Chapter 4

The rickety round formica table was likely a relic from the 70s, as were the ancient and threadbare seats surrounding it. Only wonderful warm memories exuded from the tired furniture, supplemented by the gentle scent of spice and freshly baked sourdough. A delicate floral china cup contained steaming Earl Grey infused with milk and honey, warming Aurora’s fingers. She’d spent a significant portion of her childhood here, colouring studiously with rainbow crayons, eating simple breakfasts of soft-boiled eggs and toasted sourdough. The kitchen felt safe, familiar, and homey.

Aurora glanced up from the tea to find Celeste gazing at her across the table, warmth twinkling behind her pale hazel eyes.

“This is a nice surprise,” Celeste ventured.

Aurora knew she ought to visit more often. Celeste had practically raised her after her parents’ untimely deaths.

“I know, Grandma,” Aurora murmured. “I wish I could visit more often.”

“I understand, Child,” Celeste replied. Aurora believed the elderly woman. Celeste had the uncanny ability to reach into anyone’s soul and empathize. Celeste’s gaze reminded Aurora of the red-haired bartender at The Portal; both women possessed piercing intelligent eyes unerringly penetrating below shiny facades.

Aurora quietly sipped at her tea, her mind flitting between her childhood and her previous evening. Celeste had always served Aurora Earl Grey, even as a child; the taste returned Aurora briefly to a more carefree, if melancholy, time in her life. Her previous evening, in contrast, weighed heavily on her.

Watch your back. Speak to Celeste.

“Grandma? I think I need help.”

Celeste didn’t appear surprised. She settled forward onto her thin forearms, her eyes bright and attentive. She said nothing, only listening intently.

“The manifestation appeared last night. I don’t think I’ve seen it since I was maybe four years old.”

“You were frightened back then. A child. The night terrors. It was unsurprising, given your ancestry and what you’d been through.”

Aurora nodded thoughtfully.

“I thought, maybe, it was gone.”

Celeste sighed sympathetically.

“You cannot change who you are, Child. Even if you don’t wish it, the manifestation chose you. It’s part of you.”

“I know,” Aurora murmured. She knew it deep in her soul. The manifestation was as much a part of her as her fingers or her toes. She might deny her witchy heritage, even run from it, but in the end, the witch buried in her DNA betrayed her, like it or not. She could never be like everyone else. For the first time in a very long time, she felt grateful. Without the manifestation, she likely wouldn’t be speaking with her grandmother now, and she did miss her and her tea.

“The manifestation appeared again last night?” Celeste prompted gently.

Aurora nodded forlornly. She swallowed heavily and sipped again from the teacup before continuing. In the bright light of day, the story seemed surreal and ridiculous. She knew Celeste would never outright laugh at her; they shared too much in common for that to ever occur, but even in her own mind, Aurora found the details hazy and unbelievable. Yet, the bruises on her body, her exhaustion, the puncture marks on her right forearm attested to the events.

Aurora bit her lower lip. Celeste waited patiently across the table.

“Do you know a bartender at a club named The Portal? She said her name was Seren.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow, settling her chin onto her palms.

“You met Seren? She’s a remarkable woman.”

Perhaps more than only a woman.

Aurora nodded. She might have used the adjective: formidable.

“She told me I should speak to you. She said I had an encounter with a Nosferatu last night.”

Celeste straightened, her placid gaze suddenly narrowing in concern.

“I think you better tell me what happened.”

Aurora sighed wearily and related the tale in an emotionless monologue, at least the tale up until Luna had arrived unannounced upon her doorstep.

“You’re certain she asked for help?”

Aurora nodded. Of that, she was completely certain. She vividly recalled the sudden change in demeanour, the girl-child emerging from the rage, apologizing and pleading before the anger washed back over the creature’s face. And, of course, later, when the rage and hunger dissipated, and the woman had knocked upon her door in the dead of night.

“She may have imprinted upon you,” Celeste mused.

“That’s what Seren said.”

“Have you seen the Nosferatu since? Even from a distance?”

Aurora closed her eyes, a mental picture of Luna, naked in the moonlight, crimson tears trickling down her pale cheeks, filled her head. And, of course, the overpowering climaxes. Afterward, another memory arose of the woman’s fangs sinking into her forearm, along with the pleasant sensation of floating.

Hesitantly, she turned over her arm, exposing the soft underside to Celeste. Two distinct puncture wounds marked her skin there.

Concern briefly flashed across Celeste’s features; if Aurora hadn’t been carefully watching for any reaction, she would have missed it completely. Celeste recovered quickly and nodded contemplatively.

“I’d say she more than imprinted,” Celeste observed mildly.

Celeste rubbed at her eyes wearily.

“Child, your fates are now intertwined. Witch blood flows through your veins. She’s tasted it and now it also flows in hers.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Celeste paused for a moment, clearly gathering her thoughts.

“The Nosferatu are always hungry,” Celeste began. Aurora had already witnessed that hunger. It wasn’t only for blood. “We rarely interact with the creatures; they generally avoid us. You saw why. Your manifestation won’t kill them, but it can give them a nasty discomfort they don’t normally experience. Your Nosferatu was likely young.”

Aurora nodded. “That’s what Seren said, too. Luna told me she was made only forty years ago.”

Celeste closed her eyes and nodded. “A baby. It’s likely why you survived. That and your witch’s blood.” Seren had noted similar thoughts, too. “Young is also unpredictable,” she sighed fatalistically as her eyes opened. Celeste paused again, then continued. “Child, you have a choice to make: either you slay her, or you unmake her.”

Aurora sipped her tea and returned it pensively to the tabletop.

“If I do neither?”

“She will drink all of your blood. She might turn you into a Nosferatu, or she might simply leave you to the peace of death.” At Aurora’s beginning of a protest, Celeste extended one knobby finger. “Luna may not want to do this, but your fates intertwine. She’s tasted your blood and it might not be tomorrow, or even in a week, but she will not be able to stop herself. She will seek you, like a moth to your flame. If you do not slay her or unmake her...” Celeste allowed her voice to trail off, but the unspoken denouement was very clear. “Child, you have a choice to make.”

An image of Luna reclining into her pillows, expressing her loss and her distaste at her own nature, holding her hand, preoccupied Aurora’s mind.

Luna. Robin.

“Is unmaking her even an option?”

Celeste chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“To my knowledge, no one has attempted it in a very long time, before I was even born. It’s only an option with a young Nosferatu, like your Luna, but young Nosferatu are undeniably unpredictable. It’s not without risk. If you decide to unmake her, Luna may perish, and even more likely, you may lose your life in the attempt. Regardless, even in the unlikely event unmaking succeeds, the process is ... unpleasant.”

Aurora sighed.

I’m so sorry. Please help me?

“She asked for my help,” Aurora said. “How can I deny her?”

Celeste looked evenly at Aurora, her eyes crinkling. Aurora had always been the type of child who nursed a broken robin back to health, even if it meant sleeping beside the creature on the cold, unforgiving concrete of the garage floor, and crying her heart out if the bird succumbed.

“She is Nosferatu,” Celeste replied reflectively. “She is already dead.”

Aurora silently read the spidery scrawled list between her fingers. The list looked ancient, the corners curled, the page yellowed, and the ink faded to near illegibility.

Only one item concerned her.

“Blessed water? Holy water?”

Celeste shrugged noncommittally.

“Nosferatu predate Christianity by a wide margin. I have no idea what purpose it serves, Child.”

Aurora hadn’t attended regular church service in as long as she could remember. Probably even before her parents had died. She retained a vague memory of attending their funeral, the scent of incense staining the air, the droning of platitudes of the priests. While she didn’t embrace her witch heritage, neither did Aurora embrace a higher being. The house of God generally shunned her kind; in the past, the church mostly welcomed witches with stakes and bonfires.

“Do you have any?”

Celeste laughed bemusedly, as if the idea were somehow ridiculous. Aurora guessed it was. Celeste smiled kindly.

“I once knew a member of the clergy. But it’s been a very long time. I think he’s still alive.” Her eyes unfocused briefly. “I met him at Woodstock.”

The revelation surprised Aurora, both that Celeste knew a member of the clergy and she had attended Woodstock.

“For a while, we were inseparable. Then he joined the clergy. He never seemed strong of faith to me, but I suppose sometimes fate deals us a strange hand.”

Aurora certainly knew about fate and strange hands lately.

Celeste paused, her eyes cast to the ceiling fan rotating lazily above the formica.

“Saint Joseph’s,” she murmured to the fan. “Tell him that I sent you. He’ll help you.”

“What’s his name? Who do I look for?” Aurora asked.

“Oh, he’ll find you, Child. He’ll be the one with a lopsided cowboy hat and probably still wearing tie-dye.”

Three days later, Aurora finally plucked up enough courage to attend evening Mass at Saint Joseph’s. The incense and Latin resurrected uncomfortable images of her parents’ coffins from her memory. She sat quietly in the last pew, the rigid oak of the seats purposefully preventing Aurora, and all other parishioners, from sleeping through lengthy sermons. Aurora neither joined in the communion nor did she kneel during prayers, instead simply observing and listening. When the hymns began, Aurora added her alto to the choir. The spiritual music resonated calm and welcome on her tongue.

The hymns formed the only segment of the liturgy that felt sincere to Aurora; the remainder of the Mass washed over her like a wave on an ocean. Spirituality infused her as she sat upright in the pew, yet the rote rituals lacked the essence of herself she frequently denied.