Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 28

It takes all my strength not to race down the street, and the tears burst forth as soon as I make it home. From the hall closet, I grab an old duffel and backpack and slide money in the bottom hidden pockets of both. In my bedroom, I shove clothes inside, a blanket and pillow, the small painted box upon my dresser. My little, wretched life in a bag. Upstairs, I thumb through notebooks, reading through a haze of tears, trying to determine what to keep and what to leave. My hands roam over my bookshelves, grasping at everything, wanting it all. I'm crying and calling for Ivanhoe, but he's nowhere to be found.

I'm leaving. Now. While I'm afraid enough to run. Danger is here, upon my doorstep, I can feel it. After two centuries of exile, one learns to read the signs. If I leave this instant, I can feed and still make it to Savannah, Georgia, before sunrise. Dimly, it occurs to me that is south, closer to the sun, but it's familiar, a place of dim basements and crumbling mansions, haunted houses and sprawling graveyards. Perfect sanctuary for a Night Walker, and I know it well enough to survive another day.

I'm not afraid to die, but I will do it on my own terms. But how to leave William? He wants me. A man wants me. And I want him and I can never have him and the cruelty of it is unbearable. As soon as he makes love to me, he'll know I'm an abomination. Unnatural. Abnormal.

A frigid corpse.

Outside I call for Ivanhoe, my voice rising, breaking into desperation. Where is that goddamned cat? Such sneaky conniving creatures they are. Emily never trusted them and now I understand perfectly! Always hiding when you need them most. Sauntering away with a flick of the tail when you want them to remain.

I stare vainly into the night. Ivanhoe will have to stay behind. It's for the best. I won't drag him place to place, abandoning him amongst strangers in a foreign town. My hands fly to my head and try to hold back the aching pain. The thought of him returning home to an empty house, waiting and waiting for me, hungry and confused, makes my head throb. Who will take care of him? Lucien? Dana? I shake my head against the thought. Then it occurs to me and I slump in relief.

William. William will take care of him.

An image comes. Woody sleeping before the fire. William writing furiously at his desk. And Ivanhoe curled upon the couch against a pillow, surrounded by my poems and pictures, glowing like a ball of sunshine.

With a trembling hand, I wipe tears from my face. I want to say goodbye. I want to kiss Ivanhoe softly on the nose and tell him I love him. No more do I wish to leave a love behind without saying farewell. And yet, it's not always possible. Which is why we must love fiercely, as if every day will be our last. I have loved Ivanhoe well and he knows it.

Inside, I shoulder my bags and take a long, last lingering look. Then I turn off the lights and step over the threshold for the final time. Goodbye, my sweet Victorian. Goodbye, my darling Ivanhoe.

A shriek of misery tears open the night.

I freeze.

It is broken backs and bleeding brains and screaming babies.

It is wrongness ripping its way into the world.

It's Woody!