Episode Six – Don’t Kill the Messenger

Episode Six

Don’t Kill the Messenger.

So, I let him in.

     Now, I realize that the average person with a price on their head would be more cautious about opening the door to a stranger, but then again, I wasn’t the average person, and the fact that he didn’t just break through the window in an attempt to kill me made me curious.

     It’s funny how your mind works when you think you might die. Even after so many years of life, I wasn’t ready to go; I hadn’t finished being.

     I glanced over at my desk that sat opposite the fireplace—where a dining table should have been—and wondered what might happen to my novel if I weren’t around to finish it. Would my publisher hire some up-and-coming writer to finish it? Would they trash it? I didn’t like those possibilities; after all, it was my life scattered across those pages—no one else’s.

     I watched him move; it was invigorating to see such strength in a man—invigorating and dangerous. I had to admit I never liked tall men, but there was something about him that made me think I could make an exception. Too bad neither of us would live long enough to see it happen.

     He stood there, with his hands reaching toward the fire, sporting an expression of curious amusement as if trying to figure us out. I could see how this might seem interesting—a vampire popping popcorn and watching movies in the dead of night with a human.

     “What did you say your name was again?” I asked between bites of popcorn.

     “Sterling Pool,” he said.

     He resembled someone I might have known in another life. Tall but well-proportioned, not a skinny beanpole on wobbly legs. His soft brown hair was tousled by the wind, reminding me of the cherub paintings you see on Valentine’s Day cards, and he was wrapped in a black wool pea coat. I wouldn’t mind being that pea coat, wrapped tightly around him.

     I glanced over at Patience; she held a bowl of popcorn tightly against her chest, as if it might protect her from whatever this was… She hadn’t spoken and hadn’t taken her eyes off him since he walked through the elevator doors. She looked fragile, a mixture of curiosity and terror on her worn features. Something stirred inside my chest.

     “I take it you’ve been expecting me,” he said.

     “Expecting you—no,” I chuckled. “But I was expecting somebody.”

     “I assume then that news of Alard Plamondon’s unfortunate passing has reached your ears.”

     “It has,” I said, and then suddenly wondered what his lips felt like—probably soft marshmallows, and just as sweet.

     His gaze traveled over to where Patience still sat, unmoving.

     “And her?”

     “She’s—a friend.”

     I could see his nose wrinkle.

     “Yeah, I know. We’re working on that,” I said, and for the first time in a long time, I felt protective of something. “She has nothing to do with any of this—get it.”

     “I get it.” His gaze left her and traveled the length of the room. “Nice place.”

     “Let’s drop the bull-shit, Sterling. If Alard really is dead, it’s not from natural causes. Which, of course, means he was murdered by one of his own. If you’re here to kill me, we should take this conversation outside. The stuff in here is expensive, and I don’t want your blood all over my new rug.”

     His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

     “The Collective has sent me to ensure that Alard’s wishes are still being fulfilled, even without his help.”

     “What did you do?” Patience asked, eyes wide. It was clear, concise, and completely surprised me.

     “I stopped a very bad man from doing very bad things,” I said. “And not everybody was pleased about it.”

     Patience just nodded and shoveled more popcorn into her mouth.

     I realized it was an oversimplified explanation of a very complex and sensitive event in my past, but I didn’t have time to delve into the details.

     “As much as I feel I should appreciate this,” I said to Sterling. “I can take care of myself.”

     “It’s not that simple,” Sterling said. “The Collective would like you to assume Alard’s place.”

     “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said, waving my finger at him like a naughty child. “I have no interest in your politics or your practices. I keep to myself, and I’ve built a nice little life here that I plan to continue until it’s no longer feasible.”

     “It’s not a request,” Sterling said.

     I could feel my canines start to ache, and I wondered if I had enough time to tear this guy apart before sunrise.

     I also wondered what would happen to Patience if I didn’t. I set my bowl of popcorn on the counter and moved toward her on the couch, positioning myself between them.

     “I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all The Collective,” I said.

     “They warned me this might happen. It seems you have a reputation for—defiance. Even so, I was told to give you this if you became difficult,” Sterling said as he reached into the left-breast pocket of his pea coat and pulled out a small envelope. He handed it to me. “From an old friend of yours, Camilla Thornton, they thought it might help you see reason.”

     Camilla Thornton, the name hung in the room like morning mist.

     I hadn’t thought of her or spoken her name in so long that my heart ached. The image of her, standing there by the side of my carriage, her pale face looking up at me from beneath the crushed velvet of her cloak, the soft blue of it amplifying the soft blue of her eyes. She had wished me well, wished me well in a world that had little need for peace. Albert had insisted we leave Boston; he believed we had a better chance in the country.

     He couldn’t have been more mistaken. 

     Oh, how the sun had caressed her face, how I had loved her like my own sister, and the thought of leaving her behind had broken my heart. But how, how could this man know about our relationship? The name, no doubt pulled from past letters or old acquaintances, the closeness of our families surely had led them to her, but she and her family had died, as most had that year, of cholera and starvation. I never saw her face again.

     “A lie,” I heard myself say, though not as confidently as I wanted.

     All this was a lie to draw me out, to make me forget myself, to trust this man standing before me when I’ve never trusted anyone since that ill-fated summer. All to right a wrong that they believed I had done to them. But there was more to it than a simple murder, a simple shifting of power—much more.    

     I took the letter from him, my composure regained, if only for a moment.

     The name scribbled on the front was one I hadn’t seen or heard in decades.

     Angelica Booth. The lines of ink slashed sharply across the warm, cream-colored tone of the envelope, like old scars on flesh.

     “What does it say?” Patience asked, her voice no more than a whisper, her hand gently touching my arm.

     “My name,” I said. “Just my name.”