Chapter 44
BLOOD SPILLED
Iwoke hard from a deep sleep.
I'd been dreaming of the Mother's Book—of flipping through it with aching hands, my fingers dragging over the pages as if touch alone could pull centuries of Garvie knowledge into me.
In the dream, I was ravenous for answers, certain I was meant for something I was finally close to understanding.
I kept flipping back to the blank pages. The ones that followed the warning:
We are not chosen. Some are spared. Some are not. Our hands record the names and yet the debt remains unpaid.
When I woke, the ache was still there. Worse.
My palms throbbed, hot and insistent, as if the dream hadn't let go of me.
It wasn't just memory—it was a nudge. A pull.
Baird sat up beside me, already alert. He reached for me, concern etched into his face, but I waved him off and threw back the covers.
I didn't stop until I was in the living room, breath shallow, standing in front of the bookshelves.
The Mother's Book sat where I'd left it, dark and ordinary. No glow. No warning. And yet I knew—whatever waited for me was already awake, and Brigid's words echoed in my head—Your hands ache for truth, but I haven't hidden it from you, Mira—as I reached for it on the shelf.
Light exploded out of me, filling the cottage wall to wall—as if to say yes, this is what she meant.
Book in hand, I crossed to the kitchen counter and flipped through the pages until I found the blank one. The ache in my palms intensified, pulsing now, unbearable.
I reached for the knife in the butcher block—the same one Baird had used to pierce his heart vein so he could complete our bond—just as he entered the kitchen behind me.
“No, Mira,” Baird said.
I turned and threw out a hand on impulse, stopping him before he could take another step.
Baird froze mid-stride, suspended as if the air itself had turned solid. Light spilled from my palm, a barrier between us. The only sound was our breathing.
I didn't have time to wonder how I'd done it—how I was holding a vampire still, countering his speed with something raw and instinctive. His eyes widened, just for a second.
“This is what she meant,” I said, my voice shaking despite myself. “My hands ache for truth—but she hasn't hidden it from me. Whatever this is, it's been here since the moment I touched the book.”
When I lowered my hand, the light faded. Baird relaxed—but he didn't move closer.
I drew in a breath and dragged the blade across my palm. The sting was sharp, immediate. Blood welled—and with it, the ache vanished.
I cut the other hand without hesitation.
New pain bloomed, clean and bright, replacing the deep, relentless throb that had haunted me constantly since Brigid spoke those words.
I cupped my hands, letting the blood pool, and then spilled a drop on the page, mine bright red splattering on the parchment, mingling with other drops of Garvie blood given to the Mother's Book over the centuries.
A name appeared, as though my blood was siphoned into an invisible quill, marking the page.
Maelina Garvie – died 1391—Abhartach
More blood from my hands, more names.
Seoras Garvie, and child Ailis—died 1415—Flood
Elspeth Garvie—died 1433—Murdered by husband
Duncan Garvie Wallace—died 1460—Baobhan Sith
Deaths recorded in the Mother's Book. All Garvies. A generation apart, as if measured. Each one untimely. Two taken by vampires.
Dread hollowed me out, carving something deep and dark inside my chest. I feared the answer even as I needed it.
I spilled more blood onto the page. More names surfaced—some single, some paired. Some deaths were tragic and ordinary: sickness, famine, childbirth. Others were violent. Burned at the stake for witchcraft. Murder. Clan wars.
Until I spilled the drop that tore a cry from my throat. The sixteenth generation listed, the one I'd known was coming, but had refused to believe until I saw the names revealed in the ink born of my own blood:
Agnes Garvie Campbell and husband Baird—died 1785—Abhartach
Baird started toward me—then slowed. He closed carefully, as if approaching something newly dangerous. He stopped at my shoulder and leaned in, just enough to read the names. His gaze tracked the page from top to bottom until it reached the entry that bound him to Agnes—and to me.
I turned to face him, bracing for shock—for denial—but what I saw instead was grim recognition.
“This,” he said, his voice hollow. “…this is what Agnes meant. She saw it all.” His gaze lingered on the page longer than it needed to.
“When Brigid referred to the woman who watched from the edges”—he nodded once, jaw flexing, face twisting with the bitter taste of truth—“she meant Agnes. This was the madness that haunted her.”
He exhaled slowly, a sound caught somewhere between awe and remorse.
I picked up the knife again. The cuts were already stitching themselves closed, but my palms were aching again. There were more names that demanded to be seen.
Baird caught my hand. I waited for him to stop me—to spare me the knowledge he already knew would break something in me. He didn't.
Instead, he took the knife. His grip slid from my wrist to cradle my hand, careful, devastatingly gentle. He looked ruined, like this was a choice that would stay with him forever.
I had come to the book alone, chasing answers I thought I had to face by myself.
When his eyes met mine, I knew I'd been wrong.
There was no hesitation—I saw only a resolve to carry this together, whatever it demanded of us.
He pressed the blade into the half-healed cut, just enough.
Blood welled. There were still more names waiting—and he knew that he would not be permitted to heal me until they were seen.
Baird didn't let go. He folded my hands into his, our bodies close, aligned, and together we tipped the blood onto the parchment. More names surfaced. More death. More tragedy. Two more taken by vampires.
The seventh name stopped me cold. My paternal great-grandparents—James and Sarah Garvie.
Dead in 1948, the night a fire destroyed their home.
I reached out and touched their names, a piece of tragic family history I'd only ever heard about, never once considering their deaths might be connected to this.
“Family, love?” Baird murmured when I stalled.
I nodded, distant—the same way he had when he'd been forced to face his own entry in the Mother's Book.
I spilled another drop. Helen Garvie. Dead in a plane crash in 1984.
The cause of death felt wrong beside the ornate, looping script—too modern for ink that curled like a curse.
I didn't recognize the name, but I was sure in my gut that Granny Margaret would.
I touched our hands to the parchment one last time.
Baird's grip tightened before I could read it myself. His breath caught hard in his chest. “Mira,” he said, something broken in the way he said my name. I followed his gaze to the final entry.
William Garvie and wife Faith—died 2024—automobile accident