Waiting For Your Essence - Part 2
Waiting for Your Essence
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Bella pulled into the parking lot of the assisted living facility and glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, frowning at the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.
"Thanks, nightmare guy," she muttered under her breath, as she picked up her plate of cookies from the passenger seat.
The hallway inside was camouflaged in pastels in an attempt at cheerfulness to hide the reality of the place. Bella stopped at the door where a construction paper cutout of a pumpkin bore her grandmother's name. Margaret Higgenbotham.
"Grammy?" She knocked softly on the door, hoping today would be a good day. Pushing the door slightly, she leaned in, spotting her grandmother sitting by the window.
"Hey Grammy, how are you today?" She walked in, her smile wide as she crossed the room. Cheerful and upbeat, that was always her goal, no matter how much seeing her grandmother this way made her want to cry.
Her grandmother turned her head slowly, her eyes bright. "Jemma? I haven't seen you in so long."
Bella bit her lip as she leaned in to hug her grandmother. Her mother's older sister, Jemma, had died long before she was born, but more and more frequently, her grandmother mistook her for the aunt she'd never known.
"No, Grammy, it's Bella. Renee's daughter? I brought you cookies!" she said brightly, settling into one of the uncomfortable chairs provided for guests.
Her grandmother tilted her head to the side, regarding her carefully. "The first born."
Bella nodded and patiently repeated again, "That's right. I'm the oldest, Renee's daughter. And then there's Aunt Betsy's kids - Bobby and Emma. Do you remember them? Bobby's getting so big; he's fourteen now, and Emma's twelve."
It was going to be one of those visits she could tell, where her grandmother was barely lucid in her ramblings. She reached for the photo album they kept on the dresser and started to flip through it.
Her grandmother's hand caught her arm. "How old?"
Bella paused. "How old am I? I just turned nineteen, Grammy, in September."
Her grandmother gestured her closer, so Bella put the book aside and knelt at her feet. She took Bella's chin in her hand and studied her face. "Soon. It will be soon."
The same prickle she'd felt after her dream the night before crawled over her skin. "What do you mean, soon?"
"You are the one," her grandmother murmured. "I knew when you were born, that you would be the one, that he would come to you. It's always the first born."
Her grandmother released Bella and leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant again as her fingers caressed the faint silvered lines of an old scar on the left side of her neck.
"Did you sleep well, child?" she asked.
Bella moved back into her own seat, feeling unbalanced by her grandmother's proclamation. "Not, not really. I've been having these dreams."
"What sort of dreams?"
Not wanting to upset her grandmother, she gave a weak laugh and tried to wave off the question. "Nothing, Grammy, really."
"I've told you before, dreams should not be taken lightly, Jemma. When he calls you, you must respond."
She froze in her chair. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
Her grandmother gave her a small smile, her eyes clear and lucid now. "When it was my turn, and he called, I gave myself to him willingly. And he let me live." Her hand lovingly traced the scar once more.
Bella shook her head slowly and rose, backing out of the room. "I'll be back in just a minute, Grammy."
"Of course, Jemma."
She hurried to the door and found the nurse on call.
\/ \/
His voice was louder now, more insistent. "Bella? I'm waiting for you. Come to me now."
She could hear him, the seductive voice drawing her to him, but she was frightened. Her feet were bare, and the wet grass chilled them as she ducked into another turn of the maze of hedges she was lost within. She turned away from the force drawing her like iron to a lodestone.
Her breath was coming fast as she ran, turning this way and that, her legs twisting in the long white gown, trying to find a way out. Or was she trying to find a way to him? She wasn't sure now.
She stumbled around another corner, her ankle suddenly twisting beneath her, and tumbled into an opening with a small white fountain in the center, flanked by benches.
Through the water, she could see a shimmer, a mirage, and then reality. He was here. Waiting for her as promised.
He walked to her slowly, leaning to scoop her effortlessly from her tangled heap on the ground and into his arms. She felt it again, that sense of completion, as he sat on a bench and cradled her on his lap.
"Were you bringing me your gift? Or running away from me?" he asked, and she found herself unable to answer. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Mesmerized by his perfection, her fingers moved of their own volition towards his face. That smile emerged again, and she realized he was pleased.
"You may touch me." His lips moved and she pressed her fingers to them. His tongue darted out, wrapping around one fingertip and drawing it in. Before she could react, she felt a sharp nip.
She gasped as he delicately lapped at the blood that welled there. "A small treat," he said. "That's why you came, isn't it?"
She found herself nodding in response.
He gave one last long lick to her finger, and she watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, clearly savoring her blood.
"I knew that you would be like nothing else, that you would be worth waiting for. And yet, your taste, it is beyond even my wildest dreams."
Her body was reacting to both his words and his hands moving on her, still chaste, yet making her skin feel too tight, as though she might explode. She let her head fall back as he cradled her, his tongue tracing a path up the sensitive skin of her neck.
And then, as always, he pierced her flesh.
\/ \/
Her eyes flew open as she fought to catch her breath, her heart pounding as though it might spring out of her chest. She fumbled for the lamp on her nightstand, feeling very alone in the room with Rose away for the weekend.
Tossing back the covers, she scrambled on shaky legs to the mirror, craning her neck right and left to reveal nothing.
Her grandmother's words from the previous weekend resurfaced from where she'd tried to bury them, the words she'd been ignoring after a week full of dreams.
When he calls, you must respond.
She was starting to feel as if she was losing her mind.
The dreams hadn't stopped. If anything, they'd only grown worse. Every night when she closed her eyes now, she was back in that house, or in those gardens, and he was always there. She'd tried running away, hiding from him, and yet each and every time, he found her. Or she found him. Because ultimately, she always gave in. And every dream ended the same.
Tuesday night, she'd even broken down and taken some sleeping pills in her desparation for sleep, despite the hangover feeling they always left her with that she hated. That had been the worst. She'd felt trapped, as thought she couldn't wake up, and when his lips had descended to her neck, when she'd felt the give of her flesh tearing beneath his teeth, she'd screamed for what felt like hours before Rose had finally managed to wake her.
She shivered at the memory, grabbed a blanket and a book, and spent the rest of the night in the hall lounge with all the lights and the television on.
\/ \/
The next morning, Bella walked down the sterile hallway with a bright pot of mums clutched carefully in her hands, stopping before the room with her grandmother's name on it. She knocked softly, waiting for the response, then pushed open the door.
"Hi, Grammy," she said, stooping to give her grandmother a swift kiss on the cheek. "I brought you a flower this week."
"Oh, they're lovely, Bella." Her grandmother leaned forward and sniffed the mums. "I adore that shade of crimson."
"I'll put them right over here on the windowsill," Bella replied, turning away swiftly to hide the relief on her face as she wiped away a tear that threatened to fall. This was the first time her grandmother had recognized her right away in a month. Maybe this week would be easier than last.
She turned back, and pulled one of the straight-backed instruments of torture provided by the assisted care home for visitors to sit in over to her grandmother's seat by the window. "Have you had a good week?"
Her grandmother nodded. "The leaves are starting to fall. I like to watch them out the window."
"They are beautiful," Bella agreed.
"When they're gone, I will be too."
Bella shook her head. "Grammy, don't say those kind of things." She picked up her grandmother's hand, lined and fragile with skin almost paper thin, and held it gently.
Her grandmother smiled and touched Bella's cheek softly with her other hand. "My child, there's a time for everything, and I know mine is near its end. There are things I need to tell you though, while I'm feeling well enough today."
She rose slowly, and moved to the dresser, opening a drawer. "I asked Betsy to get this from the safe deposit box for me. It's something that the first-born daughter in each generation of our family is to have. That was me, then your Aunt Jemma, and now, dear girl, it's you.” Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the box in Bella's hands.
Bella stared down at the old wooden box, covered in intricate carved designs. "What is it?"
"Inside you'll find a talisman and a journal, one kept by the women in our family through the years. Read it soon, and then come and ask me whatever questions you have." She touched Bella's face gently again, searching her eyes. "I am sorry to take so long to give you this, child. But this inheritance will be with you long after I'm gone."
Bella stared at her in confusion, the weight of the box suddenly heavy. "Alright. Thank you, Grammy."
"You're welcome, Jemma."
Bella shook her head. "No, remember, it's me, Grammy. I'm Bella."
Her grandmother stared at her for a long minute, her cool blue eyes sharpening.
"Of course, of course, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I just miss her so, sometimes. You remind me of her a good bit, you know." She smiled, but her alertness was visibly fading. "I'm tired now, dear. I think I'd like to lie down for a bit. Would you mind?"
Bella shook her head, helping her grandmother to the bed and sitting beside her as she drifted off to sleep. She watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest for another few minutes, her fingers absently tracing the carvings on the box before she rose and slipped from the room.
She made it to her car, the tremble in her own hands suddenly making itself known as she sat down the strange box. Easing the lid off, she stared at the twisted ivory knot secured on a thin piece of black silk. Moving it aside, she lifted the cloth wrapped around the book underneath. It seemed fragile, and she raised the cover gently, staring down at the elegant script on the opening page.
Diary of Maeve Moran
She reached for her phone.
"Mom?"
Her mother's voice was distant as she fumbled with the phone, but finally rang through clear.
"Bella? Is that you? Did you go see your grandmother this morning?"
Bella swallowed. "I did. She was better. Well, she knew who I was today. But, Mom, she kept talking about dying."
"Betsy said the same thing - she said Mother was having her go get things for people - just little mementos she wants to give away, I think. We're going to drive down tomorrow and see her. Want us to take you out to dinner after?"
"I guess," Bella replied. "Mom, she gave me this necklace - it's some kind of ivory knot - sort of like those Celtic things? And an old book."
"Her mother's family was from Ireland. You know she came over when she was very young, although I don't think she remembers much about it," her mother responded. "I didn't know she had a journal like that. I'd love to see it sometime."
"Sure, Mom." Bella sighed. "It just feels strange, you know, her talking about dying. And she called me Jemma again."
"I know, Bella, but she's been sick for so long now. When I was younger - she was . . ." Her mother trailed off with a small laugh. "I don't even know how to describe her. She was something else, always on the go, like she knew there was something out there waiting for her if she could only find it. But after Jemma . . . that really changed her. It was like a light went out in her somehow."
"What did happen to Aunt Jemma, Mom? I know she died, but no one ever talks about it."
There was a long silence. "She was murdered, Bella. She was almost eight years older than me, you know, but I remember when she left home. I think I must have been ten or eleven. Jemma was beautiful, but so headstrong. She and Mother clashed all the time - they seemed to fight over everything. She didn't want to go to college, wanted to make it on her own, so she moved to New York City. It nearly broke Mother's heart."
"And something happened there?" Bella asked.
"She was killed in some kind of mugging gone bad - that's what the police thought," her mom said, choking up a little. "Her throat, her throat was all cut up - it was terrible."
"Oh," Bella replied. "I'm sorry, Mom - I didn't know it was like that."
"It was a long time ago. Actually, now that I think of it, it will be thirty years in a few days - she was killed at the end of October. On Halloween. I remember, because I was just coming back from trick or treating when Mother got the call." Her mother was silent for a moment. “They never found who did it.”
\/ \/
Her dorm room was deadly quiet when Bella returned, and she started at the jingle of her keys sliding off the desk as she laid them too close to the edge.
She jumped, giggling nervously. "Pull yourself together, girl," she commanded herself.
Sitting the carved box to the side of her desk, she pulled out her history text, flipping through the assigned reading and trying to organize her notes to study for her upcoming test. But her eyes kept straying back to the box until she finally pushed her book away.
She lifted the lid again, studying the swirls that formed an intricate design in the wood and tracing their textures. It was beautiful the way the angles blended in and out, forming some sort of cohesive design that seemed to interlock in a way that blurred where it began and where it ended.
She laid the lid carefully aside, and pulled out the ivory knot, recognizing now that the pattern was the same. Her fingers glided over the cool surface and she realized that the white material was a type of stone worn smooth and polished over the years. She lifted the ribbon and slid it over her neck, staring down at the knot that now lay against the slope of her breast, nestling as though it belonged there.
The soft material covering the book beneath slipped away and she gingerly sat the volume on her desk, trying to touch the worn pages as little as possible. Opening it, she read the front page.
Diary of Maeve Moran
She turned the next page and immersed herself in the first entry dated the fifth of October of 1803.
Mamai says that I am to keep a journal now, to help organize my thoughts and prepare me for what is to come. Mr. Cullen came to call today and brought his newest son, Cillian with him. His surety that his offer will be accepted is galling, but I remained polite as he sat with Mamai and attended to the niceties. It's rather amusing to know that even the undead feel compelled to be on their best behavior with Mamai, lest she manage to turn them into some sort of toad. A vampire toad! What an amusing thought.
I am less sure of what to make of all this. I understand the possible advantages that could lie from such a match to them - the power flows strong in our family, and the unrest among the clans of the undead leads them to seek leverage wherever they may find it to ensure their dominance.
But what benefit to us? I am not sure that I wish to spend my eternity with such a creature as the head of the Cullen clan.
Clans of the undead? Was this some kind of joke? A novel of sorts? Bella skimmed past the next few entries as Maeve's objections seem to grow greater to the possible match with this vampire, despite his attempts to charm and woo her.
Mr. Cullen called again today, and I found my patience growing thin as I listened to he and Mamai negotiate terms as I was expected to quietly sip my tea. How can Mamai let me simply become a blood mare, which I fear is Mr. Cullen's ultimate objective for me? He may profess to be in awe of my talents for bending the elements, but I've seen him gaze longingly at my neck once too often.
I know she reads this. I know she thinks I'm a silly, ungrateful child, but she is wrong. I know my mind, and I long to be free of this house and to choose for myself who I shall be bound to.
The remaining entries grew harder to read, the perfect delicate script devolving in to harsh strokes and blots of inks as though Maeve's frustration with with her mother's apparent intractableness on the match had bled onto the page. Near the end of the series, written in Maeve's delicate script, was a final entry dated the thirtieth of October.
He will come for me tomorrow night and I will be waiting. No one will stop us.
Bella turned the page, searching for the next entry, caught up in the story now. What happened to Maeve? Was she married to this Cullen guy? Or bound, or whatever they called it? And what did she mean when she wrote, No one will stop us. Did she convince someone else to help her stop whatever was happening? Did she kill him or something?
It appeared that some pages had been ripped out, the torn edges shredded close to the binding, leaving the next entry dated twenty-five years later. The handwriting, more rounded and girlish, proclaimed that these entries belonged to a Claire Moran. The entries picked up in early October of 1828.
I told Mother about my dream, about the man who came and called my name. She cried and gave me this book to write in about what I saw. She's worried that the vampires will come for me as they did for her sister long ago, although she won't speak to me of what happened to her. She says that it is too sorrowful for us to dwell on, and that it was a terrible time for the women of Moran. She's given me charms to wear, and said extra blessings over me for the past three nights. Perhaps they'll keep him away.
I've never met a vampire before. I wonder if the tales about them are true?
Bella read ahead, her heart beating faster. The charms didn't work. Claire's nights were soon filled with dreams of the vampire that grew stronger and stronger as the month waned and the festival of Samhain neared. She reported that the coven of the Moran women, far smaller and weaker now after her grandmother's death, searched in vain for how to halt his lures. The last entry was on the thirty-first of October.
He has yet to make his presence known in the flesh, despite the diligent searches of my sisters and aunts. And yet, he's with me now. I feel him inside me, drawing me to him. I no longer can tell this to Mother, her cheeks grow so pale, but he is all I can think of now. He consumes my thoughts. Tonight, tonight he will find me and I will be his.
Three hours later, Bella shut the book in disbelief, startled to find the room nearly dark around her except for the pool of light cast by the small desk lamp. Her ancestors were witches? Powerful witches who were connected to a coven of vampires? And somehow had been cursed in the process - doomed to be drawn to them, a first-born daughter in each generation? Was it because of something Maeve had done? Or in spite of it?
She flipped back through the book, staring at the missing pages, a chill crawling up her spine.
Mentally shaking herself, she slammed the volume shut. This was sheer insanity. None of this could be real. Vampires didn't exist outside of Hollywood and the pages of books. There was no such thing as a real witch - not ones that had actual powers. This had to be some sort of hoax. Her grandmother's mind had been wavering for years - could this be some product of her growing dementia?
Bella opened the book back up and stared at the final pages at her grandmother's own account of her encounter with the vampire, the one who'd drank from her, but let her live, and then a few lines about Jemma, who'd refused to believe any of this was true until it was too late. It seemed so real, so vivid - and the generations of women so unique that she couldn't convince herself that her grandmother had done this alone.
The alternative - that this wasn't some elaborate fake - made her blood run cold.
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Bella pulled into the parking lot of the assisted living facility and glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, frowning at the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.
"Thanks, nightmare guy," she muttered under her breath, as she picked up her plate of cookies from the passenger seat.
The hallway inside was camouflaged in pastels in an attempt at cheerfulness to hide the reality of the place. Bella stopped at the door where a construction paper cutout of a pumpkin bore her grandmother's name. Margaret Higgenbotham.
"Grammy?" She knocked softly on the door, hoping today would be a good day. Pushing the door slightly, she leaned in, spotting her grandmother sitting by the window.
"Hey Grammy, how are you today?" She walked in, her smile wide as she crossed the room. Cheerful and upbeat, that was always her goal, no matter how much seeing her grandmother this way made her want to cry.
Her grandmother turned her head slowly, her eyes bright. "Jemma? I haven't seen you in so long."
Bella bit her lip as she leaned in to hug her grandmother. Her mother's older sister, Jemma, had died long before she was born, but more and more frequently, her grandmother mistook her for the aunt she'd never known.
"No, Grammy, it's Bella. Renee's daughter? I brought you cookies!" she said brightly, settling into one of the uncomfortable chairs provided for guests.
Her grandmother tilted her head to the side, regarding her carefully. "The first born."
Bella nodded and patiently repeated again, "That's right. I'm the oldest, Renee's daughter. And then there's Aunt Betsy's kids - Bobby and Emma. Do you remember them? Bobby's getting so big; he's fourteen now, and Emma's twelve."
It was going to be one of those visits she could tell, where her grandmother was barely lucid in her ramblings. She reached for the photo album they kept on the dresser and started to flip through it.
Her grandmother's hand caught her arm. "How old?"
Bella paused. "How old am I? I just turned nineteen, Grammy, in September."
Her grandmother gestured her closer, so Bella put the book aside and knelt at her feet. She took Bella's chin in her hand and studied her face. "Soon. It will be soon."
The same prickle she'd felt after her dream the night before crawled over her skin. "What do you mean, soon?"
"You are the one," her grandmother murmured. "I knew when you were born, that you would be the one, that he would come to you. It's always the first born."
Her grandmother released Bella and leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant again as her fingers caressed the faint silvered lines of an old scar on the left side of her neck.
"Did you sleep well, child?" she asked.
Bella moved back into her own seat, feeling unbalanced by her grandmother's proclamation. "Not, not really. I've been having these dreams."
"What sort of dreams?"
Not wanting to upset her grandmother, she gave a weak laugh and tried to wave off the question. "Nothing, Grammy, really."
"I've told you before, dreams should not be taken lightly, Jemma. When he calls you, you must respond."
She froze in her chair. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
Her grandmother gave her a small smile, her eyes clear and lucid now. "When it was my turn, and he called, I gave myself to him willingly. And he let me live." Her hand lovingly traced the scar once more.
Bella shook her head slowly and rose, backing out of the room. "I'll be back in just a minute, Grammy."
"Of course, Jemma."
She hurried to the door and found the nurse on call.
\/ \/
His voice was louder now, more insistent. "Bella? I'm waiting for you. Come to me now."
She could hear him, the seductive voice drawing her to him, but she was frightened. Her feet were bare, and the wet grass chilled them as she ducked into another turn of the maze of hedges she was lost within. She turned away from the force drawing her like iron to a lodestone.
Her breath was coming fast as she ran, turning this way and that, her legs twisting in the long white gown, trying to find a way out. Or was she trying to find a way to him? She wasn't sure now.
She stumbled around another corner, her ankle suddenly twisting beneath her, and tumbled into an opening with a small white fountain in the center, flanked by benches.
Through the water, she could see a shimmer, a mirage, and then reality. He was here. Waiting for her as promised.
He walked to her slowly, leaning to scoop her effortlessly from her tangled heap on the ground and into his arms. She felt it again, that sense of completion, as he sat on a bench and cradled her on his lap.
"Were you bringing me your gift? Or running away from me?" he asked, and she found herself unable to answer. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Mesmerized by his perfection, her fingers moved of their own volition towards his face. That smile emerged again, and she realized he was pleased.
"You may touch me." His lips moved and she pressed her fingers to them. His tongue darted out, wrapping around one fingertip and drawing it in. Before she could react, she felt a sharp nip.
She gasped as he delicately lapped at the blood that welled there. "A small treat," he said. "That's why you came, isn't it?"
She found herself nodding in response.
He gave one last long lick to her finger, and she watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, clearly savoring her blood.
"I knew that you would be like nothing else, that you would be worth waiting for. And yet, your taste, it is beyond even my wildest dreams."
Her body was reacting to both his words and his hands moving on her, still chaste, yet making her skin feel too tight, as though she might explode. She let her head fall back as he cradled her, his tongue tracing a path up the sensitive skin of her neck.
And then, as always, he pierced her flesh.
\/ \/
Her eyes flew open as she fought to catch her breath, her heart pounding as though it might spring out of her chest. She fumbled for the lamp on her nightstand, feeling very alone in the room with Rose away for the weekend.
Tossing back the covers, she scrambled on shaky legs to the mirror, craning her neck right and left to reveal nothing.
Her grandmother's words from the previous weekend resurfaced from where she'd tried to bury them, the words she'd been ignoring after a week full of dreams.
When he calls, you must respond.
She was starting to feel as if she was losing her mind.
The dreams hadn't stopped. If anything, they'd only grown worse. Every night when she closed her eyes now, she was back in that house, or in those gardens, and he was always there. She'd tried running away, hiding from him, and yet each and every time, he found her. Or she found him. Because ultimately, she always gave in. And every dream ended the same.
Tuesday night, she'd even broken down and taken some sleeping pills in her desparation for sleep, despite the hangover feeling they always left her with that she hated. That had been the worst. She'd felt trapped, as thought she couldn't wake up, and when his lips had descended to her neck, when she'd felt the give of her flesh tearing beneath his teeth, she'd screamed for what felt like hours before Rose had finally managed to wake her.
She shivered at the memory, grabbed a blanket and a book, and spent the rest of the night in the hall lounge with all the lights and the television on.
\/ \/
The next morning, Bella walked down the sterile hallway with a bright pot of mums clutched carefully in her hands, stopping before the room with her grandmother's name on it. She knocked softly, waiting for the response, then pushed open the door.
"Hi, Grammy," she said, stooping to give her grandmother a swift kiss on the cheek. "I brought you a flower this week."
"Oh, they're lovely, Bella." Her grandmother leaned forward and sniffed the mums. "I adore that shade of crimson."
"I'll put them right over here on the windowsill," Bella replied, turning away swiftly to hide the relief on her face as she wiped away a tear that threatened to fall. This was the first time her grandmother had recognized her right away in a month. Maybe this week would be easier than last.
She turned back, and pulled one of the straight-backed instruments of torture provided by the assisted care home for visitors to sit in over to her grandmother's seat by the window. "Have you had a good week?"
Her grandmother nodded. "The leaves are starting to fall. I like to watch them out the window."
"They are beautiful," Bella agreed.
"When they're gone, I will be too."
Bella shook her head. "Grammy, don't say those kind of things." She picked up her grandmother's hand, lined and fragile with skin almost paper thin, and held it gently.
Her grandmother smiled and touched Bella's cheek softly with her other hand. "My child, there's a time for everything, and I know mine is near its end. There are things I need to tell you though, while I'm feeling well enough today."
She rose slowly, and moved to the dresser, opening a drawer. "I asked Betsy to get this from the safe deposit box for me. It's something that the first-born daughter in each generation of our family is to have. That was me, then your Aunt Jemma, and now, dear girl, it's you.” Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the box in Bella's hands.
Bella stared down at the old wooden box, covered in intricate carved designs. "What is it?"
"Inside you'll find a talisman and a journal, one kept by the women in our family through the years. Read it soon, and then come and ask me whatever questions you have." She touched Bella's face gently again, searching her eyes. "I am sorry to take so long to give you this, child. But this inheritance will be with you long after I'm gone."
Bella stared at her in confusion, the weight of the box suddenly heavy. "Alright. Thank you, Grammy."
"You're welcome, Jemma."
Bella shook her head. "No, remember, it's me, Grammy. I'm Bella."
Her grandmother stared at her for a long minute, her cool blue eyes sharpening.
"Of course, of course, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I just miss her so, sometimes. You remind me of her a good bit, you know." She smiled, but her alertness was visibly fading. "I'm tired now, dear. I think I'd like to lie down for a bit. Would you mind?"
Bella shook her head, helping her grandmother to the bed and sitting beside her as she drifted off to sleep. She watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest for another few minutes, her fingers absently tracing the carvings on the box before she rose and slipped from the room.
She made it to her car, the tremble in her own hands suddenly making itself known as she sat down the strange box. Easing the lid off, she stared at the twisted ivory knot secured on a thin piece of black silk. Moving it aside, she lifted the cloth wrapped around the book underneath. It seemed fragile, and she raised the cover gently, staring down at the elegant script on the opening page.
Diary of Maeve Moran
She reached for her phone.
"Mom?"
Her mother's voice was distant as she fumbled with the phone, but finally rang through clear.
"Bella? Is that you? Did you go see your grandmother this morning?"
Bella swallowed. "I did. She was better. Well, she knew who I was today. But, Mom, she kept talking about dying."
"Betsy said the same thing - she said Mother was having her go get things for people - just little mementos she wants to give away, I think. We're going to drive down tomorrow and see her. Want us to take you out to dinner after?"
"I guess," Bella replied. "Mom, she gave me this necklace - it's some kind of ivory knot - sort of like those Celtic things? And an old book."
"Her mother's family was from Ireland. You know she came over when she was very young, although I don't think she remembers much about it," her mother responded. "I didn't know she had a journal like that. I'd love to see it sometime."
"Sure, Mom." Bella sighed. "It just feels strange, you know, her talking about dying. And she called me Jemma again."
"I know, Bella, but she's been sick for so long now. When I was younger - she was . . ." Her mother trailed off with a small laugh. "I don't even know how to describe her. She was something else, always on the go, like she knew there was something out there waiting for her if she could only find it. But after Jemma . . . that really changed her. It was like a light went out in her somehow."
"What did happen to Aunt Jemma, Mom? I know she died, but no one ever talks about it."
There was a long silence. "She was murdered, Bella. She was almost eight years older than me, you know, but I remember when she left home. I think I must have been ten or eleven. Jemma was beautiful, but so headstrong. She and Mother clashed all the time - they seemed to fight over everything. She didn't want to go to college, wanted to make it on her own, so she moved to New York City. It nearly broke Mother's heart."
"And something happened there?" Bella asked.
"She was killed in some kind of mugging gone bad - that's what the police thought," her mom said, choking up a little. "Her throat, her throat was all cut up - it was terrible."
"Oh," Bella replied. "I'm sorry, Mom - I didn't know it was like that."
"It was a long time ago. Actually, now that I think of it, it will be thirty years in a few days - she was killed at the end of October. On Halloween. I remember, because I was just coming back from trick or treating when Mother got the call." Her mother was silent for a moment. “They never found who did it.”
\/ \/
Her dorm room was deadly quiet when Bella returned, and she started at the jingle of her keys sliding off the desk as she laid them too close to the edge.
She jumped, giggling nervously. "Pull yourself together, girl," she commanded herself.
Sitting the carved box to the side of her desk, she pulled out her history text, flipping through the assigned reading and trying to organize her notes to study for her upcoming test. But her eyes kept straying back to the box until she finally pushed her book away.
She lifted the lid again, studying the swirls that formed an intricate design in the wood and tracing their textures. It was beautiful the way the angles blended in and out, forming some sort of cohesive design that seemed to interlock in a way that blurred where it began and where it ended.
She laid the lid carefully aside, and pulled out the ivory knot, recognizing now that the pattern was the same. Her fingers glided over the cool surface and she realized that the white material was a type of stone worn smooth and polished over the years. She lifted the ribbon and slid it over her neck, staring down at the knot that now lay against the slope of her breast, nestling as though it belonged there.
The soft material covering the book beneath slipped away and she gingerly sat the volume on her desk, trying to touch the worn pages as little as possible. Opening it, she read the front page.
Diary of Maeve Moran
She turned the next page and immersed herself in the first entry dated the fifth of October of 1803.
Mamai says that I am to keep a journal now, to help organize my thoughts and prepare me for what is to come. Mr. Cullen came to call today and brought his newest son, Cillian with him. His surety that his offer will be accepted is galling, but I remained polite as he sat with Mamai and attended to the niceties. It's rather amusing to know that even the undead feel compelled to be on their best behavior with Mamai, lest she manage to turn them into some sort of toad. A vampire toad! What an amusing thought.
I am less sure of what to make of all this. I understand the possible advantages that could lie from such a match to them - the power flows strong in our family, and the unrest among the clans of the undead leads them to seek leverage wherever they may find it to ensure their dominance.
But what benefit to us? I am not sure that I wish to spend my eternity with such a creature as the head of the Cullen clan.
Clans of the undead? Was this some kind of joke? A novel of sorts? Bella skimmed past the next few entries as Maeve's objections seem to grow greater to the possible match with this vampire, despite his attempts to charm and woo her.
Mr. Cullen called again today, and I found my patience growing thin as I listened to he and Mamai negotiate terms as I was expected to quietly sip my tea. How can Mamai let me simply become a blood mare, which I fear is Mr. Cullen's ultimate objective for me? He may profess to be in awe of my talents for bending the elements, but I've seen him gaze longingly at my neck once too often.
I know she reads this. I know she thinks I'm a silly, ungrateful child, but she is wrong. I know my mind, and I long to be free of this house and to choose for myself who I shall be bound to.
The remaining entries grew harder to read, the perfect delicate script devolving in to harsh strokes and blots of inks as though Maeve's frustration with with her mother's apparent intractableness on the match had bled onto the page. Near the end of the series, written in Maeve's delicate script, was a final entry dated the thirtieth of October.
He will come for me tomorrow night and I will be waiting. No one will stop us.
Bella turned the page, searching for the next entry, caught up in the story now. What happened to Maeve? Was she married to this Cullen guy? Or bound, or whatever they called it? And what did she mean when she wrote, No one will stop us. Did she convince someone else to help her stop whatever was happening? Did she kill him or something?
It appeared that some pages had been ripped out, the torn edges shredded close to the binding, leaving the next entry dated twenty-five years later. The handwriting, more rounded and girlish, proclaimed that these entries belonged to a Claire Moran. The entries picked up in early October of 1828.
I told Mother about my dream, about the man who came and called my name. She cried and gave me this book to write in about what I saw. She's worried that the vampires will come for me as they did for her sister long ago, although she won't speak to me of what happened to her. She says that it is too sorrowful for us to dwell on, and that it was a terrible time for the women of Moran. She's given me charms to wear, and said extra blessings over me for the past three nights. Perhaps they'll keep him away.
I've never met a vampire before. I wonder if the tales about them are true?
Bella read ahead, her heart beating faster. The charms didn't work. Claire's nights were soon filled with dreams of the vampire that grew stronger and stronger as the month waned and the festival of Samhain neared. She reported that the coven of the Moran women, far smaller and weaker now after her grandmother's death, searched in vain for how to halt his lures. The last entry was on the thirty-first of October.
He has yet to make his presence known in the flesh, despite the diligent searches of my sisters and aunts. And yet, he's with me now. I feel him inside me, drawing me to him. I no longer can tell this to Mother, her cheeks grow so pale, but he is all I can think of now. He consumes my thoughts. Tonight, tonight he will find me and I will be his.
Three hours later, Bella shut the book in disbelief, startled to find the room nearly dark around her except for the pool of light cast by the small desk lamp. Her ancestors were witches? Powerful witches who were connected to a coven of vampires? And somehow had been cursed in the process - doomed to be drawn to them, a first-born daughter in each generation? Was it because of something Maeve had done? Or in spite of it?
She flipped back through the book, staring at the missing pages, a chill crawling up her spine.
Mentally shaking herself, she slammed the volume shut. This was sheer insanity. None of this could be real. Vampires didn't exist outside of Hollywood and the pages of books. There was no such thing as a real witch - not ones that had actual powers. This had to be some sort of hoax. Her grandmother's mind had been wavering for years - could this be some product of her growing dementia?
Bella opened the book back up and stared at the final pages at her grandmother's own account of her encounter with the vampire, the one who'd drank from her, but let her live, and then a few lines about Jemma, who'd refused to believe any of this was true until it was too late. It seemed so real, so vivid - and the generations of women so unique that she couldn't convince herself that her grandmother had done this alone.
The alternative - that this wasn't some elaborate fake - made her blood run cold.