Chapter 19 #2
There’s an elephant in the room that’s been left unaddressed, but I know better than to bring it up.
The fact that Theo’s been in stasis since the last time I saw him means he’s yet to go outside.
The refusal to change anything in the house was one thing, but he’s managed to confine himself in it.
Ghosts are only tied to locations if there’s a lingering emotional attachment they’re unwilling to sever.
Mayor Musthaven let go of his earthy connections many, many moons away—it’s why he’s able to roam freely throughout the town.
I wish the same for Theo—I wish him peace—but as I’m still in the land of the living, I’m not sure how to give it to him.
I nod with thanks for his hospitality and make my way up the winding staircase. The banister is layered with dust that flutters down in clumps as my hand glides across it.
The library is located in the largest turret of the second floor.
Though it looks larger from the outside, the space is small.
Every wall that hasn’t been taken over by large bay windows has been retrofitted into shelving for books.
All the texts are thick and peeling from age, most bound with leather.
I pluck one from its row and carefully slide it from the shelf.
Inside, the pages are thick and handmade.
Everything on them is handwritten with care.
The title reads: A Vampire’s Life Cycle by Clara Davies.
Unlike the magic wielders, the first vampire to record their history was female. We know her as Clara, The First. She lived in the early 1800s, which is as far back as paranormal history permits. Before then, we know very little as to where our kind came from or how we lived.
I flip through the rough-textured pages.
Most of the book is structured like a diary, recounting Clara’s daily life and routine.
She lists every one of her kills along with details of where the killing happened and a description of the person.
It’s callous, yet I fear it was her way of remaining sane in such a troubling time.
Being a vampire back then, with no information to guide you, must have been terrifying.
I’m both sad for her and grateful for her sacrifices.
Towards the back of the book are several lists explaining step by step the process of turning, feeding, and signs of low blood supply. Nothing is mentioned about bonds or donors, but those ideas had most likely not been discovered yet.
I replace the book on the shelf and search for later editions, anything closer to the turn of the twentieth century.
At the end of one shelf is a stack of small journals lying horizontally atop one another.
They are all the same rust color with no titles written on the front.
I take the one on top and flip to the first page.
This journal belongs to: Evelyn Jean Miller.
It’s just like Clara's journal with diary-like entries, but these are short and concise, merely a few sentences for each day.
Today my husband struggled again to find a proper victim for blood. I fear choosing only those who deserve to die will cost him. It has been three weeks. I am considering offering myself to him, but I must admit, I am too afraid to die.
I flip past several weeks of entries.
Somehow, I have survived the multiple feedings.
I thought for sure my previous entry would be my last, but it seems my blood is unique and replenishes faster than most. I am not sure what makes me special.
He tells me it is unlike any blood he has tasted before.
He believes mine is sweeter. I do not know what to make of this, other than I am happy to help my husband through his cravings.
Most days read the same: the couple has managed the husband’s feedings by balancing between fewer victims and his wife’s donations. There’s no mention of the word ‘donor’ or ‘mate’, but toward the end of the first journal, there is something worth noting.
I believe there is a unique bond between myself and my husband.
After consulting with my brother who has worked in the medical field for over twenty years, I have learned it is not humanly possible for my blood to replenish as quickly as it has.
Arthur is the only other person who knows of my husband’s affliction, so there’s no way for me to further my investigation without triggering suspicion.
It is otherworldly, and others might think me insane, but I choose to take it as a sign I am meant to be my husband’s companion.
I believe him when he says my blood is special.
I feel the magic between us when he drinks from me. There is no feeling like it.
I take a seat on the window nook, placing the journal in my lap.
Those otherworldly feelings that Evelyn described are what I fear for Jo.
It’s why I denied her when she asked me to bite her.
It’s not normal for a vampire to crave blood, but with Joanna, just the smell of her is enough to drive me wild with bloodlust. I can’t imagine how I’ll react once I have her blood on my tongue.
I’m likely to lose all sense of humanity, and that is the last thing I want to do with Jo in my presence.
This unquenchable desire for her is dangerous.
And every time we come together, I’m stepping closer and closer to crossing an unforgivable line.
I will not harm another human.
I made that promise fifty years ago, and I intend to keep it.