‘Everyone else is dead,’ I said. I saw the faces of Evonne and her family. Yes, everyone else was as dead as dead could get.
‘What’s yer name? I’m Thomas Saltus Lubbock Jr, merchant extraordinaire. Me Da, he’s the one who settled Thomas Town. Great man, he died 1862, year o’the drought, god rest him.’
‘Wilhelmina,’ I said.
I tried to concentrate on the fluent motion of the four horses moving as one, the heavy struggle of their plodding hooves through the sea of sand, but all I could hear was his beating heart. I could smell his blood, and his flesh.
‘Well Wilhelmina, we’ll be in town by sun up. I’ll be blowin’ through, just droppin’ off a shipment, but I’ll stay long enough t’make certain that ye’re taken care of.’
‘Where is Thomas Town?’ I asked.
‘O, a little further north,’ he said.
‘Then we’re heading north?’ I asked.
‘Northeast.'
‘Do you have a map?’ I asked.
‘Aye, in me satchel behind the bench. Ne’er leave home without it, can’t afford to. I travel far too much for a man at my age. Thirty five is too old t’be a roamin’ dog, I tell ye that, too old.’
Thomas Saltus Lubbock Jr spoke his last words as I reached over and crushed his neck. It was purely impulse, I hadn’t even realized that I had killed him with the flick of my wrist until I was nearly done draining his body of blood. I felt so full, and slushy inside as I sat back and looked at his head sitting atop his mangled neck, staring back at me. His eyes lulled as his body died with him. The horses were too busy running to panic properly. All I could hear were their cries and jeering.
'I'm sorry, Thomas,' I said. I meant it - though his rambling wore my patience thin, I didn't want to be this creature of death.
I snatched his satchel and leapt off of the cart, landing effortlessly on the cool desert sand beneath my feet. I unfurled the map, trying to get as little blood on it as possible.
North, south, east, and west. I compared the tracks in the sand and gained some sense of familiarity with the directions. The map only covered a very limited region of the western Texan planes, but it was enough to get me started on my journey back to sweet Louisiana.
I was going back home, to my father’s house in Fremont. I hadn’t been there in four years, but it felt like a lifetime. Because it had been just that; a lifetime. I lived a new life as a different Wilhelmina, one who had been tamed and broken to servitude. My identify held no traces of the child I used to be.
I would be just another stranger there, like any other passerby.
Though my body felt odd and full, like I’d consumed too much human life and it was on the verge of bursting through my tight skin, my journey was a swift one. I wasn’t making anywhere near a timely schedule as Gregor and I did on our way to the Governess’ secret family home, and that was because I didn’t know just where I was. I also knew that I would be reaching the edge of the regional map soon and flying solo in the dark. As long as I knew the direction I was pretty sure that I could make it on my own. I knew that I could, I just knew it.
My hair was wild and free, whipping swiftly behind my shoulders. I could feel the winding serpentine coils meandering as they rode the wind like fiery ghosts in the night. Once I came across the great watery bed of the Sabine Pass the terrain became somewhat familiar. The proverbial willows and marshy wetlands of my homeland was something I could recognize in an instant.
I ran through the daylight, wondering just when I would feel the need to sleep. Would I ever sleep again in purgatory? Or was this the dream, an undying vision pieced together by all of the secrets and memories in the depths of my soul?
I finally passed through parishes I’d never seen before, as well as familiar parishes like the accursed woodlands of my imprisonment during the last days of my life. I ripped into my Fremont, my beloved hometown and childhood queendom where I was the weaver of my own world in my chair beside the window.
But Fremont had practically become a ghost town. I hadn’t expected this, not at all.
I walked through the once lively town, once occupied by farming families and plenty of land-rich, bankrupt aristocracy, who reveled in the misfortunes of others to make themselves feel validated. It was strange to see dusted business windows and abandoned buildings.
I had forgotten that everyone had abandoned Fremont at the news that the Union army was pushing south into Louisiana. Somehow, in my head, things hadn't changed here. Now all that remained here were dead memories.
It was eerie, how fresh everything looked after four years of loneliness. Because it had only been such a short period of time, everything was still in top shape, nothing was rundown or decrepit.
And there it was, Old Lou Girthwright’s cottage on the western edge of town, very nearly floating above the swamp itself. I was a bit wary about approaching his home. What if he didn’t live there anymore? What if he’d run away like everyone else?
There were no lights on in the windows, and the porch was dark. Everything was just as still as the rest of Fremont. That was until I heard a faint heartbeat inside. As I drew closer I heard labored wheezing.
The door was unlocked.
I was deadly silent as I stepped inside the pitch black home. I followed the strong, tangy odor of the old man; it practically burned the hairs right out of my nose. I held my breath and instead chose to follow the sound of his heart. Standing in the doorway to the small room in the cottage, I could see an old woman lying in her bed.
I stared, wondering where her husband may be. She stirred in her sleep and jolted upright. She looked around the dark room in a panic.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked. Her voice was worn and hoarse. ‘I know you’re there.’
I caught sight of her eyes in the darkness. Overrun by cataracts; she was completely blind.
‘I’m looking for Lou Girthwright,’ I said, calmly. Her heart jumped at the sound of my voice. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘He’s up on Rue Hill,’ she said. I remembered Rue Hill, it was where the Fremont Cemetery was. He was dead. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘I’m Wilhelmina Shepherd, I used to live here.’
‘I know you,’ the old woman said. ‘I know who you are. You were that witch’s daughter.’
‘Step-daughter,’ I said moodily.
‘No, child, I mean your mother. There’s something… off about you. I can sense a lot of things; you’re a strange one,’ she said.
If she only knew.
‘I bet I know why you’re here. You’re looking for the nigger woman, aren’t you? The one that kept writing, asking about you.’
‘She… she wrote about me?’ I asked. If I had a heart it would have jumped right into my throat. ‘What did she say?’
‘Lou always said that she was asking if you’d finally run away from somewhere. But when news reached her that her niece died of a horse-riding accident she stopped writing.’
‘Horse-riding accident?’ I asked furiously.
Thea’s death was passed off as an accident, and no one cared enough to question it. Elizabeth Bathory could’ve said that Thea was carried away by a hundred hummingbirds and dropped into a watermelon river and they wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
‘Well I ain’t got nothing to tell you. My husband died when the Confederate army found out he was helping niggers get up north, and nobody cares to write here anymore. All them letters he got from the coloreds was buried with him,’ she said.
She laid her weary bones back down, mumbling to herself, and I left her to her sleep.
I walked through the empty streets, wishing I could have seen it when Fremont was still alive. I never really got to leave my father's house under my step-mother's rule. Irony hovered heavily over me as I, a dead soul in a dead body, was the only thing alive here.
I stopped when I saw my father’s house on the east end of town. A rush of visions hit my eyes as I saw the large willow in the front yar
d with the rope tied to one of the high branches. I remembered swinging on that rope while I played in the yard with Abby. I remembered reading by my small window to the summer sunlight. I remembered waiting there, seeing Charles as he strode across the lawn and through the front door. Watching him take off his coat and smiling up at me. His beautifully curved and coy smirk was the best part of Tuesday nights.
Then I noticed something. At first I thought it was just another vibrant memory come to life, but once the nostalgia began to wear off I realized that what I was seeing was reality.
My window was lit brightly in the night like a star above the town. Candlelight flickered behind the curtains. I couldn’t believe it, someone was actually here. Someone had to have stayed behind, but who could it be?
I rushed across the lawn in a blur, and quietly crept through the door.
The once glamorous sight of the entrance lit by the grand chandelier was gone. Darkness and dust had settled into its place. I blew up the stairs like a breeze and caught a scent that smelled deceivingly sweet and floral; it reminded me of Gregor and the Governess. Behind that saccharine scent was the unmistakable stench of death. Whoever was in my room was not among the living, they were the damned, undying, like me.
My room was empty. Where someone once stood, there was only loneliness. They must have left recently. The room was bare, the walls were stained, and the floor was dusty. Nothing from my childhood memories had survived. All that was left was a single, burning candle in the middle of the floor, and a small white envelope.
I immediately noticed the name on the envelope and could hardly contain myself.
From the desk of Mr. Charles E. Abberdean.
I wasted no time in ripping the envelope apart to get to the note inside.
To my dearest Wilhelmina,
I am so terribly sorry that I could not save you from a fate that I wish I hadn't accepted myself. I fought to spare you the damnation, this affliction, and instead he put you in an early grave. I know that you will never read this because you are dead.
Papa always told us that candles are guiding lights for the dead, and writing a letter by candlelight seemed the most appropriate way to tell you how much I love you. I pray to God in heaven that you can find your way home, and that you get a chance to read this.
I promise that I will find Charles and hand out justice for what he's done to us. I will not rest until both you and mother are avenged.
Freedom is something that you’ve never known. You’re free now, Wilhelmina.
Forever,
Mary E. Shepherd.
I dropped the letter onto the floor and stared into the candle.
Had Charles known our mother?
I held my red ribbon in my hands and thought only of the exchange between Charles and myself. The smile in my memory made the pit in my chest ache.
What did he have to do with our mother's death? What did Mary know that I didn't?
Dawn was quickly approaching. There was no address on the envelope, and therefore no way of knowing just where this 'Desk of Charles Abberdean' was.
I realized that I would probably never see a familiar face again. My step-mother and Dinah could have been anywhere in Texas. I had absolutely no idea what Mary had been up to since last we'd met, and she could have been anywhere in the country by now. Her scent still lingered here for me to catch, but the wind outside would have blown any trail of her away. And the last but not least, Mary now believed me to be dead, and therefore she would never return here, never search for me.
I was forgotten, alone and loveless. And it seemed only right that things should end this way. After all, I'd traded Charles for revenge.
The sun began to rise over Fremont, shining through weeping willows and dancing off of the swamp water. Light dazzled across the walls of my old, small bedroom as fire writhed beneath my skin.
The firelight inside of my flesh made me think back on the carnage of my wicked vengeance and how merciless I’d been. I would never be able to absolve myself of those sins, of this I was certain. And if there was a heaven, my mother and father were surely disgusted with my very existence now.
It was a hard reminder that my life, from the moment that my father died, held no meaning for me. What friends I had were gone. What love I held dear to my heart was tainted.
I was free, finally free, and I could only taste the dull, rusty flavor of my own misdeeds. I was hereby shackled to my own miserable, lonely existence.
As the sun began to set, the flare of the flames beneath my skin faded into a softer peach glow. I walked west of Fremont in the night. No rush, and no hurry, I simply walked. Since becoming a vile succubus I'd felt invincible, infallible, and unstoppable. But walking made me feel somewhat human. My heart was still just as weak and vulnerable as it was when I was human, so it wasn't a very far step from being the girl I used to be. But my grace had long since fallen, and I was on a journey straight into the fires of perdition.
The sun rose over the horizon again. I simply continued to walk through the trees. Sorrow and heartache consumed me, and that's exactly how I preferred it to be. I didn't want to feel cheerful, or hopeful. If I did, then little Abby's memory was just another memory. She deserved better than that, since I'd denied her the right to live.
I walked until the sun set, and rose, and set again.
I came to the sea and I stood atop high cliffs, overlooking the ocean tides. The jagged rocks below roared back as violent waves crashed against them in anger. The gulls in the sky hovered, and the sun watched my every breath as it raced across the sky.
I held my ribbon in my fist and cried out the name of an angel that no Christian could claim to have known as I had. I let my body fall forward and soar through the rush of wind that swept past me until finally plummeting into the cold, dark sea like a stone.
I sank, quickly, yet for all the water that rushed through my hair and smothered my bones, it took a long time before I hit the sandy depths. I sank so deep, in fact, that the sun vanished from the water's surface and all I could see was darkness.
Charles told me that I was immortal, undying like him. But he'd been murdered. So it must have been possible for me to die as well. Maybe I would drown. I prayed that death came soon as I thought of Charles and waited for Charon's icy grip to pull me from the ocean and into his river.
In this watery womb, my aqueous tomb, I could dream of Charles until death came to collect me. It was as close to Heaven as I would ever come.
In dreams, I slept, waiting. But death never came. I despaired, stuck in this eternal quagmire.
That is until one day I felt two warm, solid arms pulling me out of my murky grave. I wasn't entirely certain just how long I had been there, but it had been long enough for me to forget just how to move my limbs. But they soon recovered, and when I opened my eyes I looked into the eyes of my rescuer.
It was the first time I'd seen him since the garden in the governess' estate. It would be the first time he put his arms around me and carried me to safety, but not the last. For in this man, who had been sent to find and kill me, I instead found a guardian.
His name was Charles Whyte, and we were about to change the future of the entire world, both human and demon alike.
We, the dreams. We, the immortal. We, the undying.
To be continued...
'Ms. Shepherd, the Nightmares have returned.'
I looked up from the book I'd been skimming through as my loyal servant, Mr. Gryce, stepped into my study. I rose, adjusting my gown. Mr. Gryce stepped aside, and two of my trusted guards escorted a very irate looking individual into the room.
'Presenting Mr. Charles Whyte,' said Gryce.
This Charles wasn't nearly as intimidating as his reputation made him out to be. He was much shorter than I'd expected, mere inches taller than I was. I could smell the liquor on his breath, a strong bourbon mingled with traces of oak and sweet aromas. He looked at the two black-clad, rifle-toting guards, my Nightmares, at his side and then
his eyes focused on me.
'Please, leave us,' I said. I nodded to the Nightmares and to Gryce. The Nightmares shrugged and strutted out without a care. Gryce, however, seemed a bit more reluctant to leave me alone with this vagabond that I'd worked so exhaustively to find.
'It's all right, Mr. Gryce, he won't hurt me,' I assured him.
'I'll be right outside if you need me, Ms. Shepherd.'
Mr. Gryce closed the doors behind him. Whyte smirked and raised an incredulous brow.
'You're pretty confident that I won't hurt you, miss,' he said. He waltzed up to my desk as I walked around to meet him. 'I assume this kidnapping business is your doing.'
'Yes, I had my soldiers follow you, study your habits,' I said.
'And after all of this, you're still confident that I won't harm you?' He laughed.
'Yes, I am. You're predictable, and I minimize risk wherever I can.' I poured him a glass of whiskey and handed it to him as a peace offering. 'If I wasn't confident that you wouldn't harm me, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'
He accepted that answer for what it was and took the glass from my hand. He swallowed the drink in one swig and sat the glass onto my desk.
'So what is it that you want of me? Do I owe you money?' He asked.
'I have money,' I said.
'Ah, well... If it's pleasure you're after, I'm sure we can negotiate a fair price for the both of us,' he said with a wicked grin.
'The pleasure I'm after can't be found in you, I assure you,' I said. He found my scornful answer amusing, but I didn't waste any time begrudging his rude demeanor. 'However, I believe that you can help me find that pleasure. And if you're quite finished being a horse's ass, to be blunt, then we can move onto business.'
'All you had to do was say the word money and I'd have put on my business face, ma'am,' he said. He helped himself to the crystal decanter of whiskey on my desk, drinking right from the bottle rather than pouring himself a serving. 'So what is it you think I can do for you? It must be something important if I had to be dragged out of the pub against my will.'
'I've been told that you were once a well sought hunter,' I said.
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