Sunder Page 3

  The view from the highway was full of orchards bright with apples and small farmhouses. All of it was set back from the highway. He loved the tiny old houses with huge yards, and leaves just about to turn or already there. The air in the car filled with the sweet smell of the apples riding on the breeze.

  “Nicolai, I need something to drink, son.” Miles coughed a few times and continued in his rough voice, “I think we have gone far enough for one day, my boy. Unlike yours, my back aches.” Miles laughed weakly, making a slight wheezing noise.

  “Briton, not Nicolai. It’s been over a hundred and sixty years. You must remember to call me that. Especially here. And yes, we have gone far enough. We’re here, Miles.” Briton looked in the mirror at the old man’s worried face and spoke, “We’re in Wolfville.”

  Miles sat up and looked out the window. “What? Why would we come here? Where will we stay, Briton? Your father’s estate sold the house here. No one will let us stay, not the way you are. People here have memories as old as Methuselah’s goat. And all it takes is one person to remember you. The Michaels will no doubt remember you.”

  “I’m counting on them remembering me. They owe me.” Briton frowned. “You don’t sound like you want to be back. This is home for us. You were born here, old man.”

  Miles laughed when he spoke, “Yes, and as I recall, we fled in the night, barely escaping the hunters. I don’t want to be back. This is not our home anymore. I was born here a very long time ago, and I have not missed it all these years we have been gone. Now answer my question, young man, and allow an old man his reservations. We’ll have nowhere safe to stay. Have you thought of that? These tiny towns don’t have regular hotels.” He coughed and shifted in his seat, looking pained. “I recall your father’s estate selling the property. Besides, I have never liked small towns, particularly this one. You stand out in a place like this one. And we probably won’t be able to get any of those spicy drinks we get at those franchise places. You know, the kai drink that I like so much. You know I have to have one a day. It keeps me young.”

  Briton scoffed. “That’s chai, Miles. And yes, Father’s estate sold the house, but it was only to me. I own it. I have it taken care of by a lady from that family that Father was so fond of. She has run it as a bed and breakfast all these years, passing the deed down to my sons—who, coincidentally, were also me. We WILL have somewhere to stay, and I am sure we can learn how to make a chai. I have slain kings with my bare hands, by the gods I will make you a spicy tea.” He laughed and drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. “And it’s not so small here anymore. The town has developed a lot.”

  Miles sighed. “This is a terrible idea. Did you knock me out on purpose so you might slip past the border of this dreadful state?”

  “No. You don’t need knocking out these days. At any rate, I’ve informed the housekeeper we are staying on for a while and she is not to take any reservations. We will be safe. We were safe here once a very long time ago, and we will be again.”

  “You never told me you bought the old place.”

  Briton’s eyes lit up. “You would have talked me out of it.”

  “I wish you had given me the chance to. We should have cut our ties from here. This is the place it started, and I fear this is the place it will end.” Miles shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble coming back here. It’s too soon. The scars here are older than anywhere else.” His dark-brown eyes glassed over for a second with severity. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Briton nodded hesitantly. In truth, he didn’t know what he was doing, but he had always been a fan of the ‘fake it till you make it’ sort of attitude.

  He turned the huge black SUV onto Willow Street, the road home. He felt less confident the farther into town he got, but he knew the Michaels were an honorable family who would remember the debt they owed him. He just wished things could be the way they had been, if only his brother had been able to control his urges. He shook his head, trying not to think about it.

  No good came from memories. Remembering and feeling, weaknesses he couldn’t afford, and yet struggled to fight.

  His stomach gave a twinge as he saw the huge white mansion at the end of the road. It was as pristine as the day his father had built it. He parked in the driveway and turned the SUV off, but instead of climbing out, he sat and reminisced. No matter how hard he tried not to let them, the memories flooded his mind. Even if no good came from them, it was wonderful to remember his family.

  He recalled so many things at once. He was barely hanging on as they came with all the feelings he didn’t want. Big things, like his father teaching them to be regular men and his mother teaching them to be gentle whilst doing it. Little things, such as the huge white gate at the corner of the house that they had all built together, his brothers and father. His mother coming out to bring drinks with the maid, and of course, one of the neighbor girls she felt was suitable for his eldest brother. He laughed softly, remembering the cloud that passed over his brother’s face when he realized he was being matched with a girl he neither liked nor wanted. Their mother insisted it was a way to blend into society with the others.

  Everyone in the family had laughed at his brother all night at the Harvest Ball as he had been forced to dance with his newly betrothed.

  Suddenly, coming back to reality, he looked sharply at Miles. “What day is it?”

  Miles shook his head. “Perhaps the twenty-first.”

  Briton felt his eyes light up. “Of October?”

  Miles nodded, opening the door. He looked tired of sitting in the car when a comfortable bed was calling his name inside. Briton smiled, certain the old man would be in a tub in no time.

  When he looked up at the front door that his mother had answered so many times, he frowned to see an older woman in her place. He barely recognized her, but if he looked hard enough, he could see the family traits. He remembered her family well. Their families had always been close.

  His father had told him to always get someone from her family to watch over the family home. She was the last of her line in the family, no children. But her sister had a daughter, if he recalled correctly.

  He missed his family for one more second and then climbed out of the car to see the sun setting off in the distance. The air smelled the same and held the same crisp feeling.

  “Why, young man, you look a spitting image of your great-grandfather at this age. I have seen pictures and you are identical. It’s a very odd resemblance.” Her voice was soft, “Uncanny.”

  “Ms. Whitburn, how are you?” Briton smiled at her as she held her arms open for a hug.

  He hugged her, desperate to absorb the sweet smell of homemade bread and jam that she had no doubt just finished making.

  “Your father, Nicolai, was my grandmother’s favorite of all of the boys. She always told us about your family, when I was a girl. You were named for him, if I’m not mistaken. You are also Nicolai. I saw your name on the deed to the house when I had to renew the insurance.” She let him go and put her hands on her hips and looked him over.

  Briton nodded. “I am told I resemble my great-grandfather a fair amount. But people generally call me Briton though, not Nicolai. Briton is my second name. Nicolai is very old country.”

  She nodded, giving Miles a look. “Yes, yes of course. You youngsters need to have your independence.” Miles rolled his eyes.

  Briton spoke with a laugh, “Indeed. Ms. Whitburn, may I introduce my friend, Miles Xavier.”

  She nodded slightly. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Xavier.”

  Miles’ old face turned into the sweetest of smiles and he bowed slightly, taking her hand in his and kissing it once. “The pleasure is all mine, my dear Ms. Whitburn. You will forgive my being so forward, but it has been a long trip on my old body, and I would just about die for a hot bath.”

  She blushed and made a sound similar to a giggle, “Call me Betsy. I will draw you a bath right away.” She turned and walked down the hall w
ith Miles.

  Briton let them leave him there at the front door. He was stopped in the entrance, seeing it all around him. He could see his family moving about in the house, like ghosts. He wished they were there to haunt the old place, but his kind didn’t haunt. You needed a soul for that.

  His family’s things were still there, in their very spots. The old table in the hall his mother put the post on, and the old chair he had sat in millions of times tying on his skates or readying to go hunting with the family. He looked back at the street; no other houses sat on the street and the lamps seemed spaced more than they would have been on any other street. His father’s doing. The land was all owned by his family—by him now. The last of his family.

  He closed the door and looked up at the mark above the door. It made a chill crawl up his spine. He knew the charm still protected the old house, and he knew if he were smart, he would find the sister who would inherit from Betsy’s sister and make sure everything was up to snuff.

  He walked into the kitchen to see the fresh bread and jam and homemade pickles, just as he had remembered. Betsy’s mother had been the very same with the comfort food. Briton smiled, thinking about how happy Miles would be here. He hoped deep down that it would be for a very long time, hoped being the operative word. Of course that all depended on the Michaels clan.

  Betsy walked into the kitchen and smiled warmly. “It’s amazing how much you look like him. Please forgive me if I stare, it’s uncanny though. I only saw his photos, but I remember his face so clearly. If I’m not mistaken, he left town after the great fire. His family died in the fire.”

  Briton nodded, forcing himself to not rage at the memory of the dreaded night. “I’ve heard the story from my mother. Sad tale.”

  “Was a sad night for certain. The whole town still mourns it. So many died. We lost family too, my great-grandmother and my great-great-aunt.” She frowned and walked to the fridge. “Can I get you a snack or some leftovers? I had lamb for dinner.”

  He shook his head. The flames of the fire were still licking at the windows of the carriage as he watched them burn to death. Her great-great-aunt and great-grandmother had died trying to save his family. The hunters had taken so much that night.

  “Briton, son. You okay?”

  He snapped out of it. “Sorry, what?”

  “Tea? I was offering you some tea.”

  “No, thank you. But I was wondering if the town still has a Harvest Ball on October 21st, like it used to?”

  Her face lit up, making her old blue eyes sparkle again. “Yes, of course. Your father must have told you about that. Your great-great-great-grandfather actually started the Harvest Ball. It’s tonight, if I am not mistaken. I’m too old now for such frivolities. I don’t go anymore.”

  “Nonsense. You must come.” He smiled.

  Her face blanked. “You speak so formally for one so young. The other young people in town don’t talk like you. They spend all day walking about like mindless zombies, playing on those hand-held devices and wearing their pants to their knees.”

  Briton blushed, looking down at his hands. “I am with Miles at all times. He frowns on cell phone use and baggy jeans. I speak the way he speaks, I suppose. Not to mention, he forced me to attend Oxford. I’m lucky I escaped without an accent.” That was a true story. Miles had Briton finish his gentlemanly training at Oxford. It had given them years of staying in the same place while he had been a student.

  She giggled and nodded. “Indeed, although I would swear you have a slight one.”

  If only she knew how right she was. His Icelandic accent was one that had stayed his whole life. Briton looked up at her, giving her an intense stare. “You must come to the Harvest Ball tonight.” He didn’t want to talk about the things that made him sad anymore.

  Again she nodded, but it was less animated than before. “I must, you are very correct. Will you accompany me?”

  Briton felt a slow smile cross his lips. “Excellent idea. I seemed to have arrived in town just in time for it.”

  She pointed to the hallway, seeming still somewhat frozen in her mind “Shall I show you to your room?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I know the way.” He walked out of the kitchen, seeing her puzzled face but was preoccupied by the life-and-death situation he would be faced with, in a few short hours. But would one of them be willing to die just to kill him?

  He looked around the room as he changed. It was so similar to before, it was frightening. The whole house was like going back in time.

  He showered and lay on his bed for some time, staring up at the ceiling. He had no plan, just a request. He needed them to allow him sanctuary. From there he hoped they would be willing to reinstate the haven it had once been.

  Finally seeing the sun go down, he got up and dressed in the suit he had brought. He would be overdressed a little in his new Pal Zileri grey suit. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed, wishing it was like the last time he had gone to the ball. His brothers and his parents had been with him. Now, completely alone, he would grace the town with his presence, whether they wanted it or not. He normally didn’t bother with worry or fear. There wasn’t much point to it, but he couldn't help but feel apprehensive. He was about to feel something he hadn’t since the night of the fire—vulnerability.

  At least he would look incredible while doing it. His dark hair was longer than he preferred and styled messily, to fit the trends. His thick eyebrows suited it, but he looked like he should be cutting down trees as opposed to wearing a designer suit. All he needed was to grow out his beard and he would be a mountain man with that bushy hair.

  His dark-blue eyes twinkled as he recalled his mother always commenting on his thick hair and how unruly it was. Had she been alive to see 2013, she would have told him his hair’s era had finally arrived.

  He suited the town of Wolfville, more so than his brothers or father had. Their Viking looks had been more from a dark blond or red-haired descent. He was the only one with dark-brown hair, like his mother. He had gotten her olive skin too. She had been a slave his father had stolen from an Italian friend’s villa. They had fallen in love while Briton’s father visited. She was like Helen of Troy, only no wars ensued.

  They snuck off in the night and he brought her to Finland, where he was living at the time. He lied about her rank in society and married her. She had been strong enough to survive the things she bared for him. When his mother gave birth to the last of the six sons, his father turned her. After that she was never able to walk in the light of day without shade or a parasol. The bitten never were able. But that hadn’t dampened her spirits. She had been a wonderful mother and a loving wife.

  The rest was history.

  The romance of the story always made it a favorite of Briton’s. Had he been a regular man, he imagined he might have been a great romantic.

  But he knew what he was didn’t mix well with the world of romance. Not that it mattered anymore. It seemed like romance had died off a bit. Like Betsy had said, the kids were caught up in electronics and baggy pants. They didn’t know the desperate feeling of a pair of eyes watching you from across the room, undressing you and seducing you. The roaring twenties were the best time for that.

  The young didn’t know what they were missing. At least it would be easier for him to blend in, if they didn’t lift their faces above the screens on the things in front of them.

  He walked to Miles’ room, opening the door. He stopped in the doorway when he saw the older man dressed and ready for the ball instead of sleeping.

  “Sorry for barging in, Miles. I honestly thought you would be sleeping. I was going to leave you this note.” He held the paper in his hand.

  Miles waved a hand in the air, brushing it off. “Bah, my room is always open to you. You know that.” He turned and faced him. “Now, how do I look?”

  Briton smiled. “You look fantastic. Years younger than seventy, no doubt.”

  “Well, I will be having a small
pick-me-up before I go, and then we are off.” His grin turned sly. “I’ve asked Betsy to accompany me to the ball. She is readying as we speak.”

  Briton shook his head and turned from the room. “You old dog.” He walked down the stairs to wait for them both, then they would make their way to the SUV. Moments later, Miles walked down the stairs with much more of a pep in his step. His skin even seemed to be less wrinkled. Him and his elixirs.

  Briton felt a worried look cross his brow, before he could stop himself from making it. Miles shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. I save them for the important nights.”

  Briton whispered, raising an eyebrow. “Betsy is important enough for that? You’ve known her a total of two hours.”

  Miles smirked. “She is a happy bonus. The important thing is you and the Michaels family. I won’t let you down by being a crippled old man, unable to help you.”