Page 80 of Silent Stalker
Clarke wrinkled his nose. “Your father being the master of that brood would be quite troublesome.”
In a way, I felt like a child discovering the world for the first time. Unable to resist, I asked, “Why?”
“He was not loved by all, to say the least.”
“Much like my father, who has a reputation for doing things people dislike. Of course, I know now it was out of necessity, but that changes nothing.”
“Correct. The master of that brood was never confirmed to die, and there are four or five other originals who could be alive. The rest have been confirmed staked and long gone, truly dead with no hope of revival. Let’s just say those were quite public, as without the master of the brood controlling them, they gave into their darker natures. Men like them are why, even now, strong broods need stronger masters—and mistresses.”
I could understand how it would be easy for a vampire to fall prey to greed, ambition, and the desire for power. “Was the master of that brood a good master, though?”
“He did well, and most broods would be proud to have him leading them. But his methods could be, when necessary, cruel. We know nothing of his method of turning vampires, however. The known originals won’t speak of it. If you were to ask them, all they can tell you is that they don’t remember much of it. One day, they died. Then they rose. Should you meet an original, do not inquire. It is not a good subject for them.”
I understood. While aware I hadn’t been actually made into a vampire at Jeremy Breckenan’s hands, he had awoken my nature—and I remembered nothing of it. “Is it possible the first vampires were like me? Predisposed, and they rose of their own accord?”
Clarke heaved a sigh, and to my amazement, he nodded. “The world was a much different place that long ago. I think that’s possible. And it would explain why the originals were so careful with their children. To become a vampire went very much against the general beliefs and superstitions of the times, so it would have been traumatizing for them.”
While a thousand questions rattled around in my head, I decided to ask the one that might help me cope with the realities of my life. “Did this original friend of yours say anything about my father’s decision to raise me?”
“He offered his approval, for you did not do anything wrong—and neither had your father. You must understand it was customary to keep the body of a loved one for a while. Burial practices were drastically different. If your father was an original, he would have kept you with him throughout the night, as he stood vigil and mourned your loss, and he would have gone out in the early morning, just as the sun was rising, to say his farewells. In modern times, that would be when he ‘discovered’ you’d passed during the night and taken you to be buried per modern standards and traditions. But you rose, which is when things became somewhat sketchy.”
“Somewhat sketchy?” I blurted. “I tried to eat my mother!”
My mother laughed. “You didn’t do a very good job of it, but yes, you did. Your father and I laugh about our thirsty little vampire nowadays. It was, admittedly, quite frightening and alarming when it happened. What we were supposed to do? I couldn’t produce milk and give my baby blood. But your father handled the blood while I handled the milk. And you had quiet the fiendish little appetite. Your father carried many concerns you would be lactose intolerant due to your heritage, but he thinks that your body never quite adapted to the level where lactose intolerance becomes inevitable—not until you were taken from us. Then your body completed adapting into your true adult form. Your father will go to war over that. His wrath you’d been taken exceeded my expectations.”
“Yet he did those asinine court hearings.”
“He found them amusing, especially when he had to pay the attorney fees for the other side. All intentional. His attorneys are either vampires or associated with his brood. And yes, he has a brood, although it is small and close-knit.”
Clarke nodded. “Old vampires require broods. I was concerned, because old vampires without broods become dangerous swiftly.”
“I know. He told me. He’s a lot of things, but he’s very forthcoming about things like that.”
Emerick chuckled. “That surprises me, but I also find it reassuring. Did he give you a name he prefers to go by?”
“Yes. Charlie. He picked Charleston for his last name for his older sons because he enjoys being called Charlie. Not Charles, though. Charlie. So, in private, I would call him that. I was aware his birth certificate is falsified, as is the rest of his identity. He says he’d become bored of his past self, and he wanted to do something else for a while. His little empire is that something else, but then Penelope came along. We have no regrets having had her, of course—but things did not go as we hoped.”
“Well, losing your baby shortly after birth would be traumatic.” Emerick sighed. “Have you been taught what vampire women must do in order to have a child?”
“Yes, Charlie told me when I was pregnant with Penelope. He often made jokes about how we were just as difficult as a vampire wife and unborn child. He wasn’t bothered by the added complexity. It was after she rose we had the most problems.”
“What sort of problems?” Emerick asked.
“Keeping her from interacting with other vampires was the hardest of them. We assumed if she befriended vampires, her nature would awaken again. We took care to raise her to be prejudiced, specifically to prevent her from interacting much with vampires. Her father went out of his way to make certain he only provided blood when he was calm and in a good mood, although truth be told, he was always in a good mood when around her. It amused him having to play the villain while watching his little girl figure out how to work around his wicked ways. Make no mistake, Penelope. You’ve made him quite proud of everything you’ve accomplished despite his influences. According to him, you’re smarter, prettier, and far wiser than all of your brothers combined.”
“Is he going to be paying for my therapy bill? Because I’m going to have a therapy bill,” I informed my mother.
“I’m sure he will find suitable ways to express certain regrets.”
“Like the car in my garage?” Emerick asked in an amused tone.
“Much like that, although he’s been holding onto a new car for you every year anticipating when he could begin your lessons, after you reached maturity as a vampire rather than as a typical human.” My mother smirked, and the sly expression caught me off guard. “Some of my favorite arguments with your father involved which car we’d get you. Upon learning your husband’s preferred vehicle is a Civic, he became ridiculous. His daughter, in something as plain and practical as a Civic? Woe, woe, woe. Then I reminded him Civics were safe, and he stopped complaining as much.”
“He would prefer my Bugatti, I take it?”
“He does not know you own a Bugatti,” my mother replied. “But that is more in line of what he feels our daughter deserves.”
“She’s a wretchedly expensive, temptress of a vehicle. She stays in the garage where it’s safer for everyone involved. She’s a status symbol.”
