SURVIVAL

by Karen Payton Holt

  Swallowing convulsively, Julian averted his gaze from Rebekah’s blood-draped form. He coughed to expel the warm, nectar-laden scent of blood which rushed into his brain like a hit of heroin.

  “Get him out of here,” Connor grunted harshly.

  Anthony was no longer putting up a fight. He hung limply in Connor’s grasp cooperating as much as he could, with his eyes begging forgiveness.

  Connor’s voice galvanized Julian into action. His hands replaced Connor’s around Anthony’s neck, and he lifted him bodily, whipped around, and removed him from the room.

  The moment Julian’s hands touched his, Connor dismissed Anthony. The shutters came down, and all that existed in his mind, filling his heart with dread, was Rebekah. As he turned back, he did not look into her face, he couldn’t bear it.

  He opened the tap on the I.V. drip to increase the transfusion rate as he moved his hand and swabbed the incision. He shifted rapidly into vampire-overdrive. If nothing else, he would know fetal distress instantly, he had the echo of both their heartbeats pounding in his chest every moment.

  Connor’s hands were a blur of purposeful agitation. The blunt scalpel incised the uterine wall and his bone white fingers became stained red as he gently eased the baby’s head down, turned the shoulders and, cradling the tiny haunches, lifted his daughter to rest against his chest for a fleeting moment. He gently laid the baby down on Rebekah’s belly, her softened abdomen dipping under the weight and molding to the infant’s folded form.

  A bubble of joy forced its way into his throat, even in the midst of the blood-soaked horror. Our daughter is ‘alive’, or half-alive? Uncovering the mysteries contained within her tiny frame would wait.

  Moving swiftly around the operating room, Connor gathered all he would need. He opted for active management of the third-stage of labor. Speed was all he could cling to. It was saving his sanity... and Rebekah’s life. He injected Rebekah with Syntometrine, inducing a strong uterine contraction to stem the bleeding.

  Connor did not clamp the umbilical cord before administering the injection. He was not above taking a calculated risk with his daughter’s life, the shunt of oxygen-rich blood would cause ‘overtransfusion’ in a human baby, but Connor decided that with her appetite for blood already raging, the rush would be a good thing, and provide her with nourishment while he saved Rebekah.

  Connor held the cord, feeling the current of blood dragging across his palm, and when the surging tide faded, it was time. He clamped the cord, cut it, and lifted the baby from her nesting place high on Rebekah’s stomach. Gathering the tiny limbs in his splayed fingers, he tucked the fragile curled ball into his body, ready to hand her over to Julian who arrived at that very moment and stopped dead on the threshold.

  The sea of red flooded Julian’s sight and raked talons of thirst down his windpipe as he croaked, “Connor.”

  Clutching the baby to his chest, he inspected Julian closely.

  His daughter had already taken a piece of his heart in her tiny fists and refused to release it. Connor’s eyes narrowed over the surgical mask which clung to his face as he inhaled sharply, assessing Julian’s agitated scent. Gray eyes stared into steady green ones as, satisfied his friend was safe, Connor barked, “Take the baby, she has a temperature of around thirty-five degrees. Don’t let her overheat.”

  Julian clamped his jaws shut as he scooped the baby from Connor’s embrace and raced through the theater door, letting it bang shut behind him.

  Connor moved fast; fear clawed at him, but he didn’t let it in. He switched from general to local anesthetic, injected directly into the wound. She should surface quickly, respond to pain stimuli at least. He had three distinct incisions to close, all of which he could have done in his sleep, if anguish were not tearing him up inside.

  Rebekah’s flesh felt cold to his touch as he closed the final layers of tissue, and his fingers, usually so swift and sure, trembled as he prepared to tie off the final suture. He allowed relief a space inside him. Thank goodness even vampire slow is still faster than a human surgeon could have operated. Rebekah had no time to bleed out, even though Connor had two lives to contend with.

  He searched her face, knowing he would be reassured by even the smallest flicker of an eyelash. But, nothing. His eyes stung without the lubrication of tears. Vampires can’t cry.

  “Please, honey, stay with me. Stay with me, baby,” Connor muttered as he finally laid the needle down. He raised her chin, eased the intubation tube out, and he did not move until he heard Rebekah’s breathing take up its own rhythm, becoming slow and regular. His fingers found a pulse, strong and steady, and he tuned into her body, straining every fiber to listen.

  And there she was, only a soft murmur that hummed a low note through him. But she’s still here. He renewed the transfusion bag and sank onto a stool to sit beside her. Her head dropped to one side, her relaxed expression soft. He scanned the fine bone structure, absorbing the details he had grown to love – the full bottom lip, the delicate nose, and arched brows – willing them to tighten with emotion. I’d settle for a frown of pain right now.

  He pulled his mask and cap away and pressed her cold hand to his cheek; the surgeon had left, and he sat as a devastated lover, willing each heartbeat to be followed by another.

  Connor could do nothing but wait. I can’t even turn her. He could smell the sedative saturating her system. Even if I thought she was strong enough and I used adrenalin to bring her round, it would cause internal bleeding so soon after the operation. He had nothing left but waiting.

  A few yards away in the recovery room, Julian was summoning calm. I know what to do. Connor had been the best and worst of tutors in the few weeks they had available. He had imparted his knowledge on infant resuscitation in succinct, precise lessons, quizzing Julian endlessly until he felt as though his brain was overheating.

  Though Julian had tried not to see it, smell it – there was so much blood. Even with Connor’s hand pressed to the incision, holding back the tide, it seemed that Rebekah’s life was draining away between his fingers.

  His mind locked onto the procedures Connor had drilled into his head, and Julian wiped the vivid red image away. He concentrated on massaging the tiny chest. But, all the theory in the world had not prepared him for the dread that his touch would crush the fragile, bird-like bones. The tiny honeycombed structure Mother Nature had painstakingly formed could shatter like spun glass.

  The baby’s skin was waxy and lucent-white, and, as the delicate ribcage creaked under his fingertips, Julian hoped he was not causing internal damage. He took comfort in the fluttering heartbeat that tugged at his throat. Should she be breathing? Every time Julian thought he caught a whispered inhalation, it stopped. He marveled at each breath that caught him unawares. I have no idea what ‘normal’ is for her, but she’s stable.

  Needing Connor’s reassurance, he re-entered the operating theater and the atmosphere overpowered him, as if the room had filled with water. The air was charged with the conflict of tenacity and resignation. It coated his mouth and dripped down inside his lungs, until a fist of pressure ground into the hammock of his diaphragm. The silence was broken only by the shallow whisper of Rebekah’s breathing.

  Julian felt he was looking in on the mausoleum of Miss Havisham’s wedding breakfast. The spine-chilling eeriness of Great Expectations, a compelling tale he had read, had seemingly leapt from the page and found a three dimensional existence here in this room. There are no cobwebs, yet, but Julian had the feeling that if Rebekah died, Connor would be found sitting there holding her hand, decades later. He would, of course, have starved and hardened to granite by then, and she would be the waxwork skeleton that Charles Dickens had so vividly described.

  He cleared his throat. “Connor, the baby is okay, I think, at the moment. What should I do?”

  Connor’s pale gray gaze drifted to Julian’s face, grief dressing his eyes in cloudy condensation only one step away from cataracts.

  “Keep her t
emperature constant and syringe water into her mouth.” A frown cast the frosted gaze in shadow. The bone-white mask which his dehydrated face would become was revealed for a moment when Connor compressed his lips and swallowed hard.

  “Other than that-” Connor shrugged, feeling the added weight of responsibility, but unable to move. “Try syringing blood. Types B and O should be safe. She’ll be okay if you keep her hydrated.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “She just needs her mother...”

  Connor turned away, settling back into his vigil as though he had not stirred.

  Julian tore himself away. The tenderness that clothed Connor was hard to bear. The devastating image of Dicken’s Miss Havisham, wearing only one shoe, with her bridal gown hanging in tatters as grief put an end to every thought and action, shouldered its way into his mind again. He turned on his heel and departed. Connor has to get through this. Rebekah has to.

  Connor could hear the baby. He struggled to find comfort in that, but for now, he could think only of Rebekah. She was still hanging on, still there with him. He changed the transfusion bag twice more. Dawn arrived and then faded to dusk again. The smell of congealed blood was thick in the air, but he had no will to move. Hardening was setting in, and, at this moment, he didn’t care.

  He sensed Julian’s occasional intrusion and instant withdrawal, and was glad. I don’t want to let my fears breathe... say them out loud.

  Connor’s dry eyes remained locked to her face. He burned his will into her, until finally, he felt it, a glow as her brain synapses arced. A thought had moved through the cerebral cortex. As the glittering array of signals hummed through Connor, a tentative smile tugged at stiff cheeks which had not moved for so many hours.

  Each one of her thoughts sparked another, and at last he believed. A rumbling growl escaped, expelling the toxic dread saturating him, and bringing a concerned Julian instantly to his side.

  Julian silently held out a vial of blood; he was still struggling with the overpowering cocktail of aromas in the enclosed space.

  But, when Connor reached out to take it, he realized his ligament sheaths were fused, and would not release. He had allowed dehydration to creep up on him.

  “For God’s sake, Connor,” Julian muttered as he yanked roughly on Connor’s hair and poured the blood into his mouth. “You’re surrounded by the damn stuff,” he said gruffly, hiding the relief that filled him, too.

  Connor kept his chin raised as he waited for the reservoir of blood swilling in the back of his throat to seep through the tight space between his cramped vocal chords and finally lubricate his windpipe and oesophagus.

  “Thank you,” he croaked.

  Connor continued to stare at the ceiling as though he was praying to unseen forces until, taking another vial of blood from Julian’s waiting hand, he drank it himself. Dropping his chin at last, Connor reached across the blood-stiffened linen and folded his fingers around Rebekah’s relaxed hand.

  “Thank you.”

  Julian was not sure if Connor’s thanks were for him or if, indeed, there was a deity who cared. Have we finally found a patron saint of vampires?’ His smile at the prospect faltered when Rebekah’s fingers twitched inside Connor’s cold clasp.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and a groan grated in her throat.

  Connor rose quickly to fill her vision as he said gently, “Hi, honey. You had me worried there for a while.”

  Rebekah focused on his beautiful face. The gray tint to his skin was not something she had seen before, and her fingers itched to push back the blue-black hanks of hair falling over his brow.

  His cool palm framed her cheek, and he smiled. Joy stirred in the depths of his gray eyes. “We did it, honey.” Connor’s lowered tone resonated inside his chest as he said, “We have a baby girl, you did it.”

  His smile widened as her eyes filled with tears.

  “Hey, how’re you feeling?” Connor held her hand, which was warmer now, and he thrilled at the smile blossoming on her face.

  “Can I hold her?”

  “Sure,” Connor’s eyes found Julian’s across the room, and questions crowded the space between them as he realized he was not sure how his daughter fared.

  “I’ll go and get her,” said Julian with a reassuring nod.

  The color drained from Rebekah’s face as she struggled to lift her shoulders, and Connor clucked his disapproval. “Careful, honey,” he said, and three pillows materialized from nowhere to support her in a more upright position.

  Julian wheeled the perspex cradle into the room, and a ball of white swaddling moved as the baby girl fought to uncover kicking legs and flailing arms.

  “Can I hold her?” Desperation roughened Rebekah’s voice, and the baby was settled into her arms before the words had died from her lips. Connor was already there, too, hitching up beside her to gaze into the baby’s small, delicate features. They were entranced by the tiny little girl, her ivory-toned complexion and steady heart at odds with the strong jaw which clamped onto Connor’s experimental finger, causing him to grimace in pretended pain.

  In answer to Rebekah’s inquiring glance, Connor said on a laugh, “You won’t be breastfeeding. She does not have teeth, but her gums have edges like razor blades, and her bite... well, ouch!”

  Rebekah looked down at the miniature perfection of her face. “So, how...?”

  “She’ll take your milk from a syringe until we find an alternative. I am sure we can adapt a bottle. We’ll think of something.” He met Rebekah’s eyes and lifted a speculative brow. Stroking a thumb across her cheek and collecting a tear, one of happiness, he hoped, as he said, “More importantly, what are we going to call her?”

  “Seren,” breathed Rebekah as a tiny fist gripped the end of her finger and it turned an angry red color, throbbing painfully until Connor carefully prised the baby’s fingers open. “Got her dad’s strength, by the looks of things.” Rebekah grinned.

  She glanced up at him, and the sigh of his cool citrus scent filled her with happiness as he brushed a gentle kiss over her lips.

  “Perfect, like her mother,” Connor husked, “Seren.” Her name meant ‘star’, a pinprick of light in the black shadows, and it was what she was to them.

  Connor laid his palm over the tiny abdomen and absorbed the vibrations of her body, losing himself in the hum of her tiny muscles flexing and the sluggish flow of blood moving like a lazy river under her skin. His hopes were high.

  “With a human circulatory system, there is good chance she has bone marrow capable of renewing blood cells.” Connor glanced at Julian. “If that proves to be the case, she will always have the essential human isotopes flowing through her. Maybe not at a rate that will satisfy her thirsty vampire tissue, but it could mean that she can top up with animal blood alone.”

  Julian said slowly, “The council can wait until we are sure.”

  “So, here she is. Seren, the perfect blend of vampire and human, a hybrid,” whispered Connor in distracted contemplation, losing himself in the perfect picture of his beloved and his child.

  Julian sank back in to a shaded corner, digesting the scene and wondering what the future held for all of them. All he knew for certain was that things would never be the same.

  A while later, Connor asked, “Where is Anthony?”

  His world was turning again. Rebekah and his baby slept, and, even though the horror of the last three days was etched into his soul, he felt in control and his world expanded to take in others.

  “In the morgue,” Julian laughed. “He’s in a cadaver drawer. I put him there for his own, and everyone else’s, protection.”

  “Really? Still?” Connor found it in himself to grin. “Go and let him out.”

  “Sure?” Julian quirked a brow. “I think he considers it penance. I’ve been down there to make sure he doesn’t starve, but he told me to leave him there until you said he could come back.”

  “And if I said the word, he’d dehydrate and die?” Connor met Julian’s eyes. “I guess he
would, he must feel like hell.”

  Connor decided Anthony’s good points outweighed the bad. “Go and let him out. After all, he went to the eco-town when Rebekah fell ill and I was away letting my inner-beast get the better of me. I owe him for that, alone.”

  Connor’s head jerked around as Rebekah stirred, and Anthony was forgotten.

  <><><>

  Like the evil presence in the fairy tale, Sebastian heard of the birth and made his plans. He considered himself the most cunning character in the story.

  Serge has to demand justice for his injuries, and the council will want news of the baby. Doctor Connor has some explaining to do, he’ll have no choice but to leave her. Sebastian sat on the parapet of the hospital building, looking out over a black skyline where the silvered slice of the moon picked out the spires and chimneys of London. Will Connor’s sidekick be left in charge when the council calls? Will he remember me from our fleeting acquaintance?

  Sebastian lay back, as he forgot the city. His eyes scanned the glittering dusting of stars and allowed them to melt into a haze as he indulged in a little wish fulfilment. What will the baby taste like? Saliva flooded his mouth as he considered the tender, marshmallow-like texture of muscles that had yet to be torn in exertion. Nectar.

  Chapter 28

  Leizle walked the circumference of the meeting cavern for the fourth time before admitting defeat. I need to sleep. Being underground, time crawled by, and, since Rebekah had been whisked away by Connor, tension was like a pneumatic drill etching scenarios into her brain, giving her a permanent headache. She had worn a track into the hardened earthen floor. Another day, and no more news.

  Oscar had kept her company for a while, but she knew her perpetual movement was driving him insane. His presence was still reassuring. The sound of pots and pans crashing together in the kitchen cavern echoed through the tunnels, and she would have smiled had her head not been pounding.

  The clanging reached a crescendo and then suddenly ceased. Leizle waited for the agonized oath which would let her know it was Oscar being clumsy and nothing more sinister, but there was only silence. It’s too quiet. Oscar’s large, hearty frame was never this quiet. Visions of a vampire invasion, so swift that it had silenced his gasp of fear before he could shout out, drenched her in sweat.