Ivory split her nights between playing silent guard and surviving her new life as a young Cruor, at first needing to hunt weekly but soon able to sustain herself on monthly meals.
Over the decades, however, Ivory worried her ways would forever distance her from the Parsons family. She’d need to show some thread of what she had once been, not just some empty shell with a thirst for blood.
It was with this in mind that Ivory stalked the wildlife in the brambles outside the Parsons’ home, hesitant to strike. The animals seemed more innocent than the lustful men she usually preyed on. The musk of skunk and the woodsy smell of fox caused her stomach to lurch. As she crept around pinecones and beetles that clung to toadstool stems, she picked up on the spoor of a nearby deer.
When the deer paused to sniff a fallen twig of red berries, Ivory pounced. Her fangs sank quickly into the felted flesh, and her mouth filled with a sour fluid—not the sweet essence of a human. Ivory gagged but forced herself to continue. She craved blood to sate her hunger and needed the hope of regaining a semblance of humanity.
That idea shattered when a soughing wind groaned through the tree branches, and the Parsons’ back door swung open. Ivory, frozen in place, rested back on her heels, briars prickling against her calves.
Mary, now close to twenty years and very nearly a replica of Elizabeth, opened the door, sending the smoky scent of their wood-burning stove into the chill night air. She stepped outside and scanned the forest, her hand lingering on the doorknob. After a long moment, she dipped back inside. The click of the door’s lock echoed in Ivory’s ears.
The deer’s blood cooled on Ivory’s chin. Her eyes dropped to her blood-drenched hands. What had she become? Even this—the feeding from live animals—wouldn’t garner the trust of the Parsons family. If there was any hope of entering the lives of her lover’s family, it was in finding a way to walk amongst them while living out her darkness in secret.
And so Ivory continued on, always with the blood of another human on her tongue, neither her nor her sire caring for the Maltorim’s order to stop hunting humans.
On some days, Ivory stayed watching over the Parsons’ just a little longer than she should, the first rays of light scorching her face and arms before she retreated to the underground. This in itself was a rarity, as there were no other known Cruor at the time who could withstand time in the sun. Perhaps this was a gift Ivory had only because of her first calling—the calling bestowed on her by the Universe that she had abandoned for a life of revenge on mankind.
In 1732, Mary, now with three children of her own, moved to the Province of Georgia, away from the revival fires of Massachusetts. Ivory followed, convinced this young woman needed her protection more than the men born into the Parsons’ lineage.
Though Ivory’s sire appeased her desire to relocate, he cautioned her against her obsessions. Ivory, however, resented him. He controlled too much of her time and prevented her too often from watching Elizabeth’s family.
Late one night during the following spring season, Ivory crept upon Mary’s house and stopped behind a tree several yards from the open window of Mary’s sleeping quarters.
Mary sat on a small bench in front of a wooden music stand, dressed in a dark blue, tightly-laced linen dress. Her skirts bunched in elegant tiers behind her, and her hair was pinned up with only a few short, curling wisps escaping near the nape of her neck and at the front of her hairline. In front of her, poised on a small stand, was an unfinished sheet of music.
A shaky breath escaped Mary as she rested a violin between her petite chin and bony shoulder and drew the bow across the strings in a slur. She stopped to adjust a few pegs before beginning again, always following the rule of the down-bow on the first beat of every measure.
Ivory had seen musicians perform this way at the orchestra, one of her sire’s favorite places to scour for humans. He’d taught Ivory all about music…but where had Mary learned? Ivory, stung that she was missing Mary’s life, swallowed her hurt and listened to the melody.
The song was slow, sweet, and a little sad. Mary’s body and breathing were steady, only the tears streaming her cheeks a sign of whatever pain she harbored. Ivory could not run to her—could not cradle Mary in her arms, could not allow Mary to collapse there and purge her heartache.
The intensity of the piece increased, and Ivory used the back of her hand to scrub the tears away from her own eyes, the sticky blood smearing over her cheeks and along her jaw.
Though Ivory was on the outside looking in, she and Mary were together in this song. They were listening to the same notes carried on the same night breeze. Every few measures, Mary stopped. She dipped a quill into an inkpot resting on a worn blue table before adding fresh marks to her sheets.