Page 34 of The Unraveling

Yet he keeps talking as if he knows I can’t remember. “You wanted a full summer moon. So, in July, John and a couple dozen of my fledglings and their familiars or partners all packed into the garden beneath the round face of that glowing moon . . .”

He pauses, eyes softly searching mine like he’s waiting to glimpse the spark of memory. Only tears fill my eyes. I know for a fact that John walked me down the aisle, but it’s nothing more than the written description of a missing photo in an empty album.

After placing a kiss on my forehead, he continues with, “One of my fledglings was a pastor, and he insisted on being the one to marry us despite no longer wanting to bring religion into it. You agreed, saying it was too poetically ironic to deny.”

A strangled laugh bubbles out of me, and I wipe my eyes—refusing to check if my tears are clear or tainted red—and shakily smile, the twinkle of that plan still present.

A memory returns: a forty-year-old man with yellow-tinged skin sobbing in Victor’s study. He was nearing death’s door with no hope of being selected from the transplant list for a new liver. Me, holding my breath when he cried that perhaps he deserved to die for his sins.

Yet it was Victor who made judgment that day. No matter what that pastor’s God might have ruled, Victor saw no sign that made him unworthy of being saved.

I think perhaps there’s a real photo album somewhere with a photograph of that pallid pastor and his immortal husband in the garden. I can’t imagine it, but I know it’s true.

Julian’s cries slice through my wandering thoughts. “Dr. Smith, please—” He gags and retches. “I want this to stop. Please, John. Make this stop⁠—”

Victor’s hands grip mine, and my eyes focus on his.

“You wanted live music, so one of my fledglings hypnotized a violinist and pianist and paid them to come along.”

I glance across the hall toward the parlor, unable to place them there but knowing they filled the night with beautiful chords.

He clenches his teeth as a deep laugh tears out of him. “You wanted a cake despite how we couldn’t eat it—our guests’ few familiars had their stomachs stuffed before leaving—and a wretched blood fountain⁠—”

My sharp laughter comes, a single snapshot image of the metal thing sitting on the white lace tablecloth in the parlor. I was so proud of my idea, and despite most of the immortals being tickled, only a few dared to drink from it.

Tears fill the corners of his eyes as he tries to subdue more painful laughter. “You have always been theatrical, Isla—in the best possible ways.”

With a little gasp, a spotlight shines on a memory. “I was a theater kid in high school.”

“Oh, yes. You told me all about it.”

My brow furrows as I try to remember that stage . . . the roles I played or what stories we acted out, but I can recall only the warmth of the stage lights, how they’d burn my eyes if I looked up, and the way the audience sat in shadow while my voice filled the room. The echo. The way my dramatic tone carried out into the gymnasium.

“I played . . .” I have no idea, but I start the sentence like it will force my brain to give me the words to finish it. “I think . . .”

The memory of hairspray fills my nose. A cheap fabric dress and the way it scrunched around my hips as my knees hit the wooden floor of the stage while I cried out over some eleventh-grade boy. Some . . . Romeo.

I giggle at the shape of the memory despite how it comes with no image. “I played Juliet.”

He nods, smiling, like I’ve told him this before. Have I told him this before?

“You said you always tried out for the best roles.”

I sigh with satisfaction. “I did get the best roles. The best role. Getting to be a vampire—a real vampire, with you—for the last thirty years.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “You’ve done it well.”

Our quiet, pained chuckles come in unison.

But then my smile slowly fades away, and I sit heavier against the cushioned velvet.

“I’m a vampire,” I tell him. Tell myself.

Julian’s guttural gagging and vomiting—his panicked wailing—fills the back of the house. “Am I going to die? Dr. Smith, I don’t want to die.”

I swallow and smile with the practice of a budding theater kid. The tears still start in my eyes. Victor doesn’t nod or confirm my claim.

“What’s happened to me?” Julian cries, his booming voice so thick with emotion, I know his face is coated with tears. “Isn’t there anything you can do to help me? Anyone else you can call? Please⁠—”