her struggles for a few more seconds, and then he drove his teeth into her throat, draining blood so fast that she stopped screaming.
He knew that he was supposed to see her memories as he drained her, that others of his kind saw the entire lives of their victims in the fleeting moments before their death. But Julian saw nothing.
He just reveled in the blood, in the sweet strength of life force flowing down his throat.
Her struggles grew weaker. He drank until her heart stopped beating.
Then he dragged her body through the kitchen by one arm—stopping long enough to pick up the sword. He dragged her all the way into the study, through the passage leading to the old dungeon, and he dropped her in the guard room a few feet from the spot where he’d drained his father.
Neither of the other servants even knew this part of the manor existed.
He felt better, stronger.
Gripping the sword tighter, he headed back up the passage into the study. He had blood on his shirt, and he could feel smears on his mouth. Thinking more clearly now that he’d fed, he decided to go to his own chamber upstairs and clean himself up. But as he walked toward the doors, the air in front of him shimmered, and Mary suddenly appeared, transparent magenta hair glowing in the lamplight.
“I found them,” she gasped, again making unsettling sounds as if she could still breathe. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew she was dead.
“They’re in Portland,” she rushed on, “staying in some old church.”
She seemed about to say more when she saw the blood on his face
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