William (3 page)

Somehow it was in that moment that I finally
perceived the quality that made his amber eyes so distinctly
inhuman. I had thought it was that luminescence, nothing more, that
hinted at his unearthly nature. What I hadn’t noticed was the
animal lurking in the shadows of the shadows within them. Or had it
simply not been as plain before? Now I was transfixed not by the
warmth of those golden orbs, those rings of brilliant coppery
shards, but by the tiny threads of black that ran through his eyes
like fine shards of ebony, like the inky crevices of a cave, like
the dark stripes of a tiger.

If I had any sense I would have feared the
hunger in that dark-glowing gaze, the evidence of a predatory
instinct that tore at his formidable restraint. And fear had
whispered in the corners of my mind, now and again, for months. But
now desire consumed my senses, tied me in knots, pulled me so taut
I feared I would snap and die if he didn't share it. "Merrick,
I—"

My plea was silenced when his lips touched
mine—but only touched. For cruelly, cruelly, he stopped himself and
held me fast, taking a sharp breath and pressing his forehead to
mine.

“Why not?” I begged him, gripping the back of
his coat. “Why not be done with it?”

His expression was fraught, and it seemed he
wanted to say something. But all that escaped those shapely lips
was a shuddering sigh, and he shook his head.

Sensing him on the verge of flight, I felt
the fight leave my spine in lieu of the same old helpless
resignation. "If you must go," I whispered, faltering a moment as
his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth. "If you must go, let it
be the last time, I beg you. I beg you." I could survive one last
time. After this embrace, after this moment in his warmth, I could
stand it—even if not by choice.

At first he gave no response, and I was
afraid he would leave me hanging there again. But at last he took a
steady breath and pressed his lips to my forehead.

"Say your goodbyes," he whispered.

With that, he abruptly pulled away. I let him
go, turning to watch his dark cloak disappear into the hall.

Only when I heard the front door close did I
sink into the nearest chair, collapsing limply into the cushions.
In the miserable silence of the empty parlor, all I heard was the
ticking of the clock and my own gradually slowing pulse.

One last time. One last wait, and this would
be done.

The days crawled by. The nights I drowned in
whiskey. My books lay untouched, my mornings wasted. Surely Merrick
meant for me to savor every sunrise, but to Hell with it, I
thought. My old life was already over. I had already left home. I
was stranded on the border of my homeland in the cold rain, waiting
for the ferry to take me across the river, a pitiful, lovesick
wretch, sickening myself with my own despair.

But things had been so good! Though my
self-pity tricked me into feeling I'd gone an eternity without
Merrick's loving company, in truth it often seemed that only
yesterday we were together in a love-dream of contentment. Only
months ago we had ended the summer of 1799 in the tranquil bliss of
the cottage—reading and talking, walking the woods at night, and
lying together in that bed, my arm laid across his broad chest.

And then he'd returned to the city with me,
and things had been fine there, too. He reclaimed one of his
properties, this handsome wooden house in quiet Greenwich, and
gracefully resumed his work as a private physician making house
calls by night to the poorer parts of the city. Some parts of my
life, too, went back to the way they were before: I carried on with
the books and the downtown dallying, happily sneaking north as
often as I wished. Though I missed the isolation of the cottage, I
grew attached to that home as it absorbed his charm—particularly on
those snowy nights in the flickering parlor, where I read for hours
on the chaise while he wrote letters at the desk. Sometimes I would
drift to sleep and wake up to find him kneeling before me with his
lips pressed to my palm, or having sat down beside me to stroke my
hair as I dreamed.

Merrick, Merrick. His tenderness tempered my
lust, and good thing, because I still rumbled with desire when I
thought of the intimacies we had shared. We grew more and more
chaste in New York City, and I did not have to ask why. I did not
argue, though my body quite literally ached in longing.

I did not pretend to understand the urgency
of his desire for my blood, but I knew the battle wore on him with
each passing day. Until he was ready to surrender, I could only
offer the courtesy of patience.

But that was easier said than done.

One night back in February, I had come to the
house after a few days away and found him tense and disturbed.

"Forgive me, William," he said that night,
his calm murmur at odds with the tension in his eyes. "I'm afraid I
must keep a distance."

And so he did. Just like that. No more
evening visits. No more warm embraces. No more of his gentle touch,
his hand on my shoulder or his fingertips smoothing my hair from my
temple. Merrick's will to resist his thirst had been stretched too
thin for such casual pleasures.

In March, nearly two weeks passed wherein I
went to his home and found him absent again and again, until
finally he sent a messenger with an invitation to lunch. We sat in
the dining room, corner to corner, and he served me a good meal of
cold chicken, cabbage salad, and soft buttery rolls. Politely, I
forced myself to eat it. At times like those I always felt the
difference in our age. Perhaps not the full two hundred and
sixty-some years' worth, but certainly a difference. For even in
his unhappy moments Merrick was patient and steady, calm and stoic;
I doubted he had shown any petty emotion in decades, if ever. I, on
the other hand, discovered that it took constant effort not to sulk
or grimace when my mood was bad. Sitting there and picking at my
lunch, I tried to be like a mechanical figure in an automaton
clock—placid and unemotional—rather than ruin our visit. I was
doing all right, I thought.

"I know you are unhappy," Merrick said at
last, turning his teacup on the table. Of course he did not
eat.

Blast it. "I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
With a sigh I dropped the act, laid down my silver, and pushed my
plate away. "I hate to cast a shadow over the table."

"Any shadows are my responsibility, William."
Merrick gave a rueful smile. "You need not apologize." He reached
over the table for a bottle of wine, pulled the cork, and filled a
glass for us each. "I seem stubborn to you," he said quietly.

"You seem far away," I said. "That's the
essence of it. Farther by the day."

Merrick lowered his eyes to his drink. After
a long moment he said, "I'm afraid I cannot explain myself. I ask
again for your trust."

"I would hope my trust is plain," I said,
more edgily than I intended, and reached up to rub my eyes. Loath
as I was to make a spectacle of my feelings, it was exhausting
trying to match his composure.

"William," Merrick murmured, and reached
across the table for my hand. "Of course your trust is plain, as
plain as your love, and I'm filled to bursting with gratitude."

I gripped his hand tightly—seizing what was
now a rare opportunity to feel his touch—and let out a quiet
sigh.

"If I could free you from this..."

"You
can
free me from this."

"That's not what I mean."

"Merrick," I moaned, and crushed my forehead
against the palm of my free hand. "I don't understand the
point
of this!"

"I'm sorry," he said, with a hint of anguish
to match my own. His hand tightened on mine, and his voice grew
heavier. "I've failed you. I failed you the moment I took you into
my care, knowing my nature, knowing my intentions.” Merrick reached
over to smooth my hair. “Please understand, William, I don’t want
to make you unhappy."

My eyes were closed, and I pressed my lips
together until I felt my features were steady enough to speak. "You
haven’t failed me, Merrick," I said at last.
And I'm sorry you
dread this so.

How was I to be comforted when his misery was
so plain? For that, I was certain, was what he had not the heart to
tell me: That he hated the thought of turning me, hated it so badly
that he wished we had never met.

To think I had hoped to be done with it by
the New Year. But Easter came and went, and Merrick showed no sign
of relenting. I saw him less and less, and the words that passed
between us were fewer and farther between. What could I say? All my
thoughts were in turmoil, and in his company only two came to the
fore. First, that I longed for him so sharply it felt like a broken
leg. And second, for Christ's sake, all he had to do was bite my
throat!

"I will not turn you as easily as that," he
had promised me the day we forced his hand. "I will savor every
moment of your mortal life." Not a promise, I realized now, but a
warning. We were in the lower cave, where I had found him resting
in his coffin—his "quiet place to think"—and I had begged him not
to be angry with me for conspiring against his wishes.

"What would you have me do?" I pleaded. "I
couldn't bear the thought of your destruction. Would you hold that
against me?"

Now I was sure that he did; not the
sentiment, but my actions. The proof was in the way he still went
dark and silent at the mention of Theo's name. Merrick might insist
that he harbored no resentment toward me, but he held onto that
private rage toward Theo, and was I not as much to blame?

No wonder, then, that this delay had begun to
feel so much like a punishment.

Could that be the intent? I hated to
entertain the thought. But how could Merrick really still believe
this was for my sake? Was my despair not clear as day? All I did
with this time was sulk and fear, pine for Merrick and try not to
drown in all the questions I couldn't answer without him. He had to
understand I did not spend these trailing days in leisure, soaking
up the sunlight like some hapless fool who had no idea he was about
to become a god damned vampire!

Another afternoon, another hangover. I sighed
without opening my eyes, readying for the slow process of rousing
myself, shuffling to the washbasin, changing my clothes, and
dragging my heels downtown for a tea and a smoke. Another day of
waiting, pondering my future, weighing my circumstances against
every philosophical argument I could think of. Then joining Jeremy
and the boys and drinking through the night, because at night, God,
there was no other way to get my mind off of Merrick.

Such was my routine of late. But today I was
in for a rude awakening.

"
Bonjour, mon petit
."

I turned my face into the damask cushion,
closing my throat on a groan. A reaction would only hasten the
assault...

"Sleeping the days away already,
Will-iam
?" Theo's voice was close. I could picture him with
one hip propped daintily against the arm of the chaise, looming
over me like a beautiful nightmare. "How extravagant."

A moment later I jerked half-upright when he
swept my legs off of the couch, sitting lightly in the space he
made. Huffing resentfully, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes before I
shot him a glare.

Theo sat on the edge of the chaise in his
usual manner, his slender limbs arranged as though for a portrait.
Insufferable Prat in Repose.
It would take a master painter
to evoke the sly intelligence in those gleaming blue eyes, a deft
command of light to bring out their incandescence. Although, come
to think of it, I imagined artists would stumble over themselves
for a chance to depict him.

The French vampire had come dressed in a lush
blue cloak that set off the fiery tones of his auburn hair and his
pink lips, and he dangled a basket from one slender hand. "Shake
off your dreams, morsel," he said with a pretty smile. "I've
brought you some cakes and wine."

It had been several weeks since I had seen
Theo, and I pulled myself fully upright to gauge him suspiciously.
"What are you doing here?" I grumbled.

"
Mon dieu
." Theo's sweet expression
changed to one of disdain. "You lot are such beasts when you wake
up." He flicked a pale hand toward the door. "Go freshen up and
come back with your manners."

The little shit. Oh, I hated him. I rose with
a scowl and stalked out of the room, then took my time in the
washroom. Knowing the twit would appraise my attire with a
competitive eye, I dressed in a pair of green diamond-patterned
trousers, a black jacket, and a charcoal-colored suede waistcoat in
which I cut an inarguably sharp figure. Of course, Theo was always
dressed more finely than I could afford, from his exquisitely
tailored jackets to his gleaming Hessian boots, but we both knew
style transcended coin.

Damn Theo. I frowned into the mirror as I
wound my cravat around my collar, knowing he would keep me in his
spell for as long as he wanted. It was always that way: No matter
how irritating I found the priggish bastard, he was never without
an interesting thing to say. In fact, he could be downright
generous with his knowledge. Now more than ever I craved any
insight I could glean with regards to Merrick and my situation, and
I knew Theo would enlighten me, at least a little.

And, well, all right. Theo was rather
engaging in his own right. Infuriating, yes, and mean as a fox, but
also sophisticated and clever. I had enjoyed a moment or two in his
company, here and there. Not that I would ever admit it.

"I can't believe you're still your old self,"
Theo said when I returned to the parlor. He had fetched two glasses
and was pouring the wine on the sideboard by the curtained window,
shaking his head in a kind of annoyed disbelief. "He has outdone
himself. Truly." Turning to me, he bent at the waist and offered me
a glass, balancing it between his slender fingers with impossible
delicacy. With Theo, every movement was performed with the elegant
glee of a Harlequin.