There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life,
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce,
Must feed thy livid living corpse;
Thy victims ere they yet expire,
Shall know thy demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.”
He replaced the pamphlet, closed the book, and set it back on the stack gently. “Despite our best kept efforts to remain hidden, the humans see us—they know us. Now whether we go down in history as the romantic fantasies of writers like Lord Byron, or in cheap penny dreadfuls, or as the ancient gods responsible for the very world we walk upon is entirely up to you. I’d like to think the world will someday want to know our true origins. Besides, it would be interesting to determine why some of us have no empathy and are brutal killers, while others do.”
Libraean was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, which he swallowed. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
He must have noticed the shift in his voice for Lucius quickly resumed his apathetic tone. “Oh, please, we all know I enjoy notoriety, don’t thank me for being selfish.” But as he exited the room, he patted Libraean gently on the shoulder, saying nothing more as the door swung shut behind him.
Libraean turned back towards the stack of books and his empty parchment. He took his place back behind his desk, moistening the tip of his quill with his tongue and dripping it back in the ink before writing on the top, “The History of Vampyres.”
He wasn’t sure how long he sat at his desk writing, but when he looked up to see who had arrived at his door, it was night again. Morrigan stood tentatively in his doorway in her perpetual shroud of black, her brilliant eyes shining between waterfalls of raven hair. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked softly.
Libraean looked down to see his wrinkled hands were covered in ink, the well running shallow next to scores of scribbled pages that were scattered all around him, some sticking to his elbows. “I could use a break,” he admitted as he straightened up his mess. “Please come in.”
She drifted into the room in her weightless, ethereal way; she always managed to move gracefully, even though she was tall and commanding when provoked. There was a faraway look in her eyes as she observed his room, a veil of sadness hanging over her as she took a seat across from his desk, folding her hands in her lap. “How is he?”
Libraean removed his glasses for they had begun to painfully indent his nose. “He seems distant...distracted.”
“Is that a typical reaction when he comes out of one of his spells?”
Libraean sighed, suddenly longing for a cup of Jacob’s tea. “Usually, he is in better spirits, even getting dressed and going into town. Considering the circumstances, however, I think his temperament is to be expected.”
Morrigan nodded. “You must detest me,” she said sadly.
“On the contrary,” he assured her. “While we are long past any glimmer of a maternal bond, I know your heart is good.”
She blinked. “It has been a very long time since I’ve heard words like those said to me,” she murmured. “Will you wait here a moment?”
Libraean nodded, though he was confused. She left for several minutes before surprising him with a tray in her hands, a tea kettle and cup balancing on top next to a tin of herbal tea. “I don’t know what kind of tea Jacob used to make you, but the pantry had a few different blends. I used to adore spiced tea as a human.”
Libraean stared.
“Oh, forgive me,” she laughed as she set down the tray. “I didn’t mean to read your thoughts, but you don’t put up any guard. Your craving came to me loud and clear. We are shapeshifters, remember, connected in animal thought.”
“Oh yes,” Libraean chuckled. “Sometimes I forget these things. David has always been telepathic, but I suppose I forget I’m also around other creatures with abilities. Thank you for the tea; that was very kind of you.”
“My pleasure,” she said as she handed him a cup. The steam drifted into his face, a rich aroma of black tea and citrus wafting up into his nose. He was grateful to have been so far removed from drinking blood that his human cravings were back, his palette longing for things like tea and biscuits. He took a sip, letting the warmth revive his tired bones as she sat back down in the chair.
“If you wish to resume your solitude, please let me know,” she said. “This journey feels agonizingly long, and I am infamously restless and lonely.”
Libraean smiled. “I’ve been trying to update my memoirs to alleviate my own such restlessness. As a matter of fact, since you are here, would you mind helping me fill in your book?”
Morrigan flinched. “I've grown to hate recalling the past.”
Libraean stood, shuffling to the bookcase nestled in the corner of his room, where he had lined all of his books, including their handbound histories. He pulled out hers, a thick tome covered with a carmine fabric that had already begun to fray, titled “Lilith,” with a snake and a crow drawn underneath. “Ah,” he pointed out, “but I know you appreciate the keeping of records.”
“Touché.” She smiled.
Libraean retrieved another glass jar of ink before he took his seat back behind his desk. He poured it into the inkwell and gingerly opened the delicate book, smoothing out the first blank pages. The scent was lovely, swirling with the aroma of his tea. One day, he’d print all his books and bind them in leather.
“Where would you like to begin?” she asked him, a touch of nervousness in her voice.
He smiled. “I would like to begin at the beginning. Do you remember anything at all from the early days?”
Morrigan frowned, but she closed her eyes as if trying to sweep the dust off of memories as old as time. “None of us can remember the true beginning, nor exactly how humans came to be,” she began. “I remember flashes of Isis and I as children running through fields, but nothing solid. Philosophers have tried to answer the question of whether humans are born with knowing or if they learn from the environment in which they are born. I cannot answer these questions—I don’t think any of us can. Maybe the humans created us, maybe we created them.” She looked pensive. “All I know is that one day, they existed, but humanity was so fragile that Isis decided to take care of them. So, she did so with David, who she pulled down from the stars along with Lucius. I don’t remember caring for either of them back then, they just didn’t matter to me like my sister did. Besides I was always exploring and searching, enamored by all the secrets the earth revealed to me. I had little desire for anything else. Meanwhile, civilizations sprang up around us, which Isis and Osiris took care of. I remember being briefly worried about what would happen to the souls of the humans when their bodies died, but Set was put in charge of them. I had nothing to worry about for years, except protecting my sister from harm. Then one day, the humans began to speak of me as if I was Set’s wife and then I just was. I also don’t know how we started...when we started…” She trailed off, her porcelain cheeks pulling up a shade of rose.
“Making love?”
Morrigan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes, making love.”
“Breeders,” Libraean shook his head with a laugh. “So painfully modest about something so natural.”
His playfulness relaxed her, bringing about a grin. “In my defense, you are technically my son, who just so happens to adore David. Talking about making love to his brother seems rather insensitive, no?”
“I see your point,” Libraean said pleasantly. “Please continue.”
