“Hello?” she said as she let the second one drop. “Anybody home?”
She bit out a curse as she rushed into the hall and skidded aroundthe doorjamb. The way into her grandparents’ bedroom was open and she didn’t have time to brace herself emotionally as she usually did. She just careened right in—
The lamp beside the bed was on, the dim pool of light spilling onto the withered female who lay so still. Lyric, the elder, was positioned back against a stack of pillows, her lined face and thinning white hair still such a shock. With her closed eyes and her slightly open mouth and no movement at all, it was clear that what they had all been waiting for had—
The Kindle lying closed on that sunken chest went up… and down. There was a pause. Then it went up… and down again.
Letting out the breath she’d sucked in, Lyric sagged with relief, and then checked the two-way monitor that showed the sitting area off the kitchen. Her father Blay and her grandfather were out there on the sofas, both sound asleep sitting up—and who could blame them. This death vigil was exhausting, and yet she was not ready for the end. None of them were—even though it was all anybody had been thinking about for the last month.
Especially the last week.
With sad resignation, she leaned against the doorjamb and pushed her fingertips into her temples. Unlike humans, who aged on a gradual scale, when a vampire’s end of life came, it was a fast descent into infirmity. The fact that just back in October, hergranmahmenhad been cooking and cleaning, raking leaves, and climbing up on a ladder to hang an autumnal wreath on the front door was unfathomable. And that she’d done all that while looking just like she had for the previous couple of decades? Only a little salt-and-pepper around her face, her posture still perfect, her eyes lively and her laugh quick as ever?
How were they here… now.
Hergranmahmencame into sharp focus once again, and it was then she noticed that Ehlena, the nurse, had already taken care of changing the nightgown. Tonight it was a pale blue. Yesterday it had been a blush pink. Both complemented the pastel color scheme of the patchwork quilt and the room’s flowered wallpaper.
Rocke had always said that he slept inside of a Victorian dresser, minus the lavender sachets and the intimate apparel. But he also knew hisshellanliked the feminine decor, so he was more than happy to let her have what madeherhappiest to wake up to.
That little line had been repeated countless times. And the elder Lyric had always filled in at the end that Rocke was actually her first favorite thing to see when she roused, the flowers on the walls and the quilt she’d made were a distant second—
As Lyric’s stomach let out a growl of hunger, she backed up… even though she kind of wanted to disturb all that sleep just as a double-check. Except breathing was enough for proof of life, wasn’t it?
Unless the female had slipped into a coma—
“Well, there you are,” came a weak voice.
Lyric jumped to attention. “Granmahmen, are you up?”
As she approached the bed, that old familiar smile appeared for a moment, and those eyes, those beautiful gray eyes, held an echo of the sparkle they’d always regarded the world with.
“Look at you,” the elder Lyric said. “What a warm coat.”
Holding the thing open, Lyric did a slow spin. “Do you think it goes with my dress?”
“Like peas and carrots. Wherever did you get it?”
Lyric leaned down and kissed hergranmahmenon the cheek. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Well, then, you must tell me right the now.”
That skeletally thin hand patted the quilt, and it was hard not to recall the week before when the elder Lyric could sit up with just a little help. Now she couldn’t do that.
“And where are your shoes, dearest one?”
Settling on the edge of the mattress, she had to smile. “They’re by Grandfather’s desk in his study. I came in the door off the side porch and left them there because I didn’t want to track salt in.”
“You know—” An unproductive cough cut off the words, and therewas a moment of recovery afterward. “You know… I must get up and run a mop over the floors. Your grandfather hates mopping.”
“Oh, I’m happy to do it—”
“Not to worry.” There was another pause as those tired eyes shifted to the open door. “I shall take care of it… perhaps after I rest a little more. Your grandfather is so tired, you know.”
That hand swung toward the bedside table and reangled the monitor screen. Hergranmahmensmiled again as she stared at the two males on opposite couches, sleeping in identical reclines, their hands linked over the centers of their chests, their chins up as they snored.
“They’re both so tired,” hergranmahmensaid.
And then the coughing started again.
