Blue

Part#7

My body vibrates inside with fear and adrenaline. Catching my breath, I look around

the room I’m in and am thankful to see a crib.

Okay, lucky break. This is the baby-room. By the gods! Is it better or worse? The Grimm stories I’ve

read at the coven are happier looking than this place!

It has everything for a child, which makes it look like a mini-mall. I suppress a

nervous giggle. There are some things money can’t fix, and while he bought enough things

for six children, not much of it is practical. The guy tried, bless him.

As I ease up, the kids do too. It takes a while to organize things and find the basics. I

cling to them, and question if it is for me, or for their comfort. Right now, they occupy my

mind and give me something to focus on – something other than the man downstairs.

I bathe them, dress and feed them. Soon after, both babies drift off to sleep with rosy

pink cheeks and little sighs from left-over distress.

Shoot! I can do with a scrub and change of clothes – before he remembers he wants to shave my hair.

He said he was joking about eating them; I am unsure if I believe him.

I poke my head out to listen. I don’t hear movement downstairs. On the tip of my

toes, I dash from door to door trying each one as quietly as I can.

One door opens.

Inside is a bed, closet, and another door. Without paying one iota of attention to the

decor, I yank open the closet and grab in a feverish search through the clothes.

Size too big, size too small. Oh, come’on! Why is it when I’m in a hurry everything conspires against

me!

Finally, with a do-able size, I sprint through a cold shower. Out in a flash, I do not

dry myself, fall about trying to get sticky clothes on, nearly fall over three times and then

run right back to the baby’s room. Water drips from my hair and wets the t-shirt.

They’re still sleeping and the whole five minutes it took me to get washed, dressed

and back here, wasn’t ten years. Wet denim is difficult to move in, and I kick my legs about

trying to loosen them.

I am going to go crazy! Too many bad stories, imagined or told, run amok in my

brain. I need to chill out. Anja wouldn’t be caught dead in a state like this; let alone without

a tap! What am I going to do about that? It one of the coven’s rules is to always have a

disposable tap with us, should we be without an implant. Anja has an implant and still, she

carries the disposables in her dainty little purses. Me? Not so much. I’m not Anja – not even

a bad impersonator of her. I’ll have to wing it.

“Huh-um,” the throat clears behind me and I halt in place. My fingers grip tight

around the side of the crib.

“I would like to have that conversation with you now. I brought you a glass of wine

to help you relax.”

A tranquilizer would be much more effective, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

“Thank you,” I mutter and reach for the glass at the tip of an outstretched arm. On

some of our days out, the older boys were allowed to have a drink. They used to tease and

joke, saying ugly girls get prettier through drunk-goggles.

Maybe baby-eating vampire strangers get less scary through them too. How much wine

would that take? Or maybe he likes his blood a little more potent. Whatever it takes, as long as he

stays away from these two.

The second the drink is secure in my hand, he whirls away in a flash. A fraction later

the man calls up from downstairs.

“I think you’ll be more comfortable down here. Leave the door open, sound travels,”

in a lower mutter he adds under his breath “By the gods does it ever.”

I down the glass of wine without tasting one drop of it. The aftertaste lingers and it is

pleasant, fruity. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. It is my first glass of wine ever. The

experience isn’t very memorable. Then again, I attacked a vampire for making a joke. That is

memorable enough to drink an entire bottle just to try and forget it.

At the bottom of the stairs, a small table which wasn’t there before, with two chairs

and one plate filled with a huge sandwich, awaits me.

“I made this. If you want something different, you will have to get it yourself.”

The sandwich looks good with pieces of lettuce sticking out everywhere. I am certain

I smell meat on it. My mouth waters. I place the glass down and watch it fill up again.

I ate on the trip, but not with my usual enthusiasm for take-out food and a lot less

than I should have. I am starving.

“Thank you,” I venture once seated, “And sorry about,” my hand motions over my

shoulder to the top of the stairs, “all that.”

Lord Rothchildes sits down and remains silent for a long time, his index finger taps

on the table in front of me. Awkward, I pick up the sandwich and pick at it. The bread is

gorgeous, fresh and soft. The selection is a delicious contrast to coven-food.

Meals at the coven is rather bland. We are fed for nutritional value, not for how it

tastes. As we get older, we gain a few more privileges. One such, is a day out in the city

every few weeks – at random in order to avoid patterns. On those days, we spend a lot of

time eating and tasting new things; shopping for clothes and technology. We developed our

individuality on those days. In many ways, the ‘regular’ people we encountered think we

are celebrities.

Money is never a problem, we are not told ‘no’ for anything and we have ‘body-

guards’. While everyone else fell in love with retail therapy, I discovered my big affection

for the taste of burgers and fries, steak and fries, beef sausage and fries. To be fair? Just meat

and fries; with strawberry ice-cream and pop. So, this meal? Is like a freedom offer to me,

my ‘day out’ in the city. While there’s no serving of fries, pop or ice-cream, the sandwich is

thick with thin slices of well cooked, spiced to perfection, beef on a crunchy fresh salad. The

aroma hangs around the house and wraps my nerves to ease up.

I do avoid the wine as I notice a woozy giddiness swimming in my skull.

“Oh, my word, it was lovely. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you,” with a

push from my fingers the empty plate slides away from me.

“I’m glad you liked it. Now, can you please look me in the face?” His tone is softer,

gentler, but I know this is not a request. I drag my glance to follow the length of his arm,

across his shoulder, up his neck, and past his chin to look in his face.

–gulp–

Holy mother of all things holy mother-like! Monsters are not allowed to look this good!

My stomach knots in an instant. My heart skips as if dancing through a field of

flowers. My mouth dries and while I want to look away, he is a train smash.

Dark, emerald-green focus on me with an penetrating, lazy search over my face.

Thick black lashes fan over them through slow blinks. Beautifully sculpted jawline,

cheekbones and brows draws a solid frame with hollow cheeks. Rugged-cowboy stubble

neatly shaped and trimmed, leaves him with a rogue intensity and yet the average boy next

door. Silky-shine black hair reach just past his jawline; a path cuts it in half and a loose wave

frames either side.