Melissa MacNeal - Beyond Redemption

The crowd dispersed quickly. It was too damn cold for lingering in the cemetery, and the ladies were hostessing a funeral lunch. It would've been the best meal I'd eaten for days, but I passed. Despite the camaraderie of the crowd, I was feeling very much the outsider. Why, I don't know-I'd worked among these people as Alex Moore for more than a decade. Perhaps my sense of alienation was the result of the dual identity I'd hidden behind for so long.

I entered my office, and knew someone had been there: an old brass key on a faded red ribbon awaited me on my desk. An eerie vibration went up my arm when I picked it up. Years of handling wills and estates told me it would open a safety deposit box-but why was it here?

Were Furmeister and Dammet playing a trick? Would there be a nasty surprise related to Harry Legg's death when I opened the box? I had visions of body parts the mortician lopped off, as payment for my role in that episode between Miss Pink and the magistrate-even though I couldn't be held responsible. I considered tucking the key away, until the aftermath of the judge's funeral had worn off, but the prickling at the nape of my neck had me heading for the bank.

I presented the key to Miss Pritchard, and the prune-faced teller nodded her usual greeting. "Number thirteen?" she queried. "My gracious, that box was rented back when we first built the bank. I don't believe it's been opened since."

Constance blinked behind her spectacles, expecting me to elaborate. She'd been the keeper of these keys since she started work here as a young woman.

"Confidential estate business," I stated. "I'll need the little viewing room, please."

"Of course, Mr. Moore." If she noticed I was trembling when she slid the box from its slot into my outstretched hands, she knew better than to remark.

Once the door was shut, I sat down at the small table, my fingers lingering on the box's latch. My gut told me this was a highly personal journey…which might lead to things I didn't want to know. Sometimes our orphans' parents had put personal items in deposit boxes, to be opened upon their deaths. And sometimes our charges-if they survived the three vampires-had been happier before seeing these gifts.

I bit my lip and swung the lid up. The box held the usual assortment of manilla envelopes, but on top of them was a bundle of blue deposit books for First National Bank of Redemption, tied in the same faded red ribbon as the key. I wondered idly if anyplace in the world had a Second National Bank, but that was my nerves racing ahead of my timid fingers.

When I opened the top book, the words ALEXANDREA MOORE, DECEMBER 17, 1875 addressed me in a tidy script. I was six months old then…couldn't imagine who'd started an account in my name. And when I turned to the first page, the single entry made me gasp.

One hundred thousand dollars.

The next deposit book was identical to this first one-as was the next book, and the next. I opened them with my mouth hanging open. The accounts had been set up this way to comply with the bank's insurance, but my Lord, there were EIGHT of them! That meant that with interest accrued over thirty-five years, why-I must have nearly- I couldn't believe the figure my crazed brain came up with! Quickly I retied the ribbon and tucked the books into my suit coat pocket, to review when my sanity returned. With fingers that trembled so hard the old paper tore, I opened the next envelope and my breath caught again. I'd never seen the handsome man smiling at me from the sepia-toned photograph, but God, I knew him. I only had to look into his soft brown eyes, at the way his thick, dark hair defied his comb, before I let out a soft sob.

It was my father.

This, too, I tucked away for later-my heart was beating so hard I had to take several deep breaths to keep from passing out. Thoughts of Constance Pritchard having to revive me kept me focused on the remaining contents of the box.

The next document was the deed for that tract on the hillside…with descriptions of the mansion, the orphanage-which had started as a community school-and the stables. I let out a short laugh. Who would've guessed little Alexandrea owned that estate free and clear before she was a year old? Which meant Pandora, Perfidia or Miss Pink had acquired it-probably by devious means-when she'd done in my daddy. All my life I'd felt like a poor relation, yet I owned the most picturesque property in town!

The last envelope was small, of ivory vellum, and I swore I caught a whiff of ghostly perfume as I pulled out the letter. I unfolded it, read, "My Dearest Alexandrea," and knew it was from my mother. This, too, I slipped into my pocket, before I succumbed to emotional overload. Thanking Miss Pritchard, I retrieved my key and then hurried back to my office. I locked the door.

Brandy from the flask in my back room filled a snifter: this would be no ordinary revelation. For thirty-five years I'd wondered who I was and where I'd come from; now, after losing everything and everyone that mattered to her, Alexandrea Moore was about to find herself. The liquor pooled hot and sweet in my stomach. I propped the likeness of my father on my desk, and then unfolded my mother's letter with hands that could barely hold the pages.

My Dearest Alexandrea, it began in a cursive flourish, by the time you read this you'll be grown and I'll be gone. I hope you'll understand how circumstances surrounding your birth made it necessary for me to remain anonymous, so you could grow into a woman who makes her own choices and chooses her own fate.

As I look at you now, so beautiful in your bassinet, I envision wonderful things! I vow to watch over you forever, even when you believe I've gone. I'm looking over your shoulder, smiling at you and your father, as you read this.

Gooseflesh sprang up my spine. As I glanced around my dim office, I felt a presence-but whose? I had the overwhelming urge to turn the page and read the signature, but this woman's secret seemed too precious to spoil with a moment's impatience.

"Come on now-show yourself!" I challenged aloud.

Silence, except for my own breathing. So I read on:

That handsome man in the photograph is your father, the dashing Alexander Moore, Earl of Lustingworth. He was slain last week in a most gruesome attack, by a wicked woman who shall remain unnamed. This has left me unwed with a baby, at the tender age of fourteen-disowned by my scandalized family. Joining Alex in death seemed my best alternative, so I begged his assailant to take me, as well…but Fate was kinder to us than that. A woman you'll know as Pandora has taken us under her wing.

I wheezed, reaching for more brandy.

Have you pieced the puzzle together yet, dear Alexandrea? Pandora preserved Alexander's fortune before it could be seized (well, all right-she smuggled it out of England!). She has also forced your father's murderer to remain in her service until you find the happiness you deserve. While I cannot guess how old you'll be, I have no doubt she'll remain your advocate and sponsor, and that she'll hold us all to our pact: once we leave you to your rightful life in this mortal world, we will never interfere or intercede again.

So, as you read this, you are a free and independent woman, blessed with a special upbringing. I love you more than I can say, Alexandrea. I hope you'll understand what I've done in your behalf, and I pray you'll find a man as special and devoted to you as the one I named you for.

Follow your heart, darling. It's the one thing I've done that I never regretted.

I glanced at the signature, my eyebrows rising. How incongruous the name Evangelica Halliburton sounded-and how mature the letter's tone was-when I considered the spritelike redhead who'd written it! She'd been a serious young lady who probably fell for a man she couldn't have, and he died before he could help her. The immortality Pandora offered tempted Miss Pink's romantic nature…and became a way to pester Perfidia forever, for killing her lover.