Chapter 6
1557words
After that, Julian vanished completely.
No more welcoming messages appeared on fogged mirrors. Books that fell in the study did so from simple gravity. The gentle breeze that once closed my forgotten windows at night disappeared. Like a sulking child, Julian expressed his displeasure through absolute silence. My dreams returned to emptiness—that beautiful field of white flowers seemingly destroyed by invisible frost, leaving no trace.
I tried calling Julian's name to the empty study, met only with deathly silence. I even wrote apologies in my Field Notes, explaining that awakening Silas was purely accidental, hoping he would understand. But the page remained untouched overnight, not a single ink mark altered.
"That ghost friend of yours seems to have abandoned you." One afternoon, as I left the study sighing for the hundredth time, Silas looked up from an ancient poetry collection he was reading, his tone characteristically lazy and mocking.
"He's not my friend, he's... a research subject," I stubbornly retorted, despite the disappointment washing over me at Julian's absence.
"A soul that can't even materialize a physical form? Who can only hide behind wallpaper and spy?" Silas closed his book, his crimson eyes regarding me as if I were a naive child. "He doesn't even dare confront me directly—just expresses his jealousy through childish tantrums. A tethered coward, not worth your emotional investment."
I fell silent, because in a way, Silas was right. Julian was gentle and knowledgeable, yet bound to this manor by invisible chains, while Silas—dangerous as he was—possessed freedom.
And so began my strange "cohabitation" with Silas. He claimed the sunless wine cellar as his bedroom, but after sunset, the entire manor became his domain. I transformed from a trembling "landlord" into an enthusiastic "anthropologist" with unprecedented access to a primary source.
My first task was helping him integrate into the twenty-first century. I brought my laptop to show him the internet—this "all-knowing magic box." He initially sneered at the glowing device until I opened Wikipedia and searched for "vampire."
He leaned over to read, then let out a contemptuous snort, as if wondering what backwater village priest had written such nonsense.
"'Fear of crosses and holy water'?" He pointed at a line on the screen, his lips curling into a sarcastic smile. "That's propaganda fabricated by the church to comfort believers—making them think wooden trinkets and blessed bathwater offer protection. The real threats are sunlight and... the teeth of certain specific beasts." As he spoke, he glanced meaningfully toward the forest outside.
"'Unable to cast reflections in mirrors'?" He read another line, then stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hall. His pale, handsome face and deep red eyes reflected perfectly. "Absurd. Our bodies follow the basic optical principles of this world—it's merely that the essence of our souls no longer belongs to this plane."
That afternoon, like a diligent secretary, I filled pages with annotations and corrections to vampire lore under Silas's dictation. From origin myths (which he claimed predated human recorded history), to power hierarchies between different bloodlines, to their ruthlessly selective standards for the "Embrace." My Field Notes filled at unprecedented speed, each entry glowing with the golden light of exclusive revelation.
While abstract knowledge came easily to him, modern technology left him genuinely confused. I taught him to use the microwave to heat blood bags I'd purchased from the butcher shop in town—our compromise regarding "food sources" (animal blood: not ideal, but better than nothing)—yet he struggled to grasp the concept.
He stood before the microwave, watching the humming box heat the crimson liquid without visible flame, his expression a mixture of amazement and suspicion. "This defies reason," he pointed at the appliance with one slender finger. "A ritual without fire—yet food becomes hot? What manner of alchemy is this?"
"It's called science, Mr. Silas," I said, leaning against the doorframe and fighting back laughter. "They're called microwaves—energy you can't see. Like how you can see perfectly in darkness. Both are natural phenomena, just operating on principles most people don't fully understand."
He seemed unsatisfied with my explanation but eventually accepted the convenience of this "unorthodox method." Our lives achieved a strange balance in this absurd yet fascinating arrangement. During daylight, I ruled the estate alone; after sunset, I gained a medieval "roommate" who would discuss Plato's Republic with me and cure my writer's block with firsthand accounts of ancient dynasties' falls.
Until that stormy night, when our delicate balance shattered.
The rain fell in sheets, fierce winds howling between the manor's towers like tormented spirits. A pale lightning flash tore through the sky, followed instantly by deafening thunder. Then—pop!—every light in the estate died, plunging us into absolute darkness.
"Damn these ancient circuits," I cursed, fumbling to stand from the sofa. "I think there are spare candles by the fireplace."
I moved cautiously toward the fireplace, guided by occasional lightning flashes. The darkness heightened my senses—the plush carpet beneath my feet, the petrichor scent in the air, the wind's moan from distant corridors. Just as my fingers reached for the stone mantle, my foot caught on something. I lost my balance and pitched forward with a startled cry.
The expected collision with the hard floor never came. Strong, powerful arms caught me mid-fall.
It was a cold embrace, like being held by a marble statue in human form. Yet beneath that coldness lay undeniable strength and stability. My body pressed against his chest, my senses flooded with his unique scent—ancient parchment, dry earth, and the faint metallic sweetness of blood.
It was Silas.
In the darkness, I couldn't see his face, but I felt his presence with startling clarity—the firmness of his chest, the smooth texture of his clothing, even the momentary stillness of his non-existent heartbeat. My cheeks burned hot as my own heart thundered in my ears.
This was the first time I'd experienced his presence at such proximity—as a woman rather than a researcher.
We remained frozen in this ambiguous, dangerous position for several seconds. Time stretched, each moment charged with unspoken tension, until I finally broke the suffocating silence with an awkward throat-clearing.
"Ahem... thank you."
Only then did he slowly—almost reluctantly—release me and help me stand. In the darkness, I felt his crimson gaze fixed on me, somehow deeper than usual, and more... intense.
"You should be more careful, my landlady," his voice several degrees lower and rougher than usual. "After all, in this ancient mansion, darkness is the true master."
That night, we sat before the fireplace with lit candles. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows across our faces. Silas, perhaps due to our earlier encounter, seemed unusually talkative. He reclined in a velvet armchair, posture both relaxed and regal, swirling a glass of warmed animal blood as if it were vintage wine.
"This land's history far predates your Vince family," he said, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass, his gaze fixed on the rain-lashed windows, eyes growing distant. "In my grandfather's time, this was untamed wilderness where those 'wild dogs'—like the one you met today—roamed freely."
He told me histories long forgotten by the world—of the first vampire nobles to claim this territory, how they drove away the primitive werewolf packs and established their strongholds. He spoke of his father, a tyrant he described as "harsh, rigid, and possessed by a madman's obsession with blood purity."
"He built this cage for me with his own hands," Silas's lips curled into a cold, self-mocking smile. "He claimed it was to protect me, to shield our noble bloodline from outside contamination. In truth, he merely wanted to preserve me as a perfect, eternal trophy to display before other ancient houses."
I didn't interrupt, just wrote frantically in my Field Notes, capturing every word. These raw, firsthand accounts—stained with blood and hatred—carried more power than any fiction I could create. My novel would gain authentic life through these narratives.
A few days later, after the storms passed, a large box of books I'd ordered online finally arrived. I rushed excitedly to the door, only to find it already cracked open. Silas stood in the shadows just inside, expressionlessly watching the young courier in his blue uniform.
The poor delivery guy, white as a sheet and forehead beaded with sweat, held out the signature pad with violently trembling hands. When he saw me, his relief was palpable. He practically dropped the heavy box on the doorstep, stammered "P-please... sign here," then bolted back to his truck without a backward glance, gunning the engine as he sped away.
"Seriously," I muttered, watching his hasty retreat, "delivery guys these days are so unprofessional—running off like they've seen a ghost."
I bent to wrestle the heavy box inside, completely oblivious to the subtle yet deeply satisfied smile playing at the corners of Silas's lips behind me.
In his crimson eyes, as he gazed in the direction of the fleeing courier, flickered an ancient, primal satisfaction—the look of an apex predator who had successfully driven a rival male from his territory.
