Pushing aside the past, I slid into the silver gown. That it was sleeveless wouldn’t bother me other than my scars showing. The cold didn’t faze me when it was natural weather. I added a silver shawl, and then, before I could talk myself out of it, I undid the perpetual braids that I kept my hair in. I loved the corn rows, but tonight I wanted to be free—free from my usual identity.
I thought about Trillian, how I had categorized him and stereotyped him based on his looks. I’d been trying so hard to avoid showing my scars, that nobody had even had the chance to see the real me. Who I had been—unmarred, alive, pretty without a scar on her body—was forever gone. Now I was simply Menolly, the vampire. Menolly, the wife. Menolly, the mother of Erin, my middle-aged daughter. Menolly, the warrior and the sister. Menolly, consort of a Vampire Lord. And that… that had to be enough for anybody. Including myself.
Laughing, I slipped on a pair of black flats and then, with one last pause, I headed upstairs.
“Menolly? Everybody’s gone down to the pond. I waited for—” Camille rounded the kitchen corner and stopped, gasping.
“What? Too much?” Nervous once again, I shifted uncomfortably, my resolve of a moment before starting to slip.
“You’re so beautiful. I haven’t seen you in that gown since…” She stopped. “Oh, Menolly. The last time you wore that was before…”
“Before Dredge turned me. The year before. I know. I thought… I thought it was time to drag it out again. Do I look okay? I can’t see myself in the mirror.” I trusted Camille. She’d tell me the truth, even if it was what I didn’t want to hear.
But she just smiled, ducking her head. “Better than okay. You look wonderful. And your hair. I miss your hair like that. It was always so curly and pretty. It’s hard to see just how much it shimmers when you’ve got it back in the braids. But whatever makes you comfortable, that’s all that matters.”
She was wearing her priestess robes—a sheer peacock halter dress, beneath which she wore an ornate demi-bra and a pair of bikini panties. She was carrying the cloak of the Black Unicorn that matched the horn—a gift from the Black Unicorn himself.
Once every so many thousand years, he shed his body like the phoenix and was renewed. The hide and horn were considered great artifacts and some nine or so pairings of them existed. Any sorcerer or magician or witch would slaver to have them, which made Camille a sitting duck should some unsavory and powerful wizard type find out she owned them.
“I have to charge the horn tonight—I exhausted it last week in Elqaneve getting those damned doors open so De-lilah and I could escape.” She slid the horn into the inner pocket of the cloak. “Tonight’s going to be so hard,” she said, sinking into a chair. “I have to stand up there and summon our father’s spirit among the roll call of the dead. Do you realize how difficult that’s going to be for me?”
She didn’t say it accusatorily. In fact, the resigned look on her face told me she’d already resolved the fact that—as Priestess—she was responsible for the tough part of the job tonight.
Samhain was the night we honored our ancestors and celebrated the dead. FBH pagans often celebrated the holiday, too, as well as our Earthside Fae kin. It was a night in which to reflect on the nature of death. Unfortunately, when you’d seen as much death as we had, the honor part was often outweighed with the heaviness of loss. But it was our way, and it helped cushion the sense of futility against a force over which, truly, no one had any control.
“I know, and we love you for doing it. I think…” I stopped, trying to think of a way to phrase what had been running through my head. “I think it’s important that we do this, that we take time for this ritual. It will help us cope with Father’s death. Everything has seemed so surreal the past week, and we’re just holding on by the tips of our fingers.”
“Along for the ride?” She flashed me a smile then, weary as it was.
“That’s pretty much it. We’ve been dragged through the mud and this will give us some sense of continuity. Our home world is in trouble. Let’s face it—Telazhar is wreaking terror across the land. We have little left from our past. This gives us a sense of tradition. Of building new traditions, even when it’s rough.”
I wasn’t sure if I was making myself clear but Camille seemed to get my drift. She pushed to her feet and slid the cloak around her shoulders. “I suppose we should head out there. The others will be waiting.”
And without further ado, we exited the kitchen and headed toward the backyard.
Birchwater Pond gleamed under the glow of lantern light. We owned the entire property that surrounded the pond now, and had turned it into a veritable park. Picnic tables, arched poles that held flickering candles encased safely within hurricane lanterns, fallen logs surrounding a fire pit—we’d worked our butts off out here to create the perfect ritual area, and it was a comforting place in which to spend a few quiet hours.
The rain was at a drizzle, but at least it was no longer pouring, and the clouds parted now and then to show the evening sky. The moon, she was nearing her darkest point, and did not turn her face to us. But the stars gleamed through the inky blackness that overshadowed the night. Another gust, and the cloud cover closed once again, bringing with them showers. It was around forty-two degrees, and as we all stood around, I could see everybody’s breath.
We were a good-sized group. Camille motioned for us to spread out in a circle. The permanent altar table had been erected—Smoky had carved it out of a large stump, etching a perfect pentagram in it, then he had polished the top to a high sheen, allowing the grain of the massive tree to show through.
The altar was set with candles in hurricane lamps, a chalice of wine, a chalice of blood for me, Father’s ashes, and Camille’s dagger. She was carrying the yew staff Aeval had given her. It was a little taller than she was, with a silver knob on top, and in an indentation on the knob rested a small crystal ball. Silver webbing encased the sides of the globe, keeping it in place, and the bottom of the staff was capped by a silver foot.
Bruce, who had turned out to be an excellent drummer, set a steady, firm beat on the bodhran, as Camille picked up her dagger. She slowly circled the area, a pale purple light emanating from the tip of her blade. Within the light, sparkles danced—minute faerie lights, shimmering.
As she finished casting the Circle, once again she stepped up to the altar and inhaled sharply in the chill night.
“We gather together, as we have for years on end, to celebrate the day of death and the festival of spirits… we gather to bid farewell to friends and family who have passed since last Samhain.”
And just like that, I closed my eyes, and was swept back to the first time I remembered celebrating… and how much the rite had clung to my memory.
I was around three years old. Or the equivalent to it. And it was a dark night like this one, only we were standing on the shores of Lake Y’Leveshan. I was holding on to Delilah’s hand, and we were dressed in warm cloaks over long white dresses. Father was there, but he wasn’t paying much attention—he was standing by the shore, staring at the falls as they tumbled over the bluff.
Camille was at the bottom of the Erulizi Falls, on a rock that overlooked the pond at the bottom. The water thundered down, spraying her with mist, as she stared into the depths. Her eyes were wet, but with the water, not tears. During the day I never saw a tear on her face, even when Father yelled at her because she’d forgotten to tell the housekeeper what to fix for dinner or because the gardens weren’t in order. But at night, I heard her. She was the oldest so she had her own room, but I could still hear her crying over Mother.