Blood Memories

"Sounds coldhearted now, doesn't it? I don't know. Maybe he just wanted to experiment with his power, but he said that he'd trained me well and never wished to go through such training again."

"What happened to him?"

"Julian hunted him down and killed him… and I think he killed the old Norman lord as well. I don't know why. To the best of my knowledge, neither one had wronged him. He seemed to be going on some sort of murder spree, but he never went after Philip or Maggie."

"Maggie?"

"Margaritte Latour? Philip's whore? Did you never meet her?"

The memory of Maggie remained vivid. "Yes, once. She's not someone you'd forget."

"She's the final player. There are only six of us left as far as I know."

"As far as you…" She trailed off as something he'd said struck her. "Why did you say ‘murder spree' if he only killed two other vampires?"

Edward paused for a long moment, as if deciding how much to share. "Because later, Maggie and I corresponded out of… concern for ourselves, trying to figure a few things out. She hinted there were others."

"What others?" Eleisha asked in fascination, moving closer.

"I don't know!" He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again, trying to calm himself. "Remember I was only a servant. Except for Maggie, the others were noble. I was certainly not in the loop."

"You said Julian left them alone, but he left you alone, too?"

His face grew pained. "Yes. My master had gone to Harfleur that winter, and I was managing his French villa in Amiens… He owned homes in several countries. He showed up one night with no warning and told me to pack, that we were going back to Scotland. We went down together to give instructions to our grooms… and Julian came out of the shadows by the stable. I watched him cut McCrugger's head off and then he just turned around and said, ‘Go, like some homicidal, self-important god. I ran like a coward for America and never looked back."

Eleisha's mind raced.

"But I've read… Edward, don't be angry with me, but I've been reading at the library. Some of the accounts suggest larger numbers of us across Europe."

His green eyes widened. "You've been…?" He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. "I know those old stories, too. All myth and folklore. We each feed at least once a week. What if there were even twenty vampires living in Manhattan? Twenty deaths a week? We'd depopulate the area too quickly for secrecy."

He was right, of course, but the picture still didn't make sense. Those written accounts couldn't all be fictitious, could they? Mass hysteria?

"What if-"

"Enough!" he snapped, and then his expression softened. "Enough for one night." He looked down at her simple dress and bare feet in disapproval. "What are you wearing?"

"It's comfortable." She paused. "And I would like to buy a few more-just for evenings at home." Her jaw clenched. "I'll need some money."

"You only have to ask."

She looked over to note that William had not come out of his room.

Less than a year later, Edward came home to find her standing by the window again.

She was holding an envelope in her hand, the address written in a familiar black script of blocky letters and numbers.

"A love letter from Julian?" Edward asked flippantly. "What does the old boy have to say?"

Then he saw her face, and he stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She held up the envelope. "He's agreed to begin sending our stipend to me directly… in Oregon."

Edward blinked, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

"I'm taking William, and we're leaving," she said.

His mouth fell open in shock. He dropped into a chair, his dark eyes shifting back and forth.

"William's grown afraid of you," she rushed on. "Admit it, Edward, the sight of him makes you ill. I've arranged to buy a house in Portland, Oregon. We need to start over… someplace new."

"You can't be serious," he choked. "You're just doing this to frighten me, to make me treat the old nutter more kindly. If that's what you want, you could have just said so."

"I am serious. We leave next week. I've booked a private car on a westbound train."

Edward stood up stiffly, slowly, and walked past her, even closer to the window. He was composed now, unable to express himself, trapped by his own facade. They were both quiet for a moment, and then he said, "I'm keeping the painting."

In the early 1870s, he'd befriended a visiting French Impressionist named Gustave Caillebotte. They shared several weeks of intense conversation-typical of Edward-and in the process, Caillebotte made a portrait of Eleisha sitting on a green velvet couch. She found it vain. Edward adored it.

Moving up beside him, she wanted to comfort him, but didn't. Neither one spoke. They had nothing more to say.

Chapter 17

This time I broke off first.

"Don't stop," Wade said, grabbing my hand.

"No more. When you're inside my head, I see his face like he's in the room."

Visions of Edward hurt far more than I'd imagined they would. He'd been so alive, so original.

But Wade's questions kept coming. "So, you went to Portland?"