by Lisa Morgan
“You think this is funny?” I shot back, frustrated. “I’m going crazy, just like my father and Liam, and all you can do is laugh?”
Michel’s humor dissipated, his face turning to stone. “Liam is not insane, either.”
“Right,” I mocked back, walking away from the window and Michel, toward the leather covered tome. “That’s why Liam sat at Sunnybrook chewing on game pieces. He’s as loony as they come. Now I’m standing in some strange house, with a bunch of people I don’t know, eating food that tastes like chocolate, and probably being fed drugs so I stay crazy. Great, Michel, all of this is so believable.”
I watched as he stood silent, his eyes taking in my every movement, studying me as if everything I did was something he needed to commit to memory.
I continued, feeling uncomfortable that he hadn’t laughed and told me this was all was some great joke Steph or my mother had set up. “Liam is somehow my long lost grandfather, but nobody, including myself, knew that?”
Michel continued to stare.
“And Seatha … she has wings. She’s a fairy who’s been my dog for the last ten years? And Autumn’s some powerful witch? The woman I thought was my mother is really some kind of zombie who wants to take over the world? Really, Michel? What does that make you? A werewolf?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michel replied seriously, folding his arms across his chest. “Werewolves are extinct.”
“Of course they are! What was I thinking?” I flopped into the chair behind the desk, my head in my hands. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry at my impending mental breakdown.
I chose cry. I let out all of my confusion, anger, and hurt into the palms of my hands. I knew Michel was still standing there, watching me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to care.
After a few minutes, I felt a cool touch on my shoulder. Glancing up through blurred vision, I saw that Michel stood behind me. His hands sent a spark through my body and I glanced away. I knew that I must look like a snotty mess, and just as quickly, realized how foolish it was to even be worried about how I looked when I was losing my marbles. A Kleenex danced over my hand, an unspoken offer from Michel. I took the tissue and blew my nose.
“Maggie, I know this is a lot to take in,” he whispered tenderly.
“You think?” I replied dismally, still on the verge of another crying fit. I heard his soft chuckle from behind me, and I couldn’t help but smile a little, too.
“Look through the book, Maggie.” My name sounded so nice coming from his lips, almost like an invitation to something that should be held someplace private. “It’s our history. Learn the truth of it all.”
I lifted my head when I felt Michel release my shoulders. “Where are you going?”
“Luc will be returning soon,” Michel explained dryly. “I need to see that his motorcycle isn’t damaged, or he’ll be rather vexed.” Before I could ask any more, Michel backed out the door with a bow. I watched the door close, and suddenly felt very much alone.
I wasn’t sure about anyone in this house. I wasn’t sure of my own sanity.
My eyes fell to the book in front of me. It was definitely leather bound, musty smelling, and well-worn with age, the page edges yellowed with time. I ran my hand over the cover and felt a surge of energy in my fingertips, forcing me to yank my hand away.
I leaned closer, squinting my eyes to study the book’s cover. It seemed to glow, the faintest blue emanating from the embossed lettering of its title. Carefully, I felt the cover again, getting the same tiny sparks of power I’d felt the first time I’d put my hands on it. Finally, I dared to open to a random page. The heavy stock of the paper had yellowed and felt brittle with age. How old the book was, I could only guess.
The words weren’t type set, but written by hand in the same drawn out penmanship I recognized from the letter sent to me from Sunnybrook. I flipped back to the title page of the book and what I read made my breath catch in my lungs.
A record of the days of The Realm
As recorded by Liam Henning
I ran my hand over the writing. Liam Henning. My grandfather.
I turned the page, curious now to find out what this book was all about. Liam had claimed it was an accounting of the histories of The Realm, but how could a man, no older than seventy years, have been able to amass a history of a world centuries old?
The following page had a sketch of what I assumed was a king and queen. The king stood proud, his crown sitting on top of his long black lengths of hair, pulled back into a half ponytail like Michel’s. The queen was stunning, even in pencil. Her face wore a smile of genuine happiness, and her eyes seemed to glitter with amazement. Her hair, I was unsure of the color, hung down longer than the picture was drawn, all wide curls. She also wore a crown on her head, smaller than the king’s, but designed the same.
The circlets looked to be woven in the shape of vines, and cresting their foreheads was a symbol. A crescent moon, like the one airbrushed on Michel’s helmet, I realized.
I flipped to the next page only to find finding strange symbols I’d couldn’t identify. Lines of characters I’d never seen before filled the page. I let my hand trace the first row, and as if knowing I couldn’t understand, the intricate and involved shapes came to life and swam on the page. I didn’t pull my hand away; the movements made my fingertips tickle a little. When the shapes came to rest, they reformed in English words I recognized.
“These are the record of the days of The Realm,” I read aloud, “scripted by Liam Henning. By order of the King and Queen of The Realm, I shall herein tell the tale of our world.”
I sat back in the chair, absorbing what I’d read. When I turned to the next page and again ran my hand over the symbols, they also morphed into language I could read.
Before I’d even read any of the newly formed words, the magic I was seeing had me breathless.
***
I spent hours in the library, reading the pages of the book and learning about the world I’d never known existed. I couldn’t pry my eyes from the stories, the histories that had been painstakingly written. The drawings that detailed the different creatures that lived around me, unseen by human eyes, were mesmerizing in both scale and detail. Page after page of text and drawings, describing things I’d thought only lived in the imagination.
If this book is a work of fiction, I thought to myself, it is by far the best contrived tale ever written.
At one point, someone had entered the room and brought me tiny sandwiches and bottled water that, thankfully, only tasted like water. I hadn’t paused in my reading to even say thank you. Judging from the silver tray that held my meal, I assumed it’d been Autumn, and made a mental note to thank her for being so thoughtful when I next saw her.
One section of the book told the story of the First Revenant War. Studiously, I read through the story.
“In the days of winter, a being named Ossa rose before His Majesty’s court, demanding a lordship over the lands of the East, belonging to the mortals. The King, seeing this creature for what its heart really held, not only refused to concede the rights to those lands, but banished the creature and its followers to the darkness for making such a request to rule over the Mortals.
“Ossa, not seeing justice in the King’s decree, gathered his followers and began to siege the outlands of The Realm. The homes of humans were invaded, and using some yet unknown dark magicks, the humans were twisted into beings such as they.
“Even with their fae protectors, the humans seemed unable to protect themselves. The Queen pitied the humans and begged her King to send aid. Despite his enduring love for his queen, he refused her request, wishing to give the Mortals time in which to possibly rescue themselves.
“Her foresight as it was, the Queen knew that without The Realm’s intervention, all of the Human race would be obliterated. The Queen sent out a contingency of her own envoys to negotiate a treaty between The Realm and Ossa. A sole envoy, Seatha, Fae Princess of the Lilac, returned, inju
red desperately.
“A nail was found through one of the fae envoy’s wings, bearing a notation from Ossa. He found insult that the Queen herself would not attend to this treat. He offered the hand of peace to the Queen, proclaiming that he saw no reason for further bloodshed. Should she agree to come to him honorably, he would spare the humans.
“The King was enraged by such an offer, but our reasonable and kind-hearted Queen saw promise in Ossa’s words. Though the King forbade it, the Queen traveled by night to Ossa’s lands, seeking to negotiate.
“Many days passed without word from our Queen or her attendants. On the eighth day, a white horse bearing the Royal Crescent Sigil arrived without a mount at the palace door. The King rushed to the gate to gather word of our Queen.
“Our Queen’s head and hand, still wearing her wedded sigil-borne band, were carried on the mount to the King, placed in a cloth bag and tied to the saddle.
“With full honors of the Angels, our Queen was laid to shadow that night.”
Bile rose in my throat as I read just one tale of Ossa’s savagery. By every account in the book, the queen was a kind and gentle woman. She’d loved her sons, her King, and her people. She’d only hoped to put an end to the suffering of humans at the revenant hands. To read the horror this woman endured, at the hands of the very same monster that wanted me, drove home the bleak reality of my situation.
The following pages depicted and described different battles fought between the revenants and The Realm. Lists accompanied the details of the fighting. Lists, I realized, of the casualties. The pictures were drawn in ink. Black sketches of morbid scenes, splashes of red, bringing to light the true devastation and loss this war had held. I couldn’t believe that I’d never once heard of this war.
“You have,” a voice spoke to me. Startled, I looked from the book to find Michel in a nearby arm chair.
“How long have you been sitting there?”
“Not long,” he answered, rising to his feet. He walked over and sat on the desk, one leg on the floor. “You make the most interesting faces as you read.”
“Really?” I asked sarcastically.
“Truly. You tend to bite on your bottom lip and twirl your hair through your fingers.”
“No I don’t.”
“You do,” Michel continued, “and you haven’t eaten a thing Autumn brought you, much to her dismay. She’s peeked in the room several times over the last few hours to check your progress.” A pang of guilt went through me as I thought about the girl checking on me.
“I’m sure she had better things to do than check to see if I had eaten.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. Nonetheless, she still made the effort.”
I spoke, quieter, “I must come off as a real pain, huh?” Michel smiled down at me, the same amused look he’d worn when I ran into him at the mall.
He was so handsome. With that jet black hair and brilliant green eyes like …
Michel stood quickly, abruptly pulling me from my silent assessment of him. Running his hands through his hair, ruffling it haphazardly, he walked toward the window.
“What are you doing?” I asked, standing as well.
“Nothing,” Michel muttered. “Have you found the book enlightening?”
I turned back to the pages, running my hand over the words. “I’ve found it interesting, and sad. I never knew these things. I mean, a war going on around me, fought against these nasty creatures. It’s quite a story.”
Turning to face me, Michel replied in all seriousness, “It’s no story. The words recorded are done so in truth. Have you not seen the newspapers? Don’t you watch those twenty-four hour news channels?”
“Sometimes,” I answered him, shrugging, “but I’m sure I would remember reading or hearing about skeletons attacking a bunch of people who happened to have wings.”
“You probably did. In school, did you not learn about a jungle conflict fought in the 1960’s?” Michel asked.
“Of course I did, The Vietnam War.”
Michel studied me carefully.
“Wait a second … are you trying to tell me that American forces were sent to an Asian country to fight these revenants?”
Michel chuckled at me. “No, I wouldn’t say that. However, I may tell you that those were no American soldiers, but a group of fae that were sent to free a colony overrun with revenants.”
“That’s crazy,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Is it now?” Michel teased. “Then it would be just as crazy to think a band of small folk patrol the South West of the US, hunting revenants disguised as mere farm animals?”
“I know I would have heard about that,” I retaliated.
“I’m sure you have, too,” Michel went on. “Are you familiar with the term ‘chupacabra’?”
“Sure, those are those little mythical creatures that eat—”
“Cattle,” Michel finished, smiling wickedly.
“But that’s …”
“Impossible?” Michel answered for me again. “Not as impossible as you may think.”
Michel came to the desk, flipping through pages in the book, searching for something. I was painfully aware of just how close he was to me. I could smell the shampoo he’d used, the soap he’d washed with. A quiet chuckle escaped him, and I glanced up from the pages to his face. While his eyes continued to search the book, his lips—those beautiful, full, magnetic lips—wore a trace of amusement.
“There,” Michel pointed, jarring me back to the here and now. He tapped a drawing with his right pointer finger. Small creatures, with pointed ears and standing on two hind legs, snarled up at me from the page.
“The chupacabra, formed by the mating of Herood of the troll-folk to the Lady Cathlyn of the Forest Coven, against the will of The Realm,” Michel read aloud. “Their offspring were cursed to this existence.”
“Very nice,” I complained, lifting my right eyebrow. “Some woodsy chick gets it on with a troll, and The Realm curses the kids? Don’t you guys have like CPS or something?”
“CPS?” Michel asked, looking confused by the acronym.
“Never mind,” I replied, waving my hand dismissively.
Michel went on, “In the Realm, the king has final say over what happens. He’s the law.”
“What about the queen? No women’s lib in fairy tale land?”
Michel’s face drew in, all hints of playfulness gone. “There has not been a queen in many, many years.”
“Right,” I acknowledged softly, seeing that it had obviously upset Michel. “I read that. She was—”
“Murdered,” Michel finished while he stared out the window again, his eyes seemingly focused on nothing. “By those creatures you seem to believe only live in children’s nightmares. Rest assured, Maggie, those things are very much real.”
I pondered aloud, trying to redeem myself, “How long has the king been alone?”
Michel turned and faced me, his eyes a little swollen. “The king is never alone. He has two sons.”
“Oh,” I smiled, feeling a bit of relief. “That’s good. So … your king? Does he, I don’t know, toss around the old pigskin with the boys? Maybe take them out to a ball game or build radio controlled cars with them?”
Michel forced a smile at my question. “Not exactly. The king had his son’s educated, both in The Realm and in your human schools. They continue to be educated by humans. In fact …” He moved close to me. His hand found my arm and tenderly, his thumb skated over my flesh. “One seems to be learning more and more as we speak.”
I suddenly had trouble breathing. Michel gazed down at me, those silver-flecked eyes dancing over my face in careful study. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears as he drew closer to me. I closed my eyes in an effort to control myself. I could feel his cool breath on my forehead.
Michel’s hand traveled up my arm slowly, to my shoulder, and came to rest at the nape of my neck. I heard him inhale sharply and I was positive my heart would stop. I took a ragged breath as butt
erflies fluttered in my stomach.
Michel whispered into my hair. “You truly are special. Almost fragile, but with such power inside you.”
It’s becoming awfully warm in this room.
Michel drew away, his hand still on my neck. I opened my eyes and looked to his. They seemed greener than they had before.
He observed aloud, letting his thumb softly caress my cheek. “Your eyes. A man could get lost in those eyes for an eternity and never care if he’s found.”
Michel let his hand fall to the side and turned, walking from the room without another word.
Thirteen
It took me several minutes to gain composure after Michel left.
What had just happened? I’d thought, maybe prayed, he’d kiss me. I raised my hand to my mouth and blew hard to smell my own breath. Nope, it was good.
I hugged my arms around myself, trying to hold onto that strange feeling I’d had when Michel was near. I glanced down to the desk and saw that the page on chupacabras had been changed. New faces drawn in ink looked back at me. A familiar smile, even the eyes seemed to glint with specks of silver. I read the caption under the picture, and then read it again, knowing I must have seen it wrong.
“The Princes of The Realm, beloved children to our majestic King and Queen, Prince Lucian and Prince Michel. Like their parents, they, too, are sanguine dependent.”
“Sanguine dependent,” I mused. I knew the word, but couldn’t bring the definition to mind.
“Sanguine dependent.” My newly discovered grandfather’s voice startled me. He stood just inside the door, his arms folded over his chest. “It means blood needed to survive. Michel, like his brother and his parents, is a vampire.”
“A vampire.” I chuckled at the thought. Liam didn’t move, but did manage to smile coyly.
“A vampire,” he repeated.
I laughed again with a little less enthusiasm. “Why the heck not? I have a witch cooking me breakfast and a fairy, who I thought was my dog, picking out my clothes. What girl doesn’t need a vampire? What’s his special job, doing my make-up and nails?” I paced to the settee and flopped myself down on it.
