by A. W. Cross
“It’s my parents.” Hawthorne moved toward the opening in the floor in one bound. He was halfway down the ladder when he remembered I was still on the widow’s walk. His head peeked back through the hole. “Come on, Annabelle.” He held out a hand.
It was nice that he hadn’t forgotten me in his excitement. Kind Hawthorne was a gentle soul. I needed to hide the sad look on my face, so I wiped it off, replacing my frown with the brightest smile I could manage. I walked forward, accepting his help to descend the ladder. “You’ll be so happy to go home. I’m relieved for you.”
“Me, too. My parents freak out when they haven’t heard from me.”
It was only natural they should be sick with worry. It was then I realized the folly of all this for the second or was it the third time? Hawthorne had a family, people who would miss him were he to disappear. Our plan would have never worked. He should go home, there was no other way.
We were halfway to the first floor, when Swann came running up to meet us. The look on her face was animal-like, her hair had come loose from her bun, she chewed mercilessly on her lip. Hawthorne drew back.
“Swann, Hawthorne’s parents are outside. They’ve come to take him home. Isn’t that wonderful?” I smiled, nodding my head at her in an encouraging manner.
She stood straighter, smoothing her hair back with both hands, her French cool resumed. “Of course. Alain will go out to meet them.” Swann stood aside, allowing us room to walk past her. As we did so, I reached out a hand, grasping hers in a quick gesture I hoped would relieve the anxiety she felt for my sake.
I walked with Hawthorne to the front door. Alain waited, unable to look me in the face. Hawthorne’s parents had not yet come up to the house. I preferred to keep it that way. I turned to Hawthorne. “This is where I leave you. Alain will walk you out.”
Hawthorne looked from me to the door, then back again. “Thank you for everything. It’s been quite an… experience. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Annabelle.” He didn’t smile. Instead, he reached out grasping me by the shoulders. Hawthorne leaned toward me, the oak and bergamot scent of his cologne toying with my senses, and placed a light, feathery kiss on my cheek.
He pulled back, gazing into my eyes. “I wish you all the best.”
When Alain pulled the door closed behind them, I expelled the breath I held, sinking back against the wall. Swann came over, looping an arm around my waist, and half pulled me back toward the stairs. “You should rest, Annabelle,” she whispered in my ear.
“I don’t require rest. I want to spend my last hours with you, awake. We still have time before sunrise, do we not? I would hate to waste it.”
Swann didn’t speak. From the edge of my eye I could see her wiping blood tears from her lashes.
11
It is not death that a man should fear,
but he should fear never beginning to live.
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Hawthorne
We drove away from the plantation house. This was more difficult than I expected. I couldn’t figure out why my chest constricted, almost in panic, the further we drove down the long, unkempt drive. The relief of freedom should have spread through my body, rather than uneasiness. I wasn’t sure why I should shake as I did. I should have been ecstatic to get away. What was there to be afraid of? Then I realized what I feared. What if I never saw Annabelle, again?
Dad drove the luxury SUV, mom next to him, her red-haired head bending and craning to see all she could out the closed passenger window. “What a bizarre place. It’s so creepy. Thank goodness you’re all right, Thorne. A wild animal or some lunatic may have hurt you out here.”
I hated the shortened version of my name my mom often used. The nickname reminded me of a villain in a fairytale. I slumped in the rear seat, exhaustion taking hold. “It’s not so weird, mom. They were nice, just eccentric, is all.”
“Well, eccentricity is not in short supply around here, so we won’t hold that against them. They sheltered you, that’s what matters to us. You said the tow truck came for your car?” She turned in her seat to smile at me.
“Yeah.” I stopped there for the time being. I wasn’t about to tell her I hit my head. The pain was much better now. All I wanted was to go home and sleep. If mom knew something had knocked me unconscious, they would take me straight to the hospital. “How did you find me, anyway?”
“The tow company called to verify your credit card information. They told us where you were and said they were sending a truck. We hopped right in the car.”
I couldn’t help but wish they hadn’t. A little more time spent with Annabelle wouldn’t have been a bad thing. She was a little soft-spoken. She was also well read and fascinating. I had met no one more interesting, that’s for sure. On my way back to school, I could always stop by to say hello. I hoped she would find the donor she so desperately needed.
I must have passed out in the car. When I next woke, I was lying clothed on my bed. My parents must have struggled to bring me in. I towered over both. The air-conditioned room was a treat. How anyone could live without this necessity was beyond me.
A glance at the clock told me it was already dinner time. That I slept so long was no surprise. After whacking my head and spending the night wandering around a century’s old plantation house, I’m surprised I didn’t sleep a full twenty-four hours. I took a quick shower before heading down to eat.
As I stood under the hot, streaming water, my mind raced. Something didn’t feel right. A restless stirring invaded my chest, my mind overcome with thoughts of Annabelle. How was she tonight? Better or worse? How would she ever find a donor stuck as she was in the middle of nowhere without technology of any kind?
I turned the knob, blasting myself in the face with a shot of ice-cold water. These thoughts were pointless, and I should move on. I willed myself back into normality, dressing in a worn Duke t-shirt and jeans before heading downstairs.
My folks sat at the dining room table. Mom had prepared a Thanksgiving worthy feast of ham, potatoes, asparagus, salad, and rolls. The sweet honey basted scent of the ham sent my stomach into a fit of growling. It had been a lengthy time since I’d eaten.
I pulled up a chair and filled my plate. Mom was staring at me, a strange look on her face. She shifted in her seat. “Thorne, the haul truck company called, again. They say they never picked up your car. The man I spoke to says he drove out to the location and a French man told him that their service was no longer needed. But your car wasn’t on the road last night. Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
I reflected on the events of the previous evening. My thoughts, still a little cloudy due to being knocked out, darted around unfocused. When I met Alain out on the pavement, he said the truck had already been there. Why would he lie? I chewed and concentrated. Was it the bump on my head or did I remember Alain had come from the woods? He had startled me, leaves and dirt stuck to his clothing. I narrowed my eyes as I considered what this meant. Had he lied? Tricked me?
“No idea, mom. Probably a mistake. I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”
Mom smiled, then dished steaming potatoes onto her plate, a pool of butter sitting on top of the white mounds. Dad asked me what my plans were for the summer. I had to pretend to be interested in our everyday conversation when all I could think of was the plantation house. It felt like it had been a dream; a young woman with a wasting disease, a home that appeared broken down until you walked closer, French servants who acted more like friends to their mistress, an incredible library, and the magical widow’s walk. And my car. Alain had lied about the tow truck, that seemed clear. What a strange thing to make up. I had to find out why.
I ate fast, then told my parents I was off to the towing company before they closed for the night. Dad wanted to go with me, but I made it seem like since it was my car, I should take the responsibility for it. He gave me his keys, and I set out.
The sun was setting by the time I hit the interstate. It would be dark
once I arrived at the plantation. My tension melted the further away from Charleston I drove. Excitement replaced the anxiety.
As I pulled into the drive, my pulse sped up in anticipation. I maneuvered dad’s car around the angel, her wings open to welcome me back, parking right at the bottom of the porch steps.
12
I am strong against everything, except against
the death of those I love. He who dies gains;
he who sees others die loses.
Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask
Annabelle
With Hawthorne gone, my loyal friends sat with me in the salon. He left only a moment ago, his parents pulling out of the drive, gravel spitting up behind their tires as if they couldn’t flee fast enough. I watched him leave from the library window, straining to see past, and ignore the blood rose. My life ebbing away with the last remaining spot of white.
Swann bundled me in a quilt, steering me into her favorite room. She stuffed a mountain of pillows behind me, as I lay in repose on the silk divan. I simply wanted to be with my two friends, the companions who had seen me through my living nightmare. A nightmare that would soon end. Swann pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, then joined Alain at cards nearby, their low voices a comfort. We hadn’t spoken about Hawthorne, about what could have been. He left, and with him the last embers of hope had died away. To analyze the night would gain nothing.
“Annabelle, do you remember that time before the curse, when we played on the beach in the night? We collected rocks and shells. The evening was so peaceful, like this one, the crashing of the waves drowning out all other sound.” Swann was trying to distract me with memories. She loved to think of happier days.
There were many wonderful times to remember, the times before Edward Rose came into my life. We were young, strong, immortal. There was nothing we could not do. We had learned to control our hunger, drinking when we must and only from the wicked. I kept tabs on my brother, adopted by the family I left him with that awful night. He was growing. He would thrive in the world without me. All seemed to be well.
“Yes, I remember. We used to go there after checking on James.” When James grew into a man, he left Charleston for a school in New York. It was there I glimpsed him, one last time, before leaving him to live out the rest of his life. He was handsome, more so than our father had been with dark, curly hair, and a strong, sure bearing. If he had any memory of us, I was never to know. I hoped he didn’t, his life seemed a happy one.
We passed the rest of the night, talking of happier times, sometimes even laughing.
I woke one last time with the setting sun. I hadn’t expected to wake, wishing my suffering would come to a swifter end. Tucked around me were my blankets. I was now in my bed. Alain must have carried me from the salon.
The room was dark, the only light from the stars outside that shimmered through the open window. My friends looked rumpled, having slept in their clothes where they sat.
With ragged, unsteady breath, I lay still. Swann and Alain sat next to the bed, holding hands. There would be no new gown this evening, no habitual brushing of my hair, no powder, and no rouge. At last, we would all be free.
Alain bolted out of his chair, startling my eyelids open. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered so quietly I had to strain to hear his words.
“What is it? Do you hear something?” I pulled the blankets up higher with weak hands. Perhaps it was the police, here to look for Hawthorne’s car. I told Alain it was foolish to push it off the road. He had put Swann and himself in danger.
Swann smiled, her face lighting up with a warm glow. “I hear him, too.”
Him? Could they mean Hawthorne? Alone? I swallowed nothing but dry dust, coughing specks of blood into my white cotton handkerchief.
Alain crossed the room, swinging the door wide to answer the knocking echoing up from below. Swann leaned toward me, grasping my hand. Her face was lit by the warmth of her eyes and the wideness of her smile. A single blood tear of happiness threatened to spill down her cheek. “He came back.”
“Yes, I’m sure he wants his car.” I croaked out the words. My friends were naïve to think Hawthorne wanted anything else. He would never give himself over. The risks were too great, and he didn’t know the whole story.
If I hadn’t been so tired, my lids so heavy, the echo of footsteps running up the stairs may have alarmed me. As it was, I only wished to sleep.
“Annabelle.” The sound of my name on Hawthorne’s lips was the sweetest cadence I’d ever heard.
The bed near my thigh dipped down as a large weight dropped next to me. A strong hand scooped up mine from the damask coverlet it lay on, lips pressing into the palm of my hand. “I didn’t know it was this bad. You should have told me.” His voice was low, the final word breaking as if in emotion.
I dared not open my eyes, afraid I would break the spell. There was nothing to feel, my body and heart shriveled almost to the point of no return. I squeezed his hand with as much pressure as I was able to manage. “You… came… back.” I stuttered the words; grateful I could manage even that.
“I came back. I missed you. Tell me what to give for you. I’ll do anything.”
My eyes remained closed. To turn my body away from him required great effort. I pulled my hand from his grasp. “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do that won’t irrevocably change you. You’ll never be the same, you’ll never go home to live a normal life.”
“You’re not making sense. Please explain this Annabelle. I’m not afraid. I won’t run away.” Hawthorne placed a gentle hand on my arm. He was leaning over me, attempting to investigate my face and trying not to hurt me at the same time. All I had to do was turn to face him, take his blood, and live. Hawthorne was offering to break the spell. Why was I resisting?
I rolled onto my back, forcing open my eyes. “I’ll tell you everything. You may not believe me, in fact, I expect you won’t. But, if it means you’ll leave as you, I’ll tell you the tale.”
“I’ll believe anything you say.” Hawthorne reached for my hand, once again, pulling it onto his knee.
“The disease I have is less of an illness and more of a curse.” I observed him; my vision cloudy. He remained sitting, holding my hand with a gentle pressure. “For me this house was brand new once. My father had it built in 1730, before this country was even a country. Something attacked me in the woods one night; a creature, a blood sucking monster whose face I never even saw. In my blood lust, I then attacked our cook, Mary, and my darlings, Swann and Alain. The latter two survived, also becoming creatures like myself. Mary did not. She died on the floor of the kitchen by my hand.” I paused, expecting Hawthorne to look aghast. “Why are you not running for the door?”
Hawthorne hadn’t so much as blinked during the first part of my story. He shrugged his shoulders. “I figured something unbelievable was going on here. You’ve just confirmed a theory I already had; that you’re all undead. I figured I was going crazy. Keep talking, if you can. Where does the curse come in?”
“The curse came about fifty years later. I met a man at the opera. This young man was persistent in his affection. He was mortal, I was not. This made me reluctant. Loneliness drew me to him. Eventually, I came to care for him, too. Maybe I even loved him. I remember liking him a great deal. The three of us had been so controlled around mortals for so long, it seemed logical he would be safe with us. Edward and I spent all our evenings in each other’s company. Six months after we met an incident occurred which changed everything.”
I attempted to swallow, again. It was difficult to speak at all, let alone tell a story with several parts. “Edward and I sat outside by the fountain. He was drinking wine from a glass, talking with fervor about his latest venture. He was interested in railroads, if memory serves. The goblet fell from his fingers, catching on the edge of the brick and shattering into a thousand pieces. He brushed a shard from his pants, slicing the side of his hand. The cut was deep. Blood poured from the open wou
nd onto my dress. The smell of it was too much for me. Before I knew what was happening, Edward lay in my lap, all the blood drained from his body.”
Hawthorne squirmed on the bed but didn’t release my hand. I took a ragged breath and continued. “A spark crackled in the night. The smoke cleared, and a woman stood before us. She had tears in her eyes, and a sneer on her lips. She was a witch, a witch and a mother. I didn’t even know witches were real. I’d only recently come to terms with what I was. Never did I think there were other preternatural beings on earth. You can guess what happened next, but I’ll tell you, anyway. She threw out her hands, foreign words spewing from her mouth. Before I ran or screamed for help, she had me wrapped tight in some magical binding. I couldn’t move, fight as I did with all my might. With a flick of her wrist she suspended me in the air, light as bright as the sun surrounding us. She cursed me, took her son from where he lay crumpled in the dirt, and disappeared.”
“Oh, Annabelle.” Hawthorne brought my hand up to his lips, placing another kiss on the tender palm. A thrill swept through me at his gesture. His compassion awed me, when I had been the one to do wrong.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Hawthorne. I’m a monster. This fate is no more than I deserve.”
“You’re not a monster. You’re a victim as much as Edward was.”
“I doubt he would agree with you.” Even though I had suffered it was hard for me to see myself as a victim. Yes, I was dying of thirst, wasting away bit by bit, but I had taken the life of not one, but two innocent souls.
“She left you an out, a way to end the curse?” Hawthorne looked down at me, his gaze steady on mine.
“She did. It seemed cruel. I imagined no one would come along who would break it.” Why would anyone make such a sacrifice for me?