Page 99 of Eternal Obsession

Alex nodded then left the room.

Conceding to Ingrid’s request, we headed out on another tour. On arriving within the armory, I reached up and took down one of my old fencing sabers, easing it from its casing, and proceeded to provide Ingrid with a demonstration. I swung the fine epee this way and that as if masterfully dueling with an invisible opponent, moving forward with assured expertise, impressing Ingrid with my obvious skill.

A flicker of pride stirred in me that she had turned her affections toward me once more, her gaze filled with admiration.

Next, we made our way toward the library. I took my time carefully selecting then removing from the tall shelves, one book and then another, using the stairs when needed to reach some of my most cherished. The antique vellum books were the oldest and most valuable within the collection, and most of them Ingrid noted were first additions and out of print. We fervently viewed the many pages, admiring the bindings and fine font, agreeing that books were no longer produced in such a unique fashion.

“I have a great collection of originals,” I said. “Do you like Shakespeare?”

On seeing Ingrid’s expression, I pretended I was joking.

Ingrid was drawn to me, her attraction as clear as mine was to her. She studied me, fascinated. Years of pretending to be human were paying off. This was a dangerous game I played, and I questioned my motives for allowing her to get so close and see so much. However, my desire to be both accepted and feel affection was undeniable.

She reminisced about her encounter with the stranger in the dungeons. Orpheus’s recondite effect upon her was no different from how it influenced anyone. His seductive ability had deeply affected her. Orpheus would draw his victims in, seducing them and then push them away, leaving them wanting. In order to protect Ingrid, I knew what I had to do—inflict such an indelible impression upon her that thoughts of me would push out all traces of Orpheus.

Taking her firmly by the hand, I led Ingrid down the stone stairway to the lower chambers of the castle and into the darkest room. It had been many things—once a torture chamber and more recently a bedroom for Alex. Now, it was just a clandestine four-walled chamber. I’d managed to persuade my brother to find another more appealing place to sleep.

Despite its darkness and chilly temperature, I hoped Ingrid would feel safe with me and nudged her inside. I lingered at the open doorway, pausing for a moment, reconsidering.

Take Ingrid home and then forget her.

I followed her in. “This room was used by my ancestors to subjugate witches and the like,” I explained. “The accused were brought here to be tortured, part of a soul-cleansing ceremony. They were then taken to another place, one far from here, to be offered up in sacrifice.”

Ingrid’s eyes adjusted to what little light was in the room. “Where were they taken?”

“Stonehenge.”

“They must have been terrified,” she said.

“They were.”

“Because they weren’t witches, were they. Just women accused of witchcraft.”

She wasn’t wrong, of course, but steering the conversation toward the inconvenient fact that they were in fact vampires, and that now I counted myself among them, was hardly the direction I’d hoped to go.

Ingrid explored. She noted the heavy wooden door, the only exit from the dark chamber, admiring its design. Carried by her imagination, Ingrid observed me lighting the candles upon the altar and within the sconces. Flickering flames threw shadows. The arcane light danced on the central table.

“Look at this.” She rubbed dust from the wall.

“What is it?” I asked.

“An inscription, see. Haven’t you seen it before?” she asked.

“No, I’ve never noticed it. What does it say?” I wondered if Alex had written it as I did not recall seeing it.

Ingrid read the faded letters. “The truth will out.”

“The truth will come out?” I repeated.

“It’s a Northern expression, it means that . . . well I suppose it speaks for itself,” she said.

I rubbed my fingers over the painted stone. “It’s signed.”

Ingrid and I studied the scribe.

“Fabian Snowstrom!” I read.

“Do you know him?”