Of Clouds and Bells

XVII. Bells

 XVII. Bells-

Her leg ached where a small gash had been scored along her thigh. The night was not young, nor the stars beautiful or the moon full. She walked, or very nearly limped, on the hard pavement of the road leading up to the manor-house. There was no stunning glamour in the stones of the walkway or architecture.

Varsa brushed a stray lock of hair from face and only just resisted baring her teeth for the lonely foliage around her to see. It seemed at this very moment that she was in dire need of a large glass of blood. In hindsight, sending her carriage back without her was not the best of ideas, nor was seducing the Earl.

He was a disgusting creature. Intoxicated by blood and lacking any strong woman in his life, he had taken her as an animal in heat would go after a potential mate. Even now, she felt bile rise in her throat at his touch. She had gotten away, but it was close. Too close for her liking, and she knew she would not be welcome back there. It had been him with the dagger that scored that cut down the length of her leg. She said a word that any respectable lady would-- should-- not know. And the golden manor before her was as corroded as any other old metal. It was sickly and decaying, just as its inhabitants.

It was only by luck that she found herself able to sneak past him and find a room of his family’s records. There were a few numbers, that she could hardly understand, but she knew the alias of an opium house when she saw one. Though many knew of his habits, few had the proof-- and knew the lengths of humiliation that this particular place would bring upon him. Along with the drugs the place supplied, it was also the perfect place to send illegitimate children.

Her success did nothing to change the grimace on her face. Finally, she felt the ground of the porch against her feet. The stone on the soles of her feet sent chills up her spine. She wrapped her arms about her, feeling particularly cold in her low cut dress and torn skirts. She knocked upon the door and desperately awaited someone to answer.

“You trying to get in?” A voice came from behind her.

Reflexes told her to turn around and face him in a low crouch, dagger at hand. She stifled them, allowing them to only turn her to face the man. He wasn’t much taller than she; most of his height came from his shock of brown hair. He was a vampire, his scent distinctively that of paper and ink long past its prime. He had an air of confidence and intelligence, but they may have just been the two blonds hanging off of each of his arm. He had an eyebrow raised at her, eyeing her with slight curiosity.

She set her jaw, putting her arms on her hips and holding her chin high. Whoever stood before her would not think her at all weak or inferior; she would make sure of it.

“No,” she promptly answered. “And I do not need your help.”

His eyebrow arched further, and a smirk curled his lips. “I never offered my help.” Varsa stayed quiet. “But,” he continued, “I guess I can help if you really need it.” The blonds giggled. He turned to the one on his right and whispered something in her ear that caused her to blush. Varsa scowled at him, he just gave her a deeper smile. Despite herself, she stepped from the door, allowing him to open the door without the aid of a servant and walk in. He, however, stopped at the doorway, waved away his girls, and held the door open for her.

She felt anger flare. Narrowing her eyes at him, she stepped past. She walked away from him, not looking back to see him gather the girls and take them in the other direction.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Moreau,” she cried. Tears had welled up in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. IN her state she had forgotten not to call Moreau by his name.

Moreau set a platter of two wine glasses on the table. They were in a drawing room, small but comfortable. And dreadfully dark. He would not take a glass before she took one, and she felt the slightest bit pity for him for she was not going to take it.

“I’m sorry, Miss Helen, but I’m afraid you have no choice.” His voice was one of the few that had sympathy for her. A knot formed in her throat, threatening to choke all the joy from her life if she did not cry out in torment.

She collapsed into the seat and let her head fall into her hands. She felt heat rise to her face with shame as she sobbed. It all came to her in a rush, everything that could possibly go wrong in her life suddenly clear. She would be some whore to disgusting, decaying creatures. She would be a slave to a man that could kill her with the snap of his fingers. And she would never see her father again. The fact was more painful than a dagger through the heart. It was like running away all over again.

She felt Moreau’s hand on her back, stroking her in a way that a parent might a weeping child. She heard him speak to her, his voice warm against her neck. “Miss, we all went through this. And I would love to give you the time to become used to your arrangements, but your benefactor wishes to see you. Drink something, please.”

She hardly responded. Moreau pulled her from the sobbing position she had fallen in. Fatigue had gripped her, making her limbs ache and her feet lead. Her eyes were closed, but she could hear the metallic sound of him taking a glass from the platter and bringing it to her lips. She took a sip, letting the blood bring vigor to her limbs. It was not a large help, but it was better than nothing.

“Now,” he said. “Let me walk you down.” She did not resist as he took her away.

“Excellent,” her benefactor said as he shifted through the papers she had handed in. “I cannot say I am not disappointed at your failure to keep your status with him. However, your work is brilliant.”

Varsa held her breath, waiting for the pain to erupt on her hand. The pain never came; she let out a shaky breath as he spoke.

“There is something else, I believe, that you wish to say.” And her chest constricted yet again.

She swallowed, trying to compose her words. “I don’t want to do this.” Her voice was like steel.

“Okay,” he replied. She closed her eyes, trying to listen to his voice alone. The darkness of the room overtook her with his every word. “You will never see your father again.” Her heart sunk, making her feel void of anything but ice inside her. Not even her anger could melt the frost. “I believe this matter is settled?” She imagined him folding his hands, straightening his back as a noble taking all he could from his people.

Varsa stood and left, feeling the darkness completely overtake her. She was swept away by the flood.

She didn’t go into her room. She didn’t want to face the grandeur before her. The misleading luxury in which she lived. The dirt and grime of the streets was preferable to such a constant reminder. The sound of approaching footsteps and a moving shadow caught her attention.

“So, you’re the new girl?” the smirking man’s voice came to her ear.

“And what do you care?” she snapped. “Don’t you have some girls to attend to?”

“Eh, I sent them away. They were too boring for my tastes,” he replied, sitting beside her. She felt his warmth by her side, and she was drawn to him if just for the companionship.

Varsa snorted in an unladylike manner. “And your name is?”

“Master Marat at your service, and I believe you to be Mademoiselle Varsa Helen.” She blinked for a moment, his name ringing a small bell in her head. “And I must bid you adieu.” he stood, resting a hand on her shoulder for just a moment before leaving. He looked back, as he walked down the long hall, “And try to get some sleep.” he winked before disappearing into the shadows.

It was only then that she remembered who he was. That man was the head of the vampires here, the only leader this abandoned group of vampire had who would dare to stick his head out of the shadows.