Tori rose from her makeshift bed of dusty crates and smoothed her hair, feeling even more irritated at the realization that she had taken the trouble to read out his name before leaving the hospital.
Aside from feeding on humans whenever the need arises, she had no particular fascination with them whatsoever.
In a flash, much of the surgeon's history came flooding into Tori's mind. Timothy was the son of Lucas Wayne, a wealthy English businessman and politician. He had graduated from Harvard with honours and taken further training in Spain. He had been married once, she noted, but had divorced after his ex-wife had left him and their small daughter for her lover.
Timothy had endured this betrayal with equanimity, but had turned bitter and cold, devoting himself totally to work after his beloved child had perished of cancer a year later. During this period, Lucas Wayne had begged his second son to spend the war years in Spain advancing his studies, but Timothy had accepted a commission instead. Leaving his comfortable life in Manchester to the war fields, without so much as a second thought...
Tori placed her palms to her temples and closed her eyes, in efforts to stop the flow of images and emotions, wanting to know nothing more about Timothy Wayne. Though, she was well aware that she was going to see him again, whether she wished it or not.
Exasperated, Tori formed a picture of her grand house in London, with warm comforts of the twentieth century and centered all her concentration on the desire to be there. In an instant she found herself standing in her own lush suite of rooms.
Moving rapidly, as if to shake thoughts of a doctor as sorely wounded as any of his patients from her mind, Tori exchanged her ash colored dress for a more comfortable gown of red velvet. The dress was a simple creation—loosely fitted at the waist, with wide sleeves tapering into cuffs that buttoned with jet.
After brushing her hair, Tori left her private apartments, walked along the wide hallway, and climbed the attic stairs to her studio.
She must feed soon, she reckoned, as she was not one for starving herself. She knew fully well that her powers which were rare, even among Vampires, as well as her unwavering strength came from the blood she took each night. Moreover, she looked forward to the sweeping thunderous joy that always overtook her during that unholy communion.
However, when she opened the door to the studio and found her loom awaiting her, Tori was immediately drawn to it.
During those early, wildly painful nights when she had first known that Viktor had either ceased to exist or somehow had been restored to all the frailties of humanity, weaving had been her only solace.
She had not seen or heard from Alexander during that time—and for all she knew or cared about, her former mentor and lover was rotting away in some crypt with a stake through his heart—nor had she encountered her acquaintances, the Nun Sisters or any of the members of the Vampyre. She had taken extra care to avoid all other vampires, fearing that they sense her unusual vulnerability at the time, and close in on her like sharks do to shipwreck.
Except for her former lover's odd fascination with her brother, and the deep bond that had once existed between her brother and herself, she had no illusions about her kind, as she had never known one to harbor true affection for another.
The loom's pull was somewhat irresistible, stronger even the the unholy thirst.
She found the oval shaped box that contained her many spools of colored floss, then seated on the stool facing the primitive mechanism. Soon the shuttle was making its comforting, rhythmic familiar sound, and Tori lost track of time, sublimating even the ravenous hunger she felt.
When a towering form appeared opposite her, she cried out, startled. Instantaneously, she became furious, for she had not been caught off guard in such odd fashion in nearly two centuries.
Alexander was closely examining the growing tapestry, with a frown creasing his handsome brow. "You really ought to be more vigilant, my dear," the seasoned vampire said, leaving off his thoughtful inspection of the unfinished tapestry to round the loom and stand at Tori's side. "Suppose I had been , or some wandering Warlock?"
Tori was embarrassed, and that made her angry. "Had you been her," she said, seething, "or 'some wandering Warlock,' instead of your pompous and arrogant self, you probably would have had the decency to knock."
Alexander arch one eyebrow and studied her with a wry expression, though the sadness in his gaze was clearly visible. The scars from his graveyard encounter with the Vampire queen, the one Viktor had so nobly attempted to save him from, had now almost fully healed. His lush mane of chestnut hair had grown back, thicker than ever, accompanied with the usual mischief flashing in his blue eyes.
Though he looked restored, he had suffered a great deal, and in spite of herself, Tori felt a twinge of pity for him.
"I see no reason to continue this nonsensical debate," Alexander eventually spoke. "The point is, I am here."
"Well, pardon me your majesty, if I don't touch my forehead to the floor three times or kill the fatted calf." Tori retorted with a bit of charity in her tone.
Alexander laughed, though one could clearly hear the despair in the sound. "What a relief it is to find that you haven't changed—you're still the same saucy, peevish person I transformed many decades ago."
Tori narrowed her dark brown eyes. She knew Alexander was up to something whenever he reminded her of her making. It was usually an indication that he wanted something. "Next, you'll be pointing out that you taught me everything I know." She accused.
"Did I not?" Alexander asked lightly.
"No!" Tori cried. "I can't count the number of times you nearly got me burned, beheaded, or staked through the heart during my sleep." She paused, calming herself slightly. "What do you really want, Alexander?"
He sighed dramatically—pure affectation, since Vampires do not breath.
"It's Viktor." He said softly.