things the way they should be. And, of course, talk to Zachariel, who was always willing to listen to his most loyal servant.
“I have put another phase of our plan into motion,” David whispered, believing that his voice was lifted by the breeze and taken to the waiting ears of his king. He also believed that when the wind erupted all around him, uplifting the snow from the ground and off of the branches, and his face and his heart were surrounded with an intense, numbing cold that Zachariel was offering his reply.
“Why has it taken you so long?”
David’s knees buckled when he heard the harsh voice, and he almost knelt before the face of the angel, the angel that had suddenly grown angry, so confrontational. But David knew better. He knew that above all, Zachariel longed to admire his servants for their strength, not their weakness. “I have chosen a steady path and not a hasty one,” David said, willing his voice to stay calm and resolute. “I have learned by your guidance that quick-footed vengeance does not always guarantee victory.”
Slowly, the collection of clouds overhead separated, allowing the sun’s rays to shine through. David lifted his head and welcomed the warmth of the sun, feeling its mercy grace his face, and he knew that the path he had chosen was the right one. “With the help of the children, I will make this land holy again.”
And with the help of his own child, he was about to return to an even happier time, to a time when he was just beginning to make important choices.
Across campus, Brania was walking aimlessly, as she had been ever since she left St. Albert’s, ever since she was told to leave by her father. Wandering, wandering, wandering, amid the snow and the trees and the few curious students who passed by her, wondering who she was. I’m no one, she wanted to call out to them, I am no one, and yet I am more than you can possibly imagine. And I am this way because of Him.
The only reason she stopped was because she heard the music. It was soft, glorious in its tone, and enchanting in its melody, she knew she had heard the sound before, but she couldn’t place it. Instead of wasting time trying to determine how she remembered the tune, she sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and allowed the music to consume her, take her on its journey, and as is sometimes the case among those who share the same biological and vampiric bloodlines as she and her father did, she did not journey alone.
Watching herself as a young girl of six, perhaps seven, Brania was astounded she had spent so many years looking as she did just now, like a teenager, voluptuous, forever on the brink of womanhood, that she had forgotten she had once been a little girl. The vision was momentous, but heartbreaking.
It was quite the opposite for David. It was gratifying to be able to see in detail a memory from so long ago, a memory of him and his daughter, just as she was starting to comprehend his immense power. He remembered exactly when this memory took place: 1684, in a field in County Clark in Ireland, where he’d met Brania’s mother, a weak woman not resilient enough to survive the birth of her only child. Brania’s black hair framed her angelic face in a multitude of tendrils, and her lips and cheeks were a healthy pinkish-red color, like baby’s blood. As she ran, her tiny feet were hidden by the overgrowing brush, and she seemed to float; the green silk hem of her otherwise cream-colored dress appeared to be an extension of the grass. She looked like an angel, a dark-haired, bloodstained angel gracing the earth with her presence.
To Brania, her younger self just looked frightened. She knew what was coming, she knew what was expected of her, and even though it was not the first time, she knew it would be difficult. Killing had not come as easy as Father had promised.
“See the boy, Brania,” David said, kneeling down next to her, making sure he knelt on his black velvet robe so his white breeches wouldn’t be stained with grass. “He’s the one I would like. Call him over and ask him to play.”
Hesitating, but only for a second, Brania shouted over to the boy and watched him run toward her. She recognized him as a boy from one of the poorer families in the village, but she didn’t know his name. Better that way, better not to know too much about the children her father wanted her to kill.
As the boy in the memory got closer, the music got louder, as if whoever was singing, whoever was making that beautiful music, knew what was going to happen and was singing louder as a warning. Useless. Nothing could save the boy, not now, not then, not as long as her father wished him to be dead.
The boy saw David nod in Brania’s direction, but he never saw the rock strike the side of his head, the rock that the little girl had concealed within the folds of her dress. He never felt his body fall onto the grass, he never felt the stream of blood trickle down the side of his face, and he never felt David’s fangs pierce into his neck. Brania was thankful it was dark, grateful there was no sun to illuminate the scene. She didn’t want to see her father drink from this boy, she didn’t want to see Him take his life away. All she really wanted to do was run, as far away as she could, but she knew then, as she knew now, that there was no escaping Him.
As her father drank hungrily from the boy’s limp body, Brania remembered that he had promised her riches in exchange for her help, toys and jewelry when she got older, the most expensive, beautiful clothes, anything that she could ever want or desire. That helped, knowing that her actions were worthy of reward. And recognition. “My child,” David told her, “you will always sit on my right side, on the right side of the Father.” It’s the only place Brania ever wanted to be.
So lost in her memory, so lost in the confused mind of the girl she was all those centuries ago, that when she saw Edwige she didn’t follow her. She had done enough traveling for one day and all she wanted to do was sit and listen to the music.
Edwige was surprised that more people hadn’t seen her walking across campus. She was afraid these past few weeks that she might be spotted by David or Brania. Such a meeting would have been unfortunate, but luckily that never happened. She also thought she would have been seen by Ronan’s friends or some teachers who weren’t fond of adults roaming around school grounds without an obvious purpose. She didn’t feel threatened by anyone, but she hated having to explain herself. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed because from behind she looked like just another student. That was entirely possible; being petite really did have its advantages.
Exactly three hundred and forty feet into The Forest of No Return, Edwige turned right and walked until she reached the old oak tree that at some point in its history had been split in half by lightning. And then she turned left and walked until she reached the cave. The area was desolate and wild, which was why she chose it; she knew no one would stumble upon it accidentally. She could remain unworried in the knowledge that here her treasure would be safe.
The opening to the cave was so low to the ground that even Edwige needed to bend as low as she could to enter. Once inside, she noticed the smell, but was no longer repulsed by it, by the dank earth, untouched by snow and still reeking of a fertile and powerful odor. The singing, however, still annoyed her. She did not appreciate music; she much preferred visual art. She could, and often did, gaze at a painting for hours and imagine living within its canvas, but when she heard music, all she heard was someone else’s voice and she didn’t much care about what anyone else had to say.
Hunched over, she walked through the tunnel that connected the entrance of the cave to her final destination, a crypt that was barren except for two items that Edwige herself had brought here: a torch and a coffin.
She added a few twigs and pieces of bark to the torch to keep it lit and shuddered as the fire warmed her face. Turning away from the flames and the unwanted memory of her husband’s murder, she faced the coffin. Even shut tight, the music escaped. Well, Edwige thought, there wasn’t much she could do about that. There really was only so much she could control.
Slowly, tenderly, Edwige opened the coffin. The girl was still there as she had been the last time Edwige visited, her eyes closed, her hands crossed on her chest like the corpse that she was. The only discrepancy was that her mouth was moving, singing softly. Edwige supposed that, to some, the sound could be considered soothing, but it needed to stop, the singing needed to come to an end. “Wake up, lazybones,” Edwige commanded. “It’s time for you to get to work.”
Only when she recognized the voice did Imogene open her eyes and become silent.
