Page 11

Chapter Nine

I never expected I’d be brought back to the Devine Country Estate, but here I am watching the sprawling stone walls covered in ivy through the car window.

Night has fallen over the manicured gardens now dormant in winter’s tight grip.

It snowed at some point when I was underground.

It makes everything white and peaceful, very unlike my turbulent soul.

Behind us, I hear the familiar groan of the heavy wrought-iron gates closing.

They have kept the mundane world at bay for generations.

I’ve taken this drive so many times I can’t remember each trip.

I do, however, remember feeling like a prisoner returning to my cell.

Sorry, “protected wing” of the house.

I can’t complain, though.

Things could have ended up much worse.

This is not the prison I thought Zephronis would choose for me.

Honestly, I’m still confused by how this happened.

When my father suggested it, they’d said no.

I’m sure I have a sarcastic thought about misogyny or patriarchy or something profound, but I’m woozy from Astrid’s constant injections.

They’re keeping me calm for the trip.

Otherwise, I might have tried jumping out the car window to run in the moonlight.

I don’t protest as I feel another jab in my thigh.

Three days have passed since the council meeting.

Three days of being shuttled from Costin’s underground fortress to the council’s holding cell to this gilded cage under Zephronis’ watchful eye.

The old wizard simply appeared in the cell, took one look at the arguing factions trying to get in to see me, and declared, “She goes to the Devine Estate. I will oversee her myself.”

No one dared object, not Sully with his pack ambitions, not Vasilisa with her clinical curiosity, not even Elizabeth with her venomous schemes.

Zephronis is too ancient and powerful to be challenged directly.

Even now, I can feel his magic saturating the estate, reinforcing the spells that have protected it for centuries.

Whatever his reasons for choosing this place, they’re his own.

The only explanation he offered was, “Their arguing does my head in.”

The car slows.

I can’t see the driver through the dark window separating us.

My father and Mortimer stayed behind.

They barely spoke to me when they came to visit me in my cell.

My father looked ashamed, like he was embarrassed I’d done this to him.

My head wobbles as I turn to look at Astrid.

“Costin?”

“You don’t remember? He’ll be here. He’s overseeing your blood supply,” Astrid answers.

I nod.

My head bounces against the seat as I stare at her beautiful face.

“You’re so pretty.”

Astrid smirks.

“I see the potion is working.”

“You’re better than him,” I persist, knowing I should shut up but not caring.

I feel the need to say it, and the words tumble out.

“You shouldn’t put up with his infidelities.”

“He’s my husband,” Astrid says.

“Your father. Choices were made that can’t be undone.”

“It’s not the 1500s. You can divorce him. Take half of everything. He’d be too scared to deny you.”

“You know better. This is the supernatural world. It is very much still the 1500s.” Astrid pats my cheek.

“Don’t dwell on things that cannot be changed. Life has put enough before us.”

“He hates me now. I see it on his face,” I mutter.

“No, he hates anything that ruins his plans,” she corrects.

It’s a small difference, and it doesn’t make me feel better.

“You should at least take a lover.” I chuckle and turn back to the window as we stop in the front drive.

“Or twelve. No one would blame you.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

I whip my head back in surprise.

She schools her expression.

“We need to get you inside before the sun comes out. There is no way to know how the light will affect your vampire blood. You’ll be safe inside as long as the windows are closed. The glass is coated to be vampire-safe, well safe-ish, but you don’t want to be in front of it too long. Daylight is daylight, and it can still harm vampires through the glass, as well as drain energy faster than normal. We’ll see about getting you a suite built underground.”

The car door opens, and I’m ushered inside beneath a cloak.

The potion keeps me weak, and the driver helps me walk.

They lead me to my bedroom in the protected wing.

The curtains are drawn, casting it into shadow.

I can still see perfectly, though, in the dark.

He releases me so I drop on the bed, and I stare unmoving at the same ceiling I contemplated as a mortal.

There’s comfort in familiarity, but the feeling doesn’t last.

It never does.

Yet for a few minutes lying here in the quiet, I can almost trick myself into feeling safe.

Like I never left.

Like everything’s simple.

I remember spending hours wondering if I’d ever fit into this supernatural world.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

Now I’m too supernatural to fit anywhere.

It seems I’m always marking the passing of time, moving from one cage to another.

Is this what my life has become?

An eternity of new prison cells?

It’s fitting I’m here, in my childhood home, confronted by the memories of my mortal life.

Never in all my years did I guess this would be my fate.

My bedroom feels like a time capsule, stuck between childhood and adulthood.

I guess I am too, in some ways.

This place never quite figured out what it was supposed to be.

Kind of like me.

I’m hit with the old scent of lavender and wood soap.

There is a distinct mustiness that develops when windows are kept shut for too long.

I used to throw them open just to feel the breeze on my face, desperate for some connection to the outside world.

Now they stay locked closed, heavy curtains pulled tight, as if the room itself wants to block out reality.

I find a tiny glow-in-the-dark star that I had slapped on the wall when I was eight.

I had stubbornly refused to take them down even after Conrad teased me about them.

All but that one have fallen, leaving behind little flecks of glue.

Astrid has always kept pristine homes.

She likes control, and I imagine it gives her some happiness to keep things familiar and perfect.

My bed smells faintly of cedar from the storage chest where they keep my bedding.

When I sleep, I find myself pulling the covers up to my chin like I did as a kid.

I’m too old to hide from monsters with a blanket, but the habit sticks.

Though, to be honest, even as a kid I knew blankets did not ward off evil intent.

If a monster made it into the protected wing, I wasn’t going to be able to stop it.

Now I am the monster.

The small bookshelf is overflowing with old books.

These human fairy tales were not kept in the library with the literature on real magic.

Human children weren’t allowed to read the real stuff.

The mirror over the dresser is slightly crooked.

I keep meaning to have it fixed, but somehow never do.

Seeing my reflection off-kilter feels right.

I glance at myself now, hair a tangled mess and eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize the woman looking back at me.

When I peek outside, the early morning light filters through the frost-covered windows.

I put my hand in the light, holding it to see what happens.

At first, I’m fine, but after a minute, my skin starts to itch and turn red.

After three minutes, it burns, and I can no longer bear the pain.

I do it multiple times, just to watch my skin heal itself.

Unlike the werewolves, who enjoy basking in sunlight, vampires are forced to retreat from the day.

It seems in this instance, I’m more vampire than wolf.

Another fundamental difference between the two sides of my nature.

Costin visits daily, bringing blood and staying for hours at a time.

More often than not, we end up in bed.

Sex is easier than talking.

I’m not sure we have much to say to each other.

He’s still my sire, and I’m still a messed-up headcase.

Astrid remains at the estate, brewing potions that help keep the warring natures inside me in a tentative truce.

My father and Mortimer make appearances, though they always seem to be rushing off to “handle” some aspect of the fallout from my transformation.

I see the blame in their faces.

Mortimer mutters accusing things like, “If only you had married Chester like we planned…”

As if being the wife of smarmy Chester Freemont would have been a better fate.

The guy tried to sacrifice me on an altar to help Elizabeth steal all the magic in the world.

Seriously?

That is who Mortimer wants in the family?

Anthony comes with them.

He wants to stay, but my father keeps dragging him away.

It’s like he’s worried my monster-ness will rub off on the family golden boy.

Or that I’ll eat him.

I’d rather they keep him away.

I don’t want to hurt Anthony.

A knock at the door interrupts my brooding.

Astrid enters without waiting for a response, carrying a tray with a steaming mug and a small glass vial.

“Breakfast,” she says, setting the tray on my bedside table.

“Both kinds.”

I don’t need to ask what she means.

The mug contains a thick, red liquid that makes my fangs ache, and the vial holds today’s dose of her suppression potion.

I’ve come to think of the combination as my new balanced diet.

Astrid must love this.

She always tried to control my diet as a child.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie, even as my stomach clenches with need.

Astrid fixes me with her ice-blue stare.

“Tamara, we’ve been through this. You need to maintain your strength for your visitor.”

Right.

Visitor.

The first potential breakthrough in this whole mess that is my life.

“Is she here yet?” I ask, sitting up and reaching for the mug, no longer pretending I don’t want it.

“Downstairs. Zephronis is...” Astrid gives a small wave of her hand, “prepping her. They’ll be done soon. You should go meet them.”

I frown at the idea of my mortal, bohemian birth mother being interrogated by the ancient wizard.

Part of me wishes Astrid had never told me about the woman.

I lived nearly twenty-eight years not knowing I had a human birth mother.

Then Lorelai would be safe in California, and I’d be blissfully ignorant.

“She’s been calling daily since your transformation.” Astrid’s voice is carefully neutral.

“Lorelai may have given you up as a baby, but she never stopped being your mother.”

The statement hangs between us, loaded with unspoken complications.

Astrid raised me, but Lorelai birthed me.

Both women have a claim to the title of “mother,” and neither seems entirely comfortable with the arrangement that there are two of them.

“What about Paul and Diana?” I ask.

“Did you ask Zephronis? Can I see them?”

“Drink,” Astrid orders, as if holding the answer hostage.

I down the blood in three long gulps, feeling the immediate rush as it hits my system.

The suppression potion follows, bitter and burning all the way down.

The combination makes me light-headed for a moment, before settling into a strange clarity.

“Better?” Astrid asks, watching me closely.

“Clearer,” I admit.

But not better.

Never better.

I glance toward the window and flex my hand.

All it would take is a three-minute walk in the sun.

She sighs, collecting the empty containers.

“Zephronis believes Lorelai may have insights about the goblin attacks from your infancy that could help understand why they’re targeting you now. Costin told us what Conrad said, but it doesn’t make sense that Leviathan would use them to attack you as a baby. Necromancers are lesser magics. They have their place, and it’s not at the top of any hierarchy. Leviathan knows that. Conrad, however, is a known troublemaker. He can’t be trusted.”

“I already know why they targeted me as a baby,” I say, standing and moving to my closet.

“Lorelai told me. They were trying to steal my breath as some kind of test or something.”

“They tried to kill you,” Astrid corrects.

“Stealing breath was their means. But there may be more to it, especially now that you’re changed.” Astrid hesitates at the door.

“Costin will be here this evening. He wanted to be present for this, but council business required his attention.”

I nod, pretending I don’t feel the pang of disappointment.

The sire bond makes his absence physically uncomfortable, like an internal itch I can’t scratch.

Even with the suppression potion, I’m constantly aware of our connection, the invisible tether that pulls me toward him.

I could find him anywhere in the world without being told where to look.

“Vampire or not, you’re lucky to have him, Tamara,” Astrid says.

“Not every man would be willing to go up against the elders for you. Especially not an elder from your vampire line. Vasilisa is not pleased with his refusal to turn you over to her, but Costin does have rights as your sire. Vasilisa doesn’t usually leave her home. For her to be in the United States means you’ve piqued her interest.”

That’s high praise coming from Astrid.

Also, it’s somewhat terrifying to think that Vasilisa wants me as some kind of new pet.

What’s that saying?

I’m not going to borrow trouble.

I’ll deal with that if it happens.

There is too much else needing my attention.

“Wait. What about Paul and Diana?” I insist when she starts to pull the door shut.

“We had to move them before we brought you here. It’s best if you don’t know how to find them. I sent them away with most of the servants. You’re dangerous enough without tempting you with snacks,” she says.

“But yes, we’re bringing them back if they agree to come.”

She doesn’t like the idea, but Draakmar’s amulet protects Diana.

She’ll be safe around me.

As long as Paul is with her, she can keep him safe.

My future is uncertain.

I don’t know what is coming, but I want a chance to say goodbye to them.

And I’m sorry.

“I’ll be down in ten minutes,” I tell her.

After Astrid leaves, I pull out a sweater and jeans from the closet.

No point dressing up for this reunion.

Lorelai has seen me at my worst already.

No amount of glamor and lip gloss will cover the monster.

I dress quickly and move to the mirror.

The reflection that stares back is both familiar and foreign, like an AI filter gone wrong.

It’s my face, but with subtle changes.

My eyes seem more intense, my cheekbones sharper from the weight loss.

My skin has an almost luminous quality.

I look predatory.

Even at rest, there’s something lurking beneath the surface, waiting to emerge.

I turn away from the mirror and head downstairs.

The wooden floor creaks under my feet.

I don’t remember the sound being so loud.

Or maybe the house is too quiet.

The protected wing feels abandoned, even though I know it’s warded with spells for my safety.

The pulled curtains block the sun, but through the hall lights, I see dust motes dancing in the air.

I glance toward Conrad’s old room.

My memory stirs with an image of him sneaking toward his bedroom with a stolen book from the family library tucked under his arm.

It hasn’t even been a year since his death, but so much has changed that it feels like an eternity since I thought of him as an ally.

I worry that Conrad’s ghost will appear, summoned from my thoughts, so instead I focus on the runner under my feet.

The rug is ancient, but it doesn’t show the faded tracks of everyone who walked over it.

I breathe deeply, steeling myself, before heading toward the main staircase, following the scent of coffee and incense.

The smell brings back memories of my first meeting with Lorelai, when I discovered her living in California.

My senses are on high alert.

Everything is vivid and in sharp focus.

The foyer sprawls below me, and the chandelier catches a thread of light, throwing fractured rainbows onto the polished marble floor.

The stairs themselves curve elegantly, like a dramatic stage entrance.

I grip the railing, feeling the smooth, cold wood under my palm.

I’ve taken these stairs a thousand times, tens of thousands , but something about them today feels different.

The house seems to be holding its breath.

Which is nonsense because houses don’t breathe.

My skin prickles, the nerves raw and electric.

Everything feels like a warning.

Instinct tells me to retreat underground, to escape the sun.

I look toward the front doors.

What would happen if I ran out into the sunlight?

“Don’t.” Costin’s voice whispers in my head.

I gasp, coming out of my deep focus to look for him.

He’s not there.

“Costin?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, and I’m unsure whether he actually spoke to me or if I just imagined it.

“They can’t help you. No one can help you,” Conrad’s voice taunts.

It’s followed by the sound of children laughing and the hammering of running footsteps.

Again, I don’t know if it’s real.

I force myself to keep moving.

I follow the smell of essential oils that I associate with my birth mother.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn left, moving through the main corridor.

It’s broader here.

The ceilings are arched and painted with elaborate frescoes depicting ancient family triumphs.

A line of marble figures frozen in stern contemplation stands guard along the wall.

I feel as if their heads move to follow me.

My footsteps echo too loudly, despite the thick rugs laid down at intervals.

No, not my footsteps.

That’s a heartbeat.

Ahead, the conservatory doors loom.

The ornate wrought iron is set within glass panels.

Morning light filters through the intricate patterns, spilling a lattice of shadows onto the stone floor.

I hesitate, one hand reaching for the iron handle.

Through the glass, I see the lush, almost chaotic greenery within.

Palm fronds brushing against tall windows, tendrils of ivy spilling from hanging pots.

The air in there always feels thick with humidity and the earthy scent of soil.

Today, it looks scarier, like splashes of deadly light have taken root alongside the plants.

My fingers bounce on the metal handle, and it burns me.

I jerk my hand back.

Without me pushing them, the doors creak open to let me pass.

I immediately find Lorelai and Zephronis, sitting on a wicker chair surrounded by dormant plants.

I remain in the doorway.

Winter sunlight streams through the glass walls, casting long shadows across the tiled floor like the first warning shot from the heavens.

Zephronis stands nearby, examining a withered fern with apparent fascination.

He touches the leaf, and the plant instantly perks up.

Lorelai rises when she sees me, her long curly hair loose around her shoulders.

A bohemian skirt swirls around her ankles.

Her face is so similar to mine in structure but weathered by years of California sun.

Thanks to my predator eyes, I can now see the texture of it in more detail.

It’s her heart I’ve been listening to, thumping away like a dinner bell.

“Tamara,” she breathes, moving toward me with arms outstretched.

I step back instinctively deeper into the shadows, keeping out of the sunlight.

I hold up a hand.

“Don’t. I’m not stable.”

Her arms drop, but her expression doesn’t change.

“I don’t care. You’re my daughter. I’m not scared of you.”

“I’m dangerous,” I insist.

“I killed goblins with my bare hands. I attacked Costin. I’m not safe.”

“All the more reason you need a mother’s care,” she says, stubbornly stepping forward again.

Before I can retreat further, Zephronis speaks.

“You will not harm her, Tamara. The potions are working, and my presence adds an extra safeguard.”

I hesitate, torn between hunger for comfort and fear of myself.

Lorelai doesn’t wait for me to decide.

She closes the distance between us and wraps her arms around me.

The hug is warm.

Solid.

Real.

For a moment, I’m transported back to the first time I can remember her holding me.

It was only a few months ago, but I was human then.

I feel the monster inside me quiet at the comfort, just a little.

When we pull apart, I see tears in her eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, touching my face.

“My beautiful girl.”

I laugh without humor.

I’m a monster.

A hybrid freak that shouldn’t exist.

Her smile seems a little too plastered on.

A tiny tremor works over her hands.

She’s trying.

Hard.

But I know she sees the changes in me, and they’re not beautiful.

I again focus on her heart thumping faster now.

“Let’s move to another room,” Zephronis says, placing a guiding hand on Lorelai’s back to usher her away from me.

“Tamara will be more comfortable away from the sun.”

He leads us past a series of closed wooden doors before waving his hand to open the library.

There is comfort in the scent of old leather and parchment.

Dark wood gives the space a somber, almost oppressive feel, but there’s consolation in the familiarity.

I spent endless hours here as a child, but it feels different now.

I’m different.

The floor-to-ceiling shelves are filled with ancient tomes and family records.

As a child I was told I wasn’t allowed to touch them or bad things would happen, as if their magical secrets would poison my human mind.

That never stopped Conrad.

My eyes land on the old leather armchair by the fireplace, and a knot forms in my stomach.

I can still see Conrad sprawled in that chair, a spell book braced on his stomach, his limbs draped lazily over the sides as if he owned the place.

I’d usually find him there whenever I managed to sneak away from my tutors, his nose buried in some ancient text, trying to learn the secrets that the adults wouldn’t teach us.

He used to tap the book absently with his thumb while muttering about the unfairness of being born mortal.

Even now I hear his voice.

“They should be teaching us what they’re teaching him,” he once grumbled, glancing at Anthony’s empty seat.

“ This is our world, too. It’s like they want us to be helpless.”

I hadn’t known how to answer him back then, so I just shrugged and listened, not sure how to make him feel better.

Part of me wanted to argue that we couldn’t change what we were, but I knew that would only make him mad.

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to sit in the chair myself.

The memory feels too raw, too close to the surface.

I still remember his voice, low and determined.

“I’m never going to be helpless again. No one is going to hurt me. You watch. I’m going to do what I want when I want.”

He had said it so many times I should have believed him.

Little did I know…

“Tamara?” Lorelai asks, shaking me from the memory.

She appears worried, and I realize I’m frowning.

I glance back at the chair, half expecting to see my brother there, looking up with that defiant spark in his eyes.

It’s strange how a place can feel haunted even when there’s no ghost.

At least, I hope there are no ghosts.

“I need a moment.” With a deep breath, I force myself to cross the room, tracing my fingers over the shelf in front of the forbidden books.

Conrad had been relentless in his quest to understand magic, memorizing languages and glyphs.

I should’ve been there, learning beside him, but I was too busy trying to be normal, to fit into a life that was never really mine.

Those lessons would have come in handy now.

I try not to hear Lorelai’s heart beating.

I pull a dusty volume from the shelf and let it fall open in my hands.

I trace the faded ink with my finger.

The words swim on the page, jumbled and indecipherable.

I’ll have to bleed onto the page to unlock it.

“Tell me about that night,” I say, not turning away from the shelf as I put the book back in its place.

“Everything you remember about the goblins.”

Astrid seems to think it might help us understand why they’re coming after me now.

Lorelai’s bangle bracelets jingle as she sits.

I glance back to see her fussing with her skirt.

“It’s like I told you. They came when you were in your crib to steal your breath.”

“Tamara, take a seat,” Zephronis urges.

“I need more details,” I insist.

“Why me specifically? Was it random, or was I targeted? And why did they run from a butterfly mobile? Did Leviathan send them? Who else attacked?”

Zephronis glides closer, his robes shimmering.

“Your mother has agreed to share her memories directly. It will be more comprehensive than verbal recounting. But I need you to sit.”

I give in and sit in the armchair.

It creaks under my weight.

I tighten my grip on the armrests, the leather cool under my palms.

I glance at Lorelai.

“You’ve agreed to this?”

She shrugs, the gesture so casual it seems out of place in this serious conversation.

“I’d do anything to help you, butterfly. Besides, I’ve done plenty of mind-melding in my day. This way is just more magical.”

Mind-melding?

Great.

My mother is an acid-tripping pothead.

I can’t say that I’m surprised.

I wonder if she’ll share.

I could use some forgetting.

“I will create a bridge between your memories,” Zephronis explains.

“You will experience your mother’s recollection as if you were there. It will be disorienting.”

I’ve been down this road before, reliving memories.

I can’t say I’m a fan of the process.

“Will it hurt her?” I ask.

“No,” Lorelai answers before Zephronis can.

“He’s already explained it all. It’s like a guided meditation, but with magic instead of visualization.”

I look between them, uncertain.

“And you really think this will help?”

“Your demands in the council chamber were clear. You want answers. This is how we get them,” he says.

“We need more proof before we accuse Leviathan of dark deeds.”

He means more proof than the word of an unstable hybrid monster who might be hallucinating.

I resist pointing out that necromancers probably only perform dark deeds.

I mean, angry spirits, zombies, controlling the dead?

These don’t sound like passive “nice” activities to me.

Come on.

He calls himself Leviathan after a primordial sea serpent.

His real name is probably Lester Wigglesworth or something.

What kind of person decides their immortal life path is playing with dead things?

“Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?” I grumble, only realizing I said it out loud after it’s out of my mouth.

“Fate is not a choice,” Zephronis says.

“It is a duty.”

I think the word he’s looking for is burden.

“The goblins’ fixation on you is not in itself unusual. They’re curious, mischievous creatures, but not stupid. They don’t go against their own self-preservation,” he continues.

“Their daring to enter a master vampire’s home to attack you after you have transformed is strange behavior. Understanding the original connection may reveal why their interest has intensified.”

I take a deep breath.

I’m tired of talking about it.

“Alright. Let’s do it.”

Zephronis moves to stand behind us, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on Lorelai’s.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs.

“And remember, Tamara, you are observing only. You cannot change what has already happened.”

As I close my eyes, I feel Lorelai reach for my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

There is a strange pulling sensation, as if I’m being tugged sideways through reality.

I open my eyes to peek, but I’m in darkness surrounded by the sound of soft breathing.