Hunting Memories (14 page)
Authors: Barb Hendee
“I don’t know.”
She grew hungrier each night. Edward’s final words constantly echoed in her ears.
Do not go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.
Most country people loved to whisper tales of ghosts, fairies, changelings, vampires, and even of spirits who drained the living. Rose had never taken much interest in such legends, but now wished she had.
Her own lack of emotion was
wrong
, and she knew it.
wrong
, and she knew it.
But her body no longer functioned as a proper living thing. She did not eat nor drink nor require the privy. Her mouth produced no salvia. Her heart did not beat.
Yet she hungered.
On the eighth night, she slipped out of the house and went to the stable. At present, Seamus had no colts in the stalls, but Rose had forgotten to feed her pony. She found hay and a fresh bucket of water on the floor of his stall. Someone had been caring for him. Probably Quentin. She harnessed her pony and climbed into her cart.
“Where are you going?” Seamus asked, materializing in the doorway.
“I must go out. I will come back.”
“Where?” he demanded.
She was starving, growing weak and desperate. “Move or I will drive the cart through you.”
His eyes widened at both her words and tone, and he vanished.
She could not care for his feelings, not just now.
Looking back later, she truly did not even know what she was doing, or how she had the sense to leave Loam Village and drive a good distance away. But for the first time in her life, she felt uncomfortable, almost frightened by the broad night sky, and she longed for the enclosed safety of the house. She felt much too . . . exposed out here.
In spite of this newfound fear, she intended to go all the way up to Eagan Village, about two hours east, but then she saw movement on the road up ahead, and she came upon a young man standing on the ground, examining his horse’s hoof.
Again, without knowing why, she felt a need to gain his absolute confidence, and she pulled up her pony and asked, “Do you need help?”
He stiffened and then straightened, turning his head to see her. His face was awed, just as the villagers in the pub had looked while listening to Edward.
“My horse picked up a stone,” the young man said. “He’s limping.”
Rose climbed down from the cart, watching the man. She could almost see him glowing with warmth, with life. She could hear his heart beating. She could see the pulse in his throat.
“My brother is a horse trainer. Let me see,” she said, letting her voice soothe him, assure him that she would know what to do.
Without hesitation, he knelt down and picked up the horse’s hoof. Rose looked at the embedded stone. “He’d best not walk or he’ll go lame,” she said. “Tie him up and come with me. We’ll bring the blacksmith from my village to pull the stone.”
He did not even ask her about her village or how far it might be. He seemed lost in the wisdom of her words as he tied up his horse. His heartbeat grew louder, and she was fighting herself not to lunge at him. A creek gurgled beyond the trees to the left of the road.
“My pony is thirsty,” she said. “Come and help me water him first.”
The young man asked no questions and helped her lead the harnessed pony to the creek. Rose crouched down, and the man crouched beside her. She reached out to touch his face as she had touched Edward’s . . . and he let her.
The next action felt natural, and without conscious thought, she pushed him back against the grassy bank and drove her teeth into his throat—as Edward had done to her.
He bucked once in shock, but she held him down, draining and drinking.
Blood and warmth and life flowed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her with strength. She saw images in her mind, sheep and dogs and green fields and a girl named Missy. She drank and drank until she could take no more.
Then she sat up.
The hunger was gone, but suddenly so was the hollow emptiness. Looking down, she felt shame and regret. She touched her own throat. The wound was entirely healed.
“What are you?” Seamus asked from behind her. “What have you become?”
Even transparent, his face was a mask of horror. She could not blame him.
But she didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down at the young man on the grass. His heart was no longer beating. She dragged him a few paces to the creek and dropped his body into the current.
“We are cursed, Rose,” Seamus said quietly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I think we are.”
A year and a half slipped by.
Rose had recovered from the death of her father and then the deaths of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna, but she would never recover from the actions of Edward Claymore.
She and Seamus hid in the house by day and through most of the nights. They were both dead and yet tied to this world. Some things did improve. After a time, Seamus came to understand her need to feed in order to survive, and as he loved her—and she was his only companion—he focused his blame and judgment upon Edward, not upon her.
To pass the time, she read him books, or they spoke of the past, or he offered her suggestions while she altered the house to suit her present condition better, such as reinforcing and covering all the windows.
Her neighbors accepted that Seamus’ death had been the last straw to drive her into darkness, and for the most part they left her alone, although Quentin always cared for the pony. Sometimes they left her buckets of milk or meat pies on the front step, which she could not consume. Rose wished she could feel gratitude toward them for their kindness, but her emotions were slow in returning.
She fought to go as long as possible between feedings, sometimes starving herself to the edge of her strength, but the hunger always won in the end, and she would forget her shame and regret.
At least twice a month, she slipped out and drove far from the village. No one even knew she had left the house. She never got over the new fear of being out in the open. And the shame always returned as she looked down into a dead face and torn throat, but she could not stop herself the next time she grew hungry.
Then, in the spring of 1826, Miriam knocked on the door one evening. She had not tried to visit in many months.
“Rose,” she called. “A letter came for you today, from New York. Can you open the door for me, and I’ll just slip it in?”
Rose waited, tense, inside the house. A letter? From New York?
But she could not bring herself to unbar the door, as she was hungry and feared being so near to Miriam.
“I’ll just leave it her on the doorstep,” Miriam called. “You can find it later.”
At these words, a rush of gratitude did pass through Rose, surprising her. Perhaps she was healing to a point?
She waited until Miriam’s footsteps sounded well down the path. Then she unbarred the door and saw a white envelope on the step. It was addressed to her. She grabbed it, taking it inside and barring the door again.
The return address was in Manhattan but did not contain the name of the sender. Her hands shook as she unsealed the flap. Inside, she found a one-page letter and two hundred pounds in paper notes.
Dear Rose,You have no reason to listen to me nor heed my advice. But I left you in ignorance, telling you nothing of our world. There are others like you and I, existing all across Europe, and one of them, Julian Ashton, has gone mad and is killing his own kind. My own master is dead, and I have fled to America . . . but only because Julian let me go, and I still do not know why.So far, with the exception of myself and two other vampires, Julian is beheading anyone he finds. You are not safe in Scotland. I swear that I’ve told no one of your existence, but if rumors of blood-drained bodies reach Julian’s ears, he will come for you.You must keep your existence a secret. Take the money I’ve enclosed here, go to Aberdeen, and buy passage on a ship to Philadelphia. You will be safe there. Write to me when you have landed, and I will send more money. Leave tonight. I fear too much time has passed already. I would have written sooner, but I’ve only just arrived. Please, Rose, go to America. If you stay in that village, Julian will destroy you.Your servant,
Edward
Her hands still trembled. After what he’d done to her, done to Seamus, how dare he write such a note, feigning protection . . . and to send money!
“Do you believe him?” Seamus said in her ear.
She jumped, not aware he had materialized right behind her, reading the letter over the shoulder.
But his words jolted her mind off Edward’s act of writing and onto the content of the letter.
So far, with the exception of myself and two other vampires, Julian is beheading anyone he finds.
Vampires.
There. He’d written it down.
She had never allowed herself to speak the word nor write it, but now that he had, it seemed real. She was a vampire.
She was part of a world she knew nothing about.
There are others like you and I, existing all across Europe.
And one of them had gone mad and was killing his own kind.
“We must do as he says,” Seamus insisted. “Leave tonight. Too many people have died or disappeared because of you! Even if we don’t receive outside news anymore, the villages must have set up a militia. The stories must be spreading.”
His reaction surprised her, that he should be so quick to do anything Edward suggested.
“You think we should leave our home?” she asked. “My father’s home? And his father’s? No, Seamus.”
“What if he’s right?” Seamus shouted, his transparent hand pointing at the letter. “What if this Julian cuts off your head?” He sounded desperate.
He did not want to be alone.
“I do not think we can stay here anyway,” he rushed on. “Sooner or later, someone is going to see you leaving one night. I believe people are already wondering what you eat . . . locked away in here. You cannot stay forever.”
“Go to America?” she asked. “A place we’ve never even seen?”
“He said you’ll be safe there.”
The weight of the arrival of Edward’s letter suddenly hit her. She had never been farther from home than Inverness or Elgin. The thought of leaving the enclosed safety of the house brought fear up into her throat.
“Seamus . . . I don’t even know the way to Aberdeen. I don’t know how to book passage on a ship to Philadelphia.”
Rose, who had always considered herself quite brave, realized she possessed a deep fear of unknown places, of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do when she got there.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “I know the way to Aberdeen. Father took me twice when I was a boy.”
Arguments and hesitation and fear ensued, but in the end, Seamus won. Rose packed her clothes and all the money in the house, and they slipped away in the night. Aberdeen was a crushing and crowded place, and once there, Seamus could not materialize in public to communicate with her. Between trips with his father, and later in his horse trading, he had done a good deal more traveling than she had, and she wanted his advice, but she managed to book herself passage on a ship bound for America, and she even arranged for a windowless cabin with a stout door.
The thought of an enclosed space brought some comfort.
Half of her was numb and the other half was screaming that this journey was wrong.
How could she leave Loam Village? How could she leave her home?
But she never saw Scotland again. The sea journey was a nightmare. She starved herself inside her cabin as the shipped rocked on the high waves. One night, she grew so desperate from hunger that she managed to draw off a sailor alone, feed, and push his body over the side. Occasionally, men fell overboard at sea.
But she and Seamus arrived in Philadelphia to a busy crowded world, an alien world. How had Edward done this? She wondered over and over why he had gone to so much trouble to warn her of the danger Julian posed. She wondered why he had not asked her to come to him in New York . . . and yet she had no desire to see him.
He had murdered Seamus and destroyed her life.
Still, after securing herself in a hotel, she wrote to him:
Edward,We are here in Philadelphia. We have arrived.Rose
She could not bring herself to write more, but she did not wish to leave him wondering what had become of her. Why? Perhaps because besides Seamus, she had no one else, and some part of her did not wish to forever sever the connection with Edward. She included her current address. Three weeks later, a letter arrived.
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