Estella recovered slowly. For days she lingered in her bed. Occasionally she would wake to moan in pain or request water. Her grandmother was her constant companion, seeing to the compress on her head, holding her hand, and easing her aches when Estella woke up. Her grandfather constantly went in and out of the door, up and down the stairs carrying the things for Estella’s and Marguerite’s needs: cloths, medicinal rubs, bandages, water, food, blankets. Whatever either needed, he received.

What went through the girl's unconscious mind? To her grandparents the groans resulted from her injuries but to Estella they were screams. Wraiths haunted her unconscious, the thundering of their horses’ hooves clapped and echoed across her mental landscape.

She was the debt. You are the payment. She was the debt. You are the payment.

Estella couldn’t escape the demons on her heels. Once, in her mind, she thought she had escaped them under thick foliage, hooves roaring past her. She turned to run in the opposite direction only to find herself in the grips of the stranger, his foul breath hot on her face. He grabbed her arm, it was still bleeding from his bite.

This is the secret. This is the blood of the gods.

Estella woke up in a cold sweat. Hyper alert but still caught in the fear of her visions she pulled her hand away, wrenching it out of her grandmother’s who held it. To the girl who just woke up, it felt like the stranger’s.

“Este! Este! Este!”

“Bambina! Shhh shhh it’s okay. It is Mémé and nonno. It’s alright. You’re alright, bambina.” Her grandfather cooed.

Coming back down to earth, back down to her bedroom under her quilt and her grandparents where she was loved and protected, Estella launched herself into them and began to weep.

—

Her grandparents did not ask Jacques to visit immediately. They waited for Estella to recover fully, for the physical wounds to heal and the mental wounds to scar over.

Estella did not tell her grandparents about her dream. Like many afraid children before her, she stayed silent on that matter but she did ask them about the stranger.

“Who were they?”

“We don’t know who they were, Estella, or we may have protected you better.”

She gripped her bed sheets tightly. “Why did they attack me?”

To this Marguerite believed she had an answer. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to share it with her young, traumatized grandchild.

Timoteo filled the gap where his wife hesitated, “You see the cut on your arm? It is a bite. The stranger was a vampiro.” Vampire.

Estella mouthed the word vampiro, let it roll around on her tongue before the meaning dawned upon her face. She had seen movies. Her grandparents told her about their friend Jacques, about his immortal family. “I’m going to be a vampire?” Does this mean she had to live with Jacques now? She grabbed the nearest reflective surface to examine herself for any changes in her appearance. She was horrified—Estella had always wanted to be a witch like her grandmother. Vampirism was not among her youthful hopes.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“No no, bambina! You are not turning into a vampiro.” Left unspoken in that statement? Yet. “They wanted your blood.”

“My blood?” This is the secret. This is the blood of the gods. “He followed us for my blood?” Her voice had gotten noticeably high.

“He followed… Estella, have you seen this man before?” Asked her grandmother, her dark eyebrows stretching towards her graying hair.

“Do you recognize that man bambina?” Timoteo was tense, what had they missed? What had they chosen not to see?

“He was at papa’s funeral. At the edge of the woods. He watched us drive away.” Estella said it like it was the most obvious statement in the world. He was right there. Didn’t you see?

Marguerite was baffled and mildly violated. How dare someone intrude on their most vulnerable moment? “Why didn’t you…” She took a breath to steady herself. “This man, did he scare you?”

“I didn’t know what I should have been afraid of…”

“But you were afraid?” Timoteo followed up.

“I was…I don’t know. I thought they were strange. He didn’t have shoes on. It was cold outside and he didn’t have shoes.” She kept repeating this fact, as if solving it would solve her problems.

“If…Estella, if someone raises the hair on your arms you tell someone. You tell us. Why didn’t you feel you should tell us?” Her grandmother sat next to her now, arm around her shoulder.

“I tried but you were both so upset about…” She didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to remind them of the loss they suffered everyday.

Her grandfather felt the same way. “Well then. What is done is done. Time for a refreshment, no?” Off he went to retrieve two glasses of wine and one of apple juice.

—--

Timoteo and Marguerite took their time calling Jacques. They took their time telling Estella what her future likely holds. They wanted her to have time to heal, to feel comfortable coming out of the house, before properly introducing her to the vampire part of her world — even if he was an old friend.

In the meantime of taking their time, Marguerite worked on securing their boundaries and making unwelcomed guests unable to find their house. She created wards and omens from natural resources, used strings of her hair to create a boundary that she embedded as much of her life into that she could give. She hoped the magic would send strangers three states over instead.

The grandparents convinced themselves that they had time. To be fair, they did — at first. The problem with taking time is that eventually you will have none left.

Later, in her grandparents’ final moments they would consider that fact. Timoteo would think of Estella, his bambina, and Marguerite, his beloved, miracle of a wife who carved a life for herself in the inhospitableness that is a foreign time. His last sensation would be the light pressure of his wife’s hand on his cheek. He wondered where Estella was.

Marguerite would have more regrets. She would think of Estella, of the things she taught her and the things she could not; she thought of the things she should have told her. She thought of Jacques and how she never did get around to introducing him to Estella. She wondered if he would recognize Estella as her own. She thought of her papa and how going home was the only fear she could never conquer. She hoped he would forgive her. She wondered if he would leave an offering out for her on All Hallows Eve. She hoped her godmother would adore Estella as much as she had adored her when Marguerite was young. Her last sensation was the warmth of her husband’s cheek upon her breast. That was always his favorite spot. She wondered where Estella was.