Dead Girl's Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 1)

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “Not yet, keep trying.” I flashed her the best grin I could manage. I knew that a big part of my scrutiny of Tamara was just me trying to keep myself distracted from scrutiny of my battered self. Easier said than done, though, when the reality was literally staring me in the face.

  I mean, that dead girl in the mirror used to be me.

  “So, what’s with the eye thing?” I had to start somewhere. I kept catching her gaze in the mirror anyway, watching her blank, alien eyes with a degree of mixed fascination and trepidation.

  “Vampire,” she shrugged like it was no big deal, sticking a big flat piece of bandage to my neck while I held the roll of gauze for her.

  I stopped and raised an eyebrow at her, meeting that pale, blank gaze in the mirror. “Seriously? That’s just—”

  “Stupid?” Tamara stared sardonically at my bite-ravaged throat before taking the gauze from me. “I hope you’re not going to say stupid.”

  “Crazy? Is crazy better than stupid?” I frowned, processing. “It’s just…This is so real. Not like in a fairy tale or a movie or something.”

  Tamara shrugged. “Plenty of real things sound stupid or crazy. Politics, for example.” I snorted with sudden amusement as the comment caught me off guard. She smiled along with me. “You’ll just have to make up your mind whether you want to accept my explanation or make up your own. I mean, you already know there’s something ‘supernatural’ going on. That’s part of why I let you catch my eyes.”

  She wound gauze tightly around my neck, and the gaping, seeping wound slowly disappeared underneath it. “I can explain a lot, but you need to realize that you’re probably about to see—or have already seen—a ton of stuff that defies what you consider rational or real. You have to accept that. You can’t just freak out over every new thing, or you’ll never stop.”

  I considered for a bit before going back to my wounds. I found myself nodding. “So what is the eye thing?”

  She smiled approvingly, encouragingly. “All natural vampires have it, actually. It’s what all the mirror and reflection legends are actually based on.” She stared at her own reflection, expression unreadable. “We can’t see our own eyes. Ours always look like we remember them.”

  I thought for a moment, scrubbing at my shoulders and bare chest. “So what do mine look like?”

  Tamara started, dripping cloth in hand, and gave me an appraising stare.

  “What? I’m a vampire too now, right? It’s what makes sense.” I shrugged, watching the trailing end of my raw, wounded neck flex and move with the motion. “Am I wrong?”

  “You’re not wrong.” She took a towel to the back of my neck, scrubbing forcefully. Drips of water trickling down my spine tingled, and I almost jumped at the sensation.

  “So what do they look like?” I repeated.

  Her eyes darted from her reflection to mine in the mirror, then away again. She shuddered. “You don’t want to know. Dead...but something more...and less.”

  The answer didn’t really sate my curiosity, but I nodded anyway. “Thanks.”

  Raising a hopelessly stained cloth, she flashed me a teasing grin. “Want me to get your back?”

  I choked a little and nodded belatedly, glad that mirror-me didn’t seem capable of turning fire-hydrant red. “Uh, sure.” As stiff as I was, I doubted I could do it myself.

  “So… mind if I ask?” She picked up both now-sopping towels from the almost overflowing sink and offered one to me.

  “What?”

  “What happened to you?”

  I’d been expecting the question since I got in her car but bringing it up still hit me hard. Violent memories of the previous day swirled in the depths of my thoughts, like tendrils lurking in the dark. The repeated hammer-blows to my back and ribs, the blossoming swell of staggering pain, the crushing pressure on my throat that never went away, later subsumed by a burning, blazing agony. My head impacting stone, the stink of blood, violent whispers and flashes of heat. The steady undeniable blackness that closed in as I fought to do something, anything to keep going.

  I clenched my fist, this time struggling with rage, not panic.

  Tamara frowned sympathetically, twisting a towel in her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I appreciate it,” I rasped. I gazed thoughtfully at my clenched fist, wondering where the remnants of my broken claws had gotten to. “But maybe I’m not the one you should feel sorry for,” I added quietly.

  Tamara gave me a soft, concerned look. “Oh?”

  I told her everything. It helped, just a little.

  6

  Too late for waffles

  Getting me cleaned and bandaged wasn’t a simple matter, nor a quick one. I watched the entire process, either firsthand or via reflection, and found that the lack of pain added a feeling of artificial distance to the whole thing, almost like I was looking at someone else’s lethally mutilated body. I found it strange that the memory of the pain could be so potent as to get my muscles to tense up, but the actual wounds I’d come away with were misery-free.

  Tamara helped a lot, both physically and emotionally, listening and reassuring as I explained the events of the last day or so. I even managed not to break down again.

  She even helped chase off a “helpful” employee that came to check on us. I didn’t hear whatever story she made up to get rid of them, but I was grateful she did it. I supposed I could have handled it by telling them I had been savaged by dogs or maybe a moose or something, but it was probably best if the more physically intact and socially capable person sold them a reasonable story.

  So now, here I was, sitting across from my beautiful young rescuer and makeshift medic in the nearly vacated Pancake Hut. I was now semi-clean, at least as far as one could be expected to go without a pressure washer and some time. Tamara had helped me bandage most of the wounds, so now I looked significantly more “mummy” and substantially less “rabid zombie.”

  The Tamara-brand emergency clothes she’d given me were more my style than I'd have thought: fashionably worn, hip hugging jeans that sadly and expectedly fit me with room to spare, along with a sturdy, expensive pair of black steel toe combat boots. She’d also convinced me that my long tee was too gross to continue on as an article of clothing, and I now sported one of Tamara’s loose black sweaters, a fancy, soft, knitted deal that hung limply from one thin shoulder and looked sadly unfulfilled in the bust.

  I still looked like a refugee from an exploded trauma ward, but things were looking up.

  “Let’s get something to eat.” She managed to say it cheerily, flopping open the plastic-coated menu.

  “Sure. Then we need to talk about—” I sighed. “I don’t have my wallet.” I folded my own menu shut and laid it flat. “Well, I wasn’t convinced I was hungry anyway.” The convenient truth.

  Tamara huffed. “No worries. I’ve got it.” She motioned for the lone waitress, who gave me the stinkeye for no reason I could discern.

  “Pay you back?” I asked hopefully.

  She just raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly from her clothes to the spotless sports car outside. “Don’t sweat it. My family’s loaded.” She leaned forward. “Besides, we have better things to talk about than how to split the bill.”

  I nodded, conceding defeat. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  Tamara nodded easily. “Sure.” She untucked it from some mysterious location in her outfit and unlocked the screen, then casually slid a top of the line, large-screen smartphone across the table to me, as if it weren’t a piece of tech probably worth more than my life. “Not going to call the cops on me and tell them a crazy person kidnapped you and stole you away to a Pancake Hut, right?”

  “That would be a fun conversation.” I snorted. “Help, she’s buying me waffles and I...can’t...stop...eating…” We shared a laugh and a smile as I picked up the phone.

  I tapped in Lori’s number with the ease of habit, then waited. And waited. And waited. Her voicemail picked up, so I hung up and tried again. Then I
waited some more, anxiety building in my gut. Barely aware of it, I drummed my fingers on the table with forceful staccato thumps, trying to ease my impatience. The voicemail picked up again.

  “What’s wrong?” Tamara gave me concerned frown.

  “She… She wasn’t at home earlier. Now she’s not answering her phone, either. I have a really bad feeling about this.” I reluctantly gave up and texted Lori instead. Hey. It’s Ash. I’m not dead— I paused, then backspaced. I’m okay. Something happened, but I’m fine. Promise you’ll text this number back before you do anything else, okay? I didn’t figure Tamara would mind. My concern over proper phone etiquette was secondary to the need to know Lori was all right, anyway. Let me know you’re okay, please? I’ll see you soon, I promise. I stared at the screen for a silent minute, then hit enter. I’d have contacted her family, if she had any she was on good terms with. Work was also a crap shoot; at least, it was without me being willing to risk alerting my murderer. I’d just have to wait.

  When I swallowed my emotions and finally looked back up at Tamara, I found her studying me. “Thanks.” I slid the phone carefully back towards its rightful owner; there was no way I could possibly pay for that thing if I accidentally dropped it or ate it or something. “I just haven’t seen her since...Since before the, um, incident. The attack.”

  She gave me a soft smile, her sapphire eyes shimmering with sympathetic sorrow. Neither of us seemed to know what to say, so we both paused our conversation for the moment it took the gray-haired waitress to come over and get our drink order. I only realized belatedly that not only did Tamara order for me, but she also guessed what I wanted.

  “So...You said you remember a flash of light and heat, right at the end?” Tamara waited until the older woman dropped off our pair of frosty sodas before trying to continue.

  I nodded. “I think so. But that’s all. I was kinda out of it at the time.”

  Tamara leaned back, crossing her legs and tapping one pale finger against her ruby lips thoughtfully. “That’s the only part of this that doesn’t make some sort of sense.” She seemed almost excited.

  I gave her my best raised eyebrow. “Uh, what about this makes sense so far? ‘You’re a Vampire, Harry’ only gets me so far.” I tried not to sound too much like an automatic disbeliever.

  She ran a hand through her hair and seemed to rein in her excitement. “Before I explain, I need to ask you a couple of things.”

  I frowned, thought about it for a second, then shook my head. “Me first.” A bell chimed as someone new came in, and I paused to scrutinize them. But I didn’t recognize them, and they didn’t try to kill me, so it was just one more heartbeat added to the mass that seemed to echo dully from every wall. I tried to ignore it and let the whole cacophony fade into the background, but it was hard.

  “You don’t trust me.” It was a statement of fact, not a query, but I still felt a little bad. She just nodded though, not seeming upset. “I don’t blame you. And there’s no reason to feel guilty. It’s not like you owe me anything.”

  “I owe you thanks, at least,” I corrected. “Maybe a lot more than that, considering how you found me.” I rasped out a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”

  “I don’t,” she replied easily. “I can tell you’re not. But I do want to try to put your fears to rest.” She paused. “Well, the ones about me. The rest are pretty well-founded.”

  I chuckled, the sound grating and gravelly, while she motioned the waitress over again. The lady seemed to be avoiding us. I had the sneaking suspicion that it was because I still smelled awful. Tamara made her order quickly and succinctly, then nodded to me. I cleared my throat and hoped for the best.

  “Two fried chickens and a Coke?” I shook my head. “Sorry. Just bring me chili cheese hashbrowns, and feel free to murder them with chili. And a waffle.” I rasped. Nothing on the menu sounded super appealing, but nothing sounded bad either, so I went with an old favorite. “Make it two waffles.”

  I noticed her wrinkle her nose in vague disgust as she leaned in close enough so as to hear our responses over the jukebox, which was shuddering to reluctant life in the background. Sigh. Suspicions confirmed. She jotted it all down, asked Tamara if she wanted her milkshake now or later, then hurried away. I noticed her shiver a little as she went, as if cold.

  Tamara spoke first. “Let me start by asking how you came to run into me.”

  “You mean outside your apartment?”

  I shook my head. “No, start with the first time you ran into me. With your car.”

  Tamara blinked. Then, to my surprise, she blushed faintly, light spots of color standing out starkly against her alabaster skin. “I didn’t think you recognized me from that.”

  I snorted. “You hit me with your car. It kinda stood out.” Truth be told, the memory was really blurry, details bleached by blinding light and bubbling fear. The connection was mostly just her exotic hair color. But it was nice to have her confirm it for me.

  “It’s not like I meant to!” She was suddenly hard to read. “You came out of an alley running, really chugging it, and all of a sudden you veered into the street, and—”

  “I didn’t figure you meant to.” I chuckled hoarsely. “And I’m not mad. More my fault than anything and no harm done.” Did I just tell someone it was no big deal they rammed me with their car?

  “Well,” Tamara took a deep breath. “Let me try to put your suspicions to rest, then.” She smiled her thanks as the waitress dropped off a tall, thick cookies and cream milkshake, then departed just as quickly. “The short version is that, like you said, I literally ran into you two nights ago.” She smirked. “That was just chance, but it got me suspicious about what you were. So I looked into it and found the missing person report that matched your description.”

  I went still. There was only one person who would have put that report in.

  “It was super simple to go from there and find out where you lived, where you worked, stuff like that.” Tamara shrugged a pale shoulder.

  “So tonight…”

  “Tonight, I was looking for you. So it wasn’t exactly a coincidence,” she confirmed, slurping noisily on her shake. “More like, right time, right place, and a little investigation.”

  “I…” I paused and started over. “I’m glad you were there.” I stared at the table for a moment, deciding I believed her. “But why go to all the trouble?”

  “You looked like you needed help.” Tamara paused, as if thinking, then let out a breath. “But honestly? It’s also because of what I thought you were. What I think you are.”

  I shrugged and tilted my head, ignoring the wounded side of my neck, since it seemed to be ignoring me. “Which is?”

  “Which is where I wanted to ask you some things first. To confirm or deny my suspicions.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, watching me. “But here we go, real world 101.”

  “Hit me.” I leaned back in the booth and listened.

  “There are three major kinds of vampire today: Moroi, Jiangshi, and Sanguinarian, each one with their own unique bloodlines, subdivisions, and variants.” Tamara shook her head, her brilliant eyes distant. “But it wasn’t always that way. In ancient times, the Moroi and Strigoi were the only two kinds of vampire, ages old and two sides of the same coin. We, the Moroi,” Tamara gestured at herself and smiled, “we feed off of the emotions and the spirit, while they fed off of the blood and vitality. We are technically mortal, unaging but still killable by any mortal means, while the Strigoi were immortal and could not easily be killed, save by those that knew how.”

  The beautiful vampire across the table eyed me firmly, reading me as she continued. “But several hundred years ago, a cult of human sorcerers, persecuted for their practices and on the edge of destruction by both the church’s witch hunters and the wizards of the Grand Magisterium, committed themselves to a grave blood ritual, calling on some of the oldest and darkest of powers from the past to give them superh
uman powers and allow them to survive. No one knows if this ritual was botched or finished as designed, but the result was the same either way—they became the third type of vampire: Sanguinarians. Those that hunger for blood, wield it as a weapon, and whose thirst cannot be quenched.”

  “That sounds… wow.” It sounded like some lore out of an old book. It probably was.

  “Shh. I’m not finished.” Tamara glared at me playfully before settling back into her storyteller role. “The Strigoi and my people, the Moroi, were mostly harmonious sibling races for many, many millennia. That is, if the old stories are to be believed. But at some point leading up to the Industrial Age, the Sanguinarians began to feel that the Strigoi were too powerful. You see, the Strigoi could transform humans into their own kind too quickly, and those they turned became too powerful far too quickly as well. We’re talking supernatural strength, speed, and incredible toughness, as well as other powers that developed as they aged.”

  This was starting to sound more than a little familiar.

  “So the Sanguinarians got the eager assistance of the Magisterium and began to distribute the knowledge and means of how to slay our cousins to whomever wanted it, such as the church, vampire hunters, and even to other supernaturals.”

  Tamara paused for a long slurp of her shake, then softened her tone, looking sad. “There wasn’t a lot of open fighting between the different factions at that point, but there were many that feared the Strigoi. And quite a few people in positions of power were willing, or even eager, to turn a blind eye to those that hunted them. It wasn’t easy, but those groups hunted the Strigoi relentlessly with full Sanguinarian support.”

  The vampire dropped her head. “It was genocide, and nobody stopped it. Somewhere in the last two or three hundred years, the last unliving Strigoi was destroyed or so we believed.” She sighed. “And then… Then, the Sanguinarians just took their place, burrowing like a thorn into the very heart of mankind with their ability to influence and subjugate, becoming almost everything that the Strigoi had been feared for and more.”