Raizel had been expecting something—anything—from this visit. A challenge, a bit of amusement, maybe even an interesting conversation.
Instead, he got this.
A room full of vampires acting like nervous interns waiting for their performance review.
He sighed internally. What a letdown.
His gaze moved toward Edward, who still had his head bowed, probably trying to convince himself that if he stayed still enough, Raizel would forget he existed.
Coward.
Raizel had never found Edward particularly interesting. This old brat was technically over a century old, yet still carried himself with the existential crisis of a brooding teenager. Pathetic.
Losing interest, Raizel turned his attention to Carlisle. "Have you come across those responsible for the animal attacks?"
Carlisle glanced at his family before responding carefully, "No, we haven't, my lord."
Raizel almost sighed out loud. My lord?
"I believe you gentlemen are not among them," Raizel continued, though the sheer boredom in his voice made it sound like he was talking about the weather. "The eyes I see are not the same as those who feed on human blood. That's enough for me. But if you come across them, inform Frankenstein."
Carlisle nodded again, but Raizel could practically hear the man mentally rewriting everything he thought he knew about Frankenstein.
Raizel turned his gaze to Alice. "You might have seen me coming."
Alice solemnly nodded. "I did."
Raizel frowned. That was it? No witty remark? Just quiet acceptance?
What a letdown.
Seeing no further entertainment to be had, Raizel rose from his seat. "Thank you for your time," he said flatly, already turning to leave.
Then, because he figured he should at least pretend to be polite, he extended a hand toward Edward.
What he did not expect was Edward reacting like he had just been handed a live grenade.
Edward flinched. His hand twitched, as if debating whether to slap Raizel's away, before his face contorted into something that looked like a mix of defiance and immediate regret.
For a second, there was silence.
Then the room trembled.
The floor vibrated. The bookshelves shuddered. A few decorative objects hovered just slightly before dropping back into place.
Carlisle, proving that he was the only one in the house with functioning survival instincts, dropped to one knee immediately. "Please forgive us for any offense."
Raizel exhaled through his nose. This was exactly why he avoided interacting with teenagers.
With a shake of his head, he turned toward Edward and left him with a simple, parting remark:
"Boy, don't get hurt."
Edward remained silent, though he looked vaguely offended by the boy comment.
Frankenstein, sensing that this visit had long overstayed its welcome, moved ahead to open the car door.
Raizel got in without another word, giving Carlisle one last glance. The doctor nodded in farewell, looking slightly relieved that they had survived the encounter.
Frankenstein got into the driver's seat, gave a small wave toward Carlisle, and started driving.
.....
For a while, there was silence.
He kept his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
A normal person wouldn't have noticed.
Raizel was not a normal person.
"I believe something is bothering you, Frankenstein," he said, with a kind of certainty.
Frankenstein, who had spent centuries perfecting the art of pretending nothing was ever wrong, summoned his best everything is fine smile. "It's nothing, Master. Just some minor matters I'm sorting out."
Raizel didn't respond.
Frankenstein hated that.
That was worse.
See, silence from most people meant they'd moved on. Silence from Raizel meant he was still looking. Still thinking.
Frankenstein lasted ten whole seconds before Raizel did what could only be described as stepping over every boundary of personal space and invading his actual brain.
Frankenstein stiffened.
"Master." His voice was polite, but under that politeness lurked the very real sentiment of I would appreciate it if you would STOP doing that.
Raizel, being Jay, ignored him entirely.
There was no dramatic reaction, no wide-eyed shock, no gasp of horror—just the slightest shift in his expression, so minor that no one else would have noticed.
Frankenstein noticed.
And then Raizel, in the casual tone of someone commenting on the weather, said:
"Pull over."
Frankenstein inhaled deeply. He considered ignoring that, because let's be honest, when had pulling over ever led to good things?
But Raizel had just read his mind, and there was no chance Frankenstein could get away with pretending he hadn't heard.
So, with the air of a man resigned to his fate, he guided the car to a smooth stop. Raizel stepped out with the same unshaken grace he always kept, and Frankenstein—knowing that whatever this was, he was already in too deep—followed.
The night air was cool. The road was empty.
The situation, however, was not good.
Raizel turned, looking at him with that unreadable expression. "Frankenstein."
There was a tone to that.
"…Yes, Master?"
Then, still in that same calm, completely infuriating voice, Raizel said:
"I sealed away my memories."
And he lied. Without hesitation. Without regret. Without even blinking.
Frankenstein's brain came to a halt.
And then, a second later, restarted with a distinct and deeply exasperated:
I beg your pardon?
He stared at his master. His old, impossibly powerful, never-lost-a-battle, never-shown-weakness master.
And this man—this ancient noble of supreme might—was now claiming to have personally, deliberately, on purpose, wiped his own memories.
Frankenstein took a deep breath. Then another.
"Master." He pinched the bridge of his nose, said "Do you expect me to believe that?"
Raizel remained the same. "It is the truth."
Ah. So we're doubling down on the nonsense.
Frankenstein exhaled sharply again. "Even if that were true—and I'm not saying it is—why—" He stopped. No. No, he already knew. There was no point in asking. Because no matter what the reason was, Raizel wasn't going to tell him anyway.
Raizel simply watched him. Silent.
Not because he refused to explain.
But because he had no explanation to give.
It was a lie. A very polished, well-delivered lie. A lie for the sake of maintaining the mystique.
Frankenstein clenched his jaw. He had fought wars. He had faced nobles and werewolves. He had survived things no human should survive.
But somehow, somehow, this conversation was what was pushing him to his limit.
Raizel spoke again, his voice slower this time.
"The person you have been serving is no longer the same," he said. "The past that defined me is now gone." A pause. Then, thoughtfully, he added, "But perhaps I am different. Nonetheless, that does not change who I am. And in the end, I will remain the same."
There was a weight to those words.
Frankenstein felt it settle between them.
He looked at Raizel for a long, long moment.
And then, with the deep, world-weary exhaustion of a man who had absolutely had it, he simply said:
"Master… You could have led with that."
Raizel blinked.
Frankenstein shook his head, muttering something under his breath about how of course Raizel would phrase it in the most dramatic way possible.
Raizel tilted his head slightly. "Does it bother you?"
Frankenstein stared at him. Then he sighed, long and slow. "Master, at this point, nothing surprises me anymore."
Raizel considered that.
And then, for the briefest of moments—he almost, almost—smiled.
Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the car.
Frankenstein stood there for a second longer, staring up at the sky, internally calculating if it was too late to just walk into the sea and let the tide carry him away.
Then, with one last, long-suffering breath, he followed.
As he slid back into the driver's seat, he spared Raizel a glance. "At the very least, I hope you didn't forget how to drink tea. I don't think I could handle that level of catastrophe, Master."
Raizel didn't respond.
Which meant he was absolutely thinking about it.
Frankenstein sighed.
The car rolled forward once more, the night stretching ahead, quiet and vast—
—and far from peaceful.