Morrigan stared up at the dark corridor ahead of her. “Ireland was real,” she told him. But he never once left the back of my mind, she thought as she hurried up the stairs to her room.
Thankfully he did not follow, leaving her alone to walk down the hallway to her room. It was quiet, a few long candles still casting their shadows across the floor. She moved so that her footsteps were inaudible, passing door after door until she hesitated by one, the room she knew he was in. She paused, imagining him sitting in front of the fire, closer to it than anyone else could ever be comfortably, a book spread open across his lap. She could see the midnight blue wallpaper and shelves around him, picture the expression on his face as he embarked on the sacred exchange between writer and reader—agreeing with some, disagreeing with most—and either throwing the book across the room in disgust or placing it lovingly on the shelf with the others, as if it were a precious artifact to be studied later. She imagined he was reading anything he could find that would be distracting—certainly not anything that would draw out his anger—but nothing so light that it bored him. In fact, she realized that since David’s return to consciousness, Lucius had been remarkably calm, uncharacteristically so, even when it came to her. It was odd, for as much as she hated his possessiveness, its absence was equally unsettling.
She let her fingers rest against the mahogany wood, bidding him a silent goodnight when suddenly she smelled him, feeling his heat permeating the door. She startled, wondering if she should hurry back to her room.
“Cedarwood,” he said softly through the door.
“What?”
“Fresh cedarwood that has just been cut, the autumn woods right before it rains. The sad sweetness of fallen leaves as they wait for winter, the creek before the first frost.”
She couldn’t help but smile, her cheeks warm. “We shouldn’t be talking,” she whispered through the door.
“I just thought you should know,” he murmured. “I didn’t tell you enough when we were married… How much I adore you. I would offer to write you poems, but I’m an awful poet and we both know how much I love to talk… I just wanted you to know that to me, you smell like home.”
Morrigan felt emotion building in her stomach. “If I don’t go soon, I’m going to tear this door off the hinges.”
She could hear him chuckle.
She pressed her lips against the door, imagining it was his face. “Dragon’s blood, summer bonfires, and cloves,” she told the door, and then, before she did anything she was going to regret, she hurried down the corridor, barricading herself into her room.
CHAPTER 4
THE HISTORY THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 1858
libraean
Libraean stared at the blank piece of parchment sitting in front of him, waiting for the words to come.
It had been a week since they boarded Lucius’s ship, one of the latest in traveling innovations that utilized steam. Originally built as a merchant steamer, Lucius had it entirely restructured with passenger comfort in mind. Their perpetually gracious host, despite his typical air of annoyance, had provided them all with fresh clothing to travel with, even though he had to argue loudly with Cahira: “All this money has been stolen from filthy rich bureaucrats—half of it is rightfully mine, but half is Angelique’s and you’re goddamn right she should pay for our excursion! Now take the damn clothes and stop your complaining. I bought you knives, as well.”
The rest accepted his generosity, for they knew money was irrelevant, but to pretend to be human, one had to play the part. Libraean had been long accustomed to Lucius’s penchant for opulence and grandeur, and did not waste the mental exertion on how he managed to acquire such a vessel. The upper decks had been furnished to mimic any other aristocratic establishment, boasting a sleek dining hall, library, common room, and several covered porches. The second deck held a dozen passenger rooms and sitting areas, with the furthest end intended for cargo. The crew lodged in steerage, a group of silent professionals hired by Lucius’s lawyers who seemed to understand they were not sailing with ordinary humans and kept themselves completely isolated.
Libraean had been lost since they put Jacob in the ground. The four immortals had ridden in silence to the chapel, a crumbling edifice that once belonged to the fortress that defined the city. It was in a better state than its crumbling predecessor, though ivy relentlessly climbed its mossy stones. A lawyer named Jonathan Harrow had made the arrangements, even filling the grave digger’s pockets with extra coins to ensure the grave was dug the full six feet deep.
Libraean felt as if he walked in a dream, grateful for Morrigan’s guiding arm as they maneuvered through a graveyard that wore a blanket of white like fresh paint, save for a singular trail of footprints. The gravedigger wiped sweat from his brow, though icicles covered his coat. It was Mr. Harrow who addressed the lumbering priest exiting the church. The terrified fellow crossed himself several times, refusing to look any of them in the eye as he hurried through the service, clearly wanting nothing more than to retreat to the safety of his chapel.
Lucius appeared equally annoyed by his presence, but remained respectfully stoic; David’s expression held its own blend of emotions. He patiently waited until Morrigan stepped back, and linked his arm around Libraean’s, patting him reassuringly though he was distraught himself. It felt good to have them all there, even Lucius. He hated that his heart hurt so badly at Jacob’s loss. He had known their days on Earth would be brief—they’d existed for centuries apart before—but still, he ached. While grateful they had a chance to reconnect, their final separation occurring at a time where there was forgiveness and love rather than hatred, all these logical, rational things had no effect on his mourning. He was utterly, irrevocably devastated.
David squeezed him a bit tighter when the priest finally ended his sermon and abruptly took off. The gravedigger slammed his spade back into the earth. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Libraean heard him murmur. He didn’t respond, not knowing how to articulate that no one should be sorry for death, that he was not upset that death came for Jacob, he was actually envious, for Jacob had easily achieved what Libraean had always yearned for—natural, well-earned death. It was he who secretly longed to be in the ground, freed from his prison of flesh. But he could never tell David that, the two having an unspoken accord to live out the rest of their days together. Yes, it did pain him to be away from the man he loved. But he knew, in the way that those who often indulge in introspection know, that first and foremost, he was envious.
Mr. Harrow motioned to return to their carriages. Libraean caught sight of Morrigan and Lucius standing inches apart, looking into the grave with the calmness one would expect from two gods of death. The blinding white snow caught on their black cloaks and equally black hair, and they both offered him a look that showed they understood exactly how he felt without having to say it. It was that look that finally dismantled any residual anger he had towards them on behalf of David, melting away like the snow that caught on his shoes.
David hadn’t wanted to leave his side since the service, but finally Libraean insisted, explaining that the longer he waited to resume his solitude, the harder it would be for him to return to it. The first few days, he simply slept, wondering if he could just fall away like David could—he was older than him after all, with a far older body—yet he couldn’t stop his mind from racing long enough to stay planted in deep slumber.
On the fifth day, he finally pulled out the ink and quill Lucius provided for him, laying them out neatly on the desk in his room before gathering a stack of unmarked paper.
And there he’d sat for an hour, staring at the blank pages.
He threw off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There was so much more to write, so many more layers to a story he thought he’d known. He had yet to write Cahira’s tale, he’d only just met Sandrine, and now, the one who had once been the most loathsome immortal they’d ever known was playing generous host, leading them forward on their adventure with a completely different perspective than had ever occurred to him.
He gazed out the small circular window in his room, noticing the sky grew brighter. He wondered what David was doing, considering taking the stroll down to his room. He decided against it, staring back down at the blank page with fresh determination. He grabbed his quill, dipped it in the ink, and scrawled out, “The Immortals,” which he promptly crossed out to write, “The Gods,” which he also crossed out and wrote “The Vampyres,” before letting out a sound of exasperation, crumpling the paper, and tossing it across the room. He stood up, grabbed his hat, and hobbled down the hall. It didn’t matter that he’d easily adjusted to having human feet after centuries of living behooved, his joints still creaked with age. As he headed down the smooth hallways with freshly painted walls, he wondered if he should just give in and buy himself a cane. He had a feeling Jacob would have approved.
He gave a swift warning knock before he entered the stately library and annexed study, knowing the person inside would most likely apprehend him with a raised eyebrow. Instead, Lucius hopped right to his feet as if he was waiting for him, grabbing a stack of books from the nearby desk. “I had Mr. Harrow make sure the library was stocked before we left, but there are a few titles he couldn’t grab in time,” Lucius explained as he breezed past him out the door. “Come on, I don’t expect you to carry these with that limp of yours.”
Libraean took a moment to wrap his mind around their odd interaction before hobbling after him down the hall. Lucius strode into his bedroom, setting the books down on his desk with a thump. He frowned when he noticed the crumpled parchment on the floor. “You will get there again,” he told him softly. “Grief persists in waves, but normality does return.”
Libraean squinted up at him. “You’re different.”
“Am I?”
“Is it Morrigan?” Libraean pressed, searching Lucius’s gold eyes over the rim of his glasses.
He noticed something flash in them at the mention of her name, but Lucius chose to deflect rather than respond. “You have the record of our individual histories, the lives that have led us up to where we are now. But you have nothing that describes what we are. We’ve become a species in our own right, and it doesn’t appear that we will be going anywhere anytime soon. Even if Angelique succeeds in killing us, there will still be immortals left walking the earth. You are the Earth’s record keeper, and it is high time for another installation.”
Libraean walked over to his desk to examine the books he’d given him—volumes of folklore and mythology, scientific speculation on blood fevers, and theories of the supernatural. He was stunned, wondering if Lucius had somehow read his mind.
Lucius opened up the book on top, pulling out a small, printed pamphlet that had been nestled inside. Clearing his throat, he read:
“But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent,
Then ghostly haunt they native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race,
