Darlings of Darkness: A Vampire Anthology Part 179

"Is it done?"

"Yeah, he's gone. Burned in his bed."

"Poor soul," was the dry reply. "And you? Is it better?"

"I feel... numb. But glad, too. Glad it was me. I'll feel better as soon as it sinks in." I hoped.

"I wish I'd been there. To see it."

"Well, it's done now. Back to normal." Until the next job. But I couldn't think about that. Not yet.

"Why don't you come over? I'll make you tea."

I thought about it. After killing something in cold blood, I needed a bit of normality, a bit of humanity. "Tea sounds good actually," I said. "I'll be there."

I hung up and left to have tea with my grandmother as any human might do, but my smile was grim. I had no idea what the next day would bring-but at least I was alive.

Thanks for reading. If you're interested in reading more about Ava, feel free to check out the rest of the series: Taunt (Ava Delaney #2) Tempt (Ava Delaney #3) Taken (Ava Delaney #4) Taste (Ava Delaney #5) Traitor (Ava Delaney #6) For more on the author: Blog Twitter Facebook Newsletter This is dedicated to my boys, Devan and Cameron, for being the suns.h.i.+ne that lights my world.

And also to my wonderful husband, for bending instead of breaking when I needed you most.

Chapter One.

"Your mother is still alive."

He was joking. It had to be a joke. My mother had been dead for fourteen years. She had died when I was just a little girl. It was impossible. However, Dr. Chester Fleming was not the kind of person to make up such a lie. He was a stoic, grey-haired country doctor who had seen the worst things that life and death had to offer in a backwoods town like Nashville, Indiana.

"Dr. Fleming, that can't be right." My voice sounded strangely hollow, like the voice of a timid stranger. I am anything but timid. Those who know me well have described me as courageous. Those who do not know me well and have witnessed one of my notorious outbursts of temper might say I'm a little off my rocker. At that moment, however, I felt as if I'd entered an alternate reality; some foreign landscape in which I was transformed into a mere shadow of the strong, determined woman I had become.

With those five little words, the doctor had ripped away a portion of the wall I had been building around myself since my father died. Part of that wall had been pushed into place with bitter tears and with the firm knowledge that my mother had died.

The doctor looked up at me and shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Sarah. Your father told me just a few minutes before he pa.s.sed, and I had to get more information before I came to you with this. I wanted to be able to give you an address and her full name." He hesitated at that part, slid his gla.s.ses into the front pocket of his white s.h.i.+rt and shook his head again. "She's been harder to track down than I first thought."

"Track down?" I couldn't seem to catch up. She was alive and in hiding? Was she some kind of criminal? What the h.e.l.l was going on?

"She's been in California for the last six years or so. She spent some time in Florida when she first left you all."

"Why?" I shook my head and stared at him, waiting for a rational explanation. "Why would she leave? How could she do that?"

A bitter lump had begun to form inside my chest and I pressed one hand against it, feeling the rapid beat of my heart underneath my cotton blouse. No, no. That could not be right. She was dead. If what the doctor was saying were true, then that would mean she had left on purpose all those years ago. That would mean she left to find something better. That meant that the two beautiful little girls she had given birth to had not meant anything to her. Nor the husband who had provided her with every comfort.

"Your father wanted to tell you everything himself, but he didn't want his last days with you to be ruined by buried secrets. He told me to give you this." He held out a small book, bound by fine brown leather and wrapped with a black cord of rawhide.

I did not take it. After a long silence, he put the book on the table next to me and rose from his seat.

"I'm real sorry, Sarah."

I heard the front screen door open and close again with a squeak and then his footsteps treading across the front porch and down the stairs. The engine of his battered Pontiac roared to life. I concentrated on the steady ticking of my father's old wind-up clock that sat on the stone mantle of the fireplace. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

A resounding crash and the splintering of gla.s.s from the kitchen startled me, pulling me back to the present with a wrenching clarity. I heard Nelly's quiet curse of frustration and then, "Sarah! I need a little help here."

I reluctantly picked up the journal and headed into the kitchen, where I found a large gla.s.s pitcher had shattered on the floor. When I went into the pantry to get the broom and dustpan, I shoved the journal into the big pocket inside my denim jacket hanging on a peg outside the pantry door.

I would try to read some of it later, I told myself. Nevertheless, I was supposed to be running a business and there was no time to be sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Or feeling abandoned by a mother, or betrayed by a father's lies. The tears might come later. However, there was too much to do at the moment. With an enormous force of will, I held my head up and pushed my shoulders back. The journal could wait.

It was growing very late. Normally, I would lock the doors, turn out the lights, and head up to bed by eleven at night. However, our only guests, a New York couple by the name of Greg and Maggie Purser had invited over a few acquaintances for dinner. They had all lingered after dessert, the men smoking cigars on the front porch and the women gossiping over coffee. I reluctantly tackled folding the towels to wait them out. Nelly had offered to stay up and help, but I insisted she head up to bed.

Nelly had worked for our family for nearly twenty years. Although technically not related by blood, Katie and I had always considered her an aunt who deserved the same warmth and consideration as a member of the family. She was a cheerful and pleasant woman; rather thick about the waist but with a pair of merry blue eyes that never failed to charm the most morose of the Inn's guests. She was a welcome companion in the kitchen, could bake the most wonderful pies, and her quiches were to die for.

Nelly was the one who had brought up my younger sister, Katie, and me. When I fell off the back of our old horse, she was there with a comforting smile, a hug, and a rag to clean the mud off my arms and hands. She was there at night to read to us from our favorite books and press goodnight kisses on our weary young brows.

Even at five years old, she had me eagerly fetching things for Dad, digging up potatoes from our garden, or snapping peas. As we grew older and bigger, she taught us both the more difficult ch.o.r.es we would be expected to do around the inn. She was patient and kind throughout our lessons and was the glue that held our routine together. It only took a meaningful glance at one of us and a jerk of her head toward the dining room to remind us we had guests who needed tending. This was often effective when Katie and I were fussing at each other.

I heard an odd noise from the back of the house and a mild expletive. That was the voice of Joe Trotter, the long-time handyman at the Inn. He had worked for our family for generations. I often wondered how such a cranky, grizzled old man could still do such backbreaking manual labor after all those years. Though I was known to have a terrible temper, my childhood fear of "Crazy Joe" was still fresh in my mind. That helped me keep my claws sheathed anytime Joe was nearby. Joe had a history of berating anyone he considered "fool-hardy" with a barrage of colorful insults that was sure to offend just about anyone.

"Sarah, I need some help!" He called from the back porch, pulling me away from my memories.

I hurried to the screen door and found Joe holding a b.l.o.o.d.y rag to the head of a stranger who was lying still just outside the door. It was a young man with beautiful golden hair and a chalky white skin tone. He wore a brown short-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt, pair of faded, dirty blue jeans with a hole in one knee and a pair of scuffed leather work boots. His eyes were closed and his lashes swept low over his high cheekbones.

"What happened?" I knelt beside Joe and took the rag from him to examine the wound.

"I'm not sure. Found him by the road a few minutes ago when I was headed home. I hauled him up here in the back of my Dodge." Joe shot a thick dark wad of tobacco juice over the railing of the porch. I chose to ignore the rude gesture, and the old man took out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "He ain't said a word yet."

"His head doesn't look that bad, but we'd better call Dr. Fleming and have him come take a look." I said. I covered the shallow scalp cut again with the rag and looked down at the stranger. "First help me bring him in, Joe. We'll put him in the den for now."

Between the two of us, we managed to get him into the house, though I struggled mightily with my half of the load. After helping Joe get him onto the den sofa, I woke Nelly and explained the situation. Before long the older woman was out of bed, wrapped in a faded red robe and taking control, dealing out quick orders for both Joe and I.

We tended to the stranger's wound as best we could and waited for Dr. Fleming. Nelly agreed that the cut did not look serious and headed into the kitchen to get clean bandages and antiseptic. I sat on the edge of the sofa, studying the young man, who was still inert and unresponsive.

Golden locks of hair fell across his forehead. His face was pleasant, but uncommonly pale. The bone structure was nearly perfect in its symmetry, but the three-day's worth of beard proclaimed his male essence clearly. His body was muscular and I imagined him to be somewhere around twenty years old. I noticed that he seemed unusually thin. I called out to Nelly, asking her to heat up some broth for him. I hoped he would awaken and be able to eat something.

When I leaned forward to check his wound again, my arm brushed against his bare forearm and I paused as some strange fog descended over me. A heavy crus.h.i.+ng weight seemed to be pulling me down, dragging me suddenly to a bone-chilling halt. The room seemed to be growing darker. My chest tightened, and hazy haunting images rose up before me. These figures were in pain, a collection of tortured, hopeless souls. The fright sparked by these ent.i.ties was something new to me and I cringed back in horror.

They were calling me in hopeless, dreary tones. Calling my name and pointing at some distant scene that was somehow familiar to me, even through the panic and fear almost consumed me from within my own heart. The moaning echoed around me, pinning me down, and holding me fast while my eyes desperately sought out some escape.

Then I saw it. A field of green, one lone oak tree, several huge boulders, and a fast-moving stream of clear water became solid in the vision. I focused on it, trying to push my fears behind me as the field became clear. I knew every little facet of the meadow. I knew that Canadian geese liked to congregate at the edge of the stream in the early fall. I knew the leaves of that tree turned an incredible shade of gold in late September. I knew the three huge boulders had strange symbols on them that could only be seen from the top of each one. I knew this place well.

It was the north meadow and had been my favorite place when I was a child. Situated about a half mile from the main guesthouse of the inn, it totaled about seven acres. It had been a wonderful place for me as a child. I had climbed that tree. I had waded in that stream and struggled to the top of each of those strange rocks. I had puzzled over the meaning of the symbols engraved on them. I had curled up under that tree to read my favorite books and play with my doll.

When the vision finally released me, I found myself on the floor in the den. A pair of startling green eyes was staring down into my face and a set of manly fingers was cupping my chin. The warmth of that contact was disconcerting, sending waves of pulsing heat through my face, neck, and arms. I flushed and forced my eyes away from him.

"Are you alright?" He asked, as if he were unaware of the effect he was having on me.

"I'm..." Sitting up made me dizzy and unable to finish my sentence, but I had to move. I struggled to get back my equilibrium and groaned when Nelly came rus.h.i.+ng in, fussing about me being on the floor and the young man being up at all.

"What in the world happened? Get yourself back onto that sofa, young man! What are you thinking?"

I rose unsteadily and held onto the edge of the square oak coffee table in front of me. The stranger had retreated, climbing back onto the sofa with a hand pressed to his head wound.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "I'm Alex, by the way."

"Alex, it's nice to meet you." My head had started to clear and I tried to busy myself with straightening the blankets covering him. "I'm Sarah."

Nelly shook her head and checked Alex's head to see if it had started to bleed again. Satisfied, she tucked the covers up around his shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her. "Young man, if you get up off that sofa again before Dr. Fleming gets here, I'll take a switch to you. Head injuries can be very serious."

I stifled a little giggle. Nelly wouldn't know a switch from a pool cue. Her sole source of disciplinary action had been to smack our hands, and that was only done when the offense was an extreme one.

"You understand me? Is your hearing alright?" Nelly demanded.

"Yes, ma'am." Alex said.

Nelly shook her head again and motioned me out of the room before her with a waving hand, "Come on now, missy. To bed with you, too. It's late."

"But Dr. Fleming will be here soon." I protested, feeling like a child.

"And he certainly won't want you wearing yourself out. So go to bed and you can talk to our guest in the morning." she said, guiding me up the stairs and down the hall to my room. "I'll make sure that the Pursers get settled in for the night and lock everything up."

She hesitated at my bedroom door and gave me a curious look, "What happened in there?"

"I'm not sure."

She followed me into my room and sat down at my dressing table as I rummaged around for a pair of pajamas in my oak dresser. I did not want to remember the vision. It wasn't just scary. It was terrifying. Were those ghosts I had seen? Why had I seen such an awful thing? I could not keep their cries from coming back to me, echoing through my head, making my heart race.

I looked in the polished mirror over the dresser at my reflection. There was some indefinable difference there somewhere. My eyes were usually a pale blue shade, but as I looked at myself at that moment they were bright with fear and confusion.

I had been lucky enough to be blessed with long dark eyelashes and somewhat decent eyebrows that matched my light brown hair. My hair fell to the middle of my back when I left it down, which wasn't often because the weight of it was always ridiculously hot on my neck when I was cleaning or doing laundry. I wondered what Alex had thought of me, this strange young woman collapsing in front of him. I probably looked like an idiot.

"You going to be okay?" Nelly asked, her kind eyes watching me with concern.

My hands trembled slightly as I said, "When Dr. Fleming was here earlier he told me something surprising."

"What was that?" Nelly asked.

I noticed the tiny flinch of surprise in her reflection in the mirror as she spoke. My breath caught painfully in my throat as I realized that she might have known about my mother all this time. All those long years she knew my mother was alive?

Above nearly everyone else in my life, I trusted Nelly. Desperate to maintain control of the emotional riptide pouring through me, I shrugged and pulled out a pair of soft cotton pajamas with little moons and stars printed on them. "He left me a journal. I haven't read any of it yet."

After a few quiet moments, she came and pressed a gentle kiss on my cheek. I barely noticed the fact that her fingers were trembling too as she went to the door with a frown on her face. "You get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."

"Okay, Nelly. Goodnight." She closed the door behind her. My mind raced back to the conversation with Dr. Fleming and the pressure in the center of me grew denser. My throat ached as I remembered my mother. I did not understand how a person could leave her children of her own free will. A Mom was supposed to stick by her kids no matter what happened. For fourteen years, I had believed she had been parted from me by death. Now I knew it was something far worse. She had chosen to leave Dad and us girls. She abandoned us.

Something broke inside me. It felt like a huge chasm had opened up and I was drowning in darkness. My father had pa.s.sed away only a few months after he told Katie and I he had cancer. I remembered every inflection in his rapid speech and every nervous hand gesture as if it had happened only a few moments ago. The fear etched on his face on that bleak gray morning in late August was not the fear of a man facing death. It was a combination of humiliation and terror that was directly connected to how my sister and I would handle the news.

It was a completely natural instinct that drove Katie to overlook our father's rather late notice of his coming death, providing a wealth of comfort and kind words to counter the guilt that seeped out of him.

As for myself, I had taken the news as a kind of betrayal. With Katie's education already well on its way to bringing her the career of her dreams, I had remained at the Inn without a choice for a different vocation. He had always expected me to follow behind him, to continue to run things. He never ventured to ask if there might be something else I would like to do with my life.

When the three of us met with his oncologist to get a more complete view of his prognosis, I did not shed a tear. I asked all the right questions and wrote down the answers meticulously in a little black notebook I had bought for just that occasion. While Dad and Katie held hands and cried bitter, useless tears, I grilled the doctor about chemotherapy, radiation treatments, and any tiny detail that would help Dad.

My sister had commented later that I was strangely aloof about the whole situation, to which I replied, "I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve for the world to see like you do, Katie. So sue me."

Two months later Dad died in a hospice facility on the north side of Indianapolis.

Standing in my room three short months after his death, I finally let go. Tears slid down my cheeks as I recalled his last breath. The sobs did not fully erupt until after I had settled down in my bed with my head on my pillow. I tried to keep the sobs m.u.f.fled so Nelly would not hear and come to check on me. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. I felt like I had been broken into a dozen pieces. And I did not know how to put myself back together.

Chapter Two.

Sleep did not come easily that night. The aching pressure in my chest lightened only slightly after all the crying. I kept thinking about my father and wondered if things might have been different had he opted for the chemo the doctors had recommended. I also thought about Nelly and wondered if she could have deceived me for all those years. Had they both known my mother was alive and never told me? I felt so betrayed. I tossed around for an hour or so before finally nodding off. Once, I thought I heard Dr. Fleming's familiar voice in the hall, but I did not want to leave my room and have everyone see the condition I was in.

When my alarm went off at six, the sun was still two hours from coming up and I had only logged two hours of sleep. However, I had to check on Alex, get the coffee started, and head up to the large guest cabin to prepare it for a family group coming in the afternoon.

I checked my cell phone and found a text message from my sister.

Dr. Fleming called.

What the h.e.l.l is going on?

Call me ASAP.

How much had he told her? Did she know about Mom being alive? I dialed Katie's number.

"You must have got my text." She answered groggily.

"Yeah. How're your cla.s.ses going?" I tried to sound nonchalant but knew it was not going to work. Katie knew me better than anybody did. Even though she had been taking cla.s.ses at Purdue University for two years, we still kept in daily contact by text, phone, and e-mail. She had started coming home more often on the weekends after Dad's death. She always knew when something was wrong with me.

"Screw my cla.s.ses! What the h.e.l.l is going on, Sarah? Dr. Fleming called yesterday and said Dad had left you a journal." Her impatience was volatile. I could hear the frustration in her every word.

"Yes. Did he say anything else?"

"Only that there were things you and I needed to talk about that have to do with our mother."