Hunting Memories (15 page)
Authors: Barb Hendee
Dear Rose,I am relieved. I have a contact in France, and she tells me the situation in Europe grows worse. I do not know how Julian is managing to behead so many vampires who are older and more powerful than himself, nor do I know how he is finding them.Please keep your existence a secret. Do not go back to Europe, and I believe you will be safe.I have enclosed four hundred dollars in American money.Your servant,
Edward
Rose found the letter detached and informational. He spoke of vampires she’d never met and a conflict she had no part of. She also felt that he wished to say a great deal more but would not.
She tried to exist in Philadelphia.
She tried to be good company for Seamus.
She began writing more lengthy letters to Edward, mainly about Philadelphia and their various hotels and nightly activities. She did not write often, perhaps every six months. Time felt different to her now.
He always wrote back. He kept her informed of everything he learned of Julian’s bloody actions, and her fear of a mad vampire she’d never met began to grow. In spite of everything . . . everything he’d done, she could not help being grateful to Edward for helping her to leave Scotland.
The years passed.
Seamus learned to move about in the world a bit more freely, never allowing himself to be seen by anyone besides Rose, but he never liked the feel nor the sights of Philadelphia, and when she sought out books to read to him, he began asking for accounts of other places in America. He was especially fascinated by accounts of the West Coast, and Rose began to fear he might wish to relocate again.
The adjustment from Scotland to Philadelphia had been almost too much for her, and she had no desire to ever go through such events again. She learned to use her “voice of wisdom” well during hunting. Edward called it her “gift.”
Although she had no affection for Philadelphia, she had learned her way around well enough to hunt at safe distances. In addition, though she would never admit it aloud—or possibly even to herself—she had grown comfortable with the thought of Edward just up north in New York, far enough never to see him . . . but not too far.
But Seamus began asking for more and more books about the west, on gold hunting and horses and new cities cropping up and the adventures taking place there, and by 1870, he began focusing his interests on California.
His obsession began to make her feel more and more alone. As if she had no one to truly talk to—except Edward. And Edward often reiterated the importance of her living alone, remaining in secret. These reminders caused her to think on his existence as well, always staying in hotels, even more alone than herself. At least she had Seamus. She did not feel sympathy for Edward but rather empathy for the hollow, changeless existence they shared. In a moment of weakness, one night in a letter, she expressed these thoughts to him.
He did not answer for a month, and then a letter arrived that shifted Rose’s view of their world. The letter was raw and emotional and nothing like Edward had ever written before.
Rose,Your words shame me.That you think of me at all with any semblance of charity or concern breaks my heart. I must confess to you now, like a killer seeking absolution from a priest he has wronged.I have hidden a secret from you for years.I did not think it possible for our kind to feel guilt, suffer from regret, but I have suffered for my actions that night in your house so long ago. . . . Not for turning you, but for leaving you with no knowledge of what you had become or how to survive. You know nothing of your own kind, but for one of us to make a vampire and then abandon you as I did is a sin. Yet so is making a vampire in the heat of the moment, and I feared what my master would do if he found out. . . . I was a coward.Then after he was destroyed, it seemed too late for me to make amends to you. I did what I could by sending the warning. I could not even bring myself to look at you. Now, it is far, far too late for amends.Thirteen years after you arrived in Philadelphia, something happened in Wales, and I never wrote a word of it. Julian turned his father, William, a senile old man, thereby condemning him forever to a state of dementia. The next night, Julian turned a servant girl to care for the old creature, and he put them both on a ship and sent them to me.I have been living with these two, with this secret, for decades. I could not bring myself to tell you. The old man wears upon me, but the girl, Eleisha Clevon, has given me something I never thought to find.Redemption.I have trained her, cared for her, and she needs me.Finally, tonight, reading your last letter for the twentieth time, I feel that I can tell you that I suffered for abandoning you. I would never sink to ask your forgiveness.All I can do now is try to make up for the past through my care of Eleisha. Do not fear that I am alone. Do not waste such thoughts on me. Only know that I have suffered remorse you cannot imagine for abandoning you so long ago.Edward
Rose stared at the letter. Then she crumpled it and threw it into the fire. Did he think these confessions brought her comfort? Did he think she cared that he had suffered for his crimes against her? And now, he had been lavishing his care, his training, on a Welsh serving girl, and he expected this to give him absolution for destroying her life and murdering Seamus?
She was numb.
Slowly, she walked from the sitting room into her bedroom. Seamus was in there, looking at drawings.
“Rose,” he said. “Come look at these pictures of San Francisco. You would like this new city. The streets are simple, but people are pouring in to settle here. Could we at least see it?” His face was so hopeful and yet hesitant. He knew how she hated to travel, feared to travel.
“How would we get there?” she whispered.
“By train. The track to the coast was just completed last year.”
“All right,” she said softly. “I’ll book a train ticket.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Seamus was all she possessed of value now. Her illusions of some connection to Edward were just that . . . illusions.
Once more, the trip was a nightmare, and she vowed never to go through this again.
Upon arriving, Rose sent a two-line letter to Edward telling him of their relocation.
He wrote back, sounding shocked and hurt, wanting to know how he had offended her, but she never answered. After that, he occasionally sent money but did not write. Financially, her needs were few, and due to him, she had barely touched Seamus’ inheritance.
Although she never expected to, Rose found some peace in San Francisco. The people and energy in the air suited her better than Philadelphia. The place was rather primitive at first, but by the late nineteenth century, it had become an international city.
Much of the city was damaged by an earthquake in 1906, but rebuilding followed almost immediately.
In 1908, she bought an apartment on the second floor of a lavish building. Finally, a home of their own.
By now, hunting was easy due to more accessible transportation and the strength of her gift, but she never ceased to feel shame after a kill or to continue her efforts to go as long as possible without feeding.
Seamus also liked the city, but even so, as the years passed, he was given at times to melancholy about the state of his existence: endless, unchanging, no one for company but Rose. She could hardly blame him but had no idea how to help.
She and Edward maintained a polite silence.
Remembering their home in Scotland, she took up some of her old interests, such as herb gardening, and she tried to create some semblance of a home for Seamus.
Then in 1913, a letter arrived.
Rose,She has left me. She has gone to Oregon.To my disgust, I am lost. I am alone. I don’t know what to do.Help me.
To Rose’s shock, she was hit in the face by blatant pity.
How strange, how unexpected to feel pity for Edward. But she did. If there was one thing Rose understood, it was loss, especially the loss of someone she loved. She wrote back, and she offered him comfort.
She told him that he would heal in time.
But he did not. He only grew worse. Later, she counseled him to move to Portland—where Eleisha had settled.
He took her advice.
Then his letters stopped.
Over the years that followed, sometimes Rose wondered about Eleisha and William and this “contact” that Edward mentioned in France, and she wondered how many of their kind still existed. But she knew all their survival depended on living quietly away from Julian, on not gaining his attention, and in her case, on living in secret . . . or at least this was what Edward had convinced her.
She and Seamus continued to make it through the nights, with little changing besides the city exploding around them in population and development. The building they lived in grew old, but she could not bring herself to move, not again. It was both a kind of prison and a home at the same time.
In the early spring of 2008, as morning arrived, she was just falling dormant in her bed when something happened.
Her mind exploded in pain, and images of Edward burst inside her brain, along with the memories of everyone he had ever fed upon. In between his victims, she saw the same image over and over of a lovely dark-blond girl in her teens, with a serious face and hazel eyes. The pain was searing, and it went on and on. . . .
“Rose!” Seamus was beside her bed. “What’s wrong? Stop screaming. Someone will break the door down.”
The pain faded and then vanished.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think Edward may be dead,” she answered flatly. “I think I felt him die.”
His transparent mouth fell partway open. “Did Julian find him? Kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Rose waited. She waited in fear, and a part of her mourned for Edward. Nothing happened for six weeks, and then although the sensation was much weaker, she was hit with the memories of another vampire, an exotic woman with dark hair who also passed images of the blond girl with hazel eyes, and of many victims, and of a bright city with its own carnival . . . and the Space Needle. Seattle.
To Rose, it felt as if the vampire was dying.
Back in Scotland, when Julian was still killing vampires in Europe after she’d been turned, she had never felt this, seen anything like this. Perhaps she had been too young in her undead state?
A few nights later, she felt another death, an old man, and she saw almost nothing in his memories but the girl with hazel eyes—and of feeding on rabbits.
Someone was killing vampires.
“Seamus, can you go to Seattle? Try to find out what’s happening?”
“Without you?” he asked. He never strayed too far from her side. He said he felt tied to her.
“It isn’t safe for me to go anywhere now. I should not leave the apartment.”
He nodded. This was true.
And so he tried. He found out that once he’d reached a general vicinity, he could sense the undead. He found Eleisha and Philip in Seattle. He was outside the Red Lion Hotel when Philip kicked Julian out the window. He learned where Eleisha was staying and read the address on the house. But the longer he was away from Rose, the weaker he grew.
He focused upon her and rematerialized in the apartment and told her what he had seen, what he learned.
Once again, she knew something in their world had shifted.
Instead of hiding, instead of living alone, somebody was fighting back against Julian. If Eleisha and Philip could defend themselves, they could defend others. But could she trust them? She did not know. She did not even want to give them her name. She remembered an account she’d read of a Hungarian countess dubbed a “vampire” for her practices. This story was well known and should offer enough of a hint. But she wanted to offer more . . . a hint of her goals, the whispers in the back of her mind of others like herself who might be trapped in hiding.
Rose opened up a post office box.
Then she went home and sat down at the antique desk while Seamus stood anxiously behind her, and she wrote:
You are not alone. There are others like you. Respond to the Elizabeth Bathory Underground. P.O. Box 27750, San Francisco, CA 94973.
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