Page 73 of We Were Eternal Once

“Mother,” I correct. Their necks snap as they look to me, mouth full of questions I will not answer. I understand you now in this moment, how Alexandria would tire you so. At first the reverence was wanted—I’ve always been so dull next to your shine. But without you? At last I am seen, but not as I wish to be seen.

They put me on a pedestal and ignore me simultaneously.

Perhaps I will burn Le Sang Bleu with them in it to get away from it all. Without a rival cult to dispose of them, I will have to do it myself.

“Mother?” Margarethe says, sitting up straighter.

“Mother?” Tomasz says at the same time, dismissive.

“Do not act so shocked. We are all borne of a woman. Why should creation not be from one?” Margarethe says.

“Yet God is a man,” Eloise clarifies. “And He created all.”

“I do not think He created us,” Margarethe says. “We violate the commandments he placed forth. We may not be explicitly mentioned in the Bible, but we are of sin.”

“Did your original Bible creatures not live several hundred years?” asks Yusuf.

“They did not die by sunlight, and they did not drink blood to live,” Margarethe says with a wave of her hand. “And how do you explain Melinoë? She is thousands of years old.”

I am here, but I am not. They take my words and twist them around, placing them where they’d like. I am a centerpiece for their conversations, which grow tedious and repetitive. When you live so long, you run out of things to do, to see, to speak of. Soon they will find another topic to drain the life from.

“Do you know this mother?” Margarethe asks me. Her melancholy silence is at last broken by the premise of a female creator. It’s something she can use against her old god, proof he isn’t real.

“No, she was before my time.”

“But you know she existed? Truly?” Margarethe presses.

“Did your creator tell you?” Yusuf asks.

They tiptoe around the mention of you, not wanting to face your existence directly lest it scare me off. I am already a bird set to fly, I don’t need much of a push. They must sense it, because they want so deeply to know of you, but they will not ask.

Perhaps they think it is rude. Perhaps they think it will lead to my leaving.

“Yes,” I say simply, turning my attention to the clock. I am set to meet Zora in twenty minutes. “I’ve somewhere to be,” I say, and I leave. No one stops me. I’m sure the conversation switches to me once I am gone, but I do not care. I will not return to this salon ever again.

Zora stands under an arcade, her gaze eternally sweeping the grounds before us. She tracks the movement of every human, waiting for her next catch. This is how she survives—stealing, blending into the night, remaining unknown and unseen. We are kindred spirits in this.

“I approve,” she says, regarding my clothing. She’s shown me what the common human wears to help me blend in more. My red eyes still draw attention, but I am watched less than before.

I hold up a book, unable to hide my smile. Zora takes it and looks it over, whistling under her breath.

“Very old, probably worth something,” she says, handing it back to me and tapping the cover. “What language is this?”

“Latin,” I say. “It’s Odes, by Horace. Four books of poems.” I turn to a page and recite⁠—

May the goddess, queen of Cyprus,

and Helen’s brothers, the brightest of stars,

and father of the winds, Aeolus,

confining all except Iapyga, guide you,

ship, that owes us Virgil, given

to your care, guide you to Attica’s shores,

bring him safely there I beg you,