Vampires Don't Drink

3. Aldrich's Point of View

I'd only just ripped off her blouse, when he decided to knock on the door, and ruin everything. I noticed, when I shoved her in the closet, that she wore a bra that clips in the front. She likes it when I rip off the front clasp with my teeth, even though she never says it in words. Much like Daphne's relationship, the King unwittingly ruins, yet another good thing.

"Father," I sing, when I open the door.

I look back twice to ensure the closet door's shut, and I kick her blouse, silk, ivory, with jewel and pearl buttons interchanged, further out of sight when I notice it's proximity. I kick myself for ruining that one; I always liked when she wore that one.

"Aldrich. About the other night," says Father, King Malachi the Ever So Fucking Great. His eyes trace me up and down, starting from my chest, down to my crooked boxers. They retreat, quickly. His full furry eyebrows begin to pray, coming together like Christian hands, and he shakes his head to me, horrified, confused. "Why. . . Is—! Oh, God is she—!"

"If Hannah were here, which Hannah is not," I say, shutting the door on his chest when he tries to enter. "I don't believe yours is the face she'd want to see right now."

Father's cheeks grow red, like a cartoon character's. His eyes fall doughy, drained, and frightened — embarrassed. He shakes his head fast, and he scratches his buzzed scalp beneath the crown he never takes off, even when he's sleeping. Father's the proudest man I know. It's funny, for a man who's done so little.

"Right," he says, "I— um—."

"She really isn't here," I promise him.

"Right," he says, and he clears his throat. "Um, so anyway—."

"About the other night."

"About the other night," he says, pointing his finger at me. "Some of the things I said of Hannah were. . . I am King to all, and, as such I should treat all of my people. . . I want you to know it's okay to love whoever you'd like to love, even. . . Even. . . her kind."

"But not Daphne," I say. "You have standards for who she loves, but none for me."

"It's different for Daphne," Father says, which is typical. Then I guess he realized how it sounded, by the way he began to stutter. "I— What I mean is—."

"Well don't fluster now, Father," I play, stretching my eyes every other word or so. "You don't have to pretend we mean the same to you. I know how important blood is around here."

I only call the king father, for laughs. We'd met when I was already grown, and just because we've spent centuries together, doesn't mean we should mean more to each other than we do.  Daphne is my sister. But the king is not my dad.

The first time I'd met him, I'd just turned eighteen again; he sought me in want of a blade. He sent two woman in black cloaks after me, who stormed my army tent with a velvet bag for my head, and they dragged me to a cottage, in a far wood. When I woke, I faced the king.

"Ezekiel White, Union Army Soldier, born in West Virginia," King Malachi said, from where he sat at the wooden table, in a chair much too small for his length. I watched him, from the bed they tied me to.

The king rose from the wooden chair, and the floorboards creaked with his every heavy step towards me. Slowly, he ran his fingertips down the length of my palm, down my wrist, down to the middle of my arm, halfway to my elbow. With a quick motion, he twisted my arm so much it broke, and the jagged bone tore through the skin. I bit my lip to prevent the screaming, but I'd only drawn my fangs into the corners of it, making everything worse. I didn't want to scream because I'd already told myself what was coming, the second they threw that bag over my head. I knew the royals, the real ones, behaved badly, when they wanted to prevent a lie. They struck first, before they even asked what they wanted know, to prevent any budding courage to spread a falsehood. I knew that this was coming. Though I couldn't really tell if he'd done it in honor of his bloodline, or mine.