by Casey Wyatt
Like I didn’t know that already.
“Thank you.” I tore away the paper, wondering if Prior could hear the tree it came from scream. “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. How thoughtful.”
Frankly, I was surprised he’d given me an American book. Prior was English to the core.
“It was mine. My father read it to me in secret as Mother didn’t approve.” He stared at his toes for a moment, then looked up with a wistful expression. “I never had children of my own. I would be honored for your child to have it.”
I’m not gonna lie, I choked up a bit. And the idea there was a bit of rebel in by-the-book Prior only added to my delight. “I promise to read this to her every night.”
“Excellent,” he beamed. “Now if you will excuse me, I have packing to do.”
“Wait. What?” Had I missed something vital? “Are you leaving us?”
He glanced at Ian then at me. “Why, yes. I have some business to conduct on behalf of the colony.”
I resisted the mental tug on my neck, the one telling me to look at Ian and glare. I had no clue what he was talking about. But I also didn’t want Prior to know I was clueless.
Ian stepped forward and stared down at the much more diminutive vampire. “What business?”
A flutter of genuine surprise followed by irritation filtered through our shared mental bond. Ian was unaware of Prior’s mission too.
“The zombie council has asked me to meet with them about the benefits of Mars colonization. And since the Undead Space Initiative was started in the spirit of interracial cooperation, it was only fitting I accepted their invitation. The shuttle is scheduled to leave within the hour, so if you’ll excuse me. . .” His voice trailed off, color draining from his cheeks.
I couldn’t see Ian’s face, but judging by Prior’s wide eyes, I was sure my husband had him in a death stare.
“Well, the space dock didn’t clear an unscheduled trip with me.” Ian turned to me, regret in his eyes. “I have to deal with this.”
“No worries. Do what you have to do.” I smiled so he’d know I meant what I said, though I wished he’d stay by my side.
As the elected colony leader, Ian had final say about how things were run on planet, including the frequency of Earth trips. And if anyone else was allowed to join us. The last thing we wanted was a repeat of the Undead wars that had plagued Earth over the centuries. When the vampire queen was murdered on Earth, she’d left a power void. A civil war erupted with each faction vying for supremacy. Her will had held the other races—zombie and revenant—at bay through a combination of respect and fear. Queen Victoria had kept the peace for almost two centuries. She was a forward thinker. She’d been the one to fund the Martian space colony under Prior’s direction.
So, while Prior’s duties didn’t land directly under Ian’s jurisdiction and he could leave as he pleased, Ian did control the spaceport. I didn’t envy the pilot who’d agreed to shuttle Prior to the sentient ship orbiting the planet. As irritating as I found Prior, I know he had provided valuable services to the colony, and I understood why Ian would balk at his leaving.
Ian kissed me goodbye then guided a disgruntled, protesting Prior away from the celebration.
Not my monkeys. Not my circus. Not anymore.
Harmony descended into the seat next to mine. “Might we speak upon an important matter?”
“Sure.” The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile. It seemed most all matters were important to Harmony. Don’t get me wrong—while we were friends, in many ways, she remained a bit of an enigma to me.
“I’d like to hold a naming ceremony for your child.”
I smiled like I understood what she meant because, frankly, I knew she’d tell me.
“It’s customary for revenants to welcome new members into the tribe. Because your child will be the first of her kind, I thought it might be nice to do something similar involving the three clans.”
I loved how Harmony spoke. She never discussed her past, but the cadence of her speech told an interesting story. Her accent was a bit posh but not exactly British. She reminded me of Ian and Jonathan, someone who’d lived many lives.
“We’d be honored,” I said, knowing Ian would agree. The former druid in him wouldn’t be able to resist. Whatever Harmony had planned, it sounded nice. “What do we need to do?”
“Not a thing, other than show up at the dome.”
“Hey, listen, can I ask you something? What’s the deal with Herne and his merry band?” I wanted so badly to call them space ghosts but didn’t want to offend Harmony. Her sense of humor was nowhere near as flexible as mine.
Harmony’s gaze shifted to Herne, who was lingering besides the food table. His hand hovered over the food, uncertain. I didn’t blame him. There were some strange offerings.
“Herne is unknown to me.” She watched, eyes tracking his movements. His followers hovered around the edges of the room. It was more awkward then an eighth-grade dance. “The story he told me . . .”
“Yes?” Now I was curious. Ian had said something similar to me after they’d first landed weeks earlier.
“Remember the day they arrived?”
“How could I forget? Talk about a shock,” I said.
“I’d hoped the Lost Ship had returned.” With a wounded sigh, she twisted her hands in her lap.
According to undead lore, there were three ships. One crashed on Earth, one headed into deep space, and the third, well, no one knows.
“I think a lot of us did,” I said. I wasn’t one of those people. I hadn’t known about the Lost Ship until we’d settled on Mars. The revenants cherished the legend more than anyone else.
“Herne would not share where he had been. Or where his ship came from. I believe he doesn’t know.”
“And that’s disturbing.” I could understand why the space revenants vexed Ian. It bugged me too. How could you not know why you were traveling in space?
“He seems to like you. Have you tried to speak to him?”
When the ship first landed, there was a “take me to your leader” moment. The vampires told them I was the leader. Which was true. I was their Sire, but Ian was the elected colony leader.
“I think I intimidate him. But I’ll try again.”
“Thank you. Please, give him a chance. There’s something about him. A conflict brewing inside him. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” She stood. “See you at ladies’ night. You haven’t forgotten, right?”
“Of course not.” I called to her receding form. We both knew I’d forgotten because that’s what I did these days. Nap, drink our specially fortified, homegrown juice, forget stuff.
I located Herne where I’d last seen him, staring at the food table. Everyone was giving him wide berth. Or was it the scary food? Vampires generally don’t eat solids. Zombies could and did eat things. What kinds of things? I never could bring myself to ask. Revenants stuck to juice pouches like the vampires.
Anyway, we were still in the getting-to-know-you phase of communal living. Some things were impolite to ask. I know we’d have to learn to get over it. Just because things were handled a certain way on Earth didn’t mean we had to behave the same way. Living together in relative harmony was a major accomplishment. One I didn’t want to see disappear because of Herne and his newcomers.
“Hi there,” I said. “The food looks interesting.” I couldn’t make myself call it pretty. One plate reminded me of actual fingers.
Herne startled. “Forgive me. I sometimes lose track of time.”
Have I mentioned the space revenants often float around like ghosts? Herne is the exception. He remains solid, but he also has no discernible facial features other than his eyes. He reminds me of a department store mannequin that walks and talks. It’s a bit unnerving.
“How are you adjusting to the Martian surface?” Sure, the question was akin to discussing the state of the roads or the weather. Since we didn’t have roads or remarkable weather other than dust storms and the occasiona
l puffy cloud, I chose something safe. Gravity.
“It has been difficult. But we persevere.” He pointed to the plate of fingers. “Those do not look appetizing.”
I stifled a snicker. While his was a true statement, whoever had brought them had taken the time and effort to make my day special, which I did appreciate. “How about a cup of punch? It’s yummy and full of nutrients.”
Gah. I sounded like a PSA.
“Thank you, but I require no sustenance at this time.”
Enough dancing around him. “What do you want with us?”
Herne looked into my eyes. For a moment, his gaze caught mine. A soul-deep wound gaped back at me, painful and forlorn. Then it vanished. “Apologies. I need to return to my ship.”
“Sure.” Sadness filled me. I wiped a tear away, quickly.
He turned and looked back at me. “Come visit me sometime.”
He seemed to want to say more. Instead, he disappeared.
I gripped the edge of the table. What the hell had just happened? It was like I’d dived into his mind for the briefest of seconds and the only thing there was pain and regret.
As I released the table, a metallic object caught my eye. A tin soldier. The paint was worn from use, but patches of red, yellow, and blue still clung to spots. When the cool metal touched my palm, I couldn’t help giving a sad sigh.
It reminded me of my brother Edwin’s favorite toy, the Duke of Wellington. I turned the soldier upside down and squinted at the base. The initials E.B. were faintly legible in black paint.
How was this here? I’d lost it in the same fire that destroyed my lakeside house in Austin.
“Hey. How do you feel?” Jay approached the table.
“A bit tired.” I dropped the soldier into my pocket. I’d deal with the mystery later.
“You shouldn’t be overdoing it.” Jay cupped my elbow and led me to my chair. It was the one decorated with gaudy paper cutouts, makeshift bows, and a “Red Hot Mama” sign.
“Don’t fuss over me. I won’t break.” I shushed him away. Much as I loved Jay, I didn’t need him to mother me. He’d fretted over me plenty when he was my thrall. I wanted him to be free of worry and have his own life. I’d taken enough from him.
A new crowd of well-wishers formed around me.
Settling against the hard plastic, I tackled the gift pile, taking the time to appreciate each present and the person who’d given it to the baby. After I opened each gift, everyone moved away to socialize or dance.
Finally alone, I retrieved the tin soldier. I touched the tiny figure, wishing I could see Edwin again. Melancholy served no purpose and I shouldn’t indulge it. That way lay madness, as they say. I pocketed the toy with a sigh.
Suddenly, shivers crawled over my skin. I’d felt the sensation before. Like I was being watched.
Shuddering, I searched the room. Nothing. I leaned back in my chair, relieved.
“Cherry. We need to talk.”
I swear I left the chair and levitated for a moment before my butt landed firmly against the seat.
Jonathan, my former husband and Sire, sat next to me, real as day. He raised his chin, daring me to defy his existence. Have I mentioned that he’s really, truly dead?
“No, you’re not here.” I turned away and counted to twenty.
Chatter continued. Music played from a sound system somewhere across the room. Nina and Brandy tossed a crumpled bow between them. Jay’s laugh reached my ears. He and Louis were probably telling each other goofy nerd jokes.
Situation normal.
Nope. Jonathan wasn’t there. I blame the hormones.
Confidant I wasn’t having a psychotic break with reality, I checked the chair beside me.
Grim and resolved, Jonathan nodded. “Yup. I’m still here.”
Crap on a cracker.
Chapter Two
Family Is Another Word For Crazy
I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Seeing ghosts wasn’t normal, even for the undead.
Needing space to think, I left the party and hightailed it to my favorite place, the hydroponic greenhouse.
The faint hiss of moisture traveling to the plants’ roots interrupted the silence. Otherwise, it was quiet and empty. Just the way I liked it.
I needed time to regroup. Seeing a literal ghost from the past, plus the toy soldier, was a bit much.
And this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Jonathan. He’d appeared at the foot of the bed when my child was conceived. That by itself was disturbing enough. The fact that’d I’d convinced myself it was my imagination didn’t help me.
I hadn’t told Ian because it was too mortifying.
Then why did I feel so guilty?
You know why, said my conscience. Only its voice took on the posh accent of my Aunt Cassandra. The cray-cray one. The relative brushed under the rug.
Crap.
I didn’t want her voice in my head. Thinking about my past wasn’t particularly helpful, given the situation. Everyone has secrets they don’t admit to their friends or spouse. I was brought up in a time when many things remained private. Especially family matters. Everyone has one relative relegated to the family time-out corner.
Mine was Aunt Cassandra.
She was crazy as a loon. Madder than a hatter. Nuttier than a squirrel. In fact, she was plain insane, insisting she saw the future, foretelling our doom with the precision of a train schedule.
Everyone knew about her “episodes,” as they were referred to. Though no one in the family would comment about her condition in polite society. It just wasn’t done. Brows would furrow over cups of tea. Tuts of pity for the beleaguered family were hinted at but never explicitly expressed.
Of course, without having to say it, everyone knew one day she would go too far. Unfortunately for me, I was the impetus for the men with white coats. Well, in those days, they didn’t have white coats, but that’s how I remember it.
The afternoon they came to take her away, the sun shone with crisp sharpness only seen on a summer day.
My mother’s prized Japanese irises had bloomed a purplish blue, the shade mimicking the fresh bruises on my arms. I’d been hiding outside, creeping behind an unruly hedgerow, staring at the façade of Belmont Manor. Trepidation pulsed through my veins with enough force that my heart seemed to race ahead of my body. I watched the windows, expecting her to appear at any moment. I imagined the fanatical gleam in her glassy eyes as she sought me out for another round of madness. The phantom sensation of her pincer-like grip throbbed against my battered skin. I shrank down behind the hedge, choking down quiet sobs.
I didn’t want her to find me again. My absence from my morning lessons would be discovered at any moment, I was sure of it. A steady clip-clop of hooves roused me. The carriage was unlike any I’d ever seen before. Box-shaped with dark windows. A heavy iron padlock secured the passenger door.
Shrinking further into the shrubs, I watched through a break in the branches. My dress would be filthy. I’d be punished, but I didn’t fear the sting of a spanking as much as my Aunt Cassandra.
A horrible thought had rattled in my young brain. What if they were here for me?
I flattened, wishing I could burrow into the ground like a mole. Quiet as I could, I breathed shallowly through my noise, hand covering my mouth.
The carriage stopped. A man stepped down from next to the driver’s seat, dressed in a somber black suit. White wisps of hair drifted under the brim of his battered top hat, haloing it like milkweed down. The pale man headed toward the manor’s great oaken door, his shoulders slumped as if he’d been given a sad duty. Before he could knock, the front door opened. Shrieks, sudden and violent, escaped from the foyer—the pitiful sound of a wretched animal caught in a trap.
“You can’t do this to me! I’m your sister!” Cassandra shouted. She’d been dressed for an outing. Sturdy shoes, a dark skirt, and plain coat. Her hairdo lopsided. Tendrils had escaped one side, indicating she hadn’t willingly agreed to leave.
&n
bsp; My mother stepped forward and spoke to her in low tones. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but I caught snippets of phrases such as “for the good of the family” and “maintain decorum.”
“Charity! Charity! You must run. I tried to hide you from the devil for your own good!” Her words were targeted, biting me with the force of multiple wasp stings.
“No! No! You can’t take me. I won’t let you!” My aunt lunged, evading the grasps of my father and two underbutlers. For a moment, she stopped, sighting me in the hedge. I don’t know how she did it, but she always had an uncanny knack for finding me.
A sob escaped before I pushed my face into the damp grass and played dead like a possum I’d once seen in America.
Her long finger pointed at me. “Heed my words, girl. Run now. Run!”
There was a soft oomph. Fabric tore with a sharp rip. Gravel shifted under heavy-booted feet. My aunt’s cries muffled then stopped. I opened my eyes in time to witness the pale man remove a white cloth from her nose and mouth. They quickly bundled Aunt Cassandra into the carriage, the driver whipping the horses into a gallop as they disappeared down the drive. My mother entered the house without a backward glance, a line of grim servants following behind her.
Cold to the core, she didn’t bother to check if I was there. I didn’t exist in her world. My father must have pitied me. He located me and trundled me into his arms, not caring that fathers didn’t handle their children. Without a word, he brought me to the greenhouse and handed me an embroidered handkerchief. The unspoken message was clear: Pull yourself together.
I sorted through events while mopping my tears. My terrified mind refused to relive what she had done. But I knew the basic facts. Aunt Cassandra was in big trouble. She’d done something bad. And because I’d been involved, I felt I was to blame.
I shook the memories away and faced the more immediate issue. The very real ghost haunting me.