Vampire Legacy 04 - Blood of My Blood

by Taylor, Karen E

  "Hello, Angelo."

  "Miss Lily." He doffed his hat to me and gave a sad little smile. "I heard what happened to Moon and that young man, and come to offer my sympathies. May I come in?"

  "Well." I looked at him, this wrinkled old toad of a man, and I was barely able to control a giggle, remembering how Moon had spoken of him. "For a while, I guess. I'm expecting someone."

  He rolled his eyes. "Yes, that young man's father. He was here when I show up, sort of skulkin' outside the door, afraid to ring the bell, Bible in hand, all sorrowful eyes and hound-dog ears hangin' down. I can tell, he just want someone to tell him it's not his fault. So me, I sent him away for a while."

  "You sent him away?" I opened the door wider and Angelo walked in, hanging his straw hat on the rack as he passed. "What do you mean you sent him away?"

  Angelo winked at me. "You know, I cause him to remember something important he needed to do back home. He get there, he'll wonder what it was." He threw back his head and laughed; it had a dry, humorless sound. "Some of them is so easy to turn, it seems a crime not to."

  "Ah." I motioned with my arm. "Come on into the kitchen. I'll fix us a cup of tea."

  "Not got nothing stronger?"

  I raised my eyebrows. "So who's got sorrowful eyes now? I'll see what Moon has put aside."

  He followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table. "Ain't Moon's stuff anymore, child, it's yours. And I figure you're plenty old enough to pass out the booze. How old are you now, anyway?"

  I pulled a bottle of sherry out from under the sink and held it out for his approval. "I'm nineteen or so, 'Lo, you know that."

  Angelo nodded, and I filled a small juice glass and handed it to him. He drank half of it down. "Shit, missy, you been nineteen for a long time now. Ain't no need to prevaricate for me. I was almost your stepdaddy, after all. I know the score, I do."

  "I'm sure you do." I hesitated, then took another juice glass from the cupboard and sat down at the table with him, filling both glasses. "Okay, so I'm almost a century and a half old. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

  He shook his head and gave a long, low whistle. "I knew you was different, but I didn't know how much. One hundred and fifty years old and never been on your own?" He finished his glass and poured himself another, then reached across the table and patted my hand. "Don't you worry, Miss Lily, I'll take care of you now. I figure I owe it to Moon."

  I stood up, leaned over the table and stared him down. "Jesus Christ, Angelo, you act like I was five years old and not very bright. I don't need anyone to take care of me. I don't want anyone to take care of me."

  "Independence. I like that. It's a good thing. But you be needing some help, I think, with the funeral and such?"

  I sighed. "Yes," I admitted, "before there was always someone else to take care of it. I don't know what to do."

  "Then you just leave it to ol' Bowlegged 'Lo. I'll see that Moon goes out right. Her mama never thought I was good enough"—he gave a low laugh—"and maybe she was right. But I loved that girl. Ah, she had a smile that could light the world and make a bad man good. No tellin' what sort I'd have been if she'd had me." He wiped at his eyes and I had to look away, ashamed that this wizened old reptile could cry and I couldn't. Where were my tears?

  After a while, he reached over and touched my hand again. "Ah, well, the dead are dead. And we are left behind to live. But I can be a help to you, Miss Lily. Just tell me what you want."

  "What?"

  "You said you don't want no one taking care of you. So what do you want?" His eyes were bright with tears, but eager and searching.

  I sat back down at the table again and drained my glass. "I want to find my mother, my real mother."

  "I can help with that. Already know some stuff, yes, I do. And when you find her? What then?"

  I looked him dead in the eye so that there would be no mistaking my intent. "And when I find her, I will make her pay."

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  « ^ »

  Since I was an aleyo, not an initiate on any level, I was required to wait outside the mortuary doors while Moon's ceremony was held. Angelo sat and kept me company, though, and gave me a running commentary on what was happening. I didn't listen; I didn't care. Moon was dead and gone; nothing they said or did would bring her back. And after going through similar ceremonies for other mothers I had lost, I knew the routine by now. They would bathe her, purify the body and clothe it in her initiation robes. The spirits that had been with her in her life would be asked if they wished to stay or to go with her. Shells would be cast and read. A black chicken would be killed and they would sprinkle the blood over the funeral gourd filled with bits of food and ashes. Then they would moan and chant and cry, bidding farewell to their sister.

  I knew the ceremony well enough. And it gave no comfort. When I heard the series of three loud knocks on one of the inner walls, I knew that the service was almost over.

  "They goin' soon," Angelo said unnecessarily, "and she goin' with them. Now we take the old used shell to the cemetery."

  I gave a relieved sigh and stood up, smoothing the skirt of my black dress and picking up my purse. "These things seem longer each time I go to one. And after all these years, one would think they'd let me go in."

  Angelo looked up at me. "They don't know nothin' about all your years, girl."

  After the procession, I stood at her grave and watched them lower her into the ground. I had no tears to cry; instead I stood tall and pale amidst her weeping friends. One by one they stopped in front of me, some with a kind word, some with just a nod. Two handed me trinkets, a set of red beads and a white plate, souvenirs from the ceremony I'd been barred from. Soon only Angelo and I remained at the grave site. I gestured around me. "All these graves," I said quietly, but not caring if I was heard. "All this death, all this sadness. And it hasn't touched me. Will it ever?"

  Angelo sidled up next to me. "A better question, Miss Lily, is why would you want that touch? You're perfection—ageless, graceful, beautiful."

  I shook my head. "So are the goddamned statues here, 'Lo." I gave a bitter laugh. "And they probably know more about life than I do. Hell, even you probably know more about life than I do. What do you want with me?"

  "I told you. I want to help you."

  "But why? And don't tell me it's for Moon." I pointed to the open grave. "She's beyond caring or knowing."

  "That may be, Missy, or it may not be. You want I tell it straight?"

  "Yeah."

  He pulled himself up to a height I'd not have thought his wizened body capable of. He seemed to stand straighter, prouder, almost defiant. "I one of the best mayomberos alive in the world today. Baptized or unbaptized. I have power, I like power; I am drawn to it like iron shavings to a magnet And you, Miss Lily"—he shrank back down a bit, as if in deference to me—"you have powers like I never seen. Unskilled, undeveloped, but so strong I can smell them." He sniffed to emphasize his point "Oh, yes, they be strong. And I can teach you to use them. To get what you want in life."

  "And what exactly do you get out of it, Angelo?"

  "I learn about you. Maybe some of that beauty and grace you don' want will rub off on old Bowlegged 'Lo. Maybe I learn to live a very long time. Maybe I get nothin' but the thrill of the tryin'."

  I sighed. "Can we talk about this later? I'm tired, Angelo. And I want to go home."

  Angelo must have given Mr. Shepard a suggestion to end all suggestions, since he never returned to the house. I finally met him at Hyde's funeral service two days following Moon's. He was very much like Angelo described, eaten up with guilt inside and sorrowful as a whipped dog. I half expected him to put his head back and howl while the congregation sang "Amazing Grace." Trying to stave off an attack of the giggles, I threw myself into the singing of the song. It had always been one of my favorites; so many of my mothers had rocked me to sleep singing it. By the time the hymn ended, though, I had no desire to laugh. All those wasted lives
over the years. I had lost too many mothers, I thought angrily, and too many friends. It's time for a reckoning.

  I stood biting my lip and clenching my fists as they carried the coffin out of the church. The rest of the congregation filed out around me until I was alone. Let them go without me, I thought. I've no desire to stand tearless over another open grave.

  But as I left the church, Hyde's father came up to me. "You can ride with me, Lily. He'd have liked that. Besides," he said, taking my hand, tucking it into his arm and walking me to the lead car, "we never had that talk." He shook his head slightly, wondering, I supposed, why we hadn't. I made a mental note to ask Angelo just exactly how that little trick worked.

  Once we were in the car, Mr. Shepard cleared his throat. "I've heard the police tell it, of course, but you were there. How did my son die?"

  "He died well, if such a thing is possible. There had been trouble at the Orchid earlier that evening and these men were waiting for us, or maybe just for Moon. Hyde, er, Alfred died protecting her. And me."

  "That's what the police said."

  "And that's what happened."

  "I was afraid"—he looked out the window for a second, then looked back at me—"that he'd maybe started the fight himself. It wasn't easy trying to raise the boy after his mother died. Alfred was always difficult for me to handle; his mother had a way with him, but he and I never could agree. And when she died, he kind of went weird, that crazy hair, the black clothes, staying out all hours and associating with freaks." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat; I was undoubtedly one of those freaks.

  He cleared his throat again and continued. "It seemed like he and I were constantly fighting about one thing or another, all of it so unimportant now.'' Tears began to flow from his eyes and stream down his face, but he didn't notice or care. "And so, when the police came and told me he'd died in some sort of a scuffle, I thought that he'd done it on purpose. To show me that he was a man, or to prove something. I felt, oh, I don't know, like maybe if I'd listened more to him or given him more, he'd not have done it."

  "But it wasn't like that at all, Mr. Shepard. He was a good person and his death was not your fault. It was just something that happened, that no one could prevent. You shouldn't blame yourself."

  "Then who can I blame?" He turned to me, angry. "His mother gone and now him?" He shook his head. "It makes no sense."

  I gave him a sad smile. "Nothing makes sense these days."

  My voice seemed to bring him up from the depths of his thought. "But here I am going on about me and I've forgotten that you haven't just lost one person close to you, but two. I am sorry for both of those losses, Lily." He reached over and patted my hand. "I heard you singing in church; you have the voice of an angel. Such a voice can only be inspired by faith in God. And the Lord will give us each comfort in our grief."

  I shook my head angrily as the procession stopped at its destination and we got out of the car. I had no Lord to comfort me, no gods, no beliefs to hold close in the dark of night. I had no love now, none to take and none to give. All I had left in me was anger. And that anger would have to carry me through.

  I stayed only long enough to watch them pull the coffin out of the back of the hearse and set it up on its platform. The prayers they would say over his body meant nothing. The flowers that they'd heap on the newly covered grave would wither and die. Hyde was dead and all I had left of him was the taste of cheap wine, a remembrance of soft kisses and the touch of a silver ring on my hand.

  I turned my back and walked away.

  For several days I ignored the phone and the doorbell, choosing to take the time to sort out the many years of memories left in the house. Most of Moon's belongings I bundled up into bags and boxes for charity, keeping only a few items for myself. They wouldn't fetch much at a pawnshop, I knew, but they had sentimental value for me. I dragged old dusty boxes and trunks from the crawl space, disturbing spiders and roaches, the former sauntering away to sulk in dark corners and the latter scuttling away like dead leaves in the wind. The deeper I delved into the boxes, the deeper into early memories I sank. Bits and pieces of my previous caretakers formed fully fleshed in my mind. The ring Moon's mother, Sarah, wore, a flower I had picked for her on a sunny spring day, her grandmother's wedding dress; all precious in my eyes. I almost laughed out loud when I found the favorite lace shawl that had belonged to Philomena's youngest daughter. I smoothed it between my trembling fingers; there was the tear I had made in it one day, carefully mended by loving hands.

  Finally, near the bottom of the last trunk was a real treasure. Wrapped in faded silk, an ornate garnet necklace set in gold, it had been the first object I remember ever seeing, sparkling in the moonlight around Philomena's throat as she bent down to pick me up from my own premature grave. It was worth more money than all the rest of it, probably worth more money than any of them had ever had. That no one had ever sold it was a testimony to the love everyone held for that remarkable woman.

  And I was the last in her line to own it. I sat down cross-legged next to the trunk and I fastened it around my neck. Holding the stones against me, I thought I could hear Philomena's rich laughter and her dark velvet voice. I felt her warm presence, and the anger I'd been holding inside seemed to lessen. "No," I said bitterly, pulling off the necklace and throwing it back into the trunk. "I don't want your comfort. It's a lie. Just leave me my anger and leave me alone."

  Something crinkled when the necklace hit the bottom. I leaned over, peered in and saw a fairly large scroll of paper, brittle with age. I pulled it out carefully and unrolled it.

  It was a rubbing of a tombstone. That much I could tell. I carried it into the kitchen and laid it out on the table. I could read the name Williams and the date 1860. The rest was too faded. I held it up to the light, only to see lettering on the back. Turning it over, I recognized the crude writing of Philomena. She hadn't been able to read, but she could copy the letters. These, too, were faded, but I could read them. "John Williams Beloved Husband of Dorothy Grey Williams 1830-1860." Beneath this a different hand had written, "Father and Mother?"

  The doorbell rang and I answered it. Angelo stood there. "Miss Lily, you finally answerin' the door?"

  "Hello, Angelo."

  "You got dirt all over you." He peered at my hair. "And a spider in your hair. What you been doin'?"

  I brushed at my head. "Cleaning. Sort of."

  "And you ain't wearin' those red beads like I told you." He walked over to Moon's altar and took them from where I'd draped them about the statue. "You give offense to that spirit, you sorry."

  I allowed him to put the necklace on me. Unlike Philomena's garnets, they were cold to the touch and their presence far from calming. Instead, they reminded me of my anger and that was a good thing. I needed that emotion; it was the only one I had.

  "You're right, Angelo," I said. "I'll wear them from now on."

  "Good. They give you strength, they give you protection if you treat them right." He hummed and nodded. "But I didn't come to tell you that."

  He walked into the kitchen and helped himself to the sherry, pouring two glasses and handing me one.

  "Besides to drink all Moon's sherry, Angelo, what else did you come for?"

  "A celebration, Lily." He clinked his glass up against mine. "You be happy when you see what I found for you." He smiled his froggish smile, reached into his coat pocket and handed me a folded piece of paper.

  I opened it up. It was a copy of a ten-year-old newspaper article from the New York Times fashion section.

  I looked at him. "So?"

  "The picture, Missy, look at the picture. And tell me who it look like."

  I peered at the paper. It was hard to see clearly; the machine on which he'd copied it wasn't very good. But the likeness was there and I felt the shock of recognition reverberate through my whole body. It could have been me, older and more haunted, perhaps, but I'd looked in the mirror often enough to see the truth. I gave a triumphant laugh; the bitch was
nameless no more.

  "Deirdre Griffin," I said aloud.

  Then, looking back to the kitchen table where the other paper lay. "Dorothy Grey."

  "Dorothy Grey?" Angelo grinned at me. "Who she?"

  "Deirdre Griffin, Dorothy Grey, my dear sweet mother." I smiled back at him, then impulsively hugged him. "You know, Angelo, I've always wanted to go to New York City."

  * * *

  PART TWO

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  « ^ »

  The scent of her blood drew me, such a tantalizing fragrance, beckoning me to leave the forest behind, to be pulled against all instinct into the warmth and comfort of light and fire. The Wolf and I had run far and fast, but he'd tired of the game long before I had and now I was alone. Alone, as it had been at the beginning. As it seemed I should be.

  There were hours left before dawn and so I stayed, just beyond her range of vision. Perhaps she saw the twitching of my tail or the glare of my eyes in the glow of the moon as I paced back and forth beneath the trees. Perhaps she sensed the presence of another mind just outside her cabin. But she showed no fear; she merely sat, rocking, peering out into the night and waiting for me to reveal myself as I was so often tempted to do.

  I knew her fairly well, in my other form, that graceless and flawed form onto which I had held tight for so many years. Too many years. I growled at the thought of having to reassume that form.

  "Hello?"

  I edged back. She had never attempted to speak to me before, not when I came as Cat.

  "Deirdre?"

  The name. She called that name, the one that pulled me back into the other form. I snarled, then screamed my anger.