“Do not start,” he replied, placing his forehead on mine. “Do not begin to worry or give in to your doubts.”
“It’s easier said than done.”
“Which is why I sought to distract you.”
“Really?” My eyebrow raised. “Are you sure it was all solely for my benefit?”
“I never said that. A distraction can be of mutual satisfaction.” He smirked. “So, shall we continue?”
I wanted to, but… “Don’t you feel bad being in here, trying to have your way with me while your family cleans up whatever mess is outside?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Theseus!” I laughed.
“I have spent a great many years cleaning up my brother’s affairs all the while they indulged in their mates. It is divine justice that they are to do the same for me now,” he replied, lifting me and placing me on top of the desk with ease.
“This could be different. These witches are dangerous, right? They could be in real danger…”
“My family is a bit eccentric, but do not let that misguide you. No matter how strong the witches, they can handle it. My father, alone, could most certainly. So, fear not—”
“Sigbjørn, he does more than read minds, doesn’t he?”
“So shall we not continue?” He pouted and sighed dramatically, which again made him—the large, handsome, formidable, indestructible vampire—look downright adorable. He released his grip on me slightly and gave more space between our bodies. “I shall have you sooner rather than later, Druella, but till such time, I shall allow you to continue with this torture.”
I laughed. “You are so dramatic.”
“And you are a stubborn minx,” he muttered.
My jaw dropped open. “A minx!”
He nodded. “A tease, a flirt—”
“No more synonyms! I got it,” I snapped, smacking his shoulder, causing him to chuckle. Turning my face from him, I looked back over the large room of art. “So, this is your family art collection?”
“One of them.”
“One of them?”
He nodded. “Yes, it could not all possibly fit in here. There is another room for the sculptures as well. But I find here it is the most relaxing. It is was here I spent most of my time.”
“Why here?”
“It was a school.”
“A school?” Of all the things, I was not expecting that. “You taught students? Mortals?”
“No, I have not the patience of an educator. And yes, mortals, some immortals hidden among them. For the school was not here directly,” he replied, and noticing my confusion, he went on, “But long ago, many artists from all over Greece came to the Messenia School of Art.”
“The Messenia? There is an art museum in Washington, DC, by that name, too. Well, they mostly call it the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design. It is part of George Washington University. But I’ve never heard of the ancient city of Messenia, nor a school of art in Greece.”
“You have not heard of it as it was destroyed and stricken from mortal memory.” He frowned as he looked from me toward the door. “After the Roman era, many of the Messenians moved farther inland up the country, no more than fifty miles from where we are standing now. And they thrived until after the Fourth Crusade, and the lands were divided into many kingdoms. Those kings wanted loyal soldiers, not artists or philographers. The times were unstable. And so one such king slandered the school with charges of blasphemy, idolatry, bestiality, and every immortality he could think of, not just them but whoever disagreed with his ideals. And so, with his charge, the church swiftly set the school ablaze. The students who were inside perished, and those who survived united behind the king to fight, but not before confessing to the charges laid against the school, however. All that was left at the end were the stones the school was built with and that door.”
“You brought the door here?”
“And stones,” he said, glancing around the room once more. “I brought them back, for I did not think the mortals deserved them.”
I stared at him, somewhat amazed. “It sounds more to me like you wished to honor those mortals.”
At that, his attention came back to me, clearly not pleased by that statement. “Why would I wish to honor them? They are creatures of no loyalty or honor.”
“Maybe the ones who falsely confessed. But the innocent ones who died within the school, you made their resting place a temple of art beyond anyone else’s dreams. They are not remembered by mortals, who only remember what they have written down. Instead, they are immortal now, too. Part of a vampire’s home.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “I had never thought of it in that way. It was not my intent.”
“We do not always do as we intend.”
“You have wisdom, young one,” he said proudly.
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks. Do you think it’s enough for you all to stop calling me young one?”
“No.” He grinned. “Think of it as a rite of passage. We were all called ‘young one’ in the beginning.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
I wished I could see how that turned out for those who called him that. Actually, there was so much I wished I could see. “Every time you speak of your past, it’s as if…it is fantasy. I’ve spent all my life reading and studying things that you simply lived through. How many people I wished to meet have you met? From Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, William Shakespeare to Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Rembrandt, and Galileo Galilei—hell, even George Washington. You’ve seen so much.”
He chuckled, cupping my face. “Druella, I have not met every famous figure in history. It may shock you, but I have only met a few and in passing. It is not as if we know during that time who shall live on in the minds and history of mortals. There have been a great many I thought would forever be revered, only to be left as footnotes, while there are others who I all but overlooked who changed the course of mortal history. Then some did nothing, were nothing, and yet, for some reason, are still remembered for things they did not do.”
He seemed annoyed by this, and it was funny. “And whom are you thinking of?”
“Lady Godiva, Countess of Mercia, for one,” he stated.
“I’ve heard that name.” And I knew exactly where I’d heard it. Then I saw the painting hanging over his shoulders of a naked woman on horseback. Hopping off the desk, I moved around him to look at the oil painting in a red and gold overcast. “I remember this story from my art history book, the good countess of Mercia. Her husband had imposed harsh taxes on the townspeople, and when they begged for him to reduce it, he said only if his wife rode naked through the streets. So, she stripped naked and did so. They respected her so much they looked away, except for one man who peeped, and that is where the expression ‘peeping Tom’ comes from. Her husband was honor-bound to his word, and he reduced the taxes.”
“Lovely fairy tale,” he said, stepping beside me to see the art, too, still with a frown on his face. “Though it is just a tale. In truth, she did not even know how to ride a horse, was far too pretentious to care for commoners, and the tax increases were her fault, for she had wasted a great deal of her husband’s wealth on gambling, celebrations, and lavish jewels for herself. She vowed never to gamble again, but she was caught by her husband months later, who went into a rage. They fought, and she fell from one of the windows, though even now, she claims he pushed her.”