Broken Heart Tails (Broken Heart Vampires)

by Michele Bardsley

  Note from the Author: I wrote these prophecies for the first version of Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire, but ended up going in an entirely different direction!

  The Elizabeth That Never Was

  Blood doesn’t repel me. As a vampire, that probably isn’t a surprising fact. Unlike most of the other single parents in Broken Heart, Oklahoma who were killed by a rampaging beast and then Turned into vampires, I never railed against my fate.

  I welcomed it.

  I am a practical woman. At the age of forty-three, I’d already heard the death knell of my youth. Unfortunately, so had my husband. I married young. Not for love. Sorry if that disappoints you. No, I married an ambitious man whose entrepreneurial skills made us very, very wealthy.

  He admired me once. My youth. My beauty. As I grew into my own skin, found my own worth, I made the terrible mistake of getting older. Oh, I did all the remedies. I suppose I must admit I had some vanity left. But going under the knife, taking the injection, doing the acid peel … none of it can actually make you young.

  Henry figured this out when I was thirty-six.

  I know what you’re thinking: He got old, too. Oh, my dear! A man with money is never old. Balding, fat, slovenly, wrinkled—a man’s flaws are easily ignored when he can pay for trips to Europe, daily spa treatments, and fully furnished apartments with all the bills paid.

  It paid to be Henry Bretton’s mistress.

  His last lover was a nineteen-year-old pop star named Tina. That’s it, just Tina. At some point, I had lost interest in the affairs. Henry and I kept separate bedrooms and though he picked up a new flavor every other month, I never took a lover.

  Did I mention Venice?

  Our daughter. We adopted her from Romania when she ten years old. I felt good about that.

  Note from the Author: This was the first foray into Elizabeth’s point-of-view. I wanted to call the book Stakin’ Care of Business. Eventually, I ditched this version and started over, creating Cross Your Heart with a softer version of Elizabeth Silverstone.

  The Mystery of the Eighth Vampire Family

  Who is Shamhat? Why didn’t anyone know about this Ancient? And why were her contributions to the early history of vampires ignored? Lorcan O’Halloran, who kept the archives for his father, Ruadan the First, wrote nothing about Family Shamhat. It’s unclear if Lorcan failed to include Shamhat’s origins because he was unaware of her, or as some have speculated, he kept his writings about her hidden. So far, no one is willing to reveal why the eighth vampire line was kept a secret.

  “What’s done is done, love,” said Ruadan when I asked why he didn’t include Shamhat in his own chronicles. “If’n I wanted you to know,” he added, “you’d know.”

  Ancients can be persnickety close-mouthed bastards.

  Phoebe Ballard, the first resident of Broken Heart to meet the last surviving vampire of the Family Shamhat, offered this insight: “I’m kinda busy. Y’know with being the talisman an’ all. Go talk to Larsa.” She paused. “You might wanna bring chili cheese fries as a tribute. Or a weapon to defend yourself.”

  (Author’s note: Swords are hard to come by, especially in Broken Heart when a certain mother married to a certain Irish soulmate refused to part with one. She’s got two! And fangs! Thanks for nothing, Jessica! Anyway. I went with the chili cheese fries.)

  Larsa is the last Shamhat deamhan fola, and for reasons that remain her own, she won’t admit whether or not she’s been in touch with Ruadan or the other Ancients during the 3,000 years since her mother’s death. Yes, it’s true. Larsa was the biological child of Shamhat—and Turned by her as well. (Does anyone else wonder why every Ancient Turned one of their biological children? Yeah. Good luck getting an answer to that question. Sheesh.)

  All I’ve managed to piece together is that Shamhat was mated with Amahté, he literally saved her soul and then afterwards went to ground with her so her injuries could heal. Now, both of them are missing. It seems that someone moved their original resting spot in the Sudan. And since we found out that killing an Ancient kills their entire line (not to mention the mates of their Family’s vampires)—or at least would have before Patsy assumed all the powers—they must be all right. Somewhere. Probably.

  (Another question: Why could Khenti, Amahté’s son, hand over his Family’s power to Patsy, but Larsa couldn’t do the same? No one could answer this question, either, and when I queried the Queen, she offered, “Who the fuck cares? I don’t need another damned power. Go do something useful. Like find out what’s living my freaking attic. It’s creepy up there.”)

  (Author’s note: If the queen of the undead is scared of going into her attic, you can bet your ass very mortal human-y me ain’t going anywhere near it. Send Damian. He’ll go wolf on whatever-it-is. You know that dude can kill with a glare, right?)

  I’ll continue to dig (hah) for answers about the Family Shamhat. Rumor has it that Larsa has received new information about the location of the buried Ancients and is putting together a search party. If you want confirmation, go ask her yourself. There aren’t enough chili cheese fries in the world for me to risk being impaled by pointy objects.

  (Author’s note: Larsa said my neck was pretty. When a vampire admires your throat, you get the hell out of there. Okay. She said it after I snaked one teeny tiny cheese fry, which is lesson two, people ... don’t steal food from a bloodsucker.)

  I’m leaving. I need chocolate. And I need to go to a place where zombies don’t steal cars. Seriously. Shambling’s not good enough for y’all anymore? Now I have to ask Jessica for a ride home. So, yeah. Thanks for that.

  Note from the Author: To learn more about the eighth vampire line, read Come Hell or High Water and Only Lycans Need Apply.

  The Warrior and the Maiden

  A story by Lorcan O’Halloran

  Once, there was a warrior named Aindriú. He wielded his sword so well, and felled his enemies so quickly, friends and foes agreed the man had been blessed by the gods. No one knew Aindriú’s parentage. Some speculated he was the bastard child of a god and his human mistress. Others say he was formed at the bottom of the sea and so bitter was his taste, the sea spit him out on to Éire’s shore. Still others believed the Sidhe created him and sent him out into the world to cut down their enemies.

  However Aindriú came to be, none could deny his prowess in battle. When men heard his war cry, many dropped their weapons and left the fields rather risk crossing swords with Aindriú. So fearsome was his reputation that every high king in Éire desired his loyalty. They offered him everything: Wealth. Brides. Land.

  But Aindriú was not a greedy man, so he could not be bought. Land held no appeal because he was too restless a soul to settle down. And he deemed himself unworthy of marriage, refusing to burden an innocent maiden with his warrior lust.

  He fought only for the causes he believed to be righteous. He performed labors in villages for food and places to sleep. He liked the simplicity of his life; and though he did not delight in causing death, he used the gifts bestowed on him by the gods. They made him a warrior, and he followed his own sense of duty to serve justice.

  It came to pass that Aindriú joined the cause of an honorable high king, who was trying to protect his borders from his half-brother—a man who sought only wealth and power of the crown. After months of bloody conflict, the battle was won and the high king’s brother vanquished. Despite the king’s entreaties and attempts to reward him, Aindriú packed up his meager belongings and left. He was weary down to his soul, and wished only to find some solace before he was called into service again.

  During his travels, he came upon the seaside village of Baile Uí Bheacháin, or Ballyvaughan. He found work on an elderly couple’s small farm. At night, he slept in their barn. Days passed and Aindriú found himself content to work the land and take care of the animals. He had pleasant conversations with his new friends, and the wife cooked hardy meals. Some days, he took trips down to the beach, to either swim or walk the shores.
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  Often, he went out with the fishermen and brought home to his benefactors whatever catches he made.

  One day, a young boy approached him at the farm. “Are you the great warrior Aindriú?”

  “Aye,” said Aindriú.

  “I’m Crevan,” said the boy. “An’ I need your help. My sister’s been kidnapped by a troll, and he forcin’ her to marry ’im.”

  Aindriú laughed. He knew no such creature existed, though he knew both giants and the Sidhe were real enough. “And where might this troll be?”

  “In the hill,” said Crevan. He pointed to the large hill in the distance. “You have t’ rescue her. Our parents died two winters ago, and she’s takin’ care o’ me. Please, warrior.”

  Aindriú, despite his doubts about the boy’s tale, recognized his distress was genuine. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go rescue your sister from the troll. Show me the way.”

  At dawn the next day, Aindriú and his new young friend, Crevan, set out for the hill where the troll lived. It was two days walk, and required they travel through the haunted forest, and then deep into treacherous caverns that criss-crossed under the hillside.

  “Why does this troll want to marry your sister?” asked Aindriú.

  “’Cause she’s pretty, and she can cook,” answered Crevan. But his gaze slid away, and Aindriú knew the boy was keeping secrets. He decided to stay silent on the matter, knowing that even though Crevan had asked for his help—he had yet to earn the lad’s trust.

  After half a day’s walk, they reached the edge of the dreaded Gan Eagla forest. Aindriú noticed the hesitation of his young friend to cross into the tree line. “I’ve heard stories,” said Crevan. “Ghosts live here.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Aindriú. “But I’ve seen none.”

  Crevan’s eyes went wide as saucers. “You’ve been inside?”

  “I’ve been everywhere, lad,” said Aindriú. “You know why they call Gan Eagla?”

  Crevan shook his head. “I don’t know why they call such a place ‘without fear.’”

  “It’s not a name so much as instructions,” said Aindriú, smiling. “You must enter it without being afraid. ‘Tis fear that attracts the otherworldly.”

  Crevan sidled another glance at the woods then swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbled. “I can be brave,” he said in a quavering voice.

  Aindriú clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “Gan scáth gan eagla!”

  He stepped through the trees that marked the beginning of the only known way through the forest. “Stay on the path no matter what,” he warned. “And remember, Crevan, you are crógach!”

  “Brave,” muttered the boy. “I’m brave.”

  Still, he stayed very close to the warrior as they walked down the narrow, debris-strewn path. There were logs to scramble over, and boulders to squeeze around, and once, they had to step over what Crevan thought looked like human bones, even though Aindriú insisted it was merely a pile of bleached sticks.

  The boy tried to think brave thoughts; he wanted to be as confident and valorous as Aindriú. But he had never fought more than the mice that troubled his sister’s kitchen, and he’d never seen one ghost, much less the thousand said to roam Gan Eagla. As they traveled deeper still into the forest, it got darker and colder. Noises he couldn’t attribute to animals

  filtered through the trees. The scrabbling sounded like wraiths, he thought warily, and was that not the moans of the dead? Surely no wind had ever sounded so desolate.

  “I hear the ghosts,” whispered Crevan.

  “Nonsense!” Aindriú marched forward. “We have no need to be afraid.”

  But no matter what the warrior said, Crevan knew he heard the fearsome groans of the shades trapped in this terrible place. He swore he could feel skeletal fingers reaching out from the branches above them to stroke his hair and tickle his neck.

  “It’s getting colder,” said Crevan. Indeed, he could see his breath puffing out and at their feet, a mist swirled, covering him to his knees. He could no longer see the path, so he fixed his gaze on Aindriú’s back. “How soon until we are free of this wretched forest?”

  “We are nearly through it,” said Aindriú. “We should reach the base of the hillside by dark. We’ll encamp there, and tomorrow morn, we’ll enter the caverns and find the troll who stole your sister.”

  Crevan focused on rescuing his sister, and soon, he felt less fearful. She was worth the harrowing journey, and she had already suffered more greatly than he.

  Then he heard a loud, horrible moan, and his heart nearly slammed out of his chest. He stopped, and swiveled to look where he’d heard the wailing.

  “Keep moving!” yelled Aindriú. He whirled, sword drawn, and with his free hand tried to grab the terrified boy.

  It was too late.

  Crevan’s fear had awakened the shades of Gan Eagla, and one particularly bold and nasty spirit had reached through its forest prison and grabbed the quaking lad. Crevan was yanked off the path and into the dark recesses of the haunted forest. Cursing, Aindriú plowed through the bramble. He only hoped he reached the lad in time.

  Aindriú sheathed his sword because no blade could rend asunder a spirit. Bah! No spirit should be able to clutch at the flesh of a living being—and yet, one had taken Crevan. Aindriú pondered this riddle no further as he followed the path left by the terrible, thievin’ creature. He had to get to the boy before the Gan Eagla’s ghosts feasted on Crevan’s fears, and left him nothing but a rotting shell.

  The warrior had seen such things before—shades that drifted along the battlefields drinking from the fear, the regret, the shame of those dying. He would not allow the same horror to befall his young friend.

  Soon, he came to a glade. Slivers of sunlight pierced the murky dark created by the intertwined limbs of ancient trees, and in the middle of the circular field stood a woman. At her feet was Crevan, unconscious, but breathing. Aindriú stayed at the edge of the clearing, assessing the situation before deciding how to proceed.

  The woman was magnificent.

  Red hair flowed down her back like rippling fire, her skin looked like cream dotted with cinnamon, and her eyes were as green as river moss. She was taller than most women he’d known, and she had the kind of abundant curves that made a man forget himself. She held a tree branch in her hands, as upright and steady any swordsman, the expression on her beautiful face as fierce as his own when he engaged an enemy.

  Beyond her was the nasty shade that had stolen Crevan. And beyond it, a gathering of other dark spirits. The wind carried their low cries.

  Hungry, they said, so hungry. Feed us. Feed us the boy.

  “You can’t have me,” screamed the woman. “And you can’t have ’im. Wasn’t killin’ you enough, you big, dumb bastard?”

  The spirit hissed at her, but it stayed back, waiting. Aindriú realized even the small amount of light that sprinkled the woman and Crevan was too much for the spirits.

  They had to wait for full darkness.

  “C’mon,” he yelled. “If we run, we can get out o’ here before the sun sets.”

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” she asked without looking away from the spirit. She gripped the limb and steadied her stance.

  “Aindriú. That boy you’re protecting is mine.”

  “The hell he is. Crevan’s me brother. He’s nothing to you.”

  So this was the boy’s sister. Somehow, she had escaped the troll—and no doubt gotten lost in Gan Eagla on the way back home. She’d stopped the spirit from taking her brother, so maybe she hadn’t been lost at all. Maybe she’d been tracking them, or the enemy from whom she’d escaped. She had courage, sure enough.

  “Crevan and I were on our way to rescue you,” he said. “We must go now if we hope to make it out of this place before dark.”

  “Fine then. Get me brother.”

  Aindriú ran into the glade and scooped Crevan into his arms. He waited for the woman to drop the branch, then she hitche
d up her skirts, revealing trim legs and bare feet. Then she turned and hurried toward the path he’d just exited.

  They ran as fast as they could, batting away small limbs and ignoring the rocks strewn on the path. The chill of the spirits swirled in the shadows.

  They reached the main path as the sunshine faded from overhead.

  “Move that thick hide o’ yours,” screamed the woman. “Run!”

  Aindriú followed her. He could feel the claws of the dead ones reaching out, scraping skin, pulling hair.

  Then he saw the woman burst through the edge of the dreaded forest, and seconds later, he was through the notch himself.

  They kept going until there was a fair distance between them and Gan Eagla.

  “Some rescue,” she panted. “Seems I did more savin’ than you.”

  “Seems so,” said Aindriú.

  “Name’s Corrine,” she said. “I’ll take care o’ me brother now, warrior.”

  While Corrine tended to Crevan, Aindriú hunted rabbits then he gathered roots and herbs for a stew. After everyone was fed and Crevan had fallen back to sleep, Aindriú sat next Corrine by the dying fire. They lay shoulder to shoulder on the soft grass and stared up at the starlit night.

  “Crevan says you’re the most famous warrior in Eire. You like wieldin’ that sword?”

  Truth was, Aindriú liked the sword just fine, it was killin’ that grieved him most.

  He explained to Corrine how he felt he had to honor the gods by using the gifts given to him. Their blessings had made him a warrior.

  “Maybe you have a gift for other things,” she said. She rolled onto her side and looked down at him.

  Aindriú’s heart turned over in his chest. She was so beautiful, both now as she stared him with so tender an expression, and more so when she looked fierce, protective. She leaned down and brushed her lips over his.

  He took the invitation, cupping the back of her neck and deepening their kiss. After a moment, she pulled back and smiled. “Seems you do have other gifts.”