Ivory returned with a loaf wrapped in a new cloth and a small block of cheese.
Rachel released a breath. “Would you care to join me for lunch? I fear I’ve bought too much food for one day.”
Ivory had been counting on such a kindness. “I’ve had about all I can eat for one day, but I’d enjoy the company.”
Over the years, the two became close friends. Rachel shared her darkest secrets, but there was one Ivory knew she did not share. Perhaps Rachel’s family had warned her not to speak of the voices—warned her of the hurt and betrayal that comes with divulging such an affliction.
Years passed without Ivory aging, and though Rachel never mentioned it, Ivory feared what others might think. For this reason, Ivory only ever visited Rachel in secret. Shortly after Rachel’s forty-fifth year, she fell ill. Ivory did not need to sneak to meet with her then, for no one wanted to expose themselves to her ailments.
Late one afternoon, when the sun had lowered in the sky to a more forgiving light, Ivory stopped by for another visit.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Rachel scolded as always, her voice too weak to carry any authority.
She held a cloth to her mouth and coughed, a spray of blood spattering on the small bit of fabric. Ivory kneeled at her side and tried to soothe her until the coughing fit subsided.
Rachel set her rag down and waved toward her bedroom door. “Back away before you become ill.”
“You have kept a long life,” Ivory said. “But you see me. I have not aged.”
Rachel closed her eyes, and Ivory swept loose tendrils of hair away from a face that had once belonged to Elizabeth. Rachel’s feverish, sweat-soaked skin burned beneath Ivory’s cool hands, but her graying hair was still soft.
“Come with me,” Ivory said, trying to use her influence. “I’ve known your family for centuries, and you can know them with me.”
Rachel’s mind pushed back against Ivory’s influence, shutting down the attempt completely. “Please now, go away. Your words confuse me.”
Ivory softened her voice and tried a second time to influence Rachel. “Please, listen—”
Grasping her moth-eaten quilt between her hands, Rachel shook her head. Ivory was running out of time. Her heart ached more with each glance at Rachel’s withering body, and she clenched her hands at her sides.
“I can give you eternity,” Ivory said. “Give us eternity.”
Rachel whispered, “Let me die quietly, Lenore. It’s—” Her hands softened, releasing the blanket.
“Please don’t leave.” Ivory repeated the silent prayer over and again as she ran to lock the door.
Quickly, she returned to the bedside, extended her fangs, and sank them into Rachel’s neck, releasing the poison that would revive her.
The life returned to Rachel’s eyes. She sputtered another cough and grasped Ivory’s wrists. “No,” she rasped. “Lenore—don’t.”
Rachel’s heart stopped. Her body went lifeless on the cot. Ivory’s efforts had been too late to sustain the change.
At that moment, Ivory came to hate the name her sire had given her. Lenore. This name was the name of her darkness, the name that put a world between her and her lover’s family. The name should have died on Rachel’s lips, but would instead follow Ivory forever.
Ivory stormed out of the house. In the cold night air, she cursed the Universe. She tore chunks of soil from the earth and pounded her fists on the ground and cried blood tears against the dirt and grass until she could cry no more.
...
Keota, Colorado, 1942
THIS WAS THE HUNT OF MAN. A useless man, more precisely, because the only men of any use to Ivory were the Parsons men, for they were the only ones who might bring forth a Parsons woman and rekindle Ivory’s hope for redemption.
But Theodore Anderson was not a Parsons man.
No, Theodore Anderson was a man who had married a woman Ivory had never met but felt she had known for hundreds of years: Abigail Parsons.
After Rachel’s death, Ivory had sought out Rachel’s brothers and waited several generations for another girl to be born into the Parsons’ lineage. The year had been 1920. The current generation of Parsons men died in the war, one of them leaving his son to be cared for by his Aunt Abigail, now Abigail Anderson.
Ivory feared the little boy, Abigail’s nephew, might be the last to carry the Parsons’ name. People were beginning to have fewer children, sometimes none at all. And, if that were the case, Abigail might be Ivory’s last chance.
Theodore Anderson could not be allowed to stand in her way.