But she couldn’t do that. Vampires weren’t weak or pathetic.
Two hours later, the sun still hadn’t risen, and Della lay there, head on her monster pillow, staring at the ceiling. Not sleeping wasn’t unusual. But now it wasn’t just the normal nocturnal tendencies keeping her burning the midnight oil. The pimple on her neck throbbed. She ignored it. It would take more than a pimple to bring her down.
She remembered an old saying her mom used to tell her: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
Her mom was so friggin’ wrong.
You know how Dad is, he never talks about things that hurt him. Like he never talks about you anymore. Those words broke her heart.
She lay there feeling the night ease by, and then she remembered something else Marla had said. He said you reminded him of his brother. He said he got cold and became difficult. Then he died.
Marla’s words kept flowing through her head as if they were important. Della suddenly bolted up when she realized why. Did he mean cold literally? Or cold as in distant? Could her uncle have been … a vampire? Did he fake his own death to save his family from knowing the truth?
The susceptibility to the vampire virus ran in families. And she knew her cousin, Chan, was a vampire. Only he bordered on being rogue, making it hard for her to have any kind of a relationship with him.
But her father’s twin … if he was at all like her father, he would be a stern man, but a man with principles. He would be a rule follower to the point of being a hardass. He wouldn’t be rogue. If … he was like her father.
But how would she know? How could she find out with nothing to go on? Obviously her dad wouldn’t tell her. Nor her mom. And she suspected Marla had told her all she knew.
Questions started forming in her head. What was his name? Where had they been living when he went missing … or when he died? She accepted she could be wrong. Her uncle could have really died.
A memory from the past suddenly started tapping at her brain. A book. An old photo album. Her dad had pulled it out years ago to show them a picture of his great-grandmother. She remembered the old leather cover and she recalled that her father had put it in that drawer beneath the liquor cabinet in his study.
Was it still there? And if so, could it possibly contain a photo of her dad’s twin? Maybe a photo with his name? She stood up, clenching her fists. She had to look. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was four. Her parents didn’t wake up until six.
Taking a deep breath, she quietly walked out her bedroom door, went down the steps, and moved into her father’s study. It was his room, his private space. Her father was a private man.
She hesitated and swallowed a lump of emotion. Violating his space felt wrong, but how else was she going to get answers?
She twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. The room smelled like her father. His aftershave, and maybe hot tea with special herbs with a hint of the expensive brandy he sipped on Sundays. Memories of them spending time in here together tiptoed across her heart. He’d helped her with calculus sitting at that desk. He’d taught her to play chess with his love of the game, and after that, at least once a week, he would bring her in here to play. He usually beat her. He was good. Though a couple of times she suspected he’d let her win just to make her happy. He might have been strict, and even a hardass, but he’d loved her. Who knew his love had been so conditional?
There were no more games now. No more father-daughter time. But maybe, just maybe, if she was right, she might find a man who was as good as her father. A man who would understand the difficulties she faced. A man who might care about her now that her father had turned his back on her.
She knelt down in front of the cabinet. If she recalled correctly, the book was in the back behind her father’s favorite brandy. She pulled the brandy out and reached deeper in the cabinet. When her hand touched the smooth, dry-feeling old leather, her heart beat a little faster.
She pulled it out, sat on the floor, and opened it up in her lap. She needed a light to make out the images. She remembered that her dad used to keep a flashlight in his desk for when the lights went out. She stood up, opening the drawer quietly.
She found the flashlight, but it was what else she found in the drawer that had her breath catching: the picture of her and her dad playing chess at a tournament. At one time he’d kept it on the shelf. She looked up at the bookcase where the image had once rested. The spot was as empty as she felt.
Suddenly more determined than ever to find her uncle, she went back to the floor.
She brought the book on her lap and opened it up. She turned on the flashlight and shined it at the book. The images were old, faded, and even with the light she had to squint to make them out.
Mixed into the book were some old photos of her mom’s family. She continued to flip through the album, turning the pages carefully, seeing faces that somehow looked familiar even though she didn’t know them. In the shapes of the faces, or cuts of chins, she saw bits of her parents and bits of herself in these people.
Almost to the end, she found a picture of her grandmother and her dad with another boy that looked just like him. She pulled back the plastic flap and carefully pulled the image out. Thin from age, it felt as if it might tear. She held her breath and gently peeled it off the album, praying that on the back she’d find names. When she turned it over she saw the writing. Her heart paused in mid-beat as she read: Feng and Chao Tsang with mother. Her father’s name was Chao. Feng must have been her uncle’s name. The image appeared to have been taken in Houston, which meant her uncle would have been here when he’d been turned … or killed. But if he truly had been turned, he could still be here. In Houston. Or at least in America.
She carefully tucked the image into her pajama pocket. As she went to put the book away, she saw another picture tucked behind the flap in the back. She pulled it out. It was a group of kids, two boys and two girls. The picture was grainy, but when she looked harder she thought it was her father and his twin and two girls. One of them looked like her aunt. She turned the photo over, but no names were written on this one. Slipping the picture back, she put the book up, and was replacing the brandy in the cabinet when the light in the room flashed on.
“Shit!” she muttered and turned, completely shocked that for the second time tonight, someone had walked up on her. What was up with her hearing? She expected, or maybe hoped, it would be Marla again, but her hopes were futile.
Her father, anger in his eyes, stared down at her. “So now you have resorted to stealing your father’s brandy, have you?”
His anger, even his accusation, she could have handled. It was the disappointment in his eyes that had her wanting to take a running dive out the window. She longed to get far away from him and this life she’d once loved but had now lost.
She didn’t. She did what she always did with her parents. She stood up and simply let them think the worst of her, because the truth would have hurt them more.
“You’re here early,” Burnett said, meeting her right after she stepped through the Shadow Falls front gate after being dropped off by her mother. Her mom, who’d not spoken once on the trip. Not that they hadn’t said plenty before they’d left. And not that it was anything new. It was the same ol’ litany.