Memories of Envy

by Barb Hendee

  The fact that Robert had survived and hidden for so long told Julian he couldn’t possibly be the only one. Now Julian was simply waiting for Eleisha to find more elders, to lure more of them out . . . and to lead him right to them.

  “Have they arranged for plane tickets?” he asked.

  Mary shook her transparent head. “No, they’re waiting on Seamus. It could be nothing, like the last two times they thought they’d found something. You want me to go to London and check it out myself?”

  “Not yet. Go back to the church and keep watch. If Seamus finds anything, come tell me immediately.”

  His eyelids felt heavy.

  “Okay.” She turned around and looked out the stable door. “Oh . . . sorry. I don’t think you can get back up to the house.”

  He gazed past her and saw that the night sky was growing lighter, and the manor was still a good walk away.

  But it didn’t matter. He could sleep in the old groomsman’s room out here. Once, he would have found such an act unthinkable, but now, he didn’t mind sleeping in the stable.

  “Come tell me immediately,” he repeated. “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

  Useful as she might be, she still grated on his nerves.

  She vanished.

  He quickly put his horse away, with buckets of grain and water, and then headed deeper inside the stable, stumbling once, hoping he’d make it to the bed before falling dormant.

  chapter 3

  The following night, Wade sat at the dining room table in their apartment’s kitchen, drinking tea and working with Rose to develop her telepathy.

  In part, they were also trying to keep busy. Seamus had returned several times since sunset, looking exhausted. While Seamus possessed the ability to feel an undead presence among the fabric of life—if he got close enough—his spirit was tied to Rose, and he was having more and more difficulty being away from her. So he’d teleported back to try to regain some strength, and then blinked out again. As yet, he’d found nothing in London.

  The news was not encouraging.

  Wade took a swallow of his orange spice tea and set the cup back down. Except for the office, he found this kitchen the most pleasant room in the church. The round table was dark stained oak, but Eleisha had painted all the cupboards white, and then Rose had created an indoor herb garden from a variety of brightly colored pottery containers.

  He’d been allowing Rose to read his thoughts intermittently and then pushing her out so she could learn to feel when his block was intentional. The most fundamental element of telepathy involved the ability to block another psychic when necessary. She would not be able to hone her abilities properly until she mastered this skill. It had come naturally to Eleisha, and almost as quickly to Philip.

  But Rose was having trouble, and until she could block another telepath, she lacked too much control, and she would not be able to feed without Eleisha’s close supervision.

  Wade was doing everything he could to help.

  Rose was dressed casually tonight in a gray sleeveless sweater and long skirt, sitting with her legs crossed and her palms on the table.

  “Okay, now, this time, I’ll read your thoughts, and I want you to try to force me out,” he instructed. “Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me. Just push me out as hard and as fast as you can.”

  He, Eleisha, and Philip had all become so mutually adept at reading one another’s thoughts that they’d made a pact not to even try without express permission—basically out of good manners. So he always gave Rose plenty of warning.

  He reached out carefully, pressing into her mind, seeing flashes of her concern over mastering this skill, and then he felt her trying to push him out.

  Good, he flashed. Try harder.

  The skin over her cheekbones tightened as her expression grew more intense. He felt her resistance to him increase, and he decided to make her work for this. He pushed back. A flicker of uncomfortable surprise crossed her features, but she continued trying to force him out.

  Then without meaning to, he suddenly broke through her barrier and caught a barrage of deeper images and thoughts he had not intended to see, nearly all of them focusing upon worry about Eleisha.

  He pulled out. “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right,” she cut in, gripping the edge of the table tightly with one hand. It wasn’t all right. He began to apologize again.

  “No,” she interrupted. “I don’t mind you seeing my thoughts, but I should be gaining faster. Eleisha could keep you out almost right away.”

  He wanted to take her hand and offer comfort, but he didn’t. “Eleisha might be an unusual case. I . . . I haven’t done this enough yet. But you’re doing fine. You’ll get it.”

  He looked around, still feeling the effects of having suddenly invaded Rose’s mind—and what he saw there.

  “Where is Eleisha?” he asked, then paused. “Oh, God, she’s not out in the garden talking to Robert again, is she?”

  That particular penchant of hers was beginning to worry him.

  “No, I heard her tell Philip she was going to take a bath, but I haven’t heard any water running,” Rose answered. “She’s just been so distant these past few nights. Something’s wrong.” As if these words brought her to a decision, she stood up. “I’m going to go check on her.”

  Explosions and gunshots sounded from the television in the living room. Philip was watching The Replacement Killers with Chow Yun-Fat.

  Wade stood up, too. “She’s just getting worried because we haven’t found anyone yet.” He moved around the back of his chair, stepping closer. “But I’ve read a lot of minds, maybe too many, and Eleisha’s one of the most solid people I’ve ever known. That’s probably why Julian turned her in the first place. She faces things as they come.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, toward the hall. As she passed Philip, he didn’t even look up. Although they had reached a level of mutual tolerance, like two strange cats forced into the same home, Rose and Philip didn’t exactly like each other. Then again, the only two people Philip did seem to like were Eleisha and Wade.

  Rose vanished down the hall.

  Wade sighed, went into the living room, and dropped down on the couch next to Philip, who seemed pleased to see him.

  Philip didn’t like watching movies alone.

  “Eleisha’s in the bath,” he said. “She’ll be out soon.”

  “How far in are we?” Wade asked, looking at the screen. He’d seen this film before, but it was pretty good.

  “Not far. John Lee has just gone to get his fake ID and passport.”

  As the next round of gunshots exploded from the screen, Wade was still feeling the psychic aftereffects of Rose’s concern over Eleisha.

  Eleisha sat at her dressing table, in her robe, staring at Maggie’s silver brushes, knowing she should take her bath and go check on Philip.

  But the mere effort of getting up almost seemed too much.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and she knew who it was without asking. Wade’s knock was brisk and loud, and Philip wouldn’t have bothered.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Rose just cracked the door first, then opened it a little wider, looking at Eleisha with something akin to concern on her face.

  Was Rose concerned? Why?

  They were both quiet for a few moments, and then Rose said, “I didn’t hear the water running.”

  Communication was not a strong point for any of them. They had all lived on the outskirts of humanity far too long. But Rose’s words spoke volumes to Eleisha . . . that Rose had been listening, had been worrying, had been waiting, had been watching. Could she feel Eleisha’s sadness? Did she know?

  “Come in and close the door,” Eleisha said.

  Rose did. She walked over and looked down at the silver brushes and the hand mirror. “Those are elegant. Are they antique
s?”

  “They were Maggie’s.”

  “You brought them from Seattle?”

  The sorrow inside Eleisha began to build, threatening to spill over. “Yes. They’re all I have left of her.”

  All she had left of Robert were his ashes and his sword.

  Rose suddenly reached out and grasped her wrist. “Come over here.”

  She pulled Eleisha up and led her to the bed, where they could sit facing each other.

  “Are you in mourning?” Rose asked. “Because you did not have time before? Now that we have too much time, with little to do, is the past coming back upon you?”

  The open—blunt—nature of these questions threw Eleisha off balance. Although she had become accustomed to exchanging telepathic thoughts with Wade and Philip, this type of verbal confrontation was uncomfortable.

  But Rose’s eyes expressed only concern. She wanted an answer, and Eleisha had no idea what to say.

  Was she in mourning? She didn’t know what that felt like or how to define it.

  She let her mind turn inward. “No, I . . . just can’t stop thinking about them, about how we’re looking for others like ourselves, so we can exist together, become what we once were, and Maggie and Robert won’t share any of it with us because they’re gone.” She choked on her words. “If I had just seen things more clearly, acted faster, done even a few things differently, they’d still be with us.”

  She looked at the floor. “Maggie would have loved it here. When I found her, she was so lonely, and she didn’t even know it.”

  Eleisha knew that Rose was not given to sympathy. Rose had been a midwife back in Scotland during her mortal life. She relied on knowledge and wisdom, not on emotions.

  “That is why you suffer?” Rose asked in clear surprise. “Self-blame?”

  “I don’t know! I just know they’re not here, and I can’t stop going over what happened to them in my head. And I can’t stop thinking that they should be a part of this.”

  “Eleisha, look at me.” Rose’s voice was hard now. “Listen to me. I spent far too many years wishing I could change the past, alter one or two things that happened, and then imagining how different the future would have been. But the past is like stone! It’s set and done. I’m not telling you how to feel, only that regret for what can’t be changed won’t serve you.”

  Her tone softened again, and she touched Eleisha’s hand. “But that doesn’t mean we forget.” She stood up. “Come to the dressing table and tell me about Maggie.”

  Talk about Maggie? There was so much to tell.

  Eleisha moved across the room, looking down at the silver brushes. “She was beautiful. I know people use that word all the time, but Maggie was so beautiful that when she was in a room, nobody even noticed Philip.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow.

  The sight washed away some of Eleisha’s sadness. She almost smiled. “No, really. You should have seen her.” She hesitated, wondering about mentioning the next part. “And she’d lived a more normal life than you or me before she was turned. She’d had lovers and ...”

  She stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence. Due to circumstances, neither Eleisha nor Rose had ever married or known romantic love.

  “I understand what you mean,” Rose said calmly.

  “She liked clothes and jewelry and going out to nightclubs. She liked company. She used to do my hair and dress me up like a doll . . . and I just let her do it. But she also liked staying home by the fireplace and playing chess.”

  At this, a flicker of something, maybe pity, did cross Rose’s face. “Oh, Eleisha, I didn’t realize. . . . You’re distraught tonight; perhaps later, you can show me some memories—let me know her better.”

  Eleisha looked up. Show Rose memories of Maggie? The prospect brought comfort. Philip would never have allowed that.

  “Here,” Rose said. “Sit down. I’ve always wanted to dress you up like a doll, too, or at least do something with your hair.”

  She might have been joking, but Eleisha sat down in the chair anyway.

  Rose picked up one of the brushes, and she was moving it toward Eleisha’s head when her face suddenly contorted and she made a gasping sound. She dropped to her knees, staring at nothing.

  Eleisha slid instantly from the chair to the floor. “Rose!”

  Rose seemed beyond speech, and then she mouthed one silent word. “Maggie.”

  She gripped the brush tighter.

  The brush.

  “Drop it!” Eleisha cried.

  But Rose didn’t, and Eleisha almost knocked it out of her hand before recognizing the expression on Rose’s face . . . the same expression Wade and Philip wore while reading each other’s memories.

  Rose was locked away inside a memory.

  Without waiting a second longer, Eleisha reached out and grabbed Rose’s free hand, sinking into her mind, into the memories. At first, she was lost in a haze, not at all like her previous experiences of seeing someone else’s life in Technicolor from their own point of view. The haze cleared, and she felt more like an . . . invisible ghost or intruder standing on the edge of a room and looking in.

  She could not believe what she saw there, but nor could she break away.

  Maggie walked down the hallway of her house in Seattle, tightly gripping the silver brush.

  She looked the same, exactly the same as Eleisha remembered, wearing a snug black dress, her mass of dark brown hair falling to the small of her back.

  But her face was tense and frightened at the same time, and the house looked different. Maggie stopped at one of the guest rooms and reached out to separate strings of beads hanging in place of a door.

  Beads?

  Maggie looked inside. There was no one in the room, but the décor was startling. The room had been painted red, and strange curtains with a colorful diamond pattern hung over the windows. The bedspread matched the curtains, and the dressing table was white, but gaudy with gold inlay. Everything seemed to be decorated in some garish color. A guitar leaned against one wall, but it was gathering dust. A boxy television set on top of a dresser was showing a Doris Day and Rock Hudson movie with the sound turned off.

  None of this reflected Maggie’s taste. None of it reflected the house in which Eleisha had once lived.

  “Simone,” Maggie called out, her voice tight. “Are you here?”

  No one answered, and Maggie walked down to her own bedroom. The door was open, and someone sat at the dressing table, holding Maggie’s silver hand mirror. The slender figure in a gauzy purple dress half turned. Two large suitcases rested beside her.

  Even lost inside the memory, Eleisha almost gasped as the girl turned.

  She was lovely, like something from a bygone photograph. Her starkest feature was her shining black hair, cut into a razor-straight bob about chin length. It swung whenever she moved, creating an illusion of near constant fluidity. Her skin was white, her eyes were china blue, and her tiny nose was spaced perfectly above a small, red heart of a mouth. She wore flat shoes and a string of black beads around her neck. She reminded Eleisha of a flapper from the late twenties or early thirties . . . and yet this memory of Maggie’s was clearly from later than the thirties.

  “You didn’t come to the club,” Maggie said, her voice still tight. “Neither did Cecil. I waited two hours.”

  The girl shrugged, as if bored by the conversation. “I’m sick of going to the Showbox with you,” she said. “Everyone there knows me already. I want new people.”

  “Your face is glowing, Simone.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” Maggie walked farther into the bedroom. “Did you decide to finally feed on one of your conquests?”

  Even lost in the memory, Eleisha could feel her own body grow stiff with shock. Maggie was speaking to another vampire.

  Simone shrugged again. “He seemed ready.”

  The tightness in Maggie’s voice broke, and she glanced at the suitcases. “Then come out with me. I’ll take you someplac
e new. I promise.”

  She sounded desperate, almost pleading, as if she hungered for Simone’s company.

  “There are no new places here,” Simone answered coldly. “I’m sick of Seattle. I’m going home to Denver.”

  “You hated Denver.” Maggie’s voice betrayed nothing now, but she gripped the brush in both hands as if terrified to let it go.

  “Not anymore. Parts of it are quite posh now. Have you seen photos of the Brown Palace Hotel? I think I’d like to go home.” She turned and looked back in the mirror, pleased. “Let them get a load of me for a while.” She paused for effect. “But I’m never coming back here. Do you hear me? Never.”

  She swiveled her head to watch Maggie’s expression crumple in pain.

  “You promised,” Maggie whispered.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I made you!” Maggie shouted suddenly. “You’d be an old woman without me!”

  “And I’m sick of you reminding me!” Simone shouted back. Then she calmed and shrugged again. “I want new people. All new people.”

  Maggie didn’t answer, but the sorrow on her face pulled at Eleisha’s heart.

  Simone stood up. “Oh, and Cecil stopped by. I left you a present in the closet. Just so you know, he was my last conquest, as you like to say. He stopped caring for you months ago.”

  She picked up the suitcases and walked out of the bedroom. Maggie didn’t try to stop her. Instead, Maggie walked slowly to the closet and opened the double doors.

  A tall man in a dark suit lay on a pile of shoes. His throat was torn and his eyes were still open. Maggie just stood there, staring at his dead body.

  Eleisha’s horror at this psychic voyeurism increased, and she wanted to pull away, to stop looking . . . but she didn’t.

  She couldn’t bring herself to leave Maggie all alone.

  As The Replacement Killers ended, Wade glanced at his watch, wondering what Rose could be saying to Eleisha all this time.