Hunting Memories

Chapter 5

Rose

Rose de Spenser had always been considered a strange child: big-eyed and serious and old beyond her years.

Perhaps it was because her mother died giving birth to her.

Perhaps it was because her great-great-great-grandfather had been French-and everyone knew the French were mad.

Perhaps it was because she stepped into the role of housekeeper for her father and brother by the time she was seven.

But whatever the reason, most people agreed that Rose was odd.

She was born in Loam Village, just south of Inverness, Scotland, in 1790, but were it not for the fact that Mary, Queen of Scots had become a young widow all the way back in 1560, it's quite possible Rose would have been born-with a different face-on French soil… or never been born at all.

Queen Mary had been living in France for most of her life when her husband, Francis, suddenly died, and having no more use for her, the French royals sent her back to Scotland in 1561, along with a large retinue of servants and stewards.

When Rose was a child, her brother, Gregor, had sometimes mused that their migrating ancestor had been one of the noble envoys accompanying the queen, but her father insisted this was not the case. Although little else was known about Alain de Spenser, he had been only a minor wardrobe steward in the queen's retinue. This was not important. What was important was that he'd remained in Scotland, married a local girl, and founded a line of de Spensers.

Having some access to Scottish land owners, Alain's eldest son made a name for himself in estate management-and he founded the family trade.

By the time Rose was born, her people had been living in Scotland for more than two hundred years, and yet she was still singled out for her French surname.

She grew up cooking and cleaning and sewing for her father and brother, knowing the only way she'd ever get rid of her surname was by marrying into another family, but this idea hardly appealed to her. She liked her home, she loved her father and Gregor, and most important, she was poignantly aware that marriage led to pregnancy and pregnancy often led to death.

But she was fascinated with the process by which people arrived into this world-another element her neighbors found odd. She could always be found snooping around when a village baby was about to be born.

Her father made certain that she and Gregor were well versed in their letters and numbers, but Rose showed little interest. She loved herbs and gardens and animals, and she always seemed to know when one of the local women was close to giving birth.

Then one day, when Rose was fourteen, their closest neighbor, Miriam Boyd, came pounding on the front door. She was pregnant and had gone into labor while her husband was away. Gregor ran for the midwife, while Rose took Miriam inside and put her in a bed.

Later, Rose considered this the most important day of her life because on this day, she finally caught Betty's attention.

Betty was at least sixty years old-ancient in their world-and had been delivering babies since she was seventeen. Rose longed for her notice. Shortly after Betty arrived at the house that day, she could see how capable Rose was and began giving her instructions.

Rose wiped Miriam's sweating face and held her hand when she screamed, and Betty allowed Rose to remain for the entire birth: a wriggling, blood-covered baby girl. Rose was in awe of Betty's power, of her knowledge, of her position among the people.

In addition, Rose's father was so relieved that the birth had gone safely-and Miriam hadn't died in his house-that he paid the birthing fee himself.

Betty was a woman earning her own living.

Rose followed her outside.

"You have the gift," Betty said.

"Teach me more."

And Betty did.

But things changed, as things must, and the following year, Rose's father developed a sharp pain in his right side one night, which grew agonizing in a matter of hours. Rose and Gregor did everything they could to try to help him, but he died two days later. This loss was hard, and the house fell quiet.

Gregor, who was five years older than Rose, took over his father's position, managing two separate estates. The nature of her brother's profession kept him away from home a great deal, but she managed his absences by continuing to increase her skill and knowledge as a midwife-and Betty grew a little weaker each year.

Then Gregor met a fresh-faced young woman called Briana, and the house magically came alive again. Briana was built like a small bird with a long, black mane. She laughed and smiled and sang. Rose welcomed Briana into their home when Gregor married her in 1806, and the couple was expecting a child soon after.

Rose was only seventeen when her nephew, Seamus de Spenser, came screaming out into the world, and she was the first person to touch him with her hands, to hold him and wash him, and to experience something besides the satisfaction of a safe delivery. She looked into his eyes and knew that he was her blood and kin.

Two years later, Seamus' sister, Kenna, arrived, and Rose delivered her as well. The house had become full… and happy once more.

One night, Betty died quietly in her sleep, leaving Rose to take her place.

Years passed.

Life fell into a comfortable routine of meals and work. Gregor still handled two large estates-but he somehow managed to be home more often-and Briana kept the house. Rose earned a reputation as the most skilled midwife between Inverness and Elgin. She even purchased a pony and cart so she could travel farther in her profession. It pained her whenever she lost a woman or a baby, but childbed was a dangerous place, and she did her best to save everyone she could.

Her record was even better than Betty's.

Besides daily work, the de Spensers also enjoyed each other's company and celebrated holidays together in grand fashion: Christmas, Easter, Imbolc, Beltane, Lammas, and Samhain.

Kenna was the small image of Briana in looks and manner, but Seamus had little in common with either of his parents. He showed no interest in his father's profession and spent a good deal of his time watching other men in the village train horses.

Then, one day, shortly after Seamus turned nine years old, he came running into the house, breathless with excitement, his shaggy brown hair in a tangled mess.

"Mother! Rose! Get Kenna and grab a few coins. A troupe of actors has arrived. All the way from London! They said they're going to do Desdemona's death scene in the market square. Hurry! They're setting up now."

Briana looked up from the dough she was kneading and laughed. "Calm yourself, boy. And what do you know of Desde mona's death scene? Those actors are not going anywhere soon." But then she seemed pleased at the idea of an afternoon's entertainment. "Rose?" she asked. "Shall we take the children?"

The mood was infectious, and Rose bundled up Kenna while Briana washed her hands, and they all trekked off into the village.

"Oh, look," Rose said, pointing at the brightly painted wagon and makeshift stage. Seamus ran ahead, pushing into a place out front, and not to be outdone by her brother, Kenna let go of her mother's hand and ran after him.

"Mind your manners!" Briana called. "Don't be pushin' folks."

Rose had a difficult time bringing herself to discipline Seamus. She loved him so much and he was just… high-spirited.

"Briana! Rose!" Miriam Boyd called to them. "Come and find a place here with us."

The air crackled with the excitement, almost like a festival, or at least an event outside the daily routine.

A vendor who traveled with the troupe was working at a cart near the stage, selling questionable-looking meat pies, and some of the villagers were buying them as fast as he could take their coins.

"Don't let the children eat any of those," Rose said with a slight frown.

"Of course not," Briana said, trying to see over the crowd. "I wish I was as tall as you."

The crowd fell silent as the stage's makeshift curtain parted. A woman in a long blond wig and wearing a pale blue gown lay sleeping on a bed. Othello stepped out into view, tall and impressive with his blackened face and leather armor and fur robes.

But he nearly tripped, as if his boot caught on a board. His eyes were glassy, and a feeling of unease began building inside Rose.

"It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul." The actor's voice rang loud and deep, reaching the very back of the crowd. "Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!"

He took another step and faltered again. "It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood. Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster."

He unsheathed his sword and dropped it. The audience was en raptured, but Rose spotted a few lines in his makeup. She focused her eyes, trying to see his face more clearly, and she realized he was sweating in the cold day.

Her feeling of unease grew stronger.

"Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men." Othello's voice rang out. He wavered during the next line. "Put out the light, and then put out the light."

He collapsed onto the stage, his head hitting the floor with a thudding sound.

For the span of a few breaths, the audience remained quiet, thinking this part of the show, but then the woman on the couch rose up and cried, "Henry?"

She ran to him, and the crowd began to murmur in confusion. Seamus was at the edge of the stage, his face concerned, and he grabbed the side to swing himself up.

Rose's feeling of unease exploded into fear as she remembered his earlier words at the house.

All the way from London.

"Seamus!" she shouted, shoving her way toward the stage. "Don't touch him!"

Rose was strong, and she reached the stage in seconds, but Seamus was already kneeling beside the sweating, unconscious actor.

"Don't touch him," she repeated. "Get back."

"What is it?" Briana asked, rushing up behind and grabbing Kenna, lifting her off the ground.

"Fever," Rose answered.

Two days later, the actor died.

Four days after that, Seamus fell ill, along with others in the village. Soon after, half the town was moaning and sweating. In the de Spenser house, only Rose did not contract the sickness. She worked day and night to care for her family.

In a matter of weeks, a quarter of Loam Village was dead. Nearly everyone had lost family members, but the de Spenser house was hardest hit. Gregor, Briana, and Kenna all passed over, leaving Rose and Seamus too shocked to even mourn.

Worse, Seamus blamed himself.

Rose had survived the untimely death of her father, but this was almost too much to bear, and at the same time she was forced into dealing with business matters-as there was no one else. Seamus was too young to take over his father's profession, and yet he inherited the house and his father's money. Old Quentin, one of the village elders, helped Rose to sort these matters, and she was surprised to learn the size of her brother's wealth. She and Seamus would want for nothing… except for their lost family.

Sometimes, later, looking back, Rose did not know how she and Seamus survived the cold, empty sorrow of those first few years together. She loved him, but she was not his mother. She was not even the mothering kind.

Still, she did her best.

They were both comfortable that he never called her «Mother» or even "Auntie," and he always called her "Rose."

She went on working as a midwife, and he took over some of the household tasks. She continued teaching him his numbers and reading and writing-as his mother had. Day by day, they slowly created a life together.

In his early teens, he talked her into going to a horse fair, and she let him buy two half-wild colts. He brought them home and put countless hours into training them, and then sold them to a young lord in Inverness for a decent profit.

He had stumbled upon his own path, as a horse trader.

One morning, Rose woke up and made their tea and walked out to watch him patiently training his newest acquisition, a lovely dappled gray. She smiled.

"I'll get breakfast," she called.

Two hours after washing the dishes, she had her first conscious painful thought that day of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna. But then she realized this was the first morning since their deaths that half the morning had passed before such pain hit her.

The next day, she did not suffer their loss until midafternoon.

And she knew she would recover.

At seventeen, Seamus had grown taller than Rose. He was strong and honest and sure of himself. Between his house and his inheritance and his growing reputation as a horse trader, he was considered by far to be the best «catch» in the village, and several families approached Rose with possible offers.

But she heard none of it.

If Seamus wished to hook himself to a girl, that was his choice, not hers.

As of yet, he'd shown no interest in taking a wife.

Perhaps he was like her, and he never would marry.

Staring into the looking glass one night, Rose wondered what had become of the girl who felt such joy at bringing him into the world, holding his squirming warm body to her breast. At the age of thirty-four, her face showed no lines, but her long, brown hair held streaks of silver.

Just as when she was a child, she knew some of the villagers were beginning to view her as strange. A peculiar spinster, obsessed with new babies, but wanting none of her own.

Why had she never married?

Perhaps because no man ever stirred her.

That all changed one night after supper when Seamus suddenly announced he felt like going to the pub.

"The pub?" she asked. "When did you ever feel like going to the pub?"

"Tonight." He smiled. "Come with me."

She picked up his plate. "There must be some crowd from the horse fairs visiting?" she ventured, teasing him. "Some men you want to buy a colt from cheap? Or maybe it's a girl you're chasing?"

He shrugged. "A few men from the horse fairs. I see nothing wrong with sharing a pint and starting a conversation."

She laughed and got her cloak. In truth, a pint and a little company appealed to her tonight. Spring was just around the corner, and the gray days of winter would soon be past.

She did not remember what she and Seamus chatted about that night as they walked into the village proper and down the main path toward the Black Bull-one of only two pubs in Loam. She remembered going inside, feeling the welcome warmth, closing the door while removing her cloak… and then hearing a voice from somewhere across the room behind her.

"This ale is first rate tonight, Gareth. What did you do, wash out the mug first?"

People laughed.

His accent was smooth-English, not Scottish. The sound of it melted into her skin as she turned around slowly to find its owner.

A man she'd never seen before stood by the bar, chatting with the pub's owner, Gareth. The stranger was neither tall nor short, with a medium build. He had dark brown hair and green eyes that she could see all the way from the door. He wore polished boots, new breeches, and a white shirt. His black jacket hung over his arm. Although well-heeled, he was not particularly handsome-at least not by Scottish standards-and yet everyone in the place was watching him, listening to him. She should have been warned by this, as the English were not well liked this far north.

But even Seamus stopped and stared.

"Ah, Edward," Gareth said. "You insult me. You know I never wash my mugs. Kills all the flavor!"

Edward. That was his name.

She moved deeper into the room. He looked her way and froze. His green eyes locked into hers. His gaze slid upward, to the top of her head, and then down her long silver streaks. She could not read his expression, but he seemed so… interested.

He glanced quickly at Seamus and turned back to his banter with Gareth.

Rose's heart was racing. She tried to recover.

"So, where are your horse traders?" she asked Seamus.

He looked around and then pointed. "Over there. I may have to pry their attention. Who is that Englishman?"

"I don't know." Several tables were empty. "I'll just sit here awhile. You go and do your business."

"You don't mind?" he asked.

"Go on."

In truth, she needed to gather her wits. Every time Edward spoke, his voice seemed to penetrate right through her skin. Seamus made his way toward a small group of men, and she sank into a chair, grateful for a moment to herself.

But a moment was all she had.

Then she heard Edward say, "Gareth, would you introduce me to that lady?"

She looked up. They were coming to her table!

Other patrons murmured disappointment as Edward left the bar.

Dressed in a faded purple gown with brown laces and her hair hanging down her back, Rose hardly felt like a lady. Her thoughts were wild. Whatever would she say? But why did she care? In all her life, she'd never cared what others thought of her.

"Edward Claymore," Gareth said, arriving at the table with a sweep of his arm-like some foppish gentlemen. "May I present Rose de Spenser, Loam Village's own midwife. And a good one, if I may say."

"De Spenser?" Edward repeated, his voice landing like music on her ears. "French?"

"No, sir," she managed to answer.

Up close, she realized he was handsome, with fine features, and he was so charming, so polite. She'd never noticed nor favored such qualities in a man, but right now, she could barely breathe. He sat down.

"Away with you, Gareth," he said cheerfully, offering no of fense. "I wish to speak with fairer company than you. Bring us some wine."

Seamus looked over and stood halfway up. She shook her head at him and motioned him back down. He frowned but turned back to his companions.

Other villagers glanced their way and murmured in low voices, probably wondering why this well-to-do Englishman chose to bestow his company upon Rose. But she did not care. She stared at Edward. For a short while he simply stared back.

"Well," he said finally. "This is unprecedented. I am at a loss for words."

"You seem to have plenty to me," she answered.

He smiled. "Yes, quite. Getting me to talk is normally easy. Shutting me up is the challenge."

Unable to stop herself, she smiled back. "Gareth spoke no title with your name, but you dress like a lord."

He was taken back by her blunt statement. Perhaps the English did not speak so openly. Yet he also seemed unable to stop making jokes and lowered his voice. "If you must know, I am a spy for the king, here on a secret mission to compare the taste of Scottish cheeses to English ones and steal your secrets."

Rose did not respond to this evasion, nor did she blink, but sat watching him with her large serious eyes.

Gareth brought them two cups of wine, looked at them both curiously, and then went back to the bar.

Slowly, Edward's expression lost its humorous glow, and she felt the tingle on her skin fade away. When he spoke again, he sounded more like any other man.

"Good God," he said, as if slightly shaken. "You want a real answer, don't you?" He paused. "No, I am not a lord. I serve a Scottish noble named John McCrugger. Have you heard of him?"

She shook her head. She knew little of nobles. They rarely touched her world.

"I am his manservant," Edward went on. "But my master is away, and I am free to do as I please for now. Does that make you like me less?"

"No, it makes me like you more. At least you perform honest work."

He laughed, and for the first time, it sounded genuine. "Honest work. Heaven preserve us."

When she did not laugh in response, he looked at her intently. "Most of the time, I am very alone. So are you. I can see it."

"I am not alone," she answered. "I have my nephew, Seamus." She pointed to him. He was speaking heatedly with the visiting horse traders.

Edward's gaze did not follow her hand but rather moved to the silver streaks in her hair. "But you've lost someone… something painful happened."

Rose had never spoken of those nights where Kenna, Briana, and Gregor died in turn. How could this man see inside her? Without knowing why, she wanted him to know. "Yes, something that left me broken for a long time."

He leaned forward and sipped his wine, waiting quietly, and Rose began to speak, keeping her voice low, so only he could hear, and she told him everything from the night her father died until that morning when she made it well past breakfast without remembering everyone she had lost.

He did not interrupt. He just listened.

When she finished and fell silent, he waited in silence a little longer and then said, "I understand loss… Not my family, but I have lost more than I can say."

She looked at him, puzzled, and without warning, he fell back into his cheerful, charming pose. Her skin tingled again when he spoke.

"Well, you have managed a great feat of magic tonight," he said. "I have not thought about myself in nearly an hour! Unbelievable."

In spite of being soothed by his voice, Rose felt a sudden pang that he'd banished one of her few moments of real intimacy with another person. She blinked and did not know what to say.

Then Seamus looked over at them, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Edward still sitting at her table. He left the horse traders and came over, ignoring Edward.

"It's late, Rose. We should go home."

She was unsettled, her stomach rolling, but she managed to ask, "Did you strike a bargain?"

"I've arranged to have a look at a few colts." He tossed his head toward the door. "Let's go."

His tone carried authority. When had he become a man?

She didn't wish to leave, but she knew the magic of the night was over-gone. Whatever link Edward created between them to help her talk, it had evaporated. She stood up.

"Thank you for the wine," she said.

His green eyes were startled and sad. "You are most welcome."

She followed Seamus to the door.

That night, she lay in bed for hours, thinking, rolling. She could not sleep. She knew Edward was only passing through the village, but it cut like a knife that she would never see him again.

The following afternoon, Seamus left to go look at some horses, and Rose was glad to have the house to herself. Her experience the night before had left her shaken, uncertain. Somehow, she'd managed to go her whole life without getting lost in a man's eyes. And now, she could barely eat for the churning in her stomach.

Fool!

She scolded herself.

A polished man had paid her a little attention, and she was swooning like a maid.

But no, she felt more than swoons. He had allowed her to let out the pain, to speak… and he had listened.

Well, he was probably three villages away by now. As she had recovered from death, she could recover from a few moments of vivid life. She just needed time.

So she busied herself by scrubbing the kitchen floor and preparing some loaves of bread to bake. The sun set and dusk fell. She tried to eat some leftover mutton stew but made sure she left enough for Seamus. Hopefully, he would be home soon tonight with a new colt or two. It was always pleasant to watch him begin a fresh round of training.

She was just settling down by the fire to mend one of his shirts when a knock sounded on the door.

Who could that be? To the best of her knowledge, none of the pregnant village women, even in the outlying areas, were close to their time yet. She hoped someone was not delivering early, and she ran to the door.

Her breath caught when she saw who was standing on the other side.

Edward Claymore.

He and Rose were the same height, so she could look directly into his eyes. His brown hair was windblown, as if he had been traveling, but his expression held her attention the most: confused, even desperate.

"Rose," he began in a familiar manner, as if he had known her a good deal longer than one night. "Forgive me. I…" He stopped.

Her heart pounded in disbelief. He was here. She stepped back and opened the door. "It's all right."

He walked past her, not even looking about at the pleasantly furnished sitting room. "I left, but I had to come back. I wanted to see you again."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know."

His voice held no music or charm tonight, and her skin did not tingle at his words, but she preferred him like this, as if he was showing her a side of himself he shared with no one else. Could this be real? Did she affect him as he affected her?

She had no idea what to say. Words had never been her strength.

"Are you hungry," she asked lamely. "Would you like to sit by the fire?"

"Why am I here?" he whispered, and he did not seem to be speaking to her. The confusion on his face spread, only now he seemed alarmed as well.

She feared he would leave, and she had no idea how to make him stay.

"Last night," he said, looking at her hair. "You made me feel as I haven't felt in a long time. You made me forget."

She did affect him the same way! Is this why people married each other? Did they meet someone who caused turbulence in their stomachs and chests, and then feel a need to make a permanent bond?

"Edward," she said, reaching out and grasping his pale hand, drawing him over to a low couch by the fire. Words were wasted now. She did not know what to do but believed that he did. Pulling him to sit beside her, she touched his face.

To her surprise, he grabbed her hand and stopped her. His grip was strong. "Don't," he said as if warning her.

But he was wrong. And if he would not act, then she would. She moved closer to him, and this time, he did not stop her but simply watched her with fascinated green eyes. She leaned over to kiss him, wondering what his mouth would taste like. He remained frozen for a few seconds and then began to kiss her back, letting go of her hand and holding on to the small of her back.

His mouth opened slightly, moving against hers, softly first and then harder. She responded, running her hands up his chest, finally understanding why women risked so much to experience these moments. She never wanted this to end.

He pushed her back against a thick pillow, and she tried to hold him closer, to kiss him harder, but she could feel something building in his tense body, in the fierce movement of his mouth.

He took his lips off hers and buried his face in her throat.

She had never experienced anything like this. Why had so much time passed before they found each other?

"Edward," she whispered.

Everything would be different now. She knew it.

The tension in his tight body was still building, and she wanted to help him.

"What do I do?" she whispered. "Tell me what to do."

He didn't answer, and then he made a sound she'd never heard from a man, almost a snarl.

She tried to shift beneath him to see his face, but he grabbed her shoulders, held her down, and drove his teeth into her neck. The pain was shocking as she felt her flesh and sinews ripping.

He was drinking, swallowing her blood.

She didn't scream but bucked wildly to throw him off. His hands were impossibly strong, and terror passed through her as she began to grow weak from blood loss.

"Edward!" she cried.

He stopped, frozen. Then he pulled back, and his face twisted into horror. "Oh. Rose, I didn't mean to… I didn't come here to…"

His mouth was smeared in dark red, and her blood was soaking the pillow beneath her head, running from her torn throat in a steady stream.

She was dying. She did not feel fear or rage, only sorrow that her visions of Edward had been an illusion. He was a monster-not a lover, not a husband.

The front door opened, and Seamus walked in.

"Rose?"

He stopped, as if unable to take the scene before him. Then he cried out in anguish, pulling a knife from the sheath at his belt and rushing forward.

"No," she tried to say. "Seamus, don't!" But the words were too soft and gurgling.

Even in her weakened state, Rose never did understand why Edward hesitated, but he didn't move until Seamus was upon him, slashing at him.

The world was dimming, but she could hear Seamus cursing and slashing. Allowing her head to loll, she saw Edward moving at lightning speed, grabbing Seamus' knife hand, turning it, and plunging the blade into his chest.

Seamus' eyes grew wide, and then he collapsed onto the floor, gasping a few times, and then no more. His eyes were still open.

Edward staggered backward, staring at Rose and Seamus in shock, as if he could not believe what had just happened.

But neither could Rose.

She thought she had found love, and she'd let a killer into their house, and now her Seamus was gone.

Blood running from her throat, Rose pushed herself off the couch, falling next to Seamus. At least she could die beside him.

Edward knelt beside her. "I didn't mean for this to-"

"Get away from her!" a voice boomed.

Rose looked up to see Seamus standing over them. He was alive! Whole. But then she realized she could see through him, and his body was still on the floor.

"Oh, no," she whispered. This time, her words were clear.

He had died a violent death and come back instantly in the fire of passion as a ghost, tied to the house or tied to her, and she was dying by inches. What if she did not come back as well?

"Edward," she whispered. "Don't let me die. Don't let me leave him all alone. Please. He's lost everyone. Don't let me die!"

Seamus took a swing at Edward, but his fist passed through Edward's body. Seamus cried out and swung again; this time realization was dawning on his face as he saw his own body on the floor.

Edward looked at the door and back to Rose.

"Don't let me leave him all alone," she begged again, her words almost inaudible. But he could not save her, and she knew it. She cursed herself for letting him into the house.

His face twisted in anger, and then suddenly, he tore the veins of his own wrist with his teeth and shoved his wrist into her mouth. "Drink it," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "Take it all back, and you won't die."

Seamus screamed in rage and helpless frustration.

The grotesque nature of Rose's actions did not dawn until later. She could only think of Seamus, and she drew down, sucking dark fluid from Edward's wrist as the macabre scene in her sitting room grew even darker.

He leaned closer. "Don't go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood."

She could just barely hear him over the roar growing in her ears.

Then the world went black.

"Rose! Oh, my God, Rose." A pause followed. "Quentin! I don't think she's breathing."

Slitting her eyes, Rose realized that Miriam Boyd was kneeling beside her, sobbing. People were moving about inside the house.

Old Quentin was inspecting her throat, his wrinkled face gone pale with shock. Seamus' dead body still lay on the floor beside her.

"She's alive," someone said.

"We heard Seamus yelling," Quentin said. "Who did this?"

"Edward Claymore," Rose whispered. She felt no regret at exposing him for a killer. She felt no sorrow for Seamus. She felt nothing.

Well-meaning friends put her to bed. They took Seamus' body to prepare him for burial, and she let them. Then she surprised everyone by asking them all to leave.

"No, Rose. Your throat looks bad, and you need someone here," Miriam said.

"Please. Everyone go."

Reluctantly, perhaps thinking she needed to mourn alone, her neighbors left.

She got out of bed and went downstairs. Many years ago, her grandfather had placed iron brackets on each side of the door and created a heavy wooden bar. But no one in her family had ever needed to use it. She lifted the bar and used it to block the door.

"Are you here?" she asked.

"I am here."

She turned around to see Seamus standing behind her, dressed exactly as he'd been when he came home, except that his sheath was empty and she could see right through him.

He stared at her as if she were a stranger. "How can you be alive?"

"I do not think I am."

A week passed, and she did not leave the house nor unbar the door.

Several neighbors came to knock, but she would not let anyone in. She called through the door to Quentin that she wished to be left alone. She did not attend Seamus' funeral. She knew what they were all thinking, that the death of her last kin had broken her mind, left her mad.

Perhaps they were right.

She and Seamus were trapped inside. She slept all day and woke only at night. The magnitude and sorrow of what had happened slowly hit Seamus in a series of stages. At first, he seemed lost in denial. On the third night he asked her.

"How did Claymore come into the house, Rose? Did he just walk through the door and catch you unaware?"

"No," she answered flatly. "I let him in. I wanted him to come in."

He raged at her, blaming her, and she did not rebuke him.

On the fifth day, he stopped raging and asked, "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

She grew hungrier each night. Edward's final words constantly echoed in her ears.

Do not go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.

Most country people loved to whisper tales of ghosts, fairies, changelings, vampires, and even of spirits who drained the living. Rose had never taken much interest in such legends, but now wished she had.

Her own lack of emotion was wrong, and she knew it.

But her body no longer functioned as a proper living thing. She did not eat nor drink nor require the privy. Her mouth produced no salvia. Her heart did not beat.

Yet she hungered.

On the eighth night, she slipped out of the house and went to the stable. At present, Seamus had no colts in the stalls, but Rose had forgotten to feed her pony. She found hay and a fresh bucket of water on the floor of his stall. Someone had been caring for him. Probably Quentin. She harnessed her pony and climbed into her cart.

"Where are you going?" Seamus asked, materializing in the doorway.

"I must go out. I will come back."

"Where?" he demanded.

She was starving, growing weak and desperate. "Move or I will drive the cart through you."

His eyes widened at both her words and tone, and he vanished.

She could not care for his feelings, not just now.

Looking back later, she truly did not even know what she was doing, or how she had the sense to leave Loam Village and drive a good distance away. But for the first time in her life, she felt uncomfortable, almost frightened by the broad night sky, and she longed for the enclosed safety of the house. She felt much too… exposed out here.

In spite of this newfound fear, she intended to go all the way up to Eagan Village, about two hours east, but then she saw movement on the road up ahead, and she came upon a young man standing on the ground, examining his horse's hoof.

Again, without knowing why, she felt a need to gain his absolute confidence, and she pulled up her pony and asked, "Do you need help?"

He stiffened and then straightened, turning his head to see her. His face was awed, just as the villagers in the pub had looked while listening to Edward.

"My horse picked up a stone," the young man said. "He's limping."

Rose climbed down from the cart, watching the man. She could almost see him glowing with warmth, with life. She could hear his heart beating. She could see the pulse in his throat.

"My brother is a horse trainer. Let me see," she said, letting her voice soothe him, assure him that she would know what to do.

Without hesitation, he knelt down and picked up the horse's hoof. Rose looked at the embedded stone. "He'd best not walk or he'll go lame," she said. "Tie him up and come with me. We'll bring the blacksmith from my village to pull the stone."

He did not even ask her about her village or how far it might be. He seemed lost in the wisdom of her words as he tied up his horse. His heartbeat grew louder, and she was fighting herself not to lunge at him. A creek gurgled beyond the trees to the left of the road.

"My pony is thirsty," she said. "Come and help me water him first."

The young man asked no questions and helped her lead the harnessed pony to the creek. Rose crouched down, and the man crouched beside her. She reached out to touch his face as she had touched Edward's… and he let her.

The next action felt natural, and without conscious thought, she pushed him back against the grassy bank and drove her teeth into his throat-as Edward had done to her.

He bucked once in shock, but she held him down, draining and drinking.

Blood and warmth and life flowed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her with strength. She saw images in her mind, sheep and dogs and green fields and a girl named Missy. She drank and drank until she could take no more.

Then she sat up.

The hunger was gone, but suddenly so was the hollow emptiness. Looking down, she felt shame and regret. She touched her own throat. The wound was entirely healed.

"What are you?" Seamus asked from behind her. "What have you become?"

Even transparent, his face was a mask of horror. She could not blame him.

But she didn't answer. Instead, she looked down at the young man on the grass. His heart was no longer beating. She dragged him a few paces to the creek and dropped his body into the current.

"We are cursed, Rose," Seamus said quietly.

"Yes," she agreed. "I think we are."

A year and a half slipped by.

Rose had recovered from the death of her father and then the deaths of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna, but she would never recover from the actions of Edward Claymore.

She and Seamus hid in the house by day and through most of the nights. They were both dead and yet tied to this world. Some things did improve. After a time, Seamus came to understand her need to feed in order to survive, and as he loved her-and she was his only companion-he focused his blame and judgment upon Edward, not upon her.

To pass the time, she read him books, or they spoke of the past, or he offered her suggestions while she altered the house to suit her present condition better, such as reinforcing and covering all the windows.

Her neighbors accepted that Seamus' death had been the last straw to drive her into darkness, and for the most part they left her alone, although Quentin always cared for the pony. Sometimes they left her buckets of milk or meat pies on the front step, which she could not consume. Rose wished she could feel gratitude toward them for their kindness, but her emotions were slow in returning.

She fought to go as long as possible between feedings, sometimes starving herself to the edge of her strength, but the hunger always won in the end, and she would forget her shame and regret.

At least twice a month, she slipped out and drove far from the village. No one even knew she had left the house. She never got over the new fear of being out in the open. And the shame always returned as she looked down into a dead face and torn throat, but she could not stop herself the next time she grew hungry.

Then, in the spring of 1826, Miriam knocked on the door one evening. She had not tried to visit in many months.

"Rose," she called. "A letter came for you today, from New York. Can you open the door for me, and I'll just slip it in?"

Rose waited, tense, inside the house. A letter? From New York?

But she could not bring herself to unbar the door, as she was hungry and feared being so near to Miriam.

"I'll just leave it her on the doorstep," Miriam called. "You can find it later."

At these words, a rush of gratitude did pass through Rose, surprising her. Perhaps she was healing to a point?

She waited until Miriam's footsteps sounded well down the path. Then she unbarred the door and saw a white envelope on the step. It was addressed to her. She grabbed it, taking it inside and barring the door again.

The return address was in Manhattan but did not contain the name of the sender. Her hands shook as she unsealed the flap. Inside, she found a one-page letter and two hundred pounds in paper notes.

Her hands still trembled. After what he'd done to her, done to Seamus, how dare he write such a note, feigning protection… and to send money!

"Do you believe him?" Seamus said in her ear.

She jumped, not aware he had materialized right behind her, reading the letter over the shoulder.

But his words jolted her mind off Edward's act of writing and onto the content of the letter.

So far, with the exception of myself and two other vampires, Julian is beheading anyone he finds.

Vampires.

There. He'd written it down.

She had never allowed herself to speak the word nor write it, but now that he had, it seemed real. She was a vampire.

She was part of a world she knew nothing about.

There are others like you and I, existing all across Europe.

And one of them had gone mad and was killing his own kind.

"We must do as he says," Seamus insisted. "Leave tonight. Too many people have died or disappeared because of you! Even if we don't receive outside news anymore, the villages must have set up a militia. The stories must be spreading."

His reaction surprised her, that he should be so quick to do anything Edward suggested.

"You think we should leave our home?" she asked. "My father's home? And his father's? No, Seamus."

"What if he's right?" Seamus shouted, his transparent hand pointing at the letter. "What if this Julian cuts off your head?" He sounded desperate.

He did not want to be alone.

"I do not think we can stay here anyway," he rushed on. "Sooner or later, someone is going to see you leaving one night. I believe people are already wondering what you eat… locked away in here. You cannot stay forever."

"Go to America?" she asked. "A place we've never even seen?"

"He said you'll be safe there."

The weight of the arrival of Edward's letter suddenly hit her. She had never been farther from home than Inverness or Elgin. The thought of leaving the enclosed safety of the house brought fear up into her throat.

"Seamus… I don't even know the way to Aberdeen. I don't know how to book passage on a ship to Philadelphia."

Rose, who had always considered herself quite brave, realized she possessed a deep fear of unknown places, of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do when she got there.

"I'll help you," he said. "I know the way to Aberdeen. Father took me twice when I was a boy."

Arguments and hesitation and fear ensued, but in the end, Seamus won. Rose packed her clothes and all the money in the house, and they slipped away in the night. Aberdeen was a crushing and crowded place, and once there, Seamus could not materialize in public to communicate with her. Between trips with his father, and later in his horse trading, he had done a good deal more traveling than she had, and she wanted his advice, but she managed to book herself passage on a ship bound for America, and she even arranged for a windowless cabin with a stout door.

The thought of an enclosed space brought some comfort.

Half of her was numb and the other half was screaming that this journey was wrong.

How could she leave Loam Village? How could she leave her home?

But she never saw Scotland again. The sea journey was a nightmare. She starved herself inside her cabin as the shipped rocked on the high waves. One night, she grew so desperate from hunger that she managed to draw off a sailor alone, feed, and push his body over the side. Occasionally, men fell overboard at sea.

But she and Seamus arrived in Philadelphia to a busy crowded world, an alien world. How had Edward done this? She wondered over and over why he had gone to so much trouble to warn her of the danger Julian posed. She wondered why he had not asked her to come to him in New York… and yet she had no desire to see him.

He had murdered Seamus and destroyed her life.

Still, after securing herself in a hotel, she wrote to him:

She could not bring herself to write more, but she did not wish to leave him wondering what had become of her. Why? Perhaps because besides Seamus, she had no one else, and some part of her did not wish to forever sever the connection with Edward. She included her current address. Three weeks later, a letter arrived.

Rose found the letter detached and informational. He spoke of vampires she'd never met and a conflict she had no part of. She also felt that he wished to say a great deal more but would not.

She tried to exist in Philadelphia.

She tried to be good company for Seamus.

She began writing more lengthy letters to Edward, mainly about Philadelphia and their various hotels and nightly activities. She did not write often, perhaps every six months. Time felt different to her now.

He always wrote back. He kept her informed of everything he learned of Julian's bloody actions, and her fear of a mad vampire she'd never met began to grow. In spite of everything… everything he'd done, she could not help being grateful to Edward for helping her to leave Scotland.

The years passed.

Seamus learned to move about in the world a bit more freely, never allowing himself to be seen by anyone besides Rose, but he never liked the feel nor the sights of Philadelphia, and when she sought out books to read to him, he began asking for accounts of other places in America. He was especially fascinated by accounts of the West Coast, and Rose began to fear he might wish to relocate again.

The adjustment from Scotland to Philadelphia had been almost too much for her, and she had no desire to ever go through such events again. She learned to use her "voice of wisdom" well during hunting. Edward called it her "gift."

Although she had no affection for Philadelphia, she had learned her way around well enough to hunt at safe distances. In addition, though she would never admit it aloud-or possibly even to herself-she had grown comfortable with the thought of Edward just up north in New York, far enough never to see him… but not too far.

But Seamus began asking for more and more books about the west, on gold hunting and horses and new cities cropping up and the adventures taking place there, and by 1870, he began focusing his interests on California.

His obsession began to make her feel more and more alone. As if she had no one to truly talk to-except Edward. And Edward often reiterated the importance of her living alone, remaining in secret. These reminders caused her to think on his existence as well, always staying in hotels, even more alone than herself. At least she had Seamus. She did not feel sympathy for Edward but rather empathy for the hollow, changeless existence they shared. In a moment of weakness, one night in a letter, she expressed these thoughts to him.

He did not answer for a month, and then a letter arrived that shifted Rose's view of their world. The letter was raw and emotional and nothing like Edward had ever written before.

Rose stared at the letter. Then she crumpled it and threw it into the fire. Did he think these confessions brought her comfort? Did he think she cared that he had suffered for his crimes against her? And now, he had been lavishing his care, his training, on a Welsh serving girl, and he expected this to give him absolution for destroying her life and murdering Seamus?

She was numb.

Slowly, she walked from the sitting room into her bedroom. Seamus was in there, looking at drawings.

"Rose," he said. "Come look at these pictures of San Francisco. You would like this new city. The streets are simple, but people are pouring in to settle here. Could we at least see it?" His face was so hopeful and yet hesitant. He knew how she hated to travel, feared to travel.

"How would we get there?" she whispered.

"By train. The track to the coast was just completed last year."

"All right," she said softly. "I'll book a train ticket."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

Seamus was all she possessed of value now. Her illusions of some connection to Edward were just that… illusions.

Once more, the trip was a nightmare, and she vowed never to go through this again.

Upon arriving, Rose sent a two-line letter to Edward telling him of their relocation.

He wrote back, sounding shocked and hurt, wanting to know how he had offended her, but she never answered. After that, he occasionally sent money but did not write. Financially, her needs were few, and due to him, she had barely touched Seamus' inheritance.

Although she never expected to, Rose found some peace in San Francisco. The people and energy in the air suited her better than Philadelphia. The place was rather primitive at first, but by the late nineteenth century, it had become an international city.

Much of the city was damaged by an earthquake in 1906, but rebuilding followed almost immediately.

In 1908, she bought an apartment on the second floor of a lavish building. Finally, a home of their own.

By now, hunting was easy due to more accessible transportation and the strength of her gift, but she never ceased to feel shame after a kill or to continue her efforts to go as long as possible without feeding.

Seamus also liked the city, but even so, as the years passed, he was given at times to melancholy about the state of his existence: endless, unchanging, no one for company but Rose. She could hardly blame him but had no idea how to help.

She and Edward maintained a polite silence.

Remembering their home in Scotland, she took up some of her old interests, such as herb gardening, and she tried to create some semblance of a home for Seamus.

Then in 1913, a letter arrived.

To Rose's shock, she was hit in the face by blatant pity.

How strange, how unexpected to feel pity for Edward. But she did. If there was one thing Rose understood, it was loss, especially the loss of someone she loved. She wrote back, and she offered him comfort.

She told him that he would heal in time.

But he did not. He only grew worse. Later, she counseled him to move to Portland-where Eleisha had settled.

He took her advice.

Then his letters stopped.

Over the years that followed, sometimes Rose wondered about Eleisha and William and this «contact» that Edward mentioned in France, and she wondered how many of their kind still existed. But she knew all their survival depended on living quietly away from Julian, on not gaining his attention, and in her case, on living in secret… or at least this was what Edward had convinced her.

She and Seamus continued to make it through the nights, with little changing besides the city exploding around them in population and development. The building they lived in grew old, but she could not bring herself to move, not again. It was both a kind of prison and a home at the same time.

In the early spring of 2008, as morning arrived, she was just falling dormant in her bed when something happened.

Her mind exploded in pain, and images of Edward burst inside her brain, along with the memories of everyone he had ever fed upon. In between his victims, she saw the same image over and over of a lovely dark-blond girl in her teens, with a serious face and hazel eyes. The pain was searing, and it went on and on…

"Rose!" Seamus was beside her bed. "What's wrong? Stop screaming. Someone will break the door down."

The pain faded and then vanished.

"What's wrong?"

"I think Edward may be dead," she answered flatly. "I think I felt him die."

His transparent mouth fell partway open. "Did Julian find him? Kill him?"

"I don't know."

Rose waited. She waited in fear, and a part of her mourned for Edward. Nothing happened for six weeks, and then although the sensation was much weaker, she was hit with the memories of another vampire, an exotic woman with dark hair who also passed images of the blond girl with hazel eyes, and of many victims, and of a bright city with its own carnival… and the Space Needle. Seattle.

To Rose, it felt as if the vampire was dying.

Back in Scotland, when Julian was still killing vampires in Europe after she'd been turned, she had never felt this, seen anything like this. Perhaps she had been too young in her undead state?

A few nights later, she felt another death, an old man, and she saw almost nothing in his memories but the girl with hazel eyes-and of feeding on rabbits.

Someone was killing vampires.

"Seamus, can you go to Seattle? Try to find out what's happening?"

"Without you?" he asked. He never strayed too far from her side. He said he felt tied to her.

"It isn't safe for me to go anywhere now. I should not leave the apartment."

He nodded. This was true.

And so he tried. He found out that once he'd reached a general vicinity, he could sense the undead. He found Eleisha and Philip in Seattle. He was outside the Red Lion Hotel when Philip kicked Julian out the window. He learned where Eleisha was staying and read the address on the house. But the longer he was away from Rose, the weaker he grew.

He focused upon her and rematerialized in the apartment and told her what he had seen, what he learned.

Once again, she knew something in their world had shifted.

Instead of hiding, instead of living alone, somebody was fighting back against Julian. If Eleisha and Philip could defend themselves, they could defend others. But could she trust them? She did not know. She did not even want to give them her name. She remembered an account she'd read of a Hungarian countess dubbed a «vampire» for her practices. This story was well known and should offer enough of a hint. But she wanted to offer more… a hint of her goals, the whispers in the back of her mind of others like herself who might be trapped in hiding.

Rose opened up a post office box.

Then she went home and sat down at the antique desk while Seamus stood anxiously behind her, and she wrote: