The Beginning of the End
By now, I’d mostly recovered from my dramatic meltdown—courtesy of a cocktail of too much sun, wrongly dosed potion not adjusted to my increasing resistance (thanks, Leeora), and too much party indulgence. Cesare, in his infinite ancient wisdom, basically said I short-circuited into a fever dream. Classic vampire rookie move and one of the many reasons why he made any vampire who turns another a mandatory mentor until the new vampire has proven self-sufficient to Cesare himself. Since Cesare had been tricked into turning me, he was mostly my “turning-tutor” and because he was the big kahuna, he recruited Riordan, Branwen, Scarlett and whomever he damn well pleased to assist.
Normally, I’d defer to someone with a few centuries of undead experience under their belt, especially when they say things with that “I’ve seen empires rise and fall” tone. And I did nod along like a good little fledgling. But inside? I had doubts. Loud, sarcastic ones.
Anyway, I was back at the desk with Riordan, learning the ropes, assisting where I could, and trying not to look too clueless. Gavin dropped by often, though he had his own whirlwind of responsibilities to juggle.
Eventually, Gavin whisked us off to his newly purchased estate home in Henfordshire. It was charming in that “under construction and borderline uninhabitable” way. Not ideal for a crawling infant who moved like a squirrel on espresso. So, we relocated to the estate of his son, Earl Jake, and his wife, Duchess Claire—who, despite their titles, were the human embodiment of herbal tea: warm, calming, and slightly floral.
Jake and Claire had identical twin boys just a couple years older than Annabelle, which meant chaos in Dolby surround. Their estate was stunning, with sprawling grounds and actual horses. Gavin, in a moment of romantic optimism (or temporary insanity), decided to teach me to ride.
The upside of being a vampire? A broken neck wouldn’t kill me. The downside? Falling off a horse still hurt like hell. I just recovered faster, which meant I could repeat the experience more often. Yay.
Let’s just say horseback riding did not come naturally to me. I had a particular talent for dramatic dismounts—usually unintentional—and spent more time kissing the dirt than sitting in the saddle. Gavin, Jake, and Claire were gracious about it, but the toddlers and my darling Annabelle found my flailing hilarious. I swear even the horses were snickering.
While the others made riding look as effortless as pedaling a bike, my horse treated me like an annoying fly. The reins were decorative, my voice was background noise, and twice the beast decided to go full aquatic and splash through rivers. I was soaked. And autumn in Henfordshire? Think soggy, chilly, and aggressively damp. Sure, temperature didn’t affect me the way it used to, but I still felt it—and it felt like wet socks and regret.
Stroll Down Memory Lane – With A Twist
One day, when everyone was occupied and I wasn’t being launched off a horse, I took a stroll down memory lane. I wandered from the estate through the rolling hills into the old part of Henfordshire, where cobblestone streets and 16th-century architecture still stood proud. The buildings, with their steep roofs, king mullions, and oolitic limestone, looked like something out of a history book curated by someone with a flair for drama.
I reached the marketplace and stopped cold. The tall rowhouses where my story had truly begun—where I’d unwillingly become Alder’s equally unwilling roommate—were gone. In their place stood a construction site, building what looked like a single-family home. I found one of those infoboards and, lo and behold, there was a photo of the old rowhouses. Apparently, they’d been deemed unsafe due to foundation issues and, despite their historical status, were demolished.
I sighed. Loudly. The kind of sigh that carried decades of existential dread and a touch of melodrama.
It made me sad. Not just because the buildings were gone, but because they were part of my story. Say what you will about Alder—yes, he was complicated, and yes, my dream had been harrowing—but none of it was truly his fault. He’d been coerced, cornered, and handed a fate so cruel it would make a Greek tragedy look like a rom-com. I understood that kind of pain. I’d lived it. Sometimes, you’re just too tired to care about consequences. You just want the hurting to stop.
So seeing that piece of history—local, global, and personal—erased like that hit me harder than expected.
I remembered the little park nearby and decided to visit. Last autumn, it had looked like a greeting card exploded—fiery reds, golden yellows, and crisp air that smelled like nostalgia. This year, it was quieter. Fewer people, more solitude. Those who passed by were in a hurry, heads down, lives to live.
I strolled slowly, pausing to touch leaves, inhale the earthy scent, and just… be. No horses, no toddlers, no vampire drama. Just me, autumn, and the ghosts of rowhouses past.
I meandered through the park like a Victorian ghost with a botanical fetish. The trees were ablaze with autumn colors, and I was in no rush. I sniffed this flower, fondled that plant—yes, fondled, don’t judge me—and even crouched to admire a particularly smug-looking mushroom. Nature was showing off, and I was here for it.
I bent over a patch of ornamental grass, fingers brushing the feathery blades, when a voice behind me said, very softly:
“Touching grass takes on a whole new meaning.”
I shrieked. Not a dignified vampire shriek, mind you. More like a startled squirrel who’d just been caught stealing snacks. I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet and landed in a bush.
Alder stood there, trying not to grin, holding out his hand to help me from the bush, looking like he’d just stepped out of a poetry reading and accidentally wandered into a horror movie. His long coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his expression was the usual mix of serene and vaguely apologetic.
“Effing hell, Alder!” I gasped, taking his hand with one of mine, clutching my chest with the other, like I was auditioning for a soap opera. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that! Especially not people who – well, have a new dental layout and therefore jumpy reflexes!”
“I didn’t sneak,” he said, blinking slowly. “I walked. You just didn’t notice me, too busy petting a shrub.”
“I was not petting a shrub, I was … communing with nature,” I snapped, brushing leaves off my coat. “Something you should be very well acquainted with, with all your herb hunting and witches brews and potions and such.”
“Witches brews? Herb hunting? I’d wager say you know me better than anyone, yet this is how you see me? Borderline insulting,” he said, in that gentle tone that made it impossible to stay mad for long. “Besides, I thought you’d hear me. I even stepped on a twig.”
“You stepped on a twig?” I narrowed my eyes. “That’s your idea of announcing yourself?”
He nodded solemnly. “It was a very crunchy twig.”
I groaned and flopped onto a nearby bench, still recovering from the adrenaline spike. Alder sat beside me, his presence as calming as chamomile tea, if chamomile tea had an in-depth knowledge about herbalism, could perform magic at will and quoted Keats.
“You’ve gotten stronger,” I said, eyeing him. “I felt nothing. No magic, no aura. You used to buzz like a faulty streetlamp. Well, once I was turned anyway. My vampy-senses didn’t detect you.”
“I’ve learned to quiet myself,” he said, almost shyly. “Gwydion taught me.”
I smiled despite myself. “Sounds like you are advancing much faster than I am.”
He looked down at his hands, fingers laced together. “It’s all because of you, Victoria. Me wanting to lean into this side, me being free of those who used me all my life and me even still being alive to even get the chance to try again.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Well, I’m a sucker for poets and underdogs. And you were the most interesting roommate I ever had. Even if you did talk to your plants more than to me.”
“They listened better,” he said with a faint smile.
We sat in silence for a moment, watching leaves drift down like lazy confetti. Then I turned to him, mock-serious.
“Why are you here? A trip down memory lane or mage-y business in town?” I wondered.
“Neither. I am here to see you.”
“Me? How did you even know I … oh, never mind. You know you could call, text, email, write …”
“I have written you.” his tone was soft and teasing, and a smile in his eyes reminded me of the letter he had sent me, which I still hadn’t read. The one that followed the two I destroyed, unread. The third one was magical and couldn’t be discarded.
I sighed.
“Sorry. Been really … preoccupied. Blaine hired me to write his biography, I accepted not realizing his family tree is insane, as are most of his descendants. And I am barely half way through. And then I had some adverse reactions to … who knows what. I had the trippiest fever dream.”
“Wasn’t a dream.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t a dream and had you read my letter, it wouldn’t have been necessary. I just … needed to know.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“In my letter I asked you for another meeting. I wanted to really sit down with you and speak freely. I almost begged you for it. But just couldn’t be bothered to read it, no matter how I tried. So, I used alternate means to get my answers.”
I jumped up, staring down at him, still seated calmly like a clam.
“My … dream … was … YOU!? You did that? Alder why?! What have I ever done to you that would warrant such cruelty?!”
He rose up and met my eyes.
“I wasn’t cruel. I was curious for the unbridled truth. You know there was something between us and I believe there still is. I just had to know how strong it was. Last time so many things happened between us that I believed you chose Gavin as he felt safer. Alas, this time you seemed to have chosen him again.”
He looked at me with sad eyes, his tone confirming that he was confident in his logic. Once more he messed with my life, once more innocently, just because he wanted to know if I would pick Gavin over him again if put before the choice.
Yeah, I had a hard time processing that as well and just stared at him, probably with my mouth and eyes wide open.
Epilogue
Well, back then I didn’t know this would be the last time Alder and I would speak.
I also didn’t know that once I returned home, Gavin had a three-course meal plus candlelight waiting for me, his son, daughter-in-law, their twins and our daughter away for the weekend.
A weekend that was just ours.
We did the sappiest, most romantic things imaginable.
And by the time Sunday bid farewell to a new week, I was engaged.
We were married six months later, on a beautifully sunny spring day, even though the afternoon garden party turned into a mad scramble when Henfordshire remembered it loved to surprise its residents with sudden downpours.
Am I happy?
Yes, I am.
There are still rough days. Fangs, a ring, a husband and family doesn’t change that. Nor do the recurring thoughts of Alder and the echoes of what might have been.
But other echoes ring louder.
The Echoes of Legacy.
The End
EchoesOfLegacy 