Chapter 31

ELEANOR

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was a bright light. Sunlight. I sat up with a jolt. A thundering headache had me dropping back down and squeezing my eyes shut again.

I let out a loud groan. I obviously wasn’t dead. I hurt too much.

I opened one eye slowly, then the other one. My head spun.

I quickly took in my surroundings: pale blue walls, ugly plaster ceiling stained with years of water damage, and a beeping sound to my right.

There was a single, uncomfortable-looking blue armchair with a black backpack on it, and a wide window facing outside, flooding the room with bright sunlight.

I was lying on a stiff bed with a pale blue blanket pulled up to my chin.

My right arm was dangling out of the bed, and my eyes slowly followed the needle to the transparent tube that connected to a baggie full of clear liquid.

I twisted and let out a gasp of pain. My whole body ached.

It was clear to me that I was in a hospital and that my family wasn’t anywhere near.

Memories of the last time I saw them came flooding back to me, and my head pounded. I remembered Mother’s strong hands, keeping me in place as she sucked the blood from me.

I remembered Aric’s face, twisted into a mask of horror, his fangs out, as he’d crouched down next to me. They had left me for dead. They had killed me.

I couldn’t believe it.

And yet, was I surprised? They were pureblood vampires who had been on this earth for centuries. What was one tiny human going to matter to them?

Somehow, I had survived.

Had I been turned?

I immediately moved my fingers up to my mouth, passing my thumb over my teeth, looking for fangs. They were normal. I didn’t feel any bloodthirsty urges either. And the sun wasn’t affecting me.

I flipped the covers back and swung my feet over the side of the hospital bed. My head spun. I was wearing a light pink hospital gown.

“~No così in fretta bambina,~” the doctor said, stepping into the room. She was a short woman, with olive-toned skin like mine and dark brown eyes. She gave me a friendly smile.

“~Come ti senti?~” she asked me. She checked a clipboard that was attached to the end of the bed.

“~Mi testa?~” I pointed to my head, trying to remember all the Italian Mother had taught me. It was similar enough to French and Spanish, which I knew well, so I could understand the doctor’s meaning.

The doctor came close to me, she placed her fingers, warm, against my wrist.

“Do you speak English?” she asked me, her accent thick.

“Yes!”

“Good. What is your name?”

“Eleanor. Eleanor Mcnoxnoctis.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven. Almost.”

“Okay, child,” she pulled away from me, checking the transparent baggie on the beeping computer monitor.

She glanced back at me and gave me a small smile. “Eleanor, where are your parents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, child, you lost a lot of blood. Do you remember what happened?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. She pursed her lips, then nodded.

“We’ve had you in here for two days now, child. The most important thing now is for you to eat and drink lots of water. I will have food brought to you immediately. Then, we will try to find your parents. Okay?”

I nodded. She reached for the black backpack on the armchair behind her and handed it to me gently.

“This is all you had with you.” She gave me a concerned look.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

She gave me a curt nod, then backed toward the door.

“I’ll have them bring your food now,” she told me. “Relax now.” She slipped out the door.

I immediately turned to the backpack. I had never seen it in my life.

I pulled it open and emptied its contents on my lap.

My drawing pad and a pencil case with my crayons, my favorite astronomy book, a single change of clothes, and a passport. With shaking hands, I picked up the passport and flipped it open.

It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t the one I’d already filled with stamps from France and Peru and Italy.

It was brand spanking new, and it belonged to someone named Ellie Martinez. But the photo was a photo of me.

From the passport fell a piece of paper. My heart racing, I picked it up with trembling fingers.

My eyes searched the page, but it was an administrative document, Ellie Martinez, her birthday, her parents Laura and Diego Martinez, their death in a fire years ago.

I dropped the piece of paper and searched the bag again. Look for something, anything that my family would have left me. A note, a map to find them.

But I came up empty.

A nurse came in, speaking in fast Italian. She brought me a tray of steaming pasta, chocolate cake, and fruit juice.

Then she watched me eat everything and forced me to drink a whole bottle of water.

After she left, two Italian policemen arrived. One spoke English. Our exchange was very fast. As soon as I handed him the passport and the birth certificate, he was away and talking fast on the phone.

I knew I couldn’t tell them my name. They could never find my real family. They had been hiding from humans for a millennium. I also understood that my family didn’t want me to find them either.

I curled up into a ball and cried for days.

The Italian social worker had me on a plane a couple of days later. I was headed to California, where Ellie Martinez was from.

He didn’t take the plane with me, but an air hostess came by and visited me often on the plane, bringing me food and juice.

I spent the long flight staring out the window at the bright, white sky, binging television shows I had never heard of, and drawing.

I drew Mother and Father together, hugging as they did, watching the Amazon River flow by.

I drew the twins. They were always fabulous and absolutely beautiful. I drew them in extravagant dresses and great shoes. They grinned at me from the paper, their eyes red.

I drew Selene and James and Orion, too, in their garden in France. And I drew Aric, as I remembered him, squatting down, teeth bared, eyes bright crimson, leaning forward to rip my throat out.

I cried for the rest of the flight.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I was picked up at the airport by a certain Mr. Robles, who had a black mustache and no hair on his head.

But he gave me a friendly smile and carried my luggage to his car.

“I’m Francisco Robles,” he told me. “My wife is Sonia. You will meet her soon.”

“I’m Eleanor.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I heard you like to be called Ellie?”

“I suppose.”

“Lovely. Ellie, Sonia and I are going to take you to our place, okay? You can stay with us for a few months.”

“And then what?”

“Well, we’ll be looking for a permanent home for you. A couple who can take you in for the long term. Sonia and I, we already have three foster children at home, you see...”

“Sure. No problem.” I shrugged. Nothing mattered to me anymore. He gave me a grateful smile.