Page 8 of Ophelia's Vampire

Mom knew he was a vampire, and knew how fiercely she had to protect Cleo. And even after her similarly disastrous relationship with my dad, she never gave up hope of reconnecting with Samuel.

Samuel got wind my mom was looking for him through some of the paranormal connections she forged in her determination to understand and support Cleo better. When he came back, found out he had a daughter and a no-nonsense, take-no-shit woman waiting to hold his feet to the fire and demand he step up for Cleo, he came to his senses.

Samuel and my mom made their bloodbond a few years later when I was six and Cleo was eight, and I’ve considered him my dad ever since.

And Cleo’s always been my sister, my closest friend.

Even if, as the years pass, the differences between us and the diverging paths our lives will take become more and more obvious.

My life races forward while theirs settle into the long, steady patterns of vampiric life. I try not to let myself dwell on it too often. I try not to think about growing old while they stay just as they are. It’s not their fault, not mine, and it doesn’t do any good to think about it when there’s nothing I can do to change it.

The thoughts preoccupy me while I take my shower, get changed, and head back out into the kitchen for dinner with Cleo and Steph. I do my best to just be here, in this moment, as I load up with lasagna and freshly baked bread, and enjoy my time with two of them.

Stephanie has been a fixture in Cleo’s life these last seven years, and has become the second sister I never knew I needed. Gentle and steady to balance Cleo’s tendency to rush headlong into life and steamroll any problem in her way, Steph has grounded my sister and been her unending support through moves from Boston to the west coast, from corporate life to Cleo’s current role as Assistant Director at the Paranormal Citizens Relations Bureau.

How far we’ve all come from our days back in Boston.

But again, I shake off the thoughts and focus on being here, now, present in these moments I have with Cleo and Steph before wherever life will inevitably take me next.

Cleo uncorks a bottle of wine and starts pouring while I dig into the food, knowing that inevitability is coming sooner rather than later when the conversation turns to work.

I’m itching for a new challenge, and Cleo’s got a job for me.

“You’re coming to the Bureau tomorrow?” Cleo asks as she passes me the bottle. “Blair finally agreed to let me give you this case.”

I nod. Cleo’s been tight-lipped about the specifics of the case, other than the job’s in Boston. Whatever it is, I’ve got the feeling it’s something big, important, with the whole cloak and dagger routine they’ve got going on.

Private investigation work wasn’t something I ever thought I’d get involved in, not until I met a PI in Philly a year after I’d graduated from college. He’d originally tried to pick me up in a seedy little bar I’d taken to frequenting, but by the end of the conversation I had his business card, instead.

I’d been feeling listless, restless, aimless. Armed with a journalism degree and no desire to use it, I’d jumped at the chance to try something new. Something risky to get my blood pumping and shake me out of the freeze I’d been in for months.

And now, five years later, I’ve never looked back. My name has made it through enough whisper networks and just-this-side-of-legal circles to keep me well-supplied in work.

Too much work, actually. With as lean as I’ve made my lifestyle—living in the van with no roots and very few fixed responsibilities—I have the luxury of only taking the work that interests me.

At first I’d balked at Cleo’s vague offer, with no desire to go anywhere near Boston. But just like back in Philly, I’ve gotten restless. Whatever broken thing inside me that can never be satisfied with being settled is ready to run. To go, to do, to dare.

Cleo, like she can see at least a glimpse of all that brokenness, frowns where she sits across from me.

“You don’t have to. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been back east, and—”

“It’s no problem,” I assure her. “I’m up for the challenge.”

Of course I am. I always am.

Better, faster, stronger. More.

I won’t live centuries like my mom and Samuel, like Cleo, but if a finite human life is all I have, I’m going to make the very damn most of it I can.

A blustery, gray Seattle day hangs overhead as I approach the front doors of the Paranormal Citizens Relations Bureau and step inside.

The lobby is a bustle of activity. Humans and paranormals, working together to help forge a better future.

After getting a visitor’s badge from the handsome gargoyle manning the reception desk, I take the elevator to the top floor. The doors open into a spacious lobby outside the Director’s office, and a familiar forest sprite with mossy green hair and a wide smile greets me as I step out.

“Hey Ruthie,” I say, walking up to her desk. “How are you liking the new digs?”

She used to be the friendly face that always greeted me when I stepped into the Bureau, but has been working directly with Ewan Blair as his executive assistant for the last few months.

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