In Memories We Fear (14 page)

Also, he knew Eleisha needed blood, and she’d refused to feed on Wade, but he’d expected her to refuse. She would never feed on Wade. Even while he was pacing, Philip had considered calling a hotel servant in here, letting her feed, and replacing a memory. But he was too focused on the prospect of Seamus returning at any second, and he wanted to be poised to run. Anything else was too much of a distraction. He’d find a way to feed Eleisha as soon as that feral vampire was headless dust.

He heard nothing from upstairs, not even the sheets rustling.

Walking to the bottom of the stairs, he looked up. “Eleisha?”

To his surprise, Rose hurried over, stepped past him, and stood in his way. “Philip, she needs to rest.”

Alarm bells went off inside his head. “Get out of the way.”

When she didn’t move, Wade came to join them. “Rose?” he asked, sounding worried. “What are you doing?”

Eleisha,
Philip flashed.

No one answered, and he felt no connection. With one hand, he moved Rose aside and took the stairs two at a time.

“Eleisha!”

The bedroom was empty. Her backpack was gone. The window was open.

Again. She’d done it again.

He roared. “Seamus! You come here now!” Then he whirled to glare down the stairs. “Where is she, Rose? Where?”

Rose gazed up at him calmly. “I don’t know.”

He ran back down the stairs for the door, but this time, Wade tried to stop him.

“Wait, Philip. You won’t help by running blindly through London. Let me try to call her cell phone. Let Rose try to call Seamus. We need a better idea where she is.”

But Philip ignored him and kept going straight for the door. If Eleisha didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t give them any help.

And anyway, right now he wasn’t looking for her.

 

Eleisha followed the directions Seamus had given her, up Euston Road and past King’s Cross Station. This area was busy and quite run-down. Faded graffiti covered many of the buildings, and beer cans and cigarette butts rolled down the streets. People heading for the station walked swiftly, and they did not make eye contact.

When she reached the point where Euston split into two different streets, she veered to the left, up Pentonville, and when she arrived at a collection of plywood-covered abandoned buildings, she stopped.

“Don’t go in there, darlin’,” a gravelly voice said. “He’ll set the cats on you.”

Half turning, she saw a grizzled, one-legged old man about a half block away. He sat, leaning against the rotting plywood boards of what appeared to have once been a police station. Rusty chains hung across the doors.

Eleisha walked over to him. Crouching down, she dug into her backpack. “You need some money?” she asked.

“You American or Canadian?”

Technically, she was Welsh, but she wasn’t sure that mattered anymore. “Neither.” Pulling out her wallet, she handed him a ten-pound note. “Who’ll set the cats on me?”

The old man blinked at the money in surprise. “Him . . . himself.”

Eleisha wondered whether the police had bothered questioning the homeless population around here after the first attack occurred. “But he doesn’t bother you as long as you don’t go inside?”

“No, I save scraps for Molly and Silverpants sometimes, so he don’t bother me none.”

“Molly and Silverpants?”

He blinked again. “The cats.”

Absorbing this, Eleisha found it to be a good sign. It suggested the vampire was still sane enough to understand the old man was useful—a good sign indeed. In addition, the old man had expressed concern over Eleisha’s being attacked by the cats . . . but not over her having her throat ripped open, suggesting he’d never seen the vampire try to feed.

She smiled and stood up. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

So far on this venture, she’d not managed to prove that yet, but she was about to. Slipping in between the cracks of two decaying structures, she moved out of sight of the street.

She did not reach out telepathically but relied upon Seamus to warn her of danger. He’d promised he’d stay close. Without warning, he materialized beside her and pointed down.

“There,” he mouthed silently. He’d already promised he would not materialize inside unless she called for him. Even then, he couldn’t do much to help her, but she wanted as few “invaders” inside as possible.

Following his finger, she saw a small hole—barely large enough for herself—in the rotting boards. She didn’t need to bother asking whether the vampire was inside. Seamus would not forgo the sound of the speech otherwise.

She set down the backpack and steeled herself.

There was only one way to do this.

Clearing her mind, she dropped down and darted through the hole, coming up into darkness and the musty smell of decay . . . and she heard a screaming wail before she hopped up to all fours.

Even in the darkness, she could see his twisted white face across from her as he screamed and hissed. He seemed shocked, so he hadn’t sensed her outside and she’d caught him off guard.

He charged.

Stop!
she fired, driving the command directly into his mind.

The sudden halt caused him to hit the ground face-first, but she held him there, using every ounce of telepathic strength she could. He did not try to push her out. Perhaps he did not know how.

A huge orange cat jumped up onto a box and hissed at her once, but it did not seem to know what to do and kept watching the vampire, as if waiting. A sleek gray tabby hopped up next, looking equally confused.

Eleisha ignored them, focusing entirely on holding the vampire as he writhed and choked in panic.

Without allowing herself to read his thoughts, she began sending her thoughts in simple, calming messages.

She kept this up, repeating several phrases over and over until he ceased to writhe and just stared out at her through his black eyes. Still, she kept a hard mental hold on him, ready to freeze him again if he charged.

Here, she got her first truly clear look at him. His white face was slender with high cheekbones, but so much of him was obscured by years of filth, and only the remnants of a tattered shirt remained on the top half of his body. His grimy hands were small and delicate, almost like a woman’s.

He pushed himself partially up, and she tensed, ready to freeze him again, but he did not rush her. He opened his mouth, curling it into a snarling shape without releasing sound and exposing pointed yellow teeth. Even without reading his mind, she could feel the waves of fear and confusion pouring off him.

She repeated for the sixth time,
I won’t hurt you. Keep you safe
.

Bracing herself, she knew it was time to connect to his thoughts. Nothing was certain here until she knew whether any thoughts she sent got through to him—if he at least understood the emotions if not the words.

Both the cats were still watching them in puzzled caution, giving Eleisha an idea to try before she opened her mind to him. She pointed to the cats.

She had no idea whether the vampire knew these names, or whether they were simply something the old man outside had come up with, but she needed to try.

The vampire’s eyes flickered ever so slightly, and then Eleisha opened herself to his thoughts, preparing for the onslaught of images as they hit her. But urgency and a myriad of driving emotions were not so manic this time. They came quickly: fear, confusion, anger at being invaded . . . but they were not as intense as before.

Then she flashed again,
I am Eleisha
.

He was aware that something had changed, and she was reading him now. She could feel it in his shift of thoughts.

What is your name?
she flashed.

Images flooded his mind . . . and she watched them pass by: a rocky beach; the front of a faded building in an old fishing village; the round face of a man with thinning red hair; image after image of trees, wildlife, and dark forests.

What is your name?
she repeated.

Maxim
.

The word surfaced with an emotion of surprise, like something buried so long it had been completely forgotten.

He pushed himself up to all fours, his eyes shifting back and forth in a kind of excitement. Eleisha kept a close watch on him, knowing he could break down again and rush her at any second.

Keeping her voice soft, she said, “Maxim?”

He froze, and the moment was crucial. The sound of a voice was very different from a telepathic joining. But he didn’t attack her. He just studied her face.

Maxim,
he sent back amidst his jumbled thoughts.

Without knowing why, Eleisha began to communicate with a series of pictures. She started with her memories of the church: the rose garden, Wade’s office, the downstairs living room, and the sanctuary. Then she moved to images of her companions in normal nightly activities: drinking tea at the table, reading aloud, playing cards, working in the garden. . . .

She could feel his fascination, like a hunger, begin to grow as he watched everything she showed him.

Now you,
she flashed.
Show me
.

She had no idea if he would understand, but he’d already shown her a few images of his past—whether he’d meant to or not.

Some part of him did understand, and he sent back more mental pictures of the fishing village, of the man with the thinning red hair . . . and then an aged stone house set among a mass of dark trees. He showed her what appeared to be a small library inside the house.

He seemed to get stuck there, and he let out a frustrated hiss, as if trying to make his mind work.

But Eleisha couldn’t help being startled when the images ceased, and he began slamming the heel of his palm into his forehead.

“No!” she said aloud, moving to him. “Don’t do that.”

He stopped, and his eyes flew to her face in warning, but he didn’t attack. She kept her thoughts clear and ready to freeze him if need be. She had made the mistake of trusting unfamiliar vampires before, and that would not happen again. He leaned his white face closer to hers, and she tried not to wince at the stench coming from his mouth and body.

“Maxim,” she said softly, sending the same images of the fishing village back into his mind.

She was certain of one thing now. He was not a newly created vampire, but someone who might predate herself. His memories, even the memory of his own name, had been locked away for many years. The attacks in London had started only a few months ago. Where had he been?

Now that she’d started this, he seemed desperate to pull up his own past, but he was unable. Yet every memory that surfaced, no matter how vague, seemed to bring him slightly closer to attempting communication with her.

His memories were intact. They were just buried beneath layer upon layer of years without access. She did not know why, and she needed to know. Grimacing, she pushed her thoughts deeper into his mind.

Let me in,
she flashed.

She hadn’t wanted to do this so soon, but she had to get closer to his being able to offer real communication before Philip found them. She had to make progress . . . and she had to do it quickly. If she could just get Maxim to begin at any solid point in his life, she could focus the memories into a chronological stream from which he could not break.

Reaching out slowly, she still did not know if he understood her, but when she touched his hand, he did not jerk it away.

She felt him trying, struggling.

The world went dark, and then she was lost inside his past.

chapter eight

MAXIM

M
axim Patrick Carey was born in Hastings, England, in 1805. Hastings was a fishing town then, and there was nothing Maxim hated more than fish.

Except perhaps his life.

Until reaching the age of ten, he was fully convinced that someone had slipped into his parents’ home the night he was born, taken their baby, and replaced it with him. He believed he was a displaced spirit. He did not belong.

There was much evidence to support this theory. His papa was wide and muscular with dark blond, curly hair. His mama was stocky with dark blond straight hair. His two brothers and three sisters were all stout, with dark blond hair and gray eyes.

Maxim was small and wiry, with thick blue-black hair. His eyes were so dark brown they often appeared black, especially at night. His hands were slender, and his skin was pale. By the time he was ten, the local boys called him “pretty,” and sometimes they hit or kicked him. Seeing the cruelty in their faces, he was afraid, but he tried to keep his fear hidden and to take the pain they inflicted. He had no other defense against them.

His papa existed in a state of almost-constant, seething anger. Papa did not shout or beat his family, but rather he looked at the lot of them, including Maxim’s mama, with a kind of disappointed disgust. In his youth, he’d wished to be the captain of a sea vessel; however, he’d then been “trapped”—due to the impending birth of Maxim’s eldest brother—and forced into life as a fisherman to support a family.

Papa’s dissatisfaction with his own fate was like a poison drifting through the family’s small quarters near the docks.

However, some of his sentiments were not unjustified. Mama was neither a cook nor a housekeeper. She preferred to sit with other women and visit much of the time. As a result, Maxim’s home was a cluttered, untended place; his clothes were dirty, and he often had to fend for himself when it came to meals.