Found (Book #8 in the Vampire Journals) (26 page)

Caitlin pulled back the cover, and ran her hand along the first page, and began to study the handwriting.

As she did, suddenly, her heart stopped. She couldn’t understand it. It was a handwriting she recognized.

It was her own.

As she began to read, Caitlin could not process what was happening. She felt as if she were outside of herself, looking down. And she became more and more confused.

She read. And read and read and read.

Finally, it hit her like a lightning bolt: this book, it was
hers
. Her journal. The journal of a teenage girl. A journal of coming of age. Of going back in time. Of falling in love with a man named Caleb. Of having a daughter named Scarlet. And of becoming a vampire.

She wondered if she were losing her mind. What was this? Was it some sort of practical joke? Some sort of fantasy she’d had as a young girl? What was it doing here? How did her grandmother have it? And why did she only open it now, at this time?

As she turned page after page, transfixed, read story after story, entry after entry, as she sat there, frozen until long after the sun rose, finally, she realized: this was no joke.

It was her.

It was really her.

CHAPTER ONE

Caitlin’s hands trembled on the steering wheel as she drove. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since this morning, since she’d put down her journal. She’d read every page, then started over, and read it all over again. It was like watching her life flash before her eyes. It was like reading about a life that had been kept secret even from her, a life she’d always suspected she’d had, but was afraid to believe was possible. It was like holding a piece of herself she never knew existed. She still didn’t know what to think of it.

It excited and terrified her at the same time. She didn’t know what was real and what was imagined anymore, what was her life, and what was a fantasy. The line was blurring so much, she started to wonder if she was losing her mind.

Being a scholar, a rare book expert, she also analyzed and scrutinized the book itself, with an expert’s eye. She could tell, scientifically, objectively, that it was real. An ancient book. Thousands of years old. Older than any book she’d ever held. That in itself would have been enough to stump her. It didn’t make any sense. How was it possible?

As Caitlin thought about it, she realized that her necklace, the one she’d given to Scarlet, was also ancient. And it had also come from her grandmother. She wondered who her grandmother really was, and what else she had in hiding. Her grandmother had said at the time that it had come from
her
grandmother. Caitlin couldn’t help feeling some intense connection to the generations. But she didn’t know what.

As she turned it all over in her head, it only raised more and more questions. And that, more than anything, surprised her. She was an expert, a world-renowned scholar. She could dissect and analyze any book within a matter of minutes. But now, with her own book, in her own attic—in her own handwriting of all things—she was completely stumped.

And that freaked her out more than anything. After all, Caitlin didn’t remember writing any of it. And yet, as she read it, pieces of it seemed to come back to her on some level, in some vague part of her consciousness.

The book had thrown her for a loop. Caitlin had come down from the attic late in the morning, to an empty house, Scarlet already gone to school, and Caleb already long gone to work. She was supposed to be at work herself hours ago, and hadn’t even called in. She’d been in a daze, and had lost all sense of time and place. The only one still home to greet her had been Ruth, and Caitlin, in a daze, had merely walked past her, out the door, to her car, and had taken off, the book in hand.

Caitlin knew there was only one person in the world she could turn to for answers. And she needed answers now, more than ever. She couldn’t stand to have something unsolved, and she would stop at nothing until she had all the answers she needed.

She floored it on the highway, racing down the Taconic Parkway, heading towards New York City, hands still shaking. There was only one man in the world who would know what to make of this—only one mind that was more brilliant than hers when it came to rare books and antiquities. Only one man who could also explain the deepest truths of history, of religion, of the esoteric.

And that was Aiden. Her old college professor, her mentor all throughout undergraduate and graduate degrees at Columbia,
 
all the way through to her Ph.D. He was the one man she trusted and respected more than any man in the world. The one man who she considered to be a true father.

Aiden was the most venerated professor of antiquities and esoteric studies at Columbia, the shining star of the archaeological faculty, and the greatest scholar they’d ever had. If ever Caitlin encountered any rare book, or piece of history, or antiquity that left her stumped, Aiden was the one she could call. He always had an answer, for everything.

She knew that he would have an answer for this book, a scholarly way to explain it away that would both make her feel better and make her wonder why she hadn’t thought of it. And he would do it with grace and charm, in a way that didn’t make her feel stupid. In fact, knowing that he would have the answer was the only thing keeping her from losing her mind right now.

Caitlin was shaking with anticipation as she reached Manhattan. She sped down the West Side Highway, then over to Broadway and parked right before the entrance to Columbia. She parked right there, on Broadway, in a no parking zone, but she didn’t care. She was hardly aware of her surroundings, hardly aware that she had left the house still wearing pajama pants, flip-flops, and an old sweater, her hair undone. Life had been a blur since reading that book.

Caitlin jumped out of the car, snatched the journal, and ran through the gates of Columbia, stumbling on the uneven, brick-lined walkway. She hurried through the campus, and turned and ran up the wide, stone steps, taking them three then four at a time. She hurried across a wide stone plaza, found the building she knew Aiden would be in, hurried up more steps, through double doors, down a tiled corridor, up another flight of steps, turned down another corridor, and went right to his classroom. She didn’t even think to knock, didn’t even stop to consider whether he might be teaching. She wasn’t in her right state of mind.

Caitlin opened his door and walked right in, as if she were still an undergrad.

She took a few steps in, then stopped, mortified. Aiden was standing there, at his blackboard, holding a piece of chalk—and the classroom was filled with about 30 graduate students.

“And the reason why the archetypical differences between the Roman and Greek values weren’t considered—”

Aiden suddenly stopped speaking, stopped writing on the chalkboard. He turned and looked.

The graduate students all stopped typing notes on their laptops and stared at Caitlin, too, looking her up and down. Suddenly, she realized where she was, what she was wearing.

Caitlin stood there, mortified, like a deer in headlights. She finally snapped out of her daze, and realized what she had done. She must have seemed like a crazy person.

Scattered laughter broke out from the stunned classroom.

“Caitlin?” Aiden asked, looking back at her with astonishment.

Aiden looked just as she’d remembered, with his short, gray hair and beard, and intelligent light blue eyes. He stared back at her with kindness, but she also sensed surprise, and maybe even annoyance. Of course: she had interrupted his class.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Aiden stood there, perhaps waiting for her to explain, or perhaps waiting for her to leave.

But Caitlin couldn’t bring herself to leave. She couldn’t go anywhere, do anything, think about anything, until she had answers.

“Is there…something I can help you with?” Aiden asked, sounding unsure.

Caitlin looked down at the floor. She didn’t know what to say. She hated to interrupt him. But at the same time she didn’t feel like she could go.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, looking up at him. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

He stared back at her for several seconds, and she could see his eyes narrowing. She watched his eyes look down at her hand, see the book she was holding. And for the slightest moment, she saw something in his eyes like recognition. Astonishment. It was a look she had never seen before: Aiden had never been astonished by anything. He seemed to know about everything in the universe.

Now, Aiden was the one who seemed caught off guard. Slowly, he turned to the class.

“I’m sorry class,” he said. “But that will be all for today.”

And with that, he suddenly turned towards Caitlin, walked to her, gently took her shoulder, and led her out the room, to the surprised gasps and muffled whispers of the students.

“To my office,” he said.

She followed him down the hall, wordlessly, up the stairs, to the top floor, down another hall, and then finally, into his office. She walked in, and he closed the door behind her.

It was the office she remembered, and it felt like a second home to her. It was the office she had spent so many years analyzing and discussing and debating ideas with Aiden, as he advised her on her essays, on her thesis. It was a small office, but comfortable, every inch of it jam-packed with books, all the way up to the 14 foot ceilings. Books were stacked on the desk, on the windowsill, on the chairs. And not just any books—all sorts of rare and unusual books, esoteric volumes on the most obscure academic subjects. It was the quintessential scholar’s office.

He hastily removed a pile of books off of one of the seats across his desk, making room for Caitlin, as she sat in the chair beside him. Without hesitating, she reached out and held her journal before her.

Aiden looked down and slowly took it with both hands. Gently, he pulled back the covers, and his eyes opened wide as he read the first page.

But to Caitlin surprise, he didn’t go through the book, inspect it, turn it every which way, as he always did with an unusual volume.

Instead, he silently, gently closed it, and reached out with two hands to give it back to her. Caitlin could not believe it. He didn’t even try to read more. She was even more confused by his reaction.

Confusing her even more, he wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he slowly got up, a grim look on his face, walked to his windowsill, and stood there, hands clasped, looking out. He was staring, looking down on the campus, on the hundreds of bodies scurrying below.

Caitlin could feel him thinking. And she knew, she just knew, that there was something here. Something that he knew about. Something he had never told her. And that frightened her all the more. She had so desperately hoped he would just dismiss it all as nonsense.

After moments of thick silence, Caitlin couldn’t take it anymore. She had to know.

“Is it real?” she asked, cutting right to the chase.

After a long silence, Aiden finally turned.

Slowly, he nodded.

Caitlin couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He was confirming her reality. This book. It was real. Everything was real.

“But how is that possible?” Caitlin asked, her voice rising. “It talks about the most fantastical things. Vampires. Mythical swords. Shields. Antidotes. It’s thousands of years old—and it’s all in my handwriting. None of it makes any sense.”

Aiden sighed.

“I was afraid this day would come,” he said. “It just came sooner than I thought.”

Caitlin stared back, trying to understand. She felt as if some great secret had been withheld from her, and it frustrated her to no end.

“What day would come?” she demanded. “What are you telling me? And why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Slowly, Aiden shook his head.

“It wasn’t for me to tell you. It was for you to discover. When the time was right.”

“To discover what?”

Aiden hesitated.

“That you are not who you think you are. That you are special. That you have a special past.”

Caitlin stared back, dumbfounded.

“I still don’t understand,” she said, frustrated.

Aiden paced.

“As you know, history is part fact, part myth. It is our job to determine what is truth and what is fiction. Yet it is not as much of a science as we’d like to pretend. There are no absolute facts in history. History is written by the victors, by the biographers, by those with a cause and purpose and agenda to document it. History will always be biased. And it will always be selective.”

“Where does that leave me?” Caitlin asked, impatient. She was in no mood for one of Aiden’s monologues. Not now.

Aiden cleared his throat.

“There is a fourth dimension to history. The dimension discounted by scholars. But one that is very, very real. It is the unexplained. The esoteric. Some might even like to dub it a spiritual dimension. It is what we specialize in. Some might call it the occult, but that term has been grossly misused.”