Chapter 2
San Loaran, California
5 years ago
Jack was sitting in the kitchen, his mouth watering in hunger as he listened to his parents bicker about the Italian government.
A pot boiled on the stove, steam hissing and rolling outwards. But it wasn’t just ready, it was…jumping, lightly hopping on the stove— like it had a message of life and death, if only someone would take off the lid.
He didn’t want to dream this again.
He stared at the pot, its shiny silver surface and- there it was- a faint blue, twinkling reflection. The twinkle altered, changed shape until it was a blue form, small and distant but becoming larger.
She’s close now.
The sound of birds, wings flapping, their bodies sighing, filled his ears and echoed off the kitchen walls. He could feel them beating against his eardrums.
That’s not right.
There were no birds, it was the heavy swish of rustling silk, and it grated on his nerves, like biting into chalk.
Time to turn around now.
Time to see her coming.
His heart thumped and he picked up his butter knife. His father laughed. His mother smiled. They didn’t know that death was hurtling down the corridor like a freight train.
And then she was there. His mother fell to the ground, neck broken, happening in between one blink and the next. His father’s face was in his food, body limp, soul already gone, leaving Jack sitting at the kitchen table, a butter knife clenched pathetically tight, a useless protection against her.
Marion’s sapphire silk skirts blotted out the rest of the world.
She walked around the little kitchen table where he’d eaten every meal of his life. She whispered to him and teased, sounding like a coquette.
Three, four times, she walked around the table. Like playing duck, duck, goose: the agony of her walking behind him, the tension of knowing she’d passed him, but was coming around again. And when she picked him, he’d be dead.
He saw her make the decision, a slight pout marring her dark smile, as she reached out, in infinite slowness, her bony hand outstretched towards him.
Move. Run. Scream. Do something!
Instead, he sat frozen, looking at his mother and then his father, memorizing their features and this moment….
The barest tip of her finger touched him, like an ice cube on burning flesh. He screamed.
“Jack! Jack! Wake up.”
Both hands were on him now, the sheets her accomplices, as they tried to pull him back under. A gasp exploded from his chest.
It had been a dream. Marion wasn’t here. Jack wasn’t a boy anymore, but nineteen and strong. Italy was gone, he was in America now living with the people who had saved him.
I’m alright.
His hands covered his eyes and he heard Valerie’s voice speaking to him softly. But it held a tremor of sadness and fear, so he tried to get himself together.
“I’m fine,” he said huskily.
“You called her name,” Valerie said quietly.
God, he hoped she meant his mother. His breath stopped in his lungs, like a dam had been built before he could exhale. “I was dreaming of my parents.”
“No. You said Marion’s name.”
The breath oozed out of him.
“It’s been almost two months since you last woke me up in the middle of the night. I guess I won’t charge you for this one.” A pause “That’s good, right?”
What was good about it? His parents were still dead, he was still living a nightmare, so what if he hadn’t woken up screaming for a month or two? So fucking what?
But he smiled at her anyway, at her overly bright smile and the false innocence she tried to project. Because she did know that things were not alright. Valerie’s own mother had been murdered by vampires and it gave them a bond made of and deeper than blood.
“When was the last time you dreamed about your mother?” He sounded normal.
Her gaze shifted away. “I don’t remember my dreams anymore.” It was like she was confessing a dirty secret. And maybe it was, because even though he hated the dreams, each time he had them, he was with his parents again. Hearing their laughter. Watching them live. But when he woke up they were really gone.
“Do you want to remember?” he asked, holding her hand in his, as though the dark was slightly farther away if they were together.
“No. And you shouldn’t either. You need to block it out. Do what you can to pretend it didn’t happen.”
Jack leaned over, turning on the bedside lamp to see her face. “You can’t pretend our lives are…fine.”
Her look was intense, like she was at the starting line of a 100 meter dash, “I used to see it every day, and now I don’t. Sometimes, I’m not even sure I was there. And that’s— ”
“Sad,” he said, cutting into her words.
“No,” she said in a way that made him blink and try to pay attention, “Not remembering her death is a miracle.”
Then she stood, shaking her head slightly, so that her long, dark hair curtained her face, and walked out the door. “Get some sleep, Jack. Another big day tomorrow.” She sounded miserable.