his prisoner, both in body and in mind. Yet he spoke not once of his atrociousness, of the dreadful things he had done to my beloved. After this day, he acted as if the brutal events had never taken place. He expected me to love him! He wished to make a wife out of me! Of course, I could not love him, could not consent to be his wife, not ever, but my protests did not dissuade him. At every opportunity, he professed his love for me. He lavished gifts upon me—priceless jewels and properties and every luxury he could imagine. I had escaped from one prison only to be imprisoned once again. I graciously accepted these offerings, but offered no love in return. Instead, his gifts were strategically hidden around the castle.
Hundreds of years would pass like this. Fluid and fast, seeming like months. The two of us existed in the castle, with no one else in attendance other than a constant flux of revolving servants. They came and went, as they aged over time—daughters would become mothers, who would then become grandmothers, and their ways would pass to the next generation, but the dark man and I did not age. I refused to learn the servants’ names or anything about them. I also refused to reveal to the dark man a single thing about which I cared that could be held as ransom over my head. I spoke to him only when spoken to, and only because I knew others would suffer if I did not. He had no qualms about killing these servants and he did so at every opportunity.
I knew he read my thoughts, and in time I learned to read his, too, and soon words became of little use to either of us. I found I was able to shield my thoughts from him by concentrating, and although he did the same, he slipped occasionally. I utilized these lapses to venture into his mind, to search. I found that when he rested, I could venture even further, so I began to awake earlier than he and go to his coffin and sift through his sleeping brain. I eventually learned the whereabouts of my beloved, where the decapitated head and each ripped-away appendage had been buried. The man had had him scattered all over the continent, but I was able to determine the locations and made notes on the maps I scavenged from the dark man’s library.
I was patient.
The years taught me patience.
I waited for—
* * *
? ? ?
“BRAM!” Matilda screamed. “Let go of him!”
My eyes fluttered open, and I was once again standing in the small chamber atop the central tower of Whitby Abbey. In reality, only seconds had passed. Matilda and Thornley were trying to push past Patrick O’Cuiv, but he kept them from entering the room. Vambéry still crouched at the large oak door. Ellen was still inches from me, her fingers resting against my temple. There were tears in her eyes and a sadness so deep I began to weep as well.
“You escaped?” I managed to say.
Ellen nodded. “In 1847, after hundreds of years as his prisoner.”
“So when you came to us, to our family—”
“I hid in your house; he wouldn’t think to search for me amongst humans. I didn’t believe so anyway.”
Our minds were still strangely linked, and words passed seamlessly between us, entire conversations, years of memories, in what seemed only a matter of seconds. “You’ve been searching for the remains of your beloved?” I inquired softly. “You came to Clontarf to find his arm, buried amongst the suicide graves at Saint John the Baptist, the place so marked on your map. You didn’t mean to stay with us for so long; you put us in danger, which you didn’t want to do, but you did nonetheless. What you did to me—”
Ellen placed her finger on my lips and hushed me. “I never meant to hurt your family; I never would. You were such a sickly boy, only days from death; I could not watch that happen. I couldn’t watch them treat you with such primitive methods, knowing it did no good, knowing I could help. I had to help. So I gave you my blood.” Her eyes