“Where am I?” she asks.
“The French Quarter. I can’t tell you any more information than that until Harrison gives permission.”
“Gives permission? Is he your boss or something?”
I resist the urge to laugh, not wanting to confuse her even more. “Or something,” I answer. “I can tell you that you’re safe.”
She scoffs loudly. “He thinks he’s a vampire.”
“Yeah, well, he is. So am I.”
The girl stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. She’s probably right. “Do you know how insane you both sound? Is this some sort of cult?
I can’t control my laugh. A cult? “To answer your questions, yes, I’m aware of how I sound, and no, this is not a cult. We’re vampires, Amelia, and we’re not the only ones.”
“Viktor?” she asks.
“Among others.”
“How long…How long have you lived with Harrison?”
The truth is more than I want to discuss and more than she is ready to hear. Instead, I shrug. “I was turned somewhere around a hundred years ago. Been here ever since.” I smile, hoping to ease her discomfort. “Harrison asked me to tell you dinner was ready if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not hungry,” she answers just as her stomach decides to tell otherwise. A loud growl echoes through the room.
“You sure about that?” I laugh softly. “Harrison and I are the only two in the house. Our cook has left for the day, and he left enough food to feed an army.” On cue, her stomach growls once more. “Harrison said he’d stay out of sight if it would help you feel more comfortable.”
Her body language is screaming just how uncomfortable she is. “Okay,” she whispers. “If anyone tries to eat me, I’m not going to be happy.”
I clap my hands with fake enthusiasm, hoping to distract her thoughts. “Yay! Follow me.” I lead her out of the library and down the narrow hallway I like to call “Harrison’s look at me walkway.” Arrogant asshole.
“Are the people in these pictures vampires, too?” she asks. The tone of her voice tells me she still doesn’t believe the truth about what we are.
I follow her line of sight. “Most were.” I point at a picture of Harrison from the 15thcentury. “Look at his face closely.”
“He looks like Harrison. Must be a relative.”
“Not a relative. That’s a picture of Harrison. He’s lived in this house, well, not this house exactly, the original burned, but in a house on this same spot for nearly three hundred years.”
“That’s not possible. This land was owned by natives until the French purchased it.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in history books,” I answer, leading her into the foyer of the house. We walk past Penelope’s portrait that Harrison covered to hide her image.
“Why is that picture covered?”
“You’ll have to ask Harrison about that.” I turn, leading her toward the back of the house. “The kitchen is this way.”
We enter the room that’s just been redesigned for the tenth time since I’ve lived here. Amelia looks around, taking in the details. Her eyes spot the display of food Thomas left for her.
“Is this all for me?”
“Thomas tends to go overboard. I told him you’d never be able to eat all of this, but he was excited about the opportunity to cook. Eat what you like. We’ll donate the rest.”
Watching her fill her plate with a little of everything brings up one of the things I miss the most. Food. I’d rather not be reminded. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” I announce, heading toward the door.
“You’re not staying?”
Shit. “I assumed you’d rather be alone. I’m happy to stay if you’re sure I’m not going to eat you,” I smirk with my words, hoping sarcasm will relax the anxiety she’s carrying.
