by Anna Katmore
The goat lifts its head, acknowledging me for the first time. A dandelion hangs from its mouth as the jaws grind the greens in a rotary motion. Around its neck is a red collar from which a rope runs to the railing, tied there with a simple knot. A piece of paper is squeezed under the choker. I pull it out and then slump into the wingback chair, unfolding the note. It’s got some nice blue handwriting on it.
Dear Quentin,
I hope you finally found the sleep you needed. Sorry that I disappeared, but once you stopped breathing, it was a little creepy to lie in bed next to you.
You may have noticed there’s a goat in your hall. Her name is Esther. I snuck her out from our shed after dark and brought her up to the castle.
After dark? What time is it? I pull my phone out and activate the display. 11:39 p.m.. Hell, I slept straight into the night.
I thought since you can’t currently get ahold of a human snack, perhaps she will do. Be nice to her. And please don’t turn her into a vampire.
I’ll pick her up in the morning.
Enjoy your meal!
Abby
P.S. Call me if you need anything. Here’s my number.
With a smile that only this girl could put on my face despite my misery, I punch the number she scribbled at the bottom of her message into my phone and save it with her name. Then I lean back and scrutinize the beast. Boy, it reeks.
I’ve never heard of any vampire in history surviving on animal blood, but Abby was right, maybe the goat will do—if only to keep me going for a few more days until I figure out how to lure a human onto my plate. A surge of hope swells inside my chest. Blood is blood, right? It should do the trick, no matter where it comes from. Anyway, what choice do I have?
With slack arms, I push myself up from the chair and then slowly cross to the goat. I squat in front of the beast, but an instant later, I lose my balance and land on my knees. Big, round eyes watch my defeat to gravity. The flames from the fireplace reflect in the goat’s dark pupils. I reach out and stroke the gruff white fur on her neck. “Now, Esther baby,” I rasp, “I know you won’t like this, but you’re my last hope.”
Tortured by the heat in the castle, or maybe it’s just my fever, I pull my white sweatshirt off and smooth down the dark t-shirt that I’m wearing underneath. Each of my breaths feels as if it’s scorching its way through my nose, then moving down my throat, and into my lungs. My limbs are heavy and weak, and every movement is slow as if I have to push through water. The veins in my arms burn, screaming for a release that only blood can give me. Everything hurts.
My fingers dig a little harder into the goat’s fur, and I lean forward, bending over her. “I’ll try to make this as gentle for you as I can.” Closing my eyes, I hope I can keep the promise. And then I bite.
My fangs sink deep into flesh for the first time after what feels like an eternity. Blood pools in my mouth. A nauseating musky taste swipes over my tongue, clamping my throat tight. Nothing goes down, but the beast jumps up and blares in wild panic. Esther bucks like mad, tossing me off her. She spins around and kicks out with both of her hind legs. One hoof misses my ear by inches as I try to crawl backward. The other one rams straight into my eye.
Ah, fuck! I roll to the side, escaping more of her erratic kicks. Now to safety, I spit the disgusting goop that still chokes me onto the floor, and then I crawl on all fours to the chair where I break down, my upper body slumped across the seat. My heart beats like a drum, and my face hurts like a tank rolled over it and broke every bone. When I touch my cheekbone, my fingers come away tinged with blood.
From the corner of my eye, I glare at Esther, panting hard. She baas loudly, pulling hard at the rope that keeps her tied to the railing. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.
Failure. Esther’s not going to save me.
When that realization finally sinks in, the last bit of hope inside me dies. It’s like a huge black void that slowly eats me from within. The truth is, I cannot survive on my own. I’ve had over two decades to learn what it takes to be a vampire, and I screwed up. Now, it’s too late. I’ve lost all my strength. My will. And my faith. The only thing left is the little bit of control I still have over myself. Going down to the village and just biting the first human I see means starting a vampire hunt—and that’s something I cannot do.
So, I better get prepared for the torture of my living death.
I swallow hard. It hurts.
My coffin is still in the kitchen. The past two days, I was barely strong enough to move it. Sleep has made up for a little of that waning strength, but it won’t remain for long, not when my throat, my stomach, and my veins are on fire, yearning for just a single drop of blood. There’s no time to waste. I need to get the casket down into the dungeon so I have a safe place to rest and sear in hellfire until I’m allowed to go home again. Uncle Vlad will send Reginald to scrape me out of the casket in a couple of weeks.
I trail across the hall and wrap my fingers around one of the golden handles on the dark brown coffin. Groans break from my throat at every step as I haul it toward the heavy iron door that leads to the underground level. Esther, who has finally calmed down, watches my efforts with wariness.
Behind the thick door, the narrow stairs provide an insufferable hindrance. Right now, I don’t even have enough breath in me to lift a glass of water. How in the hell am I supposed to carry this monster down into the dungeon?
But, somehow, I have to. Because if I don’t do it now, it’ll be too late. Maybe in as soon as a few hours.
Biting back tears of despair and strain, I cry out and push the damn thing forward, inch by inch until it tips over the top step and then rumbles down to the bottom, dropping me flat on my front. I lie on the cold, stone floor and close my eyes.
My life has been good—the one before and the one after my death. And I never appreciated it. If I survive this castle, I promise myself I’ll learn to be the best vampire in the world. I will become the heir Uncle Vlad wishes for, the one he deserves after everything he did for me. I will not waste another minute of my eternal life with meaningless shit. I want to be someone he can be proud of.
With the last bit of strength left in me, I hoist myself up to my feet and trudge downstairs, following the lead of my casket. At the bottom, I grip the handle once more and drag it farther down the corridor into the chamber at the very end. One step at a time—one breath at a time.
When it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor, I can barely stand upright. It’s over, the last bit of my strength is gone. I can’t even open the lid. My safety spot stays shut for me.
I sink to my knees, closing my eyes as a breathless groan tears from my throat. Twisting to the side, I lean with my back against the casket, resting my head on top for a minute. Before the withering rigor can claim me entirely, there’s one thing left to do.
Even though every move hurts, I fetch my phone from my pocket. Hardly able to focus, I type a message for Abigail. I want to thank her—for Esther, for everything. And tell her that she shouldn’t come back here after she picks up the goat. And Saby. But my fingers shake, and the text ends up short. Thanks, Abby. It did not work. Take care. Quentin.
When that one is sent, I dial my uncle’s number, but I only reach his voicemail. It doesn’t matter, he can listen to it later when he wakes up, and I’m already in my dehydration coma.
“Uncle V? It’s me…” I rasp. Then my hand drops from exhaustion, and the phone skitters across the floor.
Chapter 18
Just stop when I say it
Abigail
It’s past midnight. I slip into jeans and a sweatshirt, my anxious gaze wandering out the window. I read for half the night until I fell asleep only an hour ago with the book flapped open on my chest. The text from Quentin jerked me awake. And then panic gripped me.
His message sounded so forlorn. So finite. As if he’d given up.
As if he were saying goodbye…
I put on my shoes, slip the silvery dog
whistle into my pocket, and sneak downstairs, past Nana’s bedroom, and out into the night. It’s the third time in only a short while that I’m heading up to Castle Dracula, only this time, I’m on a mission.
I hold a flashlight to see where I’m going in one hand. In the other, I grip the pocket horn to keep whatever is following me away. And I know that I’m being watched from the shadows of the woods. The feeling consumed me earlier when I brought Esther up to Quentin’s home. It gave me the creeps every step of the way. But it’s ten times more intense at night.
The castle is in sight, and while I struggle to get enough air to make it there, I hope that whatever creature is out there watching me has enough sense not to enter the territory of a vampire. Jeez, who would have guessed that Quentin would be the one to make me feel safe?
When I finally slip through the gate and into the garden, a sliver of fear drops from me like a second layer of clothing. Turning around, I look back the way I came, but there’s nothing to be seen. Well, not nothing precisely. Though I’m sure the pair of gleaming eyes by the trees are just a deception of my hysterical mind.
Calming my breaths, I head over to the castle but stop in front of the mighty wooden door. What if coming here was a mistake? Quentin seemed on edge this afternoon. It was a miracle that he kept to his promise not to bite me when his instincts obviously took over. There’s no guarantee that he’ll remember that promise the next time he has the munchies for a human.
Suddenly, the eyes in the shadows seem like the better way to die.
You made it up here, and you’re still alive. That’s good. Now, get your shit together, Abby, and open the door!
Okay.
The panel gives an ominous creek when I push it ajar and hesitantly slip inside. “Quentin?” My timid voice echoes in the hall.
The smell of goat wafts toward me, and then Esther bleats an excited greeting. Only the rope I used to tie her to the railing keeps her from running at me.
Warily looking around, I shuffle over to her and then lift a handful of herbs I ripped in the garden and brought in for her earlier. She’s eaten more than half of the pile, the rest is oddly strewn apart. At least the fire is still burning leisurely across the hall, offering her a warm shelter.
“Hey there, sweetie. You okay?” I stroke her neck, kneeling in front of her, and find two thin lines of blood in her coat.
My nervous gaze sweeps across the place once more. There’s a small red puddle near the fireplace. I have no idea what that means, but I refuse to go there and investigate any further.
Slowly rising from the floor, I shout Quentin’s name again. Nothing.
My gulp resonates in the silence. I stroke Esther’s head one last time and then head up the stairs. If Quentin isn’t in the hall, he must be in his bedroom. Hopefully, the eerie voices no longer torture his mind.
With the flashlight gripped tightly, I make my way to the master bedroom, but it’s empty. Damn! Has he gone out? A shudder runs down my spine like a scoop of snow. Maybe the eyes in the shadows outside didn’t belong to a wolf after all…
Then again, Quentin could be anywhere in these ruins. And he could be lying there half dead and in need of help.
Not help, Abby. Blood.
Yeah, thanks for the reminder.
As I take a walk around the castle, I look into every room, flashing my light to get a good look. Fifteen minutes later, there’s only one other place Quentin could be. Every other room is empty.
Standing in front of the iron door, I bite my lip. I didn’t notice that this was open when I arrived. “Quentin, are you down there?” My voice is such a terrible croak that not even Esther would have heard it, and she is only a few feet away.
Hesitantly, with one hand sliding along the cold metal railing, I descend the stairs. There’re only stone walls visible in the beam of the flashlight—until I round a corner at the bottom of the stairs. A narrow corridor leads to a chamber with an open gate. The small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Fear drives me close to tears as I move on, fighting for each step. One hand on the wall gives me at least some feeling of safety.
When I’m close enough to spy into the chamber, my breath freezes in my lungs. From all sides, the beam is thrown back at me as the light hits steel and silver. Axes hang on racks, stakes in all manner of sizes are lined against a chest. Manacles hang from the wall, and even though there’s no one shackled there anymore, it looks like the red-tinted floor was soaked with blood in old times.
I clap a hand over my mouth as I move the light around the room. This is proof of the immeasurable tortures brought upon men hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Nausea travels up my throat and numbs my tongue.
From all the horror, my hand slowly sinks with the flashlight. And then the beam lands on a pair of legs on the ground.
Shock zaps me alert. I suck in a horrified gasp. Quentin perches on the floor, legs lifelessly stretched out, arms hanging, and his head dipped back onto the casket.
Screaming his name, I rush to his side and point the beam into his face. His sunken eyes are closed, dark rings lodging beneath the line of his lower lashes. A deep cut runs across his left cheekbone, the side of his face turning an ugly shade of blue.
I stroke his other cheek. “Quentin, can you hear me?”
His dried-out lips are slightly parted, but I cannot make out whether he’s still breathing or not. Terrified, I press my hand to his chest. There’s a heartbeat so slow and faint, I almost missed it. With my thumb, I pry open his right eye and shine the light at it. Reluctantly, the huge pupil that seems to lap over his entire blue iris shrinks to a tiny black dot. Same slow reaction on the other side. But at least he’s still alive.
And then he moans. “Abby…?”
“Yes, I’m here.” My voice is a hoarse caw, nothing more. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
“No…” His lips—or any other muscle in his body—barely move when he speaks. “Leave… Me… Dangerous…” Between each word, he draws in another breath for strength. “Go…”
“Like hell, I will!” I drape his arm around my shoulder and hoist him up. Try to. Damn, he weighs more than a sofa. Gathering all my strength, I move him to his feet, groaning loudly. “You’re not going to die here tonight.” Not if I can help it. “I’ll take you upstairs now, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” Maybe I can milk him a glass from Esther, just for a start. “But it would be great if you could help me a little.”
With my arm wrapped tightly around his waist, I haul him out of the creepy chamber and back through the corridor, grateful that he shuffles his feet and makes an attempt to move forward, though ninety percent of his weight seems to rest on my shoulders. An awful noise of hysteria tortures my mind in the quiet, as if my screaming his name earlier never stopped. Sweat dampens my forehead and neck even before we reach the stairs. There, I plant his free hand on the railing and close his fingers around the metal bar. “Come on now, one step at a time.”
He tries, which is good. But he’s too weak to really lift his leg, and his foot collides with the next step. He falls. I topple with him, brought down by his weight. The flashlight falls from my grip because I’m using my hand to brace myself on the edge of the stone stair. A sharp pain zings through the heel of my palm. The light goes out as the pocket lamp rumbles across the floor. Doesn’t matter, there’s light coming from the door upstairs, showing us the way.
Panting from the effort, I straighten Quentin again and drag him up one step. And another. And the next…
As we finally reach the landing, he breaks down once again, rolling to this back. There’s no chance I can hold him. And he looks deader than ever.
Tears of panic spring to my eyes. “Good grief, Quentin, don’t do this to me!” I slip my hands under his arms and jerkily hoist him over to the wingback chair. He’s too heavy to lift, but I lean him against it and rest his head on the cushioned seating. Better than a pillow of stone.
Up here in the light of t
he crackling fire, his face looks even worse than before. His ashen skin feels cold, his lips bear a blue tinge. Five breaths a minute is not much, but it’s something we can work with. There’s still time to save him. My anxious gaze darts around the hall. There’s only Esther. My chest constricts. Milk probably won’t provide the kind of help Quentin needs. But I can’t give up.
Kneeling by his side, I gently brush the long strands from his forehead. “You hang in there, vampire, do you hear me?” My forehead dips to his brow, and I close my eyes. My voice drops to a whisper. “Please, don’t die.”
Then I sniff. What’s left to do for him? Breathing hard, I slowly lift my head and gaze at his beaten face. No, I can’t give up.
Tenderly, I skim my fingers across his cheek. “Wait here. I’ll go get you some—” Blood. My gaze falls to my bruised palm. There’s a little cut, and a scarlet line trails from it.
For endless seconds, I just stare at my hand.
Once, he said some people actually enjoyed being his donors. He said it doesn’t have to hurt, and they give blood to him by choice.
What if I make the same decision now?
My racing heart calms. The noise in my ears quiets.
The tension in my body eases off.
I look back at his face. “Quentin…” Deep breaths lift and flatten my chest as I prepare to speak the unthinkable. “You need to bite me.”
He hasn’t reacted to any of my words or touches since we left the dungeons. But now he shakes his head. It’s barely perceptible, and I know this will be a fight. I push one knee over his legs, straddling his lap, and cup his face with both my hands. Lifting his head to me, I speak gently but firmly, so my words really sink in. “I know I told you never to do that. And you gave me your word that you wouldn’t. But I’m releasing you from that promise now.”
He groans, trying to shake his head again but as I’m holding his face tightly, I don’t let him.
