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This library, though, was impersonal. Not lived in. It was a museum.
A tomb.
Yes, Charlotte saw it now. Draven was as absent here as he was from her company. Annoyance stirred in her because the legendary sword used as decoration in the dining room really should have been her first clue.
A blue drinking cup made from the strange plastic material favored by the colonists. The remains of white lettering and a design of three stars clung to the plastic. Enough remained for Charlotte to recognize the colonial logo. It matched the worn one on her mother’s compass.
Three stars for three ships.
Her father would give his right hand to be here now.
There was a display of silver knives, all neatly organized on a rack. Jewels studded the handles, making them ornamental rather than useful.
Another ornament sat by itself on a shelf. An original plasma gun, judging from the design. Having never seen one in person, she recognized it from diagrams in her history books. The power cells were long dead, but the candlelight caught the orange strip that ran along the side, gleaming like there might be one more shot left in the old thing.
Draven had an impressive collection.
Charlotte ran a finger along the barrel. Not even Lionel had a plasma gun.
One book was on its side and not properly shelved. She cracked it open. A tight, cramped hand filled the pages interspersed with sketches. A journal or a research notebook?
Charlotte took the book to the nearest light for closer inspection. The sketches were fascinating. It was human, but rougher and cruder. The brow was wide and heavy. Most noticeable were two tusks protruding from the lower lips. The lips stretched around the tusks, distorting the face into something monstrous.
She had never seen such a creature before.
The same image—person?—repeated throughout the book. Notations accompanied the creature. “Aggression is unpredictable. Subject becomes violent with little warning.” The words were clinical, even cold.
A smile plastered itself across her face, and she wanted to scream with excitement. This was exactly the type of primary source material she wanted. She desperately wanted to run and share her discovery with someone, ideally Solenne, but perhaps Jane would do. Later. Nothing in the world would prevent her from reading this notebook.
She briefly glanced around for a paper and pencil for note-taking. Alas.
More observations followed, almost all recording physical changes. The same removed, clinical tone remained.
“Subject gained a centimeter in height overnight. Is aggression a response to pain?”
“Observed an increase in muscle mass.”
“Epidermis layer thickened. Leathery quality. Loss of sensitivity.”
As the entries shifted from observing physical changes to behavioral, frustration leaked into the writing.
“Subject does not seem oriented to person, place, or time. Attempts to trigger fundamental memories have failed. Subject did not recognize close family. I fear he is lost.”
“Sedation wore off quicker than expected. Subject destroyed the scanner. Uncertain if we can repair it at this time. Perhaps we can salvage parts from other equipment.”
As the writer’s frustration grew, exclamation points and underlining crept into the pages. The handwriting did not become more erratic, as one might expect. It remained as neat and small as ever. However, droplets of ink decorated the page, as if the writer held the pen too tightly and stabbed at the page.
Awareness of being watched pricked the back of her neck. She tensed, the way a hunted animal might moments before the ambush.
The vampire stood in the doorway, snow on his coat and a frown on his face.
The sight of him, so unexpected and so intense, startled her. She jumped, snapping the book shut and cradling it to her chest.
“I see you’re making yourself at home,” Draven said, his tone as cold as the wind rattling against the windows.
Draven
The Aerie
