Seth

 

I met her when I was sixty-eight years old.

She was only twenty-three, a mere child next to me.

Still, though, sixty-eight is young for a hunter—what age is not?—and I certainly appeared no older than my twenties as well. It was fortunate for me that my circumstances allowed this, for I know I would have loved her regardless. My sweet Rosalie.

I met her in France, when Gabriel and I were still working the wanderlust out of our feet. Rosalie Durand. What a vision she was. My parents, had they not disowned me years before, would surely have done so then. She was the daughter of farmers, you see, and of gypsies as well if family legend held true. No suitable match for a young man of wealth and breeding like I used to be.

Then again, I never gave much stock to the arbitrary designation of so-called “noble” classes. Whatever virtues the old families had once possessed, they meant nothing to the current generations. I have met many men in my long life, and while I will freely admit that good men may be found in the higher classes as in any other position in life, they are sadly far more rare in those high classes than noble propagandists would have you believe.

I was telling you, though, about Rosalie.

Gabriel and I had just finished clearing a nest of weredemons, something local that took after one of the nastier breeds of bears in the area. The nest, of course, had been far out into the countryside, in the great expanses of forest that still covered the country in those days. We were, therefore, on our way back to the nearest town in search of an inn and a hot bath. On foot. Personally, I would have preferred a motorcar, but it simply was not practical.

I saw her in the fields. I wish I could be theatrical and tell you that she was dancing along the way picking wildflowers in the pretty spring sunlight, but the truth is that she was working as hard as any good girl who helped her father on the farm.

I was able to prevail upon my companion that we might pause at this farm for some rest and refreshment before continuing on to the town. I argued that, though all the wounds we had suffered during the hunt had long since healed, it was still a long way to town and I, for one, could use a few minutes off my feet.

Gabriel laughed a little at my words, so I assume that my intentions were completely transparent. However, he conceded that we might at least stop to ascertain if the family were hospitable.

“After all,” he said with a grin he knew frustrated me to no end, “There’s no milk like goat milk, fresh from the animal.”

I groaned theatrically. He knew full well that I have no love for goats of any sort, including anything they might produce.

“Surely they would have cows,” I countered. Gabriel smirked, shook his head, and walked towards the house. Surely, on a farm as large as this, the family would possess at least one heifer. Was it too much to hope?

I suppose it might have been better for me had I not spent so much of my youth indoors pursuing such useless things as piano lessons. Fortunately, one of the more useful things my parents had commanded of me was a scholar’s grounding in the French language. The Greek and the Latin I might never again use, especially having abandoned my pursuit of medicine, but the French at least proved extremely useful.

To be more precise, while my companion was utterly useless as far as linguistics were concerned, I was able to converse quite freely with any citizen of this particular country that I might encounter. I have been told on occasion that my accent rivals that of a native Parisian; although considering those from whom this compliment has come I cannot quite trust that they were being anything more than polite. Still, there was little danger of misunderstanding between myself and anyone whom I might choose to address… not to mention that I have found that people everywhere are far more forthcoming and hospitable if I am able to speak with them in their native tongue.

This being the case, I found myself hurrying to approach the main farmhouse before Gabriel so that I, and not he, would be the one to greet the family. He slowed his walk regardless; he knew as well as I that he would have no idea what to say to whoever might open the door.

The pretty girl I had seen in the field was still hard at work, but I had confidence that I could carry on all sorts of pleasantries until she might return. It was yet another of those incidental skills that I had acquired during the otherwise useless years in my parents’ home. Besides, the girl had certainly noticed the two travellers coming up the way and would undoubtedly be curious as to our intentions.

A pleasant-looking woman, of middle age and no few strands of silver hair, opened the door to my knock. I greeted her cheerfully, concocting a tale to explain our appearance. I am not certain which I used that day, for I have often found it necessary to deliver some fabrication or another in order to facilitate matters. This particular piece of fiction involved, I believe, some variation of my companion and I as prospective landowners. It’s difficult to be certain, though—my attention was thoroughly distracted by the pretty brunette who was slowly but unmistakably working her way closer to the house.

Whatever it was that I told the woman, she must have accepted it, for she invited Gabriel and myself to stay for a little while. Once inside, we were also greeted by a strong, suntanned man—undoubtedly the master of the house—and a small collection of children, all of which were younger than the girl outside. Seeing this, my hopes were raised further—the father of such a collection of children would undoubtedly appreciate attentions given to his eldest daughter.

The man, who gave his name as M. Durand, had an unfortunate cough. He attempted to excuse himself, claiming some responsibility or another, but I could not take the chance that it was anything worse than a chest cold. I prevailed upon him to join us for just one cup of tea, and I was able to slip a few drops of blood into his cup while his attention was elsewhere. Gabriel noticed, of course—he was always on about how I shouldn’t risk revealing myself like that—but he said nothing. He just gave me the same reproachful look that he always did.

As always, M. Durand’s cough all but disappeared after a few sips, and I took the opportunity to complement his wife’s tea. I had killed the proverbial two birds with one stone: M. Durand was no longer ill, and I was slightly more in favour with Mme. Durand. Now I merely needed Mlle. Durand to give in to curiosity and enter the house as well.

A few minutes more and my patience was rewarded. Mlle. Durand entered the house, having apparently made some effort to remedy her appearance before greeting her family’s guests. It was not necessary; she was lovely regardless of how much dirt might be on her face, but I did appreciate the fact that she wished to look presentable for us. I smiled at her as charmingly as I could and spoke a few words to her in my ‘Parisian’ voice. She returned my smile and greeting, and then addressed Gabriel, who managed to fumble through some of the few basic phrases he had learned in our time in that country. For a moment I had some concern that she might find him more interesting than I, but she addressed me once again after the necessary pleasantries had been exchanged.

All the better, then, that my companion had never shown interest in remarrying.

The young lady, meanwhile, was as sweet as I had suspected when I first laid eyes on her. She was a little shy, perhaps, but she returned my interested glances and I soon made arrangements to call again the next day.

Gabriel was bemused. We had originally intended to continue on to another area in search of more demon nests within the next day. Now it appeared that we would inhabit the nearby town for several weeks to come. Hopefully there would be other nests within a reasonable distance from the town so that my poor companion would have some diversion while I pursued my little farm girl. Even if there were not, however, I reminded him that it was not as if we were working with a limited schedule.

Fortunately, he accepted his fate with a minimal amount of comments on my newfound interest in pretty French farm girls and instead diverted himself with scouting, hunting, and even making the acquaintance of the few hunters who had settled in the area. A small number of these were already known to us, as we had sometimes encountered one another during the course of our travels. Gabriel took the effort to contact the our Record-keepers regularly to inquire after any cousins that might come into our vicinity. I had not previously known him to be so social, though I expect it was no more than a mere exercise to pass the time.

His efforts yielded results. We were shortly informed that Estela and Rafael Solana, a couple with whom we had become acquainted in Spain the previous year, were travelling through that part of the country on their way to England. Gabriel made a quick excursion to meet them along the way and convinced the two to visit the town in which we were residing for a few days.

Not long after, another old friend was located: Luciano Benenati. Italian, originally, though one would never know it from his appearance, or that of his brother Matteo. Without hearing them speak, most of those they encountered assumed them to be of purely Nordic ancestry. Luciano was making his way west, through France and eventually back to the Pyrenees; unlike many hunters, I had never known him to travel more than a few hundred miles from his home. Unfortunately, Luciano had spent quite some time away from his family already, and was quite eager to return; he did not visit with us for more than a day.

Other local acquaintances were located as well, though none such good friends of ours as the three whom I previously named. Gabriel amused himself by visiting with the nearest of these, though more often than not he travelled to the forests rather than the neighbouring towns.

In the end, we stayed in that particular town for a little over two months. To my own surprise, I found myself indicating to Rosalie’s family — for she had at last revealed her given name to me — that I would be quite willing to settle in this area in order to ingratiate myself with her parents. It’s not that living there would have been any great chore, for it was beautiful country, but the necessity of explaining why I would have to move after only a few years would have been difficult to manage. I was actually saved by Rosalie herself, who had been fascinated when I told her that I had travelled extensively and indicated that she as well would love to see other countries, especially England and America. Her parents eventually acquiesced to this, reasoning that it was better to see their eldest daughter married to a fine Englishman than no-one at all, although they did insist that we have the wedding at the local church.

For her sake, I found myself accepting a Catholic baptism so that we could be married by her priest. It was a decidedly odd experience, considering that the ceremony was supposed to be an attempt to purify my soul—which amused Gabriel to no end, but I digress—yet it seemed to please Rosalie so greatly that I did not mind getting a little wet. The marriage ceremony itself was brief, attended only by Rosalie’s friends and family (and Gabriel, of course) and followed by a small celebration at her parent’s home. To anybody who asked — and everybody did — I said that I was a medical doctor from London who had come to France on business. It was true, in a way. Once upon a time, I truly had been a doctor, and I do hail originally from London; I simply never elaborated that my current business involved the hunting and extermination of animalistic demons, or that my current methods of healing would never be found in hospitals or books.

After the wedding, all three of us travelled back to England. Gabriel searched for demons; Rosalie searched for new clothes; I searched for a way to tell her that I was not, in fact, a doctor—at least not anymore. In retrospect, I suppose I should have informed her of my exceptional circumstances before I married her, but at the time I was too frightened that she would change her mind in favour of finding somebody more… normal. It is one thing to make up stories to facilitate travel or finding a job, but I have never been able to abide constant deception. After two weeks of honeymooning in London, I had run out of options. Very soon, she would start to question why I did not return to my practice, and I would have no choice but to reveal myself.

Now, I ask you to remember that we do not generally reveal ourselves to anyone, at any time, except in the most exceptionally extenuating circumstances (such as after the point is already settled, the person in question having already witnessed things that would require no less than an honest explanation). I will of course grant that I did not always adhere to the rather strict rules we set for ourselves concerning proper conduct in the company of mortals, but I had never once openly revealed myself to somebody not in dire need of medical assistance. I knew full well that I would need to explain everything; my greatest dilemma concerned the proper timing, and above all the proper method of explanation that would not send my sweet Rosalie running for the hills.

Imagine my relief, then, when Rosalie came in from the terrace of our apartment, weeping, and carrying a small bundle of feathers. It seemed that one of the stray cats in the neighbourhood had caught a bird, wounding but not killing it. Softhearted Rosalie had found the poor thing laying on the terrace, barely breathing, and had not had the heart to leave it there. She requested, through her tears, that we might at least let it lay in something soft until the end so that it would not suffer overmuch.

This was my chance.

Though I do not often heal animals, I was certainly not averse to making an exception. I took the bird from her as if to carry out her request, but made no move to find a blanket for it. Instead, to Rosalie’s horror, I opened up a gash in my hand with a claw that she must not have seen. A few moments later, both the bird and my hand had healed. I took it back out to the terrace and let it fly away, then returned to face my wife.

Her face flickered from admiration to doubt. I took a deep breath to prepare myself.

“I told you that I am a doctor,” I began. She nodded uncertainly. “That was… partially true. I am a healer, first and foremost, and I always have been. I used to heal with medicine; now I have… other methods.”

I paused, uncertain how to continue.

“Your friend Gabriel,” she asked in the silence. “He is the same?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

“Why did you not tell me before?”

“Because I was afraid,” I answered honestly. “I was afraid how you might react, and I couldn’t lose you. I love you too much. Please forgive me.”

Her face softened. “Of course I forgive you,” she said. “I love you, too. But why would you think that I would leave you for such a magnificent ability?” Her arms began to wrap around me, to hold me close, but as much as I longed to let her I made her stop.

“There is more,” I said, dreading this part of it. “…Much more.”

Haltingly and cautiously, I told her everything. Sometime in the middle of my explanation she sat down in the armchair, a stunned expression on her face. The only reprieve I found was that she did not doubt my words, and did not demand proof or pronounce me a lunatic. I merely had to endure several interminable seconds of silence during which Rosalie considered what I had said. It was the worst torture I have endured, not knowing what she might decide, or if she might leave.

Finally she spoke. “I have three questions.”

“Yes?” I said eagerly, my hope returning.

“Firstly, are we in any danger from these demons?”

“No, none at all,” I hastily replied. “I never commit to a fight that I am not completely certain I can win. Especially now that I have a family to consider,” I added.

“I am glad to hear that, at least,” she said with a small smile. “Secondly, what will we do for money, if you are not a doctor?”

“Finding work will not be a problem,” I assured her. “My cousins will be happy to give me a position in any of the businesses that we own.”

She nodded, considering this. “And the last question,” she said. “Our children. Will they be like you?”

“If they so choose, yes,” I said happily. If she wished to discuss children, then she obviously had no wish to leave me. “They can be like me. What?” I asked, for Rosalie had started to giggle quietly.

“I have always hoped that my children would be little angels,” she revealed merrily. “Now, my wish has come true!”

I smiled at her joke. “Well, we’re not angels, actually…”

Rosalie just smiled at me, a glint in her eye. “As you say.”

“…So you’re not angry with me?”

“No. I’m not angry. You are far too charming for me to ever be angry with you for long.”

“Oh thank goodness!” I exclaimed, finally allowing myself to breathe, and gathering her into my arms.

All things considered, Rosalie took my disclosure with a grace that would have been startling in anyone else. The revelatory conversation about my being a hunter, as well as the several subsequent conversations in which I explained things in more detail, were met with complete composure. It turned out that she did, in fact, harbour some doubts when I first began my explanations, but these were quickly discarded the first time I allowed her to see my claws. I even put a small amount of my blood into her eyes so that she could see, briefly, the world as I see it. I am certain that if she had still retained any doubts at all, that glimpse erased them.

Actually, those conversations went far more smoothly than the ones in which I attempted to explain why I was not truly a Catholic, despite having been baptised in her church. I would have believed that the glimpse I had given her would have dispelled such controversy, but it was not to be. She persisted in worrying over me, even despite the countless times I attempted to explain that my soul was in no danger of hell. In the end, the only thing that mollified her was the knowledge that I would likely not die at all, thus rendering the point inconsequential.

The one unfortunate side effect to my marriage was that Gabriel soon tired of staying so long in the city. He, like I, had grown accustomed to travelling frequently. I, however, felt the desire to travel fading dramatically with every second that I spent with my Rosalie. For the sake of our many years hunting together, he stayed for a full month after we arrived in London. I could tell that he was unhappy, however; he rarely stayed in the flat he had rented for himself (meaning that I often did not see him at all, for I had no way to find him when he was off on one of his wanderings through the city) and on the rare occasion that he visited our own flat he mainly moped in the living room while Rosalie did her best to ply him with milk and biscuits.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. Gabriel is my dearest friend, with whom I have stood through many ordeals, and so I was loathe to be parted from him; however, it pained me even more than that to see him in such a state. I told him to go, and not to worry about Rosalie and myself. He loved to travel, and so he should.

I also suspect that his discomfort may have also resulted from lingering distress at residing so close to his old home. I will not tell you all of the heartache that Gabriel suffered there, for the events occurred before I met him and it is his story to tell.

Suffice it to say that I knew he would be better once he had departed from these shores.

So Gabriel left.

At our parting, he informed me that he would be travelling to Germany. Within a week, I received word that he was on his way to Australia. Apparently, even the German language was beyond his modest linguistic skill.

As for Rosalie and I, we remained in England for a while yet. I found work as a clerk in one of the shops owned by our cousins, and while it was a modest living, we were perfectly content. I, as I have already revealed, care little for the wealth to which I would have otherwise been entitled, considering my birth. Rosalie, for her part, was excited simply to live in the city, having resided exclusively on her family’s farm for all of her twenty-three years.

For several months, life passed by peacefully for the two of us. Rosalie made a few acquaintances among the other young wives living in our part of the city. Despite my meagre protests, I found myself in attendance at many dinners and luncheons at the homes of these young ladies and their husbands. I had warned Rosalie at the outset that we must not form too great of attachments to any mortals we might encounter, for we must surely bid them a permanent farewell, but she was not to be dissuaded. Even brief associations were preferable to no social contact whatsoever. Fortunately, I found these dinners to be no great burden. The arrangements were simple more often than not, and the people there were perfectly amiable. I soon found myself reciprocating these invitations—or, rather, allowing Rosalie to do so—and we held our own dinners and luncheons. As it turned out, the greatest burden of these visits was to watch my tongue. After over forty years of associating only with my fellow hunters, it was most difficult to remember which subjects were suddenly prohibited.

In the midst of this tranquillity came the best news of all: Rosalie was with child! I was to be a father! I had lived for so long believing that I might never be blessed with such a thing that my excitement was irrepressible. I do believe that I was more ecstatic even than Rosalie herself, a phenomenon upon which she remarked on several occasions. So protective was I that I decided that I could not allow her to walk down a flight of stairs, let alone travel in her delicate condition. On this point, however, I met with resistance. She pointed out—quite rightly—that it would be no better to travel with a small child than travel in her condition. If we were to remain there, in London, for the duration, we would not be able to travel to America for several more years. Apparently, such a long delay was completely unacceptable.

I had forgotten, in my long years, that not everyone might have the luxury to postpone such things indefinitely. I still resisted, my worry over her health and the health of our coming child superseding common sense for a time. It was not long, however, until my life’s greatest weakness made itself known: Rosalie, looking up at me with those big blue eyes so full of disappointment that I could not bear but to consent to her every wish. As you might imagine, I had no option but to acquiesce to her request to travel to America immediately. I found a transport ship leaving that very week and booked passage.

It was a novel experience for me—ordinarily, Gabriel and I would have simply found a likely-looking vessel and hidden in the cargo hold for the duration of the journey, venturing out only to scavenge small amounts of nourishment and to ensure that there were no demons aboard. We especially enjoyed the latter, as this allowed us to take those vacated spots without needing to pay for our voyage. For this journey, however, I parted with enough money to ensure my wife and I safe and comfortable passage.

Several days after we had embarked I found myself extremely grateful for my decision to secure more conventional arrangements. Voyages between the British Isles and various parts of Europe did not last longer than a few days. This voyage continued for a number of weeks. Not even Gabriel would have felt comfortable spending that much time tucked away like a piece of luggage.

Rosalie spent the majority of our journey making the acquaintance of the other women onboard the ship. They were all amazed that I had allowed her to travel in her condition and laughed with her when she explained that she had given me no option. Rosalie has quite the gift for forming fast friendships. I am sure her naturally sweet disposition lent itself to this talent, and I have never met a soul who was not immediately enchanted with her.

I worried, at first, that she would become ill with the constant motion of the waves at sea, a danger increased by her delicate condition. I’d had enough encounters with expectant mothers when I was practicing medicine to know that it was quite common for them to experience nausea, especially in the earlier stages. Sure enough, I found her on the third day grasping the railing on an isolated edge of the deck and heaving the contents of her stomach into the ocean. I admit I panicked—I immediately tore open my hand and pressed it to her bosom, not even caring that somebody might notice my actions. We were fortunate; Rosalie had chosen her private spot well, and we were able to disappear back to our quarters without being observed.

From that moment on, I insisted on dosing her hourly—just a small amount to calm her stomach and keep her and the child strong. She made some token protests at first, especially for the inconvenience of excusing herself so often from the company of her new friends. I believe the sense of taking every precaution for the sake of her unborn child won out against her slight annoyance, though, and it quickly became just another routine. She was, indeed, grateful for my help. She was even more grateful that my administrations did not necessitate any needles or other such invasive procedures, the like of which I had once employed in my practice.

After that, the rest of the voyage was mundane. Rosalie with her socializing, I with my worrying over her with every breath. I … may have been slightly overprotective. If you had met Rosalie, though, you would have understood my concern. As for our plans after we reached the new country, I did not worry overmuch. It would be one night in a hotel and a quick call to the local Organisers to secure a permanent residence, as well as suitable employment so that I would be able to earn my keep and not have to rely upon the Council’s treasury. It is one of those fringe benefits to our life that we may find friends and family in ready supply wherever we might go. The positions may be mundane, but they are easily accessible. We take great pains to ensure that none of us ever want for occupation, and any who might find themselves without shelter or prospects is soon taken under our metaphorical wing. Such things are possible when one’s kind has existed for the entirety of human history (if not beyond—our records become unclear about events before the invention of writing) and has taken steps from the outset to ensure this result.

Rosalie, for her part, would be able to find suitable social opportunities no matter where we settled.

We came into the New York harbour a few weeks later. Rosalie bid farewell to the friends she had acquired during the journey and we quickly found a hotel for the night. Happily, I had sufficient funds to secure a room on my own. As soon as I had gotten her and our meagre luggage settled I went back into the streets.

As busy as that city was, it took only a few minutes of walking for me to find another with light shining from behind his eyes. I pulled the man aside and he greeted me readily, as he could also recognize me in turn, introducing himself and inquiring after my relatives. After chatting for a few minutes about the differences between hunting in Europe and America, he gave me the phone number for the local Organiser and bid me a good day, lamenting that he was needed at home. I took the number gratefully and returned to our hotel.

As it turned out, there were no truly suitable arrangements at the moment for a hunter with a child on the way. Plenty of spots for single mercenaries, of course, but there always are. For a new family, something somewhat more stable was required. The Organiser for the city—a terribly busy man, I’m afraid—suggested that I try New Jersey instead. It was quieter, away from the rush of the city, and far less expensive. Most importantly, he had heard that there might be a few houses available, formerly belonging to other hunters that were moving in order to avoid the draft. It was not safe at that time for a hunter claiming American citizenship to retain one identity for very long. He was able to provide me with the phone number for that area’s Organiser, who I promptly called after finishing the conversation with the man who looked after New York. This Organiser turned out to be a woman, an Indian by the name of Sari Prakash who had come from that country with a few English colonists she had befriended.

The arrangements were made. We took the train into New Jersey and met Sari at the station. She already had the necessary papers with her, naming me the new tenant of the townhouse in which we would be living. The entire complex was owned by our family, which allowed the Council to not only earn a little money, but also to keep the rent for any hunters living there very low. It was clean, it was well maintained, and it was large enough for the three of us and maybe even another if we were so fortunate.

As for employment, I would be assuming the former duties of the previous tenant. The job was a clerical position at a local law firm located in the city of Newark, in which we lived on the outskirts. The work would be relatively simple, but it meant that my duties would often include favours for our cousins, handled carefully so as to not jeopardise myself. In my position, I would have access to many useful documents and signatures, provided that I had some rudimentary skill at lock picking (which tend to be a necessity for all of us at one point or another). These documents—with added signatures forged by those more talented than I at that particular skill—could then be used for all manner of things, from legal binds that our cousins might encounter to filing requests for additional necessities. Maintaining our secrecy is a difficult task, you see, and it simply wouldn’t do for one of us to be unjustly accused of some grisly crime and subsequently placed behind bars for life… a life that would soon be all too apparent to have no end.

I found it somewhat ironic that I would be shouldering part of the responsibility to keep our kind hidden when I had previously—and still do, if the truth be known—acted completely irresponsibly in that vein. Not that I have ever regretted my actions, of course. I would rather put myself at risk than sit quietly while a person suffered from any affliction that I could so easily mend. He would never admit it, but I suspect Gabriel agreed with this, although he was always far more careful than I. In those days, it was not so important to maintain secrecy.

We settled nto our new home with ease, Rosalie in particular taking to it happily. It was a quiet neighbourhood, on the outskirts of Newark, and we found ourselves surrounded by family. Everywhere, it seemed, there were more cousins to be had. Rosalie was delighted, and at my encouragement, she busied herself entirely with socializing in that circle. It was a great relief for me, as these were friends who would not have to be abandoned if and when we moved to another area. Whatever dinners we might attend, I would not have to watch my tongue, for there were no secrets I could betray that our cousins did not already know. They, in turn, were absolutely delighted with her, and took great pleasure in helping her to perfect her English. She grew accustomed to the vocabulary more quickly than I, quite possibly because, for her, learning this new language was a necessity while for myself it was considerably more optional. She soon, for example, took to calling biscuits ‘cookies’, which caused some confusion for a time.

During this time Rosalie’s condition became more and more apparent. Our cousins, including Sari, were often at our home, fussing over her like so many nursemaids. We frequently had them over for tea, of course, but they often visited with no pretext at all. By the time the child was due, there were no less than a dozen who insisted on acting as surrogate aunts and uncles.

I delivered the child myself, in our home, surrounded by our family. After making Rosalie as comfortable as possible, it was simply a matter of keeping an open palm on her stomach until it was time. This had the dual benefit of reducing her pain and keeping her sufficiently distracted that she did not focus on what little discomfort remained… or the fact that there were over a dozen people in our home, most of whom were hovering over her in bed. The infant came quickly, aided by a cousin who had taken over the responsibility of keeping Rosalie well dosed with blood while I needed both hands and my entire attention to deliver our child. As a result, the child came into the world in perfect health, eyes momentarily shining until I cut the umbilical, and Rosalie was back on her feet within the next few minutes. I would have preferred that she take a day or two to rest regardless, but she would hear none of it, insisting instead on alternately caring for the child and hustling about to make certain that all of our preparations were in place.

We named the child Lilianne, or Lily for short. She had her mother’s nose, ears, and enormous blue eyes, and my mouth and light hair, although the latter eventually darkened into thick, chocolate-coloured curls to more closely resemble her mother. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I doted on my little princess, and would have spoiled her unforgivably if it had not been for her mother’s steady hand. Fortunately, Rosalie had more influence over our daughter than I, and raised her to be just as graceful and sweet-tempered as she. Life became a routine of sorts after Lily’s birth. I worked regular hours at my position at the law firm while Rosalie stayed home and looked after our daughter, frequently taking her to the homes of our cousins to show her off and get her acquainted with all of our family. Lily had soon met more cousins that I ever had—and I was in my sixties at that time—and was loved by all. Rosalie also organised a number of gatherings for the entire family, or at least that part of it that lived in that area. Soon, we were having picnics several times a year. For my part, I found myself hunting fewer and fewer nights out of the week, preferring instead to spend the hours at home with my family. I suppose I could have remained awake for longer, and would have suffered no ill effects from the lack of sleep, but a part of me did not particularly like the thought that I could make a mistake and leave my girls all alone.

We even encountered some cousins that I had previously met. Mateo Benenati, Luciano’s brother, of all people, moved into the very same neighbourhood after we had lived there for about three years. He was quickly drawn into our social gatherings, courtesy of Lily’s charms and Rosalie’s insistence that he join us at every opportunity, and we were soon good friends. Unlike his brother, Mateo quite enjoyed travelling around the world. He had mastered quite a number of languages, one for each of the countries that he had visited over the years, which numbered quite significantly beyond my own.

He was a good man, and good company, and though his actions were often rather impetuous he had managed to save up quite a comfortable amount of money so that he could travel about with ease. I do not recall what position he took during his stay in the area, but whatever it was, it must have been temporary; he moved on a year later to live in New York City, where he took over the task of maintaining a convenience store owned by our cousins. The move was somewhat at my suggestion; like Gabriel, I had noticed him becoming restless and so encouraged him to try living in the much larger city. The Organiser there was happy to have him, as single mercenaries are always welcome in metropolitan areas. At that time, they were having a greater than usual amount of difficulty with the local demon nests, so it was all for the best.

I myself was becoming uneasy as the years passed, but I can only attribute that to my former habit of moving so very often. It becomes ingrained in a man that remaining in any one area for any great length of time becomes dangerous. Fortunately, there, we were in no danger whatsoever, either of being discovered or of my being subjected to the draft. I still claimed British citizenship, you see, and was therefore exempt.

In fact, life was very peaceful for the first few years that we lived in New Jersey. There were occasional rumours of increasing trouble in New York, but no disturbances reached our little community. Of course this did not last, but you must understand why it was so long before any of us acted. We simply did not realise what was to come.

When Lily was nearly five years old, we had another surprise: Gabriel himself arrived in the neighbourhood, bringing stories of Australia and New Zealand. The countries had been quite diverting, but eventually too exotic for his comfort. This was the excuse he gave. His current intention was to travel the United States for a few years in the hopes that it would be similar enough to the United Kingdom that he would not feel forever the fool or foreigner. For the moment, however, he planned to find a residence in our same neighbourhood, ostensibly so that he might become accustomed to the new locale while surrounded by familiar faces. 

He was soon a fixture at my house. He took to Lily immediately, and she to him. It was a terrible shame that he had been robbed of his own family; it was obvious even then that he could be a marvellous father if given the chance. As often as he visited with the sole intention of playing with Lily, he also showed his face to beg of Rosalie to do his laundry or for a civilised dinner. As I understand it, Gabriel was absolutely terrible about cooking for himself while he lived alone. I haven’t the slightest idea how he did not perish from malnutrition, since the staple of his diet was invariably cold cereal for every meal of the day. The only times that he ate naturally were, I suspect, the days he ate dinner with us, and the days on which we held our picnics.

Lily turned five.

By the summer after Gabriel moved into the neighbourhood the politicians were talking about the possibility of ending the war. I do not generally follow mortal news, but it was hard to miss the talk of important meetings and discussions. I should not have taken the newspapers’ word for it, though. I can still remember that terrible week in August. When one hunter dies, all those who were close to him can feel the shock. Imagine the uproar, then, when not one but thousands of hunters simultaneously perished, even half a world away. Such a thing had never happened before, as you may suspect, knowing of our unique physiology. I had to be restrained from travelling to Japan immediately, after hearing the truth of what had happened.

The  Organisers of the area—and all the Council, really—agreed to pull all hunters to safety until they were certain that there was no more danger. While this was prudent for our own kind, it left tens of thousands of humans still suffering from the after-effects of the bombing. We could have so easily saved each and every one, but they would not hear of it. It was too dangerous for us. I was furious, but there was nothing that could be done. Later, I did hear accounts of other hunters defying the rest of the Council and healing those they could, but their numbers were too few to save even a fraction of the afflicted.

Shortly after, the wars did cease. It was an unpleasant thought, but perhaps the morbidity of the bombings had finally shocked the world into complacency. Tens of thousands of innocents, sacrificed for the sake of peace. The very idea turned my stomach.

Irony did not end with the humans’ war. Within a week of the politicians’ announcement that the peace treaties had been signed, we received word that the rumours of escalated difficulties in New York were not rumours at all. Somehow, the nests of demons had been allowed to proliferate unnoticed for some time, and were now infringing on each other’s territories. For once they were fighting amongst themselves.

This was not the problem.

The difficulty lay in their tactics. 

In addition to killing each other outright, they were going to great lengths to firmly establish their territory against opposing nests. A demon—whether weredemon, vampire, or raptor—controls territory according to how many humans it has slain in that area. The Council in New York was in a terrible dilemma. A call was sent out for all available mercenaries to come to the city to aid in the effort to quell the slaughter, and hunters were permitted to indiscriminately reveal themselves for the first time in centuries in order to facilitate the rescue of as many as possible.

Many cousins were killed in the four years that followed. Mateo, our dear friend, was one of the first to perish. Sari fell, too, as well as countless others. I moved my family to the western edge of Brooklyn so that I could be as close as possible if there was need. I was not required to fight, as I had a young daughter and mortal wife, but I intended to be on hand to help any mortals that might require it. Gabriel moved into the city itself, taking over the convenience store so recently vacated and turning the upstairs apartment into a kind of headquarters. It only served to remind me of my previous encouragement that Mateo move to the city in the first place.

At last the nests were put to rest. Gabriel himself was the one to clear the last of them, fighting with a ferocity that I had not seen in him previously. Not long before the end he had found a small child, orphaned by the Nest Wars. I believe he felt a kinship with the boy, as both had lost their families to the voracious demons. He had been given a second chance to raise the family that he had once lost, and this time he was determined to protect his new son. The demons never stood a chance against his wrath.

Peace reigned once again. Our numbers had been diminished, but the demons had been obliterated from the area entirely, even into the neighbouring states. Some few of our kin moved to follow the nests, determined to maintain the extermination. Most others, Gabriel and I included, gratefully accepted the tranquillity for which we had paid so dearly. Gabriel remained at his convenience store, eventually remarrying for the sake of his adopted son. He had a daughter as well, and our children often played together.

The three children grew up as best of friends, with Lily often looking after the other two when Gabriel and I wished to take our wives out for the night. It was a splendid arrangement, since Lily absolutely adored the little ones and was more than pleased to spend so much time with them. In the summers we would take the children to the shore, alternating who would stay behind and look after the store.

In due course, Lily came of age and was called as a hunter to the surprise of none. Rosalie was elated that her daughter had chosen immortality, although we were both sad to see our daughter depart after her eighteenth birthday. She travelled to France with one of Sari’s sons, visiting her grandparents whom she had never before met. I understand that they were somewhat scandalised that a young lady such as herself would be travelling with a man who was not her husband, and she did not linger overlong.

She was also fortunate enough to encounter many of our cousins who lived mainly in Europe. She made a point, for example, to visit the Benenati family in the hills of the Pyrenées and to convey all of our condolences for the loss of their eldest son, Mateo. His parents brushed aside my transmitted feelings of guilt for encouraging him to live in the city, saying that he would have joined our effort even had he been in another state. Through Lily, they sent their reassurances, for which I was immensely grateful, especially in the years to come.

Lily also met the Solana family, including Estela and Rafael who I had known previously, as well as their son Alejo, while they were on their way through France. Unlike her other visits, this one was a fortuitous encounter that occurred when they happened to have targeted the same nest of vampires. The meeting proved to be quite providential; no sooner had she sent word of the meeting, it seemed, than she had written again to announce her engagement to the young man, who was just a year older than her. They were married in the spring of 1960, and decided to remain in the young man’s hometown of Nerja, in southern Spain.

Meanwhile, I had grown somewhat bored in our neighbourhood in Brooklyn. Nobody hunted in the area anymore—there was no bother, since there was no prey to be had—and I found that I desperately missed even the rare occasion when I would hunt at night while Rosalie slept. Finally even she had had enough of my moping. She insisted that we try living someplace else, where there would be demons for me to hunt, so that I would not be so restless at all hours of the day. Now that our only daughter had married there was little keeping us in any one place.

We decided to give Spain a try. I was as much off-balance being away from my daughter as I was not hunting—if not more so. Before we left I invited Gabriel and his family to join us, but he declined. He had made a good life for himself there, he said, and did not wish to disrupt the lives of his wife and children. He had already fulfilled his unspoken goal: the demons had been destroyed, punished for taking his family, and he had been given a second chance to raise his family in peace. It was a complete turning of the tables. Now I was the one who wished to leave in pursuit of new nests and he who wished to remain for the sake of his family.

We remained in Spain for some time. I was blessed with a grandson, and then a granddaughter. They were both very handsome, the boy resembling his father and the girl being an almost exact likeness of my Lily. My daughter followed the same course as I, hunting only rarely now that she had a family to look after. She took to it beautifully, as I knew she would, and was kind enough to allow the children’s grandparents—that is, Rosalie and I—to look after them from time to time.

Gabriel, when I heard from him, did not have such pleasant news. Not many years after Rosalie and I had departed, his wife was once again taken from him.

I did not hear from him again.

His son, Ryan, resumed the correspondence to tell me of the funeral arrangements, first for his mother… and then for his father. Gabriel had not been able to withstand the loss of his second love. He had died of complete heartbreak barely a year after, living only long enough to see his eldest child come of age. He had traded his own long life with Ryan’s, adopting him as fully as our kind are able, and allowing himself to pass away without incident.

The last I heard, Ryan and his sister had travelled to California.

Our grandchildren grew.

My grandson, Alejandro, was the first to leave. He had inherited an acute wanderlust from his father, and wished to travel the world. Fortunately he already knew three languages, thanks to his trilingual parents, and was quite adept at learning new ones. I like to think that he inherited this particular quality from me. He ran off someplace in America as soon as he was called, and sent word every so often that all was well. My granddaughter Fioralba, had she not been several years younger and still a child, would have assuredly followed her brother in his journeys.

We had regular contact with our cousins in the area, thanks in part to Lily and Rosalie’s efforts to recreate the picnics we had previously held in New Jersey all those years ago. The entirety of the Solana family lived nearby, as well as Estela’s relatives. Luciano, too, was a frequent guest, although I noticed straightaway that he was not as lively as he once had been. In fact, he seemed to grow more sullen as the years went by. At first I believed it to be grief for his elder brother, and at first it very well may have been. Whatever it might have been at the onset, however, it eventually soured. As his mood dropped, so did his attendance, and we finally saw very little of him. Now, of course, I wish I had done more to improve his disposition. He had taken an irrational dislike of me from the moment I moved to Spain, though, and I found it too difficult to spend any great deal of time with him.

He moved to America. 

The event shocked us all, for Luciano had never before travelled much farther than the next country before returning to his home in the mountains. He had never even been to Portugal, much less the United States!

Soon after, my grandson sent word of new difficulties in his state. He had gone to New York, to see where I had once lived, and found that the demons had returned, encouraged by our complacency in hunting them there. New York was not the only affected area, however; reports came in from Los Angeles and Las Vegas, growing in frequency and unpleasantness, spreading especially from the major cities. Something had occurred to incite the demons all over North America to restlessness and violence. The most troubling news was that it seemed as though our kin was being targeted specifically.

Such a thing had never happened before. Demons make no distinction between meals; to them, all people appear as potential prey. On the occasion that they were unfortunate enough to attack one of our kindred, they were soon dispatched. They were far more likely to choose a mortal for a meal, as they are far more numerous than we. That they would be specifically targeting hunters, especially when they cannot recognise us for what we are, was very suspicious indeed. When I heard this news I immediately made plans to travel as soon as I could. Rosalie, my lovely wife, was by then too old to travel with me. I had kept her dosed as often as I could, and I know that my attentions did much to prolong her life, but she was past middle aged now, and preferred to stay with our daughter’s family.

I arrived in New York over forty years after the first time I had undertaken that journey. My grandson was staying with my old friend and cousin Michael Connor, who had taken over the convenience store and apartment that we had used during the Nest Wars as a headquarters, and was later inhabited by my dear friend Gabriel. Alejandro even found himself a young lady while he was there. A very nice girl, and pretty, but I was too preoccupied during that time to make any more than casual acquaintances with anyone. Rosalie had always been the social one, anyway. She was of our kin, certainly, but still a child the first time I made her acquaintance. Apparently she had already made quite a nuisance of herself to the local demons, though, and so special dispensation was given to allow her to be called despite being several months too young by current standards.

I remained in New York and the surrounding area for the duration. Not long after I arrived in the city, we were located by my granddaughter Fioralba. The impetuous girl had followed me to America as soon as she was called, determined to help in our efforts. A great portion of me wanted to put her on the very next airplane back to Spain, but by that time our need was too great and I was overruled. Firi had just turned eighteen, and was by our rules permitted to do as she wished, being now considered an adult and equal among all cousins. She was also desperately needed.

I was gratified to learn that she had inherited the same aptitude for hunting as my grandson, and it was not long before I felt not completely ill at ease when she was sent on an assignment. Often it was the three of them—Alejandro, Firi, and Alejandro’s young lady—who hunted and fought together, and the arrangement worked well. I did what I could from the upstairs apartment to ensure that they were given the safest possible tasks (which, in those days, were not terribly safe at all).

The next two and a half years were the most difficult of my life. It was soon exceedingly clear that we and all our cousins were being specifically targeted, beyond all doubt. When given the opportunity, the Organisers did their best to take stock of the number of mortals falling to the demons and tallied their results. Fewer mortals than ever were being lost, while our cousins were being slaughtered in their sleep, parents and children alike. There were fewer fatalities among those fighting than those who had no part in our efforts.

Ryan and his sister, Talia, returned from California with grim news: nearly all of the cousins from that area had been murdered, leaving them and just a few others still alive. The remaining few had, in turn, succeeded in eliminating nearly all of the demons—in fact, I was given to understand that Ryan himself was responsible for over half of the cleared nests—and were now coming to the east coast in pursuit of the rest.

We were not able to end the war—for that is what it had become, even more so than the Nest Wars—until September of 1984. By that time all adult cousins had been enlisted to aid in our struggle while their children were sent to live with trusted friends. Somehow, our Records had been compromised, and all families were asked to move without informing anyone else of their location. It was a long time after the war had ended that all survivors were finally located. This was the very same reason that the demons had been able to locate and kill our kindred so deftly. Somebody—that is, one of our own cousins—had accessed the Council Records and handed them over to our enemies.

By the time that the traitor was found and the war ended, reports had begun to come from Europe of similar attacks. By the mercy of heaven these reports never escalated past isolated incidents, but they made it clear that we had ended the war barely in time.

Our losses were staggering.

There was not one of us, by the end, that had not lost a parent, child, sibling, or friend. At best estimates over half of our cousins had been killed: a statistic that included all of the rest of the world fortunate enough not to have undergone that ordeal. The local tolls were much steeper.

Even I was not exempt. How confident I had been, with my wife and daughter safe in Spain, surrounded by family! I had thought that they would be secure, not in the thick of things, not fighting, and far away from the massacre in North America! It was months before we were able to account for everybody. Our dead, some themselves turned to the other side, to be given proper burials. Our mercenaries, to be restored to home and job. Our children, to be returned to their parents, if possible, and given to other cousins if not. It was months before I finally received that letter, that told me what I should have known from the very beginning.

My sweet Rosalie. My beautiful Lily. They were dead.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[sk8tagirl95]

Im really enjoying this book. You are a great writer :)