A Court for Fairies

 
Dark Herald Series, Book One
 
 
By Lynnette Santiago
 

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A Court for Fairies
 
Copyright © 2016 by Lynnette Santiago.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2016
 

 
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
 
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-934-4
ISBN-10: 1-68058-934-2
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any
printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s
rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—
living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication
 
To my sisters, Lysandra and Lysania. You’ve brought countless moments
of joy to my life. Thanks for reading my stuff without running scared.
And to a sister life gave me, Rosaimee. Your unfailing friendship is
something I treasure.
 

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Table of Contents
 
Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV
Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII
Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII
Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

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Chapter I
 
 
The Death of Esteban O’Reilly
 
“My heartfelt condolences…words cannot express the depth of our pain
right now…steady…be brave…”
Marissa played nervously with the charm on her golden necklace,
caressing the locket with her shaky fingers. She tried, in all civility, to avoid
bursting in front of the audience. They were not hypocrites. They were just
creatures of social bearing, bound by etiquette to make their presence felt,
to share the pain.
Many times she had been on that side of the curtain, making the best of
rehearsed social graces. Each scripted moment allowing her to channel a bit
of feeling without being offensive or intruding. It was the key to emerging
victorious out of a forced situation. Though grateful for the kindness of
acquaintances and strangers, the plates of food did nothing but distract her
from the need to make herself useful, perhaps cooking something. It all
freed her time to think, which was not good at all. Flowers, rose and
hyacinth, her favorite, would always be tied to the smell of formaldehyde
and cotton. Those present had no idea that they had ruined certain things
forever.
It was not fair to blame them. Death cast the dice and waited for it all to
fall. House lost a life and the game continued. Cruel fate was the only one
responsible for her boyfriend’s untimely death at twenty-six.
Marissa waited for close friends to finish paying respect to the fine silver
urn that kept Esteban’s ashes. While some of those present felt relaxed
enough to ease into a cup of coffee and chat, she made her way to the
second floor.
Esteban’s eyes followed her, step after step, in photo montages adorning
the stairs; frames of childhood and adolescence.
She entered his old room, letting herself fall on top of the twin bed in
which Esteban slept as a child, holding tight to a sham that adorned a pillow
with patterns of blue, black, and green squares. The ensemble of the room
evoked nothing of the taste of the man with love of sober, streamlined
contemporary furniture, but at that moment, it all stood for him.
Marissa couldn’t conceive returning to the apartment after the accident,
that nook in Brooklyn they had made their home for the last two years.
Twenty-four months suddenly became an unbearable world of memory.
She was working in the city when the news arrived, and driving straight
to her mother’s place in Queens, she crashed there for a week. She didn’t
want to deal with rumpled sheets, or the toothpaste tube pressed in the
middle, those little details that once vexed her now would only make her
cry.
But she missed him. God, she missed him enough to try to find anything
in that room to cling to, like the softness of that pillow that no longer
carried his scent. She wanted to coerce the child, no longer there, to paint
her a picture of the man she had just lost.
She must have fallen asleep, but the touch of a firm yet caring hand
brought her back. Waking up startled, Marissa mumbled some apology
while trying to fix her hair and runs in her make up. Two women looked at
her, silent before her words, waiting for the young woman to catch a breath
and forgive herself.
“No one will blame you, child. It has been a taxing day. We are all tired,
some more than others. We are all grieving at the same level.”
Carla, Esteban’s grandmother, sat at the edge of the bed, taking
Marissa’s hand, building a bridge between her and her daughter, Isabel, as
Esteban’s mother stood, unmoved.
“Marissa, darling,” Carla continued, “Isabel and I have been discussing a
couple of things. We know very well what Esteban felt for you. You were
not the first girl he brought home, but you were the only one he insisted the
family meet. Please don’t think we are about to place a burden upon you. In
fact, we know you are young and meant, in time, to heal and thrive, and
build another life. Though pain seems inconceivable, it will subside. But we
cannot keep silent about the course of certain…things interrupted by the
accident that took Esteban’s life.”
The matron looked at Isabel, letting her know that she had said her piece.
Isabel let go of her mother’s hand and turned toward the bureau, taking a
box out of the top drawer. It was then that Marissa noticed they had been
talking in a darkened room. The light from the street lamp barely made it in
a thin angle through the window and the patterns of the curtains threw long
shadows over Isabel’s hands, making them look older, spotted in dark
circles.
“You can turn on the light,” the young woman suggested.
“There is no need,” the mother answered. “I know each corner of this
room.”
Carla, however, taking into consideration the young woman before her,
turned the switch on.
For a second, Isabel flickered her eyelids and her dark irises seemed to
catch the green patterns of the room. In her hands she held a small box,
wrapped in soft, red velvet. Marissa guessed the contents of it before they
had time to explain. Covering her lips with the palm of her hand, she took a
deep breath to steady her heart and keep tears at bay. Isabel continued,
automatic, disconnected from the reaction of the woman before her.
“Esteban told us of his intentions before…the case is, after discussing
this with Mother…”
The exchange became heavy and lacking warmth. It was plain to see that
Carla had the final word on their discussion. Isabel was just following her
mother’s instruction, which proved to be a failing script with each word
uttered. Carla interrupted yet again, taking the box from her daughter’s grip,
opening it so that Marissa could appreciate the ring it contained.
“This meant he wanted to spend his life with you. This is my mother’s
ring, and her mother’s before her. Isabel wore it through her own journey
but now it has no history that links it to this house anymore. It was meant to
be yours, it still is. My grandson had his mind set before he died.” Her
smile was kind, though barely a line set on the firmness of her face. Carla
was determined.
Marissa held the exquisite piece of jewelry in her hand, raising it to the
light. It was a considerable diamond, cut in eighteenth century fashion.
Beautiful workmanship cut a flawless stone into a round shape. The center
stone rested on top of a white gold frame in which smaller diamonds were
encrusted in delicate half-moons around it, making it look like a rose.
“This…I can’t accept this.” She couldn’t hold the tears anymore as they
ran down her face. She had taken refuge in Esteban’s room, trying to
connect with the past, and now these women gave her a glimpse of an
unattainable future. It was the worst of cruelties, wrapped in generosity and
kindness.
“You must,” Carla answered in all resolve. “I can’t take this ring back. It
will turn all its sweet memories to sorrows. It is a terrible thing to deny a
loved one departed. Please take it, and find it in your heart to do one last
thing for us, in his name. Stay tonight and for the next three days. We are
taking Esteban’s ashes to rest with his father and we would like you to
accompany us. I know my grandson wanted you to visit Innisfree. Sleep
now, dear. Think about it. It has been a whirlwind of emotion and we must
have a bit of rest as well. “
Isabel broke the silence to say good night, leaving before Marissa had a
chance to answer. Carla caressed the young woman’s ash blonde hair, as if
playing with a doll. With utmost care, the elder helped her out of a black
scrunchie that held her ponytail in place.
“Here, here, this thing will only give you a headache. Take a shower and
you can sleep in this room if it pleases you.”
The door stayed half open while both women brought in towels, linens,
even a set of pajamas for her to wear. Marissa looked at them as if watching
choreography. They needed no words. Crafty hands folded and smoothed
almost in unison, their need to please not quite allowing her to feel at home.
Marissa didn’t sleep. Earlier that night she placed a call to her mother,
allowing for her to pack a small suitcase. She mentioned the service upstate
casually, but not the ring. Her mother might have something to say on the
matter and she wanted to make up her own mind on the matter.
Isabel waited for her as she stepped out of the bathroom, placing the
laundered clothes from the night before right back into her hands. Neat as
ever. The sight of the ring on Marissa’s finger gave her comfort as her eyes
softened and the shadow of a smile crossed her lips.
“A cab came by earlier. Your mother prepared travel luggage for you,
which tells me you’ve made up your mind to go with us.”
Marissa nodded quickly, taking back her clothes, yet noticing that Isabel
also carried a thin, dark black veil. Before she had opportunity to ask,
Esteban’s mother entered the restroom and covered the mirror. There were
no replies to her curious frown other than, “Breakfast will soon be ready.”
Marissa had heard it before, right from Esteban’s lips. His slight
mockery of all things old world that ruled both O’Reillys and Alejandros.
He was first generation born in the States, and the cultural baggage of both
sides of the family was a little too much to bear. Her hands caressed the
cloth, unknowing yet respectful of what it might symbolize.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled wonderful. Scrambled eggs, bacon crisp
off the stove, and an assortment of fruit and bread waited for her. Isabel sat
at the edge of the table, nursing a cup of tea and eating a slice of toast while
writing instructions for the house maid.
“Anything else you might want, miss?” asked the cook, ready to whip up
a platter. Marissa was dismissive, though she did pick a bit of fruit to nibble
on.
“Where’s Carla?” she inquired of the maid.
“Mrs. Carla is in the backyard. She finds the kitchen insufferable.”
Marissa saw her, dressed in an impeccable gray pencil skirt and white
long-sleeved blouse that matched her daughter. Carla held a small bowl in
her hands, no bigger than a saucer. Lifting it up to her lips, the woman,
usually a picture of control and demeanor, drank its contents, tilting it
hungrily as if she couldn’t taste it soon enough. It was white and thick,
heavy and creamed. Her tongue cleaned the bottom of that little plate. It
was more greed than it seemed hunger.
“Miss Marissa?” The voice of the maid called her in.
Isabel had determined she should have at least a crepe. “It is quite a long
trip, sweetheart. Eat something, even if you just must.” And she did.
The driver picked them up at ten. Two vehicles were ready to depart the
house on Long Island. The women traveled in one, while the second
carried, among other things, Esteban’s ashes. Carla and Marissa waited for
Isabel, while the mistress of the house took care of last minute details,
including a list for weekend groceries, allowing for their return on Tuesday.
“Make sure all the mirrors are covered. My son’s spirit cannot find
dwelling in this house. It must be compelled to follow us to Innisfree.”

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Chapter II
 
 
Those Masks We Wear
 
Upstate New York might come as a shock to those who lived all their
lives in the city. It seemed a world away, hard to process for those of urban
settings. As years went by, people who made their living in the busiest city
on the East Coast joined the ritual of habitual things, checking in and out
their daily schedules like precise clockwork. Closing their eyes, most of
them fell back and bought the idea that there was no world beyond the five
boroughs that comprised a stretch of land known to the entire world.
Marissa had never left the confines of The Big Apple. Since her birth, it
had been nothing but Manhattan’s concrete and steel under her every step.
Her idea of nature was none other than the greens of Central Park.
Once, Esteban proposed they go on vacation. “For the love of God,
sweetheart, you can’t pretend the North Atlantic actually has beaches. Saint
Petersburg, Flo-ri-da; frigid name, hot sand. I’m talking about the Gulf of
Mexico!”
She was quite resolute in her negative response. He knew quite well she
was not the sun and sand type and loved to make her miserable with his
proposed excursions. She had things to do, a niche to carve for herself. She
wouldn’t leave, not at that moment at least. Had Marissa known forever was
not granted, she would have humored him.
Esteban was always lenient with her, giving space and time to her every
whim. Cynics said relationships never granted equal measures; there was
the one who loved and the one who received the love. Though she never
conceived herself as selfish, Marissa was spoiled, a little immature. Esteban
derived a certain pleasure in giving her all. Though their age difference was
merely four years, sometimes he found himself overprotective of a woman
of delicate persuasions who grew up without a father figure. Since his father
also died when Esteban was quite young, he understood the feeling very
well.
So he declined prolonging his argument into a squabble and changed the
subject. The next day, he showed up, armed with a charming smile and a
conciliatory gift: a gold chain fitted to a small, curved charm fashioned as a
sideways eight. The symbol of eternity. Though the chain was exquisite, the
charm looked opaque, rough, and untreated. It was an oddity since Esteban
usually showered his girlfriend with extravagant pieces of jewelry that
though lovingly given, made her feel inadequate. This was different. She
loved the little imperfections about it. Her boyfriend answered as if reading
her mind.
“That one cost me my reputation with the jeweler. We put the
malleability of gold to the test, there is fine concrete dust, even stone from
the city baked into that mix. Wherever you go, you’ll take New York with
you. Now, I declare you free of whatever binds you to this city. Marissa
Salgado, please, take some time off.”
Esteban had the kindest, warmest smiles, the best of dispositions, and a
spirit of adventure she could not quite grasp. More than once, his
enthusiasm overwhelmed her. Their friends used to call them Break and
Locomotive. No need to say which one was which. She loved him as much
as she sometimes felt annoyed by his displays. For them, it was as easy to
make love as to get into an argument in the spirit of the moment. The very
definition of opposites attracting.
Marissa played both their agreements and disagreements back and forth
in her memory. Distracted, she took to biting the charm on her chain while
an interminable road slithered through hills and valleys ahead. Exuberant
greens were interrupted by the orderly layout of a vineyard or an Amish
farm; friendly folk, yet separated from the world by their views of God and
nature. Distant mountains, framing lakes of almost glacier blue, made her, if
only for a moment, forget the reason for her presence upstate.
Sitting on the second row of the SUV by herself, Marissa couldn’t help
touching her hand to the glass, as a child might do when witnessing some
wonder.
 “Do you mind if I roll down the window?”
Isabel secured her dark sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, letting her
know it was okay to do as she wished. Carla simply kept glued to a book,
tucking the silk red marker after each page, as if expecting to be interrupted.
The young woman rolled down the tinted window, allowing total access
to a world of color and sound, vegetation and fauna. There was a soft,
humid feeling to the air, as the breeze rising from the lake dispersed thin fog
upon the road.
Innisfree was quite a valuable piece of real estate, located within an
esplanade of a hundred and twenty kilometers between Syracuse and
Rochester. One of those hideaways where industrialization had not yet
made its mark. It was a playground for the rich who didn’t feel the need to
be famous. A place to downplay opulence, which was in itself a kind of
eccentricity.
The State Road soon took a turn into a private road that led to the
gateway of the house. Impressive white gates opened and a guard assigned
to take care of the property greeted the women from an equally white office
located at the entrance. Beyond the gates, the front of the house was paved
in delicate blue cobblestones and flanked by red maple trees that had started
sprouting the first of spring leaves.
Though half naked, the old, voluminous trees cast an intertwining
shadow, while their trunks, taking in the last of the setting sun, looked
golden.
The house had three stories, all set in tall columns that though beautiful
in design, made it look like an out of place Southern manor. The women
stepped out of the vehicle while the security guard helped unpack their
belongings and Esteban’s ashes—an urn secured inside a box.
Marissa was not one for seeking luxury, but it struck her as odd not to
see domestic employees running around the property. After all, Isabel
considered help indispensable. But then she assumed the woman just
disposed of the employees for the weekend, avoiding the need for repeated
acts of condolence.
It was obvious, though, that someone had seen to their arrival. Protective
sheets were taken off the summer house furniture and the whites of the
main living room looked immaculate, down to the soft rug in front of the
fireplace. The kitchen was stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables, and four
rooms were prepared for incoming guests.
 The rest of the house was sealed. Heavy, shut doors reminded all that the
reason for their stay was marked by a somber mood.
“I hope it doesn’t bother you to help out with some chores during the
weekend,” Isabel called out to Marissa, letting her know she needed help
with the door that connected to the garden.
She agreed, holding and tying the heavy curtains. Right across from
them, through the garden, Marissa could see the outline of a traditional
chapel. Inside, roses set up early that morning adorned the premises,
bunches of luscious red contained in crystal vases. Votive candles burned,
dripping delicate silver tears upon glass stands.
Carla, who had disappeared since their arrival, took it upon herself to
spread the mantle on the cedar table. Marissa recognized it as the same
piece of cloth that adorned Esteban’s urn table during the service on Long
Island.
“Do you think Carla might need a hand in the chapel?” she asked of
Isabel.
“Nothing much until morning. Mother will take care of it all. You can
get acquainted with your room. It is just upstairs to the left,” the woman
replied while showing the way.
Night had fallen and though they were all tired, Marissa would have
appreciated a bit of conversation. But Carla and Isabel had a different way
to handle grief. It was more than just the generational gap. The young
woman started feeling lost, as if invited to witness instead of taking part;
her only claim to their world was a body turned to ashes resting in an urn
she could not even visit until morning.
From her window, she could see the ghostly white of the fences that
marked the extension of the property and a smaller gate leading to the lake.
Small fishing boats were tied to a rustic, short pier. Those were the only
means of transportation to reach the small island that granted the property
its name. On the lake, a fishing cabin was halfway devoured by darkness. It
was impossible to say where water ended and shore gave way to land. It
was all still, the breeze had died down and it no longer ruffled the waves.
Marissa’s room had a country feel to it. Though they had electricity and
hot water, there was no air conditioning. The alternatives lay with French
windows during spring and summer, and fireplaces through fall and winter.
The young woman took her time in the shower, rubbing off the physical
stress of the day. As far as her mental stress, well, it could be remedied with
a call and some confidence. She tried her mother’s number, but the screen
of her phone showed it to be out of range. Unpacking, sorting out her
troubled thoughts, and getting used to the room, kept her busy. Sometime
close to ten o’clock, Isabel knocked on her door.
“I hoped you rested at least a bit. I have some cucumber sandwiches
downstairs. It is not wise to go to bed on an empty stomach.”
“Thank you. Hmm…Isabel, could you lend me your cell phone? I was
trying to place a call and mine has no bars whatsoever.”
“No problem, mine has a few.” The woman was dressed in a navy blue
hoodie and sweatpants. Free of her customary austere clothing, even the
expression of her face looked sweetened and relaxed. She gave the mobile
phone to Marissa and the blonde smiled, waiting to be left by herself, which
didn’t happen. Isabel stood at the doorway, returning the smile, but not
giving her time.
Marissa dialed her mother, but the conversation didn’t take the turn she
might have wanted. It was all reduced to trivialities. “Hello…yes, all fine…
terrible reception…” was all she got out before communication was
interrupted once again.
“Well, at least you spoke to her,” Isabel offered. “You will see her soon.
While you are here, feel as if we are your own kin.” The words were kind
but quick, and she was rushing downstairs before Marissa could let them
sink in.
Carla waited for them with a tray of petite sandwiches and chamomile
tea. Marissa nibbled on the bread while taking short sips of tea. She was not
hungry, but her need for company could not spare time away from the
women when they decided to bond. She was naturally shy around strangers,
and Esteban’s family consisted of nothing more than acquaintances to her.
She had met them but a handful of times in the two years they had been
together. His death had brought them closer than any other event.
“Are you waiting for someone else over the weekend?” It was an attempt
at conversation, not the best, but she had reasons to ask.
“What makes you think that?” Carla asked.
“It’s just that back on Long Island, you mentioned relatives. You said I
was the woman Esteban wanted all to meet, and now I noticed there is an
extra room upstairs that has been prepared as well.”
“No one rises from the void.” Isabel’s answer was as unexpected as her
changing tone. She seemed troubled by Marissa. “We were talking about
extended family of course. Had there been a wedding, cousins might have
visited. We have family in both Europe and the Caribbean. It’s just my
mother and me now. We are all who is left here in the States. The extra
room is courtesy, I guess.”
“I’m sorry. As far as my mother and me, well, it is just the two of us,”
Marissa tried to explain herself. “I didn’t count on you having extended
family. Esteban only mentioned the both of you and…” She was slipping
into feeling miserable, color rushing to her cheeks.
“Stop it.” Carla turned toward Isabel with a stern voice. “Isabel, grief
doesn’t give you the right to be excessive. The girl just asked a simple
question. Had I known you were to be so rude about it, I’d ask you to
excuse yourself.”
Carla crossed a line, humiliating her daughter for Marissa’s sake. It was
not appreciated by either woman. While the blonde simply closed her
mouth, further embarrassed, Isabel rose and struck the table with an open
hand. “Really, Carla? It is my son’s death we are talking about!” Her exit
was marked by furious steps. Marissa tried to go after her, intending to
make amends with the woman, but the matron stopped her.
“Now, dear, don’t indulge her. She’ll just turn toward you in anger. It has
been rough since the accident. She blames all but the icy road.”
Marissa knew quite well what Carla meant. Esteban and Marissa had one
of their pet peeve discussions that turned into a fight. She had been
excessively dramatic over a trifle and he decided to go for a drive to clear
his head. He tried calling her a couple of times and she didn’t answer,
letting it go to voice mail. His last words were captured in a recorded
message and were just for her. “I deserve it. Have it your way, don’t answer.
I, too, run to my mother once in a while…yes, I’ve been to Long Island, but
I’ll see you at home.” Upon finding the circumstances, Isabel silently
judged her as much as she blamed herself.
Carla left her exposed, and Marissa couldn’t help it. She held on to the
elder woman, crying. By the time Marissa found out about the accident,
some forty-eight hours later, Mrs. O’Reilly had disposed of her son’s body,
cremating him. Marissa’s only consolation was seeing a picture of the car
crash and a silver urn. It was more than punishment, and on top of that
she’d had to exhibit enough composure so as to not disturb Isabel with the
weight of her words.
 “Shhh…easy now.” Carla embraced her and caressed her back with
motherly affection. “It’ll do you good to take a walk with me. Would you
like to see him?”
The young woman nodded, folding over the handkerchief Carla had
offered, following her into the chapel.
The older woman stopped, sighed, and smiled ever so sweetly. “What is
it with those ponytails lately? Your hair is so pulled back it’s giving me a
headache. Here, let’s fix it. I know Esteban loved those gorgeous blonde
locks of yours. Let me help you out of that dreaded rubber thing.” Carla
helped her, coiffing her hair until it fell, heavy and free, upon her shoulders.
Both women entered the chapel which, unlike the main house, was not
furnished with electricity. The candles placed on tall glass spirals were
meant to illuminate the sacred enclosure until sunrise.
Besides an extravagant number of roses, the place lacked ornamentation.
Sturdy wooden pews faced a stone altar. There was also a small podium that
had been set aside. The O’Reillys professed themselves to be Catholic, as
did the Alejandros—Isabel’s side of the family—yet there was an absence
of customary sacred symbols. Not a cross or a pious painting. The pulpit
lacked the usual heavy, gold-leafed Bible. All attention was drawn to the
urn as flowers and candles were arranged in a semicircle around the table,
fashioning a comforting embrace.
Carla sat quietly by the entrance while Marissa approached the altar. The
silver craftsmanship of the urn presented a beautiful black filigree design
that curved into concentric circles encrusted with quartz, the initials E.O. in
their center. The grieving woman saw her reflection in the shiny surface.
Her lively blonde hair looked ashen, the paleness of her skin and inevitable
dark circles underneath her eyes seemed a stain upon the perfect beauty of
the container. She stood there for a while, imagining a conversation that
never took place, saying conciliatory words that made her feel less
burdened. Turning toward Carla, the young woman mouthed a thank you.
The grandmother closed the door behind them and asked her to follow into
the garden.
Paths of now familiar blue cobblestone met them, twisting and turning
between stations of carefully kept seasonal flowers, all illuminated by
elegant lanterns.
“It is a shame you are visiting under these circumstances. Esteban grew
apart from this place as his career took off. As much as he loved it when he
was a child…well, the city called. Had you come with him, perhaps in your
company he might have rediscovered the magic of this place.”
“It is beautiful,” Marissa almost whispered. Her attention had been
drawn beyond the cobblestone path, to an unassuming elderberry tree. Right
in front of it were several stones creating a pattern Marissa had learned too
well, though the stones on Esteban’s urn were polished and these showed to
be rough at the edges.
Carla noticed her gaze and added, “This was his favorite place in the
garden. When he was a child, no more than five, Esteban asked his father to
help him polish the top of the stones and place them in a circle. He used to
say they were seats on a court for fairies.”
Marissa smiled, tracing her finger on the smooth top of those quartz with
roughened edges, conjuring the innocence needed to believe such
wonderful tales.
“I don’t think we could call it a night with a better story. I’ll try to sleep
now. See you tomorrow, Carla. I must insist, though. I think I’ll go to Isabel
and…”
Carla didn’t take her sight from the stones while answering. “Don’t you
fret; I’ll take care of my daughter.”
Marissa went upstairs. As the agitation of the day finally caught up with
her, it was easy to fall asleep within minutes.
For Isabel, it was not as easy to find that elusive sleep. Carla opened her
door, knowing she’d be awake. After all, there were things pending between
them.
“I can’t trust you to keep your head cool for a handful of hours,” the
elder woman reproached.
“I am sorry, Mother.” The submissiveness that characterized Isabel and
Carla’s interaction was once again present. “Did you gather what is
needed?”
“Sure, darling. What have I told you about butterflies? You catch them
with a flicker, not a flame.”
Carla produced the rubber band that Marissa had worn earlier, taking a
couple of hairs that stuck to it, placing it carefully around the edge of a
small porcelain plate that contained fresh cream and tiny pieces of oven
baked bread. Requesting Isabel’s hand, Carla took it upon herself to cut her
daughter’s palm with a sharpened letter opener. Blood flowed freely, and
hair, cream, and honeyed bread were soon stained crimson.
 “Now it is out of our hands, my dear. If the Dark Heralds accept our
offer, then we can start negotiations.”
“Ah, but they must, Mother,” Isabel replied calmly while licking her
wounds and leaving no trace of a cut upon her skin. “It is, after all, a family
requisition.”
Carla abandoned the room without a further word. Isabel stayed there, in
the dark, feeding the furious green that speckled her dark eyes.

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Chapter III
 
 
Night Calls
 
Esteban ran through the closing statement of the weekly report while
Marissa raced to change out of her work clothes and take a shower. Once in
a while, he’d give her a furtive glance, following the wreckage she had been
leaving behind. Sure, he could have reminded her that the gala at the
museum had been canceled, but it was fun to see her run about, agitated.
He’d surely make it up to her, having plans of his own that included a not so
official dinner in quite a romantic restaurant. A shoe flew by and he smiled,
snorting a bit and shaking his head slightly. People at the office thought she
was so…put together and dry. He knew better. Marissa worked about trying
to conceal her natural shyness, therefore enforcing an emotional perimeter.
When they were together, he joked about seeing her “in the wild.” Disarray
seemed to be her natural habitat.
Though he loved every crazy little turn of their private life, sometimes
Esteban wished for her to be more open and carefree in the outside world.
Adriana, Marissa’s mother, tried to make her daughter as independent
and tough as herself, but one of those funny turns of life gave her a
daughter she deemed “as delicate as an asphalt flower.” She found in
Esteban an ally of sorts. In her judgement, O’Reilly brought about the best
in her daughter, and neither of them would rest until Marissa found that
spark that both knew was there.
Being lost in thought gave him away and his smile became broader,
obvious and mischievous enough for Marissa to read. “That thing at the
museum was canceled, sweetheart. I kinda forgot to tell you,” he said
nonchalantly.
The blonde stopped in her tracks, choosing between being annoyed and
letting it go. Urgency be damned. Unbuttoning her blouse, she let the silk
slip slowly, uncovering her shoulders, allowing a glimpse at the curve of
her breasts. Esteban held to his pretense of reading last minute memos. Yet
it was a bit difficult not to fixate on the creamy, smooth skin contained by
the lace of her bra, or the sensuous movement of her hips as she decided to
bend over to take off her shoe instead of kicking it hurriedly across the
room.
Esteban could do no more with that red marker of his as Marissa
unhooked her bra and slipped out of her skirt. She discovered his little
game early enough not to be vexed—she’d make him beg just to touch her.
“Come here, I know to quit while I’m ahead. I’ll say sorry before that
swing of your hips really makes me cry uncle.” He grabbed her by the arm
as she made a point of crossing in front of him with the innocent pretense of
grabbing a towel. She sat on his knees and he quickly embraced her, a
loving hand placed by her hip, another on her shoulder.
“I’ll make sure you pay for this,” Marissa said, her faux rage
culminating into a gentle brush of the lips that soon turned deeper. She
moaned softly as the fabric of his shirt brushed against her exposed skin.
Turning around, she straddled him, breaking the kiss with a smile and an
arched eyebrow as his desire was made evident.
“You know, the shower is running…”
“In all honesty…” Esteban told her while helping her out of one last
piece of clothing, “…I had other plans, but for those, we are not that late.”
She giggled against his neck, and the constant sound of the forgotten
shower dissolved into rain falling softly as gray clouds rushed toward the
hills…
 
Marissa opened her eyes. It was no surprise that they were humid with
fresh tears. She had barely slept, as the small clock on the nightstand
confirmed. It was three o’clock in the morning. The woman felt a shiver
down her spine, thinking of some folktale her mother used to tell her as a
child. There were certain strikes of the clock considered wicked. Midnight
was a time for witches, but three was the hour of restless spirits. “It is not
good to be away from home at that hour,” Adriana used to say. And now
Marissa was as far from home as she had ever been.
The light on the screen blinded her for a second as she turned on her
phone. Still no bars. Marissa felt ridiculous, childish. She had never been as
close to her mother as Esteban was. That they had just recently bonded over
Esteban’s death didn’t take away from the fact that they were not too close.
It felt awkward to want to call home. Still she murmured, “Mother, it will
please you to know I miss you miserably right now.”
Marissa got out of bed, stretching. The night creeped into the room
through an open window. Somewhere in the distance, the hoot of and owl
traveled, steady and clear, over the cacophony of night life. Crazy as it
sounded, she was suddenly possessed by the idea of joining that symphony
that gave voice to the night. The cold presence of the stars above her and
the uncertainty of a half-lit road should have persuaded her otherwise, but it
felt not only right, but necessary.
She changed into jeans and a light sweater, and when reaching for the
band to tie her hair, she was surprised not to find it at her wrist. It was
something she always kept there.
After taking the stairs to the main floor and the kitchen, Marissa opened
the fridge and helped herself to two glasses of water. She had woken up
with a parching thirst, and even after gulping down the cold liquid, it didn’t
seem to subside. Opening the kitchen door, she stepped outside, making
sure not to disturb the sleeping women above her. Marissa looked up into
Carla’s and Isabel’s rooms. Though the windowpanes were opened, neither
a light nor a stir gave a clue to the women being awake. For a moment she
was hesitant, wondering if she should venture beyond the path she had
coursed with Carla. However, earlier, when waking from her dream, as she
looked for solace, she opened the window and saw an unobstructed road
beyond the short gate. Marissa knew quite well, just by stepping outside,
she meant to follow it.
As she crossed, there was a flashlight, signaling the presence of the
perimeter guard in the distance. He must have been doing rounds around the
garages and was soon to cross into the inner courtyard. She was careful to
close the gate, leaving it undisturbed so as not to call unwelcome attention.
She kept walking toward the dock at the end of the dirt road. The
construction was sturdy, as to support the advances of the lake.
 Marissa hated water, and it being dark didn’t do much to improve it.
However, it felt imperative to hop into one of those boats and let herself
drift away with the current. The lake lured her in, and for a moment, instead
of a darkened, heavy blanket of sweet water, she thought about it as one
would a hungry animal. And yet she went for it, because she well knew that
it was all connected: her waking, the night calls, the thirst. It all led her
there and she must continue. Jumping into the boat, she tried to get hold of
the oars but a heavy sensation settled in her limbs and soon she had no other
remedy than to lay on the boat’s floor and allow that heaviness to engulf her
while she drifted.
The boat went on its own, following a silent course, and Marissa, unable
to move, just watched the stars above her. The vessel seemed to have
floated for hours on end before touching close enough to the shore. It was
only then that Marissa felt she could move again. Her desperation took over
and she jumped off the boat, running against mid-calf deep water to reach
the shore. She soon emptied the contents of her stomach on the sand. Alone
and cold on the small island in the middle of the lake, coughing and spitting
to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth, her thirst mounted. It was as
alarming as prolonged hunger. Marissa stood and looked across to the other
shore where a light moved in erratic patterns. The night guard probably
noticed the missing boat and hurried back to the house to inform Isabel and
Carla.
A voice inside her head assured her, “You must go on.”
“Esteban?” she heard herself whisper to the dark.
Marissa turned toward the fishing cabin. The door was half open and the
stench of rotting fish almost made her stomach turn again. Her eyes, already
used to the dim light of the moon, could make out several buckets of trout
and chum lying about. It seemed the fish had been left there for days. Scales
rolled off the fish skin and their heads sported eyes halfway soaked in a
gelatinous and putrid substance. Flies buzzed, freely feasting upon the
decayed.
“It is a distraction. You must go on.”
Marissa ran her fingers through her hair, nervous, but committed to work
her way through that obscured labyrinth before her. The unfamiliar hall led
to a small kitchen, and a turn to the left showed yet another door connected
to a room. Against all odds, she kept going. The weak voice in her head was
not hers at all. It didn’t make sense, but she grew convinced that Esteban
was alive and that he was right beyond that door, stowed away in that
gruesome place for God knew what reason.
Moonlight was a blessing as it shone in an angle that allowed her to take
in what was going on inside that room. Soon enough she could make out
Esteban’s features. O’Reilly rested on a twin bed, wrapped in tight, neat
white, in full contrast to the nastiness about him. The bed was centered
within a pattern quickly recognized, one she found beautiful in urn and
garden, but now looked hideous and bizarre.
The stones were taller, smooth on the surface and carved with symbols
she could not recognize. Yet she felt them humming and it took her no time
to grasp the idea that the stones were singing in an effort to keep him
anchored to that place, as if keeping him from both the realm of the living
and the dead.
She tried to touch him. Esteban’s torso and face showed signs of
hematoma and trauma. A deep gash ran down the right side of his forehead.
Marissa remembered the blood on the steering wheel and felt a knot in her
throat. Underneath the bed, a collection of flowers and moss covered the
full extension of the wooden floor: Red sunflowers, tulips of intense purple,
heliotropes of several colors mixed with rosemary, thyme, artemisia, and
white thorn ash. It was an offering of life and sweet scent to keep death at
bay. That was when she saw it clearly. The patterns in the stone created
living entities, hands tracing words upon the smooth surface. Almost
transparent in moonlight, their delicate fingers never ceased, sustaining the
life of the man on the bed.
Her need to touch him was met with a repelling force. The violent
energy made her lose balance and fall. Heat burned furious red on the tip of
her fingers.
“If for some reason they find you unworthy, count yourself lucky. Run,
Marissa! As far as you can. There’s nothing you can do for me.”
For a moment, the man on the bed seemed fully awake, turning his head
toward her. His eyes, black as pitch, blinked, and a tear, product of pain or
fear, ran down his cheek, unveiling dark patterns within his skin, runes
tattooed beneath his flesh.
The burn, provoked by white wood ash, spread viciously from her
fingertips to her elbow, and soon her arm was covered with painful yellow
blisters and white, hardened tissue. She sprinted to her feet and ran just to
stumble down the hall and fall, hitting the side of her face against the brick
borders of the archway. Blood rushed into her mouth and she swallowed,
warmth flushed her throat, and for once, that ever present thirst seemed to
dissipate. On her feet again, she rushed outside. Esteban’s voice had been
drowned in the buzzing of a thousand delicate dark wings. Trapped between
water and nightmare, Marissa saw how the dark of night exploded in tiny
fragments, taking the shape of living, breathing entities. Hundreds of
hummingbirds, black of feather, crimson in their eyes, moved about her.
The incessant strumming in her ears became a high-pitched noise and
Marissa succumbed.
“Miss Salgado, can you hear me?” Pinpoints of light traveled fast from
eye to eye, measuring response in her pupils. Marissa moved back, burying
herself in the softness of a pillow and screaming in confusion.
“Where am I?” Though she demanded to know, it was quite obvious she
was in the main house’s living room. The doctor’s white coat made him
look like yet another element of the impeccable decoration. Her last
memory was all encompassing dark, and now white overwhelmed her,
making her uncomfortable.
“You had an episode. It seemed you fainted while walking about in the
inner courtyard,” Isabel offered. Carla was sitting beside her, but Marissa
turned away from her offer of a comforting hand. She looked around,
accounting for those present in the room. The doctor, recently arrived, the
night guard sitting at the table completing some sort of report. Carla and
Isabel right beside her.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“It is three fifteen in the morning.” Carla answered.
“It’s impossible…just fifteen minutes,” she mumbled in response.
Looking at her clothes, Marissa noticed she wore her pajamas, her bare feet
humid with dew. She had been dreaming, specifically sleep walking. It was
impossible for them to know she had gone through similar situations when
she was a child. Yet something felt out of place. Her attention then turned to
the doctor.
“How did you get here so fast?”
As the man opened his mouth, Isabel quickly volunteered, “Doctor
Roberts is a dear friend of the family, and a neighbor. He was kind enough
to make a late house call.”
Roberts simply smiled, pointing to the odd combination of white coat, t-
shirt, and shorts underneath.
 “I understand your uneasiness, Marissa. Since you seem to be doing fine,
I’ll write this off as stress related, though it will make me comfortable if
you agreed to further testing. Hemoglobin, vitamin D levels, all that good
stuff.” He was kind and attentive.
Marissa gave a nod and agreed to do so.
“I’d like to call my mother, if you don’t mind,” she told Isabel before the
woman walked the doctor out.
“Sure, anything you need.” She handed Marissa the mobile, granting the
privacy she dearly wished for earlier that night.
The phone rang three or four times, enough for Marissa to almost hang
up. It felt forced and inadequate to call her mother. The days they had spent
together after Esteban’s death, well, in a matter of speaking…the death
brought them together enough. Adriana was cold and slightly detached as a
mother and it seemed she had filled her quota of affection and
understanding in a week or so.
She didn’t even make it to the wake, quoting scheduling difficulties.
Marissa knew better. As much as her mother adored Esteban, she despised
Carla and Isabel, finding herself silently judged by women who deemed
themselves of a higher moral ground.
Adriana answered, as one obliged to pick up the phone would. She didn’t
even bother to play down her laughter as the line opened. The deafening
sound of techno music told Marissa all she needed to know: her mother was
out on the hunt, looking for some young man to bring back to her place.
Marissa found her antics scandalous and slightly disgusting.
“Mariushka, darling. Is this you by any chance?”
“Indeed, Mother.”
“Is everything okay, sweetheart? You went upstate, didn’t you?” The
lessening of noise levels pointed toward her mother having the
consideration to at least leave the club to tend to the call.
“Yes. I’m at their country house. Everything is fine, but tonight I had an
episode. Doctor said I fainted; it might have been sleep walking.”
Silence, followed by a sigh. “Oh dear! Have you been eating properly?
You know, you can’t just drown your sorrows in diet cola. You need to eat
—”
“You know, I rather…everything is fine.”
“No, sweetheart, there is something else, isn’t there?”
 “This is ridiculous, Mom, but I had this vivid nightmare and I just felt
like telling you about it.”
“Children never outgrow their parents, darling. I’m happy you still
confide in me when staying with those holier than thou birds stuck on a
wire…”
Marissa had had it. Adriana always made it about herself, in this case,
about her feelings toward Esteban’s family, the need to combine it all with
her instinctual repulsion of the women. Taking a page right out of Isabel’s
manual, Marissa called her mother by her given name.
“You know what, I’m not even surprised you made this all about you and
your feelings. It only took you two minutes. I’ll leave you to your usual
hauntings. Keep the meat fresh and all. Sorry to interrupt your night,
Adriana Popescu.” She hung up. Anger somehow soothed her, made her
focus.
Isabel stepped into the kitchen and Marissa didn’t even bother to explain
herself. Giving back the mobile, she went upstairs. It must have been close
to 5:00 a.m. by then and through her window she could see the outline of
the fishing cabin, now easily distinguished. The windows were opened and
the cabin was aired out. As daylight advanced, she saw there was no extra
room, just the kitchen and a small living room with an array of delightful
wooden furniture. But now she was as tired as a body could be and her eyes
closed fast and heavy.
Carla and Isabel also went back to their rooms, but daughter didn’t
hesitate in stopping mother on her way in.
“There is something about her, Carla. Esteban’s proximity, his love for
her caused it somehow. Now I am certain. Even with the ring on her finger,
she was able to break through the illusions. I’ve never seen a mortal being
capable of doing that. Just to make sure, I’ll close the door that lies within
the cabin’s isle. Though in nightmarish visions, she accessed half a truth
and—”
“And that was all, a nightmare. Needs to be nothing more. You are
reading too much into too little,” Carla answered sternly.
“How is it too little,” Isabel questioned, allowing emerald green to slip
through her dark eyes, “when she was able to see my son, and I’m not yet
allowed to?”

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Chapter IV
 
 
The Places We All Come From
 
Ireland, 1914
 
The O’Reilly family didn’t amount to much in Ireland. They didn’t even
have strength in numbers, considering that back in the day, six or seven kids
was the average. In all honesty, their greatest achievement was enrolling ten
cousins as part of the building crew in one of the most ambitious
engineering projects ever to grace Ireland’s shipyards: the construction of a
colossal transatlantic vessel for the White Star Line. The company was
meant to excel on levels of craftsmanship, finally putting Belfast ahead of
the rest and providing the O’Reillys if not with notoriety, at least with a
steady stream of work to come. The Titanic proved there was no such thing
as the luck of the Irish.
Daniel O’Reilly gathered the last of his savings and took his kids with
him to America. They packed whatever fit in two trunks. Daniel also took a
battered missal and a bunch of raw quartz he should have left behind. But
his friend Donovan always said that God took pity on the poor and made it
a point of oversight when the needy dealt with the Devil. He had nothing to
lose. The man left the Emerald Isle in a time of peace, and while at sea, a
shot that killed an archduke echoed through the world. By the time his feet
touched Ellis Island the world was at war.
Propaganda touted that this was the conflict to end them all, but if Daniel
O’Reilly was certain of one truth, it was this: the taste for war was not
easily forgotten. As countries around the world joined a test for strength,
history dictated that the victors would never be at ease and the conquered
not entirely obliterated. Each side was about to feed their war machines in a
never-ending cycle—some to gain back their status, other to stay in power.
And so, Daniel O’Reilly joined the fight, provided with the new national
identity he acquired in America, crossing the Atlantic under stars and
stripes to fight in a continent he thought he’d never see again.
Before leaving for the front, he gave his son Nathan the best advice he
could give: “Study your numbers, ’cause you are bright, lad. When people
return from war, they usually do two things. Either they forget it, or relive
it. Those who can’t take it off their heads will fall in the never-ending circle
of loneliness and paranoia. Those who’d rather forget will come back
looking for a dream of a good woman, a house, and children. The cost of
that piece of mind is measured by whatever money they have to afford it.
We all must work, and we can’t all be our own bosses. But if you do it right,
you’ll help people make wise use of their money and find more than a bit
for yourself as well.”
 
***
 
Nathan listened to his father and became an accountant. Life wasn’t easy,
but then it was never meant to be. It took him a while, but with dedication
and commitment to the trade, the young O’Reilly made a name for himself
in the emerging world of investment banking. Nathan was, after all,
dedicated to the core. He had the upper hand on that stubborn streak
inherited from his ancestors.
When misery knocked at New York’s—and eventually the world’s—
door in 1929, Nathan O’Reilly refused to leave the city. In consequence,
whatever he had was crushed under the weight of the most disastrous
economic downturn of Western finances. He was desperate, and at any
given moment Nathan thought about returning to Ireland, holding to the
hope that bad times fared better on the other side. That was when his father
told him, “Nah, going back is not an option, son. Those who leave the Isle
incur the wrath of the good peoples and they will not be granted safe
passage back until they have forgiven and forgotten.”
Daniel, now an old man, dragged his feet to gather a bunch of quartz he
kept in a tin can. Nathan was used to seeing those trinkets. His father rolled
them like dice or placed then in little plates with cream, bread, and honey
while wishing on winning the lottery. They were a testimony to Daniel’s
contradictions. He was a man wise enough to give sound advice, yet
superstitious and given to flights of fancy. The passage of time has made it
all the worse and now what used to be private little rituals were coming out
in the open.
The son venerated his father, and if someone had a hand on the welfare
of his old man, it was undoubtedly Nathan, who stuck with him through
thick and thin. After the death of their mother, his brothers and sisters took
off to lead their own lives and hardly ever kept in touch. Nathan, however,
being the oldest, never fully let go of his father. By the time Daniel’s
physical and mental state started deteriorating it was a given his son meant
to take care of him for as long as he may live. They had never incurred a
rift, let alone a fight, but now the son looked at the father, face hinting
mockery and tongue confirming. It was a little cruel, but Nathan couldn’t
help it.
“Da, really? The world is collapsing on itself and your alternative is a
fairy quest. Believe me, if I had money to spend in fresh baked bread and
cream or milk, I wouldn’t let it go to waste on a plate.”
“Have I ever failed you, Nathan?” His father’s voiced sounded beyond
tired. Daniel was disenchanted. He had lived enough to hear ridicule and
disbelief in his son’s tone. Other people might have been used to it, but this
was too close to breaching that “honor your father” line. The old man’s face
darkened and silence took over. Though a grown man, Nathan understood
his words had done damage when it wasn’t his intention. So he put an arm
around his father’s shoulders and smiled in a conciliatory gesture.
“What I meant is there is no need for worries, Da. True, I thought about
crossing but this morning I heard of a chance as a ranch hand in Cimarron,
Oklahoma. Well, you know, we got a good set of hands, and I might as well
take it to chores as to numbers. You won’t have to do a thing, not even
whisper a prayer.”
Nathan said goodbye to his father with a couple of quick pats on the
back. He had a busy day ahead. Necessity was rampant in the city and the
economy had turned toward a policy of exchange rather than investment.
Property was measured by capacity of immediate use rather than future
dividends. A well-tailored suit was not as valuable as jeans, and a couple of
cuff links were less interesting than shovels and spades. Whatever they had
left was meant to be placed for sale in hopes to get passage to the Great
Plains.
There were few trustworthy pawnshops standing, and even those that
might have been fair were paying a pittance. Nathan had his mother’s silver
brooch, one that had survived the needs and troubles of Ireland. It was a
piece of jewelry that though simple, the son had designated a memento,
something to look back to once they reached the so-called American
Dream. The man looked at the piece with longing and a bit of sorrow.
Material things came and went in time of need, but there was a real feeling
of helplessness once someone decided to sell their history.
“That is an uncommonly attractive piece.” The man standing behind him
in line smiled while pointing at the filigree design. Nathan was a bit taken
aback—seconds before there was no one behind him. However, being close
to the corner of the street, every other turn there was someone crawling out
of a hole like a rat in search of gum. This rat, however, was exquisitely
dressed. So fine were his clothes, they seemed an insult.
“Oh, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Francis Alexander and I
am a friend of your father’s.” The man was sporting a three-piece suit, the
threaded handkerchief in his breast pocket only making it more valuable.
Abundant dark hair and a carefully trimmed beard, the evident product of
warm barbershop shaves, Mr. Alexander set himself apart from those who
needed to sweat in order to bring bread to the table.
Nathan was sure of one thing at that moment. The man lied. Since
Daniel O’Reilly stepped foot in New York City, the man had abandoned
Hell’s Kitchen only to go to war. The Irish neighborhood between 34th and
59th was inhabited by mostly blue collar workers. This man with his
expensive taste and particular demeanor seemed to be as far from his
father’s world as one could be. And yet, he couldn’t find the strength to tell
him to bugger off. There was something familiar about him, something
close to home.
“Excuse me?” Nathan managed to place all his objections in a simple
question.
“I’m a friend of a friend, so to say.” Though the man spoke softly and
with a serious tone, eyes as dark as the hair on his head seemed to smile. “I
have taken it upon myself to see to the needs of your family. And yes, I
cannot lie. I do not know your father personally; let’s say I am a
businessman who has taken a loan request on his behalf. It has been granted
after careful consideration.”
“My father asked your people for a loan?” Nathan snorted. “As of this
moment, all he has to pay you with is fairy dust and stories.”
The well-dressed man stood silent. Whatever terms were agreed upon, he
seemed to be more than satisfied with his profits in return. He shook the
unemployed accountant’s hand before giving him what seemed to be
nothing more than a velvet pouch. As he did so, Nathan noticed that
underneath his perfectly pressed white sleeve, there were black tracings, a
tattoo perhaps, that struck him as the representation of wings in flight. The
pouch felt heavy in his hand and the younger O’Reilly was careful not to
open it right there, as its contents might attract unwanted attention.
“Go home now,” said the man who called himself Francis Alexander.
“This transaction is ongoing. In time, I’ll come back for my investment.
When you are ready to give me the first of the fruits of your labor.”
If he had only vanished through thin air before his eyes, but the man
simply touched the brim of his hat and went on his way, turning at the
corner of 6th Avenue.
After making it back to the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, Nathan opened
the bag to find an assorted number of gold pieces, the smallest one the size
of the tip of his pinkie. The weight on his palm bought safe passage
anywhere, a new life, and countless possibilities.
“Da! Daaaaaa!” He found himself infected with an almost childish joy.
As he opened the door to the room, he was forced to share with his father,
the elation of the moment disappeared. Daniel O’Reilly, a year shy of
seventy, had succumbed to the weight of health complications brought
about by constant misery. The arm that hung off the side of the bed had
made the blood rush toward his hand. Purple fingers were outstretched, and
it was clear his very last effort was to reach the quartz stones he held on to
so dearly.
The undertaker came in and promised to have the body ready within a
couple of hours. It was the best he could do, and Nathan paid him dollar
upon dollar without question. The son requested to be there as the people
from the funeral home took care of his father. They said yes, as far as the
dignity of their job allowed. So it was granted that he’d stay with his father
as they carefully undressed and cleansed him. As the undertaker removed
Daniel’s shirt, Nathan could see a tattoo, recently applied, black ink setting
against quickly fading red, now a trace on bloated, and graying skin. It was
a black hummingbird, dark wings forever in motion against a circular
pattern and dots marking north, south, east, and west.
The welfare of a generation had been bought with tired blood, marked by
the decay of old age, but the Dark Heralds of Fae were not content to trade
in fading life. Unknowingly, Daniel O’Reilly set an immediate blessing
meant to become a long lasting curse. The eyes that turned to his misery,
the ears that heard his prayers, sprouted out of the dark side of his beloved
legends. A man in his desperation missed out on the elegant irony that
traveled with tales of the “good peoples”…that they were hardly ever so.
Though his father’s death was a terrible blow, after Daniel’s passing,
Nathan lived through a series of fortunate events. One after another, the
turns of his life found a true north and it all worked for the better. He had a
golden touch, and surviving the depression, his once sad intent of an
accountant firm quickly became a solid investment business. By the time he
started thinking about youth escaping his grasp, his amassed fortune started
to haunt him. More and more, he kept thinking about the man who never
showed up to collect on his interest, and it was then he really started trying
to make sense of what Alexander meant with the “first fruit of his labor.”
Eventually, he’d come to curse a thousand times over the day he took
that man’s hand in his and the moment in which, in an hour of need, he
made use of that gold and sealed a deal. But those realizations were barely
scratching the surface.
Life followed its course and in time, he married a woman he loved
dearly, keeping her in the dark about all his little secrets. By then, Nathan
had started dreaming of delicate wings, building a dark tapestry of black,
gold, and crimson, suffocating, drowning his senses with their humming
sound.
Marriage did him good, because he soon found himself focused on wife
and children. These were new tasks to keep his mind busy and superstition
free. He was a good father, an excellent husband. Having worked what was
needed, with a strong foothold in America, Nathan eventually returned to
Ireland. He had done his job and now home waited for him, to grant him
peace.
Some forty-five years after he crossed paths with a stranger in
Manhattan, his time for reckoning came in the most unexpected fashion.
 
 ***
 
It was the summer of 1977, and the O’Reillys traveled to Oxford to see
their son graduate from the prestigious university. Where Nathan had built
riches upon instinct, his progeny opted for acquiring higher education in an
effort to sustain the family’s income and stable future. Tricia, their younger
daughter, was a junior in college and had recently shown interest in an up-
and-coming businessman from Dublin who made her father really happy.
But it was Neil who was his pride and joy. His elder son had decided to
study international banking law and had a promising future looking after the
investments of the Royal Bank of Scotland. Since he was barely a boy, Neil
O’Reilly had traced the path of his life in bullet points. That was why his
parents were beyond surprised when the young man approached them
alongside a young lady they had never set eyes upon before. The woman
traveled in her mother’s company and at first sight they looked like sisters,
coinciding even in their fashion and style.
“Mother, Father,” Neil’s smile beamed, “this is Carla and Isabel
Alejandro. Isabel is attending Girton, studying literature. We met during an
exchange four months ago.”
It took Mrs. O’Reilly less than thirty seconds to understand what his son
meant: she is the one. And so, she did what was expected of any mother.
Greeting them both, she was more than eager to start a conversation with
Carla, to see what young Isabel was made of.
For Nathan it was a tad more difficult. As his son kept talking wonders
of his girlfriend, Nathan was lost in thought. He heard something about the
Alejandros being third generation Spaniards adopted by English soil…but it
was her face more than the story that kept him enthralled. Ivory skin, rosy
and generous lips, an oval face framed by raven hair, and eyes as dark. The
sight of her brought about deep buried memories.
“A…Alejandro? That is your surname? Do you happen to have family in
New York? See, once I met this dark-haired Irishman, a banker of sorts,
whose name was Francis Alexander. He had very particular features and I
can’t help seeing his face in both you and your mother. It is uncanny.”
“Sweet Lord, Dad! Isn’t it good enough that they are Catholic?” Neil
interrupted in good humor while Isabel let go of his arm to approach
Nathan.
 “Surely, Mr. O’Reilly, we might as well be. My family is vast and we
have branches all over the place.” She smiled innocently, making sure her
words, though cryptic, carried a hint of truth.
 
***
 
“I can’t believe this, Nathan O’Reilly. You will be the death of me! How
could you oppose this marriage? We have seen it coming since the first time
we laid eyes on that girl!”
His wife was genuinely irritated. Not only was Nathan opposed to Isabel
and Neil’s union, he had it in his mind to possibly disinherit his son. In an
intimate conversation with his son, he tried to drive some sense into the
young man’s intentions. He got nothing out of it. Neil had means of his own
and quickly decided to put an ocean between them, moving back to
America. After two years of silence, and for the sake of his mother, son
reconciled with father in time for a wedding invitation to be sent forth. Mrs.
O’Reilly wanted to see this through and forced her husband not only to
accept, but comply, and soon enough they were back in New York to see a
wedding take place on the first of May. She was not about to pass on her
firstborn’s wedding. They were all there to see Neil and Isabel say their
vows in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
During the reception, while bride and groom spoke to friends and family
and Mrs. O’Reilly saw to the right kind of music for the upcoming toast,
Carla Alejandro found a moment alone with Nathan.
“We are quite grateful for your presence, Mr. O’Reilly. I understand my
daughter’s relationship with your son has been a bitter pill to swallow.” The
woman held a beautifully crafted champagne flute in her hand; serving after
serving, she had nursed the golden liquid in the crystal without touching her
lips to it. She made a point not to eat at all that night. When her smile
opened up, showing teeth just enough to gleam like the edge of a knife,
Nathan O’Reilly felt he was being compelled to tell a truth.
It was madness to expose himself like that, opening his mouth and
pronouncing things that would make him the ridicule of New York’s finest,
right in the midst of a reception in the Plaza Hotel, but he had to say the
words, those which he never dared tell his wife or son for fear of being
deemed crazy.
 “You are bold indeed, and I wonder how strong was the bond of the
words between my father and yours, but you went ahead and chose this
date. And now you stand in front of me, dangling that untouched
champagne as if to mock me. It is known that your clan fasts on Beltaine.”
During those first years, Nathan crossed out his father’s beliefs as
ignorance and superstition. In time, he was convinced his fortune was a
product of hard work and chances taken. But ever since he met the
Alejandro women, the idea of debts unpaid became more plausible, and he
found himself reciting ridiculous stories from childhood about certain folk
who were just happy to look like people and live among humans. Always
trading, always thriving in the dark.
His words didn’t surprise Carla at all. For the last two years she had
played out every scene, from an intimate reveal to the threat of exposition,
and in each scenario she saw herself winning.
“Clan is such a highland word, a word meant for islands trapped between
the Northern Sea and the Atlantic. It limits us all. We’d rather use the term
family. Family is such an open idea. It implies change, adaptability, a
hundred places all over the world where one such as ourselves might rest
for years pretending to be just flesh and bone. You can only imagine how
much fun we had watching you try to steer your boy away from dark-haired
Irish girls. Did you really think us so…simple? Darling, we just don’t
belong to an island, we have reach everywhere. Beltaine, you say? On a
night like this, people all over the world start dreaming of summer. They
dance around maypoles and burn fires to dissolve a lingering fear of winter
into ashes. Ashes that once were sacred. Ash on the doorway and the skin to
keep the Fae at bay. And yes, today, the fair folk care not to eat, but
tomorrow, ravenous, we will come back, looking for a way to fill our bellies
with the first fruit of your labor.”
Carla’s hand pointed toward the table where bride and groom, now
husband and wife, sat after rounding about. One of the waiters took away
Isabel’s plate, smiling at the nervousness of a bride who had not even
touched her meal. Nathan then realized that it was not his life that had been
traded, but his son’s and the promise of his future generations.
It was then that he saw the stories for what they were, cautionary tales,
before they were sanitized and sold to the masses as enchanting stories.
 
 The sons of Fae, the fairy folk, sometimes grow worn of their weeping.
Sometimes they will need to strengthen their numbers and, sending a
beautiful maiden, call her fairy or selkie, siren or succubus, they will drag
poor souls of lovelorn men into perdition. Carefully, while ministering
something close to affection, they will drink their souls away and bear them
children—halflings with one foot in the Fae world and presence in the
other…
 
No one really knew why a father decided to ruin his child’s wedding, but
Nathan O’Reilly left the premises without saying goodbye. They looked for
him in the dance hall, and even called out his name through the speaker
system as the toast neared. People raised their glasses in his absence,
wishing joy to the married couple, and the reception went on.
It was said that Nathan simply decided to take a walk, at least that was
how it started. At first it was aimless, just catching on the changes the years
brought to the city. He asked himself, had he bet on that New York he had
seen drowning in misery, maybe he’d be walking those streets as a
completely different man. He made it to Hell’s Kitchen and read a couple of
billboards that promised renovations. Nathan smiled, celebrating the
tenacity of a city that never gave up, and he walked those streets,
reminiscent of bad old days that memory made good somehow.
He remembered things as one who lived in the city remembered them:
instances measured by the up and down of a steel staircase, blotches of oil
and inconspicuous stains, telephone booths, graffiti on the walls—all told a
story. There were even a couple of ghosts, just on the fringes of the
discerning eyes. It was a good walk and yes, he should have bet on the city.
He asked for forgiveness and those streets granted it, promising to take his
one last secret. No one could explain why, but a little before midnight,
while his family celebrated a most joyous occasion, Nathan O’Reilly found
his way to the top of his old apartment building and jumped, rushing ten
stories down before hitting concrete.

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Chapter V
 
 
Neighbors and Some Other Nuisances
 
Marissa woke up after ten o’clock in the morning. The room still looked
dark. There was inclement weather advancing. The house on the hill was
wrapped in gray, at the mercy of thick, unpredictable raindrops. It was an
odd feeling to find herself thinking, Today is not the best day to bury
Esteban’s ashes. The voice inside her head spoke in the most casual tone, as
if thinking about planting some bulbs in the garden. She thought about it
again, until it stung.
It had been less than a week and somehow she felt that Carla and Isabel
dragged her to their own pace, forcing her to visit all stages of grief in a
whirlwind. Leading her away from unbelief to acceptance in a hurry. It was
not like her at all. She needed to cry a little more, miss him, then wake up
completely forgetting that he was gone, call out his name, and…that was
her way, at least the way she thought it should be. Waking up from a
nightmare laced sleep changed her perspective about what she was meant to
do there for the weekend and what the two women who invited her to that
house expected of her. She needed space, and so did they.
Opening her bag, there was this sensation of déjà vu while sorting out
the clothes she’d wear that morning. Opting for a blue cardigan, white t-
shirt, and stonewashed jeans, she stayed away from whatever she had worn
in her mind’s eye the night before.
Downstairs, Carla and Isabel waited at the breakfast table. The three
women had tended to the chapel previously. The roses kept their perfect
velvet beauty, looking even more gorgeous as some of them opened. The
votive candles were replaced. The urn was to stay in the chapel enclosure
for at least one more day.
Though the morning had been gray, rain was winding down and there
was no sign of treacherous floods or thunder. Marissa thought about that
need for space and decided the extent of the property felt more and more
like a cage. It was a little too much to sit around that house, half empty.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to go out for air.”
“Of course.” Isabel was attentive, her smile actually reflecting in her
eyes. “I have a couple of things to do, but I’ll drive you later. We can go to
the nearby town. It is less than three miles down the road.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose, and please, don’t think me rude, but I’d
rather go by myself.”
Isabel’s smile didn’t freeze, but her voice was a little on the cross side
when she replied, “I understand,” and handed Marissa the keys to a vehicle.
“It is impossible to get lost, just follow the road south, and you’ll see a
detour on the right hand side.”
She was right. It was hard to miss. The house on the hill had an
impressive view and the town looked like a colorful pattern of squares in
the distance. The ride was short, but being at the wheel gave her a boost of
confidence somehow. Stepping out of the SUV, Marissa took in the fresh
early afternoon air. The place had a certain postcard quality to it. Old, but
neat. Fourteen streets locked in a square with the residential area toward the
outside; colorful houses made of brick and wood, with considerable yards
framed by either wrought iron or white picket fences. Episcopalian and
Catholic churches stood side by side on Main Street, as well as a couple of
stores, a cafeteria, a family practitioner’s office, and what seemed to be an
elementary school.
Marissa swallowed. Somehow her throat was parched, a lingering
feeling that kept haunting her from the night before. Walking into the
cafeteria, she was for once grateful not to be overwhelmed by a number of
choices. She read the menu. Small, medium, and large described the
possibilities for coffee with either cream or fresh milk. Tea kind of showed
up in a corner, trying to capture someone’s attention, competing with three
choices of pie.
Marissa asked for a mint infusion, which was served in a midsize mug. It
tasted freshly brewed, not microwaved in a hurry, and she was grateful for
it. It felt soothing. The waiter, who was also the owner, a man with
peppered hair and a talkative nature, approached, surprising her with a slice
of peach pie.
He told her it was on the house, but nothing was truly free. The man was
obviously exhausting all his kind senior citizen points to get some
information. The town hardly ever saw visitors except for the summer
season and he felt like talking. The luxurious SUV made him ask if she was
somehow related to the folks who owned the big mansions on the hills.
When she answered she was visiting with the O’Reillys, the man eased into
a chat.
“Ah, so you are staying up there in Innisfree.”
“You could say that.” Marissa gave in, enjoying a bite of the pie. It had
flaky crust and perfectly candied fruit. “Oh my God! This is heavenly!”
“It is good, I’d vouch for that pie any time,” the man continued. “I wish I
could say it is my recipe, but for the last couple of years, since my wife’s
arthritis took a bad turn, I have been buying from the Amish. It helps to
move things along with the local economy and it even turns up sales during
high season. You know how people are into organic stuff these days, and,
well, it doesn’t get more organic than straight from the farm. During the
summer, it is a bit of a show, and tourists like watching the deliveries.
They’ve made a form of entertainment out of it. Sometimes it gets out of
hand, especially if the local kids decide to join in. It’s a shame.”
“Guilty on all accounts. Count me as curious. I’m here for the full farm
delivery experience.” Marissa gifted the man with a smile while pointing
toward herself. She had no idea about the Amish or their schedules, but it
felt good to be part of an animated conversation for once. She had been
deeply affected by loss and longed to extend her stay in that world of
sweets, coffee, herbal teas, and casual exchanges. To be as far away as
possible from the gloomy presence of the house on the hill, that though
exquisitely built and touched with radiant color, was the saddest place she’d
ever seen. No, not sad, sad was okay, understandable. It was cold, detached,
and unpleasant while surrounded by beauty. But the topic eventually turned
to Innisfree and there was nothing she could do about it.
“So, are you staying for long up there? Sure, call me nosy, but it is
curious to see movement on the hill besides Hank doing roundabouts, and I
can’t recall a time in which Mrs. O’Reilly and her mother actually brought
in guests. Not since Mr. O’Reilly died. No one has stayed there for more
than two nights in a row since little Stephen…no, not Stephen, he had a
Spanish name, like his mother. Are you family, perhaps?”
Though Marissa liked the waiter at first, his questions felt intimate and
invasive. Of course he didn’t know the circumstances, that she could tell,
and opted for being direct as to gain back a bit of her personal space.
“His name was Esteban,” she answered dryly. “I came to the house to
accompany his mother and grandmother. He recently died in an accident
and his ashes will rest there.”
Her words had the desired effect. The man grew quiet, twisting the plaid
patterned cleaning cloth he used for the tables. He gave a solemn nod of the
head, a bit of respect toward a departed he didn’t know well.
“Damn it,” he mumbled. “What is wrong with the men in that family?
Neil O’Reilly was a decent guy who didn’t deserve to die young, and now
his son. He was not even thirty, if I recall. It is a tragedy. A darned tragedy.”
Marissa gave him a curious look. Something about the ring of his voice,
a degree of non-conformity when he spoke about Neil O’Reilly’s death,
made her think twice about the version she had heard from both Esteban
and Isabel: that Neil had passed after a chronic congenital illness that
confined him to Innisfree for a couple of years before the inevitable came
knocking.
“Were you friends?” Her interest was suddenly piqued, and the old man
seemed willing to keep talking.
“As much as one can be friends with the folks who live up there. I used
to bring over fishing supplies and groceries when needed. Once a week,
we’d try to go for a catch. He was a nice man as I said, and he kept his own
counsel most of the time. When he stayed up there, he hardly talked to
anyone but me. Decent fellow, but if you are friends with the ladies, then
you oughta know.”
This time it was the waiter who rushed into closing the conversation. He
turned on his heels, pretending to have heard someone ask for a menu at
another table, and didn’t come back to check on her again. The quick,
almost disdainful way in which he spit a reference to Carla and Isabel didn’t
go unnoticed by Marissa, but conscious of being a stranger, she decided not
to press for more.
Marissa finished her pastry and stalled, waiting for the promised Amish.
She didn’t stay in the cafeteria, but rather went about town, discovering
what the thrift shop had to offer and even roaming a bit in the hardware
store, buying a roll of brightly colored duct tape to justify her presence.
Feeling it was not time to go back to the house just yet, she sat quietly on
the empty swing set adjacent to the school yard, watching the gray drift in
the distance, opening once again to the bluest of skies.
There were others, outsiders like her, driving around, parking close to
the general store. A woman clad in wide glasses that preserved anonymity
checked her cell phone; it probably doubled as a shopping list, or perhaps
she didn’t feel like granting thirty seconds of eye contact to the world
around her. Marissa thought it funny if the latter were to be the case. It
seemed the people of this town were gallant enough to concede a space
without the need to generate drama.
The carts painted black announced the Amish. The farmers, members of
a religious order who wore austere clothes that made them look as though
they were jumping out of the page of a history book, stepped out of their
vehicles in silence and started unloading beautifully embroidered
bedspreads, fruit preserves, and half a case of those delicious pies so as to
comply with the demand of the cafeteria. Though closed to the world, the
Amish enjoyed these moments of exchange with their “English” neighbors,
a term they used to identify all non-Amish.
They were lovely people, quite given to lend a hand as far as their
religious restrictions allowed, and people respected their privacy and creed.
The declining economy had opened them even more to the community as
they became intertwined with the cycle of supply and demand in the little
upstate town. Though the adult locals were already used to them, teenagers
were another matter. They itched to try their cell phone cameras, making
the bearded men feel uncomfortable, forcing them to walk together, as if
protecting their youngest members from curious eyes.
The owner of the cafeteria popped his head out from the establishment’s
door with an angry frown. He asked, well, rather demanded with almost
paternal authority, that the young ones stop bothering the Amish, trying to
take their picture. After shooing them away, he turned toward Marissa, who
happened to be sitting on one of the wooden benches outside the cafeteria,
and picked up the conversation he had interrupted as if no time had gone by
at all.
“These are the best pies I’ve ever sold in my life. If any of these little
good for nothings ever make the Amish cancel their business, I’ll hang
them by their feet like rabbits. Is it too much to ask for a bit of
consideration? These are good people, but a little backward in their
thinking. They don’t like when people take pictures of them…something
about not offending God with recreating images. My father said something
about them being afraid of losing their souls to a frame. A little too literal if
you ask me, but it hurts nobody. Whatever rocks their boat, as long as the
pies keep coming, huh.”
Marissa thought about what she saw Isabel doing back in the house on
Long Island, and it sorted itself out. It seemed the Amish were not the only
ones worried about things haunting their reflection. It struck her as odd that
forward thinking women such as Carla and Isabel could follow such
superstitions.
“Hallo, Engels…Hello, English.” It was the privilege of old people and
children to bend the rules of order and religious conviction. A little Amish
boy, no older than nine years old, dressed customarily in a long-sleeved
shirt, dark pants with suspenders, and wide-brimmed hat, extended his
hand, greeting both the blonde woman and the old man.
“Hey, Malachi. Does your father know you are here? Are you running
into trouble again, boy?” The gray-haired man who owned the coffee shop
patted the boy’s head and the little one answered.
“Father said to keep away from those boys, and they are gone. So I am
not being disobedient.”
“Good boy. I’ll go tend to your pops now. Coming?”
“Neh. I think I’ll stay, Mr. Evans.” The kid sat on the nearby bench, and
after giving Marissa a toothy grin, kept talking. He found it easy enough to
relate to the blonde, gray-eyed woman who although close to her mid-
twenties, had enough of a girl in her as to make the shy boy feel
comfortable.
“My name is Malachi, but my friends call me Mal.”
“Hi, Mal, my name’s Mary.”
“You don’t look like a Mary, English.” The boy looked at her eye to eye
and Marissa noticed a deformation of the pupil that made it look as if the
almost turquoise blue of his eyes had met with a blotch of ink the color of
mud brick. That eye seemed to be looking right through her, guessing at her
half-truths.
“My name is Marissa. Sometimes people call me Mary,” she rectified.
“Yes, but never your friends,” the child replied.
“You are right…I guess.”
 “Marissa, Marissa…” the little boy repeated. He was not committing the
name to memory, but rather trying to remember something. His brows
knitted and he flared his freckled nose. “Two very bad nightmares call you
out at night. One has been with you since you were born. The other you are
just getting to know.”
“Mal!” His father’s voice made the boy react.
Jumping to his feet, he turned toward his elder, while Marissa stood
there, eyes wide, not quite reacting yet to what the kid told her. On top of
that, the kid was quick to answer in a confusing Pennsylvania Dutch. “Maar
vader, ik heb het visioen, it moet harr helpen.”
Marissa had taken some German in high school, but the years made her
rusty and it was impossible to make out anything besides the word “father.”
“Excuse my child,” the father interceded, pushing Malachi gently as to
lead him away.
Marissa was on her feet, asking them to stop and talk to her, but they
kept going, ignoring her. That is until the boy, careless of his father’s
mandate, turned about and met her once again. Digging deep in his pocket,
the boy handed her a rounded object that Marissa thought to be a keychain
at first. It was a round iron piece slightly larger than a quarter in diameter.
Iron craftsmanship carefully painted showed a white horse over a field of
concentric circles of roses in bloom. At several points some of the red roses
were painted black—two black flowers to the west, one marking north,
three to the east, two south, in a pattern that seemed to repeat itself with
eerie familiarity…
 
***
 
On their way back to their farm, the Amish drove their horse-drawn
buggies at the edge of the road, mindful of oncoming traffic.
“You must warn your child, Isaac, otherwise we will have to bring this
incident to the council.” The elder was emphatic with Malachi’s father.
“I am sorry,” the boy’s father answered the older man. “Malachi has a
gift for vision, but he has not yet learned the discipline needed to apply it.”
He then called out to the boy in a loving voice, knowing that Malachi was
both scared and mortified.
In his mind, he had done nothing wrong that would cause his father
grief, and trying to make the adults understand, he repeated what he told
them earlier in Dutch so as not to scare the beautiful blonde girl.
“I don’t understand, Father. I thought that the mission of those with the
gift is to help the needy. She needs help. Soulless monsters are after her.”
Malachi looked at his father, his mismatched eyes looking for a satisfying
answer.
“Mal,” his father’s voice was tender, as was the touch upon his shoulder,
“you will grow to understand your gift. For now, be content to know that
our world and that of the English is different. When it comes to evil,
sometimes they throw themselves in, dragged by the need to see their
desires fulfilled, without a care. Sometimes they are born under
generational curses, victims of the stupidity and pride of those who set a
path before them, and sometimes…they carry it in their blood. Your gift, a
warning, or that hex mark you gave her, won’t help the likes of her. You
outdid yourself by giving her the talisman. Now it is up to her to understand
its meaning by instinct, though I think she’ll end up discarding it so as not
to harm herself.”
They kept silent from there on, and soon enough, Malachi was sound
asleep on his father’s lap. The elder, while driving the cart, had thoughts of
his own. He was to speak to the council, try to convince them to stop
making business in the town with the big white house on top of the hill. It
was better to face need than to expose their brothers and sisters to such
evils.

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Chapter VI
 
 
Adriana Popescu
 
Most people quoted a particular reason for leaving their native land and
adopting another country. Those who chose to become expatriates usually
claimed economics as the main force behind their choice.
Adriana Popescu was inclined to say, whenever the subject came up, that
the reason she moved to America and eventually relocated to New York
was merely to satisfy her lust. It was a studied answer, designed to trigger a
response, be it surprise or disgust. These types of emotions were hard to
conceal and she’d measure the reaction of whomever she had been speaking
to in order to determine whether or not that person deserved to hear the
whole story. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, the real
reason stayed with her.
Her father, now dead, used to say with great disgust that Adriana was
born hungry, and that she could never control that impulse to feed her
needs. Adriana hardly ever thought of her father, but there were days in
which she’d remember him in the context of their journey together. He was
part of her nightmares, along with the smell of salty wood barely kept
together and the sway of the ship that brought them to their new home. She
counted herself lucky to have survived her own bets, thinking more than
once that the vessel would sink to the bottom of the ocean before
completing the journey from the Mediterranean into the Atlantic. After all,
she had suffered, along with her father, the terrible worry of succumbing to
the might of the sea, paralyzed by fear—this was the only instance they
ever bonded.
Port after port, they faced rough currents and tempests, until it was time
to reach their final destination. Less than rats, they were. At least rodents
had an alternative. They simply held on to the wooden boxes that doubled
as luggage, stowed away in the cargo area, more dead than they were alive.
Adriana had come into her own alone. Her father, Pappa Popescu, was
forced to take care of her, but he never allowed her to feel something other
than a necessary evil of sorts. Her mother, whose name she’d rather never
mention, loved her in her own way, as one accepted a gift for which one’s
been deemed unworthy. Precious as gold she was, but her mother always
cared for her more with a sense of duty than anything else. She knew the
consequences of failing to instruct Adriana in her responsibilities as a
daughter could bring dire consequences. Eventually, her mother died,
failing miserably; her father made sure to remind her so. That sorry woman
left this world while crossing from Bulgaria toward the Greek border. They
didn’t even mark her grave. They were people on the run, traveling by night
as to avoid questions, hurrying to escape the fierce persecution of men on
horseback.
They had no time for ceremonies. Adriana just recalled her mother as a
pale, shivering piece of flesh, barely keeping strength, and sanity, by a
thread. The woman was submissive enough so as not to dare die without
Pappa Popescu being present, and, after saying goodbye to her husband, she
hardly had the will to embrace her daughter. So, silently, almost
imploringly, she held out her arms to Adriana.
“Mother…” The woman who gave her life was nothing more than a
husk, shaky as a leaf exposed to forceful winds; it didn’t matter much that
the night was humid and hot as a circle of hell. Still, she trembled. Her skin,
bloated, sticky, and feverish, smelled of blood as it trickled from ulcerated
cuts on her body. She had sacrificed too much to end like that. Adriana
wanted to hug her, sing one of the many lullabies she had learned from her,
return in kind her attention over the years. The girl wanted to dote on the
dying woman, help her to forget the nightmares that had become constant
and so vivid they were impossible to cope with.
But her father, a hard man, just reminded her, “Fata prostata—” Pappa
Popescu found every opportunity to call her a stupid girl “—we must
continue. That ship will not wait for us. Your mother is saying her goodbyes
and you want to keep her here; selfish as you have always been. Say
goodbye and see she dies in peace. It is more than what I can guarantee for
you or me if we end up in the hands of those damned hunters.”
The man spat on the floor, blood and saliva touched the ground.
“Pappa, we can bury her. We can use one of the boxes.” Adriana raised a
scrawny arm to one of the four boxes they carried. The wood smelled of
humid earth and a bit of decay, but it was better than leaving her mother
curled up like a dead dog under an olive tree. It was the human thing to do,
what she deserved. The man simply grabbed Adriana by the shoulder and,
digging his nails deep in her flesh, pushed her toward her agonizing mother.
Adriana swore he’d pay for the years of abuse that found a pinnacle in
what he made her do that night. Holding onto her mother, the blonde girl
kissed the dying woman’s cheeks, closing her eyes, burying her tearstained
face in the curve of her neck, sobbing. She took all her mother had left to
give, even the cold that crept through her skin. Adriana Popescu said
goodbye to her humanity that night when her mother was no more.
No one…no one could ever give her back what she lost that evening. Not
the lovers who would eventually cross her path, or the man who held her
down enough to marry her, change her name, and give her a daughter.
Whenever Marissa, curious about Adriana’s side of the family asked her
about them, she simply answered, “Mariushka, I don’t speak about the
dead. It all happened eons ago if you ask me. They are no longer here and I
don’t even remember their faces. We are here for the now, sweetheart. My
bridges are all burned, and I don’t like turning ashes.”
Adriana lied. About everything, to everyone. It was something she had
grown used to. She remembered all those moments. Every goddamned day,
and most of all, the nights that brought her the freedom she so craved.
While her family, originally from Romania, came to America to live in
the Eastern European enclave of Kingston, New Jersey, the girl with
platinum hair and curious green eyes decided to explore livelier places.
It took her an eternity for her figure to start showing signs of puberty, but
when the time finally came, there was no doubt she had the right curves in
all the right places. Her wiry frame filled out quite nicely and her legs, long
and shapely, became quite an attribute. Heavy yet wide waves of platinum
hair fell halfway down her back. In time, people became curious about her,
talking in whispers, trying to figure out why her father kept her to himself,
isolated from her peers. Pappa Popescu had no other remedy than to allow
Adriana some leeway, so as to keep gossip and nosy neighbors out of their
business.
Adriana was quick to take a chance. For years, she remembered no more
than the terrible feeling of hopelessness that assailed her when the sun
peeked through her window. She hated the march of days, subdued to her
father’s will. Once she could distance herself from Pappa Popescu, even a
bit, the young woman decided to move to New York City with some
friends.
Freedom was limited, as even in the distance she belonged to her father.
Her friends, though close to her in age and taste, were not really her own.
They were people carefully chosen to help her father keep track of every
move she made. The community paid respect to Popescu, following rules
no one spoke of and yet were enforced in a land far away from their place
of birth.
At first she was sad. Pappa opened the door to her cage, yet made sure to
clip her wings, but New York made her confidence grow. Soon enough, she
was the best of girls by day while at night, her precious, unsupervised time
was spent on 42nd Street. She discovered that it was easy to convince bar
patrons that she didn’t only belong, but deserved to be there. Somehow, the
compelling nature of her voice and those green eyes that sparkled in her
oval face charmed those she allowed into her circle to do her bidding. It was
easy to ask, and even easier to receive certain attentions; gifts that included
money and jewels, things that she stashed away and saved, waiting for a
chance to really run.
She had to work, just like all of them did, and Adriana soon found a way
to make connections outside of her close-knit community. That, and her
nightly excursions were things she managed carefully, as notes on her
progress where sent to Pappa on a weekly basis and a monthly visit was
required, as to tend to his needs.
Her father was harsh and never measured words. Why should he? It
wasn’t like he cared to weigh his actions against others either. During one
of her visits, he plainly told her that if he were to catch her doing
something, anything out of the ordinary as to expose them both, he would
gladly drive a dagger in her heart until blood congealed, sticky and
blackened.
Adriana had seen enough in Romania, and in her mother’s eyes, to
testify for the veracity of that statement. He might even revel in it,
maddened as her father was. His favorite phrase, one he concocted by
quoting from the Bible and his own paranoia, was something along the lines
of, “It is quite reasonable to see one die to protect the many in times that
call for common sense amongst men and monsters.”
Adriana always asked herself which one her father was—man or beast.
Pappa Popescu seemed to scorn all the so-called freedoms of this new
world. He cherished anonymity and never really rested, looking over his
shoulder, drowning in his madness. But he was her father, in more ways
than one. Pappa had his daughter safely held to the ground, as pinned with
an iron bar.
The daughter had to comply with her family’s demands, and that was
why she got herself a job at a restaurant near the train station on 30th
Avenue. She was well liked, even had a couple of tricks up her sleeve that
kept the costumers coming. For example, it was customary of her to commit
all to memory, letting go of pen and booklet. The platinum blonde never
failed, no matter how big the party or how many items people ordered off
the menu; quick service and a smile were guaranteed. She never forgot a
face or a name, making her regulars feel important. After all, most of these
people spent their lives being nothing but a number in a productivity report.
It was her business to make them feel at home.
And because she enjoyed memorizing names and faces, one day, Adriana
discovered two particular clients, men who would become entangled in her
life in different measures. Both met at the restaurant’s bar every Thursday
afternoon. One of them, tall with gorgeous thick and wavy dark brown hair,
olive skin, and mischievous green eyes, sat in a relaxed manner, body
forward, hands firmly holding onto his drink. Sometimes he’d order white
wine, which he’d never taste. But dipping his finger in the clear liquid and
running it on the edge of the glass, the man seemed entertained with making
the crystal sing a tune of sorts. Adriana found this odd and distracting. The
green-eyed man was the only one who made her grab paper and pen; just
because he managed to throw her off, it didn’t mean she’d give in and
return to ask him once more about his order.
“One of these days,” he said with a smile, “you’ll write your phone
number on a napkin and I will be able to show my friend that I am every bit
as good as I say.”
He had a cocky smile, but still enchanting enough to get Adriana
thinking about the possibilities. His game was interrupted by his
companion, who was obviously embarrassed by his forwardness. The other
man simply held onto his coffee or whiskey with white knuckles.
“Bastian, if you were to be so kind as to flirt on your own time, I’d be
more than grateful,” his friend mumbled.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Adriana clicked her tongue and then bit her lip in half a
smile. “I guess we are even now. I have a name. I bet I can get your number
faster than you’ll find out mine.” And she simply walked away, allowing
her coquettish walk to answer any other questions.
It was a game she loved to play, but Adriana knew better. It was in her
nature to pay attention to detail and never let herself go. The last thing she
wanted was to draw unwanted attention. A nice enough stranger might find
himself suddenly thrown into the ring with her father and his never-ending
cycle of blood and violence. Though everything dictated she should keep
away, her curiosity got the best of her eventually.
Thursday after Thursday those two men came to her section of the
restaurant and ordered mostly drinks. She knew for a fact that the dark-
haired one wouldn’t sit in any place else, and that he paid in advance to
reserve his table of choice; while the other one, the tall, copper-haired one,
though indifferent, at the end played along. It told her that copper needed of
brown, and not the other way around.
In a couple of weeks, she got their full names. The ever worried one was
Neil O’Reilly, a man who kept to himself but couldn’t help if his face
showed up once in a while in a business column. Adriana was delighted in
testing her fact-finding skills. One down, one to go. O’Reilly’s friend
troubled her. She couldn’t find out much, even after the man confided his
nickname: Bastian. She even followed them once, granting their coming
and goings outside of Astoria might lend some clues. It was not difficult.
The city had a hundred streets, and out of her work uniform, clad in winter
clothes, Adriana could be just any other girl. And if they ever noticed, well,
she could rely on that silver tongue of hers to convince them their encounter
was nothing if not casual. In the end, she discovered that her dark-haired
obsession, the playboy who tipped heavily, was called Sebastian Salgado,
and that confident disposition that was borderline arrogant came via his
Portuguese ancestry. There was no such thing as a well-kept secret.
It is a bad thing to pretend to outshine them all…Saint Sebastian, not in
your line of work, Adriana thought, amusing herself. After all, she was quite
sure the man was not the Wall Street type he pretended to be. Finance guys
didn’t come for drinks at Astoria. That was a fact. What was painfully
obvious, though, was that the man who accompanied Bastian in his
incursions on 30th Avenue was a legitimate businessman. Neil O’Reilly
held onto his whiskey or coffee as though by partaking, he could be granted
access to Queens. His leather shoes alone could afford a month’s salary for
some of the patrons of her corner restaurant. Curious indeed. Neil was a
man willing to walk lengthy distances to keep a secret meeting, and that
was enough for Adriana to draw a line.
She decided not to bother him, though that meant not crossing Bastian as
well. She’d leave them be, watching their theater unfold. Better to make up
stories for those mysterious drinking buddies than to lose them altogether.
She found them entertaining, and fun was hard to come by.

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Chapter VII
 
 
Neil O’Reilly
 
The autumn of 1983 was not one Neil O’Reilly thought about fondly.
His mother died the previous summer and by the time leaves started to fall
from the trees, he had also lost all connection with his sister, Tricia.
Looking back, he could say the terrible turns of events started on his
wedding night, a year prior.
His honeymoon was interrupted by terrible, unexpected news: his father
had committed suicide the night of the reception. Police officers knocked at
his Plaza suite, as Isabel and Neil were getting ready to check out and catch
an airport shuttle. Their sober stances and grim demeanor spoke of bad
news before they even verified if he was, in fact, Nathan O’Reilly’s next of
kin.
The decision to stay was immediate and Isabel stood by his mother’s
side, the newlywed comforting the recently widowed, as it was expected.
He had married well; Isabel was a good woman. As his wife took his
mother’s hands in hers and calmed her with soothing words, the widow
O’Reilly grounded her relationship with the young woman, and soon, even
Tricia, her own daughter, was not enough for the grieving widow. She did
away with her almost completely as Isabel became her rock. Neil’s sister
complained about it, just to receive quite a dry response from her brother.
“Am I wrong, or are you complaining about my wife’s gentleness?
Tricia, I won’t even take this into consideration because you too are hurt. It
has been months, all right, but Dad died, and it was not just any good old
death. You must be as overwhelmed by it as I am, even more. That is just
us, now imagine Mom. She will take time to heal. So let’s leave this for
another day.”
“I will not be dismissed, Neil.” Tricia was as resolute as ever to make a
case of it. “That woman and her mother are like black birds, smothering
Ma. It is not good for her to grieve all day the way she does, and all they
seem to do is push her further into it. They have no right to keep her away
from us all, and those drapes in the room and on the mirrors…it is morbid.”
“I see Mother every day, and so will you if you decide to stay. She is just
spending time with me now. When she is ready, she will go back to Ireland,
and that’ll be it.”
“And I wish I could stay here, brother, but that wo—” Tricia decided to
switch tone mid-sentence as Neil’s stare became intense. “Isabel, sometimes
she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention and it is not
even…she looks cross and…hungry, as if craving something she can’t quite
have.”
Tricia didn’t mean to use those words, as it was not her intention to
touch her belly, unconsciously protective of the child she carried, being four
months pregnant, but her words were not lost on Neil.
“This conversation is over, Tricia! I’ll give it to you, you are pregnant
and nervous and hormonal and whatever it is that you women go through. I
get it, you would like Mother to be with you, and you will have your way
because, married or not, you are still a spoiled little brat. So guess what,
take Mom with you, go back to Dublin with your husband. Something tells
me he grants you to come here every two months or so because he just can’t
stand you. Do whatever you want, but if you ever want to visit my house
again, you will ask for my wife’s forgiveness.”
Tricia left for Ireland the next day. Mrs. O’Reilly didn’t go with her. She
told her daughter to give her a couple more months, promising she’d be
back in Dublin for the birth of her grandson. Neil’s younger sister never
told her about the rift with her brother, but the calls grew scarce, and when
she contacted the O’Reilly household in New York, she never crossed
words with her brother or her sister-in-law.
The said couple of months went by and as generations of O’Reilly men
before him, Neil lost himself in matters of work, so as to ignore the
situation brewing at home. When his mother asked to return to Ireland, the
son felt terrible about it. The time spent in New York didn’t do her any
good at all. His mother looked beaten, stricken down, sickened with an
ailment that affected not only her body, but her character as well. She
became silent, sadder, and more defeated than he thought she’d ever allow
herself to be.
Neil’s mother had some sort of affliction that was eating at her from the
inside. As she crossed the Atlantic, she developed a fever that made her
skin burn for six years, until the day she died. The woman became
delirious, and in moments of clarity, she’d summon Tricia to her room and
recount vivid dreams about a man with dark hair and even darker eyes and
pale skin that acted as a mask for his real face. She’d tell her about gardens
blooming at night and dangerous ivy creeping through the walls, draining
the flowers of their lively color while they slept, cradled between their
leaves. Her vision was haunted by beautiful creatures with terrible smiles
and the hum of fine black feathers.
Mother O’Reilly died the last day of summer, as Tricia thought it wise to
take her out into the yard to make the best of one more precious day in the
sun. Her daughter found her crumpled in her seat, her tea cold and
untouched.
As Tricia touched her dead mother’s cheek, she seemed warm, even if
for a moment. The fever that possessed her, unknown in origin, kept her
skin clammy and cold. When her daughter parted her from the scarf she
wore almost daily, she noticed three small marks on the base of her neck.
Tiny pokes grew infected before her very eyes, turning an angry red and
suppurating greenish mucus before settling into the gray expected of dead
tissue. Whatever had been killing her for six years finally showed its face.
Neil had been following his mother’s condition, and when he received
that final, dry and cold call from Tricia, he knew it was completely done as
far as his sister was concerned.
The death of his mother tore apart everything they still had in common,
and now all they had was distance and quite different lifestyles between
them. During the years of his mother’s convalescence, Neil visited his
mother twice, always in Isabel’s company. Though he was free to see the
ailing woman, his sister was never there, leaving him in the company of
nurses and caretakers to fill him in. Now Tricia didn’t even have to do that.
Neil didn’t even get to meet his nephews. At first it was painful, but
eventually, it was all displaced as Isabel became the center of all his
attentions.
  
***
 
The O’Reillys of Manhattan had been married for six years. Right before
the vows it was determined that Isabel would be a housewife, as she
suggested her priority was to have children. Neil was happy with that and
never doubted being able to provide for as many sons and daughters as they
might conceive, but children never came. He saw her mounting distress and
neither social engagements nor the prospect of joining the workforce
seemed to please her as Isabel became fixated on that one goal.
Neil suggested specialists that she’d agree to visit and then wouldn’t
commit to. It was odd, taking into consideration that he quickly settled into
the idea of it being just the two of them while she hadn’t. One afternoon,
while on the terrace of their Madison Avenue apartment, Neil thought of
suggesting something he deemed natural, yet it developed into an angry
argument that changed the course of his marriage in a most definite way.
“Isabel, sweetheart. It hurts me to see you this way, so aggravated by
something that it is out of our hands. Though I understand not all women
see children as something necessary, it is obvious to me that you count
yourself as empty without a child. Would you take into consideration
adoption? With our position and solvency, it won’t be a problem at all. We
could open our home to a child within just a couple of months.”
His wife didn’t allow him to finish. Just moments before, she was
serving a cup of wine, a nice merlot for Neil, as they usually did after
dinner, and then in seconds she was taken by such fury that she smashed the
carafe through the crystal table.
“My blood! My blood, or none at all!” she screamed, as if possessed,
while her husband rushed to her aid. Isabel had opened a deep gash in her
arm when it slid through the table’s glass top. Neil turned the woman’s arm
up to try to contain the blood that had started running freely, staining sleeve
and floor in quick, thick drops.
The sun was quickly setting behind the artificial range of skyscrapers,
and whatever was left of light shone in right angles. Half of Isabel’s face
was cloaked in shadows while her other half was bathed in golden, dying
light. Her eyes, usually dark brown, gleamed with emerald green.
“What the hell?” Neil let go of her arm to hold her by the shoulders,
shaking her roughly. His own fear made him forget about what he thought
was her distress. “What was that, Isabel? What happened to your eyes?
Answer me!”
His wife just blinked and that evil gleam was lost to her eyes, which now
were opened wide, dark and fearful. Raising her hands, she showed then to
be blood stained, but without a sign of an open wound.
“What are you talking about?” Her voice rang with concern and the
slight tremor of fear. “For the love of God, Neil, you have a cut in your
arm!”
O’Reilly knew something was wrong, and for precious seconds he tried
to hold on to his reality, but it quickly dissipated and a new memory took its
place…Isabel screamed, and so did he, and he was the one who took the
carafe off her hands, violently hitting the table, pushing through the glass.
It was his fault, his savage exchange…his loss of control…
“I…I….” He noticed Isabel was okay, a little startled, but all right. It was
his arm that was cut, though not as severely as one might have thought for
the amount of blood on glass and floor.
He was about to apologize, but as he turned, confused, trying to piece
together what brought their argument to such a violent conclusion, he saw
the green glow in his wife’s eyes once again for the briefest moment, right
before it dissipated from her reflection on the terrace glass door.
That night, he decided to sleep in the guest room. Isabel tended to his
cut, which needed a couple of butterfly stitches, but she did so in silence,
and he didn’t feel like bringing it up.
He didn’t want to hear her version of what happened for fear of listening
to, word by word, a description of the alternate memory that struggled to
get hold of his conscious self. And for once, his wife didn’t want delve into
what happened, opting for a quick forgive and forget.
The cut on his arm burned, and though it was not deep, he woke up
several times through the night to find the bandage humid as three
persistent droplets kept staining through the gauze.
It must have been close to three o’clock in the morning when Isabel
opened the door. Neil was awake, but feigning a drowsy, heavy movement,
he turned on his back, eyes closed.
“I know you are awake.” And suddenly, to Neil’s perception, this was
not just a lucky guess from his wife. For a moment, he had the creeping
certainty that she could hear his heartbeat, make out the flutter of his
eyelids and the cold sweat running from the base of his neck down his
shoulders. He knew it was no use to keep silent and ignore her. She
approached, no need to turn on the light, and lay beside him.
Her delicate fingers danced, playing with his hair, breaking the cold
fever that started to engulf him. All about her brought him in—the soft
kisses right behind his earlobe, the coolness of her night gown against his
skin, arms that found their way to his chest, caressing, finding the way to
his heart.
She continued unveiling her desire for him as he, becoming tormented,
tried to wrap his head around what happened earlier that evening. The fever
never altered his mindset completely, he didn’t quite forget it all.
Conflicting images flashed through his memory. And though his body
answered her claim involuntarily, his panicked mind tried to recall if all the
decisions he had made since he met her were truly his.
It was impossible to pretend he was asleep. Isabel asked him to turn and
face her and he did. He heard her voice in the dark, interrupted enough to
draw a smile between words. His wife then pronounced something that
would have made him the happiest of men, had he heard it a day before.
“I am sorry, love. The argument was blown out of proportion. I was
intransigent and you…well, you were volatile. I was hurt, thinking that you
might have spoken to strangers about frustrations that are just mine to bear.
I lost sense of it all, and worse, I ruined the surprise.” She kissed his face
gently, knowing that he wouldn’t allow himself to turn passionate, not yet at
least. And it was okay. “Neil, sweetheart. My mother is coming in a couple
of days. I need her to stay with us for a while. You see…she will come in
handy because…because I will have a child.”
I will have a child. The declaration excluded him. He had been used and
quickly discarded. As Isabel pressed for that second kiss, Neil was lost in
her scent and kissed her as she wanted him to. Lost in the luscious
invitation of her lips. His life was drained like nectar by the woman who,
until that night, had pretended to be his loving wife.

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter VIII
 
 
The Rose Garden
 
Marissa exhaled, frustrated. Her mother was a peculiar creature who
seemed to have brought her into this world in order to cross out an event on
her own journey. For years she had been keeping her away, and now it
bothered her to feel like Adriana had anything to give her, even if only
words to make her feel better.
 
“Your mother is not that terrible,” Esteban used to tell her whenever the
drama between the two bled over into their domestic life. “It is a matter of
perspective. What you call vulgar and insufferable, I’d call her staple
extravagance. Sure, she is territorial and slightly aggressive and you’d love
to send her packing. Guess what? That’s the cross of the only child. I should
know. You have been sailing against the current for twenty odd years and
here I am, the dreaded boyfriend…and Adriana loves me. Why? ’Cause I
get her, and leave her room to breathe.”
Esteban used to say this while laughing at her outbursts, but it was
nothing short of the truth. Her mother was partial to Esteban in a way she
had never seen Adriana behave toward any other. Marissa was jealous, for
all the right reasons. It was evident that her mother and Esteban’s
relationship was purely on the filial side. He came to be the child Adriana
wished for herself and she fixed it by merely congratulating Marissa on a
great catch, as if Esteban were a rainbow trout.
 She tried to keep him away from Adriana as much as she could. Knowing
all about her mother, Marissa was privy to aspects of the gregarious forty-
something from Queens she’d rather keep in the dark.
Sometimes she tried to explain it to Esteban, but it was so easy to slip
into self-ridicule when one worked around metaphors about moths and
flames. So she’d rather have him call her irrational at worst, silly at best. It
was a lot better than delving into secrets not meant to be shared.
Now that he was dead, Esteban was no better than a what if. Though she
loved him dearly, Adriana didn’t even go to his funeral. It had nothing to do
with her dislike of Isabel, whom she had met but once, and briefly. It had to
do with death itself; Adriana hated when a situation had no foreseeable
remedy.
When Marissa had knocked on her door, teary-eyed and broken, her
mother shook her by the shoulders and coldly asked, “Mariushka, are you
completely sure that he is dead?”
Her daughter simply nodded, and it was not until then that Adriana
embraced her, kissing the top of her head like when she was but a child.
Nothing much was said or done. Her mother served her a tall glass of ice
water while she decanted some more red thick spirit into a glass of her own
and took her time drinking it. Adriana’s face was grim. She drank to honor
the drink and no more…
 
The guard at the gate pulled her from recent memories.
“Miss Salgado. How nice to see you. I feel a bit responsible for you, so
how are you doing?”
“Much better…Hank?”
The man nodded, touching the brim of his hat. “Nice to know, ma’am.
I’ll see you upon your return to the city. Mrs. O’Reilly relieved me from my
position for the rest of your stay. Just make sure all the alarms are set. The
property is usually quiet and folks are nice in these parts, but you know,
being secluded and all, you can’t count on all being civil.”
“This dismissal had nothing to do with me, right?” Marissa was a little
mortified, remembering how hostile she had been against both guard and
doctor the night before.
“Oh! Not at all. It is a regular thing. I usually stay around for the first
night and then take my leave. Mrs. O’Reilly is quite fond of her privacy. As
I said, have a good one, and I’ll see you around.”
 Marissa waved goodbye to the guard, and after parking the SUV, walked
to the back of the house to meet Carla and Isabel. The sky was overcast and
gray, rumbling with the promise of thunder. It had been drizzling since
midday and the heavy rains of early morning were soon to make a
comeback.
Carla and Isabel were standing at the dock that led to the fishing cabin.
The water beat furiously against the trestles, white foam against wood.
Trouble was brewing on the lake, echoing the skies above.
This time, mother and daughter were dressed in different fashions, which
they didn’t usually do in public. Carla kept what was expected of mourning
clothes, wearing a black long-sleeved blouse and charcoal pants. Esteban’s
grandmother was demure in her style. Even in the heights of summer, she’d
wear those long sleeves, sealing her wrists.
Isabel, however, shocked Marissa beyond words. Underneath the cloudy
sky that made blueish-gray almost contagious, the widow O’Reilly looked
radiant and youthful. Her face, makeup free, in which Marissa expected to
see signs of middle age, was lacking of lines that defined expression. Dark
circles under the eyes, an affliction due to lack of sleep that even Marissa
had suffered from lately, were gone. Isabel spoke to her mother, amused,
laughing, even, completely undisturbed. The breeze coming from the lake
uncovered streaks of blue and violet in her dark hair. She wore tight jeans
and a form fitting red blouse. Her hands seemed dipped in blood.
Marissa blinked, giving herself a second to take it all in while the
women, surprised by her arrival, waved and walked toward her.
Isabel’s hands were not bleeding; she was carrying rose petals. Carla
carried a bunch of stems, carefully bundled so as to avoid the thorns. There
were silky crimson petals on the dock, like stains, and even more in the
water, dancing along at the lake’s whim.
“We didn’t know when you’d be back, so I decided to commemorate
some of the dead.” As she grew close to Marissa and kissed her cheek, the
young woman noticed Isabel’s hair, though black, was lacking of the shine
she swore was there just minutes before, and the youthful appearance
proved to be masterfully applied fragrant concealer and base. The festive
clothes, however, were still there and the woman simply explained.
“This day is not for Esteban, but for Neil. My husband had a unique
philosophy about life, perhaps because his conditions kept him from taking
part of it at the pace he would have loved. He hated funeral colors.”
 Marissa revised for the second time that day the conflicting information
she kept receiving about Neil O’Reilly.
This was a man she never knew, as he died when Esteban was merely a
toddler and the subject was never brought up. Now she started wondering if
it was okay to ask questions, to measure the man afflicted by several
chronic diseases against the man who, though a private individual, seemed
the picture of health and enjoyed fishing excursions. Both Esteban and the
women insisted that Neil O’Reilly could barely make it out of a rocking
chair on his best days.
“But don’t stay there, come!” Isabel called her with a hand gesture,
inviting her to trek across the garden while letting her know they were
about to show her a part of the house that not all had access to.
“We’ll show you where Esteban will be laid to rest,” Carla explained.
“The house, as we explained back in Long Island, has special markings for
the family.”
They walked in a line diagonally across the outer yard that connected to
the dock, where a narrow cobblestone path connected to a second garden.
While the rest of the property was carefully kept with seasonal and trimmed
hedges, that second garden to the east was a place of natural beauty. A
wooden arch, exquisitely carved and old enough to be confused with stone
in both color and consistency, marked the entrance.
A sweet, almost fruity smell that spoke of spring clung to the air,
impervious to the threat of stormy weather. Small flowers the color of wine
peeked through what was left of grassy patches. To those who knew nothing
about gardening, those delicate flowers might seem beautiful, but they
marked the presence of a weed that eventually would grow stronger.
Marissa knew that because Adriana loved to stumble upon those little
crimson petal grievances, as few as they were in the city, and pull them out
with gusto.
Cobblestones soon disappeared into a dirt road. The path was uneven,
broken by large, flat standing rocks they had to work their way around.
There was a small pond with a few reeds sticking out, having survived the
winter. Though the greenery was exuberant, there was an uncomfortable
silence when it came to fauna. Not even a bird chirped or a squirrel ran
about. It was as if living things ran away from there.
It was not really a cemetery, but there were markers in designated spaces
arranged in a circle, and Marissa could easily make out the already familiar
pattern. North, south, east, and west, points in a spherical plane. Each
marker had its own rose bush: red for Neil, white for Nathan and Daniel,
whose ashes had been brought to a final rest on the property, an open space,
no roses yet, marked the designated spot for Esteban’s ashes, while at the
southernmost point, the furthest marker, sheltered by yellow button roses,
an inscription in cursive read Evelyn.
Isabel kneeled in front of the marker, tracing each letter with her
perfectly manicured nails. She recited a prayer that escaped Marissa. Carla
also repeated the words in a tongue that sounded ancient and melodic. A
breeze from the south cleared the last of stray leaves, clearing the garden
from whatever natural debris the early rains left behind. The amulet burned
against Marissa’s thigh, making her react in surprise to the sudden change
of temperature. Sneaking her hand into her pocket, she looked for the
trinket Malachi had given her, finding it cool to the touch again.
“I guess Esteban never mentioned it. Evelyn was just another name to
him, an unknown relative brought here to her final rest, but you see…this is
the second child of mine I consecrate onto the earth. It is more than a
mother can bear.” Isabel looked directly at Marissa. Her voice faltered.
The young woman was at a loss for words. Her eyes strayed to the
marble marker, gray veins ran across the smooth surface. Chiseled in silver,
right above the name, an image of a little girl adorned the marker. As if
captured in motion, the girl hugged her legs restrictively and rested her head
against her knees. Two delicate wings sprouted from her back, brittle
butterfly wings with tones of lilac growing into indigo. It was a devastating
art concept, a winged creature that had given up, finding herself bound to
Earth for eternity.
“How come he never knew?” Marissa found the idea of not knowing
about a sibling inconceivable.
“Isabel was nothing short of practical.” Carla saw fit to answer. “When
Evelyn died it was so traumatic for Neil that he suppressed it all, and the
girl was never mentioned again. Those were hard times. It all happened
before Esteban was born.”
Marissa felt terrible, for once she didn’t know what to do. It was either
stay there awkwardly, sharing something that felt like Carla and Isabel’s
affair, or leave and seem uninterested and cold. She felt pulled to extremes
by these women who opened doors into their lives and then closed them in
her face with their heavy silences. She waited for them to say something,
eyes on the ground. The longest five minutes went by, and since the women
decided not to let her in, Marissa gently touched Carla’s sleeve, letting her
know without words that she planned to return to the house. Carla nodded
in approval and Marissa just placed her hand on Isabel’s shoulder to let her
know as well. The widow O’Reilly never lifted her eyes from the marker.
The young woman went back through the trail. In the distance, the
promise of heavy rains had been fulfilled and soon it would be upon
Innisfree. On the other side of the fence that marked the properties, a couple
of horses ran wildly, while two men, also on horseback, tried to round them
up. She recognized one of the men as Doctor Roberts, who had seen after
her the night before. The doctor caught her looking and, motioning her to
stop, trotted his horse to the fence while the other man guided the strays to
the stables.
“Hi there! I came by this morning to check on you and Mrs. O’Reilly
told me you were feeling up to par, even went exploring downtown. Nice to
know my prescription served you well. Sometimes giving the mind a rest
from stress does wonders for the body.”
“Leaving all stress behind in a time like this is a difficult thing to ask for,
doctor. But at least your remedy didn’t pump me full of medications. Better
to walk it off than to sleep it off. But let’s talk about you. The cowboy look
suits you.”
Marissa smiled widely. The doctor was warm and kind, and old enough
not to trick himself into thinking she might be flirting, so he just smiled
back, pointing at his clothes.
“One of these days you’ll be fortunate to see me in practice clothes. Ha!
You like horses? Then you must come by before you leave for the city.” He
pointed to a huge house northeast from where they were standing and
Marissa realized the doctor held at least double the land as the family with
the house on the hill. “Though I can’t promise you they will be docile
enough to ride. Those two have been acting weird for the last couple of
days. Not even half an hour ago, they broke out of the stables. Usually,
when there is a storm, they look for shelter, but it seems this time around
they want to cut lose. Fortunately, Candy here is a no-nonsense girl,” he
said, caressing the neck of his mare.
The doctor got closer to the fence to allow Marissa to appreciate the
animal, a beautiful dark chocolate mare with a thick, heavy mane. The
woman caressed the side of the horse’s head and then placed her hand on
the whiter star-shaped mark on its forehead. Within seconds, the animal
took a step back, neighing, scared, flaring its nostrils. Raising to its hind
quarters, the animal kicked against the fence, forcing Marissa to move.
Doctor Roberts was quick, regaining control of the animal, holding its
reins tightly. Though he was able to distract the animal from focusing on
the fence and perhaps damaging itself, he had to let it go. The mare trotted
along, keeping steady at a safe distance, some twenty feet from the fence.
Loyalty for its master helped the equine trump fear.
“I’m really sorry, Marissa. I feel like an idiot. I just told you the horses
have been behaving erratically and next thing I do is allow you to get close
to one. Candy is used to me I guess; your presence might have triggered
something. I’m solely responsible. Are you okay?” The doctor offered to
come around and check on her. Pain in her face was obvious even though
the fence had kept her safe from the mare’s kick.
“It’s okay, doctor. Just a scare. It’s starting to rain…gotta go.”
She turned on her heels and ran toward the house. By the time Marissa
reached the stairs she was limping. The steps were a pain to get through.
When she reached her room, she didn’t even bother to close the door behind
her before taking off her pants. The intense pain had nothing to do with the
horse, not directly. The hex mark Malachi had given her burned through her
skin, almost boring a hole. When she removed it, a slice of peeled off skin,
very much like the effect of heavy sunburn, came off along with it as well.
Marissa examined her skin carefully. It was cracked, with white edges
against angry reds, and it felt like a hot poker had just gone through her
thigh. She kicked the amulet and dodged around the pile of clothes to close
the door. Turning on the shower, she let the water run cold. The burn looked
to be at least third degree, eating through several layers of skin, but being
away from the discerning horse and the amulet reversed the effect.
Water ran, placating the heat that seared through her body, purging
through that oozing burn. Eventually, the burn became a thick layer of
tissue on top of restored skin and she was able to scrape it away and let it
disappear down the drain.
Marissa excused herself from dinner that evening and stayed secluded in
her room. She didn’t sleep much. As her fingers found their way to where
just hours before there had been a deep, painful burn, she found only
smooth skin. Marissa clenched her teeth and cursed her mother.
OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter IX
 
 
Neil In The Past, Adriana In The Present
 
Toward March of 1984, Neil O’Reilly’s life had taken an unexpected
turn. Carla arrived within hours of Isabel announcing her pregnancy. His
wife’s mother was not shy about making herself comfortable. Soon, the
apartment on Madison Avenue was altered and adapted to meet both
women’s extravagant demands.
For starters, mother and daughter required more staff. Isabel kept from
doing chores as her pregnancy was declared high risk. The new employees
were hired and paid for their discretion as well as their skills. They scurried
around the household almost unseen and never expressed their opinion,
which Neil found a little bit unnerving.
As far as doctor’s appointments, they were met in a rigorous schedule,
however, Neil only spoke to said specialist over the phone. O’Reilly didn’t
get to meet the doctor, whom his wife visited sometimes twice a month.
Isabel became apprehensive to the point of crying whenever he offered to
escort her, relying on her mother for such things. More than once she
mentioned that birth was a woman’s business. It seemed that underneath the
independent façade, the women were quite superstitious about certain
subjects.
Carla was adamant about it. She insisted that gestation was something
the father shouldn’t bother with. Isabel, on her part, grew sick, pale, and
agitated when in her husband’s presence—all attributed to hormonal
changes. At first Neil was relentless about it. After all, it was also his child,
his first, and he had the right to…but then, all too easily, he conceded. The
thought was still on his mind, but each passing day it grew less urgent.
Some other demands became his priority. Isabel requested an expansion that
required the rearrangement of rooms and new construction. Apparently, the
apartment on Madison was too small for her new interests.
So it was determined the place was to go through several renovations.
Both women agreed that the mother-to-be needed to keep away from the
agitated feeling of the city, and the terrace was adapted to become a
greenhouse. Quick and efficient, the blue print that called for glass walls
and wood beams was soon functional. It was a delicate plan to follow. The
designers advised that the use of iron for support was not only easier,
concept wise, but would turn out to be quite affordable. O’Reilly told them
not to worry about money, as he was willing to cover it all to meet his
wife’s specifications. Isabel made it clear that she was not having iron
anywhere near the greenhouse, not even at the supports, even if it was kept
from sight.
It was decided that the wood for the project had to be cypress, cut in
wide beams and covered in delicate chiseled patterns that merged into life
like impressions on wood. There were hills linked together until their shape
was lost against the horizon, lakes with turbulent waters crashing against
rocks upon a shore. A paradise in tones of cream and brown.
Flowers with sweet scents and colorful shades bloomed, protected by the
controlled temperature within glass walls. There were also pale night
blooms and other exotics. Deleterious, fragile petals that hid stamens loaded
with poison. As expected, the presence of greenery attracted birds. Robins
and sparrows, larks and jays fluttered about, seduced by the inviting
branches. Once a day, the women opened a small window that allowed the
birds in, as if to enrich their little garden with their presence. Carla and
Isabel were happy with their project—a wonderful, balanced microcosm, an
oasis of sorts, in the middle of the city.
In a short time, though, the birds started to resent their new found home,
and just like Neil, they took to avoiding that greenhouse. Those who that
trapped between those glass walls at sundown didn’t see the light of day.
One of those rushed mornings, after forgetting some paperwork back
home, Neil returned to the apartment at an unfamiliar hour. It must have
been close to ten. The apartment was empty of house help, probably
running chores for either of the women. Upon hearing echoes of voices in
the sun room, Neil decided not just to step in and out, but to quickly check
on Isabel. What he saw both enthralled and disgusted him.
Oblivious to his presence, the women chatted away while a couple of
ravens feasted at their feet, tearing into the body of a dead blue jay, their
beaks touched with red as they had been enjoying spoils for a while.
To his horror, Neil soon remembered that crows and ravens ate carrion,
therefore, it fell on Carla and Isabel to snap the tender necks of the smaller
birds to give the big ones more dead meat to calm their hunger. Apparently,
they started their profoundly disturbing work early in the morning, as
several carcasses of smaller animals were sprawled upon the floor and a
line of ants had found something to entertain themselves with.
Right then and there, Neil reproached them both, anxious to hear an
explanation…but hours afterward it was hard for him to remember what felt
so out of place about the scene. All he recalled was being slightly
uncomfortable and a tad angry, and Carla placing her hand on his shoulder,
telling him something that sounded quite irrational but somehow found a
way into his brain.
“These are customs of the old country. You must allow it.” His mother-
in-law was serene and matter-of-fact about everything said. “They might
not be lending an ear, neutral as they are when it comes to us, but since it
was very hard for Isabel to conceive, this is done to gain the favor of the
Mor-rioghain.”
Neil tried to rationalize that his wife was suffering some sort of disorder
brought about by the pregnancy and that her mother indulged her with
stories and superstition to make her feel at ease. At the same time, he
couldn’t shake the feeling that whenever he spoke to Carla, things seemed
to slip from his grasp—he was either quick to comply or to forget. That was
why he decided to make quick notes as soon as he finished speaking with
either woman. A few hours later he looked at a paper, puzzled. He
transcribed the word phonetically in order to read it out loud and grasp its
meaning.
Of course, he had heard the word Morrigan in literature when in college.
Spirits of the air, women akin to valkyries who roamed the battlefield,
carrying the souls of warriors to their final resting place. They were dark
figures, half clad in warrior’s leather, and upon their shoulders, the ever
ominous presence of a corvine bird. In a more feminine aspect, they
presided over child birth within clan and royal houses. Kings were born and
crowns were lost in the shadow of their wings.
It was crazy talk, ridiculous impossibilities, but that image made him
relive fears that little by little snuck under his skin. Sometimes he’d wake
up agitated, bringing dark eyes from his nightmares into the waking world
around him, convinced that the life contained in his wife’s womb marked
his own demise.
Isabel’s beauty and her soothing words erased those nightmarish
premonitions and revelations. But in time, a feeling of apprehension started
to creep in. He reached out to a renowned psychiatrist in the city.
Doctor Bauer had been a friend of his father’s for a short while in their
youth, and Neil simply reconnected, confident that old friendships would go
above and beyond patient confidentiality agreements. And so, later that day,
Neil found himself in Bauer’s office, the man in front of him taking notes of
his every word. Once in a while he would suggest an exercise, a way to
connect his fears to something closer to reality.
“And what about the dreams, doctor? There are moments in which I
can’t tell if something happened in my sleep or I’ve been through it. I saw
something this morning, something in the greenhouse. But as the morning
went by, I could no longer recall if it was something that really happened. I
remember returning home to pick up some papers. Everything up to
reaching the living room is clear and crisp in my mind, and then…it all
becomes hazy until I got back to the office.”
“Okay, has anybody else noticed these odd patterns of behavior in your
wife and mother-in-law?” The psychiatrist kept scribbling on his notepad,
but his eyes darted toward Neil, whose face was under the stress of trying to
conjure a memory—lips sealed and eyebrows frowned.
“No one. I’d have asked the service personnel, if that’s what you mean.”
Frustrated, O’Reilly combed his fingers through his auburn hair.
“Mr. O’Reilly, we can only assume that stress is making your dreams
bleed into your reality and making you prone to panic attacks. Our friend
said it best—” the doctor pointed towards a picture of Freud on the wall “—
dreams are a legitimate path to the unconscious. Let’s talk about recent
events. We have been seeing each other since Nathan’s death. I was at your
wedding, invited by your father. I know the unexpected turn of events that
night touched all present, myself included, at a deep personal level. You still
have issues of guilt over your father’s death, as you relate his decision to
commit suicide to your union with Isabel. The arrival of your mother-in-law
reminds you of your own lacking extended family. Both your parents are
dead. At an unconscious level, you might resent that Isabel has someone to
rely on, other than yourself. Now Isabel has both mother and son and you
are excluding yourself from that equation. Do I even need to mention that
you, too, feel in part responsible for your mother’s demise and have
extended that guilt to your wife as well? Your parents died due to reasons
beyond your control, Mr. O’Reilly. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
Bauer smiled tentatively, probing, Neil seemed to have come to terms
with a couple of points. The stress on his face had diminished and now his
features relaxed once again. When Neil contacted him requesting his
professional services, the doctor had his doubts. Bauer’s relationship with
Nathan had been turbulent at best, and the elder O’Reilly’s death had
brought about memories the psychiatrist would rather keep buried. But he
felt it was his obligation; he owed his friend to see to the well-being of his
son.
Each session gave him a better glimpse of his patient and the doctor had
grown confident that in this case, it was nothing but the product of an
overactive work schedule and stress. However, the man had decided to
divorce himself from his patient. He knew too much about the O’Reilly
family at a deep, personal level. He couldn’t compromise himself with Neil
to the same degree he had with Nathan. He had done what was required; the
young man was, within it all, all right. The next step would be to convince
him to accept the care of another professional to avoid a conflict of interest.
Whatever favor Bauer felt he owed Nathan, was paid for.
“And so, Mr. O’Reilly, I have been thinking that since we have
established your condition as…” Bauer stopped. A second before, Neil was
making eye contact, listening actively, and now, his eyes looked vacant and
his body went beyond relaxed—he slumped in the chair as if he had no
control over posture. Neil brought a hand to his mouth and then let it slip, as
if the hand itself had been moved by the pressure of an incoming secret
about to part from his lips.
“Mor-rioghain. Morrigan. The battlefield is drenched in blood and The
Phantom Queens once took pity on the Dark Heralds of Fae. They opened
the doors to the secrets of all dying and allowed them to fly in, to take their
last living breath. Sure, the blackbirds still carry the souls of the dead, but
the humming birds, though indignant, also have their share…”
 “Neil! Neil!” Doctor Bauer’s palm tapping on his cheek made him return
from his altered state.
O’Reilly jumped back, scared, remembering where he had been
moments before…
 
He was in a field of endless green. It was cold, enough to pull up his
collar and bury his hands deep in his pockets. The sun was hiding behind
the hills in a hurry, bathing the mounds in a golden hue before dark set in.
And then they came. At first Neil thought the sound of their wings was the
setting breeze and he closed his eyes, until he felt the touch of a thousand
feathers that made his body tremble and ache wherever they grazed.
 
Another quick slap and he was completely back in the office. Bauer had
lost a great deal of his dignity and composure. The doctor looked nothing
short of a frightened old man. And the situation soon slipped from urgent to
embarrassing.
“Neil,” the psychiatrist kept invading his personal space, “can you repeat
what you just said?”
The businessman brought his arms up, to indicate to Bauer that he didn’t
feel comfortable with the man being so near him. Straightening, Neil took a
deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose to regain focus before
opening his eyes and speaking.
“I’m perfectly alright, doctor, just got a bit of wind knocked out of me
for a moment. I…I think our time is done. I…I’ll see you next week then.”
“No. No. No.” Bauer repeated himself more out of fright than for the
need of emphasis. “That will not be the case.”
His hands were still trembling when the man grabbed a piece of paper
from his notebook and scribbled a telephone number, handing it to Neil. He
looked at O’Reilly and after grimacing, opted to let go of the required
professionalism of his approach.
“Neil, I knew your father for quite a long time, could even call him a
friend. It all took a turn toward the professional with the death of your
grandfather. What I’ll tell you is not ethical at all, as I am not supposed to
discuss clients, but I guess my being a professional and all I’ve done for
you will be put to the test once you dial that number. So, screw it. I started
treating your father for what I thought was a looming psychosis taking hold.
He suffered hallucinations, paranoia, and delirium, all derived, just like in
your case, from a deep sense of guilt. Your father and I were friends, and I
should have known better than to try to tackle it all on a professional level.
There were things I knew that clouded my judgement and I am not about to
do the same here. Tell me…have you ever heard of a Francis Alexander in
relation to your father?”
“Not really.” Neil was quick to answer. “Well, except for…I don’t know
if it is important enough. I might not even have remembered this if my
father hadn’t died. But the first time I introduced my wife’s family, my
father made a connection with that Alexander person you mention. My
wife’s maiden name is Alejandro. She is a third generation Londoner with a
family that has roots in Spain, but my father insisted on making a
connection with an Irishman he met once in New York. Not much more was
said, but I think his dislike for both Isabel and Carla started right then. What
does this have to do with anything?”
“Everything, I am afraid,” Bauer answered, defeated. “Mr. O’Reilly, I
don’t want to commit the same mistakes I did with your father. There are
things I’d rather not involve myself with again, things that might
compromise my status as a healthcare giver. Our professional relationship
ends today.”
“Just like that?” Neil’s temper rose. He snorted, frustrated, and hit the
doctor’s desk with an open palm. “You just started a whole lot of nonsense,
only to kick me out the door. I want an explanation. And a damn good one,
while you are at it!”
Bauer’s secretary opened the door, using a careful voice. “Doctor, your
next appointment has just arrived.” It was her way of asking if everything
was all right.
The woman scanned the office, looking for signs of a scuffle, ready to
place a call to emergency services if needed. Both men understood it.
Neil soon gathered his composure and the doctor simply replied, “We
still need a few minutes. Thank you, Trudy.” Turning toward Neil, Bauer
said, “The telephone number I gave you is for the type of professional you
require. Take that as my last bit of advice, Mr. O’Reilly. This session is
over. Have a good afternoon.”
Neil turned on his heels and left without another word.
A couple of minutes later, Doctor Bauer opened the door between his
office and reception just a sliver, knowing quite well there was no such
thing as another appointment that afternoon. He looked at his secretary and
let her know she could take the rest of the afternoon off.
“Are you sure, doctor? That last patient looked agitated. Wouldn’t it be
better if I stayed?”
“And what could you do, dear?” The psychiatrist chuckled. He didn’t
mean to, but she was barely out of college, and to his eyes, still a girl. “If he
comes back to kill someone, let it be me. In time, you’ll learn to recognize
tantrums thrown by rich boys. Nothing to worry about, as I said.”
“You reach your funny peak when patronizing, doctor.” The woman
picked up her stuff. She knew better than to get into an argument over
nothing. As she left, though, it was made sure that the door was locked
behind her.
Bauer stepped out of his own office and sat at the secretarial desk, the
waiting room empty before him. Without hesitation, he opened the top
drawer of Trudy’s desk, finding a pack of menthol cigarettes. For once he
was grateful for her unhealthy habits. Taking one out of the pack, he lighted
it up and took a deep drag.
Being a man of the world implied getting to know people from all walks
of life. Bauer met Nathan O’Reilly in the mid-1940s. He had recently
completed studies and joined a medical office downtown as an intern.
Nathan, already a reputed accountant, kept the administrative and
investment part of the business, as the practice was looking into expanding
to the Tri-State Area.
They made fast friends, being close in age. Once in a while, Nathan,
always outgoing and dotted with a great sense of humor, served as his
wingman. Eventually, and between beers, things slipped. Nathan told the
young doctor details about his life that the man couldn’t help but look at
with a clinical eye.
Bauer knew Nathan enough to become his confidant, and one late
autumn afternoon, his friend showed up at his door with one of those of
those favors that become heavy burdens.
“I need you to come with me, Louis.” Nathan was shaky, to the point
that it was hard for his legs to keep him steady. Since the moment he laid
eyes on him, Bauer knew whatever he had to say or show would amount to
no good, but he followed, nevertheless.
“If you don’t tell me what is going on within the next five minutes,
Nathan, I’m stepping out at the next station.”
 After telling him they were going to the East Village, Nathan shut up.
The man sat in the subway car, eyes fixed on the floor and hands in fists.
Bauer didn’t leave him after the empty threat, the just kept going until 14th
Street, north of the East Village. As they stepped out of the car, Nathan felt
confident to speak again.
“This is something I never thought I’d do, Louis, but I was out of my
mind for a bit. See, I saw him again, Francis Alexander. You know the man
I told you about, the one who gave me the gold. Well, he told me to meet
him in one of those building that is marked for demolition here at the
Village.”
“And?” Bauer inquired, already fearing the answer. They had crossed the
square, on their way to an apartment complex that had been closed down
for quite a while and was not considered the safest place in town. He
followed Nathan thorough shady alleys abandoned by jazz and into the
forgotten fixed-rent complex.
Huge red Xs were spray painted on the doors, warning the public about
the closed, unstable building that was soon to be razed. Bauer was sure that
nothing good was to come from their impromptu tour of the city. Soon they
found themselves in one of those apartments—the doors had been removed,
but the windows were shut, so light came in filtered through thin slits and
dust particles danced everywhere. There was a body on the floor and Bauer
knew exactly whose body it was. Francis Alexander lay dead, his crisp blue
shirt stained red after being stabbed in the thorax.
Bauer got close, keeping in mind a dead person was a game changer. He
treaded lightly, careful not to affect the scene. Nathan explained that the
argument that had ended in violence happened within the last hour or so.
The corpse looked older, like that of someone who had spent days in the
sun, strangely dehydrated. Blood had drained through the wound and
towards the lower extremities as expected, but Bauer also noticed another
striking detail. There were dark patterns underneath the skin. Spirals that
showed no interruption became darker, more defined, as they connected
flawlessly to the visible tattooed ink on his arms that started somewhere
below the elbow and closed around the wrist.
“Tell me that you can see it…his real face.”
Bauer then understood that Nathan had not brought him there to serve as
an accomplice, but to rule out that he was ever wrong or crazy about his
notions of the man who lay dead at their feet.
 “Whatever I see or not, it is not relevant, Nathan. You have put us both at
risk by returning to the scene. You’ll need to turn yourself in. If he pulled
the knife on you first…I am assuming this can be worked out somehow. We
just need to think of a good lawyer.”
Bauer took a deep breath and exhaled through his lips, almost hissing.
His perceptions about Nathan had been blinded by friendship. He never
though in a thousand years Nathan to be capable of violence. What else was
unforeseen about his friend?
“I’ll go with you, Nathan. We will contact a lawyer on our way to the
precinct. There’s a police station between Bleecker and Hudson. Reporting
this somewhere else might only increase the illusion of culpability.”
The Sixth Greenwich Precinct was a hole in the wall on 10th Street, with
no more than ten active agents who worked their beat, preventing one or
another escalation and bar scuffles. When Bauer and O’Reilly walked
through the door, the officer at the desk looked at them with an amused grin
while announcing to those around him, “Well, boys, it looks like we are
running a white collar special today. What can we do for you, gentlemen?”
Both men were rendered mute when they heard a voice across the room.
“Officer, this is the man I am complaining about. Nathan O’Reilly.”
Bauer had to hold Nathan to keep him from hitting the floor. Standing in
front of them was Francis Alexander. He still had the same clothes. The
elegant light blue shirt, once stained by red pools of blood and grime,
looked perfectly tailored and pressed, combined with dark slacks. The man
who just minutes before looked like a mummified corpse, looked at both of
them with an arched brow and a self-satisfied grin that the police officer
didn’t notice.
“Are you sure, Mr. Alexander? This is the man who threatened your life?
We can work on a restriction order, but looking at the fella here, I guess
work will be double. He looks more scared of you than you of him. Since
we are all here, why don’t we give words a try? After all, there has been no
major damage.”
Bauer nodded on behalf of Nathan and after requesting to be present as
well, the officer escorted the three men into a room. Though they were
given privacy, a police officer waited by the door, ready to intervene in case
a new confrontation.
The exchange was brief, as Francis Alexander was the only one to speak.
The door was not even completely closed when he started, the man sure his
words would be heard. Ignoring O’ Reilly, who looked nothing short of
catatonic at the moment, the dark-haired man spoke to Bauer directly.
“Nathan will forget because I want him to. But you, my friend, will
remember for both, and if you value this man’s life at all, you will not
trigger anything that might bring about this incident again. Nothing
happened here but a brief verbal aggression between strangers. Just another
day in the city.”
Francis Alexander turned to leave, not bothering to obtain even a nod
from Bauer. Knocking softly on the door, the officer answered and let him
go, as he didn’t want to press charges. Nathan did the same. By the time
they got back on the subway, O’Reilly was apologizing profusely to his
friend for dragging him into an unnecessary incident. As the subway
stopped at the station near Madison, the man didn’t even remember the
name of the guy he had an argument with, and Bauer had grown
uncomfortably silent.
The problem with being a man of science was the inability to process
certain events that were divorced from the habitual. What happened that
afternoon led Bauer to a constant search, knocking on doors he never knew
existed. He was relentless, as he was with the challenges presented by his
chosen profession. The fear for his life and that of his friend kept him away
from O’Reilly, and Nathan, although oblivious to all, also drove a wedge
between them. In less than two months the man had decided to return to
Ireland. And that was it for them, they had become acquaintances, separated
by distance and lifestyles.
But Bauer never gave up. Volume after volume of lore, conversation
after conversation, he soon found himself part of a world that defied all
logic and made him lead a double life. Years had passed and the Dark
Heralds of Fae were brought to his attention once again. He didn’t know if
it was on purpose—he couldn’t tell if Neil was as much a puppet as his
father was and was being used him to warn Bauer of scores pending to be
settled. After all, a secret was best kept when one of the two was dead.
He finished one cigarette and started another. Bauer thought about the
friends he had made while indulging in that second life of his. The experts
to whom he had trusted Neil’s well-being. “You are a good man, Louis,”
they’d told him. “You have done the right thing. If Nathan O’Reilly is dead,
let’s hope this generational curse ends with him, as years have gone by
without further harm. But if it starts again, and it might, then Neil needs to
come to us.”
“Come on boy,” the man wished while inhaling nicotine and mint. “Dial
that number.”
He looked at his watch. It was close to six. The psychiatrist took paper to
pen and scribbled some lines before tossing the note in the nearby trashcan.
Trudy lived in Brooklyn, and if she went straight home, she’d be there
already. It was better to dial, for her sake.
“Hello,” a female voice answered on the other end of the line.
“Trudy?”
“Doctor, what can I do for you?”
“I took a couple of cigarettes from your drawer. It is a terrible habit,
young lady, leave it already.”
“Okay, Doc. Besides your usual need to mind my business…what’s up?
Everything all right?”
Ah, he’d miss that spark and sass.
“Nothing much, except I have decided to take some time off. I need you
to cancel my appointments.”
“For the rest of the week?”
“Make it for the coming three months.”
“What? Are you insane?”
“No, dear.” Bauer looked at his reflection in the desk’s glass. “I’ve
grown old and a bit tired.”
Trudy tried to interrupt him. After being assured twice that it had nothing
to do with the patient outburst that afternoon, the secretary insisted he
couldn’t leave without discussing it over a cup of coffee. She was quick to
say she’d be on her way back to the office immediately.
“Hey, hey. If you hang up, you’ll miss out on what I have to say, and
besides, what is your plan, Trudy? Are you going to lay me on the couch
and convince me it is somehow my mother’s fault? That is my job, dear.
Listen, you will get as good a recommendation letter as they come and a
nice liquidation package. Six months sounds good. Let’s put it this way, I’ll
set it up so you can do whatever you want, except work for me.”
Bauer hung up, promising that coffee over the weekend, knowing it was
the best way to ensure she wouldn’t call back with more questions. He took
the stairs, after all it was just three flights, and the echo of his footsteps was
a lot better than the dreaded elevator music.
 Outside, the smog of the city had rushed in and the skyscrapers blended
with the gray dome above them. It was as neat as a New York sunset could
get, with tones of pink and orange dissolving into darkness, and no chance
for stars. For many, that might have been the picture of desolation, but
Bauer was born in the city. He was grateful for gray skies and elusive
corners. Walking forward, the man knew exactly how and where to
disappear.
 
***
 
Queens, Present Day
 
Adriana woke up a little after midday, irritated. Outside, the city was as
noisy as ever. Through her window, she could see an impressive traffic jam
with yellow cabs and buses leading the way. Surely some politician had
decided to make a speech downtown. Someone important enough to
sacrifice peace of mind by setting alternate traffic routes for everybody else
in Astoria. The R and N Lines were bursting at the seams. It was better not
to go out.
She opened the fridge, frowning in disgust at an old container of Chinese
food that was quickly tossed away. There was nothing she’d like to eat.
More than anything she was thirsty, so she filled a wide glass with ice and
poured some water. Marissa kept haunting her waking hours. She had
dreamt about her. Just minutes before opening her eyes, Adriana heard her
daughter’s voice clearly saying, “Damn you, Adriana Popescu,” and the
blonde woman couldn’t help thinking this whole damning one another to
hell was a respected family tradition. All the Popescu generations had
somehow cursed the ones before at some point.
Adriana didn’t reach the level of apathy her father had for his progeny,
but she saw over Marissa’s upbringing from afar. Whenever they had to
share anything beyond the ordinary, it was brief and on a need-to-know
basis. That was, ironically, the only way to keep her daughter close.
Adriana was afraid that letting her in too much might lead to Marissa
crossing her out of her life completely. For a woman like Adriana Popescu,
family implied a contract of sorts, an extended protection until it was
inevitably dictated people should go their own way.
 Across from her, a picture of Bastian Salgado kept a memory frozen in
time; a man in his late twenties, embracing her as they both sat against the
base of the stone lions on the library at the corner of 5th and 42nd. The
Adriana who smiled, secure in his arms, had not changed a bit in twenty-six
years. She had tricks to hide her true appearance, ways to make people
oblivious to the fact that she looked more like Marissa’s sister than mother.
Tricks her life depended on. She found herself drifting back to her father,
who hated all about her, even her ever present youth. He called her half-
breed, a hybrid, some disobedient abomination who inherited all the powers
and none of the deterrents of their kind. Her father never stopped showing
resentment toward her. In time, she understood it might have been fear.
“You are wrong, Pappa,” Adriana told the phantom in her mind’s eye.
“Some of us might not bend to the thirst, but there are things that can quite
expose us, kill us, even. Memories, for one.”
“Hey, baby.” The young man’s voice startled her for a second.
“I’m not your babe.” She was quick to answer the stranger she had
dragged from a club somewhere between four or five in the morning. He
was a young, good-looking guy, though a bit of a bore once she got to know
him better. It surprised her to see he was still around. Sure, they had their
fun, but she told him clearly to go at first light. She didn’t even care to
check. Adriana was so restless she had gone into Marissa’s old room for the
rest of the night. There were several things going on in her head, and
bringing the young man home only added to the list of dangerous games she
shouldn’t have been playing. Not in her current state of mind.
Allowing Marissa to go by herself to that house upstate without a word
of advice was something she didn’t feel right about. But her daughter, being
an adult, had very few things she could object to. Yet all the trigger
warnings were there, and now Adriana was starting to think that she might
have allowed Marissa to go because she wanted to extend the game. She
knew the Alejandro woman—Isabel O’Reilly, or whatever her name was
today—might have been a cold bitch, but she loved her son, and that love
extended to those he loved as well. But now Esteban was dead, and maybe
her manners only kept her civil to some extent. The creeping feeling of
sending her daughter, defenseless, into a bizarre set of circumstances was
something she could not shake off.
The guy who overextended his welcome coughed twice, as if that would
make him meaningful.
 She turned her head to watch him walk toward her. He was confident, as
he hadn’t bothered to grab a shirt yet. His torso was a tight, sculpted marvel
—the best thing about him, as Adriana started to remember how the night
before unfolded. It had been years since she cared for romance. Sure, they
had sex, otherwise she wouldn’t even bother to invite him in. She liked
waking up in her own bed. But, looking back on it, it was not as fun as she
had hoped. The man was way too intoxicated for optimal performance and
she hated to cater to her own needs.
Beautiful as he was to look at, the boy was dead weight for most of the
night.
It had been nothing more than a roll and a tumble; his clumsy hands in a
hurry underneath her skirt needed guidance and she was bored before she
ever got excited. He was quick and she sort of amused. At least his skin was
salty with sweat and effort. That taste lingered on her lips, curbing certain
appetites and allowing her to sleep soundly.
And now, he was all composed, walking toward her with a stride she
would have appreciated the night before. Half a smile and carrying the
weight of his body in a manner that reminded her of a big cat, he was trying
to compensate by making himself interesting, to redeem himself after a not
so spectacular performance. He leaned toward her, making space for
himself between her knees. Even after taking a shower,  there was a
lingering scent of cigarette and alcohol on his skin that only Adriana
noticed. He kissed her roughly, bruising her lips with passion. She allowed
it, just a little experiment to test if he was still interesting to her. The answer
was no. His time had come and gone.
Adriana pushed him away, interposing the glass filled with ice chips
between them. Shaking it about a bit, the ice inside the cup tinkled against
the glass, a makeshift bell of sorts.
“Hmm, no. I don’t think so. Your time is up, sweetheart, and don’t take it
the wrong way.” Her fingers ran through the young man’s dark brown hair,
a perfect complement to his eyes. Adriana looked away, breaking contact.
She didn’t care about the guy’s name, let alone the color of his eyes. She
wanted him gone. “You are perfect. It even scares me a little bit. Hope that
makes you happy, now go.”
There was something urgent ringing in her ears, a voice that grew more
potent with each heartbeat. “You need to do this for Mariushka, to better
protect her. If you take a sip…just a little bit…it is all you’ll need.”
 “Hells no!” The young man snorted. “Who do you think you are? We are
not done, babe. Not ’til I say so.”
The dark-haired man took the glass from her hand, throwing it aside. It
broke against the hard wood floor. Grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her
against the sofa and kissed her again, rougher, slamming his body against
her, forcing Adriana to open her knees. The woman knew exactly what
happened then, he must have had a better memory of what happened the
night before. Adriana remembered shared laughter between one tumble in
bed and another, but it might as well have been hers alone, poking fun at the
inability of her lover. She’d never been too discreet about her feelings and
now he felt like she needed to be taught a lesson.
The woman moved enough to raise her arm and slap him hard across the
face, but that only increased his fury. It was easy for him to pin her against
the chair once more, this time putting more pressure against her shoulder’s
socket.
“Oh, I’m happy to know—” she said while gasping and struggling “—
that you are not a gentleman at all. I guess one cannot ask for quality
choices after midnight. Well, my sweet little boy,” Adriana stressed the last
two words as if they gave her leverage, “I am busy and you are going home.
Maybe one of these days I’ll pick you up again and pretend to moan here
and there, just to make you feel proud of the little you could do. Now. Let.
Me. Go!”
She unpinned her shoulder and hit him in the face using her elbow and
all the force she could muster. He leaned back and sprung to his feet just as
she stood from the chair. Adriana rushed her hand into his face with a
dismissive gesture, and he didn’t take it well.
His fist hit with such force against the right side of her face that it made
her eyes water. Adriana felt like drowning in pain. A rush of blood to her
lips made her spit. The bastard had a couple of heavy rings on his fingers
that cut through, underneath her cheekbone. Her tongue was also bleeding
as the surprise made her clench her teeth and bite down on it. Some of her
upper teeth felt loose. Blood and saliva ran down her chin, staining her light
green tank top.
The pain soon became attuned to an unusual response; it was numbed
almost instantly by a sense of urgency that took over. That voice inside her
head that had been playing advocate for Marissa now roared, coming to the
forefront, claiming her. Adriana gave in.
 The instinct, that aspect she had inherited from her father, the inner beast
that had lived under her skin for…centuries that she thought she had tamed
completely during her time with Bastian, took possession of her body. The
retaliation was quick and brutal. A primal energy unleashed inside her,
finally finding release. Quickened by something akin to an electric shock,
her body arched and contorted involuntarily. Her arm slammed against her
attacker, extended, with palm open. Hitting the man across the chest, she
pushed him several feet off the floor and away from her.
Adriana’s fingers elongated, deforming her delicate hands, and her nails
filed into iron tips that could slash through flesh with the ease of a knife.
The guy, still stunned, had fallen on his back, and with a lot of effort he
tried to open his eyes. Soon he was nothing but an element in a nightmarish
vision. Adriana’s skin acquired the luster and hardness of marble, her eyes
were pools the color of stormy clouds. Teeth that looked initially loosened
within her mouth were just following what her nature dictated—pushing
back while her jaw elongated slightly to allow incisors to double in length
and width. Her tongue was covered with tiny plated scales meant to inflict
pain and even tear at skin in a flicker.
The man on the floor was on his feet and running, fueled by a rush of
adrenaline. The woman suffering the transformation was invested in her
own pain and had forgotten about him. But, as he fell under the initial push,
he had landed in the broken glass on the floor. The small cluster of cuts on
his back drew enough blood to pique the monster’s interest. Adriana
discharged her frustration and fury on the young man’s body. The pain he
inflicted upon her had been the catalyst to that point she knew there was no
return from. Her claws held fast to the man’s shoulder, easily slashing
through until they lacerated ligament and muscle. The arm that once struck
her was now limp, almost razed to the bone, bleeding profusely onto the
floor. She found her way to his neck and bit with enough pressure to tear
flesh and artery beneath it.
It was the second time she had drunk straight from a living being. The
first marked her initial transition from mere human child to vampyr. Back
then she had licked her dying mother’s blood, her face cradled in the soft
curve of her neck. On that occasion she had sobbed and pleaded; she had
wanted to die along with her. Now it was different. Her mother’s blood
gave her the lengthy life guaranteed to a dhampyr. Now, this man helped
her cross the threshold into vampyr. Mother gave her life, this man made
her an agent of death eternal.
Adriana no longer stood firmly between two worlds, that of her human
mother and her undead father; the final transition claimed its prize and the
violent consumption of blood had wakened the vampyr that slept within her.
The man’s attack was the straw that broke it for her. For days now she had
been toying with the idea of letting all go. To become vampyr was her
penance, the way to make right on her many, many mistakes.
And now everything was clear. Her instinct, that spirit that possessed all
of those of her kind, whispered in her ear, clear as ever, “I warned you, but
you allowed Mariushka to play a dangerous game. Don’t you dare fight me
now, because only we can save her.”
The instinct was right. If anything, it had been her ally, an echo to her
failing common sense. Adriana had known since the first time she laid eyes
on Esteban O’Reilly. She knew her daughter’s boyfriend was not an
ordinary man. He was the continuation of a story she knew quite well. Part
of a past that stripped her of all but her daughter, and now reared its ugly
head to strike her once more.
However, she trusted Esteban the same way she trusted her daughter. She
knew both were innocent, having not partaken of old offenses. And though
she didn’t like the women of Innisfree, having guessed at their nature, they
didn’t seem evil at the time. She broke away, for her daughter’s sake, and
did not give herself time to delve deep enough as to have a clear picture.
In her dreams, she heard her daughter curse her name, but it was more a
call for help than a denial. She needed to make it there on time, to stop
them. If she didn’t, then the dark fairies of House Alexander would have
her daughter in their thrall forever. Adriana was sure Isabel and Carla
thought Marissa was merely human, and that gave her an edge. She had to
act, and quickly. If mother and daughter were to find Marissa’s true nature,
if they were to force it out of her by means or magic…they might find a
way to use her daughter in ways inconceivable. There were things worse
than death for a dhampyr who fell into the hands of a Fae.

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter X
 
 
Clap Your Hands If You Believe
 
Manhattan, 1984
 
The idea of taking the subway was too much for Neil. He walked fifteen
blocks in the drizzle, never minding that the wind and low temperature
made it feel like needles were piercing his face.
The cold outside was nothing compared to the one that clung to his
bones whenever he experienced those damn vivid dreams that forced him to
leave this world and step into another realm. He couldn’t shake Bauer’s
face. The psychiatrist had pleaded with his eyes and written a number on a
piece of paper with the hopes of a mad man. For the first time, Neil saw in
his countenance the weight of almost seven decades of age. His hands
trembled…trembled, he thought.
He made it to the apartment building on Madison just to realize that
going home was not an option. So he called from a nearby phone booth and
told Isabel he’d be working late. After toying just once with the piece of
paper, he finally summoned the courage to dial. It all had become a matter
of when, not if.
“Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a man.
O’Reilly waited in silence, hoping for his interlocutor to reveal something
else. “Is this Mr. O’Reilly?” the voice continued. “Do not hang up. If Bauer
gave you this number, it is a call we’ve been waiting for.”
 “And who exactly am I speaking to?” Neil hated to be in the dark. The
man’s responses didn’t level the playing field. If anything, the other person
had the upper hand, knowing more about him than he did about them.
“This is Bastian Salgado. I am the specialist your psychiatrist told you
about. I’d like to see you tonight, if possible. Do you know how to get to
The Cloisters?”
“Of course. And I also know that, at this time, they are closed.”
“I have time and a key, Mr. O’Reilly. I trust you can make it here within
the next two hours. I’ll meet you at the bus stop.”
A dead line made him aware that Bastian liked to have the last word. It
was close to eight o’clock when Neil set out to meet the stranger he’d
chosen to place his faith in. O’Reilly stopped at a store to buy a change of
clothes. T-shirt and jeans might help him blend in with the crowd. Salgado
was waiting for a Wall Street man, and he was desperately looking for a
slight element of surprise that might give him an edge. Neil took the bus on
the northern route through Manhattan; his work clothes were carefully
folded in a plastic bag.
The Cloisters looked like citadels torn away from the grasp of time and
transplanted into the heart of an ever forward metropolis. They rose like a
testimony to both the will and eccentricity of certain New Yorkers. Those
towers of gray stone and arches leading to terraces were not a mere
reconstruction. They had been removed, stone by stone, from European soil
and brought to rest on a hill overlooking the Hudson River. Abbeys of
French and Spanish origin that once opened their doors to congregations
centuries ago now stood as a tribute to the past, sharing space with giants
made of concrete and metal. The property, once privately owned, was
integrated into the Metropolitan Museum during the 1930s, and ever since,
people in the city had been given access to a treasure trove of artifacts and
writings that illustrated the Middle Ages.
O’Reilly got off at the entrance that faced the park, the main one. Just as
he thought, the museum was closed. Stained glass windows framed by
polished stones extended their shadows upon the street, like unexpected
haunts of color over cold gray. It was something only the observant could
take in, as the sidewalk still crawled with people—tourists mostly, flashing
cameras in hand, taking advantage of an opportunity for a night shot of the
place.
 “Punctuality is a virtue. Thanks for coming right on time. I am Bastian
Salgado. Glad to make your acquaintance.” A man close to Neil’s own age
had made his way through the crowd straight toward him. He spoke softly,
with a tinge of an accent, while stretching out his hand in confidence.
He was nothing like Neil imagined a friend of Bauer’s could be. Bastian
Salgado was of medium build with tanned skin and dark hair. There was an
air of something Neil initially misread as arrogance in his eyes that was
soon dispelled by his serviceable demeanor. His clothes were semi-formal.
He could have been any of the thousand city employees in New York.
Even without speaking much, the man radiated charisma, and something
about the way he approached gave Neil a sense a security. However, he
couldn’t help answering the handshake with a question. How did Salgado
know about him? At least twenty people got off that bus.
Bastian told him that Bauer had provided him with a physical
description. To tell him at that point he could pick him out of a crowd
because he had the power to read auras, and Neil’s was broken and
weakened, would have probably scared the Irishman out of his wits. And he
needed that man to confide in him, and fast.
O’Reilly coughed into his fist, trying to keep up with breaking the ice.
After all, he had been thrown in an odd situation with a stranger as fast as it
could be conceived. “So, how do you get access to this place so late at
night?”
Bastian made way for him to cross through the main gate while nodding
to the night guard, who didn’t even bother to ask him who he was bringing
into The Cloisters. O’Reilly assumed the Portuguese man might have been
a museum employee.
“It belonged to my family before it was given to the city. Let’s just say I
still have access to special collections and I’m allowed to keep an office out
of respect for nostalgia.”
Bastian kept talking as they cut through the garden pathway. They had to
walk single file, the paths narrow and flanked by low stone hedges that
separated trees from flower beds.
Neil chuckled, finding the answer quite amusing. He quickly added, “It
is common knowledge that The Cloisters belonged to the Rockefeller
family before they were converted into a museum.”
“Not really,” Bastian answered while turning the bolt on a heavy door.
“Theirs was just a name in property contracts.”
 While The Cloisters were prided for a love of preservation and easy
access, the office of Bastian Salgado was a chaotic disarray that was
divorced from any connection to a museum cataloguing system. Hundreds
of manuscripts and dusty old books were piled into corners, reducing the
space granted. A considerably large table close to the center held fifteen
books, neatly stacked. Those were the ones that Bastian must have been
taking care of at the moment. O’Reilly read a couple of titles—Prologue of
Sadness: Supernatural Occurrences at the Cuthberth Mansion, Das
Branderburger Fluch: Lycan Bloodlines of Germany, Ragnarok: Apostles of
Chaos, and Daughters of the Crossroads.
Finally, right on top of a cedar wood desk, crossed with red annotations
and patterns of ink on its wide margins, there was an opened book in which
Neil saw something familiar. Drawn in neat, black ink were the concentric
circles with stone markings that were set as stations on the apartment’s
greenhouse. The repetitive patterns appeared even on the beams of carved
wood that sustained the glass panels.
“Do you recognize the pattern?” Bastian asked while inviting Neil to
take a closer look at the pages. “I suppose you have seen it enough. I doubt,
however, you know what it represents. This is the blueprint for a pagan
altar. There were hundreds of them throughout Europe. They preceded the
expansion of the Roman Empire. I believe they were commonly known as
Cuirt Ciorcal Fae in the British Isles. It means—”
“A Court for Fairies,” O’Reilly confirmed. It was the second time in the
day he had heard or spoken a phrase in a language he thought forgotten. A
picture of Carla and Isabel flashed through his mind and he closed his eyes
and swallowed, trying to keep a rush of sudden nausea at bay. His
subconscious was hit with a realization that set his tongue loose and made
him shiver. His mind was opened to a possibility that knocked at the door of
the bizarre, as if the place in which he stood allowed him to see the light
after being kept in the dark for so long.
Neil’s knees faltered and Bastian was quick to catch him. Never letting
go, the Portuguese man took an amulet from his pocket and placed it on
O’Reilly’s forehead, pressing the cool of iron against suddenly feverish
skin.
Bastian kept holding onto the man, who had started shaking violently,
finally breaking the spell that had kept him in thrall for months. Magic
bindings flushed out of his pores in the form of profuse perspiration. Reality
flooded his perception and Neil uncovered, in horror, all those things he had
been made to forget or simply brushed off as a nightmare.
Sweat stained the back of his shirt. Wide-eyed, as a needy child, he held
onto Salgado’s arm, almost begging for the man to stop, but Bastian just
pressed the iron harder against his skin, his lips never ceasing to recite
words as in a prayer. He didn’t let go until he was sure his duty was
completed, that the veil of illusion had been lifted without affecting the
poor man’s sanity.
Once they were done, he gently led Neil to a chair. While O’Reilly
slowly came back to his senses, Bastian went about brewing a pot of tea. He
kept an eye on the man as he poured, and though shaken, Bastian thought it
might be time to get some words from him once again.
“I won’t pretend you are all together right, my friend. I’ll be happy if
you are just willing to accept Marlowe’s words: ‘There are more things in
heaven and earth, Horatio, than are ever dreamt in your philosophy.’”
“Shakespeare. You are talking about Shakespeare.” Though Neil found it
utterly ridiculous to discuss misquoted literature, he had to, if only to open
his mouth.
“It was not just the Rockefellers who liked to lend their signatures…”
Bastian whispered, almost unintelligibly. “Anyway, I suppose I owe you a
few details as you are still swallowing a bitter pill here. My…family, so to
say, has been tracking yours for a while. We are in the know regarding
supernatural activity, and sometimes even interfere, but as of this moment,
we have only made notations from afar, as is our custom. I’m one of a
handful of descendants of rogue officers of the Holy Inquisition, those who
saw fit to break ranks and risk going their own way. We are the Holy Office
Bastards, if you must. Contrary to the so-called legitimate paladins of the
faith led by Torquemada, we distant cousins cultivated the art of living in
the shadows. We observe and only interfere when the plans of night breeds
take a turn toward the nefarious. In the meantime, our business is to make
friends everywhere and leave traces nowhere.”
“Since when have you been observing me? Are there more of you for me
to meet?”
Bastian pointed toward himself.
“You are stuck with me. I am the face of our New York branch. Believe
it or not, we have some gruesome business to take care of in New Jersey
and that’s where the bulk of our company is.” He chuckled for a second,
right before addressing the pressing situation.
“I am truly sorry, Neil, that we were not that vigilant. We thought the
Dark Heralds of Fae had left your bloodline alone. Sometimes they let their
deals slip through, especially if they had not come to fruition within one
generation. We thought they had collected on their dues with your father’s
sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” Curiosity worked within Neil. Along with each
question, a new piece of a puzzle fell in place, but he had to rule out his
own conclusions and start listening to what Bastian had to say. As much as
he yearned to hear the man, to learn from him, Neil had the creeping feeling
that he’d just confirm what he knew already. O’Reilly had felt it in his
wife’s kisses that as of late felt more like a prelude to a trap than a loving
touch. He knew exactly who he slept with—he clearly remembered waking
up in the middle of the night, just to turn around and see green, gleaming
eyes fixed on him. He dreaded to touch her, because the creature she carried
in her womb just sprung to life as they embraced, skin to skin. It drained
him.
“How much do you know about fairies?” Bastian inquired.
Neil managed to respond, “I am afraid whatever I think I know won’t
help at all.”
Salgado took a book off the pile on top of the table. It was The
Forgotten: A Conglomerate of Fantastic Creatures Lost to Time. The dark-
haired man turned several pages until he reached a chapter on the
hierarchies of the Fae.
“Fairies,” Bastian commenced, “are one of those paranormal beings that
successfully travel between our universe and an alternate reality ruled by
their kind. They live with us, and in certain stories are identified as
originating in the human realm, but whatever once made them commune in
harmony with human kind…their soul, if you want to identify with a
familiar concept, has long been lost.” The man made the customary air
quotes as if to stress.
“Contrary to the many kinds of vampires, lycanthropes, and even
wraiths, who still keep traces, be it physical or cognitive, of humanity, the
Fae have no such link. They are, however, wonderful mimickers, finding a
way to extend their parasitic existence with more ease than any other night
breed. They might seem frail when compared to other creatures. They lack
remarkable claws or fangs, but the key to their existence is the capacity to
work at the edge of perception. They are the most active of supernatural
beings, however, not many seem to recall an encounter. Most of them are
neutral to favorable toward humanity. They exist in the spectrum of the
benign to the mischievous, drawing energy from unsuspecting human
beings. The most perceptible track they leave behind is a sensation of
fatigue and a bit of unrest that usually affects people during spring. I can
assure you, my friend, that certain allergies have only one cure, and it is not
antihistamines.”
As he spoke, Bastian placed the iron amulet on Neil’s hand, allowing the
man to better appreciate the element that had broken him from the spell he
was under.
“Why iron?” Neil wanted to make sense of it all, and Bastian obliged.
“The supernatural world is quite complicated. It is divided in several
planes. Creatures seen and unseen, Emissaries of Light, Acolytes of
Shadow…it would be a universe ready to collapse if not sustained by
infinite rules and regulations. Millennia ago, each one of these creatures
received an order of balance, to keep immortals in check, a fatal flaw that
might put an end to their long lives in our plane. No one really lives forever,
not on this earth. The fairies tried to outsmart the universe of law and swore
they would concede their grasp on this realm once human beings stopped
believing in magic. For centuries, they manipulated humanity, instilling
wars among human clans, favoring some, leaving others to terrible fates as
they designed. Back then, when all we had was sticks and stones, the
intervention of magical beings was feared, but sorely needed. Until one day,
humanity decided that they shall rule their destiny, shedding blood through
the sword. Iron weaponry was forged and it turned the course of the history
you know…and the one you don’t. When we could collectively draw blood
and win by means other than magic patronage, our might silenced the
prayers and stopped the offerings. The Fae’s fate was sealed in a single
blow and the manner of their death came to be at last.”
Bastian then took a piece of chalk and started drawing lines on a nearby
board.
“It was then that the Fae ran for cover into parallel dimensions. They
still, however, kept access gates in different parts of the globe. It is easy to
open a door when the right electromagnetic field disturbance is present. The
biggest portal in our world is—”
 “Ireland, no doubt,” Neil added, showing he had caught up, connecting
known folklore with this new information.
“Good. You are getting this. There are big ones in the borders between
Spain and France as well, and throughout South America where myth
abounds. Now, what we really need to focus on is the dangerous elements
that are refusing to be bound by these rules. As I said, most of the Fae
accepted their lot: when traveling to this realm, they’d do so for a limited
time, otherwise they might risk being reduced to be something close to a
semi-spiritual entity, unable to control their own forms and eventually
diluting themselves. However, the Dark Heralds of Fae have managed to
manipulate flesh into more than just a temporary disguise. They have a
permanent semblance of humanity, a perfect disguise of flesh, blood, and
bone, given that they keep a source of nourishment near…someone bonded
to them, by trickery if needed, by love, even better. The stronger the
emotion, the deeper the bond, the more real the façade. They don’t operate
on offerings of milk and honey…that is just what the tales made us believe.
Their motives are profoundly sinister and their price is blood.”
Neil was stunned, defeated. He felt stupid, inadequate, the butt of a joke.
“I can’t believe I am discussing this,” O’Reilly blurted, combing his
fingers through his hair. “This afternoon, my greatest concern was the
possible collapse of a dozen national banks.”
The man’s frustration was mounting once again. As he went to turn
another page, Neil noticed his arm had started bleeding once more. The cut
he suffered a couple of months before, the one he recalled happening when
crashing his fist through glass, was once again fresh. This time, though, it
consisted of three distinctive half-moon-shaped cuts that exuded a greenish
substance mixed with blood.
“This is your wife.” Bastian regarded the open wounds with care. “It’s
her way of saying you’re needed at her side. She is trying to pull you back
in. In other circumstances, you wouldn’t remember this ever happening, and
the blood, even if staining your clothes, would disappear under a powerful
illusion. She can’t touch you here, nor can she know where you are, but you
must return, Neil. A fairy summoning is a powerful weapon. Go home and
don’t let her think twice about the reason for your absence tonight. Keep
this, don’t let her see it. It has enough magic to protect you without
affecting the women.”
 Bastian gave the iron amulet to Neil. As the man closed his fist around it,
the wound burned and cauterized, cleansing from the inside. O’Reilly kept
the piece in his pocket and Bastian escorted him out.
“We’ll see each other again, Mr. O’Reilly. There are quite a few things
that you need to learn, and a sensitive decision to make. Something that will
require your utmost commitment.”
“Are you talking about the child?”
Neil’s voice trembled, realizing Bastian would soon make him face his
worst. The creature was not his. It might not be human.
Salgado nodded solemnly, but then simply told him they were to meet at
The Cloisters once again before agreeing on another place. They went their
separate ways without saying goodbye.
Back at his desk, and once O’Reilly had gone, Bastian dialed a number.
The person who answered didn’t bother to ask who called. It was Bastian’s
report call, after all.
“Happy to know you made it alive,” a feminine voice greeted on the
other end of the line.
“Come on, it is a simple desk job,” the Portuguese man answered.
“How’s everything in Jersey?”
Silence served as an answer. Now it was a matter of detail. The woman
spoke after the pause. “It didn’t go as expected. Also, Nico has gone back
home.”
The phrase identified a casualty. It was not the first time Bastian had
received notice of a death in the order, but this time, it was someone he
knew quite well. No wonder the woman had sounded relieved to hear he
was alive. Their numbers had dwindled through the years. Paranormal
manifestations were forcing them out into the field, and after years of
research, most of them lost the ability to distinguish between the sense of
security of a library and the evident danger of a live confrontation.
“Also Heralds?” The Fae had been rearing their heads in unlikely places.
Bastian needed to know.
“No. He went for a drink with bohemians.” That was the code for
undead, the vampyr branch.
“And what about them? Have they given up the night rounds?” He
needed to know if the nest had been eradicated.
The woman sighed deeply. “No. They went on vacation, but they did
leave someone in charge of the bar.” This meant the nest had been warned
of imminent danger and they had all dispersed. Vampyrs were creatures of
habit; if given the opportunity, they would go back to their usual haunts,
especially if they had been nesting under the protection of a willing human
community. The lookout, whomever was left behind, must be a malleable,
easily adaptable creature with the capacity to blend in and wait for the
danger to pass before calling the kin back to the fold.
“Where?” Bastian inquired.
“It is not your job.” The timbre of the woman’s voice denoted worry.
Bastian was not so easy to persuade.
“Yes, it is, as you have no idea. The bohemians might be able to help us
with our Irish friend.”
O’Reilly didn’t even know half of it yet, and Bastian had sensed he
might soon choose to forget what he had learned. He needed something to
quicken the man’s resolve, and these vampyrs might provide a sort of quick
remedy. But the woman on the phone thought it was not a wise course of
action.
“I’m…worried about you. Bohemians can be quite charming when they
want to and I’m afraid you might find yourself in no position to refuse an
invitation.”
Bastian took a deep breath. Her suggestion had been offensive. He
limited himself to answer, “I’m well aware I don’t have a lot of time. And
as for offers, I’ll never take one that keeps me half in the shadows. You
know I love the sun.”
“Then it is settled,” the woman proceeded. “Pay a visit to Astoria, 30th
Avenue, at the end of the N Line.”
“Consider it done.”
Bastian hung up and stood from his desk. He walked through the piles of
books, picking a couple of titles to take home. He wanted to read something
that might work as effectively as an anesthetic, something to keep his mind
off the medications he had to take in order to outlive twenty-four hours of
paced agony. He couldn’t complain. His illness was in an early stage and
had not yet revealed itself, had not taken away his looks or sense of humor.
After all, living aware of death was nothing special. It was something all
knew, just didn’t bother thinking about. Sebastian was running out of time,
and there was no better way to make up for it than by solving a couple of
problems at once. From now on, he’d set a meeting place in Astoria. He’d
save a man’s life and take care of the vampyr of 30th Avenue.
OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XI
 
 
Changelings And Halflings
 
In a secret library, hidden away among a substantial amount of medieval
collections, there were books resting in an array of polished wood shelves.
Bound in fine leather and separated from the common strife of a city by
thick stone walls, there were volumes of stories about creatures that existed,
yet in our minds, never were. Some of them had been eradicated, others
forgotten, the better part thinly disguised as myth to benefit our collective
sanity. All compiled in something as simple as an index.
The book on the days of the peoples of the Fae now rested in one of the
lateral shelves. It was no longer considered important. Though almost thirty
years ago, its pages bled red with the notations of an obsessive reader, given
to save the life of a target who would eventually become his only friend.
Those, and telltale round and brownish imprints of a carelessly set coffee
cup in a page here and there were the only testimony to his efforts.
The pages were roughened, disrupting the neat appearance of the heavy
volume. If someone were ever to reach for that book, it would open, as if of
its own volition, to the section Bastian Salgado read to Neil O’Reilly over
and over, to convince him of a truth.
 
Changelings are the offspring the Dark Heralds of Fae, which in time
develop characteristics that allow them to acquire a semblance of humanity.
They are otherworldly creatures conceived through treachery. The Heralds,
a branch of the Leanan Sidhe, are one of the rare fairy clans that can
actually breed with mortals. They offer their offspring to the will of Fae to
strengthen the bond with the mortal plane. In exchange for this foothold on
our soil, the rulers of Aval are willing to pardon a certain number of the
Heralds’ indiscretions.
The Heralds are, without doubt, the most sinister faction of all Fae. They
are vicious creatures, given to unorthodox habits, and most of the time are
judged as a pariah among their kind. Other versions of the story, though,
insist that the rulers of Aval abide their presence because they have a
growing interest in reacquiring the privileged position they once held as
ruler of both Fae, the Earthly domain, and all supernatural beings in their
extent.
Changelings are parasitical by nature, and in order to be born they must
feed from the womb itself. At the moment of conception, they are always
twins, one more prone to human nature and another completely sealed with
magic. The one who receives the blessing of the Sidhe will soon gain control
of his twin, wasting it away as a source of nourishment. Eventually, the
weaker, more human child will succumb. Drying up, it is either stillborn or,
if ever seeing the light of day, will surely die within hours.
When the mother of a changeling happens to be a Herald, her mortal
mate becomes also a source of sustenance for the needs of mother and
child. The father unknowingly sacrifices a portion of his soul to allow the
creature to be born. It is the vital force of the father that allows the mother
to conjure powerful magic, providing for an abomination with all signs of
evil engraved under its skin, to attain that sorely needed guise of human
disposition and appearance.
 
In time, Bastian forgot these lines and worried over creatures closer to
him, which deserved equal attention…
 
***
 
Innisfree, Present Day
 
It was her third day at the house on the hill and Marissa was relieved the
sun had finally broken through. The air rushing through the window had the
smell of fresh grass and blooming flowers, and outside the grounds were
shrouded in a green so neat it looked almost emerald. The clouds marched
by, light and white, leaving a dark yet welcomed impression upon the
ground.
Marissa rose, and while making the bed she noticed her eyes could not
only see the vibrancy of color, but could grasp deeper patterns. She could
make out the strands of cotton that, woven together, made the fabric. She
blinked twice, overwhelmed by this new way of seeing things. With each
flutter of her eyelid, if anything, it all became sharper. The walls closed in
on her as she could not only appreciate the shades, but also the texture, even
the faint smell of coated paint over the years.
She had heard about this, experienced it through someone else’s stories.
Panic set in. Marissa ran to the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom and
looked in the mirror. Her pupils were dilated and the dark centers were
filled with patterns of spotted gray, like storm clouds in formation. The
irises had also shifted, now brownish with hazel sparks. Marissa raised a
trembling finger and scratched the surface of her eye with enough force to
do damage. She might have known, but it was imperative to verify. Indeed,
the surface of her eye responded by coating itself in a hardened substance
that kept her from blinking but protected her heightened sight no matter
what. There was no pain, no feeling at all.
“Santo Deus!” Whenever Marissa was truly disturbed or beyond angry,
she usually conjured up a word or phrase from her parents’ native
languages. It was Portuguese this time. She was too hurt to speak
Romanian. It would only remind her of Adriana.
Her first impulse was to break that glass into a thousand shards, denying
her reflection. But she well knew that any outburst of violence would only
bring out a little more of her newly acquired, visible, savage nature.
“What have you done to me, Mother?” she demanded of the mirror.
Marissa knew the answer. Adriana had taken a road of no return. For every
vampyr in her family there must always be a dhampyr to protect it. Her
mother swore never to burden her with such responsibility. She had
promised to strike down the Popescu curse and allow Marissa to live a
simple human life. And now, for some reason, being morning, her mother
must be slumbering somewhere following the call of a sleep that was as
definite as death while Marissa, unprepared and far from home, among
strangers who would never conceive nor understand, was about to go
through changes of her own.
 A soft knock on the bedroom door let her know she would not even have
half an hour to settle.
“Marissa, dear, are you awake? I heard your footsteps, and since Isabel
wanted to start off early today, I wanted to invite you…”
It was Carla. Marissa could smell her perfume and hear the flutter of her
heart, a little too energetic for someone her age. She wondered how many
slight anomalies she would now find since her senses had been greatly
enhanced. As she got ready to answer, Marissa heard a voice that whispered
in her ear. It came from the inside, not necessarily her thoughts, but a
manifestation of a will that now inhabited her body.
Adriana used to talk about something called the instinct, an inseparable
companion that lived through her altered blood. “Run,” it told her. “You
don’t want to stay in this place and test which parts of your dreams are fake
and which are true. That little farmer has seen more in a minute than you
have in days. It is a shame the iron was not altogether pure. The silver
mixed in that hex mark has turned you against me. That is not a wise
course…”
Marissa disconnected, drowning the voice in her head while pretending
to yawn.
“Just a moment!” She crossed the room, throwing together jeans and t-
shirt and grabbing a pair of sunglasses in the process. The shades were not
as dark as she wanted, but the slight blue tint dissipated the odd appearance
of her eyes. Protected behind glasses, her eyes no longer betrayed her as
strange, and her face lost some of the severity it had suddenly acquired. The
voice inside her raged, as the instinct hated to be submitted.
“I’m sorry, Carla,” Marissa started as soon as she opened the door. “I had
a rough night. I thought I’d be able to sleep better, but that was not the
case.”
“We all had a difficult night. I hardly slept either, but today, we must
honor Esteban.”
Carla kept trying to guess at her mood through the glasses. Her stare
made Marissa feel uncomfortable, almost angry. For once she was
concerned her eyes might burn red and uncontrollable. Carla must have felt
it, as the woman became stiff and cold toward her.
They went downstairs to the kitchen where Isabel waited. As the widow
O’Reilly poured a cup of coffee, Marissa heard their words as in a distant
echo. Her ears were perceptive to all and nothing at once. The sounds of
nature, Isabel’s chatter, and the hum of the voice inside her head scrambled
her brain to the point of a headache.
“Marissa, are you sick?” Isabel touched her wrist. The young woman’s
skin was unusually clammy. “I’m sorry, I should have gone with you
yesterday, even against your better judgement. You stayed out quite a bit,
and for those who are not used to it, that breeze lifting from the lake is a bit
tricky. Add to that humidity and weak defenses. You have not eaten right;
there is a chance you might be coming down with something.”
“No. No. Don’t even think about it. You have been gracious hostesses,
given the circumstances.” Marissa unlocked her wrist from Isabel’s grasp
gently. “After all, we are not on a holiday. Within it all I’ve been
comfortable. The circumstances, though, one cannot object they have been
nerve wracking.”
“We will be done by this evening. Nevertheless, we are still up for
surprises.” Carla sipped her morning tea, reclined against the fridge. She
kept glancing at Marissa, curious but guarded. “We received a phone call
last night. There are two cousins who have recently arrived and would like
to be with us as we commend Esteban’s ashes. They are on their way right
now and I have agreed to meet them prior to their arrival.”
Marissa nodded nervously at the idea of extending their stay for at least
another night and risk meeting new people in her current…condition, but
imposing would be beyond rude. She excused herself from the table,
leaving her breakfast untouched, saying she needed to iron some clothes
and pack the rest. Marissa knew the women were going straight to the
chapel, to tend to replacing flowers and candles, but she found an excuse
not to follow, and Carla and Isabel didn’t insist on her partaking of duties. It
was a relief.
The widow O’Reilly and her mother left the kitchen, crossed through the
yard, sealed the heavy doors behind them. Once secured in the enclosure,
the elder woman turned toward Isabel and attacked her, venting her
frustration as she choked her. Carla’s hand grasped Isabel’s throat
mercilessly, allowing her enough air to give half answers.
“Did you know anything about this? Have you brought a danger into our
house because of your selfishness and arrogance? I almost vomited having
to suffer her presence. Her blood stinks. It is the same poison that killed our
Evelyn. I can still recognize it almost thirty years later!” Carla never lost
her pace, but her grip deformed into thin and elongated fingers, plated and
scaly, closer to a bird’s foot than a human hand.
“No…I…swear…” Isabel’s eyes reached that emerald green that
reflected equal measures of terror and resentment. Her hand closed around
Carla’s arm. Small but sharp, dark nails dug in, forcing her to let go.
“It is a disaster…Esteban must have cloaked Marissa’s mother for the
few instances we crossed paths. You know how much he loved to press
buttons.” Carla finally gave in, slumping into a pew, trying to make sense of
it all. “Marissa was human until yesterday, and now…this means her
mother is a full-fledged vampyr and the daughter is but a risk to keep. She
will come for her. You know Marissa’s blood soon will be poison to our
kind. Give up, Isabel. The Heralds won’t take the offering. You will not get
your son back. And let’s not talk about us; if we bring peril to their
doorstep, we will be abandoned in this realm. No. It is too much of a risk.
There is not enough Fae in Esteban’s blood for us to try to save him. He
should have died the first time around. It is ridiculous to pretend to give him
more than one chance at it.”
Isabel could not allow Carla to falter, she was her only ally, her voice in
the Herald’s Court.
“We still have time, oh, Mother-Sister. Her change is not total and she
obviously resists it. Besides, she is not aware of our nature. We need to lead
her to the inter-world before the transition is completed. There is a reason
why Francis Alexander asked for her. Something we don’t know perhaps.
Would you risk his wrath not delivering?”
 
***
 
Marissa sat on the edge of her bed. She had carefully gathered the amulet
Malachi had given her, mindful not to touch it directly. She held it long
enough to numb the voice in her head.
Her mind turned to another charm, the one on the chain Esteban had
given her. It was impossible for her not to think about her initial reaction to
that gift, and how she hid it from her boyfriend so as not to make him aware
of certain details—her reluctance to wear it, for one.
Sure, she kissed him, even smiled, after gently declining on that
invitation once more. The next thing Marissa did was pay a visit to her
mother. The idea of a golden charm fused with concrete—as in native soil
—stunk of Adriana’s terrible sense of humor.
“This is your idea of a joke?” Marissa was calm, but her voice denoted
a quiet fury. “You suggested he give me this. God knows if you even
compelled him, it is so inconceivable. And on top of that he said, ‘I free
you.’ I bet you had a grand old time with your vampyr jokes no one else
understands!”
“Ugh, Mariushka, you could never take a prank. Such a solemn child.
Where did you get your bitter blood? Your father could take and dish a
good joke and, well…you got me. But before we go on, for someone so keen
on keeping secrets…do you plan to have a match out here or are you the
kind who needs to be invited in?”
Adriana did her best imitation of an evil laugh, possibly trying to further
annoy her daughter. Marissa rushed in and Adriana would have taken
another jab, had she not noticed her daughter had taken as much as she
could.
Marissa sat down on the sofa, eyes gleaming with tears, mouth stretched
as if to contain a sob. Adriana hated to see her cry; there was something
about her doe eyes that reminded her of Bastian’s final days.
“Dragoste, love of my life, you are reading too much into a simple
gesture. Okay, I must confess. Esteban told me you were having second
thoughts about visiting the Sunshine State and I found it too funny to resist.
But, Mariushka, don’t you worry a hair on your pretty little head.”
Adriana’s hands caressed her daughter’s temple, combing her fingers
through her hair. “You will never have to run; you will never have to hide.
You won’t ever have to carry the soil of the place where you were turned on
to the blood.”
Adriana still remembered those terrible boxes of earth her father was
forced to carry, and how he once grabbed her by the hair and shoved her
face into the humid soil, forcing her to breathe in. He used to tell her, “You
are a dhampyr, girl. My property. Where ever we go, you must take care that
I rise from this earth every night or you surely will die.” Those boxes
smelled of rot and all things unavoidable. She’d never willingly impose the
burden her own father placed on her shoulders.
Marissa felt a kiss on the crown of her head. Adriana’s lips were soft and
warm, and her daughter knew than when needed, they could be loving.
Mother and daughter held secrets meant to draw them apart with the
passage of time. They were both conscious of it. As of that moment, it was
easy for Adriana to still be her mother. She had managed to keep an
appearance of being in her early forties. However, Marissa knew that
dhampyr didn’t age at the same rate as humans, and her mother, though
mortal, had stunted old age by means of her condition. Adriana was almost
three hundred years old. The leap in years, from her eternal twenty-five to a
more mature age, had been a trick granted by giving birth to a daughter.
That daughter, though, would soon catch up with her mother, and questions
would start to rise…
“Are we dealing with one of your selfish motives?” Back in Innisfree,
Marissa tried to look for an explanation while having an argument with her
absent mother.
It might have been. The decision to finally give in to blood might have
been rushed by Adriana’s pride, the fact that though at an unnerving slow
pace, time escaped through her fingers. As much as she loved a good
gamble, there was a chance Adriana was afraid of facing consequences.
After all, the law of the Popescu clan required a vampyr and a dhampyr.
Always. The first was to take upon the weight of the curse, the second was
forever anchored to the first, more a servant than a child, and looked for a
way to keep the monster’s thirst at bay—by whatever means necessary. By
giving in to the blood, her mother would be frozen in time and place upon
her the responsibility of care, forcing her to live in her shadow.
Marissa tried to keep thinking of possibilities, but a deep sleep took her
over. Her instinct, unable to speak directly, had subdued her body in order
to connect. Gone were Adriana and her motives. Marissa simply dreamed.
Marissa was no longer a woman but a flower, hanging forever off a vine
between heaven and earth. Her skin, comprised of white, delicate petals,
had roads of blue and red veins painted upon it. Blood and the salty water
of tears showered the ground below as black feathered humming birds
buzzed about. Inconsiderate of the source of their nectar, the small birds
clawed and pecked, driving their long, thin bills until they found the flesh
beneath the petals and drew blood.
It was a shame that while trying to protect her from the life Adriana
never wished upon her, the woman never told Marissa that the voice behind
the instinct might be arrogant, cruel, even, always hungry to take control,
but in given instances, it was a life saver. 
OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XII
 
 
Strangers In The Night–Part I
 
Queens, 1984
 
Bastian and Neil had met for two months. The Irishman had gotten used
to the Portuguese man in the manner in which opposites that inevitably
came together found themselves aligning. Sometimes the dark-haired man
tried his patience, but at least he felt at ease enough to let him know without
reservation. They had a common goal, a shared project, something he had
grown to understand. Still, whenever Bastian drifted off business and into
casual conversation, especially when he’d crack a joke here and there,
Neal’s blood curdled. His face became somber and his attitude stiff,
thinking about how easy it was for Bastian to switch from the extraordinary
to the trivial in a couple of words. It was hard, for example, for Neil to let
go of Bastian’s incessant strife to conquest their waitress.
Objection and all, Neil dragged himself to the restaurant on 30th Avenue.
For days, Bastian had shown him every possible outcome, anything to steer
O’Reilly away from the idea of drenching his hands in blood. He had
decided to kill not only the creature, but maybe Isabel herself. He had
grown a bit distant from his wife, but it was still hard for him to think about
monsters as Bastian described when, as he came home, he’d found her more
than once dancing around with little yellow and white outfits, amorously
declaring she had been stocking the baby’s nursery with clothes and toys. If
Isabel was but pretending to be human, damn it, she had been doing a great
job.
“It has been two months,” Neil reminded his partner. His eyes were fixed
on the swirling golden bubbles in the black coffee in his mug, left
untouched. He could do without the extra bitterness. “Isabel’s pregnancy is
advancing and this whole business is making my stomach turn.”
“Before you do this, there are things you must know, strength you have
to develop. Though you have progressed from a few weeks back when you
didn’t believe at all, it is hard to come to the level of resolve needed to act
with a clean conscience.” Bastian exhaled hard, letting accumulated
frustration and worry show for once. It was not as easy for him as Neil
might have thought. His duties were not easy. He would happily spend the
rest of his days as a glorified librarian and be satisfied.
The waitress was back at their table. She was either going through the
usual coffee round or running out of excuses to flirt with Bastian. Neil
instinctively placed his hand on top of the cup, although it was obvious
there was no need for refill. Bastian flashed one of his overconfident smiles
and exchanged a couple of verbal jabs with beautiful Adriana. Neil listened
to their mock banter and felt the sting of jealousy. Some months ago, they
could have been Isabel and him, happy and carefree. His life had since
become an exercise in sinuosity.
Each word, each smile, had become part of a choreography, intended to
make amends with Isabel and pretend to still be under her thrall. Free of the
spell that possessed him, Neil had woken in the middle of the night to watch
her sleep. He had learned to control the wild beating of his heart as, in half
light, the patterns of ink underneath his wife’s skin looked to be breaking
through, putting together the puzzle that was her true form. Still, he would
not bring himself to confess that depending on the light—or, God forbid, his
heart’s inclination—the woman could be either repugnant, intriguing, or
simply beautiful beyond words.
Neil longed for her against his better sense, and Bastian could see it.
Where it was easy for Bastian to see a monster, for Neil it was complicated.
He had been with her, heard the warmth of her words, tried to guess the
moment she’d smile a bit crookedly, letting him know she had grown tired
of words and needed a kiss. He missed those spontaneous moments of sheer
joy and passion. So rolling his eyes, the man simply cut in on Bastian’s
animated conversation.
 “Bastian, remember what we talked about flirting on your own time?”
Though he was rude, Adriana giggled and left the table sporting a
triumphant smile. The rhythm of her hips walking back to the kitchen made
more than one patron forget their woes and worries.
“I never stop working,” Salgado told him as soon as the blonde was out
of sight. There was, after all, a reason for them to meet so far from
Manhattan in a corner of blue-collar Queens. “In fact, Neil, I think it is time
for you to go home. I promise all will be taken care of within the next few
days.”
Bastian watched his friend leave, then decided he’d nurse a glass of
white wine until it was time for the waitress to finish her shift. He was not
supposed to drink alcohol, but somehow his system, fueled by a cocktail of
heavy prescriptions, had decided to grant him solace in that Sauvignon. He
waited for her to leave and even raised his glass as she passed on her way
out. Then Bastian went to the restroom to dislodge from his briefcase the
weapon of his office for that night. He was quick, catching up with her
bouncing hair as she walked about a block north of the restaurant. Adriana
walked unhurriedly, and soon, without effort, he was a short distance from
her, thinking about how easy it was to stalk when the city and its people
served as accomplices.
Being the last of the line, hundreds of people disgorged into the street
from the N subway stop. They waited patiently at the bus stop in the corner
or waved for cabs to take them home. None noticed the perky blonde
cutting through an alleyway, or the young man who followed, wearing a
gray business suit. Bastian kept a cool grasp on the handle of his briefcase,
as it concealed a small but quite effective silver scythe.
The first encounter between Bastian Salgado and Adriana Popescu was
defined more by violence than surprise. The dhampyr had been aware of
both of her unusual customers for a while. Her instinct had warned her and
she had listened enough to allow for this little drama to unfold. She took the
gamble, though, of believing Bastian to be a reasonable gentleman.
In almost three hundred years, after leaving their native land and
adopting an existence marked by secrecy, hunters became a thing of the
past. In a world in which ever increasing technology devoured both religion
and magic, coming forth was as risky for monsters as it was for those self-
righteous bastards. Just like vampires and their kind had been pushed
further into shadows, the men who once persecuted them had all but
disappeared in a world of books and neutral observation. And then, just a
few weeks ago, her nest had been made to run and hide. She had never been
happier. Hell, she might even give him a congratulatory smooch given the
time. But there were never enough precautions for someone who was not a
full-fledged immortal. Between one fantasy and another, Adriana zoned out
and allowed the man with the briefcase to get the best of her.
He spun her around in the alley, pushing her against the wall of a
darkened building. Adriana felt her back hit the worn brick with force as
her throat was painfully enclosed by a curved blade. It was pure silver,
enough to permanently cripple her, as the vampyr blood in her system could
not repair anything touched by the argentine metal. The threat was enough
to make her instinct rage, but when in panic, the inner voice was no help at
all. The instinct would force her to act upon an enemy as if she were a full-
blooded vampyr, killing her in the process if it was determined to be a way
to protect the many. So she breathed in and closed her fists, steadying her
pulse and letting the instinct know that though she had made a slight
mistake, Adriana was still in control. Her instinct receded, listening.
Bastian pressed the weight of his body against her and was surprised not
to feel the eerie cold of the touch granted to all vampires.
“What are you?”
Both Adriana and her instinct understood that question had opened a
door. They made their best to work on that moment of doubt; the blink of
his olive green eyes and the quick frown of his eyebrows denoted
confusion. Humanity over duty. Adriana was about to try a winning hand.
She smiled sensuously, showing perfectly even teeth, tempting Bastian to
forget what had brought them to that alley in the first place.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…Saint Sebastian.” She clicked her tongue almost taunting.
“I expected a bit more from my executioner.”
A slight jolt in the wrist showed her Bastian was taken aback, doubting
whether or not she was human. And yet a simple cut could make her skin
boil and sizzle and he’d find his excuse. She had never been so close to
danger, and yet, she found him so…endearing. She had to try to see how far
he’d be willing to let her go. If he happened to kill her, she’d make sure to
keep them both entertained until the last drop was spilled upon the floor.
“Don’t tell me your books don’t make mention of my kind. Surely, you
must have made it at least to that page before they sent you out into the
streets. We are bound to our sires not just by blood, but also flesh. We are
impossible children, conceived of a union in which desire is stronger than
death.”
“Dhampyrs. There is no such thing.” He was quick to answer, and
Adriana found herself taking offense. He even chuckled before he was
done. “There is only one branch within blood suckers who could produce
them, and vampyrs are long gone. Dhampyrs are but tales spun by traveling
Romani who love to embellish their bloodlines with dangerous stories.”
She never wanted to slap someone as much as in that moment, so she let
the instinct take a peek, to see if this could end with the man’s head rolling
and hers on her shoulders. Somehow, the voice inside her head found
Bastian as alluring as she did. It simply whispered two words: listen and
yours. Could it be? Had her nature found something…someone to trade her
damned allegiance to her father? Something that could be truly hers,
without the bloody benediction of Pappa Popescu?
“And yet, here I am.” Her answer was confident. “You can feel me.”
Adriana took a deep breath, stretching her body against Bastian. “That is
the warmth of my skin underneath the thin fabric of my blouse. You could,
if only you dared, wipe the pearly sweat off my brow…you have scared me
enough, you know. But if you decide to be cruel and cut, yes, my skin will
sizzle, but my blood will flow rich and red, just like yours, pumped by a
beating heart.”
She was used to playing the enchantress; the smile always ready on her
generous lips, the lively spark in her eyes, the power to compel behind
every word. But this time her reaction was involuntary. Her instinct reached
out through the pores of her skin, and her aroma became nothing short of
enticing. Adriana was taken by surprise once more—her instinct really
wanted her to close this deal. Her eyes became heavy lidded and her breath
short but deep. She dared to reach out and touch him, not quite sure if he’d
act upon the blade. The tip of her fingers caressed the side of his face and
then rested upon his neck—a healing touch that eased the tension between
them and allowed her to force her heart to beat alongside his.
Bastian eased the blade down, but his body remained intimately pressed
against hers and it was becoming obvious that it was pleasurable. He held
her close enough to almost brush her lips with is. In half light and at a
distance, if anyone wandered into that alley, it would have been easy to
conclude that they were but two lovers on their way to ending a quarrel.
“Who are you?”
 “Adriana Popescu. You might not have heard about me, but you surely
know my clan. My family is notorious in your books. I live with the
monsters that you have read of in your pages.”
She might have been thinking of a way out, but the pain in her voice was
legitimate. Bastian understood right then and there what he was dealing
with.
Legend spoke of a Romanian Cardinal, loved by the Pope himself, who
oversaw his sins and offenses. However, when a romantic affair with the
daughter of a powerful count brought a royal house down in shame, he was
given to men’s justice. Excommunicated and deprived of his position for
conceiving a bastard child, he was soon condemned to hang, though his
lover pleaded it had been consensual and she’d rather marry him than see
him die. But the looming noose blamed but one, and that was the way the
nobility would have it. He hung, and then rose from the grave, having been
denied entrance to both heaven and hell. Excommunication and a burial in
unhallowed ground granted he become a vampire. Upon his return, not a
single soul survived his thirst for blood and vengeance. In a night, a whole
bloodline was wiped off the Earth, and only his lover remained, trapped in
the agony of childbirth, trying to deliver a baby that might kill her and then
die anyway. The vampire waited patiently for the birth of his son, feeding
his own blood to the dehydrated lips of a mother who slowly faded away,
just to grant her enough strength to finish it. The woman drank greedily
from the deep cut on his forearm, sating both thirst and threshold of death
madness, transmitting that terrible transformed blood into the creature
inside her, changing both vampire and victim in the process.
The boy was finally born, the last effort of a dying mother and an undead
father, forever between the world of the living and that of the dead. A new
kind of vampire and offspring came to be that night. The beast that lurked
in shadows claimed the child as a trophy and disappeared into the night.
Both father and son were lost to time. The Popescu terrorized the coast of
the Black Sea for ages, thriving on the legend of vampires that ruled the
night and had eyes during the day. There were vampyrs, a new breed,
daughters and sons of darkness, enabled to create ties of affection with
certain humans who could bear them children.
Adriana found quite amusing that anything linked Popescu and affection,
but books were books.
 “If this is true, you are not a vampyr, but you can lead me to one. The
blood of your sire is beyond valuable and I need it desperately to help a
friend. The blood of a vampyr is toxic to the Dark Heralds of Fae.”
As soon as he finished talking, Bastian realized he had said a little too
much, and that was not his style. The attraction he felt for the blonde
waitress was distracting. He had forgotten to avert his stare, rather losing
himself in Adriana’s gaze. He was strong enough to take a step back,
though his whole body ached for her. He had dealt with various creatures
given to mesmerize: witches capable of injecting memories with a touch
just to tamper with desire, selkies promising a kiss with the taste of wonders
of the deep blue sea, succubi armed with lethal caresses. None had moved
him like this woman. Not looking her in the eye proved even harder,
because the platinum strands of hair that plastered to her face and rested on
her clavicle begged to be run through with his fingers until, securing the
base of her neck, he’d drag her into a deep, passionate kiss. And still, he
managed to follow through.
Her little smile pointed toward her not being disappointed, as if Adriana
was happy not to be able to use his weakness to her advantage. She was
willing enough to keep giving the information he needed.
“Your books are mistaken. If you let me…catch my breath a little, I
assure you I can help. You don’t need to be so mean and keep scaring me
with that blade. I have been weakened enough by the silver pressing against
my skin. If I run, you can certainly catch me.”
“Are you offering Cliff Notes now?” The confident smile he had shown
quite a few times at the restaurant was back.
Adriana made a mental note to catch up with that later and met him with
a slight shrug and the wink of an eye. Free of the oppressive metal, the
blonde raised her hands in mock surrender. She was weakened indeed,
Bastian noticed.
“Dark Fae, vampires, you believe everything that has ever roamed the
night is related somehow. Be it for pride or because they believe in fierce
individuality, vampires are more than eager to set these misconceptions
straight. I’ll tell you something between friends. There’s nothing capable of
pissing off a vampire more than a dark fairy. This is evident among
vampyrs more so than in any other blood sucker.” She was relaxed enough
to let her guard down and speak at ease. Bastian found it quite amusing.
“Your Heralds are nothing but cheap knockoffs, dancing marionettes. Fae
that have become blood junkies. They want to keep their ground in this
world by using magic, but magic tears them apart from the inside. They
owe something to everyone who might lend it. Their only advantage is that
they can latch to the human soul and feed off it. Be it that you believe the
soul resides here…” her index finger touched Bastian’s temple, “…or here.”
Adriana rested her hand upon his chest, right atop his heart. She drummed
her fingers, testing, before allowing herself to outline the buttons of
Bastian’s shirt.
“Their only target is to destroy your life and your sanity. Some centuries
ago, they stole quite a precious secret from my clan. I can’t make it clear
enough that vampyrs hate to be taken for fools. We did them a favor, but
after that, it was made so that our blood would be their perdition. One drop
of a vampyr’s blood can stun them; a vial can surely kill them. Junkies they
are, don’t doubt it, but they are crafty also. They can smell vampyr blood
from a mile away. Take that, and the fact that our clan’s blood is almost
black and halfway to gooey…a Herald will never drink it on his or her own.
But my blood, it has the same effect but the smell and consistency is
untraceable. I smell nothing, if not delicious.”
Peaches and cream, Bastian thought.
“And so, my dear Adriana…am I to believe this is all in good faith?”
“Oh, it is, Saint Sebastian. I will not only render my services, but will
kick it up a notch. I’ll give you a little something to brag about with your
sulky nerd club. I’ll deliver the head of my clan.” 
The words rushed out of her while her insides shook to the core. If she
had misinterpreted the will of her instinct, the entity could strangle her from
the inside in order to preserve the life of its sire. It kept silent as the grave.
It turned out that Papa Popescu’s humiliations and mistreatments had struck
a deep chord, enough for a joint rebellion.
So long, Pappa Popescu, and his barbaric ways. Of all the vampires in
existence, her clan was the one that professed loving their human
counterparts to the point of procreating. But in seven hundred years, her
father did nothing other than seduce human women whose names he never
cared to learn and impregnated them with his cold seed, just to bring about
creatures like Adriana.
One after another her tyrant father destroyed his sons as soon as their
instinct started to manifest. Popescu feared the blood lust might rise and
another, younger, more powerful vampyr would see to his fate. He struck
them down by sword or killed them with his own hands, always saying it
was done for the cause of justice and the survival of the clan. Adriana had
been overlooked by virtue of being a woman. She had learned to play
subservient if needed, but she’d be damned if she ever forgot.
She finished exchanging words with Bastian. The information reached
the hunters but the Portuguese man was true to his word, never revealing
the source. There was a waiting game that lasted for days, as Adriana
second guessed herself about trusting this man. She woke up more than
once in a sweat, thinking they might fail and she’d meet her father’s
retaliation. Or worse, the hunters would not be satisfied with just one target.
She got a grip and faced her fears as she had always done, counting the
days and waiting for either Bastian or his Manhattan friend to show up at
the restaurant. Eventually, Adriana discovered, to her own peace of mind
and unexpected pleasure, that she had come to miss that cocky Portuguese
man and his risky antics.
The moment Adriana heard her instinct speak in full sentences, she knew
she was safe. The thing inside her was gleeful, even grateful, as it settled on
being as much a friend as a fiend. Bastian returned, but this time she invited
him into her apartment. She opened the door, more eager that she credited
herself to be. There he was, leaning against her doorway, but never quite
taking her invitation. Bastian simply smiled and gave her a nod, handing
her a piece of opaque mirror encased in an ash wood frame, in which part of
her father’s ashes had been consecrated.
“A well thought gift—a token of appreciation, if you will.” The thing
hummed, as if thirsty for blood. It was not only ashes, but part of her
father’s essence. Bastian had been careful not to dispatch the vampyr
completely, but to bind his spirit to the other side. Ever living, guaranteeing
that the vampyr-dhampyr bond could not be broken, endangering Adriana’s
life. “Did you think this through? Were you willing to die to rid yourself of
a monster? Will I have to proofread all your crazy plans from now on?”
“A chain that has not been broken for a thousand years.” Adriana held
the piece in her hand, taking its weight before looking Bastian in the eye
and biting her lower lip. “Hmmm…it seems you won’t mind looking after
crazy old me.”
“Let’s start by keeping your promise. I need a vial of your blood, and I
need you…” He finally gave in and fixed that unruly curl that kept her right
eye hidden. “I need you to promise me that you will never take that step.
That you won’t drink of live flesh and become a vampyr. I want to hear it,
Adriana—you will keep yourself a dhampyr for the rest of your days.”
She kept silent. The decision was not entirely her own, but the voice
inside her head was quiet and compliant, telling her it was okay to entrust
such a big part of her life in the hands of this man. It pushed her toward
him, trying to be at peace, tired or curious, perhaps. She smiled modestly
and closed her eyes. It was a sign of genuine affection, her own weird way
of saying she was willing to trust, for once. And then, opening her eyes
once more, Adriana raised her hand to his cheekbone, tracing the contour of
his face and lips.
“Are you sure that is all you need of me?” Adriana had been hardened by
her life with her father, and sometimes, even if she tried, it was impossible
for her to say something that didn’t strike as direct or hurtful. She was a
creature outside time who had seen enough of human suffering to
understand it was all of the essence. “You are dying, Sebastian. Now that
my father is gone and my instinct is free, I can not only perceive it but I feel
it. I can smell the bitter sweet of your blood and grasp it through your skin.
Tiny cells, spreading disease and eating away your blood…vampires in
their own fashion.”
Bastian took her hand, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist that
made her tingle. He smiled at her, eyes first, then lips, as was his way.
“You have no idea what you are offering, sweetheart. It has cost me a lot
to protect you. I have promised a lot of people you will never meet that I
won’t hear a word about promises of life, eternal or extended. Don’t you try
to play fortuneteller. I know exactly how much life I have left and I plan to
make the best of it.”
They didn’t speak about it again. Not until weeks after that terrible affair
with the O’Reillys was done and over with and Bastian showed up on her
doorstep again. That condition never changed. When they finally took it a
step further, as dictated by their inevitable attraction, it was both sweet and
passionate while it lasted. She made herself human for him, to honor the
time they’d spend together. When their daughter, Marissa, was born,
Sebastian had been dead for two months already. Adriana swore she’d hate
him because of that. She even told him so, minutes before kissing those lips
that cancer had rendered into thin, wasted lines. He simply told her, “Maybe
when I’m gone you’ll get good at lying again. I love you, and I know that
both you and Marissa will be fine. I’m just glad you’ll keep her human, for
us.”
Once, Marissa asked Adriana, “Did you ever love my father?” 
She answered, “I don’t know, back then love got complicated with a
whole lot of other things.”

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XIII
 
 
Strangers In The Night–Part II
 
Manhattan, 1984
 
“This should be more than enough.” The glass vial was no bigger than
those little fragrance replicas they gave out in stores. Sebastian held about
one ounce of a red emulsion, kept from coagulating by a couple of drops of
salicylic acid, between his thumb and index finger. “You must grant me
access, O’Reilly. Find any excuse, invite me over as a business partner.
Once I am there, it will be a matter of mixing this solution with food or
drink and the worst will be over.
Neil took the vial off Bastian’s hands, rising it to the level of his eye,
squinting. Bastian didn’t want to add pressure to the moment with obvious
observations but Neil’s health had been steadily decaying. O’Reilly looked
a lot worse than he, and he had started a heavy dose of oral chemotherapy.
His friend’s pallor was about to cross from pale into translucent, as if tired
of sheltering his beaten body. Hematomas were flourishing. What started as
black and blue bruises in unnoticeable places were now something akin to
small, scaly sarcomas, crusty on top of his skin. Isabel had been feeding
without concern and Bastian knew exactly why.
Unlike humans, the gestation process for Fae was roughly seven months.
Most changelings were born premature by human standards and finished
developing outside of the womb. Neil was unaware, but depending on how
long his wife waited to announce the pregnancy, Isabel could well be on the
verge of birthing. Time was of the essence.
Sebastian had no doubt the Heralds had marked O’Reilly for breeding
solely based on his resilience. Another man would have died long ago.
“No,” Neil interrupted. “This is something I must do. If I happen to fail,
then you are welcome to try.”
Bastian mumbled something, perhaps in his native tongue. Neil had
learned he switched to Portuguese when utterly frustrated. After taking a
deep breath, he added, “That is an unorthodox way to go about it.” He
wanted to add something else, but chose silence at that moment. Bastian
had quite an interesting skeleton in his closet and rather measured his
words. He was coming to understand that his interest in Adriana went
beyond research, and keeping her off the books, so to speak, made him feel
guilty.
For the first time, Bastian was truly considering how devastating it could
be to have a hand in destroying something you loved. The spell had been
broken for months and still O’Reilly felt for that woman. And though
Bastian had his doubts about the man crossing the line between genuine
love and sickly obsession, he granted, after all they’d been through, Neil
deserved the benefit of trust.
 
***
 
It was a holiday weekend and the house service staff was quite happy to
be given three and a half days off starting Friday at noon. Neil knew that
getting rid of the staff was easier than finding an excuse to send Carla away.
She was not at all happy with the idea of being alone in the apartment. The
woman seemed to trust the kitchen staff more than her son-in-law. Isabel
granted her husband might have wanted a quiet weekend alone, but was
adamant about her mother staying close by. Neil expected it. His wife
wouldn’t go anywhere alone or out of her mother’s shadow. She pleaded
and he accepted.
Neil had started to be aware of everything around him. He wanted to
remember, to be fully conscious of what he was about to do that lazy Friday
afternoon when sunlight fragmented golden and pink against the thick glass
of the greenhouse, separating the madness of a city in motion from his own.
 Isabel rested in a wicker armchair, dressed in a flowing pink palazzo
pant set that made her bump quite noticeable. Her mother stood by the
chair, both hands on her daughter’s shoulders, smiling at the semblance of
life that stirred within her, kicking with enough force to be noticeable. Neil
approached them, and though he carefully avoided the invitation to touch
Isabel’s belly, he did caress the side of her face. Even Carla got a smile.
“You know what,” he said rubbing his hands together, “I’ll think I’ll
make myself useful around here. What about some tea?” He looked at his
mother-in-law. “Don’t you fret, Carla, I still remember how to make a mean
cuppa. What about that cherry blossom weirdness you both are fond of? I’ll
be right back.”
Neil waited while the tea steeped. He remembered his early childhood in
the Dublin house where his mother did the same and gave him a
disapproving look as he dropped more than two cubes of sugar in his cup
once it was poured. Swirling, swirling until they became syrupy traces. He
also thought about the lengthy conversations with his father, who made a
point of visiting once a month while at Oxford, just to encourage a young
man and keep in touch with his plans and academic advances. He even
made an effort to hold on to his sister’s smile, the one he knew well and
loved, just before time, distance, and disappointment made them fall apart.
At last, he looked at his own hands, grown prematurely old. He thought of
emerald green eyes he had seen flashing in the dark, forever haunting his
nightmares, and found his resolve. With a steady pulse, he emptied half a
vial in each of the cups. The red of the blood was soon lost in the garnet of
the infusion.
O’Reilly followed the women into the living room, careful to close the
doors to the greenhouse. Carla stayed a couple of paces behind, but finally
accepted the tea. She had grown suspicious of Neil, seeing traces of his true
character come through in one instance or another. Isabel, however, assured
her that at an intimate level nothing had changed. Carla’s insistence
bothered her and the elder knew it, so she gave in to avoid a breach between
them.
The beautiful dark-haired woman took the cup from her husband’s hand,
bringing the porcelain to her lips, delighting in the soothing taste of cherries
and cinnamon. Carla held the cup as well, but unlike Isabel, who partook
right away, her nose flared and her face became panicked. It took her about
five seconds to throw the cup aside and scream her daughter’s name, but
Isabel had already swallowed her first sip.
And a sip was enough. Isabel felt a violent stab in her womb. A guttural
scream broke through the path of burning flesh and gushing blood in her
throat. Carla ran to her daughter’s side, interposing her body between Isabel
and Neil.
O’Reilly saw it clearly—Carla’s skin was covered by a maze of thin,
black, pulsing lines that started at her wrist and sped like lightning through
her whole body. Carla’s real face was revealed in a rush of blue, black, and
emerald. Her eyes met Isabel’s, green as they had always been, but one of
those glances boiled with anger while the other lost its spark in agony.
“Neil! Neil!” Isabel kept screaming and it was heartbreaking. Carla
covered most of her body, but his wife’s hand still reached toward him,
shaking in spasmodic moves, clammy and pale.
Carla moved about at break neck speed and before Neil could react she
was sustaining the weight of Isabel’s body upon her own, serving as a
cushion. A dark, scaly hand covered in hard keratin curved until small but
razor sharp talons grew out of her fingertips. Isabel started calling out in a
tongue he had never heard before, her pleas cut short by pain.
Neil was muted, terrorized, and planted in his spot. That thing that
struggled to keep Carla’s semblance had cut through Isabel’s clothes,
exposing her belly. In a swift motion, while one hand held on to Isabel’s
throat, making her swallow the words, another cut deeply through tissue in
the lower abdomen, trying to reach the creature inside her.
O’Reilly keeled over, falling to his knees. Bastian assured him it would
be something with no consequence, an abortive with a supernatural tint that
would consume anything non-human within her womb and neutralize her
powers for a while. But the truth illustrated a grotesque spectacle that made
him lose control and wretch upon the floor.
Red, green, and clear viscous fluid started to stain the carpet, while a
whirring mass, desperate to hold on to life, willingly dragged itself out of
Isabel’s torn lower abdomen. Using her own hand, she pushed the twisted
and trembling creature, still protected by an amniotic sac, out onto the floor.
It was a nightmare spawn, something blackened and bundled that protected
not one, but two lives as it was brought into the world.
The creature that had been Carla popped that sack open, separating the
fibrous membrane that kept both creatures together. One, the most affected,
looked more birdlike than human, covered in rows of thin black feathers
that struggled to hide underneath the skin to form those protective patterns
that characterized the Heralds. That first creature flapped and screamed, a
terrible cry emerging from its triangular-shaped lips. It rotted away with
each gut-wrenching call. Its brother, pink, small, and defenseless, simply
lay there, gasping for air; a lesser birth discarded. Isabel pleaded again, this
time her voice was loud and clear.
“Iron! Use iron for God’s sake!”
Neil reacted; the pain in Isabel’s voice made him think that maybe both
of them had been victims. Taking one of the few iron implements left in the
house, an ornamental poker for the fireplace, he hit Carla square between
the shoulder blades. The creature shrieked and disappeared in a cloud of
thin smoke, along with the dead Halfling. It had taken that terrible feathered
demon with it and now there was only Neil, Isabel, who had started
mending herself from the trauma, and a human boy who struggled between
life and death.
Neil picked up the baby, cleaning his body from the bloody membrane
that held him to a nightmare sister. After what seemed a lifetime, and once
he had coughed out the last mucous remains of that parasitic bond, Esteban
O’Reilly announced his arrival in the world with a kitten-like cry.
He looked at Isabel, who had started to move. She was weakened by
blood loss, but her body didn’t show signs beyond those of a natural birth.
She tried to get closer, almost dragging herself.
“It was her.” Isabel’s lips were cracked open by dehydration, but her
words were rushing out, clear and supplicating. “It was always her, my
love. You must believe me. My damn mother.” Her eyes were once again
the ones he had fallen in love with. “If you knew enough to try to kill us,
then you know what I am. But I loathe what I am. I abhor my existence.
You were the only good thing I ever had and she forced my hand. She
wanted me to destroy you twice. Once in the flesh and once through our
son.”
Tears started streaming profusely down her cheeks and her voice became
raw once more from the effort, but she had to continue. Eyes fixed on the
whining baby, Isabel asked, “Is he alive? Make sure that he lives, please.
Tell me I was able to rescue some of you, some of us. You can do as you
please with me, but he is as innocent as you are.”
 Neil held the baby, trying to keep him warm. He was tiny and rickety, as
he had been a source of sustenance for the Dark Herald with whom he
shared the womb. The baby was fighting, trying to raise his body
temperature in a father’s embrace. Half blinded, his eyes tried to capture
light and motion. They were hazel, a perfect blend of Neil’s fair and Isabel’s
dark eyes. The baby breathed with slight difficulty and barely had the
strength to move or cry, but he was alive. Frail and painstakingly human.
O’Reilly’s heart couldn’t take it. Of all possible scenarios he had studied
when meeting with Bastian, it never crossed his mind they could have a
new beginning. He kneeled closer to Isabel, still holding the child with
great care. As her fingers brushed the baby, the little one answered with a
soft wail, as if needing her. It became the most natural thing, the correct
course. All those months of craziness and impossibilities now dissipated.
He could talk to her about what he knew, he could reach her, ask her if there
was ever another way, other than to act on his fears. They could forgive one
another and wake up from a nightmare. He trusted her with the baby as she
was eager to hold him, to feed and calm him. Neil embraced them, kissing
the side of Isabel’s head and lingering for a moment before asking, “Where
is she now?”
Isabel ran her tongue over her lips. Nervous and afraid, at last she found
the courage to say, “In hell, where she belongs, where she has taken that
awful creature that almost destroyed everything we hold dear.” Her eyes
turned toward the spot where Carla once stood and it was then that Neil
noticed a residue of gray dust on the carpet.
“Everything will be all right,” Isabel assured. “I can weave one last
illusion before leaving it all behind. Place a call now.”
The paramedics arrived at the scene after a report of premature labor.
Both mother and child were admitted into observation at the hospital and
the little one spent the required time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit
until he was cleared. Closing in on seven months’ gestation, Esteban
O’Reilly was a miracle child, quickly overcoming the developmental gaps
expected for children born at that early stage.
 
***
 
Neil O’Reilly and Sebastian Salgado saw each other again but once
more. The words, time, and place were carefully chosen by the Irishman.
 Sebastian knew about what happened that day, or at least about what the
social pages reported: a picture of Neal and Isabel, smiling, all differences
blended in the graying shades of a black-and-white picture. It announced
the birth of a son. There was no picture of the infant but it was mentioned
that though Esteban was born prematurely, he was healthy and stable.
O’Reilly extended a thick, sealed envelope to Bastian. There were copies
of medical records belonging to Esteban. Extensive tests and recordings of
progress and development, vital signs and pediatrician evaluations.
“He is outside of any influence. There’s no doubt about it. He has been
in the hospital for almost three months, first in critical, now in neo-natal.
Every single test out there has been performed. My son is human. You said
it yourself, the human twin feeds the Fae one, and that…other thing is
dead.”
Bastian smiled. He was honestly happy about the news, but the smile
was not as broad as it should have been. It was cut short by a nod, as he
knew the very next question would create a gap between them.
“And what about the mother?”
“Isabel is in perfect condition.” O’Reilly stressed each syllable, steeping
the name in humanity. “The proof is in the fact that I am as well.”
It was true, Neil was back to looking like the poster child for health. He
had even gained muscle mass and his skin was as healthy as it had ever
been. But still, Bastian had doubts.
“I’ll be very direct with you, even though I know this will not sit well,
my friend. This is too much on the happy ending side for our experience.”
His words sounded cynical and he was soon repentant, if not about the
message, then the way he chose to deliver it, but there was not much else do
at that point. “The Dark Heralds of Fae are imprinted with loyalty to their
clan. The bond between generations is profound, especially among females
—mother and child, siblings, even. The death of one is meant to impact
profoundly, even kill the other. That was not the case between Isabel and
that unborn creature because it didn’t live to imprint through magic and
develop as a natural child.”
Bastian couldn’t help but think about Adriana, in the way she rejoiced
when she felt free of her father. It was one of the big differences between
vampyr and Sidhe. The so-called night breeds saw themselves as free, while
the Dark Heralds, though solitary fairies, depended on one another. He tried
to make Neil understand.
 “If Isabel and Carla were as close as you said, even if one hated the
other, there must have been repercussions that I am not reading. I need to
see your wife, make sure everything is—”
“No,” O’Reilly interrupted.
Neil’s decisive look let him know that the Irishman was willing to see
only as far as he decided to, even using Bastian’s own words against him.
“You told me on the day we met that you only interfere if a call is made,
if a person makes it clear that they need you. Well, I don’t need you any
longer, Bastian. And as much as I’d like to salvage this friendship, you
know that there are elements that will grant it irreconcilable.”
“Then,” Bastian stood from his desk, “this is our last meeting, Mr.
O’Reilly. I am certain I will not see you again, and let’s hope you won’t
need any of us in the future.”
A shake of hands finished their friendship and both men kept to
themselves, burdened with the things they had to do and the promises they
were meant to keep.
 
***
 
The following winter, Neil bought several acres of land attached to a
gorgeous house upstate. He fell in love with the place instantly and found in
it an excuse to leave behind the bitter memories of all his family had lived
through in the city. Innisfree was meant to be their starting point, where
everything was to be forgiven and forgotten. Just the three of them, Neil,
Isabel, and little Esteban, who, in time, grew to be a healthy and curious
child. For five years, it was their home.
In the summer of his fifth birthday, Esteban was upstate with his mother
and father, as was their custom. The child had been playing in the gardens
and showed up with a handful of quartz he’d dug up from around the yard.
Father and son rinsed the stones and polished them, bringing out their
almost sparkling quality. Under Neil’s watch, the boy cheered and ran
about, looking for a place to safeguard his treasure. Esteban finally settled
at the foot of a tree, where after tracing several concentric circles with his
fingers, the little boy placed the stones marking north, south, east, and west.
“After all we have done, you are planning to bury those stones again?”
his father asked while the little boy kept pushing the quartz into the humid
soil.
 “No.” The boy kept working, asking his father to join in. “Here, Daddy,
this one goes here, like this. You push the rock in good and leave it there. It
can’t fall. These are seats for the fairies and the little black humming birds
with shiny green eyes.” He kept motioning for Neil to join, a toothy grin
and a twinkle of hazel in his eye.
His father didn’t join in his little venture, but made him stand up,
grabbing his shoulders and shaking him until he let go of the stones in his
hand. Esteban was startled and soon enough started crying.
“Did your mother tell you to do this? Isabel put you up to this, boy?”
The child was frightened and reacted accordingly. He kicked blindly,
connecting with his father’s shin, and ran to his mother, crying out her name
as loudly as he could. Isabel O’Reilly ran to rescue her son, lifting the boy
into her arms. She was livid, checking if Esteban had any sign of violence.
“Are you out of your mind?” She wanted to throw a fit, but kept silent
when Esteban whimpered. The mother just brushed her lips against her
son’s crown to calm him further. Her eyes followed Neil to the small stone
circle, her lips sealed in a thin line. “You are clearly upset, Neil,” she told
her husband. “This is something we’ll need to talk about when nerves are
settled.”
That evening, father and son reconciled over a book. Neil read and
Esteban listened. Fascinated with the story, he had soon forgotten the scares
of that morning. Once again he felt loved and safe, no more threatened than
when his father shouted at him for getting too close to the far side of the
dock where the wood was a little loose, or that time he played with
matches. Daddy said he was sorry, that he had been as scared as he was, and
he believed him. Neil kissed him and put him to bed knowing all was
settled between them.
Isabel waited for her husband in the garden between the house and the
dock. She was dressed in that lilac sundress Neil loved. She could feel him
walking toward her and didn’t even turn to look at him. It was time to let
him know all she had felt until that point.
“I have carried a terrible sense of loss for years, Neil. I’ve learned to live
with it, to bear it. But what happened this morning with Esteban showed me
it is time we go our separate ways. I…we must be free to embrace our true
selves.”
Was she talking about divorce? It was ridiculous. Through almost eight
years together they had forgiven each other a lot. And now she wanted to
break up because he lost his temper for a brief moment.
“I recognize it was all my fault.” Neil tried to make amends. “I have seen
that Esteban is all right and in time I will make it up to him as well. When
he is old enough, he’ll understand my sudden doubts, my shock. But, Isabel,
we can work this out. For us, for the sake of our child.”
He reached out to place his hand on her shoulder, to turn her around, but
his hand found her skin, though sun kissed, was cold and hard to the touch.
She turned on her own, hitting him with scorn in her glowing green eyes
and twisting her lips in a half smile that reminded him of the edge of a
knife.
“Do you think this is about Esteban? No, better yet…do you think this is
about what I might feel for you? Of all creatures under the stars, you are the
one I don’t lose a wink of sleep over. Years of silence, years of putting up
with you, years of restraining myself. Not uttering a word, playing at being
human, hiding all I hold claim to. I have been waiting for my weakened,
almost mortal offspring to remember his better half, to tap into the traces of
magic left by his dead sister. To connect with one who loves him truly,
through the veil.” She spat out every word with heavy disdain. “And here, I
had it all set in place; the ashes of your ancestors enriching this very soil,
the savage, untamed beauty of nature that opens a safe passage into my
world. Summer after summer, winter after winter, I’ve been waiting for
Esteban to bloom, for his blood to remember. Until this morning, he finally
did it. His voice called to my sister-mother on the other side.”
Neil scanned the place for iron, but the garden was all stone and wood.
The years led him to slip back into comfort and he had overlooked even the
slightest security measures. Still he went for her, blinded by rage and the
hurt of discovering she had been taking him for a fool once again.
“I will kill you. You damn bitch! And don’t you think you are laying a
hand on my son!”
Isabel chuckled while her lips formed two syllables: “Kar-Lagh.” The
sound of humming wings cut through the dark and then opened wounds in
his skin with surgical precision. Neil folded in, victim of hundreds of stabs,
bleeding out in a few heartbeats.
Isabel followed his descent, cradling him as he could no longer stand.
She kissed his lips, stained red as much of his face was already. Without
hesitation, her nails, now small, pointed claws, ripped into his artery and
pulled, tearing away at the conduit of blood once guarded underneath the
skin.
Neil’s blood opened a door through which Carla crossed. Neat and
elegant as she ever was, Carla Alejandro wouldn’t allow a drop of that
miserable blood to touch even the sole of her shoes. She looked on as Isabel
kept saying, as in prayer, “Her name was Evelyn. Had you given her a
chance, she would have been perfect, and beautiful.”
It was late at night and Esteban opened his eyes, grumpy as ever, as his
mother turned on the light. The sudden bright made him blink, annoyed.
Then he was worried that something might be wrong. His mother told him
to take off his jammies because it was time for a bath.
“But it is night!” he quarreled.
“No, sweetheart. It is just the beginning of a brand new day.”
She sat him in the tub. The water was the color of poppies and smelled a
little like rust. Isabel washed him from head to toe, careful to ensure the
blood of sacrifice was absorbed through his skin. Then she rinsed him in
waters of the Lethe, one of the five rivers that flowed into hell. It was
Carla’s gift, a precious souvenir from the other side.
Esteban O’Reilly’s life began that day. His father was not only gone, but
forgotten. Only his mother and Carla held a place in his childhood
memories.

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XIV
 
 
Accidents
 
Two Years Prior
 
“She is…different.” Esteban took the time to emphasize the word to
Isabel, to make his sentiment clear without the need for further
explanations.
“Just listen to yourself!” Isabel rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Excuse
me if it is too early to put up with tawdriness while keeping a straight face.
Spare me, Esteban. I just don’t want to hear what is coming up next if this is
the very first thing you’ll say when I ask you what you see in that girl!”
Her son had a number of interactions over the years that Isabel
considered appropriate for someone his age. He even had a steady girlfriend
for a year or so before Marissa came along. Isabel remembered that time
fondly. Esteban had shown interest in one of those socialites who enjoyed
playing at being a forward feminist, but was really scouting for a husband.
Isabel found her charming, adequate, malleable, and placed most of her
effort in helping this woman conquer her son. But she could only influence
so much, and it all fell through. Then, one day, out of the blue, Esteban
showed up at her door announcing that a paralegal from a lesser known firm
in Manhattan was it. She didn’t quite believe it until they both moved into
an apartment on Franklin Avenue.
 
***
  
The Day Of The Accident
 
Isabel had waited it out for a couple of years, treating Marissa with
decorum and a good helping of acceptance while waiting for them to break
up over some insurmountable quarrel. It just didn’t happen. If there was a
walking cliché bothersome enough to make her bitter, it was the ever
attracting opposite her son had found in a girlfriend. And if it was not
enough, Esteban had held his own counsel brilliantly. It was quite a punch
in the gut when he finally told Isabel and Carla he was sealing the deal with
Marissa.
“Help me here. When were we meant to find out about this?” Carla was
the first to ask. She had always been gracious about disguising her
contempt. Even Esteban was fooled for the longest time. He always counted
on his grandmother to soothe Isabel when it came to Marissa. And now, his
mother looked the image of hurt and drama while Carla had finally raised
the one disapproving eyebrow.
“Well, I guess right now.” Esteban gave Carla a look that reminded her,
inevitably, about that rebellious streak on the O’Reilly side.
She loved him, but sometimes that look was enough to make her grind
her teeth and take a deep breath. Still, she managed to give Isabel a pitiful
look, stand up, and walk toward her grandson. She held his hand, knowing
that he was a man and not easily persuaded, but still, gave it a try. “There is
so much of your father in you. Enough to make your mother’s heart bleed.”
The younger O’Reilly took his grandmother’s hand to his lips and kissed
the interior of her wrist. Carla felt how he drew a smile afterward. “I adore
you, Grandmother, but these types of games have not worked since I came
of age.”
It was low and unexpected and both Carla and Isabel protested,
indignant. Carla presumed to have great control over her emotions, but
insubordination and insolence unnerved her. She reciprocated, cold and
direct.
“You are too valuable to let you do whatever you want. That was our
first mistake.” This time her hand touched his cheek and Esteban felt a
wave of heat. It was a caress that carried the weight of a slap. His
grandmother simply smiled, and Isabel’s eyes twinkled as well. They were
connected, enough for the younger to see what the other had discovered
with a single touch. They had their ways to know, after all.
“You had a fight,” his mother declared. “A definite one.” The words left
her lips with a cruel sense of plentiful knowledge. “Hmm. That is why you
came for the ring. Oh, please do! Run, go back to her. Fix your life with a
magic binding and watch it fall apart. That is not how it works, son. With
all I’ve told you, my story with your father…it seems that you are bent on
discarding every warning along the way. I’m tired of steering you away
from suffering.”
Esteban didn’t dignify her argument with an answer. He pocketed the
engagement ring and left. He did cross paths with her on the way out and
simply said goodbye, the hazel of his eyes grown darker because of all he
wanted to say but kept inside. Isabel saw him leave. She relaxed about it,
happy. As he left the driveway, she turned to tell Carla, “He’ll be back.”
“I am afraid, if he ever returns, he will no longer be ours. I can’t see his
future,” Carla added, “but I can well read his plans. We’ve said too much
and he took it to heart. He plans to leave, with her if possible, if not, he’ll
go alone. His human side is stronger than his Sidhe, and though he knows
about our bloodline, I don’t think he cares much.”
 
***
 
Esteban kept clear from Montauk Highway on his way from Long Island
to Brooklyn. He needed time to come up with an infallible strategy. He
wanted Marissa to say yes, a definite yes. He checked the time, it was 12:10
and Marissa must have been taking her lunch. He called her, but it went
directly to voice mail. “Okay, I deserve it. Don’t answer the phone.” His
voice was calm. “We’ll talk about it at home.”
He hung up quickly. The phone was distraction; the road was a bit
difficult to travel. The recent, persistent snowfalls that blanketed the
Northeast had left banks of hardened white that refused to melt as
temperatures were still quite low and the Atlantic threw nothing from the
coast but dry breeze.
The younger O’Reilly kept thinking about the row he had with his
girlfriend. Esteban considered Marissa’s almost pathological relationship
with the city. He had wanted them to leave it all behind and start
somewhere new, away from both their families. True, he appreciated
Adriana enough, but Marissa seemed uncomfortable about her mother, yet
wouldn’t let go. Sure, he had a terrible mother as well, but at least on his
side, their strained relationship didn’t bleed into their daily lives. More than
once Marissa agreed to leave, only to get cold feet at the last minute. She
had decided to give herself a chance, not moving away, but getting closer to
Carla and Isabel. Esteban hated the idea of Marissa becoming Isabel the
Lesser. And yet he couldn’t say a word to bring his mother’s hypocrisy to
the forefront.
Isabel was quite charming, careful, and understanding toward Marissa
when she was present, but as soon as she left, venom and disapproval were
spewed in the most intense fashion. Isabel pushed his buttons, knowing that
he’d never bring her duplicity into view. Marissa, that blonde beauty with
sad gray eyes he had fallen in love with, came with quite a frail ego in tow.
To find herself the target of Isabel’s scorn and mockery might just destroy
her self-esteem.
It was something almost ingrained in her personality. Marissa might
have looked decisive in her line of work, but Esteban knew it was all a
product of long hours of practice in front of a mirror. That was how deep
and damaging her insecurity was. It might hurt to admit it, but Marissa was
nowhere near as perfect as he made his mother believe.
Nothing to lose sleep over though. He had learned to love her weakness,
moments in which she shed the armor and simply asked him to hold her.
Whenever they were on their own and she opened up to him, Marissa
always stressed how wonderful it felt to be considered part of the family by
Carla and Isabel, how caring they both had been to her since the first day
they met. He’d rather damn himself than burst her bubble.
That was the least of his reasons to feel guilty.
Esteban knew that the longer they stayed together, the more Marissa fell
victim to his secrets. And that was precisely why he had made up his mind
to leave, even if it meant revealing stuff he had been carefully guarding for
close to eight years.
On the day of his twenty-first birthday, his mother and grandmother
asked him to visit Innisfree. Esteban complied, though at that moment, the
house on the hill didn’t mean much to him. Innisfree was a place he’d
grown to associate with pain and long lost memories. Isabel was the sole
proprietor of the estate, and if there was a place in which his father’s
presence was ever dimmer, he still had to find it. All that was Neil O’Reilly
had been relegated to a nasty, unkempt fishing cottage in the middle of a
lake.
They had brought him there to celebrate his being an adult, so he decided
to address the part of his life that was sorely missing. “You told me I was
happy here once. So why do I get such a bad vibe from this place? I hate
that I don’t have a single memory that ties me to this house…or to my
father.”
The party had died down and the guests had gone their way, most of
them once they discovered Esteban had retired. The house was a little too
much for him and somehow he found himself wondering away into the yard
and off to the fishing cabin. His mother followed. She always knew where
to find him.
“Sooner or later, questions surface.” Isabel sat in front of her son. They
were both cross-legged on the floor.
Esteban cradled a family album he had been looking at for the last half
hour. The pictures were faded and stuck together because of exposure to
humidity. The distorted images were a perfect match for his memories. In
one of the better preserved ones, Neil was carrying little Esteban on top of
his shoulders. Esteban did not remember ever laughing, probably taken by
surprise and delight to feel his feet had ceased touching the ground, safe in
his father’s care. A breeze coming from the lake had made a mess of his
then dirty blond hair and his small hands held a plastic spool, testimony to a
kite lost beyond the picture’s frame.
Isabel bit her lip and ran her fingers through her son’s hair, somehow
glad that time had darkened its shade.
“Things became difficult after your grandfather’s death. A suicide is
always hard to deal with.” Isabel leaned forward, allowing for both her
hands to slip down Esteban’s shoulders, until they finally met his and she
was able to take hold of the album. “The O’Reilly men were lacking in
emotional stability. I guess love made me blind to certain details. It was
long after we were married that I learned not only your grandfather, but
your great-grandfather was also deeply disturbed. Daniel died under
suspicious circumstances. Though suicide might have come to play as well,
Nathan could have…I don’t want to draw conclusions about the dead. But,
sweetheart, your father’s blood was tainted by madness and violence.”
“What are you trying to get at?” Esteban felt the conversation was taking
an uneasy turn. Was she trying to tell him that he might be prone to
insanity? In twenty-one years, he had never doubted his capacities, nor had
he gone through an episode that might bring into question his mental health.
Isabel went back to appreciate the picture before her.
“Nothing. I’m simply talking about being in love. Taken to the point of
being unmindful. I hope that’ll never be your case.” Her eyes concentrated
on the photograph, her fingers traced every shape about it, as if trying to
relive memories long buried. “I was brought down by his smile and the
warmth of his skin and the effect the sound of his voice had in me. I thought
I’d be able to handle his slow descent into madness, and for a time, I was.
His moods became erratic, impossible to predict. At times I was the center
of his universe, and then, suddenly, he’d blame me for everything he
considered wrong about his days. I am ashamed to say, son, that I grew used
to it, to the cycle. It was bearable to live with a caress one day and a slap
the morning after. I had convinced myself it was my duty to put up with it,
the price we pay for love. I didn’t want to give up on him.”
Esteban saw his mother’s eyes blur with tears. Though he thought she
hurt, this confession was the most she had ever said about his father and he
needed to know. “He turned violent, mistreated you?” He was trying to
keep his own anger in check. Although he never knew Neil, he was made to
love his father. But now…
Isabel took a deep breath, making sure Esteban felt the weight of her
sorrow, even as she shrugged her shoulders in a dismissive gesture. “In
every way conceivable, darling. Until you came. When I became pregnant I
discovered you inspired a different kind of love within me. A love that led
me to take care of myself. I drew lines. I invited my mother to move in with
us. I made Neil promise to give treatment a try, for our sake. At first, he did.
We lived here for years, away from all the bad memories of our life in the
city. And then, one day, it started again.”
Isabel shifted, kneeling, placing her flat palms on top of her son’s thighs.
She pushed forward, closing the gap between them. Esteban recoiled,
flinching. Isabel’s hair looked alive, coated in a lustrous blue-black sheen
that framed her face in a porcelain oval. She was no longer his mother, but a
creature of perfect and inhuman beauty with eyes like liquid emerald. She
tightened her grip upon him, holding him in place. Her considerable
strength was softened by the plea in her eyes, which had reverted to dark in
just one blink. “I can’t conceive of how Neil could even think about it. I had
hopes that being blood of his blood, he’d spare you. Your father was given
to delirium and hallucinations, he even once convinced himself that you had
to die. Do you understand now? This is why I am so protective of you.
Because I was so close to losing you. And still, when I tell you we were
happy here once, I do not lie, love. Innisfree was the closest to a second
chance for us. This is where I tried to save him from himself. Though, for
your sake, I kept him distant. Eventually, he succumbed to other maladies.
His body became as frail and unbalanced as his mind. If anything good
came from it, I had the chance to take care of him until the day he died.”
She lied, but her misdirection made perfect sense to Esteban. His
memories had been altered and scrambled since early childhood and
Isabel’s words were the only truth he’d ever known. His mother broke
down, sobbing, shaking. Esteban held her, but his better instinct kept telling
him to draw back. He was taken by the creeping feeling that the woman he
held was just someone who looked like someone he knew and loved.
Esteban didn’t continue to embrace her, though he was careful not to
hurt her by revealing his sense of dread. The lights in the cabin were dim,
and for the second time that night his senses played a bizarre trick for the
briefest instance. He saw Isabel, shaken, eyes still running with tears, face
contorted in a grimace of pain. Yet underneath her skin, he could see
another face behind his mother’s. A woman who smiled, enjoying every bit
of the spectacle she had unfolded. This other woman knew she was safe
behind a veil of tears and carefully crafted agony. He raised his fingers to
the edge of his mother’s lips, touching the hardened filaments underneath,
the pliable muscles of that other face beneath her human guise. Esteban was
about to say something when Carla showed up, leaning against the
doorframe.
“If you began this story, Isabel, then you must finish it.” His
grandmother appeared out of thin air and he barely processed it. That was
how relieved he was to see her there. Both mother and child turned to the
elder, who was, as she usually did when demanding attention, with arms
crossed firmly over her chest. Carla gave Isabel a cold stare, as far from a
sympathetic glance as could be.
The daughter responded by brushing away tears and pressing her lips in
a quick, tight line before answering, “Don’t you worry, Carla. I never
intended to continue without you.”
Carla got closer to the youngest O’Reilly, forcing her daughter to move
out of the way. She reached out for Esteban, who stood up before allowing
his grandmother to sit on the floor. Her words for him were clear and harsh.
“One of these days you’ll obsess over someone. It might be such a strong
feeling that you will end up calling this infatuation love. Call me cynical,
but it is true. All mothers consider their daughters princesses. But I do not
exaggerate when I tell you that our family has a claim to royalty that
extends for more than a thousand years. As much as I love you, I should not
have allowed your mother to fixate on your father. Even if it was but
momentary. Their relationship was one defined by duty and not by
sentiment.”
“Grandma, it is not necessary to give this a fairy tale undertone.”
“Hmm.” Carla chuckled. “It is quite curious that you use that phrase.
Because this is precisely a fairy tale.”
She cradled his face in her hands, her way of asking for his attention.
Carla was quite tall, almost as tall as Esteban, and she reached out without
much strain. Her touch was caring and warm, inviting, not at all like
Isabel’s had been just minutes before. “Your mother, taken as she was,
decided to change your father’s course. She revealed our nature and begged
him to take her into his world.”
Esteban was about to protest, but Carla started presenting irrefutable
evidence, details he’d promised never to question about his childhood were
coming to light. “Have you ever taken ill, young man? Or do you think it is
normal to go through life without suffering a minimal affliction? Remember
when you were younger and had accidents? Scraped knees, twisted
ankles…how fast you healed. Or that terrible, frightful day you stumbled at
the top of the stairs and hit head first. Do you recall the sound of the crack
along your neck, the one that gave you nightmares for a week? How none
of these incidents ever left a trace of pain, or even a scar? For our kind it is
easy to regenerate as long as we are conscious. All those lapses in your
memory, the blank spaces, were created by your true nature. To protect you
and prepare you for the day you were to know not only who, but what you
are.”
Esteban protested, though it felt ridiculous and childlike. He thought
about taking a step outside that cabin. He knew that as soon as he did, his
life was to take a turn he would never steer back from. It was midway
through December and though the winter had been mild compared to the
year before, the wood still cracked under his feet, half frozen under the
touch of water and the slither of wind. Esteban was barefoot, having rid
himself of shoes and socks, wet from crossing to the cabin. Bewildered, he
noticed the night’s revelation might have made him impervious to cold.
He planned to leave, and warned them about it. Where Isabel was almost
irrational, demanding he stay, Carla was able to convince him to give them
a chance. His grandmother not only talked about duty and inevitability, but
also about freedom and choice. If she lied, he wouldn’t know, but before
they left the cabin, Esteban was convinced to accept his halfling nature.
Deep in his heart, he had always known. Even as a child, he had been able
to touch another world through the mist of dreams.
As they walked across the garden toward the quartz circle he had put in
place as a child, the young man felt a heat overtaking him. It was as if he
were sweating a fever that drenched his body, plastering his shirt over his
torso. He had to remove it as the fabric burned, the cloth grazing against
what felt like raw flesh. Once he was rid of it, the younger O’Reilly noticed
the patterns running through his body, the circles underneath his skin, words
that rushed about like the flutter of dark wings, writing the preface to the
story he was meant to live. Words meant to pulse along with him until the
day he died, invisible to the mortal world unless he allowed them to see.
That night, Esteban stood in the circle, flanked by his mother and
grandmother. He saw through the dimness of the veil the magnificence of
the Court that reigned over the other side. He learned what he was given,
the secrets bestowed upon changeling children, about the powers half their
lives owed allegiance to. The young man saw a glimpse of his Fae
countenance living underneath his mortal coil. It was not as strong as the
stuff Isabel and Carla were made of, but it was undeniably a part of him.
His better half, they called it.
The women of House Alexander told him that the Circle was an entrance
to the Court of Fae, and being a threshold, it cherished secrets and required
truths.
They forgot to mention, though, that centuries of perfidy and free range
on the mortal world had honed their skills. Yes, they were bound to tell the
truth within that circle…but who was to judge if they twisted the facts
around, committing little sins of omission and guiding his questions toward
subjects they had no qualms answering. They didn’t even tell him that
outside of the circle, lying to him was vital to sustain their charade. When
Esteban asked who Evelyn was, Isabel’s answer was simple, “She is family.
Someone from my past I brought here because I didn’t want to feel
alone…”
 
***
 
Snow started falling softly over the stretch of road. Esteban looked to his
right, ridding himself of memories. A storm was brewing. What he could
see of the Atlantic coast in the distance looked like a mass of gray swirls
crested in white as waves crashed violently against the rocky shore beneath.
He reduced speed, ready to enter another suburban area.
A second and a half, the time it took to blink, was all that was needed.
The driver coming in from the access ramp got distracted while trying to
activate the windshield wipers. It was an old truck and the man was not
used to it, so he set off the blinkers instead, making it look as though he was
going to take a left turn, and cursed along the way. The white stuff
accumulating on the windshield and his negligence didn’t allow for the man
to notice the thin layer of ice that formed several meters before the road
junction or the car that came in through his blind spot.
Alarmed, the driver tried to brake, pushing the pedal to the floor, but that
piece of junk had nothing close to a decent anti-lock system and tons of
steel skidded on the road while the driver struggled to regain control.
Esteban saw it coming a little too late. It was impossible to turn on that
road that only allowed for two vehicles, and the truck collided with his car,
the blunt force of speed and impact on the driver’s side. Fiberglass flew
about as his vehicle now spun out of control as well. The lateral impact was
deafening, metal against metal the last thing he heard. Marissa was present
in his mind as the world around him violently compacted. Marissa sleeping
soundly, her hair a golden mess fanned across the pillow. The way she slept,
stealing the covers, anchoring the sheets under her elbow, and how he
kissed the nape of her neck, quite softly, enough to make her react and let
them go. It was all lost in a swing of right, then left, and a second impact
against a metal guardrail.
Esteban’s body rushed sideways, hitting his head against the window and
then against the steering wheel just a fraction of a second before the airbags
deployed. There was blood. Lots of it.
Moments before losing consciousness, he thought about Adriana. How
one night, unbeknownst to Marissa, he had gone to see his girlfriend’s
mother, possessed by the need to tell her a secret he had sworn never to
reveal: the truth about his nature.
Adriana smiled, unfazed by the revelation. Inviting him to the kitchen,
she opened a small fridge she kept locked and produced a decanter filled
with red, viscous liquid, which she poured in a glass. Drinking, relishing it,
it stained her lips crimson. “Secrets, my dear boy. Life would be boring
without them.”
Adriana told him some of her own, and Marissa never knew that he
knew…things left unsaid that would be taken to the grave.
As much as Esteban tried to keep awake, his senses drifted. His body
betrayed him and he was no longer anchored to the stench of burned rubber
or the screech of twisted metal. He didn’t even feel pain as heaviness set
upon him like a blanket. But this was not the repairing pause to which he
was used to. This was certain, dark, a door to oblivion. It all disappeared as
if in a fading dream: the future he had designed, the ring in his pocket, the
possibilities. His eyes rolled back into his skull and Esteban O’Reilly fell
into the grasp of that sleep that led to death.

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XV
 
 
Friends, Fiends, And Family–Part I
 
Esteban O’Reilly’s world came to a halt.
Images dissipated and there was no longer a thought, care, or desire to
keep him bound to the waking world. There was just a long descent into a
dark, cold place. His human understanding, that part that tried to make
sense of concepts such as time, space, and tangible realities, crashed and
shattered. His Sidhe side, however, reveled in the joy of crossing into its
home for the very first time.
The lands of Aval, the inter-world in which the Fae made their home had
been visited but by few mortals. Those who have glimpsed it and managed
to return are obliged to share the course of their existence with a label of
insanity. Legends told that poets were exempt. It was not true. As Bastian
used to say, “If fairies ever take a shine to you, they’ll just find lesser pains
to impart, but they will always harm you. It is their business to abuse the
kindness of those with a good heart about them.”
Aval was the land the fairies wrested from the heart of the human world
and planted in another. Since then, it has managed to survive upon a
delicate balance. Humans were summoned, as their vital energy was needed
to keep the place alive. Fairies had nothing to give, but they were
resourceful when it came to scouting for the right kind of soul to feed their
soil.
Dreaming of a place that looked familiar, but couldn’t quite be
pinpointed, drove one deeper to know its location, to escape and discover it,
to embark on an amazing journey. Every step taken had an echo that spread
across the lands, opening a pathway through a golden mist. The more steps
taken, the more there was to discover. By the time the dreamer noticed there
was no end to the world they crossed into, it would be too little too late.
They might find themselves forever bound to walk those emerald hills.
It has been said that fairies feed on dreams, and while there were humans
willing to sacrifice a bit of their essence with each pleasant escapade, Aval
would prevail. The jasper mountains would grow into interminable ranges
and rivers of thrumming waters forever would sing their way toward a sea
of sapphire blue and waves of golden foam.
But those were the lands of the most revered hierarchies. The Seelie
Court had almost everything and was content to take the little they had been
denied without ever crossing back into the human realm.
The place Esteban visited, House Alexander, the citadel that claimed to
be the source of power for both his mother and grandmother, was quite
different. The Dark Heralds of Fae, out of which Alexander was the
strongest line, guarded the gates of Aval as a nightmare the brave must
overcome in order to reach a dream.
There was no difference between the structure and the stone upon which
it was erected. Walls rose, dark granite with deep veins of gray. It lacked a
roof—one was not necessary. It never rained, and through the day, the light
of the sun was filtered through heavy clouds. At night, not even the stars
dared shine upon them, so as not to bear witness to the evil that roamed
their hallways. The house was silent. Its walls reeked of death, and once in
a while the roar of thunder brought lightning close enough to throw a hint
of light upon those windows. There was a constant echo of sobs and the salt
of tears scarred those walls in white. It was a depiction of what House
Alexander stood for. Alexanders drove their enthralled to suicide and
violent demises. In their ample rooms and hallways, like trophies acquired
through generations, there were the screams and protests and last breaths of
those who lost their bets against the time they were given.
This was the place where Carla returned for Esteban, where she required
an audience, feeling unsatisfied with the answers she had been given so far.
Esteban’s body rested, suspended above ground. Oozing dark filaments
kept him firmly in place, wrapped in the center of a web that stuck to the
walls. The tendrils crept through his body like ivy, alive on their own. They
worked their magic on him, healing while destroying. Their only intent was
to salvage the energy he carried about him through his mother’s blood.
Though his face was bruised and bloated, a second countenance was taking
shape underneath and a flexible mask of viscosity and keratin scales slipped
through his wounds, trying to undo the damage of the terrible accident he
had suffered. It looked gruesome and menacing, but it was actually a
resource. Magic trying to tap into his Sidhe side, to jolt him awake and
restore him. Carla observed that the deep gash on his forehead was still
opened, and if anything was even deeper, there was still blood and trauma,
even a bit of bone exposed.
The echo of Carla’s footsteps, the soft, floral perfume that impregnated
her clothes, and the lasting impression of sunshine in her hair triggered
something. The need to return, a terrible moment of desperation, the
realization that Marissa might be in danger. Carla cursed, damning herself,
but it was the first time in a little over a week that Esteban showed sign of
movement. She conjured what was left of interacting with Marissa off her
skin, that scent that she found repugnant but Esteban must have found
appealing. The younger O’Reilly seemed to respond, his eyes moving
rapidly behind lids that refused to open.
That might have given Isabel a dash of hope, but Carla observed with
dispassion, understanding that it was all a mix of her hopes and the
comatose man’s involuntary movements. At any given time, she could have
said she loved the boy Esteban was and had high hopes for the man he had
become. But unlike Isabel, who had considerable power but was still more
human than Sidhe, Carla observed it all with the cold logic of the Fae.
There was little to cry over a lost investment. If anything, all efforts were
set for salvage. Years of caution and care made redundant over something
as trivial as a human impulse annoyed her.
“You are extremely detached, dear daughter. Even among the Fae the
heart has some value. If we had but settled for things being black and white,
our house would be in ruin. Our best deals are set for those who’d rather pit
their feelings against overwhelming odds.” The master of the house made
himself known.
His voice had the cadence of old. Carla found her father to be in good
spirits and willing, as always, to play with words to influence all, even his
daughter. The first of House Alexander looked upon her with dark eyes that
refused to let go of life. Francis Alexander had several millennia of
existence, and though no one in Aval could testify to his ancestors, the
Heralds enjoyed giving way to rumors, feeding tales to those who might
hear that caused unrest upon the sons and daughters of the Fae.
It was said that the terrible, deep dark of his eyes and hair was granted
the moment he touched his fair eyes and platinum hair with innocent blood.
Other said that those blue-black locks were bestowed upon him by the
Morrigan themselves. Goddesses of war who, acting upon a maternal
instinct, picked an abandoned Fae child and raised him as their own. Unable
to properly sustain him, The Phantom Queens fed him from the crimson
founts of the battlefield; that was when he developed a certain inclination
for warm and fragrant offerings.
The rock that sustained the Alexander house cared very little about these
stories being verified.
Over three hundred years ago, Francis Alexander turned away from the
Court, making a point that the rulers of Aval shouldn’t ask questions about
his lineage, but rather recognize his deeds. Little was known about the
position of the Heralds, recognized in human legends as Leanan Sidhe,
other than they served the interests of Aval as much as they looked after
those that solely pertained to them. Through centuries he had worn a
thousand masks, but Francis Alexander was his favorite fit.
He had called several strains of solitary fairies his children, but Kar-lagh
was blood of his blood. For years, the Heralds had traveled the lands of
mortal men, looking for a place to call their own again. But magic, though
not dead, had been forgotten, shunned by the prohibitions imposed by the
religion of the God hanging on a cross, and later, obliterated by science.
Francis Alexander had an appalling rut on good fortunes until one night, he
met a dhampyr on the side of the road. The night dweller was willing to
exchange knowledge for a fairy boon and Francis had no problem making
him believe he was one of the wish dispensing kind. He learned what he
needed and set a plan in motion. The precious information he gathered that
night was about to be shared with one deemed worthy.
“Be at ease, Kar-lagh. I can assure you that though we’ve had obstacles
along the way, our plans have not been disturbed.”
Daughter looked upon father with devotion. She might have been
indifferent to human emotion, creating a perfect mimicry of sentiment, but
her loyalty was undisputable.
Francis Alexander looked ravaged by time, but his charisma excelled
and she was gladly bound to her father’s fate with the conviction of a
soldier to colors. Alexander leaned forward on the satin lined chair that
served him as a throne while his rickety hands pointed toward a solitary
chess board on top of a nearby table. White pieces advanced over black on
the board. He moved one piece forward, but it never touched a square. The
board swirled into a gray mist and soon the table was cleared and its surface
had the sheen of a mirror through which Carla saw the inverted form of a
story.
“Come closer, daughter. Let me show you where we are going.”
Carla turned the table until that inverted image became as easy to grasp
as the reality around her.
Somewhere along the mists, there was an outline of a road barely
illuminated by a shard of moonlight. Two men sat under the protective
embrace of an elm. They kept off the dusty road and safe from the peering
eyes of anyone who might have ventured those paths close to midnight. One
of them was indubitably Francis Alexander. The Sidhe sat on top of a flat
rock, keeping his embroidered robes from soiling. He was young, younger
than Carla ever thought he could be. His face didn’t have gravitas, that
somberness she had grown to know, nor the confidence that had led him to
close a great amount of deals over the centuries. But things were soon to
change.
Francis kept his own counsel, listening intently, combing fingers through
his thick mane of dark hair. His eyes reflected the orange spark of the fire
before him, dancing in his pupils until his eyes looked like obsidian and
molten lava. His shirt was tidy and impossibly white, giving the illusion of
a disembodied entity, a ghost impervious to dust and smoke. His hand
rested calmly on the handle of a pure silver dirk, the only weapon
guaranteed to protect him against his companion.
Across the bonfire sat a man with ash blond hair and eyes the turquoise
of peacock feathers. Carla judged those eyes to be his only redeeming
quality. The man had all the markings of a peasant, from calloused hands,
the product of farm labor, to clothes made of plain cotton. His was a
collection of stains produced by sweat, dirt, food residue, and blood. Carla
listened intently, keen on grasping what her father wanted to show her. She
was about to witness Francis’s most profitable deal to date.
“The secret is breeding adequate bloodlines,” the creature of the night
explained. “You must engage certain people with affinity. Humans carry
traces of old magic within them, it is a matter of finding a strain in their
blood that is inclined to match our own. After that it is not unlike herding.
Keep the docile close, eliminate the threats, and subdue females into doing
your bidding. It was good enough for my mother, it will be good enough for
the mother of your children.”
The blood drinker belonged to a clan that had successfully conceived
offspring with humans for considerable generations. While most vampires
created progeny through blood exchange, the Popescu vampyrs claimed
their children through flesh as well as blood, being born through the union
of the living and the undead. Children, upon arrival, were enslaved to the
will of their father. Francis despised the man in front of him. He was a
leech, the lower level of Shadow Acolytes, and yet this man had more
leverage over humankind than the whole of Fae dreamed of.
The dhampyr continued, pausing only to taste the blood of his victim, a
filthy orphaned child he had picked up earlier that night. The blond man
held the small boy on his lap, squeezing liquid life out of a body in the
throes of death, letting it flow into a cup.
“Pappa Popescu is careful not to reveal details about how it is done
exactly, and you might ask yourself, little fairy, why I am confiding in you.
Well, I’ll get my boon for entertaining you, but you…you won’t get much.
Your kind is worse than the regular vampires ever were. It is common
knowledge that the Fae have no soul, there is nothing that connects you to
humanity.”
Francis Alexander made a point to neither smile nor show disagreement.
But he was satisfied. How ignorant they were, relying on the petty concept
of the human soul, when the Fae once had a hand in creation itself.
The creature in front of him cut out a strip of flesh from the fresh corpse,
digging further to drain what was left of the blood. The Sidhe thought, This
is one of the Popescu clan indeed, but not one of their feared vampyrs. He
is one of those creatures born of a woman’s womb. His tongue is not barbed
and he lacks the canines that are telltale of his species. He is a bastard in
transition. A dhampyr himself, thirsty for power as well as blood. However,
he is careful enough not to drink from living flesh and rush the
change. Such care indicates a level of fear.
“Indeed.” Francis inhaled deeply, feigning resignation and defeat. “I am
bound to grant you a boon. What do you want for our exchange?”
The dhampyr smirked, satisfied, cleaning the traces of blood off his chin.
“I spoke of Pappa Popescu tonight. He is the leader of my clan. I want to be
head of the family. I want all to look up to me with fear in their eyes.”
“I assure you,” Francis answered while helping himself to a sip of blood
as well, “that the mere mention of your name will strike fear upon their
hearts. I’ll raise you above all others. It will be done.”
And he disappeared, leaving the rustle of hundreds of tiny wings in his
wake.
That was how, a little over three hundred years ago, Francis Alexander
appeared at the door of the enclave of the vampyr known as Pappa Popescu
with a piece of information meant to feed the immortal’s increasing
paranoia. The Sidhe had learned enough to measure strength and have a
notion of all things convenient. And yes, he was willing to disrupt, even
topple the Popescu on behalf of a lesser clan, but the information he had
obtained was too valuable to divulge to others, so he kept it to himself and
simply carried on.
He spoke to Pappa Popescu of treachery among his ranks and the
vampyr listened to all the soul trader told him. Francis knew not to reveal
his personal interest in the matter. He had time to tap into that forgotten
magic, and had certainly found a lot of interesting things about those near
and dear to Pappa Popescu. But the vampyr lord was suspicious of his
kindness and even more distrustful of that apparent transparency and
benevolent demeanor. He had lived long enough to know the Fae. The head
of the most powerful coven in Europe didn’t reveal much, other than the
mounting fury reflected in his eyes as they took a turn toward deep garnet.
Whatever the intention of the Sidhe, Popescu made sure Francis would not
turn acquired knowledge against him.
Popescu scratched the length of his arm with a long, filed nail. Blood
surfaced dark and slow, almost coagulated, tired of running through a body
that should have died centuries before. Taking Francis by the collar, he
forced him to drink, laughing at the fairy’s disgust at being given blood to
drink, though he was very discerning at the time to take an offering.
“My blood will be poison to your children, if you ever conceive any. If
one of these days you become…interesting enough to cross my path with ill
intent, you will die. That is the price to pay for knowing our secrets. But
you have served me well, and I must be grateful. Consider yourself my
guest, Francis Alexander. I want you to stay this night with me and witness
firsthand how I deal with treachery.”
OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XVI
 
 
Friends, Fiends, And Family–Part II
 
A couple of nights after their initial encounter, Popescu invited
Alexander into his home. It was a secluded fortress with watch towers of
smooth stone and an impressive inner courtyard. Those guarded spaces
were not meant for quiet contemplation or solace, they served the purpose
of training.
The Popescu vampyrs were in a constant act of war against other
vampire clans, which they considered less deserving. Though they had the
upper hand when it came to numbers, and enjoyed the advantage of bound
human servants in their children, dhampyrs still suffered the consequences
of being human. The increasing number of sons born to the Popescu line
required rigorous drilling, to both keep their fighting prowess up to speed
and their minds off possible treachery. The level of aggression was carefully
looked after. The last thing the clan wanted to risk was power struggles that
might bring conflict within its walls. But they were soon made to forget.
That day, the battle stations were swept clean and the spaces were filled
with streams and delicate flowers. Plates of food, roasted beasts fresh from
the hunt seasoned with aromatic spices, were set up for a feast. There were
a couple of vampires there too, along with their progeny. They were still
loyal to the undead prince who had incorporated them into his clan. Always
bearing the mark of Popescu, these lesser vampires suffered a grip that
subdued their undead existence to their master’s fate. As to what they
entertained themselves with…certain things were better left unaccounted
for.
Ten male offspring sat at the main table and Francis Alexander was
quick to recognize Iskhander, the elder dhampyr son, as the creature he met
on the side of the road several days before.
The man no longer looked like a peasant. The finery of his robes spoke
of esteem and stature; the cockiness of his smile and the drumming of his
fingers against the smooth surface of the table told Francis Alexander all he
needed to know. The man with a mane of platinum hair waited for his prize.
“I am pleased to have my sons gathered here today.” Popescu smiled and
his incisors cut through the thin skin around his mouth. Licking his lips, the
vampyr was successful at keeping a tab on his madness; the red of his eyes
looked more like the effect of shadows and torches playing about than
mounting rage.
The patriarch continued with his discourse. “I’d like to introduce you to
someone. A merchant from foreign lands who has come to my house in
order to hand me a most valuable treasure.” His hand rested on top of
Francis’s shoulder, a sign of deference and gratitude. He had claimed the
Sidhe as a friend to the clan, easing the worries of some at having a stranger
among them. With a snap of his fingers, Popescu called in the servants.
Two men kept their eyes firmly on the ground as they carried over a
considerable leather bound case, which was carefully entrusted to their
master. Upon opening, the assembled laid their eyes on a battle axe. The
piece was heavier and larger than those of common craftsmanship, its
design exquisite. The double blade of the ax was sustained by the length of
a thick wooden handle carefully protected by a layer of leather that covered
two thirds of the grip. It was crowned by an engraved silver spike; letters of
dedication were also carved on the flat edge of the blade.
“Ishka, come to your father,” Popescu instructed his eldest son. The
vampyr nodded, satisfied, even clapped as his son made his way from the
table. “I still remember the first time I held you in my arms.” There was a
trace of pride in his voice. “You were but a wretch of a creature, marked for
death. But you proved to be worthy when, instead of drawing your last
breath, you fought the ease of death’s sleep and drank from your mother’s
fount to keep on living. I loved her. And that is more than I can say for the
women who’ve carried your siblings since then. That is why, today, I have
decided to raise you a head above the rest.”
 Iskander approached with a confident stride. The outcome was better
than expected. His father was about to consolidate his position in regards to
his other offspring. If his succession was blessed by Popescu himself, then
no one could stake a claim when his father finally stepped down and he’d
take the mantle of vampyr upon himself.
Ishka looked at everyone gathered out of the corner of his eye, the smug
smile that had become his staple reminded them that they were all about to
be ordered to follow his beck and call. But pride and that constant need to
mock his brothers did not allow him to see what was really in store. His
father took the battle axe by its sturdy handle and struck out in one
powerful blow, cutting through as easily as with a long sword. It was as
smooth as it was fast, and there was hardly any dripping of blood. The
edges of the blade were lustrous silver and seared the skin as it sliced
through, leaving the stench of burned flesh permeating in the air. But the
vampyr wanted bloodshed and, picking up his son’s head, impaled in on the
tip of the ax just to see strings of crimson bathe the width of the blade.
Blood rushed over the engraved metal, highlighting the dedication carved
upon it: Proditio erunt Iustitiam. Treachery will meet justice.
Francis Alexander disappeared that night, satisfied with the outcome of
his work. With a simple comment and manipulating the ambition of a son,
he had forever disrupted the sacred, trusted bond between vampyr and
dhampyr in House Popescu. From that day on, the head of the clan would
be haunted with restless sleep, wondering which one of his sons would be
the next one to betray him. One after another, he’d find a way to cull them,
taking them out until he was reduced to having no defenses. The lesser
clans that once swore the Popescu vampyrs fealty, those vampires by blood,
grew afraid of the patriarch’s increasing madness and fled or joined other
night dwellers with whom they found comfort.
As he left, Francis crossed paths with a peasant girl. She was mortal, not
quite a beauty, but had striking grey eyes and soft spun gold for hair. He
crouched, looking underneath the table where she had hidden. There was an
exquisite aroma to her skin, something he had perceived months earlier and
had grounded him to that place, sending him to ask all the right questions.
Alexander wanted her, but it was something more than mere carnal
desire. She was a mate chosen by a link to ancient magic. But it was a little
too late. Fairies could read humans as well as vampyrs could, and Francis
heard the hurried beating heart of a dhampyr in her womb. The young
woman was fixed on protecting her unborn child and her lips pronounced a
name like a paryer. The Sidhe was not sure if gods had heard, but he did. It
was Adriana.
 
***
 
“You should have made this known to me since the beginning,” Carla
reproached her father.
“To what purpose? It is I who needed to see the big picture.” The old
Sidhe’s eyes locked on the woman before him. He had hurt her and surely
would do so again. Francis brushed his hand against her temple where the
gray of years was starting to show through.
“I love you, Kar-lagh, but you are still not the perfect creature I seek. My
intent to create a foothold in the human realm has provided me with
beautiful yet frail children who can barely outlive the cycle of a human
lifetime. You are a hundred and twenty years of age, and though resilient,
you are showing the signs of age and eventual decay. Not only that, in three
hundred years I have only been able to produce two daughters who have
survived to adulthood, and are now forced to live under the guise of mother
and child. How is Isabel, by the way? How is my little one?”
Her sister. Years of living together in the human realm brought Carla to
think of Isabel as her own daughter, but the elder sister could never
conceive a child and had to settle for her sibling and nephew. Still, it felt
strange to confess Isabel was not her daughter, and she caught herself
pausing before answering.
“Terrible and spoiled as always. Although I can’t deny that with all the
drama that has unfolded with Esteban’s orchestrated death, she is carrying
on as well as can be expected. She has never been much of an actress, my
sweet little sister.”
“Ah! The downfall of my daughters! They fight among themselves as
time slips between my fingers. Is that a tinge of jealousy I detect…Carla?”
Isabel was the crowned successor of House Alexander.
Francis had begotten his elder daughter, Carla, after pursuing a beauty of
dark eyes and raven hair. He had gone around the world to find such a link
like the one he had lost centuries ago, and his travels led him to Andorra.
Back then, he went by the name Francisco Alejandro, and the youth in his
face and the charm in his words tied the Catalan beauty to his whim. But
Carla was cold, more Sidhe than human, incapable of conceiving children
of her own be it through Fae or mortal seed. By the time Francis discovered
another compatible strain to his bloodline through the O’Reilly men, it was
obvious that his plan required a fertile female child to come to fruition.
So father and daughter returned to where he had once found a woman.
He was able to find another match, the product of one of his dead wife’s
great-nieces, twice removed.
If anything, the strain was slightly stronger in this one, closer to that
glorious scent he had captured but once in this long lifetime. Enough time
had passed for them not to remember the story of the attractive stranger
who came looking for a wife, so it was easy to enthrall another.
He had tempted fate, returning to the same place again, and each use of
magic binding had a serious consequence. Francis paid dearly for his
second match. The union took its toll. In time, conceiving a second
daughter robbed him of his youthful appearance. In a century or so, his face
started to fade into unconceivable old age and certain members of the Seelie
Court of Aval started questioning the reason for this heavy burden placed
upon him.
Alexander was dying, as no fairy had ever done. Isabel cost him a retreat
into the inter-world. But he was pleased as he had never been. From the
gates of Aval, he saw his daughter achieve what few full-blooded fairies
could—Isabel carried two children, both invested with magical traits that
granted they were more than human.
At that point in time, Carla had gone from being her sister’s keeper to
posing as her mother. The Alejandro women formed a bond with one of the
unborn creatures, Evelyn. They knew instinctively that the female would be
the stronger changeling, exceeding even her mother. Carla could see inside
of Isabel and she was proud of that which she called her “little bird.”
However, Bastian Salgado and his influence over Neil made them
reconsider their plans. They had lost their darling, but saved Esteban.
“Do you remember the day you showed at my doorstep? You were
devastated, requesting I bring Evelyn back from the dead, but the child was
forfeit,” her father continued. “It was then that I found it again, permeating
on both of your skins, the trace of that scent that captured my attention so
long ago. Compatible in all possible ways.”
“What are you implying, Father?” Carla suspected, but she was still
working out her place as a witness to her father’s unexpected confession, so
she forced herself to ask.
Francis Alexander crossed his legs, accommodating his frame in the
ample chair. Carla noticed with unmasked disgust that he did so trying to
conceal evidence of his arousal. What was left of his virility quickened just
by conjuring this constant obsession.
“More human than her predecessors, Adriana promised never to drink
from an open vein again, let alone kill in the process. That kept her
mother’s essence alive in her, undiluted. Nevertheless, her blood was
polluted by the dhampyr transition. It was poison to our kind. And yet, one
born of her would be able to provide me with heirs strong enough to cut
their ties to Aval and once again take residence on this Earth.”
Carla knew what he meant. Powerful as she was, special as Isabel might
have proven to be, they were still prisoners of a realm that had a claim upon
them. Whenever they closed their eyes, they would be called back into the
Court of Fae to serve as pawns. They were judged as lesser beings and
treated accordingly.
“It was then that I started to work on my contingency plan. I’m sorry that
you regret being kept in the dark but it was necessary. Esteban had enough
Sidhe in him to help me see my plan through. Strong enough to fully
incorporate a Fae mantle underneath his skin, yet not enough to become an
interest to the Seelie Court. It took him a while to visit the Gates of Aval,
but when he finally did it, as a child, once he was able to communicate what
he saw in visions and dreams—the day he drew the Circle on Innisfree’s
soft soil—I knew exactly what to do.”
Esteban had visited Aval once in a while, though his presence was hardly
noticeable. It was during those dreams he forgot upon waking that Francis
Alexander led him to identify that dhampyr scent as something to pursue.
That was the main reason he became enraptured with Marissa. It was also
why it was so easy for him to commune with Adriana, having a deeper
understanding of her secrets. He fell in love with a woman meant to be the
bane of his existence. Every touch, each caress, the kisses he sought after
were like sweet drops of poison. They must have perceived it at a cellular
level, in the depth of their subconscious. They fought as much as they made
love, trying to repel one another and inevitably being drawn together once
more.
“You are telling me Esteban’s body…” Carla started.
 “Yes. It is immune to the vampyr’s poison,” Francis interrupted. “He has
tasted her lips, known her intimately…been inside her. Both his Sidhe and
human side have been closer to her than any of our kind ever was with such
a creature. And Marissa’s compatibility to our bloodline is stronger than the
O’Reillys or your mother’s family ever were.”
Alexander looked up to Esteban, thoughtful. The younger O’Reilly was
suspended above him in eternal agony, wrapped in dark silken strings and
ash between heaven and earth.
“You must keep her alive, Carla. I felt your doubt and murderous
intentions when you discovered she might be a dhampyr. But she hasn’t
tasted blood yet, and therefore she is pure. She is still the key to Esteban’s
return.”
“And that is exactly what brings me here, Father.” She might have had
instances of tension with Isabel, but Carla was still loyal to her sister. Carla
knew the passage of time endeared Isabel toward her lesser, halfling child.
In moments of weakness she had seen her cry over Esteban, worried or
bitter, with a depth of feeling that went beyond their human charade. She
stepped closer to her father, securing both hands against the arm of the
chair, marking her words. “Isabel is waiting for the return of her son.”
“And there will be a joyous return, once that body is ready and restored,”
Francis assured. “In the meantime, my advice is to keep Marissa distracted.
Esteban has tried to contact her twice, through dreams. If she were to
believe these revelations in the slightest, all would be ruined! Submit her,
bleed her if necessary! But under no circumstance allow for the transition to
be completed. I need her able to conceive children for this house.”
Carla said her goodbyes with a reverent bow. But before leaving she
asked, “Did you have a hand in Esteban’s accident?”
Her father smiled. Small, serrated teeth gleamed between his lips. “You
give me too much credit, daughter.”
He paused, waiting for a sign of complicity on his daughter’s behalf, but
Carla was stern as ever. She simply walked backward into the mist until
there was nothing but a flash at the level of her eyes.
The old Sidhe knew his daughter well enough to be sure she’d keep
faithful, though disappointed in his ways. They had requested a favor not
only of their father, but of all the Dark Heralds, and she was afraid the price
would never be met. Esteban would not be freed.
 “Kar-lagh…Carla…” Her father whispered softly into the mist. “I’ll
never understand your fear. Of all the houses among the dark Fae, there is
only one with enough power, and that is House Alexander.”
Francis stood from his chair, dragging his leg over the floor, a painful
grimace set on his face. Above him, Esteban whimpered ever so slightly.
The dark Fae walked toward an old coat of arms hanging in the hallway and
took a small, dusty bundle of cloth that had been hiding there for the longest
time. He opened the folded cloth, careful not to overexpose himself to the
iron of the dagger it protected. Even touching the small weapon through the
cloth made his skin burn. Francis recited some words and a dry, cold breeze
lifted him, the magic knowing exactly where to take him.
He was featherlight, as light as those dark hummingbirds were carved on
the seal of his house. Once he had reached Esteban, Francis stopped to look
at him for a moment. The patterns underneath his skin were drying up; soon
they’d find their way through his skin and push themselves out, opening
small indentations in the process, raining down like shattered crystal
drenched in blood. The young man’s humanity was winning at the cost of
his own life. He’d soon be dead, and wasted.
Francis gave some thought to how much it would take to rearrange those
features. He found Esteban’s light brown hair offensive, as well as those
hazel eyes that moved rapidly under his shut eyelids, forever prisoners of
trauma. The young O’Reilly didn’t have the delicate features of the Sidhe.
His face was square shaped and the arch of his brows too solemn. His
mouth at rest didn’t curve in that smirk that spoke of mischief even in sleep,
and yet…they had a lot in common where it counted.
Francis made a deep, long cut down the length of his forearm. He was so
old he hardly bled, yet his essence seeped through that wound, looking for a
new home in Esteban. The young O’Reilly suddenly opened his eyes and
the hazel was taken over by ink-black. Francis was happy enough with his
little experiment. Creatures such as he took chances, living in a world of all
or nothing. He had seen enough. Waited enough. Without a second thought,
he plunged the dagger into his heart, ready to expire.
His last vision, edged by the pain of cold iron, was of a pair of red eyes
protected underneath dark glasses and a steady hand closing its grip on a
steering wheel of a vehicle.
All pieces were in place.
OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XVII
 
 
The Day They All Returned Home–Part I
 
The road stretched, unending. Adriana’s grip on the steering wheel was
so tight the soft leather covering it was starting to crack, leaving dark veins
on the upholstering. She was desperate, the transition demanded her body
accept the change in stages and she had no time to spare. Yet she was forced
into slumber by her ever present instinct. Those hours of day sleep were
vital for a successful vampyr to emerge from a dhampyr. She collapsed on
the floor, as defenseless as her victim, less than fifteen minutes after the
kill. Upon waking, Adriana hurried, though she found herself robbed of
precious time when having to wash caked blood from her body and matted
hair.
She took a shower, never minding the dismembered body sprawled
throughout her living room. Finding a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt to slip
on, Adriana’s most important accessory that night was a pair of dark glasses
she fished out of the nightstand’s drawer. They were meant to hide the light
shade of her eyes, now given to turn flaming red at the slightest
provocation.
Before leaving, she set the air conditioner to low and was grateful for the
steady cool temperatures outside. She had no time for tidying up. In another
instance, someone loyal to the clan might have made the trip from Kingston
to set things right, but since Pappa Popescu’s disgraceful death, Adriana had
burned all her bridges. She was already used to the idea of leaving that
corpse behind to be found in a couple of days. After all, it was the best way
to force herself to leave. A hundred years in the Tri-State Area was a little
too much.
Then there was the matter of trivial pursuits that aggravated her as a
mortal and now simply unnerved her as a vampyr. Living in a city like New
York meant she never found herself in need of a car. And then, even as
every joint felt like it was on fire and her fangs kept dropping, she was
forced to take a taxi and wait in queue at a rental terminal on Northern
Boulevard. The aroma of hot flesh and coursing blood was overwhelming
to say the least. By the time she was handed the keys to her rental, Adriana
looked positively famished once more. Keeping the thirst at bay was the
first solid triumph of the day.
It was not as easy, though, to maintain a clear mind. Ghosts volunteered
as her travel companions. Once in a while, when the street light became
scarce and the moon broke through her windows, she caught a glimpse of
Bastian in the passenger seat.
“Tsk, tsk…” Adriana clicked her tongue and arched her brow. If this was
an apparition and not the product of her imagination, then her dead husband
might be a little more than she could handle at the moment. “Bastian, love.
I’m not one for peace offerings or sorry speeches. Let’s say I tried to keep
up with all my promises, I swear. But I’ve lived long enough to know there
is no such thing as a definite, just the crossing of fingers and well-
intentioned maybes.”
He didn’t answer. He looked right through her, the olive-green of his
eyes vacant of any spark of life, fixed on something beyond her. Adriana
waited for Bastian to answer, but the specter faded as she took a turn off the
highway. It didn’t bother her. The truth was she was happy about it. There
were souls that need their rest.
Her father was harder to shake off. Whenever she looked through the
rearview mirror, a pair of red, violent eyes burned at her, as if crossing from
another realm.
“Patience was not your strong suit, Pappa, but you were cruel. So you
learned to wait, knowing that the day I thought I’d won was exactly the
moment I started to lose. Now blood is calling and I feel closer to you than I
ever was.”
She would have given anything to control her ravings then, to make
Bastian come back and pretend the tip of his fingers traced the edge of her
face lovingly, devotedly. But the instinct, rooted more in survival than
nostalgia, thought it better to unsettle her, exacerbating her until violence
rose to the surface of her skin. And so it pushed forward, teasing. More than
once Adriana felt the stench of her father’s hot and putrid breath reach her
nostrils, the puffs of it so close to her neck that she feared a vengeful bite.
His deep and disdainful laughter kept her company for the longest stretch of
road.
After a tortuous while it was gone, but she no sooner caught her breath
before someone else showed up. It was Esteban. The light brown of his hair
was made darker by the constant meandering shadows of the road. Though
his generous smile seemed intact, soon enough it turned into a painful
grimace. For the first time that night, she wondered if she was being visited
by the dead, if it was all a figment of her imagination, or if as vampyr she
was just connecting to Marissa’s pain on a whole new level.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you are a figment of my imagination,
but I just want to tell you, be at ease. Wherever you are. I’ll save her.” This
time, Adriana felt the weight of a passenger press against the driver’s seat
from behind. She could feel a firm hand on her shoulder and that touch
almost forced her to turn her eyes away from the road. He was there, no
trick of her instinct, and Esteban had something to say.
“Do you want to know where I am? Somewhere between heaven and
earth, thinking that they all know our secrets; all but her.” And he was gone.
Adriana tried to connect with Marissa to no avail. The connection
between vampyr and dhampyr was meant to facilitate a psychic link with
her daughter. Instead, all she could see was the indigo of night, breaking
into a thousand shards of black.
 
***
 
Pain stabbed at Marissa’s temple. Ever since waking that morning, she
had been trying to avoid close contact with the women of the house. But her
increasing thirst and episodes of revolting nausea had caught Isabel’s
attention. The struggle to avoid the need for blood to seal her own transition
was getting the best of her.
“Are you feeling all right, Marissa dear?”
Marissa was terrified of Isabel’s touch. Esteban’s mother had offered her
a tall glass of cold water and the simple brush of her fingers made the
young woman want to hit her. Focusing her need for violence on the glass,
she held it so hard it cracked.
“Do you think it necessary to call Doctor Roberts?” Isabel inquired,
innocent of the fact that even her words were painful to hear.
Marissa just gulped down the ice water and made a negative hand
gesture. The doctor will insist on a checkup, she thought. And only God
knows what he might find. She distracted Isabel from the idea by asking
about Carla.
“Where has Carla gone today?”
“Mother went out early. You must recall what she spoke about this
morning. Family, coming in last minute. That extra bedroom came in handy
after all. They are a little bit old-fashioned, to put it lightly. Won’t lower
themselves to use a GPS, so Carla went to meet them at the interstate to
lead them here.”
The dark-haired woman tried to comfort her, but Marissa didn’t want to
be touched. This time it was obvious as she moved her hand away from
Isabel toward the edge of the table. Marissa looked at Isabel through half-
lidded eyes. The woman looked like an alabaster doll in her perfection. Her
hair fell like heavy waves of black amber over her shoulders, not a strand
out of place. Her hands were soft and not at all affected by those little
imperfections brought by age. It was as if a veil had been lifted and Marissa
had the chance to witness uncommon, alluring beauty as she had never
seen. The fabric of the soft lilac on her summer dress was kissed with the
aroma of lavender. Marissa took a deep breath and the soft scent both
calmed and lured her in. She went so far as to touch the hem of the dress
and brush her fingers against Isabel’s bare leg. It was all a little too intimate
for the way they usually treated one another, but Isabel gave no other sign
than being pleased about it.
“Do you like this old thing?” She trapped Marissa’s hand against her
own. “It will be yours, then. I’ve kept it in perfect condition. It is a vintage
piece of sorts; my husband’s favorite. I take it out just for special occasions,
some of which were important for Esteban as well.” Intertwining her
fingers with Marissa’s, Isabel brought the young woman’s hand to her lips
and kissed it softly.
Marissa was stunned by the display of emotion, and scared of her own
reaction as well. Even as she interpreted Isabel’s as a motherly gesture, that
new voice inside her whispered something else. The young woman saw it
clearly as it unfolded in her head. “This is your chance. She is teasing us.
Do it now while she still believes she has the upper hand. Just get close
enough. Lose yourself in the richness of that scent, breathe her in, and then
tear through her skin and truly taste her. It is nothing more than what she
deserves.”
Isabel must have felt something, because she let her hand go in a fluid
yet measured motion. But still, she looked at her, arching a brow and going
back to that perfect imitation of a smile.
“You have seen the worst of me this weekend,” she said, standing up and
walking around Marissa. “Carla has been stern to me to make me see. There
is no excuse. I invited you to be a part of our family and then, whenever
you try to reach out, I close a door. It is not what Esteban envisioned for us.
I am not being the best mother, or friend. I feel you trust me less now than
you did four days ago.”
While Marissa made an effort to consider her words, Isabel opened one
of the kitchen drawers behind her, pulling out a thick silver chain long
enough to grab its length with both hands. Marissa felt metal against her
skin, first surprisingly cold as Isabel twisted it about her neck and then
searingly hot. The response of her instinct, barely rising, was cut off before
Isabel’s preternatural speed. In seconds, the dark-haired woman had two
twists of the chain against her neck. Isabel managed the chain as if it were
rope or cloth, slipping it between her fingers until she held it firmly in her
grasp. Marissa’s struggle was in vain. She tried to lunge forward on the
table, but her sudden movement just made the silver bite in further,
imbedding it in her skin, burning even more. She choked, gasping for air,
right before losing consciousness.
“Isabel! Have you finally gone mad?” Carla’s hand kept the younger
Alejandro from her murderous intent. Isabel had always made a show of her
temper flares, but this little number risked it all. After her conversation with
Francis Alexander, Carla was sure a slip this big was set to cost them
dearly.
“You said it yourself, Carla. She is transitioning! For a moment I thought
she was on to us.” Isabel kept pointing her accusing finger at the
unconscious Marissa, even while Carla ridded the blonde woman of the
silver twisted in her neck. She was careful in uncoiling the pliable metal
chain from Marissa’s skin, but stripes of flesh and even strands of muscle
were exposed or torn away with each turn. Had she not arrived in time,
Isabel might have decapitated her.
Carla turned Marissa on her back, dragging her upper body on top of the
table. Pressing her hands against her bleeding, blistered neck, the woman
started pronouncing a restoring chant. All Sidhe, even dark ones, carried
within them the power to manipulate life magic. The main difference was
that unlike the more benign sons of Aval, they only used it to their
advantage.
Outside their window, the sun had sunk between the hills and mist
threaded softly. The night was not at all dark, but closer to gray, never quite
giving in. Silent, waiting. Carla knew Marissa would be unconscious for the
rest of the evening. The power of her words sent her into a deep sleep.
It was no time to scold Isabel. After all, they had a ritual to perform.
Carla kept close to her sister, silently observing. Isabel had found a purpose
once again and she was as concentrated as ever on the upcoming task,
pausing ever so slightly to smile. Carla had to tell her something, but before
she even started, it was time to weigh Isabel’s affection against her duties to
House Alexander.

OceanofPDF.com


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter XVIII
 
The Day They All Returned Home–Part II
 
“I have spoken to Francis.” Carla fixed her eyes on her younger sister.
She needed to drive certain points home. The elder had always been a
bridge between Isabel and Alexander. Their posing as mother and daughter
for years had deepened their bond. However, to Isabel, Francis Alexander
was little more than a stranger. She recognized being one of his brood, and
therefore, obeyed him as expected of a Dark Herald, but she never had the
chance to commune with him as a father.
It was up to Carla to convey the message and make her understand. She
measured her words carefully, to see how much she could count on Isabel
staying steadfast to their cause. She had guessed at certain demands the
younger Sidhe might not agree to, yet they were crucial to Francis
Alexander.
Isabel grew pale at the mention of their father’s name. She was already
moving about, reciting a list of flowers needed for a fragrant offering. It had
dawned on her that she might have done irreparable damage to Marissa and
she was quick to make amends.
“Was he good on his word? Is Esteban safe under his keep?”
“As safe as one can be in the inter-world. Esteban is having a hard time
responding to the restorative powers of Aval. He struggles still. Francis was
hoping his Sidhe nature might take over while unconscious, but he has not
even opened his eyes. There are things that keep him bound to this realm.”
“Things, you say.” Isabel allowed her rage to slip in. She closed her
mouth in an angry white line and took a deep breath before continuing.
“I’m betting on people.” Her gaze turned toward Marissa. The sparkle in
her eyes spoke of hate in tones of emerald, and Carla concluded it was best
when a fairy didn’t taint herself with something as petty as human emotion.
Carla reminisced once again about the night they had told Esteban about
their side of the family. She remembered walking in on Isabel at the fishing
cabin, how her sister spoke softly, pleadingly, leaning forward while sliding
her hands up her son’s thigh. It bordered on seduction. She never spoke of it
with Isabel, but Carla always wondered how far she would have gone had
they not been interrupted. Esteban was half enthralled and her sister looked
every bit hungry. That was when she knew Isabel was at fault. Her sister
was not the nearly perfect creature her father boasted about. She was the
weakest of them all. Torn between two worlds, she had no measure of how
to react to feelings, always on the edge of decadence, given to unhealthy
extremes.
Carla swore her sister, on a certain level, did feel an attachment for Neil
O’Reilly, going beyond the obvious lure of compatibility. She struggled
against it and thought to have won. But after Neil’s death, and when, in
time, Esteban’s looks and demeanor started mirroring his father’s, Isabel
transferred her obsession. Her life became nothing but a pursuit on behalf of
her son. No. Isabel would never settle for something less than Esteban.
Carla decided not to share all she had seen and heard from Francis
Alexander, let alone what she had concluded about it.
“Let’s begin this, Isabel, before your whim puts us in a bind again.
You’ve done enough damage for a day. Let’s repair all that is at fault here.
Esteban is on the line.”
They carried Marissa into the private garden, where the commemorative
plaques served as a circle. Esteban waited for them there, faint at first, then
materializing as his body crossed the threshold. His flesh bound to O’Reilly
flesh on sacred ground, his spirit in possession of the Sidhe, now granted to
his mother on the other side. His face looked calmed though kissed by the
pallor of approaching death, a soft rising in his chest was the only link to
life. Isabel wanted to touch him, but Carla warned her not to. It would be an
insult to the Sidhe to claim a prize without offering a proper sacrifice. They
were there. Silent, witnessing. Eyes darker than ink glinted between the
rustle of the leaves of an elder tree planted in the circle.
The elder tree could go unnoticed in the eyes of any visitor at Innisfree.
It was not impressive at all. Its only redeeming quality was a thick canopy
of luscious green. Its bark grew rough, with wide cracks and ridges running
deep, born from the expansion of branches that now grew inward due to
their own weight and the passage of time. For centuries, these trees were
considered emblematic of the children of Fae. Dual in nature, being both
poisonous and sweet, theirs was a gift of life and death sprouting from one
sole root. A warning to mortals: the good people served whom they fancied
and used whom they must.
Using the length of one of many silver chains, Carla propped Marissa’s
body against the tree, taking care to extend her arms to fit the downward
curve of the branches. The blonde woman’s delicate frame looked
suspended, a gruesome reconstruction of a fairy tale scene in which a child
crossed through a gate to discover she’d arrived at a place where her feet
didn’t touch the ground. Her open palms and the slight angle of her head
made her look saintly and giving. A fitting martyr.
Her body had relaxed into the soothing depth of sleep, but the touch of
silver made her jolt once more, forcing her eyes open, if only for a moment.
Marissa woke up to a nightmare, remembering the dream in which she was
a flesh flower, exposed to elements bent on cruelty. She felt like screaming,
but her throat was rough as sandpaper and it hurt just to breathe in. Her
instinct had receded, tormented by the need for sustenance and the presence
of offensive silver. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to wake
up the vigilant entity that resided inside her. Utterly defeated, it had shut
down completely, leaving her to die at the hands of an enemy.
Her eyes tried to bargain with Carla, pleading for mercy. But the woman
just kept turning the silver rope as viciously as Isabel had done before,
pushing her skin against the thorns that started budding from the tree’s bark,
thirsty and demanding as all around her. Any attempt to move was agony
embedded in her flesh. Whenever she gave up and kept still, the soft rustle
of wings caressed every bit of exposed skin, holding her in, wanting her not
to resist her appointed role. On the edge of her vision, Marissa could see
droplets of blood, her blood, running down the light brown bark. Through
cracks and crevices, it was absorbed and soon bloomed into dark, sweet
berries adorning the clusters of delicate branches. She was to die, bearing
them fruit.
Isabel stood several paces behind. She smiled, satisfied with their handy
work. For a moment, her gaze rested on Marissa, just to have that smile
replaced by a smirk of pure hatred. No more need for pretense. She had
done well. They both had. Now she’d never care to conceal her true feelings
ever again. Isabel turned on her heels and walked toward Esteban, who lay
in the center of the circle. The offering was secure and she could finally
touch him. Isabel sat on the ground, combing her fingers through his hair as
she used to do when he was but an infant.
“It is all right, my dear,” she whispered to the unconscious man. “We
have lied, faked your death, and presented someone else’s ashes instead of
your own…but all of this is forgiven. Our deceit has brought us here, to a
place of truth. I swear, Esteban, there will be no more lies within this Circle,
as the Court is our witness. You will come to understand it was all for you.”
Duplicity and fraud were a second skin to the sons of Fae, but now in
trust, no more lies were needed. They had given blood to the Court of the
Unseelie and Esteban was to return.
“Be at ease, my love.” Isabel’s voice was melodic and serene. “We are
just waiting for the beginning.” Her dark eyes sought a sign in the growing
darkness, that which would give rise to the ceremony, a presence to
legitimize her crazy yearnings. In the distance, the beating of mighty wings
and the caw of a murder of crows broke the evening’s silence. Isabel’s hair
stood on end. She had heard that omen before and it never amounted to any
good for her kind.
“Where is Francis Alexander?” she demanded of Carla.
“He is too weak to preside, but count that this ceremony will take place,
with or without him.” Her sister was firm, demanding Isabel remain calm as
well.
“And what about them?” Isabel’s voice broke, trembling. “It is said they
are always close on our father’s steps. You have heard them, the crows…
will they stop here? Get close? Interfere?”
“They never do,” her sister-mother answered. “They just observe, as they
have done for thousands of years.”
 
***
 
Adriana left the vehicle parked in a grove about two miles down from
the house on the hill. The eastward wind carried the scent of her daughter’s
blood, draining into fine threads, feeding the tree and the creatures that
crouched in its shadow, paying the price for bringing someone through the
portal of Fae into the human world. Her surging fury was almost blinding.
Her instinct told her to take flight and crash their little assembly in a frantic
display. Blood needed to claim blood. Though furious, she kept in control.
Adriana gave way to the shift into vampyr, taking notes of mistakes that
might hinder her. Slowly but surely, her nails toughened and curved into
thick, blackened claws. The saliva in her mouth soon became a poisonous
trickle that rendered her aspect even more feral. Beads of venom bathed her
skin like sweat. She arrived at the neat, white gates of Innisfree with
minimal disturbance to the silent night around her. The white way into the
house on the hill was opened wide. The fairies were not afraid of
disruptions.
Adriana stopped, perceiving another presence. Her red eyes turned
almost black as she smiled into the dark. Taking a deep breath, she could
almost taste flesh that was never human. If there was something ever close
to godliness, that was it.
“Will you allow me, ladies, to cross this threshold and crash that damn
circle without shedding blood?”
Three women were crouched in the wide branches of the red maples.
The orange of the leaves made the blue-black of their wings glint with a
touch of fire. Each breath of the women above her stirred the crows that
kept them company. The birds simply kept watch, waiting for their
mistresses’ turn to speak, their beady eyes and swaying heads had an
expression that bordered on human interest.
The three females allowed Adriana to finally see their faces. They were
tall, pale, marked by a certain beauty that came to those frozen in time by
immortality or death. Three sisters. One with dark hair and two with
platinum strands halfway down their backs. The first one, blind but all
knowing, the other two her witnesses to all things seen and unseen. They
glared at her with eyes the purple of amethyst. Annand, first among the
sisters, the cup which collected the blood from the field, took a step
forward. Her dark hair demarcated a face devoid of expression. A true
neutral, as needed, since hers was the pledge to celebrate all fallen without
ever taking sides. She was the first to speak.
“Do you know who you are addressing, mortal creature?”
Adriana had always taken risks with her irreverence, but there were few
beings that could call a vampyr mortal, as if it were the most fragile of
humans. It was a moment to stop being sarcastic and consider humility.
 “Indeed,” the vampyr answered, forcing herself into a formal greeting.
Adriana conceded a reverence to those before her—one that required grace
on its delivery. Eyes down, back straight, bent knee. “You are a myth for
our kind. But one should never be so foolish as to discard the existence of
others. Vampyrs and night breeds call you the Phantom Queens. Of all
creatures born of magic, you are the only ones who serve neither Light nor
Shadows. You look wonderful, ladies, keeping well for being older than
gods, that is.”
Mikka and Bansit, the fair haired-Morrigan, could not help but laugh at
that last little impudence.
“Come on, Annand.” They spoke to their sister in unison. “Let her come
through. You know she has reasons to a claim.”
When the raven-haired sister kept silent, Mikka decided to take a bolder
step. She was rude were Bansit was measured, and more than once Annand
had been challenged by her sister’s incessant banter.
“I serve you, sister, because I love you. I follow you for the same reason.
It is not just the demand of Light and Shadows. But sometimes, dear
Annand, you are insufferable. Neutral, you call yourself, yet you hesitate
when it comes to Alexander and his little games.”
Bansit’s warning cry died in her throat as Annand silenced her with a
swift command. The blind Morrigan also took Mikka by her neck, raising
her high in the air. Shaking her into submission, she didn’t let go until
Mikka had folded her wings and whimpered. Annand judged her sister had
spoken too much in front of strangers. After millennia, she should know to
keep her own counsel. So she pressed until she deemed the humiliation
fitting for the transgression and then let her fall into Bansit’s arms. The
quiet Morrigan hushed and whispered in her sister’s ear, trying to make
amends to Mikka’s pride. 
Annand was dismissive of their drama and soon turned to Adriana.
“Excuse us. We should know better than to go for vulgar displays. My
sisters tend to forget there are things better discussed amongst ourselves.
Had they waited, it would have been plain and simple. Yes. You are right. A
mother’s claim for a mother’s claim. You can come in.”
Adriana whispered a soft thank you and walked up the pathway, leaving
the sisters to their own devices.
Bansit, who hardly ever spoke up to Annand, did so on Mikka’s behalf,
saving her twin from another display of rage.
 “Tell me, Annand, why are we witnessing this? You know the Court of
the Unseelie doesn’t speak for Fae. Besides, that Circle is a sham. It is built
on lies. I know you feel responsible for the house Alexander built, for the
sorrow he brought upon both Fae and the mortal world, for things left
unsaid and undone. And Mikka blames you, yes. But I am trying to be
honest here. We are all guilty. We brought him to you as a child, unsure of
what to do with a creature left to die in a realm in which he didn’t belong.
We raised him from the ground and gave him sustenance. That makes us his
mothers also. Mikka is afraid, and so am I. We think of the three of us, you
are the one who loves him more, the one who doesn’t know when to stop.
And that…that makes you dangerous, even to us.”
“You are wrong, sister.” Annand never asked for forgiveness. It was not
in her nature. But she was quick to take Bansit’s side and hug Mikka,
kissing the top of her head. “My duty has never been compromised. But you
don’t know what I know. It is my burden, not yours. I perceive things will
happen within this Circle that might affect the balance. Yes, there is
deception, lies, even. But House Alexander knows how to play their cards.
Carla has chosen to keep quiet, and if her deception is not discovered, then
what happens in the Circle must be blessed. However, the vampyr Adriana
might disrupt them. She might force things into the open and then…then
you will do what must be done.”
Mikka looked up the path and Adriana had already disappeared. She
understood her sister. There was no need to rush. Crows could always have
their fill of blood and guts after the battle.

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Chapter XIX
 
 
As It Once Was, So It Is Again
 
“No one is ever born consecrated to Light or Darkness. We choose the
roads to travel.” Bastian always told Adriana that night breeds swore
allegiance to Shadows because, for them, it was simply the path of least
resistance.
“Isn’t that the Light’s fault though?” she’d answered with her usual sass.
“It looks as if they are blind to human imperfection and quick to place the
blame on all that is perceived as different. All they leave us is despondency
that, in time, has turned to hatred. One can only live on the fringe for so
long.”
“If that is the case…what’s easier?” he’d ask. “Leave resentment behind
and prove yourself worthy, or cave in?”
Adriana shook her head and gave the night a bitter smile in exchange for
those memories. Bastian was the only person innocent enough to try to
abridge the diatribe between good and evil as a matter of simple choices.
Hardly ever did he realize he was a product of his time, born in years in
which people thought themselves civilized enough to agree to violence as
long as it was carefully rendered in acceptable degrees.
Through three centuries of her existence, Adriana was content to live on
the edge of the abyss, ignoring all things that marked the blood and fear part
of her legacy. And now, looking back, she had no other remedy than to
recognize the mistakes committed, how the weight of her actions on the
destruction of House Popescu were finally taking their toll.
 For three hundred years she saw her father ripping it all from the inside
while she patiently waited, pretending she could do better if only separated
from her duty. House Alexander, on the other hand, had flourished. It
persisted, and now was about to claim her daughter’s life. She resented
indulging Marissa, laughing at her daughter’s denial and perpetuating the
idea that it was okay to overlook their heritage.
Adriana’s thoughts made her restless; going back and forth between the
Bastian she loved and the Bastian she hated. On one hand, there was the
vibrant, centered man who seemed to have it all under control. To her
husband, life was an entertaining puzzle, easily resolved with a bit of wit, a
dash of humor, and a strong moral compass. Those were the days in which
it was easy to believe in all he’d promised. But one thought led to another
and in the blink of an eye, all reminiscing of good times was gone. That
thick mane of dark hair soon disappeared, along with the memory of his
sun-kissed skin.
The dark days tormented her. She saw him stumble and fall, until his
skin was but a yellowish patch adorned by blacks and blues where ports
found their way into his tired veins. She was overtaken by regret and a little
bit of loathing every time she remembered his lips closed in one fine white
line, refusing her gift. No one could convince him to drink from the spring
of her blood and save himself. “Gentlemanly Saint Sebastian. Damned be
your sense of honor.”
“You are contradicting yourself, my dear. If you truly loved me for who I
was, then you’d know turning me would have made a mess of it all. Yes. I
changed physically. Damn it, I even died, sweetheart, but I never truly
changed inside.” His voice was as clear as that of her instinct, and Adriana
was furious to hear that cocky tone of his, the one he made sure to use
whenever he thought he’d won an argument.
“Shut up!” she snapped. “Life is not black and white. If you had only
gotten that little fact through your thick skull, maybe you’d still be here,
and things might not have bled as bad…” She stopped, resenting those were
to be her last words toward her dead husband. She was not sure if their
conversations were real or part of her imaginings, but those little exchanges
brought her solace, and now, as her instinct took over, they were soon to be
gone.
There were other things at hand, brought to the forefront because
melancholy was a wasted feeling. Her mind was filled with information,
things the blood knew, and she needed to understand as well. Her instinct
was careful to instruct, “Of all night breeds, the dark fairies are the closest
to being defenseless. What they lack in resources, they make up for in
means. Though frail, they are not easily overpowered. They still count with
preternatural strength that doubles when in danger. They are harder to beat
when connected to their own realm, or in this case, when concentrated in a
Circle. Don’t step into their hunting ground, draw them out.”
From what she had heard from Esteban, Adriana knew that Carla was
not only the matriarch, but the alpha in her family. Where Isabel was
impulse leading to error, Carla was cold logic efficiently disguised as
serenity. She had to die first.
As a girl, Adriana observed her father exert influence over mortals and
night breeds. Though she didn’t get to know him in his glory days, she still
remembered how a simple word coming from his lips guaranteed them
shelter or safe passage. A vampyr’s power to summon and command was
only rivaled by sirens and the higher order of the Seelie Court. For
vampyrs, the key to it all, just like everything else about them, resided in
the manipulation of blood.
Humans were wired with an intense desire to persist. They could
perceive immortality and want it above all else. All vampyrs, at least at
first, were welcomed with the sweetest of invitations. A meeting of a mortal
and a night breed usually led to an almost instant trance-like state. Blood
and words. To get someone to obey was as easy as biting down on her lip,
drawing enough blood to step up her favorite shade of red lipstick, and then
say whatever came to her mind. Unfortunately, hunters caught up on their
game and though they could not prevent it in others, they quickly learned to
ward themselves against a vampyr’s convocation.
In the case of fairies, a vampyr’s presence was easily detected, but
discovering a night breed among them promised no pleasantries. During the
brief instances she crossed words with the Alejandro women, even when
not aware those years prior, she had placed her blood in the hands of Neil
and Bastian to procure their destruction, the uncomfortable feeling was
mutual. Adriana knew who they were before the fairies even had a clue.
Years of hiding from her own kind had honed her cloaking abilities. No one
knew she was not altogether human until she let them in. It also helped that
neither Carla nor Isabel made the least of efforts to get to know her, but
rather drew the line at the perceived social disparity between them. Stuck
up bastards.
Adriana found all this uppity display both fascinating and engaging. She
never backed out of a challenge, so it became a particular hobby of hers to
happily contribute to what she dubbed the “deprogramming of the fairy
prince.” She took Esteban under her wing and what started as a tug of war
between the possessive mother and the vulgar in-law, soon bloomed into
true affection. She loved him enough to allow him to see, revealing some
secrets while keeping others hidden so he wouldn’t be irreparably hurt.
Now her omissions were coming back to haunt her.
It was time. Adriana raised her forearm to her lips and bit down on her
alabaster flesh. Blood flowed profusely before the wound started repairing
itself.
Carla had managed to keep Marissa just where her father wanted her.
The blonde woman’s blood, absorbed by both elder tree and lesser Sidhe
behind the veil, kept her numbed, unable to fully transform into a dhampyr
and therefore vulnerable and human. Whatever she had grown into the night
before had now receded.
Isabel was concentrated on Esteban, who had finally reached a level of
stability. His breathing was not as short or interrupted as before. Her hands,
slick with fragrant oils, caressed the young man’s face and tried to draw
patterns on his skin.
All Fae, even the dark ones, conjured upon themselves the power of
Earth. Her hands were moist with flower extracts that, combined with
magic, helped her son’s body make the transition back into the mortal
world. Sunflowers, lavender, daisies, the deep pinks of valerian, they all
seemed to bring him back, if only for a moment. But, damn it, the only
thing that made him open his eyes ever so slightly was the soft moans of
that accursed girl.
“Stay within the Circle. Don’t abandon it under any circumstance. If
Esteban awakens, you must do what he says, even if it goes against your
better judgement. He has been to the other side, Isabel, and he brings
knowledge that springs from both the grave and the inter-world.” With
these words, Carla took leave of her sister. It was not her intention to tell
her about what she was about to face on the blue cobblestone road that led
to the house on the hill.
 The elder sister made her way from the secluded garden to the entrance
of the house. Once outside the Circle, that toxic blood her father so
obsessed about assaulted her senses. Adriana stood defiantly, meeting her at
the top of the hill with fists closed in a sign of silent aggression.
“Well, well. It seems the Mor-rioghain find themselves bored tonight.
They have allowed for a side show. One must always be grateful for
opportunities. I’ve been wanting to kill you for the better part of three
decades, you filthy leech. For Evelyn.” Carla looked at Adriana, hiding her
curiosity behind a dismissive smirk. What was it about that face? What was
so interesting or different about her to guarantee Francis Alexander’s
duplicity and his protectiveness of her brood? Now, clear of all guards, she
had Adriana before her and it was easy to be blinded by anger. She didn’t
see what her father saw. In her mind, this was the vessel of the blood that
had destroyed the true Fae child in Isabel’s womb—the one who was worth
it.
With no other words spoken and at vertiginous speed, she disappeared,
causing the vampyr to do a double take. Her natural agility and the
capability to weave illusions characteristic of the Sidhe made her look as if
she had taken to the air, hardly disturbing the mists about her.
Adriana was barely discovering her abilities as vampyr, but there was
something of which she had always been certain. During her long existence,
while subjected to her father, she learned that coolness was the best
weapon. The fairy mastered poise and strategy and was counting on the
vampyr’s turn toward violence to quickly gain the upper hand.
A vampyr unleashed must struggle between keeping control of the
outside elements and falling prey to the chaos within. Sometimes their
instinct reacted ahead, raw violence exploding and clouding the senses. A
vampyr would then be at its most menacing, but also at its most vulnerable.
Adriana relied on the spark of humanity she had not yet completely lost and
listened. It was not the soft beating of wings taking to air, but the rustles of
leaves. The fairy cut across, never really leaving her side. Adriana turned
toward the almost imperceptible sound to her left and attacked head on.
She caught up with Carla before the fairy could make another move,
intercepting her as she was about to strike from the grove that flanked larger
trees. Adriana clawed at Carla, driving her nails deep in the flesh between
her lower neck and back. The pain was so unbearable that Carla had to
revert to her true form in order to contain it.
 She showed herself as she was, a creature drawn within an exquisite
frame, a lithe body with skin bathed in a soft blue hue. Her eyes were pits
of endless dark. The furious green of the Sidhe was starting to show
through, imparting a trace of emotion in her cold stance. Dark hair that had
been touched with silver while in human form now glinted in highlights of
emerald and turquoise, tendrils that were as alive as her senses. Her hands,
traced in fine black lines, curved into tiny black claws. She was a being of
rare beauty, but the vampyr was not in the mood for contemplation.
There was nothing to gain by summoning Isabel to her side, other than
probably disrupting the spell that might save both their lives. Carla knew
their only hope was for Esteban’s body to make it through, but the vampyr
was quickly contributing to the lessening of those odds.
A fight was the only option. Engaged as they were, the fairy gripped
Adriana by the waist with both hands and pulled, making the vampyr follow
the lead of her body.
They stumbled, but where Adriana was surprised, Carla knew exactly
what she was doing. The grove was planted bordering an artificial slope, a
slant in the terrain created for landscaping purposes. The soil filler gave in
and both women rolled down toward a small rock promontory that marked
the farthest reach of the lake below. Turning, Carla managed to fall on top
of Adriana, the weight of her body and the crushing impact of the rocks
forcing the vampyr to let go, loosening the grip of her talons.
It took them barely seconds to be back on their feet again. Carla made
the best of the familiar terrain by leaning forward, gaining momentum, and
managing to impact Adriana with a closed fist to the side of the head,
stunning her for an instant.
Carla was going to make the best of it. In order to increase her
advantage, with a swift turn of her body she slammed once again against
Adriana, smashing her elbow into her throat. Another Sidhe or a human
might have had a crushed trachea as consequence, but the damage to
Adriana was minimal. Still, it was enough to grant her a chance. Carla
anchored her hands on the sides of the vampyr’s face, lifting Adriana’s head
to crush it against the rocks. Soon enough, Carla’s hands were burning as if
doused with acid.
The need to act upon her slight advantage made her forget to shift her
hands to human form. The tips of her small claws lacerated the vampyr’s
skin, but the gush of blood damaged the Fae’s sensitive skin. The blood of a
vampyr was toxic. Pink boils sprouted on her hands and her flesh sizzled.
“This is over,” Adriana hissed as Carla tried to hit her square in the face
once more. The fairy couldn’t care less about damage to herself, but each
strike against the vampyr was as bad as receiving a hit herself. Adriana
shifted, inverting their position. Now she was on top of Carla, pinning her
arms firmly to the ground.
A long, barbed tongue rolled out of her mouth, grazing against rows of
teeth meant to tear apart. The heat of the fight had brought on the last stage
of Adriana’s transition. Her instinct brought forth a vampyr’s ultimate
resource. It was hard for her to utter words, but she managed to say, “You
lose.” A guttural sound marked her strike as sharp teeth found their way
into the soft flesh of Carla’s neck. The bite was savage; it tore away a chunk
of flesh that allowed for her tongue to burrow into the Sidhe’s neck.
A vampyr’s tongue was almost as effective a weapon as its bite. Not
only did it distill a paralyzing venom, but it was covered in hardened scales
that were as effective as hooks. Adriana pushed further into Carla’s numbed
flesh, lifting Carla’s head just to delve deeper, coiling that killer appendage
and slicing through chunks of flesh in the process. When she pulled back,
muscle and blood painted the stones in red.
She cradled Carla’s head in her hands, a mockery of a loving gesture, to
better see the green fading from her eyes. The last thing the Sidhe saw
before fading into the dark of death was the disfigured face of her opponent
slowly falling into place, the vampyr boasted a smile.
Perched on a maple tree branch, Mikka, the Morrigan responsible for
collecting the blood of those fallen on Earth, couldn’t avoid curving her lips
with slight satisfaction. She touched the ground to receive the blood of
House Alexander spilled during a loss in battle, something that had not
happened in centuries. She presented it to Annand, who took it upon herself
as one who received communion from a chalice. They came to witness
bloodshed and it was done—or so Annand declared. With a single
command she told her sisters and the blackbirds in their care that it was
time to take flight and let the fates unravel.
 
***
 
 Isabel shook violently as air rushed out of her lungs. Since the day she
saw light upon this world, Carla was present. A sister who then became her
mother. Her parting was inconceivable, the very definition of bitter surprise.
Pain tore through her as she discovered her elder was no more.
Eyes moistened in tears looked up to the tree where Marissa, much like
Esteban, drifted in and out of unconsciousness. This time the young
woman’s eyes were clear and opened, trying to fix her stare as far as her
own brand of pain allowed. Carla had forbidden Isabel from abandoning the
Circle, but the tree was right on the edge of it. Whomever caused Carla’s
demise was coming for the girl, but she wouldn’t give them that
satisfaction. The dark of her eyes had completely disappeared and her orbs
were the green of gemstones, revealing her homicidal intent.
Esteban was back, whole now. She could feel it, and it was better to
finish it all off before he came completely to his senses. She needed nothing
to kill Marissa but her own hands. Isabel got closer, allowing for poisoned
memories to distill according to their nature. Carla was gone, erased from
the Earth, never to be seen again. She could accept that. But Esteban was
hers. When his father protested, she did away with him, and for almost
thirty years, not even Francis Alexander had been able to claim her. As
much as she loved her sister, Carla could never convince her that her son
belonged to the Unseelie Court. She had always kept him in check,
allowing him to enjoy the illusion of freedom, until Marissa disrupted their
lives.
“You and yours have seen to it that I am left alone, but know this. He is
mine. Mine.” She huffed and spoke through gritted teeth. To hell with all.
Fairies lived for eons, and whatever business Francis Alexander might have
pending with the little dhampyr, he could always find another. She wanted
more than anything to give one last turn to that silver chain and see a head
roll.
Something stirred behind her, the weight of a body lifting itself from the
soft ground. It was enough to stop her in her tracks.
“Mo…ther.” Esteban’s voice was roughened by dehydration, but he was
there. His body still racked by pain, he had managed to turn about and use
his arms to drag his body, as his legs were still unresponsive. His only aim
was Marissa, and Isabel knew it.
She went back to him, trying to turn him on his back again. In his
weakened state it would be an easy task. He was still within the Circle, and
if needed, she’d pronounce the words and ease him into slumber. It was a
risk, to send him back to sleep when he had just woken from the grip of
death, but she calculated it would do the least damage.
Esteban must have recognized her intention and with one last effort,
managed to shift up onto his knees. As he tried to stand up, it was easier to
scream than to get a hold of the ground below him. He fell once more to his
knees as a searing pain burned through his lower extremities. His head
almost touched the ground as he applied pressure to his cramped right thigh.
“For the love of all the gods!” Mother ran to son. His clothes were a
mess stained with green and soil. “Why do you insist on self-harm?” Her
words carried the same measure of recrimination and worry. Isabel held
him. His whole body felt like it would burst with fever. It was unnatural, a
kind of affliction Isabel had never seen before.
More than raised temperature, it was a fire raging from within, glowing
red through his skin. Even part of the cloth on his slacks had burned
through, exposing part of his leg and thigh. Esteban held onto her, making
eye contact. Isabel saw as his face became calmer, even if still burning; he
had the upper hand on his fever. His body tensed as pain and heat were
expelled through the skin. The dark of Isabel’s eyes looked into her son’s
hazel and saw there, for the very first time, the emerald that made evident
his true nature. It was done. His time with Francis had not only restored
him, but brought him back a true Sidhe.
Esteban steadied, meeting his mother’s gaze with a complicit smile. His
fingers curved and familiar thick, black claws formed at the tip. He used his
newfound weapon to tear through his aching leg and thigh, shredding
through skin and muscle. Hot blood and viscosity burst out from a cyst that
had formed around an intruding body. Isabel didn’t register much. To her
horror, once she realized her son had carried within him a thin iron dagger,
an instrument that both hurt him and invalidated the Circle with its
offensive presence, it was too late to even scream.
He attacked her. Wielding the dirk, Esteban rushed the knife through her
eye socket. The cold iron liquefied viscera and cracked through bone as it
was pushed in to the hilt with unexpected force, pinning her writhing body
to the ground.
As much as it hurt, and even if the metal poisoned him as well, Esteban
kept holding the dagger until it dissolved within Isabel’s flesh, sealing what
had been her eye and driving the green that kept her bound to Fae out of her
dying system.
Marissa saw nothing. Neither did she hear a mother’s last words to her
son. “Deception…”

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Chapter XX
 
 
You’ll Never Know How Much I Love You
 
The vampyr’s instinct had always looked after the dhampyr. After all,
though lesser in power, it was the dhampyr who took care of the master at
their weakest, during daylight. However, it didn’t have to compel Adriana.
Mother was stronger than vampyr. She rushed to Marissa’s side, discarding
everything else about her: Esteban returned, the pile of dust and viscera that
once was Isabel, and tiny eyes that watched it all from the safety of the
elder tree, sealing any conduit to the Unseelie Court from the mortal plane.
Mother wanted to lift daughter and carry her in loving arms. Marissa’s
blood had rushed to her feet and her lower extremities were swollen while
her upper half looked as if it had acquired the delicate texture of thin paper.
She could see the exhausted blue of veins almost buried and dry upon her
skin. Adriana didn’t think twice before unrolling the silver chain about her
gravely hurt daughter, but the hiss of metal on her skin quickly reminded
her that the silver was as offensive to a vampyr as the cold of iron to the
Fae.
“Let me do it, please.” Esteban was getting close to them, limping, trying
not to put his weight on a leg that still bled and discharged.
Adriana growled, warning him to keep his distance; the eyes that strove
to recognize him were bathed in a deep shade of red. Her body tensed,
ready for another round of gruesome fight, but his voice convinced her
otherwise.
 “Look what I have done for her! You once believed in me without a need
for proof. Do it now that I’m giving you evidence.” His stance was as
straight as it could be, hands extended, as someone who wanted to make
friends with an animal known for its vicious streak. He kept moving
forward. Each effort ringing with pain. Crystalline tears formed in his hazel
eyes. “You know that I am immune to your blood. Can’t say the same about
the weaknesses I acquired in that house made of black stone. Yes, there is
something of them embedded in me. Maybe it was always there and the
torture and pain I went through in that place made it more evident. But
through it all I loved her and didn’t forget her. Let me rid her of her
torment. You have not fed, Adriana, and weak as you are, unhooking that
chain will bring about your death.”
He spoke softly but decisively. Though deteriorated, he was willing to
take a stand against her if necessary. Above them, a black bird perched on a
tree, its beady eyes keeping score of the exchange below. Annand, it was
said, was as curious as her sisters. However, where Mikka and Bansit risked
being seen, Annand sent her ravens.
Adriana stepped closer to the man before her with her brow furrowed in
question. With a steady touch, she placed her opened palm against
Esteban’s neck. The young man’s heart seemed to skip a bit, be it from fear
or uncertainty, but he never wavered. Allowing himself to relax, even after
catching a glimpse of row upon row of teeth, Esteban allowed Adriana to
explore. So close was she that he could feel the flare of her nostrils upon his
skin.
Adriana had the right to doubt. Possessed as she was, the better solution
was to tear him apart. She couldn’t tell if the smell of old and bitter death
came from O’Reilly, the place he had been, or the one where they stood. He
was doused in Isabel’s venomous blood and the iron he’d carried within
him had turned his insides vile as well, the exposed skin and muscle on his
leg looked perilously close to gangrenous. His Sidhe side was doing its best
to repair the damage, and failing miserably. She couldn’t trust his skin, but
her ears knew the beating of a human heart, and his was steady, accelerating
only when hit by a wave of pain or whenever his eyes made contact with
her daughter. Still, even as Marissa suffered, she delved deeper until she
found the familiar scent of Esteban blooming through his pores.
She opened her veins once more. Another bloodletting weakened her
further, to the point where her instinct receded and Adriana felt close to
collapsing. Esteban tore at his clothes, revealing the full extent of the
damage. Iron had not just poisoned the blood and festered the skin, it
corroded the bone, making it porous and thin. Just to walk toward them was
a risk for an irreparable fracture. He observed with incredulous eyes as
Adriana’s blood performed a miracle. Drop by drop it healed and sealed,
making him whole. Still he writhed in agony, even if briefly. It was one
thing was to be gradually exposed to Marissa’s sweet essence in an intimate
setting, but quite another to be splashed in blood meant to destroy his kind
in a process that worked against its nature. His skin, parched for life as it
was, ended up taking greedily until there was not even a hint of a wound.
Esteban didn’t think twice. As soon as he could stand, he ran to Marissa.
Unhooking the silver chain off the elder tree, he threw it as far as he could
from both women. Adriana helped him carry Marissa to safety, out of the
Circle. As they laid her down, Esteban took care her head didn’t touch the
ground. He held her, comfortably cradled between his legs, combing away
the sweat drenched blonde tresses stuck to her face. Adriana asked him to
turn Marissa on her side, which he did with most care. The vampyr lifted
the young woman’s blouse, which was starting to cake with blood. Her back
had small but deep cuts where the lesser Heralds had pricked her skin to
feast on her life force. Esteban held Marissa’s body against his own while
Adriana cut the back of the blouse and doused her daughter with even more
of her replenishing blood.
“You’ll faint,” Esteban warned her.
“I’ll have time to recover. You have been in a coma, and haunted by
magic. You don’t want her to slip that deep.” Adriana kept using her blood
as a balm while secretly cursing the damn portal that had closed. Had it left
but a sliver, she’d make sure to cross and tear House Alexander from its
foundation.
“Come back to us, Mariushka!” As everything with Adriana, it was a
plea that sounded like an order. She called her daughter by the nickname
she abhorred to wake her up either by blood healing or the need to fight her,
whichever worked the best.
An almost imperceptible moan escaped Marissa’s lips and they knew the
blood had taken root, as it had with Esteban.
“You can do it. Don’t flutter your eyes, just open them. Will yourself
back to us!” Adriana looked at Esteban as he spoke to Marissa. He was as
desperate as she was weak, and there was not much they could do but wait.
The vampyr felt as if she had given more than she could. O’Reilly started
looking blurry and distant, but she kept on.
“Esteban…” Marissa’s voice trembled but it was enough for both to
know she’d made it through.
Adriana held onto both, her face resting upon her daughter’s back, now
neat and perfect as it had been before. Marissa called once more to Esteban,
of course, and Adriana, though she felt beaten to a pulp, could do no more
than laugh and hit O’Reilly on the shoulder. “This third wheel is sort of flat
right now. I’ll just lie down here for a little bit and you remind my ingrate
daughter that I did a little. Just a little. No worries.”
He chuckled while the mantle of a starry night covered all their sorrows.
Mother and daughter were spent, beyond tired, but happy to have him back.
The three were delighted to have found their way to safety. Neither of them
paid attention to the caw of a bird that took flight, hurrying home.
Hours went by and the darkest of the night was pierced by purple,
announcing the imminent arrival of day.
 
***
 
Marissa sat on a bench, covered in a heavy blanket. As tired as she was,
the idea of being left alone in the house worked up her anxiety, so she
stayed, waiting for Adriana and Esteban to finish. Her mother had hunted—
small game, enough to help her gain a bit of strength. She had given so
much even the gulps of blood taken from a rabbit were just enough to bring
her back to some semblance of mortal strength. Nevertheless, she stayed,
helping Esteban through his gruesome task. Both his mother and the woman
he had known as his grandmother were thrown in a pit and burned, their
ashes mixed with dirt, and the Circle had been destroyed.
Adriana kept an eye on him. O’Reilly had confessed to being exposed to
the evils of House Alexander, and even if he was doing the right thing by
destroying the remains of his wicked elders, there was something about the
way he did it, much like an automaton, without the least of feeling, that
worried her. She was never one to keep her own counsel, so she simply
asked, straight forward.
“Are you all right, dear? Whatever happened in the inter-world might
have changed you from the inside. I know you didn’t hate these women.
You had no reason to. So if you want to stop and grieve, I won’t hold it
against you.”
“I didn’t know,” he replied, “but the things they showed me there, when
they were trying to wake up the worst in me…I know it all.” He kissed her
forehead, and his lips felt cool and dry even against her inhuman skin.
“What will you do with the O’Reillys’ ashes? Your father and another
two generations are resting here.”
Esteban cleaned the dust off his face with the edge of his sleeve. He
clenched his jaw and soon the tension was evident as the stiffness ran down
to his neck. There was a sign of…aggravation? Rebelliousness?
Indignation? Tormented as he was, Esteban allowed for an expression that
was not there before. His answer became evident, as he had dug up the
ashes of his predecessors.
“They all belong in the past. This is the type of business I must force
myself to forget. For Marissa’s sake as well as for myself. All about this
house brought us too close to the edge; even the innocent.” He opened the
container, allowing for ashes to mix with the remains, and eventually, even
the urns burned.
“The sun is about to come up, Adriana. If I understand what has
happened to you, then you must sleep soon. Don’t worry about me. Go to
your daughter, talk to her. Marissa must have a thousand questions. Do
what’s best with the time you have, we’ll all have more time tonight.”
Adriana retreated, still trying to determine if that sour smell on his skin
had died out completely, but the smoke and burned flesh, salt, iron, and ash,
confused her senses. She sat on the floor near the bench. Her head rested
against Marissa’s knees. Adriana’s hair looked ashen with cinder, grime,
and blood, but still Marissa patted her head reassuringly. The young woman
kept silent, still surprised to see her mother free of the artifices of makeup
and magic. Dirty and tired as Adriana was, she looked not a minute older
than twenty-five and could easily pass for her sister.
The idea made her tremble. She remembered that strange mirror-like
game Carla and Isabel used to play and was grateful that her mother was a
free spirit who didn’t encourage co-dependency. But what of it now? When
nature dictated they should? Could Adriana reshape her to her will? Her
mother always hated her insecurities and fears.
Adriana seemed to be focusing on something a bit more trivial. Looking
up to her daughter, she asked, “If you could have a wish come true right
now, what would it be? Humor me.”
The question made Marissa face all that had happened. She gave serious
thought to how declaring herself innocent of it all had almost cost her life.
She looked up to Esteban, who looked as gray as his sooty clothes and
double as tired as she was. Even at a distance she saw the concentration on
his brow, the tension evident even in his breath. He had suffered even more
than she had.
Adriana sighed, guessing at her daughter’s thoughts. She spoke
carelessly, perhaps believing the moments they had been through together
were enough to make up for a lifetime of differences in character.
“My saintly daughter. Dead daddy’s little girl that you’ve always been. If
you could only think about you for once. Being just a little selfish won’t kill
you, you know.”
Marissa was quick to answer. Snapping, she gave herself the chance to
be a tad sarcastic.
“Sometimes I wonder if you have ever been truly happy, Mamma. I think
the time you spent with Dad was a crash course in cynicism. Sure. Let me
have a wish. I wish you had kept your word. Soon enough you will be
blaming me for forcing you to take that dreaded vampyr step and it will be
as it always has been between us.”
She wanted to hurt her mother. As much as Adriana did it all to save her,
the vampyr turn had set a dhampyr shift in motion for Marissa. It had all
come to a halt when the fairies opened the portal, but now the thirst was
coming back. Soon enough, just like Adriana was once forced to drink from
her dying mother, Marissa would be required to drink from the one she
loved the most in order to become a dhampyr in full and serve her mistress.
Just to think of hurting Esteban, even in the slightest, was something
impossible to justify. It filled her with horror, and she gladly blamed her
mother for it.
It was obvious that a couple of minutes would not be enough. Mother
and daughter had been disparate characters for too long to pretend to solve
it all in a couple of sentences. Adriana stood and announced she was
leaving. Before doing so, she gave her daughter a kiss. As all between them,
it was not perfect. She left a smear of lipstick, blood, and dirt on Marissa’s
immaculate skin.
“We’ll talk about this later.”
 Esteban told her that the attic of the house might serve her as a safe place
to spend daylight hours. The house, being a sturdy edifice, had been
constructed with all care. The attic was sealed tight and heavily insulated,
perfect in all ways. As Adriana opened the hatch, it looked like a dark
vacuum, silent as a proper grave.
Absence of light was no problem. Adriana found a discarded twin bed
set up against the wall and, putting it in place, made use of it. It was dusty,
and she snorted at the idea of needing to carry around a bit of soil where she
was turned into a vampyr. Her father was dramatic about it, carrying boxes
across the Atlantic. At least I’m doing this right, she thought to herself. I
have enough New York dirt on me to last a lifetime. She crumpled on the
thin mattress, exhausted.
“You have to sleep on the ground, for our sake. It is not just mocking the
grave, there are things that…” The voice of her instinct drifted as the sleep
of the dead took over her limbs. Adriana turned, involuntarily, until she was
on her back, pretty much the picture of a corpse in the morgue.
Dawn broke and she felt it in her bones. Her body temperature lowered
even further, and eventually it robbed her of movement. The sleep of a
vampyr was a reminder that death was ever present, even if only for hours,
to haunt their immortality.
Adriana was a prisoner of her own body. Unable to move, her hearing
was starting to fade as well but it was there enough to perceive the echo of
footsteps on the rung of a ladder. Through closed eyes, she felt a thin ray of
dusty gold invade the dark of her lair and she knew someone must have
opened the hatch.
Against the odds, and perhaps because it was just her first day as a full-
fledged vampyr, she managed to open her eyes. Esteban was on the edge of
her peripheral vision. His expression was blank; there was a crack of a joint
when he moved his head slightly to the side. Otherwise, she would have
sworn he was a ghost, or a dream. He looked at her the same way he had
been looking at those bodies and ashes in the pit. What Adriana took for
torment now revealed itself as scorn. It was all too quick. Esteban hit her
chest with one swift motion.
Pain and blood exploded from her center. Esteban had pierced her chest
with a thin ash wood stake covered in silver. Once. Twice. Until he kept her
heart in place by encasing it between to pieces of wood and metal.
 Vampyrs, unlike other night breeds, were not completely dead. Their
hearts functioned sluggishly, but enough to pump blood and allow for them
to conceive, among other things. Adriana felt like she was being ripped
apart from the inside. Each heartbeat made her cardiac muscle slide back
and forth against wood and silver, while her body, trapped in an
unresponsive state, wouldn’t even allow her the release of a scream.
Esteban leaned over her with a smirk on his face. His hands closed over
her eyes, to help her quivering eyelids find a way back into the dark. “Oh
well. You grew up to be twice as beautiful as your mother. But your
daughter…she is a work of art.” Before her eyes were forced closed,
Adriana could see him. Hair so dark that it seemed conjured out of night,
and eyes shimmering green.

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Chapter XXI
 
 
The House That Alexander Built
 
Marissa opened her eyes. For a moment her whole body tensed. The
nightmare had transformed the soft mattress underneath into the cracked
bark of a thirsty tree. She felt a rush of nausea that lasted until her senses
adjusted to the idea of it all being just a bad dream.
She didn’t recall how she got to the bed. Esteban must have carried her.
All she remembered was being sort of cross with Adriana and wiping her
mother’s kiss from her forehead.
The place she lay down was not particularly well lit; heavy curtains on
top of tightly sealed windows kept the morning light at bay. Marissa knew
this was not the room the women had assigned to her. It must have been the
extra room they had prepared, a place she now understood was meant for
Esteban.
It surely was. Though the rest of the rooms were white, this one was
adorned with the soft earthy color palette O’Reilly loved. If felt familiar,
very much like their little nook in Brooklyn, except this room could easily
fit half of their apartment.
To her right, an archway connected to a private bathroom. Marissa heard
the stream of a showerhead. Esteban said something, but she couldn’t make
it out, even though the door to the bathroom was opened. He turned down
the pressure and yelled, “Stay in bed, lazy head. Or just turn on the lamp,
whatever!” A grateful smile formed on her lips. The dhampyr in her was
completely gone, buried within. She no longer heard the instinct. In fact, the
water didn’t even let her hear someone in the next room. Normal. Mundane.
Happy.
Kneeling on top of the mattress, she peeked into the open archway.
Esteban was finishing that shower and the misty heat dissipated. She could
see his outline against glass. He stepped out, drying his hair with a towel.
There was something odd about him and then she noticed he had opted for
keeping the shadow of a beard he had brought back from the inter-world.
It was peculiar, taking into consideration he had destroyed all things
reminiscent of his misery at the gates of Aval. Even his clothes had been
burned. Gone was everything he brought back, including the remains of
dagger that killed his mother and saved both their lives.
He kept the beard and he had the right to, all things considered. The
facial hair streamlined his features and gave a new, sensuous edge to his
smile.
“And now that you are up, Sleeping Beauty…do you mind telling me
what happened between you and your mother yesterday? Adriana reads
tough, but she is quite sensitive when it comes to you.”
In a moment he was right beside her. Esteban knew her well and didn’t
want Marissa to feel he was being judgmental. She’d had her share of
anguish, after all. Swinging the towel over his shoulder, he sat next to her.
Marissa lifted her chin with a shy smile and he obliged, kissing the corner
of her lips with a soft brush against her skin.
She wanted more. It was not only the waking from a nightmare and
finding he was no longer gone. There was something in the back of her
head, a terrible pounding that was eased just by touching him. She had
never been impetuous before, her shyness patent even in intimacy, but there
was something about the scent of his skin that asked her to take bold steps.
She looked for him once more, not letting go, and when their lips met for a
second time the kiss was deeper, demanding, hungry. She teased him with
the tip of her tongue, running her fingers over his exposed skin.
Though pleasantly surprised, Esteban broke the kiss. Still holding her, to
continue where they had left later, he wanted an answer.
“You are deflecting. And as much as I love this bad girl phase of yours, I
need to know.” He nuzzled the curve of her neck to let her know he’d rather
have an answer than an argument. “Come on. Adriana in three, two, one…”
“Okay. We didn’t necessarily have a fight. We just…” Marissa sighed,
defeated. “Well, I blamed her for a whole bunch of stuff I shouldn’t have;
we were both tired and still half in shock. She said we’d talk about it
tonight.”
“And of course, you believed her. And yes, she did have her say, but she
told me, and left.”
“What are you talking about?” Marissa looked at him with a quizzical
expression.
“By the time I was done in the yard, you had fallen asleep on the bench.
I brought you here and then went to check on Adriana. Dawn was about to
break and I offered the attic, but she refused. That’s when I thought
something went on between you. She said she’d go and take to earth
somewhere, whatever that means.” He could feel her crumbling. Marissa
was about to become a messy bundle of emotions, presided by guilt, so he
guided her. “Listen, sweetheart, your mother found a way to give you back
the semblance of normalcy you were used to. You were hard on her, true;
she understands better than anyone where you are coming from. There is no
need for tears now, but whenever we see her again, keep in mind to be
thankful for what she sacrificed for you.”
He had her right where he wanted her. His thumb caressed the length of
her cheekbone and she looked up. Her eyes were moist with tears and those
lips that just chased after playtime moments before now quivered. What an
irresistible, delicate, malleable creature. He could see her adjusting to all his
desires. He gathered at first he’d have to be careful not to force her with
word or action. The fairy who wore the body of Esteban O’Reilly as a suit
had to sacrifice his tendency toward cruelty and abuse, but it would be a
generous exchange. He continued, calmly, lovingly, but making sure to
twist the dagger of guilt a little further.
“Adriana found a way to keep you from going into permanent transition.
It requires total separation; no contact whatsoever.”
“But if that is the case…why couldn’t she wait ’til tonight?” She was
about to break down, so he held her even closer. His frail, predictable, little
Marissa. “Because it is Adriana, and you should know. She’s always had
strange ways to show she cares. I guess she thought it only fair, to give us a
fresh start. I broke off with my world, and now you must break with yours.”
“Yes, but Carla and Isabel…I’m sorry Esteban, but there is no ground for
comparison here. Adriana wouldn’t just abandon me like this to right some
absurd wrong. Even if her logic is out there half the time!”
 “You are not abandoned. You have me.” It was the perfect moment to
start weaving his trap. If he allowed her to cry, he might lose her to regrets,
memories, questions, and possibilities. He answered her with a kiss as
ardent as the one she had asked of him before. However, this time, it was
she who tried to avoid him, being too hurt. Her little protest soon came to
pass. This man knew exactly what to say and where to touch her.
“Here. Now, Marissa. It feels like I’ve waited an eternity just to have
you.” There was something about the cadence of his voice, the pressing
way in which his body coerced her to conform to his desire, that was almost
intimidating.
It was Esteban, her Esteban, though for a brief moment he felt like a
stranger, too eager to drag her underneath the covers. She tried to question
without saying a word and simply stopped him, placing her finger against
his lips, asking for a pause. She trembled, knowing it was a battle she was
surely about to lose. That scent that permeated his skin drove her crazy. He
knew to wait and then it was his turn to ask.
“Why must we stop? You have missed me as much as I’ve missed you.
Whenever I reached out to you, the agony in your eyes told me that you
were willing to cross into hell after me. Is it because I never got to say I’m
sorry? I. Am. Sorry.” Each word was interrupted by a flurry of tender
kisses. “Now, I want you. Right here, right now.”
Esteban had always been sure of himself, leading her around to crazy
adventures or insisting on changing her point of view, and through it all he
remained generous and kind. But this time there was a boastful ring to his
words, something crossing into a vulgar display of power upon her. Marissa
felt as if she were speaking to a man so comfortable in his role that he
simply allowed her to enjoy his company. There was something missing of
the Esteban who never cared much about being the one who loved instead
of the center of attention.
His words, though enticing, carried the impression of a challenge. A
little bit more give me than allow me. But he managed to make it feel like
something new and exciting.
He kissed her like one who wanted to mark their territory. Unflinching,
he took to her lips, teasing, biting. He guided her, and once again, her
doubts disappeared as their bodies fit perfectly against one another. His
torso brushed against the mounds of her breasts and she arched her back
while threading her fingers through his light brown hair.
 Protesting no more, a soft moan escaped her lips as she felt Esteban’s
hands ridding her of the t-shirt that had served as a nightgown. Once naked,
he couldn’t help but take her in, one sense at a time. His eyes studied her in
detail, delighted at the perfection of her lithe body that reacted even to stray
droplets of water that escaped his moist hair and landed on the flat of her
stomach. He followed the trail of water, touching his lips to her skin, and
the contact was explosive.
Marissa closed her eyes, inviting. She was ready, and there was no
greater pleasure than his touch and that scent that drove her crazy. It
reminded her of night blooming cereus, dew, and honey. Her hands
anchored on his shoulders as they found their rhythm in a frenzy.
His eyes had always been like prisms, hazel that captured both bronze
and gold. When their gazes met, Marissa saw a trace of green hiding behind
a gilt spark.
“I want all of you, Marissa. All.”
 
***
 
There was a place where souls weren’t able to find their rest. It was a
void in which those who left things pending dwelled, pleading for a chance
at revenge or justice. It was a crossroad for those who wouldn’t, or couldn’t,
cross the threshold, and lingered between this world and their final
destination.
And why not? In such a place there was enough for all. Through one
door, mortal spirits gone astray, through another, vampyrs.
Adriana was overwhelmed by the crimson sky above. The blood red that
always haunted her existence now extended beyond the horizon, looming
over a thousand roads that led to nowhere.
“So, this is hell,” she announced to no one.
“Not really. It’s just a glorified warehouse. Anyone can find their way
here if they know where to look. As far as I understand, some clever boys
and girls can open a doorway from your mortal plane just by gazing into the
right mirror.”
Three women conjured themselves from thin air. Their gowns were as
dark as their wings. Either Mikka had forgotten the price to pay for
impertinence or Annand was in the best of humor. It was hard to say. The
Phantom Queens smiled at Adriana. Bansit and Mikka tipped their heads
crowned by blinding platinum strands while Annand guided her blind eyes
toward her voice, acknowledging.
Adriana had a couple of things to say about their indifference to all that
transpired in the Circle. Overtaken by rage, she pretended to turn on the
sisters. Mikka and Bansit didn’t even waver, while Annand made her fall to
the ground with a simple turn of her wrist.
“Don’t try my patience. You are but a sigh, a spirit bound to a body by a
delicate thread. So easy to snap, in a heartbeat your so-called immortal coil
can let go and rot in that attic while your soul flies to whatever heaven or
hell vampyrs have made for themselves.”
Adriana knew the woman was not bluffing. She remembered the ease
with which she had called her a mortal creature and soon found out that
even spirits could get the chills.
“If we are here,” Annand continued on behalf of the three, “it is to repair
a damage done. We can’t interfere unless a pact is broken and House
Alexander committed a grave mistake. Francis Alexander promised to
deliver a body and a soul, but took it as a vessel. He annihilated an
innocent. The Dark Herald also failed his own, destroying the portal to Aval
and leaving his acolytes to meet their fate at the hands of the Seelie Court.
Wicked or not, words given count for something. He shed his own blood
and, ironically, Isabel, who was guilty, has become purified. As terrible as a
mother’s deeds to get back a son, a father’s murderous hand cleansed her.
His negligence has been made evident, now there’s no place he can run for
mercy. Hear us today. We built Francis Alexander and now we’ll tear him
down. Our work will be done when he is met with justice.”
“Good. When do we begin?” Adriana was itching to give it a go.
“When all pieces are in place,” the platinum twins answered as one.
“And until then?”
“In the meantime you’ll wait. We did our best to find you fitting
company.”
Annand held out her hands, shaping them into a cup. Water dripped from
the bloody, concave sky above them, finding its way to her palms and
sizzling with energy. Electricity and water hit the rock at their feet with the
might of lightning, and once the blistering steam opened a passage between
worlds, there he was.
“You did the best you could, beautiful. That counts as a lot in my book.”
 Adriana found a reason to smile. She touched the side of the face of the
spirit; to her joy, she discovered that in this bizarre and unexplainable
realm, souls were tangible.
“And I thought I left you back there with all my human fancies. Nice to
see you, Bastian.”

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Acknowledgments
 
No book is ever written without support. I’d like to express my gratitude
to the following:
Bob Sellers, author of Blood-Lines, for his wise advice and helpful hints.
You, sir, are a cowboy and a gentleman.
RK Close, author of Red Night, who has proven to be more than a fellow
writer, but also an amazing friend.
Michelle Hayes, a soul of exquisite sensibilities and a constant
inspiration. You are a queen in my magic circle.
My family, who put up with all those days of me behind closed doors
with utmost grace.
Lori Whitwam and the wonderful team at Limitless Publishers—this
newbie will always be grateful for the opportunity given. Thanks for
assigning me to Gillian Leonard, who made sure I didn’t end up crossing
my Is and dotting my Ts and scaring you all for all the wrong reasons. I’ve
never felt so loved as a writer.
One final shout out…
Can’t leave without saying thanks to Wattpad. It’s an amazing
community that gave me a start. You are my friends and neighbors in a
virtual world. Your votes and comments gave me courage enough to query.
And, of course, you, dear reader. You could have left me hanging after
just one chapter, but here we are. Much love.

OceanofPDF.com
 
About the Author
 
Hi there! My name is Lynnette Santiago, author of Court for Fairies,
which I hope will be the first of a series entitled Dark Heralds of Fae. 
I was born in an Island. As much as I loved to be lulled by the sea, there
was always a sense of wonder about what I could find beyond the horizon. 
Writing took me there, as I reached out to worlds that were not my own
and step by step, shyly at first, combined them with details of everyday
life. 
Eventually, the unexpected took me from Puerto Rico to New York,
before I settled in Florida. 
I have been an Assistant Librarian, a Debt Collector, A Security Guard, a
Medical Assistant and an Office Manager for a Beauty School. This all
counts as research, if you ask me.
I have an extended family which I love, friends I adore, and a raccoon
that comes to my yard once in a while and allows me to pet it. Mine are a
number of simple routines. 
I love writing, that's a given. It is freedom from illness, strength, solace,
and most of all fun. I'll stop the day I don't sit in from of my keyboard
sporting a smile. 
I'll offer you a measure of horror, fantasy and a wacky version of
romance to help things move along. It's my goal in life to keep you
entertained. 
 

OceanofPDF.com
 
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/sandernei
 
Twitter:
https://www.twitter.com/Lynnette_S13
 
Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/LynnetteSantiago
 

OceanofPDF.com