“I can control my Legacy,” Samantha fired back. “You’ve barely begun.”

  “We’re here now,” Fiona said. “Build a bridge and get over it.”

  Her gaze narrowed and she turned her back on the younger witch. “Invite him in so we can get on with it.”

  Patrick’s gaze met Holly’s. “Invite me in? I don’t think—”

  “In or out makes no difference,” Samantha snapped. “Except that it’s May, and it’s freezing.”

  Holly looked at Patrick, who shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  She stared at him, gauging what they’d been through and what they were about to do—waging a supernatural war, not only with Hazel, but with his broken mind as well.

  “You better come in,” she said, stepping aside.

  Patrick tensed, but he stepped up onto the verandah and walked across the threshold and into the cottage. A few simple words was all it took to break the supernatural source code.

  Samantha rolled her eyes and followed him in, bustling them all into the lounge room.

  Fiona flopped onto the armchair, watching Patrick with a raised eyebrow as he sat on the couch. “A vampire in the house,” she muttered. “There’s a sight.”

  Samantha reached into her designer handbag and took out a plastic medical bag of blood and thrust it at the vampire. “Drink.”

  Patrick glanced awkwardly at Holly before taking the bag.

  Now Holly understood the dishevelled, sunken look he was sporting. He’d been abstaining from blood to punish himself.

  This was the part of vampirism she was the least familiar with. Both he and Jin had always kept their dietary requirements hidden, never feeding in front of her or talking about it, but now he was forced to drink right there on her aunt’s couch like he was sipping a soft drink from a takeout cup. Holly was disgusted and enraptured all at the same time.

  “He’s not going to hurt you,” Samantha told her. “If he does, which is unlikely, I’ll stop him.”

  “I’m not—”

  But Samantha wasn’t interested in her reasonings. “Finish all these,” she said, handing two more blood bags to the vampire, “then we can start.”

  Holly blinked and glanced away from Patrick as he began guzzling the blood. “So what am I supposed to do, exactly?”

  “You’re going to delve into his mind and clean it up,” Samantha replied. “It’s his past trauma that allowed the original Trine to manipulate him so easily. And after so long being prodded with magic, there are parts of his brain that are too broken to be healed any other way.”

  “So, I’m going to be his supernatural therapist?”

  “Yes.”

  Holly looked at Patrick, who’d finished his afternoon snack. He ran his tongue over his lips and refused to meet her gaze. He’d spent hundreds of years being magically abused, and she couldn’t blame him for feeling ashamed. Hopefully, she could help him begin to move forwards again so they could all fight for a better future.

  Samantha grabbed Holly’s hands and slapped them onto Patrick’s head. “Put your fingers here and here.” She twisted her thumbs so they sat over his temples like electrodes, then splayed the rest of her fingers across his scalp. “Remind me to get you a chart of the human brain.”

  “Why?”

  “Because different parts control different things. When probed with magic, you can potentially damage things you don’t intend to.”

  “What the fu—”

  “Don’t swear.”

  “Are you saying I could potentially turn him into a vegetable?”

  Samantha rolled her eyes. “He’s a vampire. His brain will heal itself. Anyone else is fair game.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “You need to tap into his memory to find the root cause of his instability,” the witch explained. Patrick squirmed beneath Holly’s hands but didn’t make a sound. “Then into his emotions, and finally, into the deepest part of the brain—the place that governs our will to act.”

  Holly was about to ask how Samantha knew all of this but decided against it. She was the leader of the Trine, had used compulsion against Patrick before, and probably knew more about manipulation than a narcissistic sociopath. Actually, she probably was one herself.

  “So I need to help him clear out the things that are leaving his mind open to magical invasion?” Holly asked.

  “Yes. When your Legacy connects with his mind, you’ll step into his memory. It’ll likely play out like a story, but you must guide the plot. His subconscious will want to fight back, even if he wants to open up to you—that is the fear receptors in his brain. Once those have been faced and his emotions have stabilised, then you will be able to find the parietal cortex and fortify it. Do you understand?”

  Holly blinked. “I guess…”

  “You guess?” Samantha snapped.

  “You’re not a good teacher,” Fiona muttered, drawing Samantha’s ire.

  Patrick moved underneath Holly’s grasp. “Don’t listen to her. I trust you.”

  “I haven’t exactly gone into someone’s brain—” The words died in her throat as she realised she was wrong. She had done it before—the night Jin had come over drunk. That night she’d knocked the alcohol right out of him and dove into his memories without even trying.

  If she was going to help Patrick, then she needed to do the same. Samantha had given her a map, and now she had to trust her instincts. They’d gotten her this far, after all.

  “I know what to do.” She looked down at Patrick. “Are you ready?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with pain. “I’m sorry.”

  She frowned. “For what?”

  “You’ll see.” His grimace echoed her expression.

  “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

  “You have to,” he murmured. “It’s this or a stake, Holly.”

  “Call on your Legacy,” Samantha commanded. “Feel it rise within you and direct it towards your hands.”

  “Then what?”

  “Push into his consciousness while focusing on your intention.”

  “Push it into his mind?” Holly asked, beginning to panic. “I don’t understand.”

  Samantha sighed. “You may not understand how, but your Legacy will know what to do.”

  “Holly.” Patrick’s hands shot out and grasped her thighs. He shook her, snarling, “You won’t hurt me any more than I deserve. Just do it.”

  She gasped at his sudden touch and her Legacy ignited. It raced out of her spirit, down her arms, into her hands, before plunging into Patrick’s mind.

  The lounge room dissolved in the blink of an eye—the walls, floors, and couch disappearing—and even Patrick had gone.

  Lowering her hands, she turned around as the sky opened above her, gloomy and grey, her nose filling with the smell of rancid water, and… She sniffed. Was that horse shit?

  “Move!” a voice boomed. “Get outta the way!”

  Holly whirled around just in time to see a massive black horse bear down on her, but it was too late. All she could do was lift her arms and scream.

  CHAPTER 6

  The scream died in Holly’s throat as the horse and rider passed straight thorough her.

  Lowering her arms in astonishment, she stared after them, her gaze catching on the scene before her.

  She stood on a crowded bridge with an assortment of buildings all crammed together. It spanned a few hundred metres by her guess, the breadth of water underneath unlike anything she’d ever seen.

  Figures began to appear out of thin air, bustling about the bridge. Men and women of all ages hurried to and fro, dressed in period clothing that ranged from suits, dresses with large bustles, and hats—there was an astonishing amount of tricorne hats.

  Scanning the skyline, she spotted a familiar sight, though she’d never seen it in real life before. The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral towered above the eighteenth-century iteration of London, dominating almost everything around it for miles.

  It made sense—Patrick had been made a vampire in 1789.

  Okay, what now? Holly scanned the crowd, searching for Patrick. These were his memories, so he had to be in them somewhere…unless she was standing in for him. Looking down, she smoothed her hands over herself, but she was still wearing the clothes she’d put on that morning.

  No one noticed her as she wandered across the bridge, giving her room to watch and gather evidence.

  Soon, she began to hear the desperate sounds of a man shouting at the crowd, his rising voice booming what sounded like a speech of some kind. She could see his head and shoulders above the foot traffic. Realising she was looking at Patrick, Holly had to do a double-take.

  He stood on a wooden box on the street corner, his arms full of leaflets, dressed in a rumpled, yet fine black knee-length coat, white shirt with an upstanding collar and bowtie, and tailored pants that halted at the knee, where white socks took over. His long mousy hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, giving a very ‘Palace of Versailles’ fashion, including the hairstyle.

  Patrick’s voice boomed over the crowd, but she struggled to make sense of what he was saying—there was too much hustle and bustle.

  Darting through the mass of people, Holly yelped as she took a wrong step and ghosted right through a woman who was rushing in the opposite direction. Shivering, she rubbed her arms vigorously. She now understood where the expression of someone stepping on your grave came from.

  “Is it fair that factory owners force children of the age of four to clean factory floors?” Patrick shouted above her. “Is it fair that they are forced to work fourteen-hour days?”

  Holly looked at the leaflet, turning her head to the side so she could read the headline. ‘The Rise of the Working Man - Is Child Labour Unethical?’

  She raised her eyebrows and looked up at him in a new light. Patrick was lobbying for workers’ rights in eighteenth-century England? It was kind of bad-arse.

  Patrick attempted to hand out his leaflet to passersby, but they all brushed past, not looking at him. Not until a man emerged from the throng and stood before him.

  Holly studied the stranger, getting right up in his face and squinting at him. He seemed to be in his early thirties, though his skin bore traces of hardness that came from a life long-lived. Times were harder back then, she supposed. People lived shorter lives because of hard labour, healthcare, living conditions, poverty, war, and all kinds of other things.

  But as she was inside Patrick’s memories, Holly wondered if this mysterious stranger was, in fact, the vampire who turned him.

  “I’ve been listening to your speeches for some time,” the man said. “They carry merit.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Patrick said, smiling. “I’ve been attempting to have my voice heard at Parliament, but they will not have a bar of me, I’m afraid.”

  “Because giving rights to workers would deprive them and their supporters of their wealth, I suppose,” the man replied tersely. “History rolls on, but the story rarely changes.”

  “I wonder if perhaps history will tire of itself one day.”

  “That is the hope.”

  “There are murmurings of a revolution in France,” Patrick said. “Perhaps if the middle classes here looked towards their peers, they may see the same course for England.”

  The man smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps not the wisest talk for a street corner, don’t you think?”

  Patrick tensed. “Of course. You’re right. I apologise, my mind brims will all these grand ideas for a common utopia, and it is not possible for one man to endure, it seems.”

  “I can see that.” The man held out his hand. “My name is John Adamson.”

  “Patrick Evans,” he replied, shaking it with his own. The man’s skin was icy-cold, and he pressed his palm into his jacket pocket to warm it again—Holly did the same, the memory pressing upon her the importance of it.

  “Patrick? Your family originated in Ireland?”

  “My grandfather did. A great source of family shame, or so I’m told.”

  “Ah, yes,” John declared, “the controversial trappings of immigrants upon so-called society. Yet another hurdle history must endure.”

  “One of many.”

  “Say, would you be kind enough to accompany me for a drink? I would like to discuss your views in more depth. They quite intrigue me.”

  “I would be delighted, sir,” Patrick said, grinning.

  The memory dissolved as the two men walked off, the London streetscape fading into darkness.

  The sudden change sent a wave of nausea through Holly, and she turned, trying to get her bearings as images flashed past. A darkened pub, a walk along the riverside, a printing press, a large meeting of men and their booming laughter, John Adamson handing a stack of books to Patrick, paper covered in scrawling cursive, ink blots, more speeches, more laughter…

  John was the key. Holly knew it before she’d even found the memory where he’d revealed the truth about his vampirism.

  They’d struck up a friendship, meeting for dinner and drinks to discuss politics, Patrick’s struggles, his hopes of joining Parliament one day, and the changes he wanted to see in the law. But not once did John reveal more of himself than he needed to, sticking with the simplest of facts about his life.

  The more she saw, the more she understood that John was searching for a companion. This was the job interview, so to speak, and it was a long process of not only gaining Patrick’s trust, but determining his personality, beliefs, ethics, and his suitability for becoming a vampire.

  The problem was, Patrick had no idea of his new friend’s intentions or his supernatural status. It felt a little predatory to Holly, even though she could see John’s intentions had been honourable in the sense that he wasn’t going to turn just anyone—there was some kind of thought put into the process—but the question remained: how did it turn out so badly for Patrick?

  Okay, she thought. I’m in control here, right? So that means I can find the right memories to lead me to the root of his trauma. The pieces are here, I just have to… She let her Legacy flow through her body and turned.

  “What must I do?” Patrick asked.

  Holly stood in a small sitting room cloaked in the dark shadows of night. The space was furnished sparsely with a table and chairs, a hard-looking couch, and an armchair. A fire burned in the fireplace, and a landscape painting with a golden frame hung over the mantle.

  Patrick and John sat before the fire, their heads lowered as if they were conspiring.

  “Tell me,” Patrick demanded. “If I am to make this choice, I must know.”

  “First, you must drink my blood—”

  “Your blood?” He recoiled.

  John smiled. “What do you think gives a vampire life, if not the essence that runs through your veins?”

  “What happens if you don’t…drink?”

  “My kind needs blood to keep our bodies animated,” he explained. “Our bodies are incapable of producing it, you see, so if there is no more…we dry up. All moisture evaporates and we desiccate. It is forces beyond human knowledge that keep what remains from passing out of this world.”

  “So…blood would animate you again?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you live forever, unless…”

  “You are an intelligent man, Patrick. You understand what I’m offering you.” John set down his glass. “Once you drink from me, you must endure the final stage. Death.”

  “Death?”

  “Yes, you must die. Death is forever.”

  Holly tensed as she listened to their conversation. To be a vampire was to suffer so many things—every blessing was merely a curse in disguise—and she wondered how any of them could bear it. She thought of Jin, and now that she was armed with this new perspective, she understood so much more about him and his motivations. Even the things Patrick had done stood in a new light.

  “You said you chose me because I had suitable tendencies,” Patrick murmured. “But to be a vampire is to be a predator. A hunter of blood. A killer of humanity.”

  “That is a choice we all must make,” John told him, “to become something else. But remember what it was to be human. It still exists inside us all, you see, but to an immortal, life becomes more. All that a human is magnifies—sight, sound, strength, speed, hunger…but also love, hate, sadness, joy—”

  “Loneliness.”

  John nodded.

  “If I were to become as you are, I would help abate your isolation. Help you connect with the human world?”

  John nodded again.

  Holly felt Patrick’s thoughts as he weighed his decision, but she knew he’d already made it before John had even offered.

  “Your turning will be calm,” John murmured. “I will be here to guide you through it.”

  “What was it like for you?”

  “I was alone,” he replied. “It was violent, painful, and dark for so many years. I existed as a monster until I learned how to rise. You shall not suffer what I did.”

  Patrick nodded. “Then I consent.”

  What followed next was a blur of memories that held light and warmth. They’d travelled together, she realised, reaching as far as two vampires could in the eighteenth century. Italy, France, Spain, Scandinavia, Germany, Russia, Egypt, Jordan, and many more places she didn’t recognise. They were true companions and friends, but as the years passed, Holly saw the light dim in John’s eyes.

  Then it was the turn of the century, and as celebrations rung out across London, Holly rejoined Patrick and John on a rooftop.

  “I have walked this Earth for eight hundred years,” John said. “And in all that time, I have learned one thing. No one person should live that long—it is impossible to endure.”

  “But there is still so much to see.”

  “I should not have made you,” he murmured. “It was selfish of me.”

  “No,” Patrick said. “I chose freely.”

  John gazed at him, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Did you?”

  “Of course, I did. I—” The words died in his throat as he began to doubt his choices.