Hunting Memories

by Hendee, Barb

  Wade stared at her as if she were a stranger, but then he realized this was the first time he’d heard her use the word “home” in over a month.

  “Book the tickets,” he whispered hoarsely.

  At the moment, he didn’t want to know any more.

  chapter 2

  Julian Ashton had fled to his family estate in Wales like a victim, like a coward—or at least that’s how he viewed it.

  His gift was fear, and he was accustomed to inducing the emotion, not to experiencing it himself. The only thing he feared was a telepathic member of his own kind, and he had destroyed the last one a long time ago.

  He felt no remorse for this. He had taken simply necessary action and ensured his own survival . . . until now.

  For centuries, his kind had existed by four laws, and the most sacred of these was “No vampire shall kill to feed.” They’d retained their secrecy through telepathy, feeding on mortals, altering a memory, and then leaving the victim alive. New vampires required training from their makers to both awaken and hone psychic abilities, but Julian’s telepathy had never surfaced. He had lived by his own laws, and so the elders began quietly turning against him. His maker, Angelo Travare, had tried to hide this news from him, but he knew. He heard the rumblings, and he had acted first, beheading every vampire who’d lived by the laws, including Angelo—who would have turned against him sooner or later. Angelo had hoped that Julian would eventually develop his powers, but this was a false hope, and Julian knew it.

  He began to see a new path, a world without laws.

  Vampires without telepathy—without any training by a maker—were no threat to him. On some level, he almost viewed them as kindred spirits.

  Then . . . a month ago, without reason or warning, Eleisha, once his servant, had suddenly manifested psychic abilities so powerful she had forced her thoughts into his and taken over his mind, his body, his free will.

  To make matters worse, she seemed to have won the protection of Philip Branté!

  Eleisha had warned Julian off and then let him go, but he knew this was far from over.

  Even after a month of hiding out in Cliffbracken, where he had always felt secure, his hands still shook at the memory of her thoughts pushing inside his. He had been completely helpless to stop her.

  Of course she knew nothing of the past, of the elders, of the laws, but Julian’s world had shifted, and he was uncertain what to do.

  What would happen as her power grew stronger?

  Since returning, he’d spent much of his time in the main floor study, but earlier tonight, he had made his way down into the depths of his decaying family manor, and he paced the hard mud floor of what had once been a dungeon, back in the days of his grandfather.

  He was in the guard room, surrounded by small cells.

  Why had he come down here?

  Something had called him, something from the past. Julian was not one to dwell on mistakes or sins, but a small part of him had never quite left this room, never stopped eating away at him for what he’d done here one night in 1839.

  He walked over to the nearest cell and looked inside. It was empty. He turned and looked at the floor of the guard room.

  Empty.

  He was alone, and yet he could still see the shadows, still hear the ghosts.

  Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift back until he heard his mother, Lady Katherine, screaming and beseeching him to help his father, Lord William. Julian had cared nothing for his mother. She was a coldhearted, self-centered woman. But watching his father sink deeper and deeper into dementia had proven too much.

  He remembered the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he sank his teeth into his own father’s neck and then cut himself, forcing his father to drink, to take all the blood back.

  He remembered the horror of realizing what he’d done as Lord William dropped to the floor drooling and gibbering, locked forever in undead madness.

  Then he’d locked his father in a cell, in the same dungeon his ancestors had used to make their enemies suffer.

  But even down here, Lord William had not been far enough away, not nearly far enough.

  The following night, Julian dragged Eleisha down into the same dungeon. He turned her and put them both on a ship bound for New York.

  He had stolen her life and condemned her.

  And now, after all this time, she had become telepathic, like the vampires of a past era.

  What would she do as she dwelled on the memories of what he’d done to her? And how was he to know when she finally came after him?

  He grew sick with fear, his own gift turning in upon itself.

  He had to take some kind of action.

  Pulling his gaze from the cell, he walked back through the guard room and down a short corridor to a secret passage that led to the stairwell going up.

  Unable to rest his mind, he had been poring over one idea after the next regarding how to keep track of Eleisha’s location. As he could not yet bring himself to leave Cliffbracken, he had few options, and none of them appealed to him.

  But the same one continued to resurface in his mind. He’d flatly refused to even entertain the idea the first time it occurred to him, and he pushed it away. But every time it came back, he considered it a few moments longer . . . until one night, two weeks after returning here, he had used his cell phone and Visa card to order several newspapers from America.

  Moving up the enclosed stairwell, he stopped on the first landing and then emerged onto the main floor of the manor, stepping out into the study.

  The furniture, books, and shelves were covered in dust.

  He still engaged a few servants to care for the place, but he’d ordered them to stay out of this room.

  He’d gone too far into preparations for any prying eyes.

  Reluctantly, he walked over to the round oak table, where his father had once consumed afternoon tea while dealing with the house accounts.

  But at night, his mother had used this same table for different purposes.

  Julian tightened his lips in distaste.

  She and a few of her bored female acquaintances had become fascinated with magical arts and contact with the dead. In the span of a few years, they spent a small fortune on books and charlatans who claimed to be mediums.

  However, as with most things, his mother lost interest in this pursuit, and her number of séances grew fewer and fewer. When Lord William began to lose his memory, Lady Katherine stopped inviting guests altogether.

  But the occult books still remained here in the study.

  A few that had provided him with general guidance were stacked upon the table.

  Lives of the Necromancers: Or, an Account of the Most Eminent Persons in Successive Ages, Who Have Claimed for Themselves, or to Whom Has Been Imputed by Others, the Exercise of Magical Power by William Godwin.

  Along with Dialogues of the Dead by George, First Baron Lyt telton.

  But two books lay open. The smaller book—written in German—had given him more specific instructions regarding what he needed to do:

  Geister Auffordern by Gottbert Drechsler.

  The larger had proven most useful. It was so old that he could not find a publication date, and the cover was worn so thin, some of the letters weren’t clear. He couldn’t make out the complete title, but the words resembled Medius Excessum Universum. The Latin text inside was easier to read, and the book proved to be a startling treatise on the fates of souls trapped between worlds.

  Three fat candles stood beside the books, and a new thermometer lay above them.

  He hated all this . . . foolishness, as it reminded him too much of unnatural powers such as telepathy.

  He remembered despising his mother for attempting to fill her life with such empty trifles. Of course she had never succeeded in summoning a ghost. She had no true connection to the dead, and she wasn’t capable of understanding much of the material she’d read—especially the German.

  But he did.

 
From what he had gleaned, only potential “summoners” with a connection to the dead could successfully call a spirit from the other side. In some accounts, this had included a person who had died briefly and been brought back to life. Another account in Drechsler’s book involved a summoner who had been born with a kind of supernatural sense that allowed her to connect with those who had passed over. People like her were rare.

  But Julian believed that he also possessed a connection. He was one of the living dead.

  The last object on the table was a copy of the Seattle Times lying open to expose the obituaries.

  He’d been scanning various papers, ignoring the numerous mundane deaths by car accident or cancer or heart disease, occasionally stopping upon a murder victim, but then passing the entry by.

  Finally, three nights ago, he’d come upon a brief article—rather than a standard obituary—that made him pause longer.

  Sixteen-year-old Mary Jordane of Bellevue, Washington, met a tragic death Tuesday night when she overdosed on her mother’s prescription medications, combining Ambien with OxyContin. Her parents, Mat thew and Laura Jordane, were attending an art exhibition in Seattle. After taking the medication, Mary attempted to call her father’s cell phone several times, unaware he had turned it off. She called 911, but the paramedics did not arrive in time, and she died en route to Overlake Hospital Medical Center. She is survived by her parents and her grandmother, Estelle Goodrich.

  The article went on recounting mundane details. Julian studied the accompanying photo, which appeared to have been taken at school by a class photographer. Even posed, her face was angry, defiant, and unhappy. She had short, spiky hair dyed magenta and a nose stud.

  Although Julian practiced the purity of isolation, he knew something of human nature, and he could read between the lines. This girl was addicted to attention and had probably worn her parents thin, forcing her to create larger and larger dramas. Julian did not believe she’d ever intended to commit suicide. She had overdosed and then called her father, knowing her parents would run home immediately.

  Her plan failed.

  This was the ghost he wanted.

  She did not wish to be dead, suggesting a good chance that she remained on the bleak middle plane, trying to get back to this one. If so, he could manipulate her. He could use her.

  Gathering the candles and the thermometer, he left the table and moved over to the threadbare Indian rug in the center of the study. He sat on the floor and arranged the candles in a triangle. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he lit the candles and then laid the thermometer beside himself on the rug.

  From what he had read, what he was about to attempt required no telepathic ability whatsoever, simply a connection to the dead. There were risks, but he was prepared.

  Staring at the candles, he tried to clear his mind. At first he failed, dwelling on Eleisha’s suddenly manifesting psychic ability, wondering how this came to be, wondering if the same thing could happen to Philip, whom he’d terrified and driven into solitude. What would Philip do if he ever gained power over Julian?

  Even worse than Eleisha.

  But Julian forced himself into a state of numb emptiness as he focused on the candles, on Mary Jordane’s name, on the image of her face, on achieving a connection.

  “Mary Jordane,” he said aloud, and then he closed his eyes, picturing the middle plane of existence, the in-between place where lost souls wandered.

  “Mary Jordane,” he repeated more loudly. “I ask you to come to me. Hear my voice.”

  Julian never made requests. He gave orders. This practice of asking her to hear him felt alien.

  At first, nothing happened, but he continued focusing on the image of her face, and he called her name over and over. The temperature in the room began to drop. He had built no fire, so it was cold already, but Julian could feel the difference. He didn’t need to look at the thermometer.

  Then he sensed a presence—nothing concrete, just a feeling. He opened his eyes, staring at the three candles, keeping everything from his mind except for the image of Mary Jordane, but he did not ask her to manifest yet.

  “Are you there?” he asked without looking up. He needed to maintain his focus.

  No one answered.

  “Are you Mary Jordane?”

  “Ask me to show myself and you’ll see,” said a female voice, sounding as if she was standing in the room.

  He raised both hands. “Not yet.”

  Several of the texts had warned him that malevolent ghosts could masquerade as the person being called—seeking entry into the world of the living. He did not fear ghosts, but he wished to be certain he’d found Mary.

  “How did you die?” he asked. “Let me feel how you died.”

  Nothing happened and the moments kept ticking.

  Then he began to feel ill, nauseous and dizzy. The sensation was made worse by the fact that he had not felt such things for two hundred years. The floor rushed up, and he narrowly avoided hitting the nearest candle. He was sick, floating on wave after wave of nausea, and then he grew tired.

  “Stop,” he said hoarsely. “Stop now!”

  His head cleared. He had found Mary.

  “Show yourself!” he ordered. “I call on you.”

  The air in front him, just across the edge of the carpet, wavered and began to fill with color. A few seconds later, a transparent girl was staring back at him in surprise.

  She looked younger than sixteen, skinny with a hint of budding breasts, wearing a purple T-shirt and a black mesh overshirt, torn jeans, and Doc Martens boots.

  “I can see you,” she gasped, as if she could still breathe. “How did you do that?” Her accent was common, like typical American trash. He was repulsed by the sight of her. He would not employ one such as her to scrub the floor of his kitchens.

  She turned around in awe, taking in the study. “I’m here. I can see everything.”

  Now that he had succeeded in summoning this spirit, he was somewhat at a loss. The last thing he wanted to do was speak with her. He did not even care to speak with underlings here at the manor and preferred to pass down his orders in writing.

  Mary stopped, looking at the shelves and candles and the antique table. “Wait. . . . Where am I?”

  “You are in Wales,” he managed to answer.

  “Wales? Where is that?”

  Good God.

  “They told me,” she babbled on. “They told me if you called me to appear, I could cross over to this side. I never thought . . .” She faltered, taking in the sight of him.

  “Who told you?”

  “The others. They were jealous when you called my name.”

  But her words were spoken somewhat absently as she moved closer to him, studying him. He cared little for his own appearance anymore. He was a large man with a bone structure that almost made him look heavy. His dark hair hung at uneven angles around a solid chin. His feet were bare tonight. He wore black slacks and a loose shirt that hadn’t been laundered in weeks.

  “I don’t know you,” she said, sounding like a pensive, confused child. “The others . . . they thought maybe my mother hired someone to find me. Someone to help me cross over. And that’s why I didn’t know your voice. I didn’t think I’d ever get back.”

  As she said this, he knew what to do.

  “I require your services,” he said.

  “My what?”

  “You’re from the Seattle area. I need you to find out if someone is still there, and tell me where she is, what she does, where she goes.”

  Mary’s demeanor changed, and she looked him up and down dismissively. “I don’t think so. I’m going home.”

  Finding this conversation more and more difficult, he said, “Yes, I will let you go home eventually. But you must do as I say first.”

  Her transparent features twisted, making her nose stud rise slightly. “Screw that. I don’t even know you.”

  He wasn’t certain his gift would work on a ghost, but he let the aura
of fear flow outward, filling the room. “I summoned you here,” he said coldly. “And I can send you back with a word. Would you like to go back?”

  Deep satisfaction washed through him at the sudden anxiety on her face.

  But she surprised him by asking, “Is Wales a long way from Seattle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do I get there?”

  He blew out the candles and stood up. “You’re inside a stone manor, a large dwelling. Wish yourself outside, somewhere on the grounds.”

  She looked at him disbelief. Then she glanced away and her expression grew intense. She vanished.

  He waited a few moments before attempting the most crucial part. If he could not succeed in his next attempt, the entire summoning was a failure.

  “Mary Jordane!” he called loudly.

  She instantly appeared before him. Her mouth fell open. “What the . . . ?”

  The sense of relief was sweet. She was his slave.

  “Were you standing outside the manor?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes were wide.

  “I called you. I can call you to my side from anywhere at any time. And I can send you back to the lost souls, to the in-between plane, and leave you there forever. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t answer, but her eyes were locked into his. The reality of her situation was beginning to sink in.

  “But if you serve me,” he went on, “if you do as I ask, when my task for you is finished, I will release you and let you remain in this world. You can haunt your family, your old school, anyplace you please, and remain here among the living. Is that what you want?”

  Slowly, she nodded. “Just how am I supposed to find someone I’ve never met in Seattle?”

  Was she attempting to stand up to him? He knew that others might admire her spirit. He did not.

  “Because ghosts like yourself are drawn to dead,” he answered. “Eleisha is undead, a vampire.”

  “Like you?”

  “Yes.”

  At least the girl wasn’t completely stupid, and she appeared to be catching on more quickly than he initially expected. She must have sensed he wasn’t alive almost as soon as she materialized.