Vane catches my tear on his index finger. He studies the iridescent bead, his brow furrowed. “I felt your pain,” Vane admits, his voice low.
My mouth falls open. Does that mean he’s been in Borealis this whole time? “Vane, I . . .”
Something unreadable glimmers in his eyes. “Come.” Vane stands with his hand outstretched toward me. “I want to show you something.”
I hesitate, glancing between his hand, and the headstone that bears my name, a silent reminder of the life I once had—the life I can never reclaim. Then I reach for his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet and lead me away from the grave.
As we navigate the cemetery, the ancient trees loom over us, their gnarled branches creaking in the wind. We pass the mausoleum where Balam attacked me, its entrance now sealed with yellow caution tape. Without Vane’s intervention, I would have joined the ranks of the forgotten dead, forever bound to this place. I squeeze his hand in thanks, and he offers me a half-smile, likely sensing my gratitude.
We venture deeper into the cemetery’s older section, where the headstones become more weathered. Their inscriptions are barely discernible beneath the thick layers of moss and grime.The ground beneath our feet is spongy from the tears of countless mourners. Vane abruptly stops before two graves. One has a crack running through its center, rendering the name illegible, while the other bears the name “George Auchincloss” in faded, worn letters.
“My parents,” Vane declares over the howling wind. The pain in his tone is palpable. Whatever happened between him and his parents, time has failed to heal the wounds.
“Your last name was Auchincloss?” My brows lift, and a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh bubbles within me. “Vane Auchincloss?” He glares sidelong at me. I stifle my laughter, clearing my throat. “Vyvyan’s name suits you better.”
“Vane Alvise Auchincloss,” he clarifies with a melancholy pride. “They named me after my maternal grandfather. He was a good man, and I was proud to have his name. Still am.”
“Is he buried here, too?” My gaze sweeps over the surrounding graves. I want more of a glimpse into the enigma that is Vane.
Vane shakes his head. “He was a merchant Sea Witch. He never returned from his final voyage.” There is a slight tremor in his voice, and I ache to take his hand. I can’t reconcile the man who has treated me with such cruelty with the man bleeding emotion in front of me now.
“My grandfather was the only one standing between me and my parents,” Vane confesses. His shoulders are round. “They were gamblers and used their gifts to manipulate emotions and trick people out of their money. When my abilities manifested, they forced me to join their schemes, exploiting my empathic powers to cheat. Despite his ineptitude at cards, my father used me to read his opponents, to know when they were bluffing. What he earned in riches, he equaled in enemies.”
My hands clench into fists at my sides. What kind of father would use his son in such a despicable manner? “What about your mom? Did she do nothing to protect you?” I ask.
“She was too devoted to him,” Vane replies, a bitter smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She endured his cruelty long before I did.”
Anger dries the tears on my cheeks. “What was her name?”
A flicker of warmth passes over his features. “Antonia. They say she was the most beautiful witch in Borealis.”
I study Vane’s profile. I believe it.
“Then why did she marry George?” I ask, unable to conceal the disgust in my voice.
“They were in love,” Vane murmurs. “Love has a way of making you do things quite out of character.” His attention flits to me, then back to the graves.
“Poor Antonia,” I whisper.
Vane laughs. “Don’t cry for her. In the end, she poisoned his money with arsenic.”
“She what?” My gasp makes Vane chuckle.
“There’s more.” Squaring his shoulders, he turns from his parents’ graves. As he walks away, I cast one final glance at the resting place of Vane’s parents and offer a silent prayer for Antonia’s troubled soul and one last “fuck you” to George. Then I hurry to catch up with Vane as he strolls up the path, entering an area so heavy with grief that even the air seems to stand still.
“This is where Antonia had me figuratively laid to rest.”
I glance at him, finding his gaze focused on the graves before us. My brow furrows as I say, “But these graves are unmarked.”
“Yes,” Vane answers on an exhale.
“But why—” A cold dread settles in my core. “Is it because you were a vampire?”
He nods. Then his gaze bores into mine with an intensity that weakens my limbs.
“A group of thugs my father pissed off in one of his schemes beat me to an inch of my life. Vyvyan found and Turned me. When my parents found out, they refused to admit what I was or pay to make funeral arrangements for me like your mom did for you. Still, my mom brought flowers weekly to this grave until she died.”
Vane’s grief, a deep, resonant sorrow, strikes a chord within me through the blood bond. It’s an unusual ache, the unmistakable lament for a lost mother. I ease closer, my heart heavy, and stare at Vane’s grave, struck dumb that despite the century that separate us, we are buried in the same earth, united by this shared place of mourning.
