Hunting Memories

by Hendee, Barb

  In spite of this newfound fear, she intended to go all the way up to Eagan Village, about two hours east, but then she saw movement on the road up ahead, and she came upon a young man standing on the ground, examining his horse’s hoof.

  Again, without knowing why, she felt a need to gain his absolute confidence, and she pulled up her pony and asked, “Do you need help?”

  He stiffened and then straightened, turning his head to see her. His face was awed, just as the villagers in the pub had looked while listening to Edward.

  “My horse picked up a stone,” the young man said. “He’s limping.”

  Rose climbed down from the cart, watching the man. She could almost see him glowing with warmth, with life. She could hear his heart beating. She could see the pulse in his throat.

  “My brother is a horse trainer. Let me see,” she said, letting her voice soothe him, assure him that she would know what to do.

  Without hesitation, he knelt down and picked up the horse’s hoof. Rose looked at the embedded stone. “He’d best not walk or he’ll go lame,” she said. “Tie him up and come with me. We’ll bring the blacksmith from my village to pull the stone.”

  He did not even ask her about her village or how far it might be. He seemed lost in the wisdom of her words as he tied up his horse. His heartbeat grew louder, and she was fighting herself not to lunge at him. A creek gurgled beyond the trees to the left of the road.

  “My pony is thirsty,” she said. “Come and help me water him first.”

  The young man asked no questions and helped her lead the harnessed pony to the creek. Rose crouched down, and the man crouched beside her. She reached out to touch his face as she had touched Edward’s . . . and he let her.

  The next action felt natural, and without conscious thought, she pushed him back against the grassy bank and drove her teeth into his throat—as Edward had done to her.

  He bucked once in shock, but she held him down, draining and drinking.

  Blood and warmth and life flowed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her with strength. She saw images in her mind, sheep and dogs and green fields and a girl named Missy. She drank and drank until she could take no more.

  Then she sat up.

  The hunger was gone, but suddenly so was the hollow emptiness. Looking down, she felt shame and regret. She touched her own throat. The wound was entirely healed.

  “What are you?” Seamus asked from behind her. “What have you become?”

  Even transparent, his face was a mask of horror. She could not blame him.

  But she didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down at the young man on the grass. His heart was no longer beating. She dragged him a few paces to the creek and dropped his body into the current.

  “We are cursed, Rose,” Seamus said quietly.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I think we are.”

  A year and a half slipped by.

  Rose had recovered from the death of her father and then the deaths of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna, but she would never recover from the actions of Edward Claymore.

  She and Seamus hid in the house by day and through most of the nights. They were both dead and yet tied to this world. Some things did improve. After a time, Seamus came to understand her need to feed in order to survive, and as he loved her—and she was his only companion—he focused his blame and judgment upon Edward, not upon her.

  To pass the time, she read him books, or they spoke of the past, or he offered her suggestions while she altered the house to suit her present condition better, such as reinforcing and covering all the windows.

  Her neighbors accepted that Seamus’ death had been the last straw to drive her into darkness, and for the most part they left her alone, although Quentin always cared for the pony. Sometimes they left her buckets of milk or meat pies on the front step, which she could not consume. Rose wished she could feel gratitude toward them for their kindness, but her emotions were slow in returning.

  She fought to go as long as possible between feedings, sometimes starving herself to the edge of her strength, but the hunger always won in the end, and she would forget her shame and regret.

  At least twice a month, she slipped out and drove far from the village. No one even knew she had left the house. She never got over the new fear of being out in the open. And the shame always returned as she looked down into a dead face and torn throat, but she could not stop herself the next time she grew hungry.

  Then, in the spring of 1826, Miriam knocked on the door one evening. She had not tried to visit in many months.

  “Rose,” she called. “A letter came for you today, from New York. Can you open the door for me, and I’ll just slip it in?”

  Rose waited, tense, inside the house. A letter? From New York?

  But she could not bring herself to unbar the door, as she was hungry and feared being so near to Miriam.

  “I’ll just leave it her on the doorstep,” Miriam called. “You can find it later.”

  At these words, a rush of gratitude did pass through Rose, surprising her. Perhaps she was healing to a point?

  She waited until Miriam’s footsteps sounded well down the path. Then she unbarred the door and saw a white envelope on the step. It was addressed to her. She grabbed it, taking it inside and barring the door again.

  The return address was in Manhattan but did not contain the name of the sender. Her hands shook as she unsealed the flap. Inside, she found a one-page letter and two hundred pounds in paper notes.

  Dear Rose,

  You have no reason to listen to me nor heed my advice. But I left you in ignorance, telling you nothing of our world. There are others like you and I, existing all across Europe, and one of them, Julian Ashton, has gone mad and is killing his own kind. My own master is dead, and I have fled to America . . . but only because Julian let me go, and I still do not know why.

  So far, with the exception of myself and two other vampires, Julian is beheading anyone he finds. You are not safe in Scotland. I swear that I’ve told no one of your existence, but if rumors of blood-drained bodies reach Julian’s ears, he will come for you.

  You must keep your existence a secret. Take the money I’ve enclosed here, go to Aberdeen, and buy passage on a ship to Philadelphia. You will be safe there. Write to me when you have landed, and I will send more money. Leave tonight. I fear too much time has passed already. I would have written sooner, but I’ve only just arrived. Please, Rose, go to America. If you stay in that village, Julian will destroy you.

  Your servant,

  Edward

  Her hands still trembled. After what he’d done to her, done to Seamus, how dare he write such a note, feigning protection . . . and to send money!

  “Do you believe him?” Seamus said in her ear.

  She jumped, not aware he had materialized right behind her, reading the letter over the shoulder.

  But his words jolted her mind off Edward’s act of writing and onto the content of the letter.

  So far, with the exception of myself and two other vampires, Julian is beheading anyone he finds.

  Vampires.

  There. He’d written it down.

  She had never allowed herself to speak the word nor write it, but now that he had, it seemed real. She was a vampire.

  She was part of a world she knew nothing about.

  There are others like you and I, existing all across Europe.

  And one of them had gone mad and was killing his own kind.

  “We must do as he says,” Seamus insisted. “Leave tonight. Too many people have died or disappeared because of you! Even if we don’t receive outside news anymore, the villages must have set up a militia. The stories must be spreading.”

  His reaction surprised her, that he should be so quick to do anything Edward suggested.

  “You think we should leave our home?” she asked. “My father’s home? And his father’s? No, Seamus.”

  “What if he’s right?” Seamus shouted, his transparent hand pointing at t
he letter. “What if this Julian cuts off your head?” He sounded desperate.

  He did not want to be alone.

  “I do not think we can stay here anyway,” he rushed on. “Sooner or later, someone is going to see you leaving one night. I believe people are already wondering what you eat . . . locked away in here. You cannot stay forever.”

  “Go to America?” she asked. “A place we’ve never even seen?”

  “He said you’ll be safe there.”

  The weight of the arrival of Edward’s letter suddenly hit her. She had never been farther from home than Inverness or Elgin. The thought of leaving the enclosed safety of the house brought fear up into her throat.

  “Seamus . . . I don’t even know the way to Aberdeen. I don’t know how to book passage on a ship to Philadelphia.”

  Rose, who had always considered herself quite brave, realized she possessed a deep fear of unknown places, of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do when she got there.

  “I’ll help you,” he said. “I know the way to Aberdeen. Father took me twice when I was a boy.”

  Arguments and hesitation and fear ensued, but in the end, Seamus won. Rose packed her clothes and all the money in the house, and they slipped away in the night. Aberdeen was a crushing and crowded place, and once there, Seamus could not materialize in public to communicate with her. Between trips with his father, and later in his horse trading, he had done a good deal more traveling than she had, and she wanted his advice, but she managed to book herself passage on a ship bound for America, and she even arranged for a windowless cabin with a stout door.

  The thought of an enclosed space brought some comfort.

  Half of her was numb and the other half was screaming that this journey was wrong.

  How could she leave Loam Village? How could she leave her home?

  But she never saw Scotland again. The sea journey was a nightmare. She starved herself inside her cabin as the shipped rocked on the high waves. One night, she grew so desperate from hunger that she managed to draw off a sailor alone, feed, and push his body over the side. Occasionally, men fell overboard at sea.

  But she and Seamus arrived in Philadelphia to a busy crowded world, an alien world. How had Edward done this? She wondered over and over why he had gone to so much trouble to warn her of the danger Julian posed. She wondered why he had not asked her to come to him in New York . . . and yet she had no desire to see him.

  He had murdered Seamus and destroyed her life.

  Still, after securing herself in a hotel, she wrote to him:Edward,

  We are here in Philadelphia. We have arrived.

  Rose

  She could not bring herself to write more, but she did not wish to leave him wondering what had become of her. Why? Perhaps because besides Seamus, she had no one else, and some part of her did not wish to forever sever the connection with Edward. She included her current address. Three weeks later, a letter arrived.

  Dear Rose,

  I am relieved. I have a contact in France, and she tells me the situation in Europe grows worse. I do not know how Julian is managing to behead so many vampires who are older and more powerful than himself, nor do I know how he is finding them.

  Please keep your existence a secret. Do not go back to Europe, and I believe you will be safe.

  I have enclosed four hundred dollars in American money.

  Your servant,

  Edward

  Rose found the letter detached and informational. He spoke of vampires she’d never met and a conflict she had no part of. She also felt that he wished to say a great deal more but would not.

  She tried to exist in Philadelphia.

  She tried to be good company for Seamus.

  She began writing more lengthy letters to Edward, mainly about Philadelphia and their various hotels and nightly activities. She did not write often, perhaps every six months. Time felt different to her now.

  He always wrote back. He kept her informed of everything he learned of Julian’s bloody actions, and her fear of a mad vampire she’d never met began to grow. In spite of everything . . . everything he’d done, she could not help being grateful to Edward for helping her to leave Scotland.

  The years passed.

  Seamus learned to move about in the world a bit more freely, never allowing himself to be seen by anyone besides Rose, but he never liked the feel nor the sights of Philadelphia, and when she sought out books to read to him, he began asking for accounts of other places in America. He was especially fascinated by accounts of the West Coast, and Rose began to fear he might wish to relocate again.

  The adjustment from Scotland to Philadelphia had been almost too much for her, and she had no desire to ever go through such events again. She learned to use her “voice of wisdom” well during hunting. Edward called it her “gift.”

  Although she had no affection for Philadelphia, she had learned her way around well enough to hunt at safe distances. In addition, though she would never admit it aloud—or possibly even to herself—she had grown comfortable with the thought of Edward just up north in New York, far enough never to see him . . . but not too far.

  But Seamus began asking for more and more books about the west, on gold hunting and horses and new cities cropping up and the adventures taking place there, and by 1870, he began focusing his interests on California.

  His obsession began to make her feel more and more alone. As if she had no one to truly talk to—except Edward. And Edward often reiterated the importance of her living alone, remaining in secret. These reminders caused her to think on his existence as well, always staying in hotels, even more alone than herself. At least she had Seamus. She did not feel sympathy for Edward but rather empathy for the hollow, changeless existence they shared. In a moment of weakness, one night in a letter, she expressed these thoughts to him.

  He did not answer for a month, and then a letter arrived that shifted Rose’s view of their world. The letter was raw and emotional and nothing like Edward had ever written before.

  Rose,

  Your words shame me.

  That you think of me at all with any semblance of charity or concern breaks my heart. I must confess to you now, like a killer seeking absolution from a priest he has wronged.

  I have hidden a secret from you for years.

  I did not think it possible for our kind to feel guilt, suffer from regret, but I have suffered for my actions that night in your house so long ago. . . . Not for turning you, but for leaving you with no knowledge of what you had become or how to survive. You know nothing of your own kind, but for one of us to make a vampire and then abandon you as I did is a sin. Yet so is making a vampire in the heat of the moment, and I feared what my master would do if he found out. . . . I was a coward.

  Then after he was destroyed, it seemed too late for me to make amends to you. I did what I could by sending the warning. I could not even bring myself to look at you. Now, it is far, far too late for amends.

  Thirteen years after you arrived in Philadelphia, something happened in Wales, and I never wrote a word of it. Julian turned his father, William, a senile old man, thereby condemning him forever to a state of dementia. The next night, Julian turned a servant girl to care for the old creature, and he put them both on a ship and sent them to me.

  I have been living with these two, with this secret, for decades. I could not bring myself to tell you. The old man wears upon me, but the girl, Eleisha Clevon, has given me something I never thought to find.

  Redemption.

  I have trained her, cared for her, and she needs me.

  Finally, tonight, reading your last letter for the twentieth time, I feel that I can tell you that I suffered for abandoning you. I would never sink to ask your forgiveness.

  All I can do now is try to make up for the past through my care of Eleisha. Do not fear that I am alone. Do not waste such thoughts on me. Only know that I have suffered remorse you cannot imagine for abandoning you so long ago.

  Edward<
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  Rose stared at the letter. Then she crumpled it and threw it into the fire. Did he think these confessions brought her comfort? Did he think she cared that he had suffered for his crimes against her? And now, he had been lavishing his care, his training, on a Welsh serving girl, and he expected this to give him absolution for destroying her life and murdering Seamus?

  She was numb.

  Slowly, she walked from the sitting room into her bedroom. Seamus was in there, looking at drawings.

  “Rose,” he said. “Come look at these pictures of San Francisco. You would like this new city. The streets are simple, but people are pouring in to settle here. Could we at least see it?” His face was so hopeful and yet hesitant. He knew how she hated to travel, feared to travel.

  “How would we get there?” she whispered.

  “By train. The track to the coast was just completed last year.”

  “All right,” she said softly. “I’ll book a train ticket.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  Seamus was all she possessed of value now. Her illusions of some connection to Edward were just that . . . illusions.

  Once more, the trip was a nightmare, and she vowed never to go through this again.

  Upon arriving, Rose sent a two-line letter to Edward telling him of their relocation.

  He wrote back, sounding shocked and hurt, wanting to know how he had offended her, but she never answered. After that, he occasionally sent money but did not write. Financially, her needs were few, and due to him, she had barely touched Seamus’ inheritance.

  Although she never expected to, Rose found some peace in San Francisco. The people and energy in the air suited her better than Philadelphia. The place was rather primitive at first, but by the late nineteenth century, it had become an international city.