There was something about Ashbourne that felt rooted in time more than place—as if lords in dusters and ladies in bonnets could trot jovially around the corner at any moment. But instead, I’d been accosted by ethical fanglings and an American polyglot.
I followed the curve of the road through town, past the finally silent pub and deeper through side streets until they opened upon a modest square. A church loomed at the far side, freshly renovated, based on the construction remnants awaiting pickup in a tidy pile. My fingers itched, as they always did, to make the sign of the cross. My final human habit that wouldn’t die with the rest of me. I wiped my hands on my pants instead, releasing the urge.
To the right of the solemn steeple was the town hall, a much smaller, squat building with tiny square windows and a sagging door that gave it the appearance of a mournful face. Billy had suggested I start my research there but admitted the church most likely had more robust records.
All these centuries later, organized religion still controlled education across the globe.
I’d have to request Miss Amato investigate the church. Since she knew of my curse, I wouldn’t need to feign discomfort or atheism to avoid entering the space. Remembering what I’d said to the fanglings hours before about human attachments and endangering the legion if humans found out, I realized I’d need to give the same lecture to Billy. No wonder the fanglings were so soft and disorganized—that lunatic had been their only mentor thus far.
The rest of the square was filled with a few attractions—a photography studio, a bakery, and a sweets shop. A light clicked on in the back of the bakery, spurring my flight back to the hotel.I’d learned to rely on human bakers like some kind of organic clock, as they almost always arrived at their post in the few moments before dawn, timing their work on the cadence of yeast and early risers.
Dawn was no longer a threat, but a full-fledged promise, the first pink stretches lancing through the night, streaking across the sky like a bloodied hand over a pristine frock. When I was first turned—not so far removed from the fanglings state now—I’d mourned the loss of the sun. I’d try to stay longer and longer through its glorious rising each day, testing the limits of my curse, sometimes scorching parts of myself so deeply I’d need several days to recuperate. But it was never enough. I never made it to see the sun crest, to feel its warmth on my too-cold body.
Somewhere, long before I ever considered boarding a ship for the New World, when the thought of vampirism was but a ghost story told by my nonna around a roaring hearth, I had memories of the sun. It was a different beast in the Italian countryside than I remembered it in the harsh chill of New England—unrelenting, omnipresent, yes, but gracious, giving, the source of our life and our livelihoods. I had memories of chasing my brother down a dirt road, roaring green hills on either side of us, the sun sliding sweat down my back, over my brow as we screamed with laughter. I had memories of my mother hanging gauzy white linens to dry beneath the beams, flashes of light blinding me as they rippled in the breeze. I had memories of life, growth, new buds reaching tendrils to the sky, grateful for the gift of the sun.
If only having a memory were the same as remembering.
Staring at the horizon, daring the sun to reach me one more time, Alex’s voice floated through my mind.
“We didnae ask for this.”
“No,” I muttered to no one. “Who would?”
Four
The next evening, I woke to the sounds of a small, well-trained army descending upon my room. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, peering blearily at the flashing shadows moving in a blur around the imposing figure of Miss Amato.
A cigarette smoldered in one hand, the other clutching a tidy stack of yellowed papers to her chest. She’d chosen a double-breasted suit with a smartly flared leg for the day, glittering gold chains glinting at her neck like an inviting threat. Not a hair dared stray from her ever-sharp bob cut, dark eyes surveying her command.
I was embarrassingly underdressed for the sight.
The fanglings moved in smart unison around the American, William, unloading another warmed blood bag at the table next to the distinct wafting smell of a coffee service. I remembered what Billy had said about Miss Amato bullying Reginald into giving her coffee instead of tea.
But as I slipped into a pair of slacks and a fisherman’s sweater, completely unnoticed by the moving bodies in the sitting area, I noticed it wasn’t fear that Miss Amato commanded. It was respect—and, incredibly, camaraderie.
“The mares looked much healthier, Alex,” she said, one hip popped casually as she accepted a crystal ashtray from the named fangling.
“Aye, Miss.” He nodded. “You were right about the feed. We’re sourcing it from a farm just outside of the village, and it’s made all the difference.”
“Good work,” she said, flashing a full smile that made Alex duck his head into one shoulder, then the other. “You’re really shaping into a high-class horseman. Give it another year or two, and you’ll be able to show Billy up.”
“Oh, no, I don’t ken—”
“I do. I ken very well.” She nudged Alex playfully.
“Where is the man himself?” I asked, inserting myself into the scene. I noticed how the fanglings stiffened at my presence, the full breakfast spread suddenly clanging and banging where it’d seemed to simply appear before. More, I noticed the work desk that Bradford hefted in the corner, Benedict fluttering nearby with stacks of boxes, a pen tucked behind his pointed ear.
Miss Amato shrugged, not bothering to glance at me. “He shows when he shows.”
“You seem nonchalant at his lack of timeliness.” I raised the blood bowl to my lips, pausing to nod gratefully to William, who dropped his shoulders and gave me a thin smile.
“He doesn’t pay me to keep his calendar.” Then, to Alex, “Did you still want to stay today?”
Alex glanced from me and back to Miss Amato—or I assume he did, the barest shift in his eye-covering bangs the only indication he seemed to be looking at anything at all.
“Stay?” I asked, glancing between the two.
“It’s alright if you’d rather another day. We’ll be here awhile.” Miss Amato’s tone softened as she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray with a single expert flick. Her nails were the same maroon as yesterday, but the early evening light made them seem sharper, brighter, more in focus.
