Eternal Night

(III) Chapter 38: The Lost Restored

Vernal Equinox
March 20th 2139

It had been nearly three months since the unforgettable red dawn of that final battle, the fall of Marcus Augustine and his regime. But Jacob had long-since lost track of the days. Time seemed like such a foreign construct to him now, the days and nights all blending together in one ceaseless blur of thought and study. While his friends and associates had all been quick to lose themselves in the political machinations of the new court, tempered only by the reconstructive efforts to restore their little oasis on the European continent to its former glory, Jake had all but shut himself away, a self-imposed imprisonment – and in Augustine's old quarters no less.

He had barely slept since that morning all those weeks ago, when Margot's ghostly hand – something inexplicably tangible, yet ethereal – had faded from his view, along with the rest of her the moment the sun had finished peaking over the horizon on that new day. A new world.

And yet, still her final words continued to echo in his mind like a siren call from the beyond, his exhausted eyes pouring over yet another ancient text on necromancy, searching for something, anything that could help him answer that call.

"Francesca's work is not yet done," his deceased wife had told him in those final moments as Mariella's magic continued to wane. "But she'll need your help, Jacob."

"Tell me what I must do," he had pleaded with her. "I can't lose you again."

Marguerite's smile would forever be burned into his memory, that seductively delightful curve of lip the only thing that could wake him from a dead sleep at high noon, that drew him from a restless slumber time and again, pulling him back to the ancient tomes and dark magic he had once sworn never to touch again, but had now become utterly dependent on.

In those last few seconds before she had vanished altogether, she had instructed him to revisit the prophecy; that the answers he sought were there. And it was there in Mariella Bernardini's old journals that he had found those very answers.

Indeed, as foretold, the demons had been bound and the lost restored that morning – but the last line of the witch's prophecy remained unfulfilled: through her blood the forsaken shall taste of the light.

It had only taken Jacob a matter of hours to unveil what that meant, to have several centuries of wondering why his previous efforts to restore their fallen loved ones in the past with his necromancy had failed so spectacularly now answered. It wasn't just that the souls of the strigoi and nosferatu had been bound by Lilith's power – that had been just one piece of the puzzle. Necromancy of this sort required sacrifice – usually a life for a life.

But with her blood – Francesca's blood...

It was at that realization that Jacob's hope had turned to ash in his mouth.

There was no way in hell he could bring himself to ask Frankie to sacrifice more than she already had.

For starters, he wasn't particularly keen on facing Dracula's wrath had such a topic even been broached. But the idea of his dear sister-in-law, who was finally tasting of true, real happiness for the first time in her life... he didn't have the heart to interfere with that, to burden her further.

And so Jacob isolated himself, pouring countless hours – days and nights and days – into reading every ancient grimoire and tome he could get his hands on. He scoured through the palace archives, through every scrap of paper, every dark spell and incantation; but after weeks of the same fruitless search, he realized that if he was going to have Margot back in his life again, if he was to have any hope of filling this gaping hole his beloved had left him with, then Frankie was the only one who could make it happen.