He gave her a long look. Finally, with palpable reluctance, he said, ‘It’s Eric.’
She beamed. ‘Nice to meet you, Eric.’
‘You still have to wait.’
‘Not a problem.’ Still smiling, she sat down while the thrall vanished down the hallway.
As soon as she’d placed her hands on her lap, a low hiss filtered through the air. ‘You’re going to die.’
Mallory raised an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise react.
The voice tried again. ‘He will drain your blood. He will sink his fangs into your neck and suck every drop from your body until you are nothing more than a dried shell. Your skin will be parchment. Your hair will be straw. Your body will be dust.’
Uh-huh. Presumably the voice was referring to Chester, who certainly wasn’t a real lord regardless of what the thrall had said. Four hundred and thirty-two years ago, Chester Longchamps had been a Yorkshire farm labourer who’d had the misfortune to get a landowner’s daughter pregnant. He’d fled the county when it became clear that his offer of marriage was unwelcome and that he’d more likely find himself dangling on the end of a noose than waiting at the end of an aisle.
He'd found his way to Coldstream and ingratiated himself enough with the local vamps to be turned. Mallory hadn’t been able to discover what had happened to his erstwhile girlfriend or their child, though she could imagine.
‘Nobody will remember you,’ the voice whispered. ‘Nobody will find you.’
Although she possessed no Preternatural powers, Mallory was certain that she was the only creature capable of breath in the hallway, so she raised her eyes and examined the paintings along the far wall. There was a rich seascape deftly painted in amber hues that could well be an original Turner. Next to it was a portrait of a moustachioed man in funereal black holding a skull in one hand and a glowing poker in the other. Beyond him, she spotted a farm scene replete with stocky ponies with dead eyes.
She returned her attention to Moustache Man and was rewarded when he blinked. ‘Hello!’ she said cheerfully.
The Cursed Portrait didn’t respond. Mallory dropped her gaze.
‘Your death will be painful. You will…’
She looked at the portrait again and the voice fell silent abruptly. Mallory gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Go on.’ He glared at her. She waited but it appeared nothing more would be forthcoming.
She shrugged and leaned back, ignoring the petals of the wooden fleur-de-lis that were jutting into her spine. Some Cursed Portraits were chattier than others; this particular example was clearly a less verbose type, at least when he was under direct scrutiny.
She crossed her legs and continued to gaze at him. His tense expression, obvious despite the cracked eggshell paint, indicated that he was enjoying the experience far less than she was.
A high-pitched scream sounded from somewhere in the house, too far away for Mallory to discern whether it was born of true fear or merely a playful shriek. Perhaps it was nothing more than another attempt to throw her off-balance. She pursed her lips and checked her watch again, then smoothed down her skirt, stood up and started walking towards the front door.
‘What are you doing?’ It was Eric, the thrall, who’d appeared out of nowhere.
Mallory turned her head and glanced at him. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘But Lord Chester hasn’t seen you yet.’
She waved an airy hand. ‘Unfortunately I can’t wait here all night. I have other appointments to keep. If he’d like to reschedule, he knows how to reach me.’ She reached for the door.
Eric began to splutter. ‘But … but … but…’
A mellifluous voice interrupted. ‘But I can see you now, Ms Nash.’
Mallory paused and squinted. Towards the end of the hallway was a tall dark figure. She couldn’t make out his features but there was no doubt that this was Chester Longchamps. Excellent: her display of brash confidence had paid off. She didn’t say anything; the ball was in his court now. He understood the game as well as she did.
‘I apologise for keeping you waiting,’ he went on.
Mallory couldn’t tell if the loud snort came from the Cursed Portrait or Eric, but she was betting on the former. It didn’t matter. The vampire had acknowledged his tardiness and apologised and now she could be gracious.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Would you like to discuss your business here?’
‘No, we’ll retire to my drawing room. Please, come with me.’ He melted into the shadows beyond the hallway leaving Mallory little choice but to follow.
‘You’re going to die,’ the Cursed Portrait hissed again as she passed it.
