Shortly after nightfall, Lenore stumbled into the cabin, her boots clobbering across the dirt floor. She eased herself to the ground by the fireplace and rested on her back, wincing. Her hand clasped the amulet around her neck, and she closed her eyes. Ophelia almost choked on the smell—the rotting stink of burnt skin.
“Everything hurts,” Lenore mumbled.
Ethan’s gaze steadied on the open sores of Lenore’s sun-blisters. “You spent the whole day outside?”
“It’s been centuries.”
Ethan strode over to the counter and prepared her a glass of his blood then brought it over to her.
“Elevate her head,” he said to Ophelia. “She’s too weak.”
With a resolute nod, Ophelia kneeled on the ground beside Lenore. As she lifted the Cruor-girl’s head into her lap, Lenore gasped, and Ethan hurried over with the glass of blood. He tilted the glass against her lips, but Lenore could barely swallow the blood. Her head lolled to one side, blood seeping out the corner of her mouth and dribbling down her chin and into the creases of her neck. The firelight danced over the spots of white on her teeth that were not coated in red.
Ophelia lifted her gaze to Ethan. “Will she be all right?”
“If we can get her to drink.” To Lenore, he said, “Do you not think about these things? You should have returned hours ago.”
“I haven’t see the sun—” Lenore coughed. “—in two hund—”
For a second time, Ethan attempted to help Lenore drink the blood, and this time, she managed to swallow a few sips. Some color returned to her cheeks and her eyes brightened.
“Can you sit up?”
Lenore tried, but the effort seemed to take more of her energy, and Ethan told her to lay back and rest.
“She really needs human blood.” He turned his deep brown, apologetic eyes to Ophelia. “Do you think . . . ?”
“Now?” Ophelia eyes went wide. “Ye want me to change now?”
Ethan nodded.
She took a shaky breath. Once she did this, there would be no turning back. Things would only get worse. She would be a monster, trapped to darkness, and she would be giving herself over to the dark deeds of the elemental council. How could she possibly reconcile that with the idea that any of this was for some greater good?
But just as Ethan had said, the mark of the serpent burned harsher with each passing hour, the Cruor blood becoming less effective as a topical ointment.
“I’m ready,” Ophelia said finally, but the tightness in her throat betrayed her words.
Kneeling on the other side of Lenore, Ethan stared at Ophelia. The Cruor’s breathing was stronger now, and her head steadied in Ophelia’s lap.
“Ophelia,” Ethan said gently, “I would have failed without you. You were strong in my moment of weakness. You are strong and fierce and beautiful. I can see now why you were chosen.”
Ophelia swallowed and mumbled a quiet, “Thank you.”
“Promise me—promise you will not mourn my loss when the time comes,” Ethan said.
“What are ye saying?”
He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “If you’re ready, we can begin.”
“Ethan,” she said sharply. “Tell me what you mean. What loss?”
“It’s time,” he said more fiercely this time.
Though her frustration boiled in her stomach and caused a tremble in her jaw, she let it go, and reached her forearm forward, in front of Lenore’s mouth. Her arm was trembling, only to shake more furiously when Lenore’s fangs snapped out.
Ethan nudged Ophelia’s arm away.
“Wait,” he said. “Not like that.”
Ophelia lowered her arm to her side. Before she could question him, Ethan came around to sit behind her. She leaned back into his chest, and his lips brushed against her ear.
“I’m going to have to hold you, Ophelia. You are going to want it to stop while it’s happening. Once this starts, there is no turning back. Are you certain you are ready?”
How could she be? An insistence born in her core, however, drove her actions now, and it was a force stronger than the serpent’s burn. It was for her mother, her father, and the risks they took to protect her. It was for others like them who would suffer their fate.
“I’m ready,” she said.
At first, Ethan’s grasp on her wrist was gentle. A sadness swept over Lenore’s face; perhaps it was fear, though Ophelia couldn’t fathom what fear Lenore would have. Ophelia’s heart pounded in her ears, the pressure filling her head and making the room spin.
Lenore’s fangs pricked into Ophelia’s flesh like twin thorns, at first only aching mildly. A haze seeped into Ophelia’s mind, a shushing calm like a breeze bending the tall grass in the field. Her heart rate slowed, and her eyelids fluttered as a fatigue settled over her. Lenore’s voice pulsed in her mind—a jumble of overlapping words . . . indistinct, meaningless . . . but Ophelia could feel them change her consciousness, burning a sense of knowing into her mind.
Lenore dug her fangs in deeper, the pressure uncomfortable and nauseating. Through the haze, Ophelia became aware of the blood gushing from her arm, soaking Lenore’s face, neck, and clothes. The sloshing of Lenore feeding from her. No longer did Ophelia feel listless, as though she was floating atop a river; instead, she felt pinned between Lenore and Ethan, impaled by Lenore’s bite and restrained by Ethan’s ever-firmer grip on her wrist.
The icy bite mark itched, as though in the early stages of frostbite, and soon the chill branched out through the veins in her arms, so cold it burned. She needed to stay still, but soon the pain reached her shoulder, stronger with each passing moment, and she screamed. She tried to pull away, but Ethan’s fingers dug deeper into her wrist and his other hand gripped her arm at the elbow. His biceps squeezed against her shoulders as he tried to keep her in place.
The jolt of trying to yank her arm away created a tear in her forearm, and Ophelia vomited at the sight of the wound, black and purple, her flesh unnaturally separated.
Lenore drank with her eyes closed, and, despite herself, Ophelia struggled to get out of Ethan’s grasp. Pain shuddered through her entire body as the Cruor poison seeped into her blood and pumped a smoldering heat through her veins. Her heart thumped twice.
Then, it stopped.
Damascus, 1808
When Ophelia awoke on the cot, the night was silent. Her throat ached with the persistent soreness of an early cold, though she wasn’t at all feverish. An empty, eerie calm filled her chest. The room was quiet; she could not even hear the sound of her breath, and, for a moment, Ophelia thought she had lost her hearing. But then there was a rustling noise across the room.
Her gaze darted over to the fireplace, where Ethan still tended to Lenore.
Ophelia sat up. “Will she be all right?”
Her voice sounded strange, somehow lighter, and Ophelia touched her throat. His gaze locked on hers.
“The Cruor heal quickly.”
“Am I . . . Well, I’m one of them now, aren’t I?”
Ethan’s jaw tensed, but he managed a quick, “Yes.”
“My ‘eart . . . ” Ophelia started, but she couldn’t bring herself to finish.
“It only feels like it’s not beating,” Ethan said. “It beats very slowly. Perhaps once per year, it is said.”
“And I will not age.”
“Millions of heartbeats will pass before you show the aging of a year.”
“Millions of years?” Ophelia coughed, the ache in her throat worsening with each passing moment.
A low moan vibrated from Lenore’s throat as she shifted to sit up. Her countenance improved before Ophelia’s eyes. Lenore stretched and steadied herself, clutching the edge of the cot for a moment before she pushed herself to her feet. She stretched her neck from side to side and closed her eyes, seeming to hover between moments. When she opened her eyes, it was as though nothing had happened. All the wounds had healed.
“My heart beats more than that,” she said. “At le
ast once each day, at least once, with each remembrance of—” She clenched her jaw. “—of someone I lost.”
The ache in Ophelia’s esophagus intensified, turning into a burn far worse than the serpent’s mark. Her tongue and the inside of her cheeks were so dry she feared they would crack and bleed. Hunger pains bloomed in her stomach. An image flashed through her mind—her teeth sinking into Ethan’s neck. Draining him.
“Are you all right?” Ethan asked.
Lenore grinned. “You planned poorly, Ankou. Unless, you intended to be her first meal.”
Ophelia shook her head. She clenched her hands to resist the urge to claw at her throat. “Stay away.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed, and he started to walk over, but Ophelia jumped to her feet and stepped back.
“I said stay away from me!”
Ethan halted, and the smile fell from Lenore’s expression. The three stood frozen in that strange tableau while Ophelia’s hunger grew more with each passing moment. With that pang, anger wound like a vine through her dead heart.
This was Robert’s fault.
Without a word, Ophelia darted out the door and into the field. In a blink of an eye, the cabin was far behind and she was already near the entrance of the grove where she’d seen her mother earlier. No, not her mother. Robert. She braced herself for the sudden halt, but her body was more agile now, and she came to a graceful stop. She glanced down at her body. How could such grace come from a monster?
The air carried Robert’s scent—a husky soil-like aroma and the smell of charred wood. Ophelia could almost smell Lady Karina’s house on his flesh, for all the time he spent there, often watching Ophelia’s every move.
Now she knew what to make of the way he would leer at her as she mopped floors or prepared meals or helped Lady Karina freshen up for the day. It was lust, yes, but not for her, as she had assumed. No, Robert craved destruction and power.
She’d never forget the way he smelled, and now that her senses were stronger, she knew he was close. Robert had become an antelope in the field.
Ophelia whipped through woods, darting between branches, crunching over fallen saplings, ducking beneath low branches. She didn’t stop until she reached his camp. He sat by a small fire, naked from the waist up, a large gash on his side seeping blood. White tissue protruded from the wound.
Robert didn’t make a move, just sat there, staring unseeingly at the fire. “I knew you’d come for me.”
“And yet ye remained ‘ere.”
“What use is running now? You’ve changed, and you’d have come for me eventually.”
Ophelia shot over to where he sat, the fire casting her shadow over him. “Ye wanted me ‘ere. Now I’ve come. Alone.”
“You expect a fight?” he asked, gesturing to his wounds, wincing. “Do you think there is one for me to give?”
Robert’s blood was meant to meet her need as well as quench her thirst for revenge. But only if he was willing to fight.
Ophelia lifted her foot and kicked him in the shoulder, onto his back. Her fangs snapped down and she pounced on him. Her chest heaved with each heavy breath, the restraint not to sink her teeth into his throat becoming painful to her body.
“Fight,” she commanded him.
Robert laughed. “I’d rather deny you the satisfaction.”
Ophelia slammed her fist into the dirt beside his head and snarled. “I will kill ye either way.”
“I am dead anyway,” Robert said, “Failure has a price. Unless . . . ” He steeled his gaze on Ophelia. “Allow me to bring you in. It would do us both a favor.”
Ophelia’s body shook from her restraint. “I care only to see ye die.”
“Yet, you still have a mission, no? I know you weren’t taken here for no reason. You were called, weren’t you?”
She didn’t need to answer. Branches crunched behind her, and Ethan’s voice soon followed. “You underestimate the woman’s scorn.”
Ophelia glared at him. “Go away, Ethan. This doesn’t concern ye.”
Lenore stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, looking on with smug amusement. Ophelia’s gaze passed between them, then fell back to Robert. All she could see was the pulse in his neck. He was one of the Strigoi. He was one of the living, and his blood would sate her hunger.
“Ophelia,” Ethan said softly. He walked up behind her. “You don’t want to do this. Perhaps we should consider—”
“There is no we.”
Ethan took out his blade and cut across his forearm.
“You’ll feel better once you drink,” he said. “You’ll be able to think clearly. You won’t feel so out of control.”
“I am not out of control.”
It was a lie, though one Ophelia wished were true. She could not stop shaking. The dry burn in her throat made her feel as though she was choking on her own blood. The blood flowing from Ethan’s arm called to her—a primal need.
Please, don’t let me be this monster.
The hunger took over, and Ophelia felt as though she were drifting outside herself. Her body thrust forward, her teeth sunk into the flesh of Ethan’s arm. Blood, sweet and heavy, spurted into her mouth. It flowed down her esophagus, soothing the burn, easing the sores of cracked tissue.
She closed her eyes, floating away in her mind. Peace played over her nerves, arousing her senses. She could sense them all. Ethan grimaced. Lenore watched intently. Robert slunk into the shadows like the snake he was, but didn’t leave as she wished he would.
Ethan’s blood slowed.
Stop, now.
Her body shook, and she dug her nails into his arm to force herself to push away, but as she tried to open her mouth to release him, every part of her being resisted. A hand rested on her shoulder. Lenore’s, she knew, as one would know the touch of their sire. And in that touch, Lenore’s energy demanded that Ophelia stop, as did Ophelia’s own will.
But her body still resisted.
Shaking, she forced her fangs to retract. Her eyes shot open. The moonlight stung her eyes, and she lifted her hand to shield them. The wet blood chilled on her teeth, lips, and chin, but Ethan only looked at her with concern.
She backed away. “I . . . I’m . . . ”
“Shhh,” Ethan said. “You’ll learn your way. Within a few weeks, you’ll rarely have to feed to keep that bloodlust at bay, and within several years you will be able to control your urges despite the difficulty.”
The moments sobered Ophelia’s thoughts. The haze had lifted, and now she was trapped in a body that had just acted in a way she could have never forgiven herself for only hours earlier.
“Lenore will hunt animal blood for you tonight,” Ethan continued. “You and I—we’ll have to talk with Robert.”
The mention of Robert’s name reignited the hatred bubbling in her gut, and her regrets and intended apologies died on her lips. She sneered at Robert, who had maintained his distance.
“Fine,” she mumbled.
Fine, for now. But soon she would see to his death.
Damascus, 1808
They traveled by night. Traveled by roads unseen, traveled with quiet steps and hushed whispers.
The world hummed in the background of Ophelia’s thoughts. Once they arrived at the Maltorim’s asylum, she would be expected to approach the entrance as though she were an uncivilized, newborn Cruor. Not that it was so far from the truth, but Lenore and Ethan said her bloodlust was minimal compared to most. The serpent’s mark made sure of that, though at least the burning had stopped.
It wasn’t as though Ophelia had never hidden truths about herself before, but this was different. This went beyond simple deceit and into the realm of false identities and fabricated stories. One misstep could mean her life. And Robert—she still resented his role in all of this. She needed his help, but she couldn’t trust him.
Lenore, however, was not apprehensive. Ophelia knew because of their blood bond—because Lenore was Ophelia’s sire. If Ophelia wanted the Maltorim to take her und
er their wing, she needed to convince them that her maker was dead. And Lenore was decidedly very alive.
If the Maltorim did not accept her, however, this would all have been for nothing.
As they strode on, Ophelia felt every emotion strumming through Lenore’s body: the buzz, the excitement, the hunger—or was it thirst?—for adventure. Had Lenore not been so intrigued by their journey, Ophelia believed she would have taken leave by now. She could feel something more brewing there as well . . . some other driving-force that carried Lenore along with them on this journey . . . but a newborn cannot read the meaning behind all of their sire’s emotions, and Lenore had certainly kept that corner of her heart well-guarded.
As they crested the next hill, the Maltorim’s asylum expanded along the horizon. Stone walls encapsulated crowded rows of cemetery headstones and, in the center of the graveyard, a mausoleum—with its primeval doors and concrete edifice—awaited Ophelia’s charade. She marveled at the crumbling limestone, having never before been able to see so clearly from such a great distance.
Ethan stopped, placing a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. The night’s wind, carrying on it the scent of the dead and the grit of dirt, swept between her and Ethan, chilling the warmth of him at her back and lifting her hair from her neck.
“We’ll stay until you’re safely inside.”
Ophelia swallowed. She didn’t turn to face him, just stood there, studying the path they’d yet to travel. He hadn’t stood this close to her since before they departed. She’d spent the journey half-wishing he would transport them through space, but he’d said they couldn’t risk that. The Maltorim would be able to sense them if they did, whereas if they approached on foot, their supernatural presence would seem just a part of the usual world around them.
“It has to be this way,” he said, but his voice died off in a whisper, and Ophelia was uncertain whether the sentiment was intended for himself or for her. “Remember one thing when faced with tribulations, Ophelia: Fight. Whatever you do, fight. That is the only way to survive in our world.”
Lenore sighed the full weight of her irritation as Robert brushed past Ophelia and Ethan to start the road ahead. “Well, then,” he said. “Come on if we’re to do this.”
Dawn Of Hope: Charity Anthology Page 7
