She covered the evidence with dirt and hiked away from town.
What Anne had witnessed was love, not witchcraft. She had been unknowingly correct when she accused Elizabeth of being a witch, but she hadn’t known what being a witch meant. Ivory and Elizabeth had harmed none.
Though more deaths followed, the court’s approach shifted by the next hanging. Thornhart was perhaps spooked by the disappearance of Elizabeth’s body but clearly not enough to put an end to the horror. Ivory returned to town only long enough to steal Elizabeth’s court documents—documents detailing the trial of the only true witch killed during the Salem witch trials—and to murder her sister.
IVORY’S FIRST THOUGHTS upon waking were, as always, of Elizabeth. A sharp pang pierced through her, and she tried to lift her hand to wipe grit from her lips, but instead she found her movement restricted. Her wrists and ankles seared with pain. She could do little more than raise her head and shoulders from the ground. After blinking several times, her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.
Chains staked into the ground bound her wrists and ankles, the metal burning against her flesh as though heated over a fire before securing her. She glanced around, a stillness where her heart would’ve normally sped.
Dirty sheets of canvas billowed on every side, and, straight ahead, two flaps opened to a wooded area and a small campfire. The air carried the scent of smoke, cold, and earth.
This was someone else’s tent—not her own. A small cot with rumpled sheets and a thin woolen blanket sat to one side of the tent, and to the other side was a wash basin filled with water.
No, not water, she thought. It’s too dark to be water.
There was a brushing sound outside the tent. Boots scuffing over leaves, she realized as a pair of legs came into view. A man bent to stir the fire.
“You have awakened,” he said without looking back.
Ivory tried to speak, but her throat felt cracked and burning. He strode into the tent and crouched beside her.
“There is not much life in these parts. I drained you first”—he pointed to the washbasin—“so that we may eat.”
He doesn’t mean . . . that is my blood?
“Why?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Please see it as a gift. I could have killed you.”
The man turned to face her, his skin an unnatural pallor in the moonlight. His hair was dark, even his eyebrows the darkest she had ever seen, and his nose hooked a little toward the end, dimpled on one side. He sat back and kicked his feet in front of him.
He dribbled something into her mouth—a fluid that soothed her throat. “Drink,” he said. “You will feel better.”
Each suggestion he made reflected in Ivory’s own thoughts. Their minds were as one.
“I must keep you restrained,” he said, “until your urges pass. The silver with which I have bound you will sap your strength, but you will see soon enough the great power you now possess.”
Without a need for words, the man’s knowledge became one with hers. He was her sire—the one who had turned her. She would live eternally. She would never pass to the afterlife where Elizabeth surely awaited her arrival, not unless her life was taken from her, and Ivory already knew she was too much of a coward to allow that, let alone carry out the deed herself.
She would never forgive him for this.
“You have abandoned your former name,” the man said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I will call you Lenore.”
Dropping her head back, Ivory closed her eyes against a lifetime of memories she wished to forget.
“Do not fear,” her sire soothed. “Your wounds will quickly heal.”
Ivory bristled at his sentiment. He was wrong. There were wounds in her that would never heal.
. . .
Province of Georgia, 1732
THE HUMAN WORLD moved on without Ivory, and she vowed never to allow something so horrible to happen to any of Elizabeth’s descendants. She watched her lover’s son from a distance until he grew to have children of his own: the first, a boy, born in 1709, and two years later, a girl. They called her Mary.
Ivory split her nights between playing silent guard and surviving her new life as a young Cruor, at first needing to hunt weekly but soon able to sustain herself on monthly meals.
Over the decades, however, Ivory worried her ways would forever distance her from the Parsons family. She’d need to show some thread of what she had once been, not just some empty shell with a thirst for blood.
It was with this in mind that Ivory stalked the wildlife in the brambles outside the Parsons’ home, hesitant to strike. The animals seemed more innocent than the lustful men she usually preyed on. The musk of skunk and the woodsy smell of fox caused her stomach to lurch. As she crept around pinecones and beetles that clung to toadstool stems, she picked up on the spoor of a nearby deer.
When the deer paused to sniff a fallen twig of red berries, Ivory pounced. Her fangs sank quickly into the felted flesh, and her mouth filled with a sour fluid—not the sweet essence of a human. Ivory gagged but forced herself to continue. She craved blood to sate her hunger and needed the hope of regaining a semblance of humanity.
That idea shattered when a soughing wind groaned through the tree branches, and the Parsons’ back door swung open. Ivory, frozen in place, rested back on her heels, briars prickling against her calves.
Mary, now close to twenty years and very nearly a replica of Elizabeth, opened the door, sending the smoky scent of their wood-burning stove into the chill night air. She stepped outside and scanned the forest, her hand lingering on the doorknob. After a long moment, she dipped back inside. The click of the door’s lock echoed in Ivory’s ears.
The deer’s blood cooled on Ivory’s chin. Her eyes dropped to her blood-drenched hands. What had she become? Even this—the feeding from live animals—wouldn’t garner the trust of the Parsons family. If there was any hope of entering the lives of her lover’s family, it was in finding a way to walk amongst them while living out her darkness in secret.
And so Ivory continued on, always with the blood of another human on her tongue, neither her nor her sire caring for the Maltorim’s order to stop hunting humans.
On some days, Ivory stayed watching over the Parsons’ just a little longer than she should, the first rays of light scorching her face and arms before she retreated to the underground. This in itself was a rarity, as there were no other known Cruor at the time who could withstand time in the sun. Perhaps this was a gift Ivory had only because of her first calling—the calling bestowed on her by the Universe that she had abandoned for a life of revenge on mankind.
In 1732, Mary, now with three children of her own, moved to the Province of Georgia, away from the revival fires of Massachusetts. Ivory followed, convinced this young woman needed her protection more than the men born into the Parsons’ lineage.
Though Ivory’s sire appeased her desire to relocate, he cautioned her against her obsessions. Ivory, however, resented him. He controlled too much of her time and prevented her too often from watching Elizabeth’s family.
Late one night during the following spring season, Ivory crept upon Mary’s house and stopped behind a tree several yards from the open window of Mary’s sleeping quarters.
Mary sat on a small bench in front of a wooden music stand, dressed in a dark blue, tightly-laced linen dress. Her skirts bunched in elegant tiers behind her, and her hair was pinned up with only a few short, curling wisps escaping near the nape of her neck and at the front of her hairline. In front of her, poised on a small stand, was an unfinished sheet of music.
A shaky breath escaped Mary as she rested a violin between her petite chin and bony shoulder and drew the bow across the strings in a slur. She stopped to adjust a few pegs before beginning again, always following the rule of the down-bow on the first beat of every measure.
Ivory had seen musicians perform this way at the orchestra, one of her sire’s favorite places to scour fo
r humans. He’d taught Ivory all about music . . . but where had Mary learned? Ivory, stung that she was missing Mary’s life, swallowed her hurt and listened to the melody.
The song was slow, sweet, and a little sad. Mary’s body and breathing were steady, only the tears streaming her cheeks a sign of whatever pain she harbored. Ivory could not run to her—could not cradle Mary in her arms, could not allow Mary to collapse there and purge her heartache.
The intensity of the piece increased, and Ivory used the back of her hand to scrub the tears away from her own eyes, the sticky blood smearing over her cheeks and along her jaw.
Though Ivory was on the outside looking in, she and Mary were together in this song. They were listening to the same notes carried on the same night breeze. Every few measures, Mary stopped. She dipped a quill into an inkpot resting on a worn blue table before adding fresh marks to her sheets.
Smooth legatos and high notes empowered the piece, with Mary’s fingers working the strings furthest from the pegs and occasionally moving down the neck to deepen the sound.
After some time, Mary set her violin aside and sat quietly with her tears.
“Lord, please relieve me of this curse,” she prayed. “These voices, these thoughts—they do not belong to me. Even my husband has abandoned me in knowledge of them.”
Ivory covered her gasp. Her fingers went numb, and her breath, cold in her chest, rushed from her lungs. For a moment, she thought even her heart had begun beating again, but it was only a memory of a feeling she’d once known.
Ivory considered going to Mary and telling her everything, telling her all about her grandmother and helping her where she had once failed Elizabeth. But Ivory couldn’t risk exposing her darker nature, so instead she slinked back to the shadows.
. . .
Savannah, Georgia, 1854
BETWEEN 1732 AND 1854, Ivory’s tolerance to the sun grew, though she was still unable to walk outdoors when the sun was at its highest and brightest. A small bronze amulet on a leather cord around her neck—a depiction of Sól, the sun goddess, riding on her chariot—wrapped her in a protective barrier from the sun.
The charm and its magic had been given to her by one of the Ankou in exchange for her turning a young woman—Ophelia—so that she might find a place with the Maltorim.
Though Mary’s husband had soiled the souls of Mary’s children with his surname, the Parsons’ lineage hadn’t ended at Mary’s death. Ivory sought out Mary’s brothers instead.
Ivory’s sire implored her to stop returning to Parsons’ homes. They needed to keep moving; staying in one place for too long would risk their exposure as Cruor. As though she cared. Of course he wouldn’t understand.
But as he’d never been one to make demands of Ivory, she stubbornly kept watch, his suggestions of moving on little more than an annoyance. Soon, she hoped, another Parsons woman would be born. Perhaps she might be like her ancestors, Mary and Elizabeth, and Ivory might finally have her chance at redemption.
In 1834, after three generations of boys, Rachel was born into the Parsons lineage. Now an adult, she was burdened with shopping at the market. One day, on Rachel’s way home, as the setting sun began to purple the sky, she stopped at a bookstore. Ivory followed, watching Rachel through the shop’s window as she traipsed between shelves that sagged beneath the weight of books. Rachel squatted to read titles on a lower shelf but kept sliding book after book back into place.
Rachel reached on her toes and tugged down a book from a higher shelf. The cover read: The Rebellion of the Beasts, by Leigh Hunt. Ivory stared from across the road as Rachel turned one crisp page after another.
Rachel got carried away with her reading until the shop owner cleared her throat—a sound all too audible to Ivory’s supernatural hearing. When Rachel looked up, the shop owner crossed her arms and raised her brows.
“Of course,” Rachel said, tapping a fingernail against the book’s cover. “This really is excellent.”
She dug through a small pouch and placed her coins in the woman’s waiting palm.
When finally Rachel departed, the book sticking out from her basket of goods, there was little light to travel by. A shadowy figure skirted the deadened light of the oil lamps, following Rachel with a knife flashing in his hand.
Ivory rushed up behind him, snapped his neck before so much as a breath could leave him, and whipped him into an alley. She peeked around the corner just as Rachel was taking a final, nervous glance around, her cloak clasped tightly over her trembling body.
Three mornings later, Ivory rested near an embankment a short way into the forest where a stream whispered between the trees. She stared beyond blades of grass, seeded with red poppies that yielded beneath the breeze, waiting for Rachel to take leave from her home. The early morning sun glowed between the oaks with a sweet-tempered light, and shadows fell with an almost kindness to cool Ivory’s skin. Even dawn felt hotter to her than it would to a human, but at least the sun’s rays no longer burned her flesh.
She plucked a spider crawling across the fruit of a gooseberry plant to feed to a nearby praying mantis but dropped it when Rachel stepped outside. Ivory trailed her to the market, where Rachel perused the courtyard as she picked nuts off a muffin top. Not at all on accident, Ivory bumped into her and sent a loaf of bread tumbling from Rachel’s basket to the ground.
“How clumsy of me,” Ivory said. “Please, allow me to buy you a fresh loaf.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Finally, she said, “If you’re certain it won’t be any inconvenience?”
Ivory, with sallow skin and trapped in the frame of a young woman from the 17th century, must have looked as though she couldn’t afford to replace Rachel’s bread.
She smiled. “My pleasure, Miss. Wait here.”
Ivory returned with a loaf wrapped in a new cloth and a small block of cheese.
Rachel released a breath. “Would you care to join me for lunch? I fear I’ve bought too much food for one day.”
Ivory had been counting on such a kindness. “I’ve had about all I can eat for one day, but I’d enjoy the company.”
Over the years, the two became close friends. Rachel shared her darkest secrets, but there was one Ivory knew she did not share. Perhaps Rachel’s family had warned her not to speak of the voices—warned her of the hurt and betrayal that comes with divulging such an affliction.
Years passed without Ivory aging, and though Rachel never mentioned it, Ivory feared what others might think. For this reason, Ivory only ever visited Rachel in secret. Shortly after Rachel’s forty-fifth year, she fell ill. Ivory did not need to sneak to meet with her then, for no one wanted to expose themselves to her ailments.
Late one afternoon, when the sun had lowered in the sky to a more forgiving light, Ivory stopped by for another visit.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Rachel scolded as always, her voice too weak to carry any authority.
She held a cloth to her mouth and coughed, a spray of blood spattering on the small bit of fabric. Ivory kneeled at her side and tried to soothe her until the coughing fit subsided.
Rachel set her rag down and waved toward her bedroom door. “Back away before you become ill.”
“You have kept a long life,” Ivory said. “But you see me. I have not aged.”
Rachel closed her eyes, and Ivory swept loose tendrils of hair away from a face that had once belonged to Elizabeth. Rachel’s feverish, sweat-soaked skin burned beneath Ivory’s cool hands, but her graying hair was still soft.
“Come with me,” Ivory said, trying to use her influence. “I’ve known your family for centuries, and you can know them with me.”
Rachel’s mind pushed back against Ivory’s influence, shutting down the attempt completely. “Please now, go away. Your words confuse me.”
Ivory softened her voice and tried a second time to influence Rachel. “Please, listen—”
Grasping her moth-eaten quilt between her hands, Rachel shook her head. Ivory
was running out of time. Her heart ached more with each glance at Rachel’s withering body, and she clenched her hands at her sides.
“I can give you eternity,” Ivory said. “Give us eternity.”
Rachel whispered, “Let me die quietly, Lenore. It’s—” Her hands softened, releasing the blanket.
“Please don’t leave.” Ivory repeated the silent prayer over and again as she ran to lock the door.
Quickly, she returned to the bedside, extended her fangs, and sank them into Rachel’s neck, releasing the poison that would revive her.
The life returned to Rachel’s eyes. She sputtered another cough and grasped Ivory’s wrists. “No,” she rasped. “Lenore—don’t.”
Rachel’s heart stopped. Her body went lifeless on the cot. Ivory’s efforts had been too late to sustain the change.
At that moment, Ivory came to hate the name her sire had given her. Lenore. This name was the name of her darkness, the name that put a world between her and her lover’s family. The name should have died on Rachel’s lips, but would instead follow Ivory forever.
Ivory stormed out of the house. In the cold night air, she cursed the Universe. She tore chunks of soil from the earth and pounded her fists on the ground and cried blood tears against the dirt and grass until she could cry no more.
. . .
Keota, Colorado, 1942
THIS WAS THE HUNT OF MAN. A useless man, more precisely, because the only men of any use to Ivory were the Parsons men, for they were the only ones who might bring forth a Parsons woman and rekindle Ivory’s hope for redemption.
But Theodore Anderson was not a Parsons man.
No, Theodore Anderson was a man who had married a woman Ivory had never met but felt she had known for hundreds of years: Abigail Parsons.
After Rachel’s death, Ivory had sought out Rachel’s brothers and waited several generations for another girl to be born into the Parsons’ lineage. The year had been 1920. The current generation of Parsons men died in the war, one of them leaving his son to be cared for by his Aunt Abigail, now Abigail Anderson.
When Darkness Falls - Six Paranormal Novels in One Boxed Set Page 75
