He stopped talking, stared at me, and I knew that this was a type of intermission, for me to ask any questions I had. "Nikolai saved you?"
"He was a man of his word. He still is."
"And he promised your mother to keep you safe. Did he succeed?" I asked.
He smiled. "That comes later in the story."
I nodded. "MacDonald…Did he want to kill you? Would he have, if you had stayed?"
"Yes. Very slowly, and very painfully. And if Nikolai had attempted to stop him, he would've killed him as well."
"But why? You were just a boy!"
"Barely a boy, soon to be a man, and I hadn't given him the respect he deserved straight out. I had gawked at him, instead of bowing and pleading forgiveness. I had stood there, beside him, walking there as if he'd given me permission."
"He's rotten." I pouted, quite babyishly, and he smiled.
"I'd say he was, yes." He stopped, waited for me to asked more questions. I had none, and he continued.
"I came back to Île d'Ardubios when I turned 23, and my sister Louisa nearly cried. At first, I thought she was upset to see me and have to give me my land. But she soon made it clear her tears were of happiness, and she embraced me. She was 36 when I came home, and she figured herself growing old. She only wanted to take care of her family, she told me. Her children had grown up in this house, and I wished for them all to stay. Her husband had died the year before of something very close to scarlet fever, and I could hardly send them off on their own. She thanked me vigorously and went on her way to tell her son, Nathan, then eight, and her daughter, Angelique, then five, that their uncle, whom the oldest could hardly remember, was home.
"I loved Nathan, with his cheerful smile and his mindless chatter. He loved horses, and so I showed him the horseflesh I had brought from England, a lovely, black mare with a coat that shined like the sun. A fine British bay horse, lovely and regal. He wanted her, and so I gave her to him, as a late birthday present. His mother warned me not to spoil him, and was disappointed by me even more later.
"Because, little Angelique held my heart, and my wallet, and got whatever she asked for. With pale blonde hair, just like my sister's, but curled neatly like my mother's, she reminded me lovingly of both. Eyes like the ocean around our beloved isle, crystal clear, and innocently naïve, like all girls her age. The same color as my mother's. She reminded me of a porcelain doll. On my first day home, she'd decided I'd be her replacement father, and I didn't have the heart to correct her. She called me Papa.
"Oh, how I loved that girl.
"Word traveled, like it did when there was nothing else to do but gossip, and soon, everyone knew that Christophe's heir had returned. MacDonald came two years after I returned. I could speak English without flaw then, and he spoke to me directly, not through Nikolai, although Nikolai was there. Neither of them had aged a day.
"He spit on my ground purposely before he spoke. The first thing that clod did was call my mother a whore. The very first thing he said was that I was the son of a whore and a fool and that I deserved no life, and he was there to make it happen. This obviously wasn't going to end peacefully.
"He had no horse this time, and his hair was loose. His eyes were alight and blood colored, glowing like a cat's, red as the rubies the court women cherished. I wasn't a little boy anymore, and I wasn't afraid of death. He would not call my mother, my dead mother, a whore. Especially since he had killed her himself. Before I could take action though, my little angel was running towards me. I wanted to yell for her to go back, but I knew that would only spark more curiosity in MacDonald. I paid her no mind, hoping she'd do want she normally did when she was ignored – promptly ignore me back. But she raised her voice louder.
"I spun at her, glaring furiously. She'd reached me by then, and her eyes widened with shock and fear at my expression, but I had no time for regrets. I yelled at her, telling her to get back to the house now. I didn't even listen to her protest, just screamed louder. She pouted but turned to go back. MacDonald grinned. He called to her, in terrible French. She turned. I was more terrified of what he'd do to her if she didn't oblige him, so I nodded, and she stepped forward. He looked at me, falling back into English. He asked me if she was my girl, and I told him that she wasn't, she was my sisters. He stated that I cared about her. I glanced at Nikolai in time to see him shake his head quickly. I understood immediately. Like killing me to upset my father….he would've killed Angie to upset me."
I gasped, and my hand flew to my heart, tears filled my eyes, and then his. "He really would have—"
He held up a hand to silence me. "Let me finish." He said, making me think the worse I could imagined was true. "I told him that I didn't have a particular liking for the girl, but I put up with her for my sister's sake. I was glad she couldn't understand English, for she would've surely started crying then. But, MacDonald was no fool. He glared at Nikolai for a moment, then grinned at me. He snatched Angie into his arms, winding an around her tiny waist, pulling her out from behind me before I could blink. A second later, she was on the floor, trembling. His mouth was dripping with her blood, her flesh hung between his teeth…" He stopped, stared at the ground. I think he decided I couldn't take the gory details, because he went on. I thanked him for that, even as I shuddered at the little he did tell me.
"He pulled out her carotid vein. Clean from her body. I was able to hold her in my arms for barely two seconds, then she was dead. I didn't have time for tears. I lunged at him. I guess my quick attack caught him by surprise, because I actually managed to get him to the ground, get a few hits in, before he quickly maneuvered, rolling until he was on top of me. He ducked his head, and I felt something jab into my skin. I knew that he was sucking me dry, and that I would die. I struggled for a few minutes, then decided it wasn't worth it. Life wasn't worth it anymore."
He was crying, and I sighed wretchedly, reaching over, holding him close, but he pushed me back. "No, the most important part is next." He snapped.
I sat back, a little shocked and a little scared, and nodded at him to continue, with an attemptedly serene stare.
He wiped at his eyes. "He was yanked off of me, and quickly, very quickly, my arm was grabbed. It was sliced, I could feel the knife dig into my skin, the quick flash of pain, mixed in with all the other flashes of it in my body, emotional and physical, and then a goblet was thrust under my lips, and tilted up. I knew what I was drinking, but I drank it still. It didn't taste gross, it tasted good. Salty, metallic. It was thick and warm, but there were also a feeling of coldness to it, as it slid down my throat. It was my first taste of blood, and I liked it.
"And then I died. I knew I did, but was distressed that I could still think. As I waited to see the gates of hell, for I was sure I would be going there. My mother died because of me, my Angelique, and most likely the others in the house, and so I would be going to hell. But the gates never came. So, I waited still, this time for the gates of heaven, thinking, perhaps, standing up to such a villain might have earned me a ticket into the golden city…But the pearly gates never came either.
"And I waited, and waited. Then, I stared to feel a sensation. I could feel my body again, I wasn't just thoughts bouncing around in darkness any longer. I could feel a body, and I knew that it was mine, although I could move nothing. Then, gradually, I could move my fingers, my toes. I could roll my wrists, my ankles. Bend my elbows, then my knees. And finally, I had full use of my body again.
"It was too dark for me too see, but I knew I was somewhere small, and made of some kind of smooth, cool stone. I figured marble. I touched my hand to my neck, but there was no blood, not even a hole, or those to little puncture wounds vampires are so famous for. I didn't know what to make of it. I reached up, brushed the ceiling of the too tiny room I was in. I soon discovered the it wasn't a ceiling—plainly a cover. And it was, in fact, made of marble. There was no way I could pick up a slab of marble on my own, but I had to try. I was feeling claustrophobic.
"When I pressed my hands to the surface and pushed, it gave easily. So I pushed it out of the way and sat up with shock, examining the room I was in. I could see all the tiny detail of the stone walls, could read all the fine print of the markers and the plaques. I could smell the damp, dirty smell of death, the decaying bodies, and the scent of exposed bones. I nearly cried out. I was in a tomb. My family tomb, and I was sitting up in my own coffin."