My Midnight Moonlight Valentine

by J. J. McAvoy

  It took me a second, although I couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you mean the television?”

  “Is that what it is called?” he said in wonder. “Television? As in the Greek têle, which means, far or télos, which means the end. So far or end vision? It is that box that shows what is far as in the distance or far as in the future?”

  I just stared at him, and he stared back, waiting for an explanation.

  “You do not know, either?” He asked when I did not reply.

  “No...It is television because it shows reports, similar to telegrams over long or far distances. It doesn’t tell the future. It’s more like newspapers, books, plays, but serious and entertainment, put on a screen told by the humans to others.”

  He nodded slowly. “And this device?”

  He pulled my cellphone from his pocket. I hadn’t even thought about it since I left it for him at my apartment. “It no longer turns on. I fear I must have broken it. I did not wish to return it to you as such, so I thought my brother would fix it.”

  I giggled, taking it from him. “It’s just dead. It needs to be recharged, but it’s not broken.”

  “That is a phone but not a television?” he asked, making sure. He was cute this clueless.

  I liked it, which probably said more about me and my hate of being so utterly clueless myself. “It’s mostly a phone, but it can be used as a television. But that’s not its main purpose, so we call it a cellphone or wireless phone.”

  Again, he nodded, taking the phone and looking over it. “So much has changed. The telephones were just becoming common in the early 1900s. It was very much a status symbol for the mortal as a new toy. Now, even the children at the airport were holding them.”

  “The world changes fast.”

  He nodded. “So, it seems. And gone are candles. Instead, the devil’s light has taken over.”

  “The devil’s light?”

  He chuckled, too. “It was what the newspapers and even some churches called the Edison lightbulb. Though, I do believe the candlemakers paid the newspapers to write such stories. You may not believe it, but it was panic over this artificial light in a glass. Others even called it witchcraft.”

  “Even in the nineteenth and early twentieth-century humans were still blaming science on witchcraft?” It was amazing. By that time, I thought everyone was pushing for more inventions.

  “I’m sure some still even do till this day. And they were not wrong,” he repeated, giving me back the phone.

  But with nowhere to put it, I placed it into his pants pocket. It wasn’t like anyone would be calling me. “Why were they not wrong?”

  “Many Wiccan, especially the men, hid among the scientist because it allowed them to use their magic under the cover of knowledge. Humans are not so daft and blind. They felt something off about the men of science.”

  “Men and women,” I corrected.

  “Forgive me.” He grinned. “Men and women of science, though women were rare in that field, last I remember. Science, nonetheless, was a disguise for many witches. The humans sensed it and avoided or rejected them.”

  “So, the light bulb was the devil’s light? Why do I imagine a Puritan in the middle of the street preaching?”

  He groaned loudly, his eyes even rolling. “The Puritans...the most annoying and pretentious sect of humans of the sixteenth and seventeenth century. I avoided England out of fear I’d massacre the lot of them.”

  It was wrong, but I laughed loudly. “They were in America, too.”

  “Because they vexed Charles I so greatly, even he could not stand to see them.” He shook his head. “In the beginning, their concerns and even thoughts were valid. Then all of a sudden, it was about control, power, fear, isolating, and destroying anything they did not understand, did not agree with, or even worse, things that tempted them.”

  “That sounds like most religions,” I admitted, frowning.

  “True. I could just be biased against the Puritans because they were the most recent in my memory,” he replied. “Everyone knows of the witch trials. Only we know how the vampires were slain. There was no trail for our kind, just death.”

  “Puritans were vampire hunters?” It sounded like a bad teen TV drama.

  He nodded. “Mostly in America, though, and they sought Noble bloods not Lesser bloods, seeking to prove the monsters that were hiding amidst them.”

  “What? Wouldn’t that be harder?” From what we learned from Taelon, the witches today were attacking Lesser bloods and not Noble bloods.

  “Yes, but they believed that if they destroyed the Nobles, there would not be any further creation of Lesser or Noble bloods.”

  “How did they do it?” My voice was softer like I was listening to a scary story.

  “Blood poisoning. They used the witches they captured, forcing them to create poisons. They drank it, washed their clothes in it, spread it around their lands, which caused the animals to eat it, and so the vampires could not even feed on the deer in the forests around them.”

  “I’ve never heard of this. What is the poison? I’m surprised the witches don’t use it now.”

  “If they could, they would.” He frowned. “Luckily, magic is not without consequences. Remember when I told you about how the witches stood out during the Black Plague?”

  I nodded. “Because they didn’t get sick.”

  “Exactly, the poison they created and gave to humans to protect them for us, over time, poisoned and killed the humans. They called it a plague, but it was magic. The last outbreak I remember was called the Spanish flu. It came from a new blood poison witches had created.”

  “The Spanish flu? That killed over fifty million people worldwide.” I couldn’t believe it, but it now explained why no one had ever figured out a definitive cause of it.

  “I thought it would be greater.” He was unmoved or surprised by this. “You will find many of the great plagues of this world were brought on by poor witchcraft. The Puritans fell ill, did not have the energy to hunt us, blamed the witches even more, and with their deaths, their knowledge of blood poisons faded. Every so often, a new witch creates a new poison, but it causes more damage to the mortals than vampires. Though, we still must be careful as Father says. Do not feed on the sick if you can help it.”

  “You know what they say?”

  “Who say? The witches?”

  Again, I found him cute. “No...It’s a saying followed up by ‘karma is a bitch.’”

  “Ah.” He nodded slowly, understanding, or at least pretending to. He looked me over and then shook his head.

  “What?”

  “This was not a very romantic conversation.” The smile on his lips fell.

  “Were you trying to make it one?”

  “Yes, very much so.” He chuckled, lifting my chin. “We started talking of roses and riddles, and then you sidetracked me and got us on death, witches, and plagues.”

  I smacked his hand and poked his chest. “You were the one that sidetracked us and had us talking about the Devil’s light and whatnot.”

  “I do not recall that,” he lied blatantly. “My memory has been horrible as of late.”

  “Oh, how convenient your memory loss seems to be.” I glared, but I couldn’t stay mad at him. “I’ll let you off the hook and guide us back into a much more pleasant conversation again.”

  “Not romantic?” he pressed.

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” I said, trying to think of something light to discuss when I saw the moon hanging over his head. “Do you know that the humans have walked on the moon.”

  When his face dropped, and the look of absolute disbelief spread across his cheeks, I laughed in his arms.

  “You jest.” His eyes narrowed as if he still didn’t believe me.

  “It’s true! His name was Neil Armstrong, and on July 20th, 1969, he was the
first human to walk on the moon.”

  He shook his head. “If it as you say, this Neil Armstrong is not a human but a witch.”

  “How prejudice you are. Don’t forget. I’m still a witch. This is clearly not romantic.” I pouted, and he paused for a second before grinning like mad. “What?”

  Wrapping his around me tightly. “Do you think you can take us to the moon then, Ms. Witch?”

  He didn’t let me answer before running as fast as he could with me in his arms, and with one push of his left leg, he had us high in the air. The moon so much closer, so much larger, and it reminded me of the vision—no, the memory I had before. So, I knew what to do. I held on tightly, feeling the breeze of the wind and hung there in the sky with him.

  “You truly can fly?”

  “Yes, no broom needed.” I winked before looking up to the moon. “Is this romantic enough for you?”

  His face came closer to mine, and he shook his head. “It’s close, but I do believe we can do better.”

  Leaning into him, our noses nearly touched, I asked, “Better?”

  “Closer.”

  “If this were a century ago, this would be quite scandalous, Theseus.”

  “Oh, without a doubt.” He grinned. “Two flying creatures in the moonlight? The church would call it the end of days.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I meant how close I already am.”

  And he knew that. “Ah.” He pretended just now to understand. “How lucky I am it is not a century ago and can be even closer to you without fear or Puritans to disturb us.”

  I laughed as he drew me into him. Our bodies pressed together completely. I could feel every inch of his hard body against mine. His grey eyes stood out even more in the moonlight, and the stronger his grip was on me, the warmer my whole body became in his arms. “I brought us up here; I think the least you can do is kiss me.”

  “But where shall I kiss?” he questioned, his lips on my forehead first. “Here?”

  “Closer.” I smiled.

  So, he kissed my eyebrow and giggled. “There?”

  “Not quite.”

  His found my cheek. “Then here must be it?”

  “Almost.”

  “Hmm.” He pretended to wonder and then kissed the tip of my nose. “Surely, that must be it.”

  “Well if you think that’s enough—” I didn’t get to finish before his lips touched mine.

  All of me shook in his arms as the warmth of his mouth spread through me. His hands moved to my face and hair, bringing me closer. There was no need for air. There was no need for space. All I wanted was more, opening my mouth I wanted...him. He wanted me, too. I could feel the way he held on to me. The way his tongue tangled with mine and fought against my thoughts.

  All too soon, there was a loud whistle from below.

  “Go away, Ulrik,” Theseus grumbled, his lips only off mine for a brief second before they were kissing me again.

  “We need her magic.”

  At that, my head snapped back down. He hung from a window, grinning up at us.

  “You found something already?” I gasped, that was faster than I was thinking.

  “We found many—”

  Hinrik popped his head out, pushing Ulrik back. “Forgive him, brother. He is being a nuisance on purpose. It can wait until after you are both less occupied.”

  I pulled back from Theseus to his dismay. “We are less occupied.”

  “I will get vengeance for this Ulrik.” Theseus cursed under his breath.

  Chapter 27

  The very first thing that came to my mind upon entering was the lost Library of Alexandria. I’d read many depictions and seen even more artistic rendering of it, such as O. Von Corven’s famous nineteenth-century sketch. But right now, all of them seemed to pale in comparison to the Thorbørn family library. It had all the same grandeur as the rest of their home, without the modern elements. It looked ancient with rows of columns and scrolls that lined a whole section of the walls that went on for rows. It seemed untouched by time or man, but that was impossible because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

  Slowly, much slower than a human, I stepped farther inside, moving from the double doors to the first row of rolls. The paper was well-aged, and I knew the ink must have faded a bit. What lost knowledge of humanity was just sitting on a shelf here? How many historians, conservators, restorationist, would give everything they had just to spend an hour in here?

  “A great many, I would assume.” Sigbjørn’s voice arose from behind me, and when I turned to look, he was lifting a massive covered canvas onto an easel with ease and automatically, with vampire speed, I was at his side curious.

  “What is this?” I asked, almost bouncing. It had to be amazing. Everything here was amazing, and if it was art, it was my bread and butter.

  “She looks like a puppy waiting for a bone.” Ulrik laughed at me.

  “If she had a tail, it would be waging for sure,” Hinrik added.

  “Leave her be,” Theseus grumbled, stepping up to his father and me. “Father, did they interrupt us simply so we may be their entertainment, or is there truly a need for us?”

  “Us…as in the both of you?” He grinned. “No, you are not needed, Theseus. Druella, on the other hand, I need her assistance.”

  “Me?” I looked between him and the blanketed canvas. “With?”

  With a single tug, he pulled the sheet off the art, exposing a blank canvas, and I could feel all the excitement and joy fall from my face. So, when Ulrik began to laugh, I knew the disappointment was clear.

  Even Theseus couldn’t help but snicker. “I would be jealous, a simple painting, or the lack of one could bring forth such an expression if you did not look so endearing as you pout.”

  “I’m not pouting,” I lied, trying to correct my face, looking back to Sigbjørn who also smiled but not as wide and silly as the rest of his sons. “I don’t understand. Is this a joke? You all want to see if an art nerd would admire a blank canvas as art? If so, you picked the wrong person. I’m not a fan of modern or minimalist art. I stop at the Impressionism era and then go back to the classics.”

  “Truly?” Sigbjørn inquired with a fixed gaze. “I find modern art quite pleasant. However, that is a discourse we shall have to have another date. For this is neither modern nor minimalist art.”

  “Is it art at all if it is blank?” I asked again. I was expecting lost works of art Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Vermeer, Rembrandt, never before seen sketches from Frida Kahlo. Art recovered from Nazis. There had to be some.

  “Patience, young one, you have all of eternity to behold our collections.” Sigbjørn said before looking back to the canvas. “Have you forgotten we seek answers to set you free from your binding?”

  Right, properties. “Okay, how is this going to help?”

  “This,” he nodded to the canvas, “is a painting I bought in 1831. It is by an all but forgotten Austrian painter named, Elisa-Maria Götze. She studied under the Düsseldorf school of painting. I believe with your occupation, you should be familiar with such a school.”

  “Yes, of course. But I have never heard of this woman. And female painters were rare in the Düsseldorf,” I replied.

  There weren’t many females accredited to the school back then. It was a “man’s profession,” and it wasn’t always looked upon with great kindness for them, let alone women. To find female artists, I had actively searched them out while studying the different periods. In the Düsseldorf era, I even wrote a paper on the work of Amalia Lindegren and Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann. But I’d never heard of this Elisa-Maria Götze.

  “Götze. I’d forgotten about her,” Theseus spoke to himself as he stared at the blank canvas, too.

  “That seems to be your creed nowadays, brother,” Ulrik replied, coming around and placing his arm around Theseus’s neck,
nearly putting him in a chokehold.

  Theseus looked more exhausted by Ulrik’s presence and then concerned. Hinrik came over to stand right beside his father, also staring at this painting of nothing.

  “Am I missing something?” I asked all of them. “You bought a painting of nothing from a female artist in 1831.”

  “Can’t you see the magic?” Hinrik frowned, looking me over, confused.

  “Magic?” As magic, magic, or as in Disney magic, the painting of nothing represented something deep, which made us all gather around it?

  Sigbjørn snickered, his gaze shifting to Theseus’s. “Your mate’s humor is very refreshing. It is like listening to the thoughts of a mortal sometimes.”

  Ulrik snorted before laughing. “Father, that makes her sound dumb.”

  “If he wanted to call her foolish, he would have said her thoughts were similar to yours,” Theseus snapped back, breaking out of Ulrik’s hold. “She is only a year old. Of course, her thoughts would be so.”

  “The painting is cursed, Druella,” Sigbjørn cut in before Ulrik could comment.

  “Cursed?” I repeated, stunned.

  “Elisa-Maria Götze was far more talented than any of that school and era; however, unlike other artists, her works were appreciated while she still lived. Her fame spread across Europe, much to the ire of her husband, who was a Wiccan. When the Queen of Denmark asked Elisa-Maria to do the royal portraits, her husband could not contain his rage and jealous any longer.”

  “So, her husband cursed her art because she was famous and talented?” What the hell?

  “It was very unusual for a woman not only to be an artist but to be so revered as one. To make matters worse, he was also an artist but could not come to terms with being the lesser of the two of them,” Theseus explained, frowning. “She had the talent and fame he desired.”

  I cracked my jaw to the side, trying to contain the rising inner feminist that wanted to break free and curse him out. How could he ruin her art?

  “It is not the art he cursed, Druella. It was her,” Sigbjørn went on. “For greed and jealousy go hand in hand.”