CHAPTER 27
WE PASS THROUGH AN ARCHWAY into a section of the mansion that feels older, the floorboards groaning as if protesting our intrusion.
Rusted candelabras cling to the walls, their pale wax long hardened.
Thick motes drift in a shaft of light, settling on faded tapestries that sag with age and on the cracked surface of a long-forgotten mirror.
An overturned chair leans against a timeworn piano, tarnished keys barely visible beneath the grime, and a trace of old parchment lingers, breathing its history at us.
Ahead, a single door of dark, polished wood stands closed. My heart hammers against my ribs as we approach, each step bringing me closer to answers I’ve sought for most of my life.
I lift my hand, the key trembling slightly between my fingertips as I push it into the lock. As I turn it slowly, the tumblers shift and groan with the weight of years, a reluctant mechanism waking from slumber. The sound isn’t loud, but it reverberates through my bones.
The door unlatches with a muted thud.
Nothing dramatic or ceremonial. Just inevitable.
I step inside, Saul close behind. The scent of old books, dried herbs, and something uniquely feminine that tugs at the edges of my memory hits me first.
The chamber is larger than I expected, divided into distinct parts.
A sitting area with plush chairs and bookshelves occupies one corner.
A massive wardrobe stands partially open in the other, revealing glimpses of extravagant dresses and practical attire alike.
A large four-poster bed dominates the center, its covers undisturbed as if waiting for its owner’s return.
Numerous shelves line the walls, filled with bottles, jars, candles and strange artifacts I can’t identify.
But it’s the desk that draws me like a magnet, a beautiful piece of ornate craftsmanship positioned beneath the largest curtained window, offering a striking view of the grounds below.
Papers are arranged in neat stacks, quills and ink bottles stand ready for use, and in the middle lies a hand-stitched journal, its edges worn smooth by frequent handling.
Beyond it lie several folded letters, two taper candles, a trinket box, and a framed photograph portraying a younger version of our mother, standing beside a relatively young boy whom I weirdly recognize as Ace.
Both are smiling, her arm around his shoulders in a gesture of easy familiarity.
I approach carefully, almost worshipfully, trailing my fingers along the desk’s polished surface.
Everything is preserved as if she might return at any moment—take up her pen, sit in her chair, and continue whatever work had been interrupted.
I open the trinket box, finding a collection of pressed flowers, a lock of charcoal hair tied with a string, and a child’s drawing signed with my clumsy handwriting.
Saul settles into a nearby armchair, his posture relaxed but watchful. “I come sometimes, when I need to think.”
I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the journal, half-expecting it to crumble to dust at my touch. I’m relieved to find it remains solid, real, a tangible connection to the woman who gave me life.
The paper is supple beneath my fingertips as I carefully open to the first page, elegant handwriting filling the page.
1
There is no gift comparable to the act of writing.
My heart swells with delight I can scarcely contain.
To finally get to commit the stirrings of my mind, the impressions of each hour, and the unfolding of my existence to parchment is a pleasure most exquisite.
One I may now render eternal. Each entry shall be a jewel in the treasury of my own making, a record of joy, discovery, and the marvels of this immortal life.
With love, Seena.
I’ve propped myself up on the bed, Saul moving to sit beside me, the soft rustle of paper matching the steady rhythm of our breathing. He gestures for me to flip forward to a specific entry that encapsulates the first time she met our father.
148
Roman is his name.
The moon was soft on the water, the breeze mild, carrying the mingled scent of pine and iron, the book in my hands some tragic, overwrought, and deliciously predictable mortal novel, with just enough melancholy to match the dusk.
I lazily turned its pages, ruminating about the feast I’d just had when I heard his footsteps.
Too confident to be a lost wanderer. Too quiet to be innocent.
“I know I’m not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but that looks like a good read.”
“It is not,” I told him, not bothering to look up from my page.
The mortal then had the gall to warn me about the danger of vampires in the area.
As if I ought to seek his protection. As if I were not the reason most of them were on edge tonight.
He offered to walk me home. Charming, really.
Thought himself gallant. Another puppet for my strings, I supposed, so I played along—all innocence and kind smiles.
How fortunate for him that I had already fed, leaving me no choice but to save him for another day. A rainy evening, perhaps.
A feigned tremor and a counterfeit breath of warmth upon my hands was enough for him to lend me his jacket and tell me to keep it. He even said it would be our token. That we would meet again.
When we did, the faintest sheen of false tears coaxed the right question from him: “What’s with the long face?
” I explained how my vampire friend had been murdered by a hunter, the story I keep for cloyed men like him.
The same tiresome refrain would follow. That it was foolish to keep such company, that I should be grateful it was not I that was struck, that those monsters cannot be our friends. That I was saved.
Then, I’d tilt my head just so, and thank him. For delivering himself on a silver platter.
Only he did not. What followed were looks of utter guilt and shame.
So much he turned his back to me like the prey he was, apologizing.
“Your friend didn’t deserve that.” I advised him to stop acting as though he was not enjoying this, fully prepared to give him something to truly enjoy.
Death. I bared my fangs. Just enough for him to see.
Just enough to show him what I was. “I hate it, honestly,” he then said.
“That I’m a hunter. That people you care about get hurt.
” I should have laughed, bitten his throat right on the spot.
Instead, I asked him why he did it. The hunting.
My fangs retracted as he turned. He told me his sister is chronically ill.
That their parents could not afford treatment.
Hunter ranks pay well, enough to keep her alive.
Said his dream was once to become a professional athlete.
That most hunters do not hate us. Not really.
That they are just talented in ways the system uses.
Sports, science, strategy. Recruited by a world that feeds on desperation and calls it duty.
He slouched back when he spoke, like the weight of his story had settled in his bones.
Apparently, he did not care much for killing.
He believed in places like Penn City, where humans and vampires get along, of a sort.
He did not hate vampires. Did not even fear us.
“Sure, there are some vile ones out there, but the same could be said for humans. I’m sure you understand, considering what happened to your friend.”
I did not expect to hesitate. I never hesitate.
But for one strange, blood-warmed moment, I thought: perhaps this one is not for the rainy evening after all. Perhaps I shall wait for a storm.
Or perhaps I shall not drink him at all. We shall see.
Aunt Rory passed not long after our father did.
For the first time in years, I think of my grandparents—how hollow their house must have felt, losing both their children so close together, while I’d been so consumed by revenge that I never stopped to consider their grief. To pay them a visit. And now, it’s too late.
Their hands will never touch mine again, yet I hope they forgave my absence. I hope they’ve found rest. Peace. The thought brings a strange warmth, like a candle flickering against the dark.
Later entries encapsulate the fact that their relationship wasn’t just a romance.
It was an exchange, too. She taught him how to see beauty in things he’d been trained to disregard—art, poetry, music—while he gave her something rare for her kind: perspective, hope, and the possibility of coexistence.
Their secret meetings by the lake, hidden deep in the forest where the noise of the world couldn’t reach them, became a routine. Not just for blood, though that was part of it, but for understanding.
For choosing each other again and again in a world that demanded they be enemies.
My brother’s hand brushes the pages, reversing them, guiding me to the entry he wishes for me to read next.
67
Today, I met Cain. His name still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
He approached me with that smile as though my consent were already his, pulled me closer than courtesy allowed, his hands roaming places they should not.
When I let my displeasure show, he acted as though I ought to feel honored to be within his presence.
He truly believed, foolishly, that a promise on parchment or in vitae translates to access, granting him free reign of my body.
Those moments may have been his to trespass, but they were mine to mark.
I shall not bend to a man who mistakes betrothal for permission.
My skin crawls. Cain’s from her world. A Noble from her time.
“Exactly how old is Cain?” I ask, frowning.
“Age carries little weight to the immortal,” Saul says. “What matters is bloodline. They are both second-generation.”
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