Chapter 4

I thought again about the first gift he ever gave me. It was a silver crest, his father's keepsake. When he handed it to me, his fingers trembled slightly. It was the last thing of any value he'd brought out of the castle.

Right in front of him, I threw the crest on the ground and ground it under my heel.

"This?" I sneered. "An old crest? You think you're paying off a beggar?"

He bent down, picked it up, wiped it clean, and held it out to me again.

"Keep it," he said. "It's worth nothing, but—"

"I don't want it." I shoved his hand away, and the crest fell again, rolling under the couch.

He got down on the floor and reached into that gap under the couch. It was not a graceful position, completely at odds with the noble he'd once been. He groped for a long while before he got the crest out, blew the dust off it, and put it in his own pocket.

That night, after he fell asleep, I crept up, slid my hand into his coat pocket, and felt the cool silver crest.

I couldn't bring myself to give it back. I hid it in a shoebox.

He gave me many more gifts after that. Dried flowers, a stone, a glass marble he'd picked up at a worksite, a handwritten card. Every time, I threw them away. Every time, he said nothing. Every time, after he fell asleep, I quietly fished them back out.

That shoebox was nearly full.

Every night, after he fell asleep, I went to put ointment on his wounds. He always lay perfectly still, breathing evenly, but I could see his lashes trembling faintly. He knew it was me. He'd known from the first day.

But I still had to keep up the act.

Because he didn't know about the curse. He didn't know that every time I went soft on him, I moved one step closer to death. All he knew was that I had a bad temper, loved spending money, and flew off the handle at nothing. He thought I was just spoiled.

He didn't know how many times I'd cried in the bathroom.

I wiped my eyes and came out. Lucian was still standing where he'd been, his coat off now, draped over the back of the chair. He was clumsily trying to undo the bandage on his right arm with his left hand.

"Let me," I said, my voice back to that cold tone. "Don't get blood everywhere. I'm not washing the sheets."

He didn't refuse.

I sat down beside him and peeled away the blood-soaked bandages layer by layer. When the wound came into view, my hand shook a little. From shoulder to elbow stretched a wide band of ruined skin, the edges blackening, yellow fluid seeping from the center.

"You don't want this arm anymore, is that it?" I scolded, even as my hands went gentler. "Do you understand it's infected? You can't heal yourself now. Infection turns to pus, pus turns to rot, and rot means amputation. If they cut off your arm, who's going to work? Who's going to earn money for me to spend?"

He didn't argue. He just kept his head down and watched me dab the ointment on, bit by bit.

When I reached the worst patch, my fingers grazed the edge of the wound. He drew in a breath, a sound so short and small it slipped out from between his teeth.

I pulled my hand back at once. "Hurts?"

"It doesn't hurt," he said.

Liar. He was the same as an ordinary person now. How could it not hurt.

I kept dabbing, slower and slower. The only sounds left in the room were the faint touch of the iodine cotton against his skin and our two breaths crossing.

"Nora," he said suddenly.

"Mm."

"Do you know why I'm willing to live in a garage?"

My hand paused.

"Because you're here," he said. "Without you here, the castle's just an empty house."

My throat caught. The curse jabbed a needle.

"Don't," I said.

"I lived in that castle more than five hundred years," he went on, voice soft. "And in all those five hundred years, I never once felt like it was home. After you came, the garage had your toothbrush, your slippers, the porridge you burned. Those things matter more than every oil painting and crystal lamp in the castle."

"I said don't."

“I’m not looking for your pity.” He looked at me. “I’m trying to tell you that no matter what happens, please don’t leave me. I love you.”

The curse hit hard. This time it wasn't a needle. It was a knife, like a rib snapping from the inside, a force dragging outward from my heart, the pain bending me double, my hands braced on my knees while I waited for it to pass.

"Nora." Lucian sat up and reached out to steady me. "What's wrong?"

"Don't touch me." I tried to push him away, but there was no strength in my hands. I wanted to say it's nothing, but the pain wouldn't let the words out.

He laid his uninjured hand flat against my back, no pressure, just resting there. His palm wasn't cold anymore. The same temperature as anyone's.

"Breathe," he said. "Breathe with me."

"It's... it's nothing," I said through gritted teeth. "An old problem."

"What old problem? You've never told me about any of this."

"You wouldn't understand even if I told you." I pushed his hand off and curled toward the edge of the cot. "Leave me alone. Go to sleep."

He sat beside me and waited quietly. He waited until my breathing settled, until I lifted my head and saw him perched on the edge of the cot, one foot still on the floor, his posture awkward, but he hadn't moved.

"How long did you wait?" I asked.

"Not long," he said. "Are you better?"

"Mm."

"Tomorrow I'll take you to the hospital to get it checked."

"No need," I said. "It won't help."

He didn't ask again. He just reached out and gently smoothed my hair.

"Then tell me when it hurts," he said. "I'll stay with you."

The next morning when I got up, Lucian had already left. The porridge on the table was still warm. Beside it was a note in his handwriting—neat and strong, completely at odds with the wreck of the place around him:

“Added blood dates to the porridge. Home early tonight. Braised ribs for dinner.”

I stood there holding that note for a long time.

Then I drank every drop of the porridge. The curse jabbed once. I ignored it.

I pulled the shoebox out from under the cot and put the silver crest inside. The box was getting crowded: dried flowers, a smooth stone, a McDonald’s coupon he’d slipped into a paper bag four years ago along with a hamburger—I’d kept it all this time. A check made out in my name, eighty thousand dollars, returned to sender after I’d tried to pay it back and found his account had already been closed. And the first crest, the one I’d ground under my heel, later found cracked in two and glued back together.

On the lid of the shoebox, in pencil, were our two names.

I turned the lid face-down and set the box on top of it.

If he could just hate me. If he could spit out one sentence—“You vain, selfish woman, I was wrong about you”—and walk away, go back to his world, go back to being the untouchable vampire lord he’d once been. I’d be glad. I really would.

I just couldn’t imagine how I’d get through the days without him.

That afternoon I went out to buy more ointment. Lucian’s supply was running low. The black market ran out of a twenty-four-hour convenience store downtown, down in the basement. The dealer was a half-vampire, all bark and no bite—he always slipped me a couple of extra packs of cotton swabs without being asked.

“Back again?” He pushed the ointment across and gave me a look. “Your guy get hurt again?”

“Yeah.”

“Not good, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head while he counted out my change. “His power’s sealed. He’s the same as any regular person now. Silver wounds don’t heal clean—leave a root behind. Every full moon after that, it aches. Worse than old joint pain.”

“I know,” I said.

“You know and you’re still letting him work those jobs? Do something about it.”

I smiled and said nothing. Do something about it. The only way I knew how to do something about it was to drive him away. And he wouldn’t go.

By the time I came back up from the basement, the sky had nearly gone dark. I was passing a department store when I spotted a familiar figure through the window.

Lucian. He was standing at the jewelry counter on the ground floor, bent over to look at something. I ducked behind a pillar and squinted across the floor. He was looking at a necklace—not the thin delicate style from before, but something heavier, set with small diamonds. I couldn’t make out the price tag from where I stood. But it wasn’t cheap.

He stood there a long time. Said something to the sales assistant. She shook her head. He nodded and turned to leave.

I followed him out and caught up with him in the side alley off the store’s back exit.

“Lucian.”

He turned, saw it was me, and went still for a second. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you in there.” I crossed my arms. “Back at the jewelry counter again? Didn’t I say I wanted something more expensive next time? What were you looking at—diamond chips? How much?”

He didn’t answer.

“Where’s the money even coming from?” I stepped closer, staring him down. “You didn’t go take on something dangerous again, did you?”

He was quiet a few seconds, then said, “No. Just… looking.”

“Just looking.” I laughed, a sharp edge to it. “Looked and couldn’t afford it—real dignified. Come on, let’s go. Stop embarrassing yourself out here.”

He said nothing. He lowered his head and followed.

When we passed a trash can on the way back, I suddenly stopped. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a coin he’d left on the table that morning—an old-minted piece, a bat stamped on one side. Currency from his era, kept as a keepsake.

I tossed it in the trash.

“Why’d you even keep that thing?” I said. “You can’t spend it.”

He said nothing. He walked to the trash can, reached in with his bare hand, and fished through vegetable scraps and fruit peels until he found it. He wiped it on the hem of his coat and put it back in his pocket.

“My father left it to me,” he said quietly. “The only thing of his I have left.”

The curse jabbed me three times in quick succession, each one harder than the last. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.