“Yes,” he confirms.
“What did you do to make her leave?”
“That, my dear, was your first lesson. Compulsion.”
“You hypnotized her?” I ask, trying to put his words into language that makes sense.
“In human words, yes. In vampire words, no. I simply used her mind to teach her to stay away from others like us. Most wouldn’t have let her live or, worse, would make her a donor until the only thing left is a skeleton.” My mind flashes back to Dorothy and her lifeless body lying on the wooden floor of Harrison’s home.
“Is compulsion something I can do?”
Cyrus smiles. “Yes. I’ll teach you.”
“Mr. Knight, I apologize,” Rupert says, sliding the door open. “She snuck past me.”
“No harm,” Cyrus answers.
“Yes, sir. Would you or the Miss care for something to eat?”
“We came prepared,” he answers. “Thank you for your service, Rupert.”
The man bows grandly. “My pleasure, sir. We will be in St. Augustine in an hour.” He turns, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.
“Does he know what we are?”
“He does.” Cyrus doesn’t offer any explanation, andsurprisingly, I don’t ask. He nods toward the large book I’ve been working on. “Enjoying the text?”
“No,” I answer truthfully. “It’s all about flowers. Or at least I think it is.”
Cyrus laughs.“Horticulture of the Southern United States,”he says, flashing a warm smile. “One of my favorites.”
“You’re joking…right?” Instead of answering, he opens his thick book and continues reading.
An hour later, the train pulls to a stop in front of a wooden platform. “We’re here,” Cyrus announces, gathering his books and carefully placing them inside his bag. I resist the urge to ask one of the many questions floating through my mind. “Shall we?” he asks, offering me his arm.
Looping my arm through his, we walk slowly and methodically through the door, down the hallway, and into an empty train car. “Where are the people?”
“I’d imagine Rupert took care of removing them for us.”
“Is he a donor?” I whisper.
Cyrus smiles, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “No, he’s not a donor. In fact, I think the thought of that would offend our conductor. Rupert is an old friend whom I’ve helped several times throughout his life. No compulsion, no bonding, just friendship.”
He leads me toward the door where his friend iswaiting with an umbrella. As soon as we exit, Rupert holds the umbrella high above our heads, blocking the sun. Cyrus hands the man a small fold of cash as he follows us to an unassuming black car. “Thank you, Rupert.” He turns to me. “After you, my dear.”
I slide onto the dark leather seat, moving to make room for my buyer, who slides in next to me. “Good morning, Simon,” he greets the man behind the wheel.
“Good morning, sir.” Without another word, we’re moving through the streets of St. Augustine, the first of many places I’ve never been. The cobblestone streets are narrow and boast a totally different architecture from New Orleans.
“St. Augustine was founded by the Spanish in 1565,” Cyrus says, answering my unasked question. “It is widely considered the oldest occupied settlement in America.”
“That’s before the pilgrims settled in Jamestown,” I remember, proud of my history lesson popping out at the right moment.
“That it is.” He points at one of the homes that lines the street. “The architecture here isn’t that old. Most of what was original was burned or destroyed by the British in the early 18thcentury. These homes were built many years later.”
I look at the homes passing quickly by my window. “They’re different than what I’m used to, but I like it.”
“Yeah, the French and Spanish don’t always agreeon style.” Our car comes to a stop in front of one of the grand homes. “We’re here.”
