Chapter 9

"You live here?"

I quirked a smile. "Occasionally."

I suppose to someone else, someone who's never seen it before, Brookshire is a very awe-inspiring place. It's ancient for starters (built some time around 1760), and intimidating, for seconds; it is a very tall two-and-a-half story sandstone rectangle, flecked with eighteenth century architectural detail and great tall windows all the way round. It is among the last great country estates in all of England. It was bequeathed to me by my sire in 1835, a miserable bastard who felt just sorry enough for abandoning me to leave me a house but not a name. When it came under my possession, Brookshire sat on the northeast corner of a few hundred acres of excellent hunting grounds, rolling pastures, and farmland irrigated by a wide, shallow brook. Back in the day, everybody who was anybody wanted an invitation from Brookshire (I throw smashing parties, as stated before) and so twice a year, I opened my doors to all the well-to-do and upwardly-mobile men and women from as far away as Brighton and we all ate and drank and danced too much—except Cecil, who was always a bit of a wanker.

I leased most of the land out to tenant farmers and shepherds and invited huntsmen from all over the county to shoot rabbits and deer and other furry woodland creatures. I attempted to turn it into a hotel of sorts after World War I. It worked for a while until Esther, the mistress of the house at the time, informed me guests were stealing the towels, among other things. After that, I slowly began selling off Brookshire's acreage until I'd whittled it down to a little less than thirty. Just enough to keep the essentials: gatehouse, greenhouse, stables. (The stable was once home to a menagerie of Dappled Grays, Quarters, Palominos and one temperamental Arabian. When Luke arrived, it was serving as a garage for my collection of old and expensive cars until the day those too had gone.) To the west of the greenhouse lay the old kitchen gardens, rather neglected in recent years. Flower gardens, a very green and unused pool (complete with a topless mermaid fountain), and a little hunting lodge on the eastern-most edge of the property hidden amongst what's left of the forest. Oh, and the brook.

I often wonder why I keep it—Brookshire, that is. I've often thought of selling it. Or burning it. And why not? After all, I hate the man who left it to me.

My ancient manservant and only live-in employee, Parker, was there to greet us on the front steps. He was a small man, the silver hair on his head just beginning to thin.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Hello, Parker. This is Mr. Lucas Brown. He is to be our guest."

Parker tipped his head politely. "Will Mr. Brown be staying for supper?"

I had to laugh. I knew what he meant, of course, the cheeky bastard. Luke seemed not to have heard. "And a great deal longer than that, I should hope. Really, Parker, where are your manners! Lucas, dear, say hello to Parker. Parker, please meet our new resident werewolf."

"It is a pleasure, sir, I am sure." Parker gave another little bow, completely unfazed by the announcement.

Luke, on the other hand, had gone white as a sheet.

"Oh, calm down," I told him. "Parker is the very soul of discretion, my secret keeper. Mums the word, Parker, naturally."

"Naturally, sir. Shall I prepare tea?"

"Do, please."

Luke looked between us like a frightened puppy.

I clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "You've nothing to fear from him. The man owes his life to me. And much more than that, I should think. How about a tour? Parker has left your things at the top of the stairs. Why don't you pick out a room? I'll be along in a moment."

I slipped into the kitchen when I was sure he wouldn't follow. Parker, who was assembling the tea things, looked up.

"I've a job for you, Parker."

"Concerning the dog, sir?"

"Be nice, Parker. He's only half-blood." I'd thought that was clear.

"A mutt, then."

"I won't have that kind of talk in my house," I warned, raising my voice to him for the first of what would be many times over the next few months. "You know the old cabin in the north corner? I need it werewolf-proofed by the end of next week."

"Very good, sir. Though I must ask, have you thought of the ramifications—"

"I assume you know someone who won't ask questions."

"They know not to bother by now. But sir, if you intend to keep this . . . half-blood, you—"

"That's all for now, Parker. We'll take tea in the front parlor."

After tea I took Luke on a tour, and for a while, as I recounted some of Brookshire's more impressive feats, he was able to forget about his "condition." For a while so was I. He was Luke again, Luke in the old days, brief as they were. It was hard to believe that but three short years ago he had been human . . . And then, as we made our way out of the drawing room and up the stairs, he remembered. Remembered what he was, what I was, what he was doing there, and panicked.

"Luke," I found myself saying more than once that first evening, "it's all right. You're safe here."

I wondered if one day he might believe me.

He wouldn't sleep that first night. I heard him creaking up and down the hall outside my study. I was just getting to the good part of A Room with a View when I peered over the top of my glasses and called to him.

His head appeared round the door like some frightened child and I was overwhelmed by a rush of . . . sympathy? affection? I didn't dwell on it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm interrupting."

"Not at all." I set the book and my glasses aside. "Come in, I won't bite." I invited him to sit. "You look like you could use a drink. Brandy?"

He accepted the glass with gratitude.

"You look troubled," I observed when I poured him another.

"I keep thinking . . ." He studied his glass. "I keep thinking I shouldn't be here. And then I think . . ."

"You have no where else to go?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I wasn't kidding when I said you could stay. Brookshire can get awfully lonely. It will be nice to have some company for a change."

"I don't think Parker likes me very much."

"Oh, he'll come round. He's old and set in his ways, but he isn't cruel. Besides, my house, my rules."

"Have you had him very long?"

I smiled and nodded. "Yes. Very long. Since the end of the Second World War. I saved him from the clutches of death in the, what are they called, trenches. He was predictably grateful and swore his life to me though I told him he didn't have to."

"World War II? How old is he?"

"About ninety," I guessed.

"Ninety! He looks about half that."

"It's a side effect. You see, he was rather bad off when I found him and I had to give him some of my blood to save his life. And, well, vampire blood can be . . . habit forming. I'm afraid of what might happen if I stop. Oh, don't give me that look. It's only once a month."

"And do other vampires . . . ?"

"What do I care what other vampires do? Silly creatures, vampires."

"I suppose you are a little unconventional," he mused, almost to himself.

"In what way?"

"In every way. Parker. This house. That sweater—"

"What's wrong with argyle?" I asked, taking offense.

"Nothing. It's just—"

"Not what you expected? Nothing ever is, is it? I've a coffin in the basement, if that will appease you."

"I wonder if you really are as benign as you seem to be. I had the feeling in Oxford that there was something . . ."

"Please don't say 'sinister.' It's too cliché, even for you."

He smirked then suddenly frowned. "How did you know who I was? I mean, how did you recognize me after all those years?"

"I never forget a face," I said simply. Which was true enough.

"Do you still . . . ?" He motioned to his neck.

"Still what? Eat people? No, I gave that up when I quit smoking. Of course I still eat people. What kind of vampire would I be if I didn't?"

"What do you do when you're not eating people?"

"Parker and I keep a very rigorous water aerobics schedule, knit sweaters for the homeless, and—"

"Why don't you want to tell me?"

"Because it's horribly dull, what I do." I sighed. "I own my own company."

"Never would have guessed that."

"Yes, well, maybe you've heard of it? Ross Industries."

"Wait. You own R.I. Global? You?"

I nodded glibly. "I used to be the public face, company image, and all that, but with all the leaps in technology in the past fifty years—TV, photography, Internet, what have you—it became more difficult to hide the fact that I don't age."

"But that company's worth—"

"Billions, yes I know. I've seen the quarterlies."

"So you must make . . ."

"Six figures easy."

"What do you do with it all?"

"Oh, this and that. Parker seems to think a little philanthropy is good for my soul so I subscribe to a number of charities."

"I'm just trying to figure out if you really are what they say you are."

"And what do they say I am?"

He shrugged and wouldn't say.

He slept better the second night.

The next morning I found him in the library. He was pouring over several volume spread out in front of him, his back to me, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Upon his discovery of the library he had A. yet to leave it, and B. immediately descended on my Netherworld collection, a dim corner dedicated to everything I could find about vampires and werewolves and all manner of preternatural creatures.

He hadn't heard me come in. I crept up behind him silently—and then, even as I was opening my mouth to make my presence known, I saw it. There on his left forearm.

"Lucas." —He nearly jumped out of his skin— "What is that?"

"Nothing." He made a hasty attempt to pull down his sleeve but I'd already pinned his hand in my own. I knew what it was. The Mark. Crevan's Mark, to be exact, the thing that set his Theins apart from the lesser clans: a pentacle, branded onto his skin like he was just a head of cattle.

"A damn bit more than nothing, I should think! Why didn't you tell me you were Marked?"

He wrested his arm free, tugged at his sleeve. "You knew I'd been initiated. What difference does it make? I'm cursed with or without it."

I snatched at his arm again, held it up to the light. I couldn't say why it riled me so. The Mark was just another empty symbol, like the Cross or Star of David; it held power only to those who believed in it—and perhaps those who feared it.

"If it makes no difference why take the trouble to hide it?"

He had no answer. There was no further word on the subject of his Mark. Luke preferred the term "scar" and would, in time, come to resent even that.

Another week come and gone means another week closer to the not-anywhere-near-being-done Chapters 14-18. I have no excuse. Other than everything I write seems wrong. My life would be easier if only I didn't care if my characters wandered about aimlessly without any plot or believable development. Lucky for you, I do care. Just not enough to write anything new. . . #true story.

So, some of you have probably been wondering "Where are all the Twilight characters? This is a Twilight fanfic, is it not?"

Allow me to answer: It is not. It's better than that. Ha. Just kidding. They'll be in later.