Chapter 13: The paintings

“What did you see this time, Ophelia?” Papa Peter asked, trying to control his temper.

I took a deep breath and told them what happened in that nightmare. I tried to be as detailed as possible. I’d paint everything later, but that needed time, and we didn’t have any.

“So, you tell me that three vampires killed Ester, who was a Keeper, because they thought she was hiding a special necklace,” grandpa made a recap of what I told them.

I nodded in response, and the frown on his face became deeper. “Did you know her?”

“We’re a small community, angel, so we pretty much know each other. Ester married a human about twenty years ago, and she decided not to interact with the supernaturals from then on. Of course, if a threat appeared, she'd help without any hesitation. She was a nice woman, and most definitely she didn’t deserve to die.”

“She had a son, didn’t she?”

“That’s right. Her son is human, and that made it easier for her to live the peaceful life she always wanted. Did you see what happened to her son?”

“He wasn’t at the house, so I suppose he’s alive. We have to protect him though because nothing guarantees us that those monsters won’t come back.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ophelia. Now eat your breakfast and go watch the photos from last night with your grandma.”

“Papa, I need to ask another question,” I murmured, and when he nodded, I continued, “What is this necklace the vampires were talking about?”

“I’ll figure it out, angel, and I’ll let you know. There’s nothing you have to worry about; they probably were talking gibberish,” grandpa replied, but I could sense that he wasn’t completely honest with me.

“Ophelia, I made pancakes for you,” Nana Eve said before I had the chance to retort.

We ate breakfast, I spent some time with my grandma gossiping about the events of the wedding, and then I went straight to my room and began painting. I drew the exterior of the house and the garden; I made portraits of the three vampires and the couple, I painted the living room, Ester’s bedroom, and their son’s room, I drew the church and the kid’s playground. Grandpa observed closely each of my paintings. It took me almost ten days to complete everything I wanted, and thankfully that was how my mom’s honeymoon trip lasted. Surely, Papa Peter didn’t need my paintings to find the woman or learn where she lived, but he made extra copies of the vampire’s portraits and took them.

They didn’t tell me anything for a long time, and I didn’t dare to ask. I knew that my grandpa never broke a promise; he’d tell me everything when he was ready. We informed my mom about what happened when she came back. She looked concerned and probably scared. I couldn’t blame her; these vampires were searching for something they thought that the Keepers protect. We’re Keepers; that meant they could attack and kill us in any given chance.

I trained even harder so that I’d be able to protect my family. Chris and David didn’t know the truth, not yet. My mom decided it was better not to tell them, under these circumstances, and my grandparents agreed with her. I believed that David ought to learn the truth, but Christopher could stay in the dark, at least until he finishes high school.

I’m not sure if my fourteen years old self dealt with it better, or whether I had somehow became used to these nightmares, but I didn’t have the same outburst as the first time. I kept painting memories and scenes of the dream, for a very long time though.

Two months after the night of the wedding and that nightmare I had, Grandpa Peter informed me about the progress of his investigation. Ester and her husband were murdered the same night my mom married David. That night I became part of a family, while another one was ruined. Ester’s son was living at the campus dorms, that’s why he wasn’t killed, too. However, he was the one who discovered his parents’ bodies. The local Police Department managed to cover up the murder. In their reports, it appeared as a robbery that went wrong. Ester’s son was safe, and grandpa made sure he’d stay that way.

Papa Peter contacted the Senatus de sanguine himself and demanded they surrender the guilty vampires. Luck wasn't on our side, because the Senatus didn’t recognize them nor had ever approved of them becoming vampires. That meant two things: firstly, rogue vampires were roaming freely out there, and secondly, a lunatic was creating bloodthirsty killing machines, uncontrollably. I couldn’t decide what was worse…

Grandpa promised me that he’d work closely with the Senatus and some other Keepers to eliminate the rogue vampires. As much as I wanted to take part in the mission, I was pretty sure that neither my mom nor my grandparents would let me. Thus, I tried to concentrate back on my routine; school, training, spending time with my friends and family, and painting.

It was a lovely Sunday afternoon; we were having dinner at my grandparents’ house, so I came earlier to paint for a while. My old room was full of paintings and drawings to the point that someone couldn’t even find a place to sit. I was focused on the painting I was working on and didn’t realize that someone else was in the room with me.

“You rarely paint humans,” I heard Christopher say in a small voice.

“I’m not very fond of portraits,” I replied and looked better at the painting in front of me. A man was dancing with a woman. The woman had her back turned, but I could tell she was beautiful, her vivid red hair was up in a neat bun and she was wearing a backless, silk, black dress. The man was wearing a white shirt the first buttons undone, he was handsome with raven hair and grey eyes; he was looking exactly like Jack.

 “But you seem to like painting these three people,” he remarked, and I looked at him confused.

“What do you mean?”

“When it comes to portraits, or when you paint humans, you use three people. You have never painted your mother or your grandparents; you paint only them. And I think you have a bigger preference to this young man,” he said pointing at the half-finished painting.

I contemplate his words for a few moments. Truth be told, Jack was my imaginary model for many paintings. I believe that I kept painting him, because that was a way to keep him alive, at least in my memories. He was right. “I hadn’t noticed that. I guess it happens unintentionally,” I muttered.

“Who are they, Ophelia?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I whispered, while I was on the verge of tears. I had to stop this madness. Painting Jack, Ester, or her husband wouldn’t bring them back. It was just a way to remember them; to not let my mind forget the tragic things that happened to them.

“You know them? Are these people real?”

“I just saw them in my dreams, Chris.”

He searched a bit through my paintings, and I observed him with curiosity. “You saw them being murdered in your dreams?” he enquired showing me a painting of Ester lying in a pool of blood. “You saw them dying in your dreams?” he asked again this time holding a painting of Jack at the night of the explosion.

“I just imagined these things. Not everyone is good and safe out there, Chris. Humans are dying or being murdered; there is evil and pain. We may be happy right now, but you know better than me how pain and sorrow taste.”

“So, you tell me that you have nothing to do with these murders and that you have only imagined them?”

“I just have a wild imagination, Chris. You think I'm capable of killing someone?” I asked, hurt, and offended by his words.

“Just stay out of trouble, please.”

“Of course, I will; I promise,” I said, a small smile spreading on my lips.

“Oh, and it’s about time to paint my portrait. I’m more handsome than him.”

“Whatever you say,” I chuckled lightly.

“That was easier than I thought. Now come dinner’s ready, and I'm starving,” he said, and we walked at the dining room together.

I smiled watching my loved ones sitting around the table, eating, drinking some wine, talking, laughing. I was very lucky to live moments like these, to make memories like these. I had to taste rejection to know how it is to be part of a caring family; I had to get hurt to feel the warmth of love; I had to taste pain to appreciate the small moments of happiness...