Grief For Heart: The Vincent Du Maurier Series, Book 4 Page 5

  * * *

  Evelina wouldn’t approve of my following her voice through the colony, but she was on her way to see Peter for a conversation I wanted to hear. Their encounter came to my mind’s eye, as it unfolded between them, as I recorded it here to preserve the life of my gods for all time.

  They were in their home, the one they shared. All four of my kin had moved into a geothermal power station several miles from the shore. They were far from the colony, but they rarely milled about, preferring privacy to life among the Hematopes.

  “You’re testing my good nature,” Evelina said.

  Peter moved close to his companion, unafraid of her after so many years. He’d loved her once, admired her beauty, been drawn to her, but a daughter of hers had since come into his heart.

  “You understand this, I know you do,” he said.

  “I do.” Her face remained stoic, unmoved by his good nature, and winning smile.

  “How can it be? I’ve asked myself this again and again, always returning to the same conclusion.”

  She nodded.

  “Nothing is too much for him,” he said.

  “You think this Vincent’s doing?”

  “I think it the doing of Lázoros.”

  She dropped her chin, as she sucked down a breath of forced air. “Dagur may think I believe they’re one and the same, but you know better.”

  He shook his head. “How can it be?”

  “Vincent isn’t the demon to set us on this course.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Not him, he’d never.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “I’ve given it all my thought.” She moved away from Peter, hiding the sadness she’d been stuffing down for decades. Her eyes tightened, her body crushed under the weight of stale emotion.

  “This is a sign,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “His return.”

  She shook her head.

  “How can you not see that?”

  “Your mind plays tricks on you,” she said. “Saba isn’t who you think she is.”

  Peter sneered, his anger more readily shown in his later years. To defend what was his, to see Galla again, those were things worth fighting for.

  “Drop your pretense,” she said. “You and I can’t war over this—we won’t.”

  He dropped his head, and smiled. “I’ve proof.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her taste.”

  “You recognize your maker through blood? Explain this to me.”

  He raised his head, and licked his lips.

  “You didn’t know Galla before,” she said. “How could you know her blood.”

  “It goes much deeper than physical taste.”

  “What bull—”

  “You don’t know this but …” He stepped out of Evelina’s reach. It may have been habit, but he was poised to dodge her wrath.

  “But?” She countered.

  “Vincent knew you by your blood.”

  She shook her head. “Of course he knew me—I carried his child.”

  Peter looked away, his eyes darting up to the cracks in the ceiling.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Before Lucia—he chose you before.”

  “Byron found me.”

  Peter shook his head. “Vincent chose you.”

  “When?”

  “As early as your first steps.”

  She scoffed. “Bull.”

  “I know you’re going to say it’s ridiculous, but it’s true—”

  “Bull.” She jutted out her chin, flashing her fangs. “Bull.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t know.”

  “What makes you say it, then?”

  “Him.”

  “Him, who?”

  “Vincent told me.”

  “Why would he confide—”

  “I was his confessor at one point—”

  “You jest—”

  “Fine—”

  “He told you what exactly?”

  “You’re a reincarnation of someone from his past.”

  Evelina looked as though she’d been hit in the gut, her stomach seeming to turn in on itself, as she took a step backward. She shook her head with barely a movement. “No,” she mouthed the word, unable to force sound from her lips.

  “He confided in me, long ago on that blasted ship. I didn’t know what any of it meant, but now I understand.”

  “No,” she voiced the word this time.

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Her eyes fired, a bout of violence brewing at her fingertips. She stretched her hands at her sides, flexing her talons. “Not me.”

  Peter nodded, stepping back several paces.

  “Who?” She croaked at first, then she raged with her voice. “Who?” She shouted.

  Peter stumbled over his words, attempting to bring her temper down. “Ah, I don’t know this. All he told me was that you’d returned.”

  She crouched down, as if coddling her stomach, then she blew her chest open, sending her body up into the air, hovering as she’d been taught to do. Her arms were spread wide, her legs and feet held together tight. She looked like the man-god from Peter’s books. The perfect Crucifixion. The martyr, the Saint.

  Peter dropped to his knees, knowing what that posture meant. She’d gone into herself, elevated her mind with a higher form of meditation. She could attain a state of mental perfection, one in which she saw all she wanted to see. She could reach into the past and pull up conversations long since dead to sound.

  “No,” Peter whispered. “Not like this.”

  She hung in her stasis for a time, Peter gazing up at her as if watching an illusionist’s trick. It was a trick, a trick of the mind. She was going back to him, listening for that one conversation that had him telling Peter of her fate. She searched for it, used keywords to find it. Peter hadn’t said much, but she’d honed this edge of her gift, listening again and again to her master’s voice, searching for him through time and space.

  Her meditation didn’t end soon.

  Lucia came for a time, watching, waiting, unwilling to disturb her mother. But Peter remained at her feet. A glutton for benediction, he held steady in his dedication, his fervent holiness, praying she wouldn’t find the missing piece. He’d lied to her, having known whose reincarnation she was. He simply didn’t understand it.

  By the time she released her body from its mental hold, the earth had turned about the sun once again, and a new day dawned. The sun rose high in the sky, heating the roof of their enclave. She was at peace when she touched down, the heels of her boots gracing the metal planks with barely a thud. Her face looked a cherubic dynasty all its own.

  Peter looked up, still on his knees, and she bent down to kiss his forehead, his face relaxing at her touch.

  “Am I to know?”

  “In time,” she said. “I’ve yet to make meaning of it.”

  “But you know who she is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up, and she gave him a loving smile that matched his own. “If you can, I will call on you.”

  He nodded, and stood up. “And Saba?”

  “We agree.”

  “I don’t think we do.”

  “No, perhaps not. I must think on it. We can’t know what happens to Galla if she’s awakened to blood.”

  “And vice versa.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “You think she’ll no longer be the same?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t you? Don’t you feel it now?”

  “I’ve told you I don’t understand it yet. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “So we must wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, sweet Evelina. I worship you more than god himself.” Peter dropped to his knees again, reaching for her hand, pulling it flat onto his forehead, as he bent to her in subservience. />
  “You feel him in me, don’t you?” She whispered, “Vincent in me.”

  “Vincent is you.”

  Evelina wasn’t a reincarnation of Vincent, but they were a double helix in the same strand of DNA. Built together, at once, defiant of space and time, the two would never be apart.

  Peter stood again, stepping away from her. He faced her, his eyes plying hers for permission. “I didn’t tell you everything,” he said.

  She moved with a flourish, her robe swooshing through the air, as she flew to him, knocking her forehead up against his. They held their mental embrace for a moment before he dropped his head to the side and touched his lips to hers, an instantaneous transfer of thought, a memory passed from one to the other in the most intimate way.

  When Evelina pulled back, the look on her face was frightening. More severe than shock, fright shook her. “No,” she mumbled. “Saba can’t be.”

  “History doesn’t lie.”

  “This changes everything.”

  “Ah, I am torn.”

  “I see.” She stepped back and paced the floor, the heels of her boots pinging against the metal planks. She didn’t look at Peter for a time, her head bent in contemplation.

  He waited, standing as still as a statue, his eyes intent on her, as he let her decide.

  She put her hands behind her and pulled her shoulders back, stretching as a human would, raising her face to the sky. The tiniest echo of sunlight spilled in through the cracks of the ceiling, raining fire on her. She didn’t move, but held her face against the pain. Peter had taught her the wonders of self-flagellation, the clarity that comes with inducing one’s own agony. She held her face still, as the spits of light ate her skin like acid on flesh. Her shoulders rose and fell four times before she bent her head to the ground again. The scars would have but an instant to grace her skin, then be gone with the strength of mortal blood. Nothing could mar beauty like that.

  Peter waited, his eyes steady on his companion.

  “We can’t know if we change her,” she said. “She may flee when the body dies.”

  “I have thought of that.”

  “And?”

  “Come, sister, see.”

  She flew to him again, their embrace more passionate this time. Once broken, he dropped to his knees. “Do you see,” he said. “There’s no way out of this.”

  Her chest rose and fell, winded from their embrace. “We must choose for her.”

  “I cannot.”

  “I will.”

  He looked up at her, his winsome smile gone forever. He swallowed and said, “Choose wisely.”

  “Do not regret Lucia.”

  “Ah, I don’t.”

  “Good. She may have been better off choosing my daughter than Dagur’s.”

  He rose from his knees. “She’s been trying to get back forever. Her god has finally granted her passage.”

  “He has.”

  Peter’s hand reached for Evelina’s cheek, and she caught it up, bringing it to her lips instead. “As has her master,” he said.

  “You believe this Vincent’s hand?”

  “I do.”

  She shook her head.

  “Lázoros, then?”

  She scowled. “Enough of that nonsense.”

  He held his other hand up in mock surrender, breaking her stern look. The two smiled, and their conversation came to a close.

  “I shall speak with my son,” was the last thing she said before I pulled my attention away.

  I worried at times she could sense me there, listening between the eaves of space. But she never told me she disapproved if so. We were one in too many ways for that.

  * * *

  Saba strained herself to see the twins waddling in the garden. Her sister, Hannah, had asked her to watch the children.

  “It’ll only be a minute,” she said when Saba’s shoulders slumped. “My, you’re hopeless.”

  Saba shrugged. She’d always had a difficult time hiding her disdain. Even for Netta, the mother she adored, her discomfort around children was transparent.

  “Andor’s hunting, and Loula’s helping Gretta prepare for the birth.”

  Saba rolled her eyes. With her four older sisters, someone was always pregnant. She cringed at the thought and headed into the yard. “I’ll be here,” she said, tossing her sister a wave.

  “The market’s only open till sundown,” she teased. “I’ll be back before long.”

  Saba mocked her jest with one of her own. “Andor better up his game. He can’t catch enough pelts for your tastes.”

  Hannah barely broke a smile, turning on her heel with a huff.

  Her children are relatively self-sufficient, Saba thought. “Waste of time,” she grumbled.

  The twins knew better than to harass their aunt. They steered clear of her, setting up their game as far away as possible. They stayed in view, but closer to the ravine behind the yard. The baby sat in her hammock, deep in slumber as she swayed with the breeze.

  Saba spied the twins, curious why one was always whispering to the other. The two looked exactly alike, but also the spitting image of their mother.

  “I forgot my satchel,” Hannah said, returning to the yard.

  Saba shook her head, and smiled. She barely noticed her sister, taken with the game the twins were playing.

  “I caught you,” Hannah said.

  “Caught me what?” Saba stole a glance at her sister.

  “The girls.” She pointed at them. “You can’t take your eyes off them.”

  “Pfft.” Saba swatted the air.

  “Starlet over there’s a beached whale, and boring as ever, but you’re taken with the other two. I can see it—”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not … I wasn’t looking …” she huffed. “Aargh, you’re so annoying sometimes. Just go, would you.”

  Saba adored Hannah, and in many ways they were alike. Hannah was the spitting image of Lucia, and as they said, Béa too. This gave Saba comfort, I could see it in her eyes when she spoke of Hannah. The two forged a bond inspired by the inviolable connection witnessed between Evelina and her only daughter. But also she rarely saw her other sisters since they embraced the Hematope lifestyle more readily, acting coy about their role as kinblood. With the exception of Hannah, none of Saba’s sisters enjoyed feeding. Content to nurse their children from their own breasts, they didn’t like the idea of giving suck to their kin. This bothered Saba, as it did me. All of my daughters were fierce, and for generations to come they’d do what they must to survive, but I warned them if they broke the pact, their lineage would suffer for it. That meant their children, too.

  Hannah raised a hand to the bun at the top of her head and shook it loose, a tick she’d developed as a child. All of my girls wore their hair long, even Saba. She thought it had something to do with the stamp of femininity that marked my family, but Vincent loved Evelina’s long hair best, so I preserved my girls’ manes for him.

  “It’s okay, Saba.”

  “What’s okay?”

  “For you to have a change of heart.”

  “Nope.” She stood up from the pile and opened her arms wide. “There’s no changing me.”

  Hannah dropped her head to the side, and smiled. “Change is good.”

  “No, I mean there’s no change happening here.”

  “I can see it—”

  “No, you can’t. I’m still me, still the same.”

  “What does that mean?” Hannah’s voice was maternal, like one who cared to help Saba see the light.

  “It means I was born this way.” Saba looked to the grass at her feet, and kicked the acorn that lay near the tip of her boot.

  “You were born to daddy and mum. This is your heritage.” Hannah held her hands out, gesturing to her children.

  Saba shook her head. “I don’t care. I’m born from our kin, too.”

  Hannah sighed. “You’ll never be one of them.”

  Sab
a scoffed. “You don’t know.”

  “Yes, I do. I know it better than anything.”

  “Don’t say it—”

  “Your blood’s too precious.” Hannah reached out to caress her sister’s shoulder. “Can’t you see it’s by our generosity they survive?”

  “You have it backward, sister. By their grace we are here.”

  Hannah dropped her hand to Saba’s and held it. “Sit with me a moment,” she said.

  The sisters sat down on the pile, the older lacing her arm through that of the younger. “Now listen to me,” Hannah said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “What?”

  “I mean—well, it’s unbelievable.”

  “What is?”

  Hannah let out a frustrated breath. “Sex, silly.”

  “Oh.” Saba’s cheeks got hot thinking of Peter. “But I do know,” she said.

  Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “No, you’ve taken up with someone before … oh no, tell me you didn’t.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Saba turned away. Despite how badly she wanted to tell her, her sister wouldn’t understand it. To her, our kin were equatable with relics in a museum, something to be preserved out of respect and admiration.

  “Saba,” she said softly. “You can trust me.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Hannah frowned.

  “I’m not interested in being the wife of a colonist.”

  “I see.”

  “I only want one thing, sister.”

  “What is it?”

  “My life back.” Saba’s words were her own, but they were also Galla’s.

  “Back from what?”

  Saba was on the cusp of confessing she was the reincarnation of a vampire made long ago by their forebear, but she faltered, the truth too weighty for a mere mortal.

  “From all of this,” she said, instead. “I want to be the keeper of my own body. I don’t want an Andor, or a Dion, or an Ecktor—”

  “What about someone like father?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Try.”

  She huffed and said, “I don’t want to make children.”

  “Then what about Peter?”