Temptation's Iss

Branwen slept deeply, nestled into the thick blankets and Adrian’s arms, and only roused briefly when he slipped out of the warm bed to attend to business elsewhere, leaving her with a lingering stroke to her tousled hair and a cool kiss to her cheek. As she slipped again into her restful sleep a thought occurred to her; have I seen my last sunrise? What a sad thought, she mused; he could have at least let me view one last dawn before he took me... like Lestat in ‘Interview With the Vampire’. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright with a little shriek that made Adrian pause as he was pulling his boots on.

“The window! Adrian! I’ll die when the sun comes up!!” she cried.

He blinked at her, and looked at her incredulously. “You silly thing,” he replied, unruffled, “I sleep in this room myself. Sunlight won’t kill you. You’ve watched too many movies. You just won’t be quite as capable of shapeshifting in daylight as you can by night. Relax. Sleep. You have had a long night, and I have business to attend to. You are perfectly safe. I would not have brought you over only to have you die the first dawn! Trust me, will you?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered.

He grinned, “You can call me Master.”

“Master? That’s pretty old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

“I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. Listen, you can wander freely through the castle, it is your new home. Do not go into the basement, however.”

“Why, what’s down there?”

She instantly regretted having asked this as the stare he pinned her with was witheringly stern, rather like the look a parent will give when a child has asked the wrong question at the wrong time, only without the added relief that said parent won’t tear your throat out for being impertinent. She wilted beneath the covers, mumbling apologies.

“Mind your manners,” he replied coldly, closing the curtains of the canopied bed, “Remember who your Master is, or I will have to remind you. I will return later.”

She listened to the sound of his boot heels clocking down the stone floored hallway and long out of sight. It was a lonely sound, making the place sound vast and empty, devoid of life. She suddenly wanted him to come back, but resisted calling him for fear (for terror) of him returning angry with her, and that his wrath would be far worse than his reprimand. The loneliness consumed her, and she wondered how far she could hear his step as she sank down into the comforting warmth of the blankets. His step paused somewhere far away, and she could just make out his quiet conversation with a servant downstairs.

“See to it that the girl in my bedroom is well cared for. She is valuable, but dangerous, nonetheless. There are those that will be wanting answers from her. I believe she was sent after me to infiltrate my domain and find my weaknesses. I don’t think she will be a threat, now, at least not consciously. We must watch her, though. Let her go where she pleases, and take care of anything she desires. She is no prisoner, but make damn certain she goes nowhere near the basement. I’ll not be losing her the same way I lost…”

The pause was thick with emotion; Branwen could almost feel it like a fog falling over the presence of her Master. She did not think the old monster capable of such feelings, but then, she was not at all sure of what he was capable of to begin with. The statement left hanging caused a chill to crawl up her back like an icy lizard, and she shuddered, closing her eyes. The servant’s reply was soft, male, and sounded like an older man. At least older than Adrian had been when he was turned.

“Yes, Lord Medici. What of the feeding of her?”

“Leave that to me, Bernard. Thank you.”

“Yes, Lord Medici. Perhaps now this place won’t seem quite so…”

“Dead?” Adrian supplied ruefully. There was another pregnant pause, then Adrian’s boot steps as he strode off down the halls.

Overcome by the loneliness that gripped her, Branwen wept into the pillow, falling asleep before she could notice that the tears were blood red.

She awoke to a presence in the room. Something noticeably human in that fragile, vital sense that caught her attention in the way the vampire’s subtle presence would not have. She cautiously moved aside the heavy velvet curtain to peer out at whom could only be Bernard, carefully arranging a set of clean clothes on the old vanity across from the bed. He was older, looked to be about in his late 50’s, but fit, wiry and lean, with long thick hair that had once been black, but was now steel gray shot with white, tied back neatly at his neck. He was dressed in an old-fashioned suit; tweed trousers and dark blue weskit over a white, high-collared, dress shirt and ascot tie. When he turned, she could see his face, his sharp, chiseled features showing more laugh lines than frown, and incongruously soft brown eyes behind small, round glasses. His thin lips twitched in a small grin as he spotted her green eye peering out at him, and he cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. His voice was still deep and rich as the velvet of the curtains; she could see why Adrian kept him on.

“Is my Lady comfortable hiding in the bed? Or would she like to get dressed and have a look around? I assure you, my temper is not what the Master’s is.”

Branwen sighed deeply, then looked down, realizing she was still quite naked, and thinking that this fellow probably had very proper tastes, and would not appreciate seeing her unclad. “Umm… sir? I have nothing to cover me…”

His chuckle was as warm as the fire, and he handed her a dressing gown, deep green velvet and dripping with antique lace. “Will this suffice?”

She had never seen anything quite so lovely in her life, and breathed a sigh of awe as she took the proffered gown, sliding the velvet through her fingers. “It’s beautiful! Thank you!” She quickly donned it behind the curtain and stepped out into the room onto the rug. The last fading rays of the sun filtered through the window, and she watched them with no small amount of relief that they would not be her last. She turned to catch herself in the cheval mirror, and was a little surprised that she could see herself, then decided that she needed to throw all her preconceived notions of what she could and could not do out the window. She wondered if this fellow knew anything. She could see him watching her through the mirror with an appreciative smile.

“It suits you, my Lady. Perhaps you are a bit old-fashioned, yourself?”

“Aren’t all women when you really get down to it?” she mused. “I get the impression I am not the first woman the old monster has had up here.”

“No, indeed, you are not. But, you are, certainly, the most beautiful.”

Shocked by his familiar manner she turned to face him, but his expression was not lascivious, merely admiring, even doting. “Don’t mind me,” he said, “It has been a long time since the Master has had a Lady here, and he has impeccable taste in his consorts. I was merely making an observation. I would not dare do anything inappropriate to anyone the Master has claimed for himself, and you, most assuredly, are his.”

At this, Branwen felt a tug at her innards as though catching herself from falling from a cliff. His, he had said. She belonged to this strange creature that had claimed her after seeing her but once on the street as she followed him. What did she know of him? And now she belonged to him. Hopelessly. Irretrievably. Her delicate shudder did not go unnoticed.

“Surely, you don’t refute this fact?” Bernard asked quietly.

“No, I don’t,” she replied, “Doesn’t make it any easier to accept, though. I didn’t even know his last name until I heard you talking to him down the hall earlier…”

Bernard laughed, a rather open, easy, highly amused chuckle. “Down the hall? My dear, sweet, lady, I was speaking to him in the dining hall, on the other end of the castle from here! You are not yet at all certain of what you are capable of, are you? Worry not, my dear. You won’t have time to be unhappy as you are learning your new skills. I warn you, though; Adrian Medici is not a patient man, though he has had hundreds of years to learn it. He will expect results, and the words ‘I can’t’ or ‘it’s impossible’ should not even cross your mind.”

Branwen snorted, miffed. “Where is he now, I wonder?”

“You need not worry about that either, my dear. He will be back soon. Why don’t you have a look around the castle? Just remember not to go into the basement. If you need anything, just call me. Don’t worry, I will hear you no matter where you are.”

“Are you a vampire, too?” she asked, confused. He certainly didn’t feel like Adrian, and she could clearly hear his heartbeat.

“No, dear lady, I am something else, entirely.”

“What the hell is down in that basement that scares him so badly?”

Bernard looked truly regretful, and shook his head sadly. “That, I cannot tell you now. Suffice to say; this castle’s secrets keep themselves. Please, don’t go there.”

“Okay, Bernard. Thanks for everything.”

He smiled, “I never even introduced myself. How rude of me. I wonder what else you will learn here just by listening?”

She caught his subtle hint, acknowledged it with a nod, and looked over the clothes he had laid out for her, as he left the room without a sound. She was loath to take off the velvet gown, but the clothes he had left looked far more appealing to be exploring the old castle in; an ankle length black lace skirt backed in black satin, a low cut, white silk blouse with billowing sleeves, a loosely woven shawl of the wonderful antique lace the color of old bone, and comfortable, black leather boots. She wondered if there would be more antique lace and velvet in her future, and smiled at the thought. She dressed, and stepped out into the halls.

It was cold. The whole place was old, and cold and dusty. And dark. She looked around, and noticed the oil lamps at regular intervals down the long hallways, and wondered just how many modern refinements the old vampire shunned. The lamps weren’t even lit, though she found she could see quite easily in the gloom. She wandered for hours through the halls, looking out windows into the English garden that Bernard, or somebody, was keeping immaculately trimmed. She promised herself that she would go for a stroll through the garden the next chance she got. Tapestries kept her attention for long periods of time, as she gazed into them, defining the stories depicted on them, of great battles, victories and losses, of great families, of love found and lost.

She was staring at one particularly beautiful painting of a stunning raven-tressed lady when she heard the distant strains of music. A lone violinist was pouring his anguish into his strings somewhere on the vast castle grounds. Having nothing better to do, she followed the sound, tracking it through the dusty halls. She wondered idly, if it was Adrian, and he was the devil’s violinist like in an old story she had read once, (Thank you, Charlie Daniels) but this sounded more plaintive than what she imagined a demonic musician to sound. Finally, she rounded a corner and found the violinist, and he took her breath away.

He was standing in the middle of a large, dark room, before the last embers of a fire in a massive fireplace in what appeared to be an old ballroom. Dusty, cobwebbed chandeliers hung from the ceiling like malevolent stalactites, and every shadow seemed to have eyes. The violinist stood poised, his instrument tucked beneath his chin, his handsome brow furrowed into a grimace of artistic agony. He was dressed in a very old style; a white, open collared poet’s shirt, dark, knee length breeches, white socks and bright buckled shoes. Perched on his nose were gold wire-rimmed glasses. His thick, curly hair was past his shoulders, cinnamon red and brown, and matched the neat goatee that emphasized his sharp chin. His eyes, when he opened them to look at her, were warm, and pale brown, almost amber. He lifted a high arched eyebrow and watched her as curiously as she regarded him. He just didn’t feel right. He had taken her completely by surprise, and not even the rats in the old castle could have done that. He had no heartbeat, no breath, no warmth… he seemed to shimmer in the still air. A ghost? She could hardly claim not to believe in them now, could she?

“Did I interrupt you?” she asked politely, “Please don’t stop on my account! I can leave if you want me to…”

“Please don’t!” he cried, as she turned to leave. She turned again. His voice had the distinct accent of an Englishman of classic descent, and was melodic and fine as an old Stradivarius. “Don’t leave,” he said again, approaching her like one would a skittish colt. “I could play for you…”

She smiled at him, and it seemed to brighten his handsome face. She hoped, somehow, she could keep him smiling like that, as when he was sad it ripped her heart to shreds, and she could not explain why. “That would be lovely. I love violin music.”

He played a tune that lifted her flagging spirits and warmed her chilling heart; it sounded like falling leaves in early autumn. When he finished the piece, he bowed gallantly, and she giggled. His smile when he rose was radiant. “My name is Michael. And who might you be?”

“My name is Branwen,” she replied, blushing. “It’s a pleasure.” She held out her hand to shake his, or whatever he might wish to do to it. She rather expected him to kiss her wrist! But he shied away, his expression darkening a little.

“I… I’m afraid I cannot do that, my lady.”

He looked so bereaved, she reached out to touch his arm, and he backed away again. “Why not?” she asked softly.

He sighed, and reached out his long-fingered hand, so clear she could even see the calluses on his fingertips from playing strings, and passed it right through her outstretched fingers. She gasped, feeling the sensation as a brush of what felt like a cool candleflame across and through her hand. “Oh my!” she breathed.

“You felt that?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, I did!!”

“He changed you, didn’t he? Would explain why I did not hear you coming. He has found himself another consort, I see. I cannot say I am disappointed, or saddened by this, really. I know I should be, and I am ashamed of myself for it, but your presence is most welcome here.”

“How long have you been here?”

He ran his fingers delicately over his violin, looking wistful, “As long as he has. We were …friends, 200 years ago in Philadelphia. He had already been a vampire for 300 years before we met, but I hardly noticed. He was quite the ladies’ man back then, if you will pardon the reference. We often played together, and when he came here he brought me. I died of Consumption here in the castle. I remained, as this that you see here before you. We still play occasionally. There is a harpsichord just over there, and we light many candles…”

“And you have been here ever since?”

He nodded slowly. “I don’t think I can leave anymore, even if I wanted to. Sometimes he forgets I am here, for months, even years at a time, and when that happens all I have is my violin, and memories. I can’t even go into the garden. Isn’t it beautiful? I helped design that, and now I can’t even walk through it. Have you been through it yet?”

“No, not yet. But I promise I will, and I will tell you all about it.”

His smile was small, but genuine, “I would appreciate that, more than you could possibly know. You are a young creature, aren’t you, to be facing immortality? Not that your age is any of my business, but you certainly look young. Perhaps it is just this old castle getting to me. Don’t mind me.”

She chuckled. “I’m old enough to know better, and young enough to have gone and done it anyway.”

He laughed, and the music of it filled the ballroom in echoes. The shadows seemed to flee in the light of it, even the malevolence of the cobwebbed chandeliers seemed to fade to nothing more than vague, sad shapes hanging from the cracked ceiling. Branwen noticed the change, but said nothing. Finally, Michael turned to her again, smiling and said softly, “You could really feel my hand when I touched you?”

“I would not lie about something like this. I’m not kidding, it was… amazing.”

He laid aside the violin on a dusty table nearby, and reached out to her again. This time his fingers passed through her cheek, and the caress was as tangible as when Adrian had turned to mist and lay over her, though not near so invasive. This was somehow gentler, more reverent. Michael stepped closer, and she looked up at him, he was a good 6” taller than she. “What does that feel like to you?” she whispered, “I am no longer human, I cannot imagine me being warm…”

“Warmer than me, love,” he replied, “And closer to life than I have been in a very long time. You have not made your first kill, yet, have you? You are between worlds then, and you will never see or feel me clearer than this moment, when you are so close. When you make your first kill, you will not be able to feel me, though you will hear me, and see me, though not as clearly as you do now.”

She was saddened by this; his touch was so much sweeter than the vampire’s, so much more… needed. She reached out again to stroke his cheek, hoping to feel the stubble of his beard, but felt the cool mist as she had before. His eyes closed in pleasure, and he leaned into the touch. She could just see crystal tears clinging to his long, copper eyelashes. Her heart ached for him, and she reached out to cup his jaw gently in her hands. Unsure of what would happen, she closed her eyes and leaned forward to kiss him, and felt his lips as solid as any warm human man. She opened her eyes, and he faded some, becoming misty once again. His smile warmed her to the core. “I have not felt a kiss like that in 200 years, my lady.”

Her lips quirked in a grin, and she leaned closer to him, closing her eyes, and she could even smell him, now, musky and sweet like old lavender and cedar. She pressed against his chest, feeling the thick, curling hair there beneath his shirt, and kissed his neck. His breath came in a shudder, and she knew he could feel her as well as she could him… as long as she kept her eyes shut. It was the least she could do after he played so beautifully for her.

She felt his arms come around her, and when she touched his face, she could feel the tears on his cheek, the furrow of emotion in his brow. “I would that I could look you in your beautiful eyes, Branwen, but alas, it is not to be. Linger with me here, just for a time, and for God’s sake, don’t open your eyes.”

He held her like that for a long time, stroking her hair as though it was the most fascinating thing he had ever felt, and kissing her forehead and cheeks reverently. It was the warmest, sweetest loving she had felt since being at home with her own mother, and she was loath to leave this ghostly lover’s side. His lips on hers were hardly a surprise, and she relaxed into a passionate kiss with the affectionate spirit, returning it with ardor, running her hands through his thick, curling hair.

Suddenly, he stiffened in her embrace, and began to back away. She opened her eyes, and his expression was one of alarm, looking over her shoulder behind her. The icy grip of fear clenched her gut as she watched the ghost’s already pale face turn ashen as he backed away. She could only think of one thing that would scare a spirit as badly as this, and anything that could scare a ghost just had to be capable of hurting her as well. She gulped and tried to meet his warm eyes one more time before she turned to give her strength, but he was transfixed, and would not look at her.

With a shuddering sigh, she hunched down and peeked behind her to see Adrian, standing in the doorway; his arms crossed, his boots firmly planted, one delicate black eyebrow raised, his thin lips pursed slightly, his burning red eyes fixed on Michael.