Butterflies and Vampires

CHAPTER 33

"You mean the maid? Laurel?"

"Yes. She was a runaway from her own clan, and lived with Yves and Veronique for over twenty years. She should be around Veronique's age, in fact." Uriel didn't seem surprised.

"She looked young!" I, on the other hand, was rather shaken by it.

I wondered how she managed it, and if I could stay that young forever. Looking at Agnes I believed I could, with my superior genes, but somewhere in me I had a unfound fear. If I couldn't—what would be left of me?

We have to be beautiful—don't we?

"Well, she's in the kitchen, and she's been working with Yves all day to gather intel on female vampires living around. They've managed to find a few." Uriel smiled. "Isn't that nice of him?"

I didn't want to admit it. "Well, at least he's useful. Let's go see Laurel now."

We walked down the stairs, Lark getting ready to sleep.

"Where's that green dress from?" I asked Uriel. His side profile was enchanting. I wanted to turn his eyes towards me.

"Veronique is making dresses for the girls. Only Lark's finished."

"In a day?" He finally stopped walking down the stairs, and lantern below his face, turned to look at me.

"It's been three days, Margery."

I gripped the staircase's railing, then looked around me, the unfamiliar house feeling like it had dozens of eyes on me.

"You may not know it, because Adalyn told us, with Bernadette as witness, but if you don't drink blood for a long time this happens. You've always had Sabine's, didn't you?"

I remember, of course. I was in one of those bad spells, those moments when I saw anted blood. I didn't need it, but it was like eating food and never drinking water.

"I'm fine, let me get the food, please."

We walked for a bit more until at the second to last step I fell, hitting my head against the wall before my body was dragged down by the weight. I could barely see straight.

"Margery!"

Uriel crouched by me in the dark staircase—the only light we had was from the kitchen or parlor room, and right now it seemed across a river from us. 

"You know my blood is all yours," he whispered.

I looked at him, hair now in a low ponytail, face chiseled with soft, foolish eyes. He had features so different from my sharp and cruel ones.

"I don't love you."

"And I don't mind," he whispered, squeezing my hand. With his other hand he held my head, which hit the wall. "I can never replace Sabine—but I will offer what I have."

"It tastes so different from hers." I laughed softly to myself.

Tears fell, and he wiped at it, our hands stayed tangled. I laughed for real as he scrambled to hold my hand and wipe my tears until I simply put mine over his.

"Your blood was different. It wasn't sweet, or feminine, or even thick like honey. It filled my mouth, it was almost watery, and I felt the taste in the crevices of my mouth."

"I hope it didn't taste that bad," he joked. Then he knelt before me. "Margery, I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Don't apologize, I'm too tired."

"No, I wanted to profess my love for you, and you don't have to reply. Can I simply stay by you, whether you mean to find your mother or family in the meantime?"