Blood Memories

She'd arranged for a local butcher shop to bring in live rabbits-for a substantial fee. Money meant nothing. From what she understood, Julian sent them enough money to support ten people in style. Edward believed he was doing her a service by managing their finances. He supplied her with spending money, and he always told her, "You only have to ask."

But for some reason, lately, she didn't like having to ask.

"Why are you changing clothes?" Edward lowered his paper and looked up over the top of his teacup. He was especially dashing tonight in a brown silk waistcoat.

"A thief on the pier tried to rob me," she answered.

"Is he still with us?"

"No."

"Good girl."

He could still make her smile.

Two years later, Eleisha stood staring out yet another hotel window.

She didn't hear him approach, but wasn't surprised when Edward peered over her shoulder.

"See anything you like?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"Shall we go to Delmonico's?" he asked in a bright but forced tone. "Have something upscale for supper?"

She tilted her head back to look up at him. His green eyes were sad.

Neither he nor she seemed able to speak of anything beyond the moment. They rarely hunted together anymore-or rather she rarely wished to hunt with him.

"Of course," she said, feeling guilty. "I'll get my cloak."

He nodded in relief, but his eyes were still sad.

Summer was approaching.

William was sitting on the velvet couch one night, carving a new set of checkers and talking quietly to himself. It troubled Eleisha that he only ventured out into the main sitting room now when Edward wasn't home… No, it more than troubled her.

Tonight, she wore a comfortable muslin dress-that she'd purchased herself-and was walking around the hotel room in bare feet.

"Are you tired of carving, William?" she asked. "Would you like to play chess?"

"No, no. I'll stoke up the fire," he said.

"All right."

She knew this was his answer for when he was content with his current activity. So she looked about the suite, wondering what to do with herself, trying not to let herself think. Lately, all she could do was think-to mull doubts and questions over and over again.

She had longed to ask Edward for the answers for years now, but at the same time, she resisted having to accept anything from him, to need him, to depend on him.

And so a few weeks ago, she'd gone to a library to do research on the undead. The wealth of material astounded her. She was bursting to know…

Turning her head, she heard Edward's light footsteps on the stairwell, and a moment later, he swept in through the front door with a «Tallyho» and a bottle of red wine.

"Hello, darlings," he called. "Daddy's home. Look what I've found. A bottle of 1865 cabernet sauvignon. We should celebrate."

"Celebrate what?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Think of something. You're the clever one." He frowned, staring at her. "Good God, what are you wearing?"

William stood up and quickly shuffled toward his room.

Suddenly, the whole facade of their existence came crashing down around Eleisha. She wanted to scream but did not know how. She whirled to face Edward, and his cheerful expression shifted to caution.

Her feeling of hysteria faded, replaced by a cold sense of calm.

"Edward, how many of us are there?"

He put the wine down on a polished table. "Well, there were three of us the last time I counted. Has someone come to visit?"

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant. Why on earth would you ask me that now?"

"Because there should be more. Because we had to come from somewhere. Who made Julian?"

This conversation was difficult for both of them. But she had to know.

He looked older somehow, almost defeated, just standing there, locked in her eyes. Finally he moved over to the fire and sat down in a mahogany chair. "I thought you might ask me where I came from… a long time ago. But you didn't. Did you never wonder who made me?"

"Julian did."

"No."

Eleisha froze, still staring at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped.

She didn't speak, and he glanced away.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asked.

"The beginning." Her voice sounded cold to her own ears.

"I don't know anything about that." He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. "I only know of a Norman duke from the twelfth century who was turned. Nobody knows who made him, but in the early nineteenth century, he made three sons: Julian, Philip Brante, and a young Scottish lord named John McCrugger."

Now that he was actually speaking of these things… of things that mattered, she didn't want him to stop. She walked over and sat on the floor beside his chair.

"Which one made you?"

"McCrugger." The tight tension faded from his face, as if he too suddenly wanted to talk of the past. "I was just an ignorant young man looking for work-and failing. He came to London on business, and I tried to pick his pocket. He took me back to Scotland and gave me a job as his manservant. Later I took over the house accounts, and finally, he turned me out of convenience."

"What?" she gasped.