Page 1 of Eternal Devotion

1

Mordecai

Four hundred and thirty years ago, off a dirt road in what was once rural Lambeth, in a marshy area on the south bank of the Thames, across from Westminster, was a square piece of land marked by eleven gravestones but only ten bodies.

One for each of my maternal grandparents, another for Father, one for Mother, four belonging to siblings who didn’t live past childhood, one for a sister who did, although Abeta had died at fifteen, birthing her first child. That might ring abnormal in today’s society, but in my time, girls of fifteen regularly married and had babies. The unnamed child, who didn’t survive, had the smallest marker next to her mother.

The last gravestone belonged to me, erected in my honor after word arrived of my passing. My parents had never had a body to bury, so the inscription was not precisely accurate.

If I closed my eyes and peered into the past, I could still read the vital details engraved on the stone’s surface.

Here lyeth Mordecai Ashenvale

who departed this life on the 16th of August

AD 1597 in the 27th year of his age.

As I stood on the Riverside Walk, overlooking the Thames, with the St. George Wharf at my back, I mourned the life I never got to live and cursed the uncle who’d changed me. For although I’d died a mortal’s death on that rainy August morning in 1597, I lived on.

Eternally.

Miserably.

Walking silently along the quay, I admired the constellation of artificial stars reflected on the surface of the still water. The bustling city on the other side with its brilliant array of electrically powered lights cast a hazy orange veil over the world, washing away the true darkness that called to my unbeating heart.

The rumble of gasoline-powered engines reverberated through the night. Jets roared overhead. Laughter caught the wind, arising from patrons visiting waterfront restaurants, dining on sheltered and heated patios.

Passersby on the Walk stared zombie-like at cell phones, thumbs moving as they typed endless messages to virtual friends all over the world. Others wore bulky headphones and blared music at decibels that irritated my sensitive hearing. They biked, ran, or rode skateboards, dressed in jeans, jumpers, and tennis shoes, with spiked, curled, or straightened hair, doused in perfumed oils that tickled the delicate membrane inside my nose if I inhaled.

The synthetic floral scent did not mask the natural human pheromones beneath. Their mix permeated the air, and my teeth ached as I fought to control my innate urges.

Humans and I were alike in many ways, but vastly different in others. I lived on the periphery of their world, unable to fully blend, yet unwilling to let go of my roots, even centuries after my death.

I longed to be mortal.

Watching them, I noted every nuance of their characters and personalities, copied their stances and mannerisms, repeated the words they used, and echoed their inflections. So much had changed over time. I could hardly keep up.

Every day, for hundreds of years, I scrutinized the way the humans interacted with one another and longed for something I could never have.

In the year 2026, my quaint family cemetery and the village I’d once called home were gone, replaced by waterfront paths and high-rises, shopping centers and massage parlors, restaurants and hair salons. Whether the skeletal remains of my ancestors had been discovered and relocated or had simply turned to dust, I might never know.

I rarely visited anymore. My life had drastically changed, and time rushed onward.

The industrial age had transformed the world I once knew into something unrecognizable. I wouldn’t call the rise of the twenty-first century unpleasant. Its advances struck intrigue. Many aspects of societal change called to me in a way that many in my nocturnal family wouldn’t understand. Progressive was a term I often heard. I’d seen a lot over the course of my undead life, but this was a direction I’d never dreamed possible.

Curiosity and a century-old longing fueled my nightly excursions across Europe, but my compass always pointed toward home.

Visitors to the waterfront braced against the chilly October wind, shivering and pulling hoods over vulnerable ears. I didn’t feel the cold but had donned a wool coat and tucked my hands in the pockets to mimic appropriate behavior.

When I walked amongst the living, the idea was to blend and try not to draw attention to myself.

At the St. George Wharf Tower, I reversed course, treading slowly back the way I’d come while sharpening my hearing to eavesdrop on various conversations taking place on the nearest outdoor patio, particularly that of the two gentlemen who I’d learned were on a date. Their excursion was anything but clandestine. Although I couldn’t see them from my vantage, I’d followed them on several occasions, both curious and fascinated at their lack of inhibition.

Smiling to myself, I shortened my stride, not wanting to miss a word of Fletcher’s review of the film they’d seen that evening. Noise swelled from every direction. Pedestrians jostled my arm as they scooted around me, expressing annoyance at my languid pace. Boat horns trumpeted, bike bells chirped, dishes from bustling restaurant kitchens clattered. A cacophony. I heard it all.

Despite my narrowed attention and the clamor of a fall evening, a familiar flapping of wings drew my focus. It stilled my feet as I scanned the night. I cocked an ear and listened. The sound originated from behind me, vanishing shortly after I paused.

Inhaling deeply, catching his scent, I pivoted and scanned the Walk. Zeroing in on a dark cluster of hedges that lined the path, I waited.