Vincent Heartwood's Arc

Chapter 5 of 9

The man stood at the gate and would not move. Vincent saw the room in his mind, cold and bare stone. A frightened man would not sleep there. He would bolt before dawn, and the question would go unanswered forever. Vincent had to make that room feel like a home before the man ever climbed the stairs. "Wait here," Vincent said. He guided the man into the great hall, where old chairs waited near a dead hearth. Then he ran for the east tower. He found his grandfather already there. Dracula stood in the doorway of the tower room, white beard bright against his dark cloak. His red eyes moved over the bare floor and the empty grate. "I warmed it," the old vampire said. He nodded at the hearth, where a new fire snapped. "I remember cold rooms. I made enough of them." Morwen crouched by the window, a bundle of blankets in her arms. The witch had climbed the tower stairs while Vincent fetched the man. She dropped the blankets on the bed and pulled something green from her coat. "Here," she said. "So the room smells like a garden, not a tomb." She hung a length of flowering vine across the window, bright blooms in every color. The dark stone softened at once. "You did this without me," Vincent said. "You were slow," Morwen said. She almost smiled. "The old one lit the fire himself. I nearly fainted." Dracula grunted. "Don't spread it around." He set a heavy iron key in Vincent's palm. "The door locks from the inside. Tell him that first. A man who can lock his own door is not a prisoner." Vincent looked at the warm room. Firelight moved on the walls. The flowers glowed by the glass. It no longer looked like a grave. It looked like a place a person could rest. He brought the man up the winding stairs. At the top the man stopped in the doorway and stared. The fire crackled. The blankets waited. The vine spilled color across the sill. "You said a door I control," the man said quietly. Vincent pressed the iron key into his hand. "Lock it against all of us. Against me." The man closed his fingers on the key. He stepped inside. He turned and shut the door, and Vincent heard the bolt slide home from within. The man had chosen to stay the night. Vincent leaned against the cold wall and let out a breath. Behind the door, a mortal slept safe under his roof. Tomorrow the man would give his answer. But through the wood came a new sound that stopped Vincent's relief. The man was weeping, low and steady, alone in the warm room. His fear had not left him. It had only followed him inside, waiting for morning.