"Yes. One of her many acquired talents. Born in the dirt, she worked very hard at being a lady.” He gestured around them.
"But you love her."
"Yes,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them to stare out at the brightly lit night beyond the window. “Sixteen,” he said, without looking back.
Cynthia frowned. “Sixteen what?"
He glanced over his shoulder. “You asked how old Alexandra was when she was turned. She was sixteen. I found her much later, in Paris during the Revolution.” He shrugged and turned back to the window. “I killed her Sire and made her mine."
"I see,” Cyn said, not knowing what else to say.
"It was a long time, ago, Cyn. A different time, a different culture. You would do well to remember that if you're going to spend time around vampires."
"I know. I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did.” He turned completely, giving her a wistful smile. “But I forgive you."
Cynthia bristled automatically and Raphael chuckled. “Delightful,” he said. He touched her cheek with one cool finger, sliding it over her jaw and down to her neck, where he stroked it twice over the gentle swell of her jugular. “Delightful."
Cynthia swallowed, torn between wanting those cool fingers to touch her some more and wanting to get as far away as possible. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Are you going to wipe my memory of tonight?"
Raphael pulled his hand back, clearly unhappy. “You do know a lot about us, don't you?” He looked thoughtful, then tilted his head, as though listening. “Duncan is waiting for you downstairs. He has assembled Alexandra's security team and will stay with you while you talk to them."
"I'll need some privacy; they have to be interviewed individually."
"Whatever you need. Duncan will see to it.” He pulled a thick white business card from an inside pocket and handed it to her. “Should you want to get in touch with me ... for any reason ... you may call that number. I expect to receive regular updates on your investigation, and I don't have to tell you that time is of the essence. We will proceed with our own inquiries from this end, and should we discover anything pertinent to your own efforts, I will get a message to you."
Cynthia understood a dismissal when she heard one. “I should have something for you by tomorrow night, a place to start looking. I, uh ... thank you, my lord.” He seemed preoccupied, having turned again to stare out the window, and Cynthia took a step toward the door.
"The answer is no, Cyn."
She looked back at him. “My lord?"
He stood perfectly still, not even looking at her. “Your memories of this evening will not be erased. You will remember me."
"Oh,” she said, flustered. “Thank you...” But he was lost in his silent study of the night.
* * * *
Raphael listened to Cynthia's footsteps as she walked around the balcony and down the stairs. Her scent lingered in the room; not perfume, but something lighter. Shampoo perhaps. Something fresh and clean that barely registered, even to his extraordinary sense of smell. His eyes shifted when he heard the side door open and close, looking to the right where the driveway curled around the house. He could barely make out the two figures, Cyn and Duncan, as they made their way down the drive. It was more their shadows he watched, not them. An engine started up and he smiled to himself. Duncan had ordered a car brought around so she wouldn't have to walk back through the trees. As the sound of the engine faded away, he turned back to the room that was so much Alexandra's. The entire house had been built and decorated with her in mind, but it was this room more than any other where she felt comfortable. She'd personally picked out every piece of furniture, selected every delicate fancy of porcelain crowding the tabletops. The piano had been the crowning glory; he could still hear her delighted laughter when she'd woken to find it installed, already tuned and waiting for her elegant hands. One of the few times, she'd exhibited a genuine affection for him.
He sat down at the piano and sighed, running his long fingers lightly over the keys. Unlike Cyn, he'd never had a single lesson. There had been no time for such things where he grew up, no money to pay for it if there had been. He pulled the cover down over the keys, resting his hands on the shining black lacquer. Hands that were soft and well-cared for, nails manicured and buffed. A gentleman's hands, not the hands of a peasant. Not anymore.
* * * *
Muscovite Russia, 1472
Vadim Nestor closed the door of the ancient barn, dropping the heavy bar down to secure it for the night. They'd had a problem with wolves lately, damn clever things that seemed to find their way in through every hole or crack in the worn siding. He'd spent a goodly amount of time today, filling in holes dug under the walls, patching any gap he found. It would be hard enough trying to get through the winter with only the two healthy animals left to them; they didn't need to lose any more to the damn wolves. He sighed, gazing out over fields lying fallow, fields that would have been ready for late harvest if his older brothers had not gone off in search of better lands, a better life than this hard scrabble farm. Vadim hoped they found it, but he'd heard sorry tales of harsh servitude in the new lands.
"Volodya!” His little sister's voice carried across the hard, dry yard as she ran to him, her long, black hair flying loose from its proper braid, her pale legs flashing as she lifted her skirts away from the dusty ground.
"Sasha,” he scolded, “you must remember to act like a lady. What would Arkady think if he saw you running across the yard like a hoyden?"
"Pffft, what do I care about that old man? He stinks of pigs. I don't care what Father says, I'll run away to Novgorad like our brothers before I marry that toothless relic.” She looked up at him, her face flushed with the cold air, her black gypsy eyes, so like his own, sparkling with mischief. How he loved her, and how he hated the idea of her going to the bed of a pig farmer.
"Softly,” he said, pulling her around the side of the barn, away from the shabby house where no doubt their father was watching their every movement. “You mustn't speak so where Father can hear you."
She leaned into him, resting her head against the middle of his chest. “I'm not afraid of him. Besides, you'll protect me, won't you, Volodya? You won't let him hurt me again."