Page 17 of Vampire's Breath

“I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m letting my mother down and forgetting my promise to her.”

“There’s no way you are. You have to live your life for yourself as well as your promise to her.” She drained her tea. “I’ll meet you later.”

“I’ll see you at the studio around eight thirty.”

As soon as Amy left, I returned my attention to the journal. The leather felt smooth and warm in my hand when I picked it up, as though inviting me into its depths.

I nestled into the armchair, tea on the table beside me, and pulled my feet under me into a cozy little ball. I opened the cover. What was I missing? I turned to a page I’d read a hundred times, feeling as if the key to everything was there but just outside my grasp.

The trial of Lady Isobel had just wrapped up, her peers convicting her of murder. Her feelings poured out onto the page—part stunned, part resigned. She expected to be sentenced to the gallows in the next few days. After all, the man she had killed was an earl, and a very popular one at that. No one had believed her story. If they had at least thought he had caused her husband’s death, maybe she would have been acquitted. Of course, she hadn’t said on the stand that she thought he was a vampire, more afraid of an asylum than death.

No wonder my mother had wanted to find out about Lady Isobel’s story. The writing on these pages made little sense. There was no mention of the solicitors or judges, just the trial.

I turned the page, skimming over the writing. Suddenly, my mouth dropped open. This had to be a mistake.

My heart pounded as I leaned closer, my fingertips brushing the faded ink as if it might change under my touch. I read and reread the words written there.

The Most Honorable Marquess of Dún Na Farraige came to visit me today. He told me he was sure I wouldn’t be sentenced to the gallows. I don’t believe him. But something in his demeanor made me wonder what that man is up to.

I remember when Lord O’Cillian’s predecessor introduced him. We had all wondered who would inherit the title upon his death, having never met his elusive relative. It made sense when he brought his cousin, Sir Lorcan, to court. He was introducing his heir to society. The two looked so similar; they could have been brothers instead of cousins. But no one asked questions. They should have asked questions.

Lorcan O’Cillian? You had to be kidding me.

When he said he’d researched the period extensively, was it because he was related tothisLorcan O’Cillian? He had to be, surely? My teacup shook as I lifted it and took a sip. The warm liquid did little to calm my nerves.

The former Lord O’Cillian’s passing shocked us all because of how young he was. But hunting accidents do happen. It was what they said when my dear Aldric died as well.

I appealed to the Marquess, Lord Lorcan, hoping he would put in a good word for me. He assured me that this would be the case. I hope he’s right. But whatever happens, I know I avenged my husband’s murder.

I closed the book, marking my page with my bookmark. Of course his name had been so familiar the other night. I’d read it before. My mind raced as I pieced together the fragments of the story, questions crashing over me like waves. Could it be true? Could it be that his ancestor was involved in the sentencing of Lady Isobel? And if it was, why hadn’t Lorcan, modern Lorcan, said anything?

I chewed the inside of my cheek, my eyes flickering to the window as if the answer might be written in the leaves outside. Was it possible that Lorcan O’Cillian knew about Lady Isobel’s trial because it was his family history that he was recounting? Had he researched his family history, much like I was researching mine? Or had the stories been passed down along with the name?

I laughed as I sat back. Or was Lorcan O’Cillian just another of Lady Isobel’s vampires? I forced my thoughts back to reality.

I had more questions than answers. To find the truth, I would need to get Lorcan to talk to me. My fingers curled into fists, my nails digging into my palms. The man may not want to go on a date, but he couldn’t ignore his name in the journal. There had to be a reason.

Maybe if I took the journal to him, if he knew his family had an intimate connection with mine, he might be more willing to share information. I glanced at my phone and the text message he’d sent with the names of a few contacts who might know something.

A knock on my door pulled me out of my reverie. I left the journal on my desk. When I opened the door, a stack of boxes greeted me. On top, the silvery-green leaves of the old man saltbush shimmered in the sun. At least I would have one more chance to speak with him. My mind churned as I moved the delivery into my office so I could lock up and go to the yoga studio.

Amy’s jaw dropped open as we sat on yoga mats in the middle of the studio. “There’s a Lorcan O’Cillian in the journal? Are you sure they’re related?”

Sweat dripped down the side of my face from the surprise yoga session. “No, but it feels like they have to be. The name is too unusual not to have a connection. I should text him and ask.”

Amy looked thoughtful. “Stop trying to text the man and call him.”

“But…”

She picked up my phone and handed it to me. “Tell him his plant is in.”

“It’s early,” I protested, but Amy waved me off. Against my better judgment, I put the call on speaker.

“Hello?” His voice was crisp, like he’d been awake for hours.

My stomach fluttered. “Uh, Mr. O’Cillian…” Why had I started so formally, as though I didn’t know him? “Lorcan, I mean. This is Briar from the garden center. Your order is ready.”

“Oh, excellent,” he said. A silence dragged on. “Is there something more…?”

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