When we come back, Damian and Elliott are nattering away happily like a couple of old women. But I note that Elliott is being careful not to give anything away about his past and keeping the discussion firmly grounded in thepresent. I know he’s doing it because he doesn’t want to scare Damian. So it’s going to be up to me to explain that Elliott’s a thrall if he starts asking questions. Oh joy.
Then to my horror, Sadie—obviously wanting attention—drops a conversation bomb. ‘Have you told Damian about you-know-what yet, Floss? He has to decide soon,’ she says brightly and digs her elbow into my ribs.
Damian throws me a curious glance, and I stiffen as Sadie smirks, knowing damn well I haven’t. A muscle twitches in my jaw, and I’m a hair’s breadth away from biting her.No, Sadie, I have not told Damian that he needs to choose between having his memory wiped or being turned into a vampire! So shut the fuck up!I yell at her silently. The corners of her mouth tilt upward, but it’s not funny.
This is a conversation that needs to be approached delicately because if I muck it up, the results could be catastrophic—namely I’d lose Damian forever. The thought is too distressing to even contemplate.
Hester gives me a sympathetic look and soothing one-to-one telepathy:She’s just jealous, Floss. Don’t let her rile you.You’ll handle it just fine.One advantage about Hester having even more powerful mind control than Sadie is that she can cut her out of our mental dialogue anytime she wants to. It drives Sadie nuts.
And she knows she’s doing it too because Hester’s eyebrows are fluttering slightly. Sadie gives us an evil glare, and I can sense she’s about to blurt something Damian’s not ready to hear. So I say to him abruptly, ‘Hey, do you want to come downstairs for a bit?’
Damian blushes bright red, and Elliott sniggers. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be showing him your etchings in the attic?’
‘Yes. Well, an evil witch has commandeered the attic,’ I say stonily, throwing Sadie a ‘don’t mess with me’ look.
I feel bad about dragging Damian away from Elliott when they were getting on so well, but I can’t risk Sadie deciding to take matters into her own hands.
However, as soon as we reach my lair and I shut the door, Damian faces me and folds his arms. ‘What did Sadie mean? What haven’t you told me?’
Oh, damn her to hell.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say hastily, avoiding his eyes and walking over to the fireplace.
‘Floss, whatever it is, please just tell me. Because the fact that you’re not is truly frightening.’ Damian’s voice cracks, and I know I’m causing him unnecessary angst.
Maybe I should choose the memory wipe for him ...
I sigh and sit down, gesturing to the other armchair. ‘Take a seat, and I’ll explain. But you’re not going to like it.’
Wordlessly, Damian sits across from me and waits.
I gather my thoughts. Perhaps if I explain how this came about, he’ll understand better.
‘Soooo you know how I told you that my ex-boyfriend is looking for me?’
Damian nods.
‘His name is Dr Alexander Dryden, and he’s the man who sired me. My human life ended in London on the night of 3 October 1888.’
Damian blinks once and doesn’t say anything. So I take that as a sign I should continue. ‘I ... I did something ... bad ... to him. Sadie was involved too. Thanks to Hester, we’ve been hiding out in Edinburgh ever since so he can’t track us down.’
‘Why thanks to Hester?’
‘As she’s way older than us, Hester’s powers are more advanced. She’s able to shield me from Alexander’s blood bond, also known as a “sire bond”,’ I explain to him. ‘It acts like a homing beacon, allowing him to find me if he’s within a certain range,’ I add when Damian looks blank. ‘We recently found out that Alexander had visited Edinburgh, so Sadie’s understandably nervous. I am too. That’s why I’ve been up Scott Monument so much lately—to try and detect if he’s lurking around.’
I’m talking to Damian as if he’s one of us, and I know this information is probably difficult to comprehend, but heseems to be doing OK with it so far. Or so I think.
‘Right. Um, exactly how old is Hester?’ he asks slowly.
‘Ah, she’s from the mid-sixteenth century.’
Damian gapes. ‘So like the Elizabethan era?’ he chokes out.
I nod. ‘Yes, she was turned in 1560, but we met her in 1921.’
A nerve in Damian’s cheek twitches, and he lets out a slow breath. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ he mutters. ‘And Sadie? When did you meet her?’
‘In 1921 as well, in Paris,’ I say. ‘But I’d been living there for thirty-three years before we ran into each other.’
