“Marry me,” he had said to her once. He wanted to possess her, but she couldn’t be had. She was a whore. Lawrence’s whore. Girls like her didn’t marry. Girls like her only got thrown away.
Lawrence had taken her in, given her a profession, given her the means to take care of herself, and now this man wanted to take it all away.
“Don’t be foolish…he’ll leave you eventually…you’re not the marrying type, my dear…it’s not love you feel…I’m a vampire…let me turn you…you’ll have eternal life…he can join us…if he loves you, he won’t begrudge you this…”
Then there was the other man’s face. Michael. Her mind supplied his name, and she remembered it with fondness. He had been in her life for months. His face floated before her, eyes affectionate.
Affection. That was the strange look that had filled his eyes moments before she had killed him. Slowly, the eyes morphed into the dead glass she remembered from the floor of her parlor.
“Shh, everything will be fine.” Lawrence’s voice broke through her dream, as if he spoke directly to her mind. “You’re all right, Amaia. You can hear me now. That means it’s almost time to wake up. Sleep for just a little longer. Enjoy it. This is the last time you’ll ever sleep. I’ll explain everything when you wake.”
The voice gave her something to hold to. In the hazy sea of her dreams, she tossed, confused. When Lawrence’s voice commanded her, she was safe and secure. Her confusion subsided. He would explain everything when she woke. For now, she only needed to sleep.
Chapter 2
London, February 1623
Light filtered through her eyelids, sharp and pointed like a needle.
“Yes, it’s time to wake up now, my child. You’ve slept enough.”
Lawrence’s voice resonated inside her head again.
“Amaia, wake up.”
The firm tone of his words forced her eyelids open. Quickly, she closed them again.
“Go slowly. It will take time for you to adjust.”
She tried again, and this time she saw Lawrence sitting next to her bed. Her eyes widened. Every pore on his face appeared magnified, every vein outlined. Each individual hair on his skin could be counted. The color of his skin was no longer white. It was much more complex, leaning toward a mishmash of gray, white, gold, and an undercurrent of red. It was unlike anything she had ever seen.
“I see your new eyes are working well. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them in time.”
“How are you doing that?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. She heard every individual note.
“It’s easy. You’ll learn.” This time, he spoke with his mouth. The voice was the same as it had been in her head: rough like gravel, but smooth like water. His words flowed almost like a brook, the clear water clashing against worn pebbles.
The most delicious smell emanated from a cup on her nightstand. Her mouth watered, drawing attention to her dry throat.
“Go on and drink. It’s for you.”
Her hand lashed out to snatch the cup, succeeding only in nearly sending it tumbling to the ground. Lawrence’s hands were quicker, grabbing her wrist with one and the cup with the other. “You’ll grow accustomed to your new movement in time. Until then, think ‘slowly.’”
This time, she tried to restrain her hand as she moved for the cup. She still went too fast, but it was better. Satisfying, lukewarm blood poured into her mouth, though it didn’t taste as good as she’d expected.
While she drank, she looked around her room. Sunlight poured in through the window. She saw every individual beam of light. Every dust mote caught in the rays appeared as detailed as the cup in her hands. Everything was sharper, clearer, more vivid.
She slammed the cup on the table without meaning to and then reached out to prevent it from tipping.
“Feel better?”
“It didn’t taste as good as I remembered.” Amaia screwed up her face.
Lawrence laughed. “No, it wouldn’t have. It’s that way with your first kill. Besides, blood always tastes better from the source. You’ll feed properly later.”
With her thirst satisfied, she had the urge to be up, to be doing, to explore this new world she had been born into. In an instant, she was on her feet, before she was even consciously aware of having ordered her legs to move.
With the smell of blood gone, she concentrated on the other scents assaulting her nostrils. Instantly, she knew that the perfume on her nightgown was made of lilacs, orange zest, vanilla, and just a hint of cinnamon. She remembered buying it, but she couldn’t remember smelling it before. The memory lay hidden behind a hazy veil, and she experienced it as an observer. It was like trying to remember a dream. The memory was there, though it didn’t feel as if she had lived it.