Blood Memories

The list wasn't alphabetical. The next name was Marquis Philip Brante, with his address in France. I felt numb, but kept reading. My stomach lurched when I turned the page and read its red-penned entry: Lord Julian Ashton, 6 Chadstone Road, Milesfield, Hudder-smith, HD7 5UQ, Yorkshire.

"Oh, Edward."

They would have murdered him for this. Of all the unwritten, unspoken rules we followed, protecting each other's identity was the most important. I mean… I knew several phone numbers and addresses, but I would never write one of them down. Edward must have been mad. Why would he do this? I had to burn it quickly.

Then the name on the final page caused me to stop: Margaritte Latour, 1412 Queen Anne Drive, Seattle, WA 98102, (206) 555-8401. Maggie. How long since I'd seen Maggie? She lived as a vague image in my past. I remembered the sight of her in a dark red dress, holding on to Philip Brante's arm shortly before I left Wales with William in 1839. Would she help us? Could she?

I carried the book back into the study and picked up the phone. For all I knew, she might have moved seven times since Edward had written this phone number down.

"Are you calling Julian?" William asked from his little worktable.

"No."

"Ask him to send me a new smoking jacket. This one is wrinkled and chewed by moths. We have moths, you know. And mice. I keep telling you to get a cat, but you don't."

Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I read Maggie's number again and murmured to William, "I'll get you a new smoking jacket, and we don't need a cat."

The line rang twice. I tried to keep calm.

"Hello," a deep female voice answered. Even in that one word, I could hear a hint of her French accent.

"Maggie?"

The line was silent for a moment, and then, "Who is this?"

"It's Eleisha. I need help. William has to be moved."

She hung up.

I should have known better. We don't make a practice of calling each other. We don't visit each other. Everyone who knew that William and Edward and I actually lived in the same city thought we were twisted aberrations.

"What happened?" William asked.

"Nothing for you to worry about. Just be quiet for a few minutes."

I dialed the number again and let it ring nine times. I heard a click when she picked up, but I jumped in before she could say anything.

"Listen to me. I'm in the middle of something here, and William's got to be moved. If you don't help, I'll have to call Julian, and I'll tell him you left us to rot. That should put him in a good mood."

She didn't speak for almost thirty seconds, and then asked, "Where did you get this number?"

What should I have told her? And how much? It would be foolish to make her more afraid of the police than of Julian.

"I've got to get William out tonight."

"Is it that bad?"

"It's worse." I paused. "Edward's dead. He killed himself."

Had she felt him die? Could she, from almost two hundred miles away? I didn't know how that worked.

The line was silent for another long moment. "Do you have my address, too?"

"Yes, on Queen Anne Hill?"

Her voice changed. It had always been deep and smooth, but now an undertone of hatred dropped it lower. "Get on a plane and bring him here. You've got about five hours till dawn. But don't drag any of this down on my head, or I'll cut yours off and burn it."

Click.

Two minutes later, I was on the phone with a travel agent. Notice may have been short, but she managed to book us on a 1:30 A.M. United Airlines flight to Seattle. I called a taxi, not bothering to pack much-just a few changes of clothes.

Before we left, I tore out the page with Maggie's address on it, and then threw the book on the fire, making sure it burned completely. After that, things seemed a little safer. Then I ran outside and let all the rabbits go.

The whole ordeal was hard on William. He hadn't been out of the house in ninety-six years. I covered him with a hooded cloak and led him to the cab.

"I'm sorry, William, but you've got to hurry. We have a plane to catch."

He wouldn't know what a plane was, but my words moved him a bit quicker. Poor thing. A cab ride was only the beginning. The lights at the airport and all the noise might throw him into shock.

A middle-aged Asian sat behind the wheel.

"Take us to the airport, please," I whispered. "We're late."

"We'll miss dinner," William rattled through rapid, nervous breaths. "If we don't get home soon, we'll miss our dinner."

"We already had dinner. Don't you remember? I brought you the rabbit myself. You almost got blood on your smoking jacket."

The cabbie glanced up, but I ignored him. At that point, it didn't matter what he thought.

"It's late. Very late," William insisted. "We must get back home."

What was I supposed to say? That we weren't going home? That we no longer had a home? That Edward had ignited himself on purpose and the police watched it happen and now we were paying the price?

"We're going visiting. Do you remember Maggie Latour? Philip's mistress? The dark-haired one? She always wore red dresses and held on to his arm."