Chapter One
It has been one month since we lost Amicia and Will, and ever since that night, there has been a shadow haunting me. It waits in the darkness, striking only when I take my first deep inhalation after weeks of holding my breath. It slithers like a snake, coiling its body around my torso, smothering me until I can bear it no more. It likes my pain, and the sick part is that I do too. The pain lets me know I am still alive.
I fall to the ground, my knees sinking into the freshly thawed earth. The wet tundra makes a squishing sound as I drop, and I squirm against the sensation. My jeans become moist where I meet the land, and as I shift in place, I make a greater mess of things. I continue to burrow, mud seeping at the forefront of my flesh, and I cringe.
I try to ignore all of these things, even though the sound of the earth’s protest irritates my senses because I am not here to listen to the earth. I am here to see him. Will must capture my full attention, and I dare never to take it away from him.
I sigh, my breath coming in weak puffs as I try to calm my rapid heart. It burns in my chest, and my eyes sting from his loss. Even though many days have passed since he died in my arms, the pain never lessens. I imagine it never will. In the short time I knew Will, he made a mark on my heart. I feel his presence everywhere now, and it is a brutal reminder that he will never return.
“It has been four weeks,” I whisper. “But I still visit every day since…since—”
A sharp breath bursts through me, but with it, I find no reprieve from my emotions. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to cast out the memories that haunt me day after day. This never works, but I try again and again. Eventually, I will wake, and I will accept that Will has found the peace he so desperately sought. But today is not that day.
I wonder if he knows I am here. Witches believe in Summerland. Humans believe in Heaven. But what did Will believe in? He was neither witch nor human. Not really, anyway. Is there a place for a witch-turned-vampire-turned-human creature? And if there is, can he sense my presence from wherever he is now, wherever that place might be?
These questions, and many more, have consumed my thoughts for weeks. I never ask them aloud because we lost her too. While there might be a place for Will’s tortured soul to rest, vampires most certainly believe there is not such a place for the undead. It would be heartless for me to search for reprieve in my comrades now that Amicia is gone. Her death is a heavy burden as well, and it tortures me so.
“I had another dream,” I say softly. I stare at the ground, focusing on the murky granules of dirt that blend into mud. I sink deeper into the abyss.
Every night, in my dreams, I discover a million different ways I could have saved them. Each time, I do something differently, and that something is all it takes to come out heroes. I wake sooner. I fight harder. I remain stronger. I am less scared, less worried, less…broken. I fight my grandmother’s air magic, and when it no longer pins me in place, the weight is lifted from my shoulders and I am no longer frozen. I become an asset, not a hindrance, to my friends.
Since both chose to sacrifice themselves for…me, I have relived that nightmare—the night they died, Will in my arms and Amicia right before my eyes—endless times. I think this is my personal hell—to live the worst moment of my life, to experience my most regretful actions, over and over again, looping round and round. Slowly, I am losing my mind to this madness, but I do not complain to the others. I deserve to be tortured by their deaths.
“This time, I morphed into some kind of superhero. Crazy costume and everything. My power was invisibility…” My mind must be grasping at straws. I lost creativity long ago—maybe on the seventh or eighth night, when I could still contemplate battle plans. Now, when I save them, I use outlandish methods, but they always seem to work. Until I open my eyes. At night, I close them, and my friends are here, with me, safe and sound. Then morning comes, and I wake. It is a cruel cycle.
Picking at a leaf that has long since dried out due to the harsh winter months, I sit back, resting my bottom on the heels of my boots. I feel the fabric of my jeans dampening from the wet cobblestone path I walked down to reach their graves. But it does not bother me. Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of nature. Before that night, Will told me to cherish the days I had, and this is the time of day when I remember to do that. During the minutes I sit with him, I pretend everything is okay.
With my eyes still closed, I pay attention to my surroundings. Winter has made way for spring. The air is warmer. The trees have buds. Early flowers bloom, spilling sweet aromas in the air. I sniffle when I think about how Will is never going to experience this again, and the fragrance tickles my nose. It smells sweet, like perfume, but I also smell Will. The pungent odor of his death is all around me, reminding me day after day that I failed him.
When bodies decay, they smell a lot like flowers. Tissue liquefies, releasing a startling sweet scent, like a bouquet of flowers that now molds and dies because I forgot to water it. By no means does it smell good. It just smells…different. I guess it does not smell like what I thought rotting flesh would smell like. For some reason, this brings me peace because I know part of him is still here with me. Granted, it is not the part I wanted. I would choose to keep his soul safe over his decaying body.
I open my eyes and stare at the headstones. They are perched side by side. Both are made of granite so dark they seem black, with etchings to honor those we lost. There are others beside and beyond these two because Amicia and Will are not the only vampires we lost that night, but I rarely look at the others. I never mourn their deaths. I regret their sacrifice, but I can only offer so much of my heart to the dead. Will and Amicia have consumed all that I am.
They are markers in time to remind us of what happened that night. Yes, we lost loved ones, but these tombstones are here for so many other reasons. They are meant as caution, warning us about the torment a single fruitless feud causes. They stress never again to trust the witches. Holland is our only surviving mortal ally, and it will remain that way for as long as the wounds stay fresh. I suspect we may never seek aid from a daywalker again.
The stones are arched at the top, curved and sleek, an effortless beauty—like Amicia. They are shiny and smooth, and the parts etched with their individual names betray the lighter gray stone beneath. The small memorial cemetery is in our back garden, and the black stones blend in with the dark forest beyond the Victorian manor we call home. The moon illuminates the land, casting shadows everywhere I glance.
I stare over my shoulder. The sight of someone lurking in one of the many stained-glass windows catches my eye. But as I peer closer, squinting slightly to focus my vision on the flash of a presence, the onlooker steps away, disappearing farther into the room beyond the glass. I blink several times to clear my gaze but see no more movement.
The manor is three stories high, with startling peaks and striking overhangs. Carved embellishments true to the Victorian era are etched into the wood siding. The structure is truly a breathtaking sight.
Long ago, it was painted dark, allowing the hidden home to blend more seamlessly with its surroundings. I lived all my life in Darkhaven, yet I never knew of the manor’s existence. Not until I sought refuge among the undead.
From where I sit, I can see into the kitchen, where the corner table is vacant. Just a few weeks ago, I sat at that very table with Will and discussed my future. I was torn then, unsure if I wanted to take back what the witches stole from me. Long ago, I lived a different life. That was taken from me as well. Vampirism was thrust upon me, and in a rash decision, I gave up my mortal existence in favor of immortality.