Edmond

He was still half-convinced this was all some mad dream.

Was he really here, in some strange house in the middle of nowhere, with . . . well, he didn't know what Ysanne was.

It was purely by chance that he'd stumbled upon the carriage last night. He'd heard hooves clattering along the frozen road, and had emerged from the thicket where he'd desperately been trying to shelter from the snow, with the hopes of begging from whoever was in the carriage. He'd seen it stop at the fallen tree blocking the road, he'd seen it turn off the road and attempt to cut across the snow-choked countryside, and he'd seen the pack of thieves that had waylaid it.

He hadn't meant to get involved.

Men like that were the reason he'd grown up without a father, the reason he'd had to work so much harder to keep food on his family's table. When he'd seen them attack the carriage's escorts, he'd fully intended to go back to the thicket and hide there until the danger had passed.

Then he'd seen that beautiful woman emerge and face her attackers, and something had shifted inside him.

Edmond had no particular wish to lay down his life for a stranger, but he could not stand by and watch those scabbing bastards rob the woman, and then most likely use her and leave her for dead.

Only she hadn't needed his help at all.

She had slaughtered her would-be attackers, with the kind of strength and speed that no human could possess, especially not a noblewoman. Edmond's desire to help her had become fear, and he'd retreated back into the thicket, hoping that she would pass him by.

But she had found him.

He put a hand up to his neck, touching the place where she had bitten him with those impossibly sharp teeth, but there were no wounds, no marks at all. He could barely even remember the sensation of it. It was as if it had never happened, and if not for the dress and the jewelled necklace coiled in a glittering heap on the floor nearby – payment for his blood – Edmond really might have thought it had been a dream.

Who was this woman?

And what did she want with him?

Last night, he had been sure she would kill him, as she had killed those other men, but instead she had saved him from the bitter winter and brought him here. Surely that meant she had no intention of hurting him.

He picked up the necklace, running the shining diamonds between his fingers. This was his now, and Ysanne was right. It would have fed his family for years.

If he still had a family to feed.

Edmond closed his eyes, pressing a fist to his forehead.

No matter how valuable Ysanne's jewellery was, and how much it might help him in the future, it would not bring back what he had lost.

Nothing would.

He started to pace the floor, his mind racing. Should he stay, with the creature that wore human skin, but was not human? Or should he run and take his chances in the cold?

An icy breath of wind found its way through the barricaded windows, and Edmond shivered, moving closer to the fire.

No, he couldn't leave.

If Ysanne hadn't found him, then last night would have been his final one. He would have lain down in the snow and never got up again, and if he tried to run, then he would meet the same fate tonight.

Last night, he had been too exhausted, too cold, and too starving to do anything other than accept what he thought would be his fate at this strange woman's hands. But now that he had slipped through Death's clutches, he wanted to live.

He was afraid of Ysanne, but if she wanted him dead, she wouldn't have saved him.

The door opened, and Ysanne strode into the room, carrying something huge wrapped in layers of thick blue fabric. She placed it onto the floor with a muffled thud.

Edmond gaped at her.

He had witnessed her incredible strength last night, but part of him had still hoped that he hadn't seen what he thought, that the cold had addled his mind, and everything would somehow become clearer today.

Everything was very clear now.

He had not been mistaken about her strength.

She stood before him in nothing but petticoats, her feet bare, her hair a wild tumble of palest gold. The cold didn't seem to bother her – there was no flush in her cheeks, no pimpled skin, no shivering.

She looked otherworldly, dressed all in white, her skin almost as pale as the snow itself, her eyes like fresh frost, and Edmond backed away slightly.

What was she?

Ysanne eyed the small stack of wood he had collected while she was away. "Good," she said.

She shook out a bundle of blood-stained clothes. "These belonged to my guards. Once they are washed, they're yours."

Her attitude was almost as surprising as anything else.

Edmond had known practical women – village life wasn't easy, and his mother and sisters had had no time for airs and graces. But Ysanne was clearly of noble birth, and Edmond had always imagined noblewomen to be like ornaments – beautiful to look at, but ultimately useless. None of them had to take care of themselves. None of them knew what it felt to go hungry. They were spoiled and pampered, and they cared little for the suffering of peasants.

He had not imagined that Ysanne would plunder the bodies of her servants for his benefit. It made sense for him to use the clothes – her men certainly couldn't anymore – but her brisk practicality left him reeling.

"We'll need to boil them," Ysanne decided, putting one hand on her hip.

She was so unabashed in her near-nakedness, and Edmond didn't know how to feel about that. Her complete lack of propriety should have been scandalous, but . . . he thought he rather liked it. She was unlike anyone he'd ever met before, and even as he was wary about her, he couldn't help but be intrigued.

"There's a water barrel outside. I'll fill it with snow and bring it in. You fetch the pots and pans from the cellar," Ysanne ordered.

Protests automatically rose to Edmond's lips – surely he should be the one fetching the heavy barrel inside? But he silenced himself. Whatever she was, Ysanne was stronger than he could hope to be, even when he was at full strength.

"Where's the cellar?" he asked.

Ysanne showed him.

He brought up the bronze pots and arranged them in front of the fire, using the cleanest corner of Ysanne's discarded dress to wipe away the dust and grime that had built up in them.

How long had it been since she had visited this house?

Why didn't she live here?

Questions whirled around Edmond's head, so many that he felt like his skull would split.

Ysanne came back inside, dragging a huge wooden barrel filled to the brim with snow.

"Excellent," she said, when she saw the pans.

She unwrapped the thick layers of blue fabric from the load she'd brought back from her carriage, revealing a heavy wooden trunk, and then she hung that fabric over the windows, hiding the gaps in the planks that covered them.

She banked up the fire with the wood Edmond had gathered, and then they boiled water in batches. Ysanne unearthed a lump of soap from her trunk, and she broke it in half, handing one piece to Edmond so he could help scrub the blood and dirt out of the clothing.

Her hands were delicate, like he expected a noblewoman's to be, but she washed the clothes as if she was used to it, as if she didn't have servants to do it for her, and that only brought more questions into Edmond's head.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Edmond couldn't bear it anymore. He let the soap drop into the water, and sat back on his heels.

"What are you?" he said.

Ysanne regarded him in silence, her face devoid of expression, and Edmond inwardly winced.

Just because she had saved his life, didn't mean she would hesitate to kill him if he stepped out of place.

She was a noble, and he was a peasant.

Then:

"I'm a vampire," she said at last.

Edmond frowned, turning the unfamiliar word over in his mind. "I don't understand," he said at last.

Ysanne sat back on her own heels, settling her wet hands in her lap. The firelight gilded her hair and painted shadows on her skin.

"It means that I died once, and returned to life as something no longer human," she said.

"You died?"

"I suppose I am still dead."

Edmond shook his head. "That's impossible. The dead cannot move; they cannot talk."

Denise's face filled his mind, his precious youngest sister, on her awful final morning, her skin pocked with black pustules, blood leaking from her nose and mouth, the stench of sweat and death filling the room. Edmond would have given his own life to save hers, but the plague had taken her, along with the rest of his family and most of the village.

She had died, they all had, their bodies tossed into a plague pit with countless others, and Ysanne's blasé words were an insult to their memory.

Reaching out, Ysanne took his hand. Her fingertips were cool, still damp from the water. She drew him forward and pressed his palm to her chest, over her heart.

Edmond blanched and tried to pull back, but Ysanne held him there.

"My heart does not beat. I do not breathe. Sunlight will kill me if I am out in it for too long. I cannot eat human food; I need blood to survive. I have strength and speed beyond any human, and I can heal from wounds that no human could," she said, her voice steady.

But there was something in her eyes – not quite fear, but a wariness that Edmond hadn't expected. It was almost as if she was bracing herself for his reaction.

He gazed at her, his hand pressed against that cool, white skin, and his whole understanding of the world shifted.

Ysanne truly wasn't human.

There was no beating heart beneath his palm, no breath coming from her pale lips.

She was dead, and yet she wasn't.

Finally she let him go, and he snatched his hand back, suddenly very aware of where it had been pressed.

"Your husband . . . was he a . . . vampire too?" Edmond said, stumbling over the strange word.

Grief flickered across Ysanne's face. "No."

Edmond took a deep breath, bolstering his courage. "Did you kill him?"

Ysanne's eyes widened a little, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but Edmond thought he glimpsed brief sparks of red in the depth of her piercing stare.

"No, I didn't," she snapped, her face hardening.

"I meant no offence," said Edmond quickly.

Ysanne arched a slender eyebrow. "Is there any circumstance in which such a question is not offensive?"

Perhaps, but Edmond couldn't think of it.

"I'm sorry," he offered, but Ysanne still glared at him.

"My husband died fighting to serve his king in the Hundred Years War," she said.

There was sadness in her voice, but pride too.

"The Hundred Years War," Edmond repeated. "I don't understand. France is not at war."

"Not right now, no, but our history is riddled with bloody conflicts and that was but one of them. It happened a long time ago, before you were born, before your parents or even grandparents were born."

"I . . . I don't understand."

Ysanne lifted a hand to touch the smooth curve of her own cheek. "I do not age. I was twenty-five when I died, and I shall look like this for the rest of my life."

"How . . . how old are you?" Edmond asked.

She appeared to think about that, her forehead furrowing slightly. Could she possibly be so old that she had forgotten?

"I was born in 1406," Ysanne said.

"That means . . ." Edmond couldn't make sense of the figures.

"That means that I am two hundred and sixty one years old," Ysanne said.

Edmond's mind emptied.

In his experience, people were lucky to see forty, and Ysanne was the better part of three centuries old.

The room spun around him, and he braced both hands on the floor.

Ysanne was still watching him, her face slightly guarded, and he struggled to get his breathing under control. After everything else she had told him, her incredible age shouldn't have come as such a shock, but he couldn't help it.

How could she be so old?

And could anyone so old still be so beautiful?

"How did this happen to you?" he asked.

Ysanne looked away. "We can talk about that later. The water's going cold."