“Sounds to me like we’re all telling stories tonight,” I said good-naturedly. Even though the work was demanding, I truly enjoyed the time I spent on the farm with George. It was so different from how I’d felt at Veritas, working under my own father. Back then, I’d resented being kept on the farm, instead of being allowed to go to the University of Virginia. I’d hated feeling like my father was constantly judging and appraising me, wondering if I was worthy of taking over the estate. But with the Abbotts, I felt like I was appreciated for the man I was.
I took a deep sip of sherry and leaned back into the chair, shaking off the final unsettling images from my earlier nightmare. Katherine was dead. Damon might very well be, too. This was my reality now.
Chapter 2
The next morning, George and I were settled in a lavish train car on our way to London. I leaned back in the plush chair, allowing waves of nausea to ride over me. I knew from past experiences that cities could be too loud, too heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies, too tempting. So in preparation, I’d drunk the blood of a skunk and a hare, and now felt sick. But better sick than starving, especially since I wanted to put my best foot forward when we met with George’s solicitor. I knew it was an honor for him to invite me to meet his associate, a man who’d look over the numbers from the farm and advise us if there was anything we needed to do differently when it came to staffing and purchasing.
And yet, I simply couldn’t shake the image of Katherine from my nightmare. So instead of talking, I merely nodded as George wondered aloud whether or not we should lease out our horses to the mine at the other side of Ivinghoe. It was impossible to shift from life and death to the minutiae of human existence. In another twenty years—ten even—none of it would matter.
The velvet curtain of our compartment opened, and a porter popped his head in.
“Tea or newspaper?” he asked, holding out a silver tray piled high with scones and teacakes. Mr. Abbott eyed them hungrily as the porter placed tea and two raisin scones on pristine china plates and then passed one to each of us.
“You can have mine,” I said, handing the plate over to Mr. Abbott. “We’ll take the newspaper as well.”
“Right, sir.” The porter nodded and passed me a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
Immediately, I pulled out the pages I enjoyed, handing George the features he loved while I kept the sports and society pages for myself. It was an odd combination, but it had been my habit for the past twenty years, whenever I found myself in a city, to read the society news. I wanted to look for any mention of Count DeSangue, the name that Damon had used in New York. I wondered if he’d given up his airs and grandiose posturing. I hoped so. The last time I saw him, his showiness had nearly led to our demise. It was far better for us both to go under the radar.
Bram Stoker and Henry Irving open new play at the Lyceum . . . Sir Charles Ainsley invites guests to his West End House . . . Samuel Mortimer rumored to be running for London Councillor . . . dashing Count DeSangue seen out on the town at the supper club the Journeyman with lovely lady of the stage Charlotte Dumont.
I felt my stomach clench with recognition. It was exactly as I expected. Seeing the words was a clear sign that Damon was still haunting me; a sign I couldn’t attribute to my dream, an overactive imagination, or too much sherry the night before. Because even though Damon hated me more than anything, it didn’t change the fact that I was his brother. I’d known him my whole life. As children, I could sense that he’d have a fight with Father even before it happened. There would be tension crackling in the air, as evident as clouds before a storm. I could tell when he was angry, even if he was smiling at all our friends, and I always knew when he was frightened, even though he’d never, ever say it. Even as vampires, something deep within me was still connected to his moods. And whether he knew it or not, he was in trouble.
I scanned the rest of the column, but that was the only mention of Damon. The rest was about lords and dukes and earls, which must have been Damon’s newest set. Not that I was surprised. London, with its endless parties and cosmopolitan atmosphere, had always struck me as a place Damon could end up. Human or demon, he’d always cut an impressive figure. And whether I liked it or not, he was my brother. The same blood ran through our veins. If I felt a pull toward England, wouldn’t it make sense that he would, too?
I glanced down at the paper again.
Who was Charlotte Dumont? And where was the Journeyman?
Maybe, if I had time in London after the solicitor’s appointment, I’d head out on my own to find it. It would at least lay my uneasy feelings to rest. After all, I was sure he was drinking Charlotte Dumont’s blood, but if that was the extent of Damon’s misbehavior, who was I to say anything? And if he was doing something worse, well . . . I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
Across from me, George was stabbing his knife into the pat of butter. What he had in wealth and land, he lacked in table manners. But instead of repulsing me, his boorish behavior yanked me out of my head. Our eyes caught, and I sensed George appraising my grass-stained blue shirt and black slacks. They were the nicest clothes I owned, but I knew they made me look like a laborer.
“I think while we’re in town, I might take you to my tailor. Have some suits made,” George mused.
“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled. We were getting closer to the city, and the scenery had changed from wide expanses of open land to clusters of low-roofed houses. “But I’d actually like to explore the city on my own after the meeting. You see, I have some relations in London. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take a few days to see them. I’ll be sure to mend that fence at the far end of the pasture as soon as I return,” I lied. I’d never asked for days off. If George showed an ounce of hesitation, then I wouldn’t go. But if he gave me his blessing, it was almost as if Fate was forcing me to find my brother.
“Well, why didn’t you say something earlier, boy?” George boomed. “I was worried about you, all alone in the world. It’s always good to have relations, even if you don’t get on with them. Because at the end of the day, you share a name; you share blood. It’s good to know what they’re up to.”
“I suppose, sir,” I said nervously. We were treading into dangerous territory. I’d never given him my real last name. Instead, he knew me as Stefan Pine. I’d chosen Pine not only because of its simplicity, but because I privately liked the idea of comparing myself to a pine tree: ever unchanging. It was a personal concession to my true nature. And so, I suppose, was Damon’s personal choice of sobriquet.
“Take a week,” George said.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary on any count. I’m only planning to call on my relatives for tea. And that’s only if I can find them. But I do thank you,” I said awkwardly.
“I’ll tell you what,” George said, leaning in toward me conspiratorially. “I’ll bring you to my tailor, buy you some suits, and you can impress the hell out of your relatives.”
“No, th—” I stopped myself. “Yes, I’d like that,” I said firmly. After all, Damon was always so concerned with appearances that I wanted to beat him at his own game. I wanted him to see me as a man who’d made a proud life. Damon could lie and cheat his way into any social circle, but it took hard work to develop trust with humans, and I had done just that. Maybe I could even serve as a good example, a subtle reminder to Damon that he didn’t have to live a life devoid of meaning.
“It’s the least I can do, son,” George said, before we lapsed again into silence. The only noise in our cabin was the rhythmic chugging of the train and the smacking of George’s lips. I sighed. I felt suddenly constrained in our cabin, and wished I were in the barn on the edge of the Manor, alone with my thoughts.
“Quiet today, aren’t you? You were last night, too,” George said, breaking the silence. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and pulled the newspaper onto his lap.
“I suppose I am. I have a lot on my mind,” I began. That might well have been the understatement of the year. This morning, all I’d been able to think about was Katherine. And now, the idea of Damon being so close was driving me to distraction.
George nodded, an understanding expression in his watery blue eyes.
“You don’t need to tell me about it. I know all men have secrets, but please know that you have a friend in me,” George said seriously. Although he knew only a skeleton of my history—that I’d left my father and America because I didn’t want to marry the woman he’d chosen for me—something about his countenance made me want to open up to him a little bit more than I had.