Page 116 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

Tension coiled within me as my gaze shot straight to the chest tucked away in the corner. Ancient wood, reinforced with iron bands that had rusted over centuries. The lock—newer than the rest—gleamed dully.

“In there?”

I nodded, unable to speak. The chest seemed to pulse with malignant energy, though that was only my imagination.

Flynn’s hand found mine, squeezing gently. The playful atmosphere firmly evaporated.

We crossed the room together, retrieving the key from my desk drawer. I knelt before the chest, and Flynn settled beside me, his shoulder pressed warm against mine.

“It’s rare that a vampire as old as I am would have perfect recollection of their entire life, but my memory has always been rather awful. I think it’s because of what happened within these diaries. I wanted so badly to escape from it all. To forget.”

The key slid into the lock with a click that echoed through my bones. “I translated every single one of my documents about a century ago. Laid tracing paper over each page. The original Spanish underneath, English on top.” The lid creaked as I lifted it. “I was afraid I might… forget. That the Spanish might slip away like so many other memories have.”

“But you can still speak it?”

“Sí.” I managed a weak smile. “Though… it’s as if the vocabulary remains, but the soul of it has faded. If that makes sense…”

“It does.”

“Regardless, my accent’s probably atrocious by modern standards.”

Inside the chest, leather-bound volumes lay stacked in neat rows, their spines cracked and faded with age. I forced my hands not to tremble as I lifted them out, arranging them chronologically across the floor. Each one represented a piece of my human life—fragments of memories I could no longer fully trust.

The sight of them, laid out like corpses at a wake, made my throat constrict. These weren’t just books. They were evidence. Testimony. A record of my sins written in my own hand.

“These…” I had to clear my throat and start again. “These detail everything leading up to Magdalena’s death. And…him.”

Flynn shifted closer. “Him?”

“Rodrigo de Valencia.” The name tasted like poison. “Though I knew him as Padre Rodrigo back then. Father Rodrigo. He was the one who…” I couldn’t finish. It had been so long since I’d spoken his name aloud.

“The one who what?”

I forced the words out. “The vampire who turned me.”

Flynn’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. His hand found mine, squeezing tight.

“He was a priest?”

I stared at the diaries. “He took everything from me. My life. My soul.” Something ancient and dark twisted in my chest, rearing a hideous head. “My sister.”

24

Flynn

March 15th, 1520

Today, after High Mass at Santa María la Mayor, I was approached by Padre Rodrigo de Valencia himself. My hands still tremble at the honour. He spoke of having observed me these past months—my dedication to prayer, my earnest study of the Holy Scripture.

“God has shown me your destiny,” he said, with certainty. “You, Sebastián Salazar, are meant for His greater purpose.”

That a man of such standing—personal confessor to the Duke of Medina—should take notice of me! Though Father says our family’s position demands such attention, I cannot help but feel blessed. Padre Rodrigo has offered to guide my theological studies personally, speaking of how Spain needs strong, educated men of faith in these troubled times.

If only Magdalena shared such divine inspiration. Again, she refused Mass, claiming illness. Mother believes her, but I heard her in the gardens, singing those peculiar songs. I pray she will soon see sense—her soul depends upon it.

Padre Rodrigo says I have the makings of an Inquisitor. The very thought makes my heart soar. To serve God and Crown, to protect Spain from the poison of heresy… What greater calling could there be?

He wishes to meet again tomorrow, to discuss my future path. I must prepare myself to be worthy of such attention.

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