She heard the shouting first. Leaning over to grasp the bucket as it rose over the lip of the well, she frowned. With the heat, Cook had been waking earlier than usual and it was nearly time for the kitchen drudges to be up lighting the fires on the big ovens. Had they discovered mice in the flour again?
She picked up her pitcher and started back through the courtyard, only to be nearly bowled over by men racing past her with buckets hanging from every hand. And then she smelled the smoke.
She dropped the pitcher, jumping over its wet shards as she ran for the gardens, visible now through the open kitchen doors. Golden light flickered among the green shadows, as if a million candles danced at once. Sophia was screaming before she reached the doorway, clawing her way through the clusters of terrified servants, knocking aside any who tried to stop her.
The cottage was on fire, its straw thatch a torch in the night. She registered the image as she shoved through the chaos, her heart thundering in her chest, her brain shrieking at her to hurry, even as her heart told her God would not be so cruel, that she was a good Catholic who honored her Church, who donated generously and never missed an observance. God would not take her beautiful babies, not her boys.
She raced toward the conflagration, searching the huddled servants as she did so, looking for her children, listening for their voices. Someone called out and she turned, relief like a rush of wind blowing through her soul. She scanned the faces all around and found her husband, Teodosio, his face a stricken mask of grief that stole his handsome features and turned them into something grotesque.
“Sophia,” he said, his voice breaking as he reached out to her.
She backed away from him, shaking her head, somehow believing if she never heard the words, she would never have to know the awful truth.
“Sophia,” he repeated, grasping her arms, pulling her against his chest in a mockery of comfort.
“No!” She pounded his chest, pushing him away.
A loud whooshing sound spun her around in time to see the flames twist suddenly higher, sending a shower of sparks to catch on the trees. Sophia screamed and raced toward the fire. Her children were in there, why was no one saving them? Why was their useless father weeping instead of braving the flames in search of her sons?
The heat hit her like a wall, shriveling the small hairs on her skin, burning her hands and face before she’d come within ten feet of it. She would have gone farther, would have run into the fire itself, but strong arms grabbed her, holding her tightly, turning her away from the intense flames.
Sophia fought, shrieking, kicking, clawing at the hands that held her. “Chérie, Sophia, no. It’s too late.” His voice was a soothing murmur of foreign words, his hands never easing their grip no matter how hard she fought.
The roof caved in without warning. Embers flew and servants shrieked, running after the smaller fires, lest the house catch and the entire estate burn down. Not that Sophia cared. She watched in despair, her eyes cloudy with tears and ash, her breath coming in sobs as she fought to breathe in a world that had lost all meaning.
The arms holding her relaxed slightly, lowering her until her feet touched the ground. She twisted, looking up to see the face of a stranger, blackened with soot from the flames, tears carving pale streaks down smooth cheeks.
Overwhelming grief drove Sophia to her knees. Her heart seized in her chest and she welcomed the agony. She drew breath to scream, but her lungs couldn’t find the air, and she welcomed that, too. Why should her heart beat, her lungs bellow when her children, her beautiful babies, were gone? She raked her nails down her face and felt warm blood welling, replacing the tears she couldn’t shed. She found her voice at last, but it was only to keen like an animal, rocking back and forth, clutching herself against a pain beyond any other.
She heard nothing of the servants or the villagers who had come running to help fight the fire which threatened everyone should it get it out of hand. Their shouts and cries, the distant panicked screams of the horses, footsteps running as bucket after bucket of water was thrown into the greedy maw of flame—all of it was meaningless noise. Her mind was filled instead with the sweet voices of her children, with their laughter and songs. She saw no reason to listen to anything else . . . until a woman’s voice pierced the night, shrieking curses.
Sophia froze, her head swiveling to one side to listen. Men’s voices were shouting angrily, the woman’s outraged screams rising above them.
“Don Teodosio,” one of the men shouted. “We found this one running away!”
Sophia heard the gasps all around. She stood and saw her husband glaring down at his whore of a lover. The woman was blackened with smoke, her hair seared away in places, but it was her hands that drew everyone’s attention. They were reddened and burned, covered in blisters.
Sophia raised her gaze to Teodosio’s look of horrified realization. She shrieked wordlessly, running the short distance and grabbing the whore by her hair, yanking at it in great handfuls until the men pulled them apart. Teodosio wrapped his arms around Sophia, whispering her name over and over again like a prayer for forgiveness.
Sophia howled and spun on him, reaching up and slapping his face. She had no forgiveness to give. “You did this,” she snarled furiously, her face crumpling in grief. “You murdered your own sons.” Her voice broke on the last, sobs replacing her words as she turned away from him.
“No. No, Sophia, please, I had no—”
Sophia didn’t hear the rest of his denials. She went back to the fire and dropped to her knees, not to pray, but to bear witness to the death of her children.
They’d buried her babies the next day. Their small bodies had been taken from the charred hulk of the cottage and swathed in white linen while Sophia lay in bed, drugged into unconsciousness by a well-meaning physician who’d thought to spare her the sight of all that was left of her sons. She’d stood on the dry hillside, listening to the priests mutter their empty words in fervent voices of how her children had been called to God, how their great destinies had just begun. But Sophia had no use for a God who would do this, who would permit a worthless French whore to murder innocent children. She’d turned away from them and their prayers, turned away from her faithless husband and walked into the hills, waiting for death to find her.
Death hadn’t come. But Lucien had.
Three days later the heat broke at last. Sophia stood once more over the graves of her sons and felt the night’s cool breeze blowing across the parched hills. She thought how Teo and Miguelito would have laughed to feel it and smiled sadly. There would be no more little boy laughter in her life.
Shouts arose from the estate house behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw lantern lights moving out of the gates, toward the hillside where she stood alone with the souls of her sons. Her piggish husband had discovered her absence again and was no doubt screaming at the servants to find her.
The lights were drawing closer. She turned her back on them, whispered a final farewell to her children, and walked into the darkness.
He was waiting for her there—Lucien, the stranger who had held her as the cottage burned, who’d saved the life she no longer wanted to live. He’d been waiting for her that first night, when she’d snuck up onto this hillside, intending to bleed out her own life onto the graves of her sons. He’d kept the knife from her wrist and held her while she wept, sobbing out her grief to a stranger in a way she hadn’t until then. There hadn’t been anyone else she’d trusted enough to do so.
And then he had told her he could make it go away—the pain, the awful, wrenching loss, the emptiness that would never be filled. They would have to leave, he warned her, to travel far away, farther than she’d ever gone before, than she’d ever dreamed of going. Sophia had begged him to do it. She’d been ready to leave immediately, that very moment, if necessary. After all, what reason did she have to stay? But Lucien had insisted she wait. She had to be sure, he said. Because, once accepted, what he was offering could not be undone.
Sophia had been certain from the moment he first spoke, but he would not be moved. Until tonight. This would be their third meeting and he’d promised her they would leave tonight.
“Sophia.” His voice was warm and rich, like heated rum on a winter’s night.
“Lucien,” she said softly, her own voice full of relief. “Tonight?” she asked.
“Tonight, chérie. If you are certain.”
“I am. Lucien, please.”
He smiled, and he was beautiful. He held out his hand.
“Sophie?”
Sophia blinked in surprise. She’d been so lost in the past that she’d forgotten where she was. She looked around blearily, as if she’d just awakened. She was still standing, her legs aching with tension, her arms crossed and hugging herself tightly. Colin was near the bar, half sitting on one of the tall bar stools.
Sophia closed her eyes again, her chest aching and hollow. Even now, after centuries had passed, her loss was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
Colin stood, coming closer. “Sophie?” he repeated.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“You said Lucien took away the memories,” he said, frowning.
She met his gaze for a moment, seeing the same warm compassion there that she’d seen in Lucien’s eyes so long ago. And she thought neither man would be pleased with the comparison.
“He did,” she said at last.
“Then how—”
“He gave them back to me after awhile. He told me the story, as if it had happened to someone else and asked me what I’d do. I told him I couldn’t imagine a mother not wanting to remember her own children, and so he gave them back to me. Not only the memory of their deaths, but of their lives, too. All those wonderful moments.”
“Did you leave Spain right away after that?”
“Eventually. For all his debauchery, Lucien is very practical about certain things. Most of the older vampires are, especially when it comes to retaining wealth. When my sons died, the estate came back to me, for my future children. My father was quite determined that only his blood would inherit. And Lucien had agents in place to handle such things.
