Ivy stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Um . . . What?!’
Brendan didn’t even turn around as he mumbled, ‘There are some things that you need to know.’
Like what? Ivy wanted to demand. But she bit back the question as she followed him down the street. He’s finally ready to give some answers . . . so I’ll wait to let him do it.
It was only a ten-minute walk from Brendan’s house to the massive gates of Franklin Grove Memorial Cemetery, but with every passing moment, Ivy felt even more confused. When they walked through the gates in the growing darkness, she had to fight back a shudder. Vampire or not, the idea of something she needed to know being in a crypt . . . Well, that’s more than a little creepy!
Less than five minutes later, they were deep in the centre of the cemetery, facing the low, stone crypt of the Daniels family. As usual, the ancient building seemed to be sinking into the ground. Three looming arches, supported by ivy-entwined pillars, formed a darkened awning. A large stone door stood beneath the centre arch, surrounded by tarnished and scowling bronze gargoyles on either side.
In the middle of the door, an ornate square plate was carved into the stone, inscribed with a single, glowing word:
DANIELS
Ivy took a deep breath, fighting down the goosebumps that wanted to prickle across her arms.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. I’ve been here plenty of times. There’s nothing to be scared of.
But she’d never been brought here to be told deep, dark family secrets before . . . and Brendan had never acted quite so mysterious before.
As she waited, Brendan ducked under the awning and reached out to the gargoyle on the right, turning one of its giant claws.
Dull clicks and thuds echoed through the ancient stone. Finally, the enormous door slid open . . . and a shudder rippled through Ivy’s body.
When Brendan had brought her here before, it had felt fun-creepy, but now . . . it just felt creepy-creepy.
Clenching her fists more tightly, she forced down the wave of panic. Come on. A vampire scared inside a cemetery? How crazy is that?
Breathing deeply, she followed Brendan down the bumpy, uneven steps into the darkness. Brendan pulled out a matchbox from the corner of the stairway and lit one match after another with practised ease to light their way. The tiny flames sent leaping shadows across his face.
When they stepped into the crypt’s vast antechamber, with its cathedral-like ceiling and grooved floor, he moved to light the tall candles all around the room . . . and Ivy finally ran out of patience.
‘Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve brought me here?’
‘You’ll see.’ Looking completely unruffled by her outburst, Brendan pointed to the passage on the left, where the urns of his relatives were displayed. ‘It’s all in here,’ he said.
Ivy followed him into the passage, where a collection of ornate stone containers sat, each on its own little shelf, rising from the floor to the ceiling. The musty smell was overpowering – but that wasn’t what made Ivy gasp.
The urn in the centre read:
MARC DANIELS
. . . Brendan’s father!
Swallowing hard, Ivy backed away. ‘What’s going on?’ Her voice came out as a squeak.
‘It’s . . . kind of a family tradition.’ Brendan shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘See, in our family, once you reach one hundred years old, one of these is made for you. It’s supposed to be an honour.’
‘Really?’ Ivy blinked, taking deep, slow breaths and trying to see it that way. ‘I’d never heard of families doing that.’
‘Oh, well . . .’ Brendan gave her a wry, teasing grin. ‘I’m sure the “posh” vampires, like your family, do things differently.’
‘Shut up!’ Ivy almost laughed, but she forced herself to scowl instead. ‘You’re not going to charm your way out of this.’
‘I know.’ Looking grave, Brendan stepped closer to her. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Look again at the urns. What do you see?’
Sighing, Ivy turned back to the ‘Marc Daniels’ urn. It stood just beside another urn engraved with the name ‘Carla Daniels’.
She frowned. ‘Who’s Carla Daniels? I’ve never heard of her.’