I sigh and scan the book I am reading. The words begin to blur together, the ink seeping from the pages and dripping into a pool in my lap. I look away, once again setting my sights on the scene before me rather than the pages that might save me. My mind is too mushy to focus right now anyway.
I hear everything now. The vampires whisper about my condition, only silencing when they hear my approach. The hunters are better at hiding their concern for my well-being. They pretend nothing has happened, even allowing me to sit in on their meetings to schedule patrols. Each eagerly volunteers for every shift, never allowing a vacant night to go by. It’s not like I could actually sign up for a slot, but still, I appreciate that we all pretend I could.
Amicia is the only one who does not play games with me. She makes her concern for my condition clear. Daily, she asks me how I am feeling, if I notice any changes, if I seem to be better or worse. She asks me about the darkness, and sometimes, I think she knows I lie to her. But she never questions me further. I know she accepts me as a member of her nest, but her real concern is for her vampires, the ones she sired, the ones she vowed to protect.
Amicia might not have witnessed firsthand the evil that resides within me courtesy of the black magic used to link my soul to the witches, but she is wise even beyond her many, many years. She knows it is only a matter of time before the darkness eats away at my sanity, making me a danger to her and every vampire in this nest. That is the moment she will no longer tolerate my lies.
I frown and play with a loose string at my wrist. The thumbhole I cut into this sweater is already unraveling. The threads that once kept this shirt formed are falling away. I will probably only get another night out of it before I will be forced to toss it in the garbage. I cannot risk it unraveling in front of the vampires. They cannot discover the truth by mere accident, so I only wear clothes a handful of times before asking Hikari to find me more.
I think she is getting suspicious. After all, how many clothes does one girl need? Still, she remains silent, agreeing to find me anything I need. I am eternally grateful to her. I could not keep up my ruse without her aid.
Closing my eyes, I lean back in my chair and inhale deeply. A sharp stabbing pain is becoming more prominent deep within my skull. I finger my temples, applying enough pressure to give me something else to focus on but not enough to make the throbbing inside my head actually fade away. Sudden migraines are swift and daily now. I suppose this is just another perk of being cursed by black magic.
The book I was failing to comprehend is resting on my lap, and it slips, sliding down my narrow legs and landing in a loud heap on the floor. When I open my eyes, Holland is staring at me. He is frowning, not bothering to hide his concern.
Expressionless and guarded, he wears a mask when he is around me, and he uses it to hide his emotions. Every day, I fight the urge to ask him if it is exhausting being hyperaware every single day, never wanting to show too much. But I already know the answer, because I too am wearing a mask. I know just how tiring it can be.
Holland eyes the book now splayed on the floor by my feet and then glances back up at me. I drop my arms, suddenly self-conscious for trying to ease my headache tension.
“Everything okay?” Holland asks.
His eyes are dark, almost black, and I swallow hard as I look at them. I do not know if his irises are just their natural brown color or if my mind is playing tricks on me, making me see what is not there. The darkness within me likes to do that. It feeds on my insecurities, on my fear. While I waste away, it is living lavishly.
I nod and shrug, trying to play it cool. I do not want him to overreact. Holland tends to cause scenes when he does this. The last thing I need is for a house of vampires to be staring me down, watching me as Holland is now.
“Just a headache,” I admit.
Holland smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. I have seen this very look numerous times since I returned to the manor. It is his fake smile, the one he uses when he wants compliance.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” Holland says, as if he would actually stop researching.
He asked me this same question a couple of weeks ago. At that point, I actually believed him. I agreed, welcoming the pause in research, thinking we might do something fun instead. We did not. Holland disappeared into the bedroom he shares with Jeremiah. I found him later huddled on the floor with stacks of books cluttering just about every square inch of that room. Never again did I agree to quit early.
I shake my head. “I am okay.”
“How about lunch?” Again, he smiles. This time, it is wider. His face is morphing into a creepy Cheshire cat, and I almost want to say no just to see if he can give me something even wider and more pronounced. Is it possible for him to transform his face into an even more eerie creature? Doubtful.
“I am not hungry, Holland,” I say, a little annoyed. “Let’s just keep going.”
Holland sighs dramatically, not bothering to hide his frustration. I lean over and pick up the book I dropped. The throbbing in my head is still a constant thrum, but I try to ignore it, hoping Holland will see that everything is all right.
When I sit back in my chair, worthless book in hand, Holland has his sight focused on the pages of a thick, leather-bound grimoire. He does not look at me again until it is nearly sunrise.
By the time Holland wants to quit researching for the day, my body aches. We have been sitting in the parlor, curled up with countless research books and grimoires, all written by supposedly powerful witches, for half a day’s time. And I am starving, my muscles stiff, my eyes heavy. My weak, mortal body was not made for this mental—and somewhat physical—torture.
I stare at the ceiling, noticing the faded paint and chipped drywall, blemishes on an otherwise smooth surface. In the corner, where the crown molding meets one of the walls, the wallpaper is peeling. I have never seen the room from this angle, but I admire the manor’s imperfections. It does not try to hide its impurities the way I do. I wish I could lean on it, using its support and strength to amplify my own.
I cross my legs at my ankles and wince as the pain in my lower back shoots down my spine. My body is tight, and I desperately need to stretch.
Rolling my head against the hardwood, I look over at Holland, who is still perched on the couch. I, on the other hand, dropped from the chair to lie on the floor. At the time, I thought it would be more comfortable. I was wrong.
“Need help getting up?” Holland asks.
I want to laugh because I think he is joking. I want to believe he is messing with me. I want to throw my book at his foot or smack his shoulder or roll my eyes. Of course I do not need help. I am not an elder!
But I do none of those things. Because I know he is not joking. Holland means what he says, and he truly believes I might need help pushing my weakened body off the floor. Ignoring his request, I turn away from him, letting my gaze settle on the imperfect ceiling once again.
I linger on the fireplace, which, positioned at the center of the room, is a true focal point. It draws the eyes of everyone who enters. But as soon as any visitor steps inside to admire the architecture of the custom piece built specifically for this vampire Victorian manor, their gaze travels the rows of bookshelves stocked with first-edition novels.
Even more are in piles on the floor. From classics to grimoires and historical references, the stacks tower over me, encasing me between seemingly endless rows of dusty, musty pages. None of which has contained even a single helpful word. I am beginning to think the answer is not here.