For a fleeting instant, Henry’s gaze softened, amusement flickering like candlelight. But then his lips curled into a laugh—sharp, mocking, a sound without mirth. “If such things were ever called good,” he said, shaking his head, “then I dread to think what true monsters are.”
Penelope drew back at the harshness in his tone, though she knew the edge was meant in jest, a test perhaps of her composure. She pressed her lips together, swallowing whatever bite she had. “And if… if one wished to see the good?”
Henry’s smile softened again, the jest fading into something gentler, though still wary. “One may wish all they like,” he said quietly, “but wishing does not change what walks before you. A good monster is a dead monster. And if they were truly good, they would do the world a favor and disappear. By whatever means that would require.”
Her breath caught. He could not mean that—could he? That they should kill themselves? The hatred was not unfamiliar, her father had said as much, her townsfolk believed it too. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so easily, made her stomach knot.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said, low and careful, “but one cannot afford sentiment when the danger is real. Monsters do not negotiate—they take. They do not ask—they consume. You have seen this yourself, Miss Adams. Look at what your town has become. For all the coin my parents pour into your father’s campaigns, your infestation only worsens. If these things are not eradicated, they will begin to imagine themselves equal. What then? Shall we grant them rights? Freedom frompersecution?” His lip curled. “It would be war. And it takes only a few stepping from the shadows before the rest follow.”
Penelope’s fingers clenched at her sides. She could feel the pulse in her temples, the sharpness of unease threading through her chest. Henry’s words, though measured, cut like a blade honed on fear and cruelty. The world he painted was rigid, merciless, governed by rules that left no room for the nuance she had glimpsed in Elias.
“I—I understand,” she said finally, voice trembling, though she pressed her lips together to keep it steady. “But… is it not possible that one may act with restraint? With choice.” She wanted to swallow the words as soon as they had come out.
Still, Elias had acted with restrain, had he not?
“What you call restraint,” Henry said, pausing as if to savor the correction, “is merely patience before the inevitable. I have seen it. I have seen the bodies of women who trusted in a monster’s restraint. One act of courtesy does not change a nature born in blood.” His mouth twisted, voice sharpening with something darker. “Vampires especially—filth in human skin. They do not love, they do not reason. They prey, because that is all they are. I have slit their throats myself, watched the light die in their eyes, and I promise you—there was nothing human left in them to save.”
“You’ve killed vampires?” Penelope asked, breath catching. “But were they not once human? Surely, they cannot all be bad?”
“Of course they were once human,” Henry allowed, though the words carried no mercy. “But that person dies the moment they are turned. Vampires are born from death. If a man or woman perishes with vampire blood in their body, they rise again without a heartbeat, without a breath, without ever feeling the warmth of the sun. Tell me, Penny—does that sound human to you?”
Penelope’s breath caught at the earnestness in his voice, though she forced a polite, almost brittle smile in return. She did not know what to say, could not speak the truth of what she had done, of how the very vampire he wishes to hunt had touched her. How she had come to know both the danger and the warmth of his hands, his bite that thrilled and terrified her all at once.
“I…” she faltered, squeezing her hands together. “I am afraid such matters are far beyond my knowledge at present.”
“Of course,” Henry said smoothly, as though her submission pleased him. “That is only another reason our union would be prosperous. I have many teachings I might deliver upon you.”
“I am grateful.”
Henry nodded slowly, as if he understood more than she intended to reveal. “I hope that gratitude may one day bloom into something more,” he murmured, soft and earnest.
By the timePenelope had retired from her walk with Henry, the sun was already beginning its downfall.
She let herself collapse onto the bed, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, pressing her eyelids shut as though the very air sought to smother her senses. Every step with Henry had been measured, every word a careful balancing of civility and propriety, yet still, her skin tingled with the memory of Elias’ touch—gentle, certain, human in ways that made her pulse both ache and recoil.
And he spoke as if he truly saw her. Something even Henry could not offer… yet, they both have blood on their hands. How many vampires had Henry slain?
Turning on her side, she let her eyes wander to her open window—
Penelope froze.
Her pulse hitched. Why was the window open? Surely she had latched it after Elias had left. Yet, as she bolted to the sill, her breath catching in her throat, she saw it.
Delicately, impossibly, it rested there: a letter, folded with care, and beside it, a single black rose.
On the letter, in sprawling black ink, a note.
To my Lamb, this is me keeping my end of our deal.
Penelope scoffed, the sound caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Could he not have simply handed it to her? Honestly, she was beginning to suspect he had a penchant for burglary, the way he so oft found his way into her quarters, as though the locks themselves were no more than mere suggestions. Her fingers hovered over the envelope, heart thrumming, caught between the urge to rip it open and trepidation for what they might say.
Releasing a steadying breath, Penelope tore the envelope, pulling the parchment from within.
Dear Penny,
The letter started. Hardly anyone called her Penny, save for Eleanor herself and of course her father on occasion.
I hope you are well. It has been so very long since we have spoken, and I fear you remain atangle of nerves and propriety, bound ever so tightly by your own careful measures. I write now in hopes—however slight—of easing those burdens, if only for a moment.
