Broken Heart Tails (14 page)

(This partially recovered text from destroyed scrolls was found in the Tomb of Set, God of Chaos. It dates to roughly 1800 B.C.E.)

“…and she who holds the world in her hands will choose a mate worthy of her love and her sacrifice. He will receive her gifts most divine … together, they will shine above any other … praise the Golden Ones, beloved of their people, they who rule on high…”

Note from the Author:
I wrote these prophecies for the first version of
Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire
, but ended up going in an entirely different direction!

The Elizabeth That Never Was

              Blood doesn’t repel me. As a vampire, that probably isn’t a surprising fact. Unlike most of the other single parents in Broken Heart, Oklahoma who were killed by a rampaging beast and then Turned into vampires, I never railed against my fate.

              I welcomed it.

              I am a practical woman. At the age of forty-three, I’d already heard the death knell of my youth. Unfortunately, so had my husband. I married young. Not for love. Sorry if that disappoints you. No, I married an ambitious man whose entrepreneurial skills made us very, very wealthy.

              He admired me once. My youth. My beauty. As I grew into my own skin, found my own worth, I made the terrible mistake of getting older. Oh, I did all the remedies. I suppose I must admit I had some vanity left. But going under the knife, taking the injection, doing the acid peel … none of it can actually make you young.

              Henry figured this out when I was thirty-six.

              I know what you’re thinking: He got old, too. Oh, my dear! A man with money is never old. Balding, fat, slovenly, wrinkled—a man’s flaws are easily ignored when he can pay for trips to Europe, daily spa treatments, and fully furnished apartments with all the bills paid.

              It paid to be Henry Bretton’s mistress.

              His last lover was a nineteen-year-old pop star named Tina. That’s it, just Tina. At some point, I had lost interest in the affairs. Henry and I kept separate bedrooms and though he picked up a new flavor every other month, I never took a lover.

              Did I mention Venice?

              Our daughter. We adopted her from Romania when she ten years old. I felt good about that.

             
Note from the Author:
This was the first foray into Elizabeth’s point-of-view. I wanted to call the book
Stakin’ Care of Business
. Eventually, I ditched this version and started over, creating
Cross Your Heart
with a softer version of Elizabeth Silverstone.

The Mystery of the Eighth Vampire Family

Who is Shamhat? Why didn’t anyone know about this Ancient? And why were her contributions to the early history of vampires ignored? Lorcan O’Halloran, who kept the archives for his father, Ruadan the First, wrote nothing about Family Shamhat. It’s unclear if Lorcan failed to include Shamhat’s origins because he was unaware of her, or as some have speculated, he kept his writings about her hidden. So far, no one is willing to reveal why the eighth vampire line was kept a secret.

“What’s done is done, love,” said Ruadan when I asked why he didn’t include Shamhat in his own chronicles. “If’n I wanted you to know,” he added, “you’d know.”

Ancients can be persnickety close-mouthed bastards.

Phoebe Ballard, the first resident of Broken Heart to meet the last surviving vampire of the Family Shamhat, offered this insight: “I’m kinda busy. Y’know with being the talisman an’ all. Go talk to Larsa.” She paused. “You might wanna bring chili cheese fries as a tribute. Or a weapon to defend yourself.”

(Author’s note: Swords are hard to come by, especially in Broken Heart when a certain mother married to a certain Irish soulmate refused to part with one. She’s got two! And fangs! Thanks for nothing, Jessica! Anyway. I went with the chili cheese fries.)

Larsa is the last Shamhat
deamhan fola
, and for reasons that remain her own, she won’t admit whether or not she’s been in touch with Ruadan or the other Ancients during the 3,000 years since her mother’s death. Yes, it’s true. Larsa was the biological child of Shamhat—and Turned by her as well. (Does anyone else wonder why every Ancient Turned one of their biological children? Yeah. Good luck getting an answer to that question. Sheesh.)

All I’ve managed to piece together is that Shamhat was mated with Amahté, he literally saved her soul and then afterwards went to ground with her so her injuries could heal. Now, both of them are missing. It seems that someone moved their original resting spot in the Sudan. And since we found out that killing an Ancient kills their entire line (not to mention the mates of their Family’s vampires)—or at least would have before Patsy assumed all the powers—they must be all right. Somewhere. Probably.

(Another question: Why could Khenti, Amahté’s son, hand over his Family’s power to Patsy, but Larsa couldn’t do the same? No one could answer this question, either, and when I queried the Queen, she offered, “Who the fuck cares? I don’t need another damned power. Go do something useful. Like find out what’s living my freaking attic. It’s creepy up there.”)

(Author’s note: If the queen of the undead is scared of going into her attic, you can bet your ass very mortal human-y me ain’t going anywhere near it. Send Damian. He’ll go wolf on whatever-it-is. You know that dude can kill with a glare, right?)

I’ll continue to dig (hah) for answers about the Family Shamhat. Rumor has it that Larsa has received new information about the location of the buried Ancients and is putting together a search party. If you want confirmation, go ask her yourself. There aren’t enough chili cheese fries in the world for me to risk being impaled by pointy objects.

(Author’s note: Larsa said my neck was pretty. When a vampire admires your throat, you get the hell out of there. Okay. She said it after I snaked one teeny tiny cheese fry, which is lesson two, people ... don’t steal food from a bloodsucker.)

I’m leaving. I need chocolate. And I need to go to a place where zombies don’t steal cars. Seriously. Shambling’s not good enough for y’all anymore? Now I have to ask Jessica for a ride home. So, yeah. Thanks for that.

Note from the Author:
To learn more about the eighth vampire line, read
Come Hell or High Water
and
Only Lycans Need Apply
.

The Warrior and the Maiden

A story by Lorcan O’Halloran

Once, there was a warrior named Aindriú. He wielded his sword so well, and felled his enemies so quickly, friends and foes agreed the man had been blessed by the gods. No one knew Aindriú’s parentage. Some speculated he was the bastard child of a god and his human mistress. Others say he was formed at the bottom of the sea and so bitter was his taste, the sea spit him out on to Éire’s shore. Still others believed the Sidhe created him and sent him out into the world to cut down their enemies.

However Aindriú came to be, none could deny his prowess in battle. When men heard his war cry, many dropped their weapons and left the fields rather risk crossing swords with Aindriú. So fearsome was his reputation that every high king in Éire desired his loyalty. They offered him everything: Wealth. Brides. Land.

But Aindriú was not a greedy man, so he could not be bought. Land held no appeal because he was too restless a soul to settle down. And he deemed himself unworthy of marriage, refusing to burden an innocent maiden with his warrior lust.

He fought only for the causes he believed to be righteous. He performed labors in villages for food and places to sleep. He liked the simplicity of his life; and though he did not delight in causing death, he used the gifts bestowed on him by the gods. They made him a warrior, and he followed his own sense of duty to serve justice.

It came to pass that Aindriú joined the cause of an honorable high king, who was trying to protect his borders from his half-brother—a man who sought only wealth and power of the crown. After months of bloody conflict, the battle was won and the high king’s brother vanquished. Despite the king’s entreaties and attempts to reward him, Aindriú packed up his meager belongings and left. He was weary down to his soul, and wished only to find some solace before he was called into service again.

During his travels, he came upon the seaside village of Baile Uí Bheacháin, or Ballyvaughan. He found work on an elderly couple’s small farm. At night, he slept in their barn. Days passed and Aindriú found himself content to work the land and take care of the animals. He had pleasant conversations with his new friends, and the wife cooked hardy meals. Some days, he took trips down to the beach, to either swim or walk the shores.

Often, he went out with the fishermen and brought home to his benefactors whatever catches he made.

One day, a young boy approached him at the farm. “Are you the great warrior Aindriú?”

“Aye,” said Aindriú.

“I’m Crevan,” said the boy. “An’ I need your help. My sister’s been kidnapped by a troll, and he forcin’ her to marry ’im.”

Aindriú laughed. He knew no such creature existed, though he knew both giants and the Sidhe were real enough. “And where might this troll be?”

“In the hill,” said Crevan. He pointed to the large hill in the distance. “You have t’ rescue her. Our parents died two winters ago, and she’s takin’ care o’ me. Please, warrior.”

Aindriú, despite his doubts about the boy’s tale, recognized his distress was genuine. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go rescue your sister from the troll. Show me the way.”

At dawn the next day, Aindriú and his new young friend, Crevan, set out for the hill where the troll lived. It was two days walk, and required they travel through the haunted forest, and then deep into treacherous caverns that criss-crossed under the hillside.

“Why does this troll want to marry your sister?” asked Aindriú.

“’Cause she’s pretty, and she can cook,” answered Crevan. But his gaze slid away, and Aindriú knew the boy was keeping secrets. He decided to stay silent on the matter, knowing that even though Crevan had asked for his help—he had yet to earn the lad’s trust.

After half a day’s walk, they reached the edge of the dreaded Gan Eagla forest. Aindriú noticed the hesitation of his young friend to cross into the tree line. “I’ve heard stories,” said Crevan. “Ghosts live here.”

“Maybe,” agreed Aindriú. “But I’ve seen none.”

Crevan’s eyes went wide as saucers. “You’ve been inside?”

“I’ve been everywhere, lad,” said Aindriú. “You know why they call Gan Eagla?”

Crevan shook his head. “I don’t know why they call such a place ‘without fear.’”

“It’s not a name so much as instructions,” said Aindriú, smiling. “You must enter it without being afraid. ‘Tis fear that attracts the otherworldly.”

Crevan sidled another glance at the woods then swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbled. “I can be brave,” he said in a quavering voice.

Aindriú clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Gan scáth gan eagla!”

He stepped through the trees that marked the beginning of the only known way through the forest. “Stay on the path no matter what,” he warned. “And remember, Crevan, you are crógach!”

“Brave,” muttered the boy. “I’m brave.”

Still, he stayed very close to the warrior as they walked down the narrow, debris-strewn path. There were logs to scramble over, and boulders to squeeze around, and once, they had to step over what Crevan thought looked like human bones, even though Aindriú insisted it was merely a pile of bleached sticks.

The boy tried to think brave thoughts; he wanted to be as confident and valorous as Aindriú. But he had never fought more than the mice that troubled his sister’s kitchen, and he’d never seen one ghost, much less the thousand said to roam Gan Eagla. As they traveled deeper still into the forest, it got darker and colder. Noises he couldn’t attribute to animals

filtered through the trees. The scrabbling sounded like wraiths, he thought warily, and was that not the moans of the dead? Surely no wind had ever sounded so desolate.

“I hear the ghosts,” whispered Crevan.

“Nonsense!” Aindriú marched forward. “We have no need to be afraid.”

But no matter what the warrior said, Crevan knew he heard the fearsome groans of the shades trapped in this terrible place. He swore he could feel skeletal fingers reaching out from the branches above them to stroke his hair and tickle his neck.