purpose. My red hair and blue eyes are nothing like my mother’s butter blond and hazel coloring—a successful genetic transfer.
If my father was the first factor in my mother’s unexpected career, my birth was the second. Complications delayed mom’s return to the fields and my father taught her to read, hoping she might support us by teaching. As her classes grew in popularity, our apartment became the default home for every unwanted book within miles.
The information leading to Mass Conversions was initially brought to her by Gigi. Gigi and Nicky are in the business of foraging through civilization’s leftovers, an adventurous occupation known as scavenging. The near-annihilation of humanity left plenty of useful items behind, but few people have either the nerve or the means to go after them.
When I was four, Gigi brought my mother a stack of moldering journals that she obsessed over for months. Back then, the idea of a human having initiated the mass conversions was unheard of. Previous theories ranged from a vampiric conspiracy to an act of God, but survivors on either side had greater concerns than disproving perfectly reasonable guesses.
In a naïve attempt to set the record straight, my mom wrote Mass Conversions , finishing shortly before my sixth birthday. The initial distribution of the manuscript verged on non-existent, but the indignation spread like wildfire. People who doubted her called her crazy and the rest called her a traitor to the human race. And then the manuscript reached the vampires.
The day the vampires reached out to my mother in September 2358 remains the scariest memory of my childhood. Ironically, this fear had nothing to do with vampires. It was my first encounter with a helicopter that gave me nightmares.
The helicopter’s occupants were human representatives from the Toronto offices of Immortal Media, a vampiric communications empire we’d never heard of. After they identified themselves over the hysteria, they asked to speak to my mother and sent whatever remained of her popularity plummeting.
After my mom finally consented to publication, she insisted that no one from Immortal Media ever visit again without her written authorization. Other than the occasional letter we never heard from the vampires, but mother’s manuscript is now the universally accepted authority on its subject. Her contribution to world history earned her financial security, a place in the history books and the disd ain of nearly everyone we knew.
CHAPTER TWO
“A URORA! If you plan on writing, you need to get up now !” It was hard to imagine anyone capable of such volume on so little sleep, but the proof rang in my ears. Due to the risk of accidental vampiric eye contact, our buildings have no windows. Still, I can’t help but think it would be more pleasant to awaken to sunlight rather than someone yelling.
I grudgingly eased out of bed and flipped the lights on.
Flinching at the glare, I fumbled some clothes from my ancient wardrobe, hoping I’d be warm enough. (Another disadvantage of no windows is never knowing the weather.) Hurrying downstairs, I smiled affectionately at my mother’s endearingly off-key whistling of “Dixie” as I grabbed my pens and letter paper on my way out the door.
My tenure as the village letter writer began at age nine out of loneliness. Through no fault of my own I’d become that girl, the one whose mom worked for vampires. Sometimes writing letters was my only social interaction for days at a time.
Over the past decade, I’ve taught hundreds of people to read and write, and demand for my services has consequently dwindled. Still, letter writing gives me an opportunity to share my ideas about the council proposals and articles I write when I’m not busy teaching. It’s also a great way to hear the gossip.
As mom and I rounded the corner of the hallway, we took our place in the never-ending exit queue at the courtyard gatekeepers’
If my father was the first factor in my mother’s unexpected career, my birth was the second. Complications delayed mom’s return to the fields and my father taught her to read, hoping she might support us by teaching. As her classes grew in popularity, our apartment became the default home for every unwanted book within miles.
The information leading to Mass Conversions was initially brought to her by Gigi. Gigi and Nicky are in the business of foraging through civilization’s leftovers, an adventurous occupation known as scavenging. The near-annihilation of humanity left plenty of useful items behind, but few people have either the nerve or the means to go after them.
When I was four, Gigi brought my mother a stack of moldering journals that she obsessed over for months. Back then, the idea of a human having initiated the mass conversions was unheard of. Previous theories ranged from a vampiric conspiracy to an act of God, but survivors on either side had greater concerns than disproving perfectly reasonable guesses.
In a naïve attempt to set the record straight, my mom wrote Mass Conversions , finishing shortly before my sixth birthday. The initial distribution of the manuscript verged on non-existent, but the indignation spread like wildfire. People who doubted her called her crazy and the rest called her a traitor to the human race. And then the manuscript reached the vampires.
The day the vampires reached out to my mother in September 2358 remains the scariest memory of my childhood. Ironically, this fear had nothing to do with vampires. It was my first encounter with a helicopter that gave me nightmares.
The helicopter’s occupants were human representatives from the Toronto offices of Immortal Media, a vampiric communications empire we’d never heard of. After they identified themselves over the hysteria, they asked to speak to my mother and sent whatever remained of her popularity plummeting.
After my mom finally consented to publication, she insisted that no one from Immortal Media ever visit again without her written authorization. Other than the occasional letter we never heard from the vampires, but mother’s manuscript is now the universally accepted authority on its subject. Her contribution to world history earned her financial security, a place in the history books and the disd ain of nearly everyone we knew.
CHAPTER TWO
“A URORA! If you plan on writing, you need to get up now !” It was hard to imagine anyone capable of such volume on so little sleep, but the proof rang in my ears. Due to the risk of accidental vampiric eye contact, our buildings have no windows. Still, I can’t help but think it would be more pleasant to awaken to sunlight rather than someone yelling.
I grudgingly eased out of bed and flipped the lights on.
Flinching at the glare, I fumbled some clothes from my ancient wardrobe, hoping I’d be warm enough. (Another disadvantage of no windows is never knowing the weather.) Hurrying downstairs, I smiled affectionately at my mother’s endearingly off-key whistling of “Dixie” as I grabbed my pens and letter paper on my way out the door.
My tenure as the village letter writer began at age nine out of loneliness. Through no fault of my own I’d become that girl, the one whose mom worked for vampires. Sometimes writing letters was my only social interaction for days at a time.
Over the past decade, I’ve taught hundreds of people to read and write, and demand for my services has consequently dwindled. Still, letter writing gives me an opportunity to share my ideas about the council proposals and articles I write when I’m not busy teaching. It’s also a great way to hear the gossip.
As mom and I rounded the corner of the hallway, we took our place in the never-ending exit queue at the courtyard gatekeepers’
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