Lance sits up, too, leans against the headboard. He claims his mortal mother was a gypsy, his father a warlock. He’s been vampire nearly five hundred years.
A warlock? I flash on Belinda Burke and her sister, Sophie. Both witches, the female equivalent. The black magic witch of the pair, Belinda, I killed with my own hands. Magic is passed along in the genes like bone structure and eye color. That explains the magic, though I didn’t know it was possible for a warlock to become vampire. Two incredibly potent creatures combined in one. Leads me to the next question.
How did he become vampire?
This time there is no hesitation. Lance begins to talk as if sharing the story might lessen the burden of his guilt.
He was born in Labourd in Basque in the sixteenth century, during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. His father was burned at the stake as a Sorginak witch. His mother barely escaped to Italy with her own life and the child. But when he was sixteen, plague hit her village. She died within a few days. Julian was left to die, too. That’s when he was “rescued” by a mysterious stranger who restored him to life and took him to live in Eastern Europe.
Lance releases a breath, looks away, then back at me. You’re not going to believe who he claims sired him.
Let me guess. Vlad. Dracula. Who else would such an egomaniac claim as his sire?
Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. How did you know?
If Lance’s expression weren’t so serious, I’d be laughing. You are kidding, right?
He shakes his head. No. And he seems to be able to back it up. He has documents that date back to the fourteenth century, given to him, he claims, by Vlad.
Now I do laugh. How could you believe that crap? Is that how he seduced you? What was going on in your life that would make you vulnerable enough to fall for such bullshit?
Lance tenses. Anger shadows his eyes and tightens his mouth. He pushes away from me and swings his legs out of bed.
I’m immediately sorry for the outburst. Truth is I know nothing about the circumstances of Lance’s becoming. I was taken without my consent. Perhaps he was, too. I watch him as he disappears into the bathroom. He slams the door shut and I hear the shower. He’s back in a few minutes dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I jump out of bed and step in front of him before he reaches the door.
I’m sorry.
He stops, but only because I’m blocking his way. I can see he’s fighting the urge to push me aside. I hold up a hand in apology. I really am sorry. I had no right to say that.
His shoulders remain rigid.
Please. I want to hear more. I want to understand what the connection is between you and this man. It’s more than a familial bond. You let Julian whip you like an animal and you were willing to bear the scars of that whipping forever. I need to understand.
Lance takes a tiny step backward. I can’t tell you why it happened. I won’t. I can only tell you that by allowing you to help me, I may not have forever. Not after this.
After what? For Christ’s sake, Lance, tell me. If you don’t, I swear I’ll go after him. I’ll make him tell me. I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.
Lance lets a smile tip the corner of his mouth. You plan to kill him anyway, don’t you?
Then you lose nothing by telling me, do you?
Jesus, Anna. The sternness has returned to his face. You may be powerful, but do you really think you can best a five-hundred-year-old vampire? You said it yourself; he’s more than vampire, he possesses magic.
I can tell by the set of his jaw that this argument will get us nowhere. At least tell me how he turned you. You know my story.
His expression says he recognizes a diversionary tactic when he hears one. His thoughts confirm the look, but to my surprise, he turns around and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
Better sit down, too, he says. This may take a while.
Then he adds, “Suppose we could ask Adele to bring us coffee first? I smell it brewing.”
I nod and he reaches for the phone, makes the request and hangs up. “She’ll be right up.”
“Then I’d better get dressed.”
I’m glad for the chance to gather my thoughts. Instead, as I pull on shorts and a T-shirt, I find gathering my thoughts is the last thing I want to do. Thinking means examining what happened in that bedroom and I can’t face it. So instead, I listen. To Adele’s knock as it announces her arrival, listen to Lance and her chat about last night—he gives her a highly fictionalized version of our evening—and listen to the clank of a coffee service being set up. I wait until I hear the snick of the door closing behind her before reappearing.
Lance is pouring coffee into two mugs. He’s pulled the bedclothes up over the pillows to hide the blood. He looks up when he sees me. “Adele says good morning.”
I take the mug from his outstretched hand, avoiding his eyes. Sip.
Kona blend. Good stuff.
We return to our perches on the side of the bed. I don’t look at Lance or push him to begin. I know he will when he’s ready.
And he does.
He drains his cup, slouches back against the headboard.
“I was born in South Africa in 1925. On my family’s estate. You know the business they were in. From the time I was old enough to understand what diamond mining was all about, I hated it. Progress has been made in the last century, sure. But slave labor is still slave labor even if those slaves are now given nicer places to live and better food to eat.”
Lance twists the cup in his hand. “My brothers and sister never seemed to mind. Their lives revolved around the next shopping trip to the continent, the next glamorous soiree. They paid more attention to their pampered pets than the people who broke their backs to provide that lifestyle. I couldn’t wait to get away.”
He sets the cup down on the nightstand. “I shouldn’t have been so anxious. I ran away from home when I was seventeen. Went to Cape Town. It was December 1942. A British ship en route to South Africa, the HMS Ceramic, was torpedoed by a German submarine west of the Azores. Took the ship three hours to sink and the Germans let it. Saved one man for interrogation, but let the other six hundred fifty-six die. Most aboard were South Africans returning home.”
His eyes take on a faraway look. “Like most South Africans, I was outraged. And like most idealistic seventeen-year-olds struggling with private demons I couldn’t fight, I wasted no time in joining the battle against demons I could. I enlisted in the South African Third Infantry Division. If I couldn’t fight my parent’s system, I could sure as hell fight the Germans.”
I touch his arm. “What did your parents do when they found out?”
A bitter smile twists the corners of his mouth. “Nothing. My father decided the discipline would be good for me. Even took credit for my enlisting. Ironic. Since I was the only one in the family who exercised any kind of discipline at all. But it didn’t matter. Not really. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t Broderick DeFontaine. I was Aircraftman Rick DeFontaine, and I had work to do that would benefit all people, not just the self-indulgent rich.”
He picks up his cup and crosses the room to the coffeepot. “The Third Division never took part in any battles while I served. We mostly organized and trained the South African home defense services.”
He raises the pot in my direction. I nod and hold out my cup to him. He fills it, returns the pot to the warmer and rejoins me on the bed. “I don’t know how much you know about Germany’s war plans. Early on, Hitler devised what he called the ‘Madagascar Plan.’ All of Europe’s Jews were to be forcibly deported to Madagascar.” He shakes his head. “Maybe if it had been allowed to happen, lives would have been saved. But Madagascar was a strategic island and British troops invaded it in mid-1942. The Battle of Madagascar took place before I joined, but following the end of the campaign, I was assigned to a reconnaissance squadron. We flew missions over the countryside, looking for Japanese who had plans of their own for the island. During one of those missions, the engine on our plane failed. We crashed in an isolated area. The pilot died. I didn’t.”