What the Dead Remember
1299 Words
The moon hung low over the city, bleeding pale silver across the spires and soot-stained roofs like a wound refusing to close. Somewhere in the shadows, church bells marked the hour—not with joy, but with mourning. Midnight. The hour of secrets.
Seraphine stood alone in the mausoleum garden behind the sanctuary, the chill air coiling around her like a shroud. Her cloak, black as starless night, stirred faintly in the wind. Before her stretched a dozen old graves, long forgotten by the world. But one stone she never let moss claim.
Edmund Thorne
Beloved, and lost.
1723–1748
The inscription was weathered, the stone pitted with age, but she could read it with her eyes closed. She often did.
Tonight, she knelt before it.
She didn’t cry. She never did anymore. The grief had calcified into something deeper—something bone-deep and aching. She traced the name with her gloved fingers, each letter a blade. “I told myself,” she whispered, “I would never let it happen again.”
She meant Cassian. Of course she did. That fragile thread between them had thickened into something perilously close to love. And yet, Seraphine had walked this earth long enough to know what love cost her. What it always cost her.
She had been strong. She had stayed away. For a time.
But Cassian’s hand in hers had undone something.
She hadn’t spoken Edmund’s name aloud in decades. Maybe a century. But tonight, the past clawed too close to the present.
“You still talk to ghosts, I see,” came a voice from the shadows.
Seraphine did not flinch. She knew the moment the wind stilled, the air tightened with ancient magic.
“Aradia,” she said, standing slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The other vampire stepped into the moonlight, her beauty sharpened by malice. Her flame-red hair glinted like fire. But something darker lingered in her eyes now—not just resentment. Purpose.
“Oh, but I should,” Aradia said, stepping lightly over the graves. “You exiled me, Seraphine. As if I were some petty traitor. But I was right. And you know it.”
“You were reckless,” Seraphine replied coldly. “You endangered the coven. You betrayed me.”
“I betrayed your delusion,” Aradia snapped. “This fantasy that we can stay untouchable while you moon over mortals like some cursed Juliet.”
“You don’t know what I feel,” Seraphine said.
“Oh, I know you,” Aradia replied, coming closer. “I know how you linger by this grave like a widow. I know about Edmund.”
Seraphine’s face went still.
“So you do remember,” Aradia continued. “The last time you thought you could love a human. The last time you were careless.”
“Stop,” Seraphine warned.
Aradia smiled, cruel. “You met him in spring, didn’t you? He used to leave you lilies. White ones—how quaint.”
“I said stop.”
“You fell for him. Thought you could keep it hidden. But secrets rot. And so did your love. Until they found him. Tortured him. Made you watch.”
Seraphine moved like a storm. One moment still, the next she had Aradia by the throat, slammed against the mausoleum wall. Her eyes burned red, not with hunger—but with fury.
“Do not speak his name,” she hissed. “You know nothing of what that night cost me.”
Aradia only laughed, breathless and cruel. “But that’s just it. I want you to remember.”
Seraphine’s grip tightened, then slowly she released her.
“Why?” she asked, voice shaking. “Why bring this up now?”
“Because history is repeating itself,” Aradia said. “And you’re too lovesick to see it. You’ll get Cassian killed, just like you did Edmund.”
Seraphine said nothing. The past hung heavy between them.
“You don’t care about Cassian,” she said finally.
“No,” Aradia admitted. “But I care about the coven. About what happens when you forget what we are. When sentiment compromises everything we’ve built.”
Seraphine turned away. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly. You think this mortal can survive our world. That he’s different. But he’ll die screaming, like the rest. And when he does, it will be your fault.”
“Leave,” Seraphine said.
“You can exile me again,” Aradia replied. “But this story is already written.”
She vanished into shadow.
---
Hours passed.
Seraphine remained at the grave. She stared at the stone, but saw Cassian’s face—his fierce loyalty, trembling hands, whispered words: I want to protect you.
She remembered Edmund. A poet. A scholar. Barely twenty-five. Bright-eyed, utterly human. He’d left her poems in books and flowers on her doorstep. She tried to keep away. She failed.
They killed him to punish her. Carved scripture into his skin. Broke him.
She buried him herself.
She whispered Cassian’s name into the cold air. “Don’t follow me. Don’t try to save me. I’m already lost.”
But another voice rose in her: What if this time is different?
---
Cassian couldn’t sleep. He sat surrounded by sketches and scraps of poetry—versions of her. He had drawn her face a hundred times, never right.
Something had changed between them. Her fingers on his. The silent pull growing stronger.
He reached for his coat.
Then the candle blew out.
He turned.
A figure stood in the doorway.
“Cassian Grey,” the voice purred.
He grabbed the fireplace poker. The woman stepped into the moonlight. Red hair. Smirk like a knife.
“Aradia,” he said, tightening his grip on the poker.
“Oh, you remember me?” Aradia chuckled. “Then perhaps we shall chat. Did your valiant queen that you worship tell you what happened to the last mortal man she loved?”
Cassian stilled.
“She didn’t kill him. But her love did. Her enemies turned his body into a warning.”
“I’m not him,” Cassian said.
“No. But you bleed just the same.”
She stepped closer. He didn’t move.
“If you think you can scare me off, you don’t know me,” he said.
Aradia’s eyes glittered. “I know how this ends.”
A new voice cut through the air.
“Do you?”
Seraphine stood in the doorway, her cloak trailing mist.
“Oh good,” Aradia said without turning. “The ghost returns.”
“You were warned, Aradia.” Seraphine said.
“And you were too,” Aradia countered. “But you won’t listen. Not until he ends up like Edmund.”
Cassian’s heart pounded. “What is she talking about? Who was Edmund?”
Seraphine’s eyes met his. “I’ll explain. Just not now.”
“Still hiding,” Aradia said. “Classic.”
In a blink, Seraphine was beside her, hand at her throat. “Say his name again and I will erase every memory of you.”
“Then do it,” Aradia whispered. “Show him who you really are.”
Seraphine released her.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
Aradia backed away. “You’ve made your choice. May it be your bloody grave, too.”
She vanished.
Silence.
Cassian stepped forward and repeated himself again, this time far more persistent. “Who was Edmund?”
Seraphine’s voice broke. “A mistake. One I swore I’d never repeat.”
“But you let me in anyway,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And that... might just be the cruelest thing I’ve ever done.”
- Writer
