Dawn Of Hope: Charity Anthology

by J. A. Culican

“I was an orphan. My parents had believed it would be my best chance in life, to grow up as a human. I ran away when I saw the mark, and my guardian came to me shortly after that. She found me hiding inside an abandoned cart on the road.”

  “Ethan, that’s horrible. How could they leave ye?”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Don’t think of that. Either way, I would have been destined to an empty life had my guardian not found me.”

  “But ‘ow do ye trust your guardian has conveyed the right mission to ye?”

  “The Chibold receive messages from the Universe. The guardians report to them.”

  “Chibold? The fire elementals? Aren’t they only children?”

  Ethan frowned. “It worries me you think of them as children. Most appear that way, yes, but appearances are not everything.”

  Somewhere deep down, Ophelia had always known these things. Ideas perhaps taken on from her infancy, from before she could form things into memories, into visuals and words. The stories that had always felt too real to be fairytale. How would this man know these stories, lest they were true?

  “What about ye, then? Ye could not become Cruor or Strigoi. Clearly ye are not one of the Chibold. And the Witches are all mortal. Only the Ankou remain. Or are there others?”

  “There are other sources of magic in this world, but only five elemental races, so yes, I’m one of the Ankou. We’re bound by night to move the Morts, the spirits of the dead, to ensure they do not overtake a human’s body and cause further destruction.”

  “My mother said the Morts caused the witch hunts.” That was part of the story. Part of that dark fairytale her mother had told her so many nights while sitting by the fire. If what Ethan said was true, daylight would be the true test. Daylight would reveal his nature, reveal those gossamer wings the Ankou were said to have, visible only in the sun’s direct rays.

  Ethan nodded. “But it’s not only the Morts I can move. I can move the living as well, a gift given me directly, to fulfill my purpose. And you,” he said, “are meant to join the Cruor. I am to help you achieve that.”

  The Cruor. The ones who fed on the blood of humans. Ophelia had seen things as a small child, though, as she’d grown older, she’d always imagined she’d confused reality with her mother’s stories. Stories that had kept her up some nights, terrorizing her with nightmares to the point her father eventually insisted the fairytales come to an end. That night, her parents argued in living room, and Ophelia listened by her bedroom door.

  ‘I’m preparing ‘er,’ Ophelia’s mother had said to him crossly.

  ‘Ye are scaring ‘er,’ he said. ‘What is the point of all we ‘ave accomplished if ye still cling to that world, Eleanor?’

  ‘She needs to know.’

  Ophelia’s mother had always been firm. In most families Ophelia knew, a woman would never question her husband’s wishes, but their family was different. Ophelia’s mother was often the one to make the final judgment calls in their house.

  “Leave it alone, Eleanor. At least until she’s older.”

  They’d settled on that, but Ophelia never forgot the haunting tales of the savage the Cruor had wreaked.

  Deep down, she’d always known her mother’s stories were more than just fairytales.

  “If I am to become one of the Cruor, then my mother must have been Ankou and Strigoi, yes? Clearly she was not one of the Chibold.”

  Ethan rubbed his hand over the stubble that darkened his jaw. “Yes. Her dual-bred nature would have allowed her to walk in the sun undetected.”

  “That won’t be possible for me if I do as ye say I must, will it?”

  Ethan leveled his gaze at her. “It is not an ideal situation, but—”

  “It is a terror. And ye are saying I am destined to become one of them? To become the enemy of my own family?”

  “You wouldn’t be the enemy.”

  “Of course not,” Ophelia said bitterly. “Ye can’t be an enemy to the dead!”

  “Ophelia . . . ” he said gently, but she spun around where she sat and squeezed her eyes against the tears. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Her chest tightened, and she fought back the sobs. She needed to pull herself together. Needed to get away from here, away from Ethan, away from this ‘calling’ that would dare ask this of her. Ask her to become Cruor. If there was a higher power, it would not want another one of them walking this earth.

  “Becoming Cruor is your only way to gain acceptance to the Maltorim,” Ethan said. His tone was almost pleading.

  Ophelia crossed her arms in disgust, shaking her head. She need hear no more. Mother had said the Maltorim were a council of elementals chosen to carry out the wishes of the Universe, but since they had become an entity primarily ruled by Cruor, they had used their power to serve themselves alone and to execute anyone who stood in their way.

  “Ye are suggesting I join the evil ones. No, Ethan. I shall never do such a thing. Never.”

  “Never?” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have much choice, unless you intend to suffer. You’re destined to join them. If you do not, they will one day overtake the earth. Many innocent people will die. You can prevent that from happening by joining the Maltorim and helping the girl who will one day be sent there to bring forth change.”

  “I ‘ave a choice,” Ophelia said. “Everyone ‘as a choice.”

  “So your choice is what? To walk away? To allow thousands to die? For what? So that you can return to a life of scrubbing floors and delivering messages in the dead of night?” His fists clenched at his side. “I am not asking to behave as they behave, Ophelia. I’m only asking you walk among them so you can save the human girl who can rid of them completely.”

  Ophelia hurriedly buttoned up her gown. “Thank ye for helping with the sting,” she said. “Please, excuse me. I ‘ave a long way to travel come sunrise. I need my rest.”

  Part of her wished to leave immediately, but she sensed she was at least a bit safer with this man, in this cabin, than she would be in the woods alone at night with no idea where she was or which way to go. Surely, though, he hadn’t really taken her to Damascus? Come morning, she would circle outward, just as her father had taught her back home when they were trying to find something lost. Eventually she would fall upon the forest and find the trail Ethan had abducted her from.

  Ophelia stood and walked purposefully over to the cot beside the cabin window and blew out the candle on the bedside table. Though she could feel Ethan’s gaze following her, he maintained his silence as she climbed under the woolen blanket and rolled onto her side to stare out the window into the night sky.

  The stars looked different here. Brighter. Unobstructed by the clouds that muted them back home. The grass here was so dry, so silvered and patchy in a way that indicated they couldn’t be anywhere near the usual greenery from whence they’d come.

  Were they really in Damascus?

  Silly, she chided herself. Silly to believe any of this!

  She sighed and flipped onto her back and closed her eyes, Ethan’s gaze still burning into her senses. In her mind’s eye, she could visualize him sitting in the chair by the fire, resting forward with his hands clasped between his knees, staring at her through the rogue tumble of his dark chestnut hair. The sheen of his tanned skin in the firelight, and the sparks of gold in his earthy-brown eyes.

  Her breathing was shallow, and she hoped the rise and fall of her chest was hidden well beneath the blanket. The last thing she needed was him to think he had any power over her or effect on her emotions, that he was what she was thinking of as she lie in bed. Should he realize that, he might be too quick to attempt to manipulate her.

  “It won’t go away,” Ethan said finally, his voice cutting through every emotion she was fighting to deny. “The burning will return. It will get worse. And it will not stop until you’ve honored your calling.”

  She would not listen to him. She would release every idea he had suggested. Her mother was alive—that she n
eeded to believe—and she could not waste time here playing these games with this strange man. If she didn’t at least try to find her mother, she would spend the rest of her life wondering, “What if?”

  In the past, Ophelia had been one to waver in her beliefs, to be easily swayed into changing her thinking, but right now, her life and future were on the line. If she had to fight who she was in order to stay true to herself, then she would welcome such a contradiction.

  Damascus, 1808

  Ophelia sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The one small window in the cabin, located right beside her bed, was covered with a wool blanket, but the morning light that slanted in had roused her awake. The mark along her neck radiated a warm tingle, a reminder of the night before. A reminder, also, of the way Ethan’s fingers had so delicately brushed her skin there as he’d unbuttoned her gown.

  “Good morning, Ophelia.”

  At the sound of Ethan’s voice, the whole of the situation came rushing back to her. Her gaze darted to the fireplace. He was still sitting in the same place, staring into the crackle of the fire.

  “Is it?” she snapped.

  There was nothing good about this morning. Ophelia reached to pull the blanket away from the window, to peek outside, but as soon as the light cut into the room, something thumped behind her.

  Ophelia’s gaze averted to the broad-shouldered man now standing behind her. The morning light revealed translucent, butterfly-like wings that stretched from his back to up above his head and down to the floor.

  The sheer wings, however, were not beautiful as she’d imagined. Instead they were amniotic, like the filmy membrane that clung to animals during birth, with black veins spreading throughout like bloodshot eyes.

  Ophelia gasped a small intake of air, and a bit of peace settled over her. At the very least, he was what he claimed.

  “Close it.” His tone was stern but his dark eyes conveyed . . . panic? Once she’d honored his request, he eased back into his chair. “Please keep the blanket up until nightfall.”

  “Are ye afraid of being seen for what ye really are?” Ophelia asked.

  In that moment, Ethan’s expression relaxed. Was it her wide-eyed gaze that softened him? Or perhaps the innocent note of questioning in her voice?

  Part of Ophelia hoped his wings would be seen—that someone would happen upon their cabin and rescue her. The other part of her, however, could not deny her heart’s strange desire to stay. Her father would have scolded her to make up her mind. She had, though. Ethan left her curious, to say the least. He made her cheeks warm when he was near and often left her fighting off the urge to giggle. She could slap herself for being so childishly infatuated with him, but ultimately she could not resist. Her only doubt now was whether she’d become sure of something that would only lead her to tragedy.

  Regardless, she couldn’t go anywhere until she did something about the burning mark of the serpent. She would allow her mind and heart to debate later.

  Ethan sighed, lifting his gaze to her. “Direct sunlight does more than reveal our kind. It also alters our physical form. When you accept your calling, you will have to avoid the light as well.”

  The stories rushed back into Ophelia’s mind: the sun could shrink the Ankou over time, reducing them to little more than the size of a dragonfly.

  “My mother,” Ophelia said, “walked in the sun many times.”

  “She was part Strigoi. This is why the Maltorim want the dual-natured dead. With twice the abilities and half the weaknesses, they are seen as a threat.”

  “Then why do they need our assistance?”

  “They are fewer in number,” Ethan said, “and the abilities they have are weaker than those of the purebreds.”

  “And we can assist by becoming purebreds ourselves?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Quite done entertaining Ethan’s fairytales, Ophelia rose and made the bed.

  “Breakfast?” she asked.

  When he didn’t respond, she turned toward him, catching the tender expression writ in his handsome features. He cleared his throat and nodded toward the kitchenette.

  “We’re stuck ‘ere till night, then, are we?” she asked as she rummaged through the cabinets.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The deep rumble of his voice gave Ophelia a pleasant shudder that she immediately sought to repress. This was a man who had snatched her from her safe, if miserable, life and taken her thousands of miles away. She needed to think of something else.

  Breakfast. There must be something here.

  Empty mason jars crammed the cabinets and, as she shuffled them about, the glass clinked together. Ethan placed one hand on the counter beside her, and as he reached over her shoulder to sweep the jars aside, his chest pressed against her back. The heat radiating from his body warmed her from her neck to the space behind her weakened knees.

  This was completely inappropriate, and yet her body was eager for the connection. She fought the urge to lean back against him, to warm herself against the cabin’s chill. Or, perhaps, her desire for his touch was something more. She swallowed.

  “Allow me,” he said, leaning down to whisper warmly against her ear.

  His aroma of cloves heightened her senses, and she stiffened, steeling herself against the attraction. “What would ye prefer to eat?” she asked.

  He reached past her, and, from behind the rows of jars, deep in the back of the cabinets, he grabbed a jar of preserves. He placed it on the counter beside the bread.

  “Thank ye,” she whispered.

  He froze, staring tenderly into her eyes, his gaze touching every part of her face. Boldly, she stared back. The energy that had risen up between them refused to let her go. After a long moment, Ethan looked away, toward the door, and stepped back.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Ophelia turned to the counter and forced her attention to the food, allowing Ethan his chance to escape whatever had just happened between them. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird inside her chest. She dipped a spoon into the preserves to taste how fresh they were. It was a blackberry spread, sweet with a little tang, just the way her father had always liked.

  She peeked over her shoulder at Ethan, only to find him watching her intently.

  “I would hate me if I were you,” he said.

  She smiled to herself and kept herself busy by examining the bread. “I would never make it so easy.”

  “How can you be so forgiving?” His serious tone held steadfast.

  Ophelia chewed her lip. What was she to tell him? That despite it all, he had shown her more kindness than any man before? That she could not fault him for honoring something he believed in, even if she herself still failed to feel the same? That no matter what their situation might be, she simply could not help the way she felt about him . . . this attraction . . . much less fight it?

  She hadn’t even considered forgiveness.

  “It’s easier this way,” she said finally.

  She closed her eyes to the silence for a long time, her mind overwhelmed. Her thoughts until now were to get home. Which was where, exactly? Lady Karina’s estate? Paxton? Britain? Did she still want to return? No, she decided, she did not. Nor did she want to do what the Universe had called her to do. What she wanted was to stay here, in this in-between, in this sensation of falling with Ethan, in these moments where she felt breathless and her heart fluttered in her chest.

  Behind her, Ethan was mumbling to himself, and she strained to hear the words of the familiar cadence.

  “ . . . winter bound her veins; so grows both stream and source of price, that lately fettered were with ice. So naked trees . . . ”

  “ . . . get crisped ‘eads,” Ophelia said, still focused on the meal preparation. “And colored coats the roughest meads.”

  Ethan had gone silent, and Ophelia turned toward him.

  “And all that vigor, youth, and spright . . . ” she said, and as she continued, he joined in, “ . . . that are bu
t looked on by his light.”

  Their gaze lingered on one another, Ethan’s chest void of the movement that comes with breathing. A watery-glaze filmed his deep brown eyes, and the fire shimmered against the golden hues.

  At last, he released the air from his lungs and shook his head. “You are a maid, and yet you recite Benjamin Johnson as though you were a scholar.”

  “I am more than what defines me,” she said. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Not all of us. Not me.”

  Ophelia took the prepared plate of food for them to share and lowered herself to Ethan’s side by the fire. “I don’t believe that one bit.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Ophelia placed her hand on his. “We are all more, when we allow ourselves to be.”

  Ethan pulled his hand back and indicated the serpent’s mark on Ophelia’s neck. “How is the pain?”

  She sighed. How foolish she had been to expect this man to open up to her. “The sting is returning.”

  He nudged the dish from last night toward her. “There’s not much left.”

  With one finger, she tugged the dish closer. A thin film of red remained at the bottom of the dish. “What is it?”

  “Cruor blood,” he said. “To ease the sting completely, that is the blood you need flowing through your own veins.”

  “And for ye?” she asked. “It’d been the blood of the Ankou?”

  “For me it had been nothing. I did not resist my calling.”

  “Whose blood is this?”

  “Don’t let it concern you.”

  Ophelia remained firmly still. “Tell me.”

  Ethan let out of a heavy breath. “The rule of the hunter is to never waste your kill. It’s not a sport. It’s a necessity.”

  Ophelia crossed her arms and leveled her gaze at him. “So ye just killed some man, then? Ethan—”

  “Some man?” His brow furrowed, and his expression grew dark. “You know as well as I what the Cruor are. I would hardly call him a man. I did what I had to do. Someday, so will you.”

  So Ophelia was to become something seen as less than human? She closed her eyes for a moment, her thoughts swimming through her options. “If I were to do this—and I’m not saying I will—what would I need to do?”