Hunting Memories

by Hendee, Barb

  “De Spenser?” Edward repeated, his voice landing like music on her ears. “French?”

  “No, sir,” she managed to answer.

  Up close, she realized he was handsome, with fine features, and he was so charming, so polite. She’d never noticed nor favored such qualities in a man, but right now, she could barely breathe. He sat down.

  “Away with you, Gareth,” he said cheerfully, offering no of fense. “I wish to speak with fairer company than you. Bring us some wine.”

  Seamus looked over and stood halfway up. She shook her head at him and motioned him back down. He frowned but turned back to his companions.

  Other villagers glanced their way and murmured in low voices, probably wondering why this well-to-do Englishman chose to bestow his company upon Rose. But she did not care. She stared at Edward. For a short while he simply stared back.

  “Well,” he said finally. “This is unprecedented. I am at a loss for words.”

  “You seem to have plenty to me,” she answered.

  He smiled. “Yes, quite. Getting me to talk is normally easy. Shutting me up is the challenge.”

  Unable to stop herself, she smiled back. “Gareth spoke no title with your name, but you dress like a lord.”

  He was taken back by her blunt statement. Perhaps the English did not speak so openly. Yet he also seemed unable to stop making jokes and lowered his voice. “If you must know, I am a spy for the king, here on a secret mission to compare the taste of Scottish cheeses to English ones and steal your secrets.”

  Rose did not respond to this evasion, nor did she blink, but sat watching him with her large serious eyes.

  Gareth brought them two cups of wine, looked at them both curiously, and then went back to the bar.

  Slowly, Edward’s expression lost its humorous glow, and she felt the tingle on her skin fade away. When he spoke again, he sounded more like any other man.

  “Good God,” he said, as if slightly shaken. “You want a real answer, don’t you?” He paused. “No, I am not a lord. I serve a Scottish noble named John McCrugger. Have you heard of him?”

  She shook her head. She knew little of nobles. They rarely touched her world.

  “I am his manservant,” Edward went on. “But my master is away, and I am free to do as I please for now. Does that make you like me less?”

  “No, it makes me like you more. At least you perform honest work.”

  He laughed, and for the first time, it sounded genuine. “Honest work. Heaven preserve us.”

  When she did not laugh in response, he looked at her intently. “Most of the time, I am very alone. So are you. I can see it.”

  “I am not alone,” she answered. “I have my nephew, Seamus.” She pointed to him. He was speaking heatedly with the visiting horse traders.

  Edward’s gaze did not follow her hand but rather moved to the silver streaks in her hair. “But you’ve lost someone . . . something painful happened.”

  Rose had never spoken of those nights where Kenna, Briana, and Gregor died in turn. How could this man see inside her? Without knowing why, she wanted him to know. “Yes, something that left me broken for a long time.”

  He leaned forward and sipped his wine, waiting quietly, and Rose began to speak, keeping her voice low, so only he could hear, and she told him everything from the night her father died until that morning when she made it well past breakfast without remembering everyone she had lost.

  He did not interrupt. He just listened.

  When she finished and fell silent, he waited in silence a little longer and then said, “I understand loss. . . . Not my family, but I have lost more than I can say.”

  She looked at him, puzzled, and without warning, he fell back into his cheerful, charming pose. Her skin tingled again when he spoke.

  “Well, you have managed a great feat of magic tonight,” he said. “I have not thought about myself in nearly an hour! Unbelievable.”

  In spite of being soothed by his voice, Rose felt a sudden pang that he’d banished one of her few moments of real intimacy with another person. She blinked and did not know what to say.

  Then Seamus looked over at them, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Edward still sitting at her table. He left the horse traders and came over, ignoring Edward.

  “It’s late, Rose. We should go home.”

  She was unsettled, her stomach rolling, but she managed to ask, “Did you strike a bargain?”

  “I’ve arranged to have a look at a few colts.” He tossed his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  His tone carried authority. When had he become a man?

  She didn’t wish to leave, but she knew the magic of the night was over—gone. Whatever link Edward created between them to help her talk, it had evaporated. She stood up.

  “Thank you for the wine,” she said.

  His green eyes were startled and sad. “You are most welcome.”

  She followed Seamus to the door.

  That night, she lay in bed for hours, thinking, rolling. She could not sleep. She knew Edward was only passing through the village, but it cut like a knife that she would never see him again.

  The following afternoon, Seamus left to go look at some horses, and Rose was glad to have the house to herself. Her experience the night before had left her shaken, uncertain. Somehow, she’d managed to go her whole life without getting lost in a man’s eyes. And now, she could barely eat for the churning in her stomach.

  Fool!

  She scolded herself.

  A polished man had paid her a little attention, and she was swooning like a maid.

  But no, she felt more than swoons. He had allowed her to let out the pain, to speak . . . and he had listened.

  Well, he was probably three villages away by now. As she had recovered from death, she could recover from a few moments of vivid life. She just needed time.

  So she busied herself by scrubbing the kitchen floor and preparing some loaves of bread to bake. The sun set and dusk fell. She tried to eat some leftover mutton stew but made sure she left enough for Seamus. Hopefully, he would be home soon tonight with a new colt or two. It was always pleasant to watch him begin a fresh round of training.

  She was just settling down by the fire to mend one of his shirts when a knock sounded on the door.

  Who could that be? To the best of her knowledge, none of the pregnant village women, even in the outlying areas, were close to their time yet. She hoped someone was not delivering early, and she ran to the door.

  Her breath caught when she saw who was standing on the other side.

  Edward Claymore.

  He and Rose were the same height, so she could look directly into his eyes. His brown hair was windblown, as if he had been traveling, but his expression held her attention the most: confused, even desperate.

  “Rose,” he began in a familiar manner, as if he had known her a good deal longer than one night. “Forgive me. I . . .” He stopped.

  Her heart pounded in disbelief. He was here. She stepped back and opened the door. “It’s all right.”

  He walked past her, not even looking about at the pleasantly furnished sitting room. “I left, but I had to come back. I wanted to see you again.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His voice held no music or charm tonight, and her skin did not tingle at his words, but she preferred him like this, as if he was showing her a side of himself he shared with no one else. Could this be real? Did she affect him as he affected her?

  She had no idea what to say. Words had never been her strength.

  “Are you hungry,” she asked lamely. “Would you like to sit by the fire?”

  “Why am I here?” he whispered, and he did not seem to be speaking to her. The confusion on his face spread, only now he seemed alarmed as well.

  She feared he would leave, and she had no idea how to make him stay.

  “Last night,” he said, looking at her hair. “You made me feel as
I haven’t felt in a long time. You made me forget.”

  She did affect him the same way! Is this why people married each other? Did they meet someone who caused turbulence in their stomachs and chests, and then feel a need to make a permanent bond?

  “Edward,” she said, reaching out and grasping his pale hand, drawing him over to a low couch by the fire. Words were wasted now. She did not know what to do but believed that he did. Pulling him to sit beside her, she touched his face.

  To her surprise, he grabbed her hand and stopped her. His grip was strong. “Don’t,” he said as if warning her.

  But he was wrong. And if he would not act, then she would. She moved closer to him, and this time, he did not stop her but simply watched her with fascinated green eyes. She leaned over to kiss him, wondering what his mouth would taste like. He remained frozen for a few seconds and then began to kiss her back, letting go of her hand and holding on to the small of her back.

  His mouth opened slightly, moving against hers, softly first and then harder. She responded, running her hands up his chest, finally understanding why women risked so much to experience these moments. She never wanted this to end.

  He pushed her back against a thick pillow, and she tried to hold him closer, to kiss him harder, but she could feel something building in his tense body, in the fierce movement of his mouth.

  He took his lips off hers and buried his face in her throat.

  She had never experienced anything like this. Why had so much time passed before they found each other?

  “Edward,” she whispered.

  Everything would be different now. She knew it.

  The tension in his tight body was still building, and she wanted to help him.

  “What do I do?” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

  He didn’t answer, and then he made a sound she’d never heard from a man, almost a snarl.

  She tried to shift beneath him to see his face, but he grabbed her shoulders, held her down, and drove his teeth into her neck. The pain was shocking as she felt her flesh and sinews ripping.

  He was drinking, swallowing her blood.

  She didn’t scream but bucked wildly to throw him off. His hands were impossibly strong, and terror passed through her as she began to grow weak from blood loss.

  “Edward!” she cried.

  He stopped, frozen. Then he pulled back, and his face twisted into horror. “Oh. Rose, I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t come here to ...”

  His mouth was smeared in dark red, and her blood was soaking the pillow beneath her head, running from her torn throat in a steady stream.

  She was dying. She did not feel fear or rage, only sorrow that her visions of Edward had been an illusion. He was a monster—not a lover, not a husband.

  The front door opened, and Seamus walked in.

  “Rose?”

  He stopped, as if unable to take the scene before him. Then he cried out in anguish, pulling a knife from the sheath at his belt and rushing forward.

  “No,” she tried to say. “Seamus, don’t!” But the words were too soft and gurgling.

  Even in her weakened state, Rose never did understand why Edward hesitated, but he didn’t move until Seamus was upon him, slashing at him.

  The world was dimming, but she could hear Seamus cursing and slashing. Allowing her head to loll, she saw Edward moving at lightning speed, grabbing Seamus’ knife hand, turning it, and plunging the blade into his chest.

  Seamus’ eyes grew wide, and then he collapsed onto the floor, gasping a few times, and then no more. His eyes were still open.

  Edward staggered backward, staring at Rose and Seamus in shock, as if he could not believe what had just happened.

  But neither could Rose.

  She thought she had found love, and she’d let a killer into their house, and now her Seamus was gone.

  Blood running from her throat, Rose pushed herself off the couch, falling next to Seamus. At least she could die beside him.

  Edward knelt beside her. “I didn’t mean for this to—”

  “Get away from her!” a voice boomed.

  Rose looked up to see Seamus standing over them. He was alive! Whole. But then she realized she could see through him, and his body was still on the floor.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. This time, her words were clear.

  He had died a violent death and come back instantly in the fire of passion as a ghost, tied to the house or tied to her, and she was dying by inches. What if she did not come back as well?

  “Edward,” she whispered. “Don’t let me die. Don’t let me leave him all alone. Please. He’s lost everyone. Don’t let me die!”

  Seamus took a swing at Edward, but his fist passed through Edward’s body. Seamus cried out and swung again; this time realization was dawning on his face as he saw his own body on the floor.

  Edward looked at the door and back to Rose.

  “Don’t let me leave him all alone,” she begged again, her words almost inaudible. But he could not save her, and she knew it. She cursed herself for letting him into the house.

  His face twisted in anger, and then suddenly, he tore the veins of his own wrist with his teeth and shoved his wrist into her mouth. “Drink it,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “Take it all back, and you won’t die.”

  Seamus screamed in rage and helpless frustration.

  The grotesque nature of Rose’s actions did not dawn until later. She could only think of Seamus, and she drew down, sucking dark fluid from Edward’s wrist as the macabre scene in her sitting room grew even darker.

  He leaned closer. “Don’t go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.”

  She could just barely hear him over the roar growing in her ears.

  Then the world went black.

  “Rose! Oh, my God, Rose.” A pause followed. “Quentin! I don’t think she’s breathing.”

  Slitting her eyes, Rose realized that Miriam Boyd was kneeling beside her, sobbing. People were moving about inside the house.

  Old Quentin was inspecting her throat, his wrinkled face gone pale with shock. Seamus’ dead body still lay on the floor beside her.

  “She’s alive,” someone said.

  “We heard Seamus yelling,” Quentin said. “Who did this?”

  “Edward Claymore,” Rose whispered. She felt no regret at exposing him for a killer. She felt no sorrow for Seamus. She felt nothing.

  Well-meaning friends put her to bed. They took Seamus’ body to prepare him for burial, and she let them. Then she surprised everyone by asking them all to leave.

  “No, Rose. Your throat looks bad, and you need someone here,” Miriam said.

  “Please. Everyone go.”

  Reluctantly, perhaps thinking she needed to mourn alone, her neighbors left.

  She got out of bed and went downstairs. Many years ago, her grandfather had placed iron brackets on each side of the door and created a heavy wooden bar. But no one in her family had ever needed to use it. She lifted the bar and used it to block the door.

  “Are you here?” she asked.

  “I am here.”

  She turned around to see Seamus standing behind her, dressed exactly as he’d been when he came home, except that his sheath was empty and she could see right through him.

  He stared at her as if she were a stranger. “How can you be alive?”

  “I do not think I am.”

  A week passed, and she did not leave the house nor unbar the door.

  Several neighbors came to knock, but she would not let anyone in. She called through the door to Quentin that she wished to be left alone. She did not attend Seamus’ funeral. She knew what they were all thinking, that the death of her last kin had broken her mind, left her mad.

  Perhaps they were right.

  She and Seamus were trapped inside. She slept all day and woke only at night. The magnitude and sorrow of wh
at had happened slowly hit Seamus in a series of stages. At first, he seemed lost in denial. On the third night he asked her.

  “How did Claymore come into the house, Rose? Did he just walk through the door and catch you unaware?”

  “No,” she answered flatly. “I let him in. I wanted him to come in.”

  He raged at her, blaming her, and she did not rebuke him.

  On the fifth day, he stopped raging and asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She grew hungrier each night. Edward’s final words constantly echoed in her ears.

  Do not go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.

  Most country people loved to whisper tales of ghosts, fairies, changelings, vampires, and even of spirits who drained the living. Rose had never taken much interest in such legends, but now wished she had.

  Her own lack of emotion was wrong, and she knew it.

  But her body no longer functioned as a proper living thing. She did not eat nor drink nor require the privy. Her mouth produced no salvia. Her heart did not beat.

  Yet she hungered.

  On the eighth night, she slipped out of the house and went to the stable. At present, Seamus had no colts in the stalls, but Rose had forgotten to feed her pony. She found hay and a fresh bucket of water on the floor of his stall. Someone had been caring for him. Probably Quentin. She harnessed her pony and climbed into her cart.

  “Where are you going?” Seamus asked, materializing in the doorway.

  “I must go out. I will come back.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  She was starving, growing weak and desperate. “Move or I will drive the cart through you.”

  His eyes widened at both her words and tone, and he vanished.

  She could not care for his feelings, not just now.

  Looking back later, she truly did not even know what she was doing, or how she had the sense to leave Loam Village and drive a good distance away. But for the first time in her life, she felt uncomfortable, almost frightened by the broad night sky, and she longed for the enclosed safety of the house. She felt much too . . . exposed out here.