"On that note," Vander says, holding a silver tray lightly aloft like a waiter from Café de Flore, "let us have a touch of sustenance." A large, heavy chalice and a dusty bottle of wine rests on the tray Vander places upon the table. Opening a great cabinet, he pulls out crystal glasses, dusts off the wine bottle with an embroidered cloth draped over his arm, and proceeds to pour William some wine. Then he turns to me.
From the silver chalice, he fills my glass with hot crimson blood. It shimmers in the light, still steaming with warmth, like a newly fallen doe in the snow.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear. There are no virgins chained in my dungeon. This comes from rabbits I lovingly raise and painlessly kill myself. I promise you they live a life of luxury and ease and" —he gives me a wicked wink— "it's true what they say about their breeding habits. I can't dispatch them fast enough."
My mouth waters. Vander slides the glass before me and I almost faint. My hands clench the seat of my chair to steady myself and I glance at William, ashamed of my hunger.
"It's okay, Anne," he says, with a grave blue gaze. "I'm quite used to it. Drink so that you may live. You were put here for a reason, but you will never decipher it if you are too weak to think straight."
Trembling, I reach for the glass and, holding it with both hands, sip. The blood touches my tongue, jolting me. It's fresh and hot. I taste grass and wildflowers. Sunlight. It's free of pain and fear, those remnants of stress that taint hunted blood. It's so sweet I could cry.
"All of it," Vander says sternly.
Eagerly I drain my glass, then set it down, chagrined while warmth flows over my skin and across my chest.
William watches, amazed. "Already, there is color in your face. Your lips are turning pink as I speak." I blush and Vander smiles.
"It will give you strength," he says, refilling my glass.
This is more sustenance than I've had in weeks. I fear I may get sick if I drink too much. Gingerly, I take a small sip, relishing the sweetness on my tongue. Not so delicious as William's blood, but enjoyable nevertheless.
Vanderbilt fills his glass then says, "Now that we have refreshment before us and a council of three, let us begin."
"These are the facts," William says. "Two young girls have been killed. One 12-years-old. The second, 18. Both had their throats cut and were exsanguinated. I had the opportunity to examine the first body and saw no evidence of bite, but it could be that the cutting was designed to camouflage the teeth marks."
"That was the case with the girl I saw," I say, newly energized. "No evidence of a bite, but her throat was cut in such a way as to erase evidence. I did distinctly smell the scent of an Alpha."
"Did you ever see the first body?" Vander asks me. I shake my head. "Well, it would not be unreasonable to assume that she is the victim of the predator who killed the second. So what can we do?"
"Alphas are too dangerous to fight, unless you" —I look at Vander— "think you can take him. But if he was turned in his prime, I don't see how it's possible at your age. No offense."
"No offense taken. Also, I do not leave these grounds."
"Surely," William says, "for this, you would make an exception."
"Biltmore is my creation and my world. She is my raison d'être and I am her guardian. My leaving renders her vulnerable. I will only do so if her protection requires it."
"Then it's up to Anne?" William says. "You expect a small female to go up against a deadly, psychotic male?"
"If not, then why did you bring her here?" asks Vander.
"So we could talk, formulate a plan. Perhaps Santos and I—"
"Even in her weakened state, Anne is stronger than both you and Sergeant Santos."
"But not strong enough to take on an Alpha," I say.
"Exactly," William agrees. "So what do we do?"
"Wait for him to pass through," I say. "He'll get tired of this place and move on."
William gives me a shocked look. "The Anne Brontë I know and respect would never say such a thing. She wouldn't silently stand by while the powerful obliterate those most vulnerable."
"Anne Brontë is dead. And she was a quiet witness, not a fighter. I know too well what an Alpha can do and I wish never to experience it again."
"So we give up?" says William. "Do nothing? While he moves from town to town killing girls on the verge of womanhood? Evil exists when good men do nothing. I am not that man."
"You sound like Santos. Sacrificing yourself in vain will accomplish nothing."
Vander takes a sip of blood. "William brings up an interesting point. Girls on the verge of womanhood. Both virgins, according to the medical examiner. What's the point in that? Is it merely some psychological fixation or could there be some physiological element?"
For a moment, William seems lost in thought then he studies me. "Throughout time and myth, virginity has been seen as having power. Joan of Arc. Artemis and Athena. Queen Elizabeth. Virginity is perceived to contain purity, a closeness to divinity."
"That implies that sex is bad," I say. "Aren't we beyond that by now?"
"There are physical ramifications to virginity as well," William says. "Freedom from disease. No births, no miscarriages, no injury."
"And emotional ramifications," Vander says. "No broken hearts or shattered expectations. Less bitterness to stain the blood. As you know, Anne, blood takes on the taint of its owner."
I try to hide the sadness in my voice. "A virgin is perfectly capable of having her heart broken."
"But less likely," William says, his gaze going dark. "The pain is more acute when not only your heart has been rejected after giving it, but your body as well."
"Virgins of a particular age are pure potential," says Vander. "The potential to create life undiluted by disappointment or compromised by disease. But how to explain the first kill in the light?"
"Blood is the life," I say, thinking aloud. Lightly, I caress the stem of my glass. "Is it possible that some girls, once they reach puberty, contain a greater 'potential' for life?" The memory of my first feed comes rushing up and shame breaks over me.
"What is it?" William asks. Mutely, I shake my head. I've pushed this memory down so deep that I can't speak of it.
Vander gazes at me, concerned. "Anne, are you alright?"
I stand and walk to the fire, turning my back on them, staring at the flames. That is where I belong. In the flames of hell.
Eventually, I find my voice. "I might know how the Alpha did it. Survived the sunlight, that is. But I will have to tell you about my first kill. It's an experience I hoped never to think about again."
"If it can save a life, then you must," William says.
I turn to him. "You will not like it. You will not like it at all."
"I have seen my share of killing, Anne. I am not as sensitive as you imagine."
I look at him fully. God, he is beautiful. He has a nobility all too rare in men today. He kissed me. And I have tasted his blood. Strong, pure blood. After my story, I doubt I will ever taste him again.
I gaze into the fire. Savannah's face comes floating up to me out of the flames. She is only 13, the same age as my first kill. It is too young to die.
Sacrifice. I am willing to sacrifice so that others may live.
A grandfather clock chimes twelve times, filling the room with sound as I gauge the moon shining through Vander's skylight. Midnight is here. The witching hour. I take a deep breath and look down. In the fire's glow, my boots gleam from the richest cream I can find, but now with the light thrown upon them I see the deep cracks in the dark brown leather and the small stains of blood like damp raindrops I can't ever get out. It's easier to forget they are there in the dark, but here in the light I see everything.
I was buried in these boots.
"It was after my sister Emily turned me."