Julien was standing in front of a haunted house.
At least, it looked haunted to him. Vines crawling up the siding, red brick made pink with age, grimy, black-shuttered windows and a matching black door with a gold, lion head knocker. Julien drew his jacket tighter around himself, pulling up the address on his phone and checking it again. He was at the right place, surely. So why did everything feel so wrong?
Before he'd even approached the stoop, the door swung open. In its frame stood Seraphine, and never had she more lived up to her name. In her silver dress, glittering like cloth-made rain every time she moved, with her bubblegum pink lips and the way her red-blond hair settled in movie star curls against her shoulder, Julien and anyone else could truly believe she was something heaven sent. "Jule," she said, tipping her head. "Don't tell me you're planning to stay so impossibly far away the whole night?"
Julien swallowed. "You knew I was here?"
"Why?" Sera said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Were you planning to run off, or something?"
Maybe, thought Julien, but didn't say it. Instead, he cast a brief glance up and down the street—empty, save for a beggar crouched at the nearest bus station with a shopping cart full of ragged belongings—and met Sera at the front stoop. Standing before the door, the settling night behind him, he had a peculiar sense of déjà vu that he couldn't explain.
Sera nodded her head as if to gesture inside; the hall behind her was shadowy. "Come in."
Julien hesitated, but brushed past her—only to stop again when Sera caught his wrist and pushed him against the door hinge. A manicured finger ran along his chin, catching against the dark stubble that had gone unshaved. Julien sensed the faintly discomforting poke of the hinge into his lower back, but forgot about it the second Sera kissed him. He was in Paris again, for a second. Coffee and wine—Sera's white back, like porcelain—a soft French voice in his ear—Eiffel Tower a lovely golden blur—
Julien turned his head. "Sera," he said. "You know that's not what I'm here for."
"Serendipity."
"What?"
"Finding something without meaning to," said Sera, stepping back. The door was still open, the moonlight glistening in her icy eyes. "Perhaps that's what this is. Serendipitous."
"No," Julien said, with a sigh. "I came here because I need to know who the hell I am. I'm not wasting another second."
"Right," said Sera. Her hand still around Julien's wrist, she guided him out of the way before she nudged the door shut. They were enshrouded in darkness for a brief moment before she flicked on the lights. Julien looked up. Twinkling glass chandelier, marvelous winding staircase, royal purple wallpaper. Half palace, half house.
Sera moved towards the stairs, stopping to glance back at Julien over her shoulder. "Julien Elias Morales Ruiz," she said, and Julien hated it, hated how he loved the way her tongue caressed every one of his names. "That's all you have, right? Your name."
"My maker," Julien demanded, done lolly-gagging. He wanted this meeting to be done sooner rather than later; if Fritz or Iman found out what he was doing, they'd probably kill him. "Who is she?"
"Ah-ah-ah," said Sera, wagging a finger. "Not so fast. There's something I have to show you first."
Julien pinched the skin between his eyebrows, willing himself to go through with this. I find out who my maker is, he promised himself then, and then I book it. That was the only way he was getting out of this alive, or at least with his dignity.
He followed Sera up the stairs, trying not to watch the way her shoulder blades moved, trying to forget how those shoulder blades had felt underneath his mouth, how they had felt beneath his arms as he embraced her. Everything about Sera was a violent memory. Her smile, her voice, her laugh. Her skin, her hair, her lips. Even that annoying nickname, Juju, the way she said it, had the power to instantaneously transport him back to the late '40s. Was he as ingrained in her as she was in him? With Sera, it was impossible to tell.
She brought him to what looked like a small study, a hazy room with vintage Chippendale-esque chairs and bookcases, complete with one of those fuzzy polar bear rugs that had always given Julien the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.
Julien strode to the window; the view out of it was nothing remarkable, a mere vacant backstreet. "What is this place, anyway? Are you living here?"
"You could say that," said Sera, "but I spend most of my time out of this house. It gets lonely here, you know. I don't have a fat cat to follow me around."
Julien whirled. "Ringo's not fat. You should have seen him when I first picked him up! This is a tremendous turnaround for his health—oh." He stopped when he noticed the picture frame in Sera's hand, ornately carved obeche around an unfamiliar black and white photograph. Julien crossed the room, taking the frame in his hands, peering down at the woman captured within it. Just as he had when Iman had said the name Jacinto, Julien got that prickly, uncomfortable sensation that he should have known who this was. He traced a finger around her dark hair, pulled back from her face in a pinned braid, down her broad nose, around her eyes—rendered black and beady by the picture quality. She was older, he thought. Not old, but significantly older than him. Old enough to be his...
"Madre," he blurted, before he knew much what he'd said. He looked up at Sera with a gasp. "This is my mother, isn't it? It is. What's her name? I can't remember."
"Constanza," Sera said, with an oddly rueful look on her face, her fingers trailing small circles across the desk. "You see the cross around her neck? She was a preacher's wife."
Julien, still holding Constanza's picture tight in his hands, looked up. "So my father..."
"Emilio. Very influential guy, at the time. The townspeople loved him. He was said to be able to speak to God directly. Like a new Moses and the burning bush."
Julien's gaze floated towards his mother's face again, searching it, from the slight smile lines at her mouth to the mole underneath her left eye, her long eyelashes and small ears. This was the woman who had birthed him, who had named him, who had raised him. Why couldn't he remember her?
Constanza. He said the name to himself, over and over again, willing himself not to lose it. Constanza, Emilio—
"Jacinto," Julien said.
Sera blinked. "Jacinto?"
"You know everything else," said Julien, meeting her gaze. The rueful look in her eyes was gone, and instead there was unease, discomfort, as if she had said too much and now she was regretting it. Julien didn't care. He wasn't leaving here without gathering all the information he could—it wouldn't be fair. Not to himself, not Iman, who had worked so hard to help him. "You know everything else. So tell me who Jacinto is. Is he my brother?"
Sera hesitated, pushing out a breath through her teeth. Somewhere outside, a siren sounded, high and wailing through the night, a flash of color beyond the window. "Twin brother," she said, "yes."
"I had...a twin?"
For a moment, it was silent, until Sera stepped forward and plucked the picture from Julien's hands, as if she would a lollipop from a child. Julien yelped, reaching for it again, but before he could Sera's hand closed around his neck and the back of his head smashed against the window.
The glass splintered underneath him, but didn't give. Julien blinked the stars out of his vision, and though Sera's grasp was like a vice around his windpipe, he managed to say, "Seraphine? Come on, love. This isn't very hospitable of you."
"I've told you enough," she snapped. "God, when is it going to be enough for you?"
"I don't know. Maybe when I know the truth about who I am—"
"You're Julien," she said, releasing him. Julien swallowed, reaching a tentative hand to his neck, which was throbbing now with the memory of Sera's fingers. "You're Julien, Jule, Juju, whatever the hell you want. It doesn't matter who you were before. These people? Your mother, father? Jacinto? They're dead, Julien. Long gone. Why do you care so damn much?"
Julien remembered quite distinctly the last time Sera had raised her voice at him. It was 1954, the day he boarded a train from Paris to Copenhagen and never looked back. His last glimpse of her, she was on the floor of their apartment, silent tears streaking down her face, all her energy exhausted from yelling moments before. You can't leave me, she'd said. You can't leave me here, Juju.
Julien, pausing briefly at the top of the landing before he left, had only said, Watch me.
But that felt like forever ago.
Julien sighed, stepping forward, brushing Sera's face with the back of his hand. She met his gaze, wide-eyed, her mouth half open. "You don't get it, Sera," he said, shaking his head. "You beautiful, beautiful thing. You don't know what it's like to be lost, do you, love? The world has been awfully kind to you."
"Jule," she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, "I showed you your mother. Told you your family's names. What else do you want?"
Julien dropped his hand. "But I told you what I want. I want to know who did this to me—who made me a vampire—and I want to know why they did it."
Sera gripped Julien's hand before he lowered it entirely, yanking it back up, holding it to her empty chest. "She doesn't want to know you, Julien. She's moved on since then, and she's not looking back. She made me promise her that I'd—"
"That you'd what, Sera?" Julien said. He'd been trying to keep calm, trying not to let it show just how dangerously close he was to the edge, but something in Sera's face was yanking at the gates of his composition. How had she known all of this? About his family, about him? How had she known, unless...
"No," Julien said. He staggered, took a step back, nearly crashed into the bookcase behind him. "You didn't...you aren't...? Seraphine. Tell me it isn't true. Tell me it isn't true!"
"Julien," said Sera, her voice pleading, eyes wide and brimming with the beginnings of tears. "Wait. Whatever you're thinking, I'm telling you, you're wrong."
"I'm wrong?" Julien roared. Sera took a step toward him, but he took another back, back against the wall. His mind was going a million miles per minute. Everything he'd ever given to Sera, everything he'd ever said, replayed itself in his mind. She couldn't have turned him. He would have known, wouldn't he? He would have felt it somehow. "Don't tell me I'm wrong. How else could you know everything about me while I know nothing? You turned me, Sera, didn't you? You're the one."
"Julien—Jesus fucking Christ, would you just stop blubbering and listen to me for one second of your miserable life?" she yelled, fangs popping, eyes flashing a hungry red. It was not her outburst that shut Julien's mouth, but the way she crumpled afterwards, a hand held to her face. "I'm not your maker, okay? You would know. There's a blood pact there, a very strong connection that we don't have. I'm not your maker, but I know her very well."
"So?"
"So, if you join me," said Sera, lifting her head again—eyes clear, teeth dull, "then you'll know her well, too."
"I don't understand," said Julien. The white noise in the back of his head was draining, little by little. He got the same feeling he had when he'd seen her in the park earlier. It was something about her eyes, the cadence of her voice, that convinced him she was being honest with him. "I don't understand. Why don't you just tell me now? Why don't you just tell me why this person—whoever she is—turned me?"
"Because I don't know, Julien," Sera said, raking a hand through her hair. Her face was pink and puffy from the tears, her lip bleeding where she must have bit it. "That's a story you'll have to hear from her yourself."
Finally, Julien's balance gave out. He needed blood, bagged or otherwise, anything to make him feel alive again. Sinking to the ground, he stared up at Sera, wishing, suddenly and violently, he had never entered this house in the first place. "You said if I join you," he said. "Meaning what, exactly?"
Sera widened her eyes at him, like he wasn't making any sense. He didn't blame her. Very little about the past few minutes made any sort of sense to him. "My clan, Jule," she said. "Your maker—she deals with us often. I'm certain if you bore our brand, if you led with me, you would meet her."
"Lead...with you? I don't..."
He trailed off as Sera kneeled in front of him, dress folding around her ankles, the ends of her bangs damp with sweat. She leaned forward, lips tracing his ear. "But you know," she said. "You know exactly what you have to do, Julien."
Yes, he thought, grimly. I do.
He was walking to his car, head ducked, watching his shoes as they padded along the concrete, when a shadow loomed in front of him.
Suddenly, despite the fact he didn't feel physical things like temperature, he shivered.
"I can explain—"
"Save it," snapped Fritz, grabbing Julien by the back of his jacket collar. For an awful moment, Julien worried Fritz was going to throw him again, but he merely swung him around, slamming Julien's back against the Cherokee. "You promised, Jules. You promised me, you asshole."
"Fritz. Fritz, wait a second," said Julien, raising his hands in surrender. Every effort to wriggle free of his friend's grasp was futile; Fritz was holding on to Julien's jacket like one or both of them would die if he ever let go. More terrifying was the look on Fritz's face, his teeth bared like a dog's, fangs glinting in the dark. His eyes were ablaze with a fire that reminded Julien of faraway nights in faraway places, of sharp teeth and warm blood.
"You promised me—"
"She knows, Fritz!" Julien yelled, and to his surprise, Fritz went still, his grip loosening. "Sera knows who my maker is. She knows everything. What do you want me to do? Throw that all away?"
"Jules—" Fritz stopped, letting his hand fall. He raked a hand through his hair, tossing the deep black strands back from his forehead. His face was paler than usual, his lips stained a faint red as if he had fed recently. "Goddammit, Jules. I don't know, okay? I just don't know if all of this is worth it."
"Of course it's worth it," said Julien, readjusting his jacket. Above their heads, a light mist of rain began to fall, floating delicately in the sky like a gentle dust. "I can't go on like this. 183 years, Fritz. 183 years I've walked this earth like a fucking zombie. It's exhausting not knowing where I came from."
"But you lived anyway," said Fritz, his voice muted, like he was speaking from somewhere far away, even though they were but a few feet apart. "Those 183 years, you lived despite everything. Didn't you?"
"Fritz..." Julien sighed, dropping his gaze towards the ground, where a small beetle skittered down into the shadowy depths of the sewer. Julien warred with himself a moment, between lies and truth, and until the words came out of his mouth, he was unsure which side had won. "You don't get it, do you? It's not just about me. This whole thing—it isn't just about me."
Fritz was quiet for a moment. Then, his voice dripping with confusion, he asked, "Who else would it be about, Jules?"
Julien lifted his head. Underneath the street light, Fritz was twice the vampire Julien would ever be: ghostly skin, dark hair, blood-stained mouth. The glittery sweater he wore twinkled like a star each time he moved.
Slowly, Fritz realized. "Iman?"
Julien nodded. "I think whoever is the reason I'm a vampire," he said, "is also the reason she's a time traveler."
"Julien, that doesn't make any sense."
No, he agreed, maybe it doesn't. Very little of any of this made sense, but it made enough sense to galvanize Julien, to remind him of a motivation he thought he'd lost.
Julien glanced up and down the hazy twilight street, afraid for a moment that Sera was listening in, somehow. Did it matter, really, even if she was? He had already made up his mind, hadn't he?
Guiding a strand of his hair behind his ear, Julien said, "Iman isn't the first time traveler I've met. There was another, back in the 1890s. His name was Manu; we met once when I spent a summer in India. I was impeccably bored—just traveling to travel, you know—but meeting him was a pleasant surprise."
"Jules, where the hell are you going with this?" Fritz said, throwing up his arms. "What does this have to do with Iman?"
"I got used to his random comings and goings, as you do when you spend a lot of time around time travelers. Only, I got concerned when he started disappearing for longer and longer. One day...he never came back, Fritz. Just got lost in time, somewhere. I still have no idea what the hell happened to him.
"Before I left, I found a journal in my backpack that I hadn't noticed before. It was Manu's, I knew; he must have left it for me, hoping I'd find it. In it, he said...he said he knew the one who had made me, and that she was the reason he was cursed."
Fritz was slouching now, a finger lifted to his chin, dark eyebrows knitted. "What kind of vampire curses people?"
"This one, apparently," said Julien. He stepped forward, gripping Fritz's shoulder. "So you get it now, don't you? Why I have to find her? Why I have to know who made me, no matter what it takes?"
Fritz frowned at him, shaking his head. "This is all a massive guessing game, Jules. You could lose everything."
"I know," said Julien. Rain in his eyes, blurring his vision. His legs weak beneath him, because he had already given up. "But that's a sacrifice I have to make."
Julien had lost many people. His family, his friends—Manu, Pashay, many others whose names he could barely recall after the many years by which he was outliving them. He had even lost himself.
But the one person he would not lose was Iman Patel.