A Cup of Blood

by Troy A Hill

"Welcome sister," he said with a bright twinkle in his own eyes. "It's nice to have a female sibling." He held his small wound over the cup and let three drops of liquid drip to join the red swirls in the cup below. Their bodies… no, my body, too, would use the blood. Leach it of energy. Which is why we had to drink more. Over and over, to fuel our magic.

  Jonas took the cup and repeated the ritual. He added three drops of his blood. "Welcome Sister. I am pleased to that you are prettier than my other brothers, but also," he grinned, "that I am no longer the youngest amongst us."

  Master took the vessel and dripped more blood into the cup, seven drops. The sight and smell of the beautiful nectar I mesmerised me.

  Master held the cup before me. "With love, we present you that for which you thirst. What that is, we hope, is not in the cup, but what is around you. We give you our love."

  My eyes were dry. I'd realise later, that I needed much more blood in me before I could secrete tears. Blood tears at that.

  I wanted to hug them all. But, Master was fond of rituals, and I knew I should be formal in my acceptance.

  "I thank you all," I said as I took the cup. My demon rattled her cage, but I was still in control of our body. The love they gave warmed me, just as the blood did. I held the cup in both hands. "I accept your love and return it tenfold. Thank you."

  I raised the cup to my lips but paused as I remembered another.

  “I thank Esther for her gift. When I’m more together, I shall thank her for the love and kindness she has shown me.”

  Master pushed the cup up toward my lips.

  “Drink,” he said. “You have a great road ahead of you….”

  The female voice came back as I sipped the sweet liquid. “Drink,” both she and Master said, still with the same, odd mixed tones.

  “Drink to get well,” the soft feminine voice said as the white light consumed me again.

  17

  Waking

  “Good, you are awake,” that soft feminine voice said.

  I opened my eyes to what would have been a dark night for a mortal. I saw little above me, other than woven branches. Starlight filtered through their branches. I seemed to be deep in a forest somewhere. Some moonlight filtered in. I could smell the aroma of dirt, the leaves and plant life that made up the loam of the forest floor. Another smell, animal, as if a musty old bear was close, but also faint.

  I tried to reach up, but couldn't move. Something gripped my arms, some cord wound around me. No, not cord or rope. It smelled of earth and bark.

  “Are you yourself, yet?” her soft voice reached out from the darkness. The language differed from that the Saxons.

  Ah, I had been fighting my demon. The rush of memories flooded back. The Witch Hunters in the woods, Greyback's death, my incredible bloodlust, the final silvered knife into my chest, the agony of the blade as it pierced my flesh and tore at my soul. I remembered my magic fuelled hunger as I screamed and reached out for the human in front of me. The Witch Hunter's apprentice. Instead of him, I had grabbed my demon and fought to shove her back into the hole in my soul where she lived.

  The hunger. I felt for it. My demon was content again. Content. No cravings.

  “Are you back to yourself, milady?” the voice asked again, this time in Latin. Her fingers stroked along the back of my hand. A light touch, but one that sent a shiver up my spine. Not the shiver of fear, but the charge of longing, familiarity. The energy of a lover after a time of passion. But why? If I had been battling my demon, this mysterious girl and I wouldn’t have been passionate.

  “I am,” I responded. I expected my voice to be gravelly, thanks to disuse and a dry throat. But I sounded normal, cheery even. I spoke in the Cymry language, the first language she had used. It was like the old Celtic languages from northern Europe. Latin had influenced the version of it here on Britannia. I had learned enough in the past few months to try the language though my accent would sound foreign.

  "My name is Maria," I replied. "You nursed me through my ordeal?"

  "Ah, you understand our language." The woman leaned in closer. She was thin, almost frail. Like myself, she seemed adult, but with an ageless quality. In any noble's court in the European world, she'd be considered beautiful, even though she now wore a simple light-coloured dress, in the middle of a wood somewhere. Her hair was golden but seemed silver under the filtered starlight at night.

  "You spoke in Latin as you dreamed," she explained. "Maria…" she pronounced my name. She repeated it. It rolled slowly off her lips. "Here, your name translates to Mair," she pronounced it like the first syllable of "Miriam" but with a mild twist, and made it two syllables.

  "I forget my manners, I have several names and titles, but," she said. "I go now by Gwen." She still knelt beside me and reached down to touch a large taproot that jutted from the ground next to me. I felt my bonds uncurl. The trees themselves must have held me. I felt their strong roots, laced with magic slide off me and back into the ground.

  “We can speak in Latin,” she added in that language, “if you are more comfortable with it.”

  “No need,” I suggested. “You have talent, your command of the plants… Dryad or Druid? Or a sorcerer of some sort?”

  She reached across me and rolled down the old, musty bearskin that had covered me.

  “Neither, or both. The land and I are friendly,” was her soft reply. The twinkle in her eyes told me she wasn’t ready to share.

  I felt as I always did when I first arose. A slight stiffness in my muscles. Other than that, I was pain-free. My hands moved toward my chest and side. I was nude. My fingers traced around my flesh. A few small scars were all that remained of my wounds. Even down my legs, where Onion Breath traced designs in my skin with his silver blades, was now free of scars.

  “You fed me… how…?”

  "I removed what was left of your clothing," Gwen said. She ignored my question. "There was a lot of blood and damage to it. I have replacements." She reached out of my sight, behind the trunk of the tree I sat against, and handed me a nicely folded bundle of clothing. I accepted it, then rose. "The dress is plain," she said, "but it is what I have on hand." Her eyes scanned my body. "I'm slightly thinner than you. When we find the time, we'll let the sides out to give you more room."

  I stood and pulled the linen underdress on. It was of fine linen, soft and supple, though it wasn't much more than a long tunic with a hole for my head, and short sleeves for my arms. The woollen dress to wear over that had ties across the bodice and long sleeves. It too was of excellent material. These were not peasant clothes of any sort. This Gwen had access to expensive clothing.

  Gwen stepped closer and helped straighten the dress as I dropped it over my head. I could dress myself, but her gesture was friendly. I found her aid, her touches comforting. I tugged the underdress down over my hips. She was correct that it was a snug fit. I could walk, and run in it, but the skirt was narrower than I liked.

  But where her fingers touched my skin, I again felt that spark of passion. I had to fight the urge to lean back into her, and hope she wrapped her arms around me. Damn this was disorienting. To awaken from the tragedy in the woods, my captors dead, and me dying the true death, to find myself alive with residual passion for a mysterious Druidess in an unknown patch of forest.

  I twisted to let the fabric settle on my form. Gwen liked to keep her skirts narrow. Fortunately, we were about the same in the bodice, and I had play in the laces to adjust that part to my liking.

  “You…” she began to say something. I gave her a smile of invitation to continue. “You’re not likely to gain weight are you…?” She surveyed the tightness of the fabric across my hips.

  I laughed. If I was back to myself, and my demon small again, then she knew what my diet was.

  “No,” I said with a grin at her. “My body has not changed in the last six centuries. I will always be as you see me now. You know what I am?”

  “We have words for the spirits that inhabit undead bodies, then
claw open and feed on the blood of their victims, we call them cyhyreath, cailleach or banshee,” she said.

  I nodded but noticed she shivered as she pronounced the names.

  “But you are not like those spirits. You seem complete, with your soul intact. You have a body that seems to be your own, and are not of the spirit realm,” Gwen said and gave me a small smile. “For that I am grateful. My experience with spirits has never been good.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  "Since I found you?" she asked. I nodded. "About a fortnight. If you were one of my… if you were a lady of a king's court, I should shy away from the details. But," she stood behind me and helped me wrap the thin woven belt around my waist. "You don't seem a stranger to death and carnage."

  She looked at me as I sat again and slid on my soft leather boots.

  “Perhaps a small walk?” she suggested. “I enjoy a fire when I hear stories, and the trees prefer we build our fires in more open areas.”

  The trees prefer? I smiled at the idea.

  She led me a short distance away. We walked in silence. I realised that despite the damp chill of the evening, she was uncloaked and indifferent to the temperature.

  We stepped into a clearing in the forest. A gentle wind stirred small waves across its surface. A thin white glow on the water showed me that the moon was rising. Near an old, splintered stump with a large fallen log next to it, a small fire pit was dug into the ground. Broken branches were piled within the ring of rocks, waiting for only a spark. My hostess bent down to the wood muttered a word, and the fire sprang to life. Her hand shed a soft white glow.

  She turned to the large log. Gwen ran her finger across the top of the wood and left behind a fiery red line. Her hand disappeared into the slit and reemerged a few seconds later. She pulled out a woollen blanket and motioned that I should help spread it out. I cocked an eyebrow at her but moved to grab a side of the blanket.

  She motioned for me to sit. I was closest to the rugged stump, so I tucked my legs under me and leaned against it.

  Gwen sat against the log. Her eyes twinkled in a light blue, and her long straight hair was golden in the flickering light. I felt as though I knew her… or perhaps her mother from somewhere. Her features reminded me of someone, but I wasn’t sure who.

  "I almost forgot…" she said and rose to her knees, this time she reached behind the fallen tree, and not into it. She passed me my sling bag.

  "Thank you," I said and ran my fingers along the strap where one of my captors had cut it when they bound me with their silvered ropes.

  “I repaired the strap,” Gwen said. My belongings were still there. Even my small coin purse. Interesting, since Onion Breath had taken it. I shuddered at the thought of his knife, his grin, and his desire to abuse me.

  My hands felt along the bottom. I had coins sewn into the cloth, and they were all there. One item was gone, my master’s cup. I glanced at Gwen, a request on my lips. She held the cup out.

  “This was a fortunate find,” she said.

  "How did…?" I asked but trailed off. Willingness to discuss my nature didn't come easy. I had rarely done so since I left my undead siblings.

  “There was a great wrong, some disturbance in the land. I was drawn to follow and search, to find it.” Her eyes locked onto mine. Her face framed by her long hair. “I found you, covered in blood in the carnage's midst.”

  "I rarely lose control like that." The memory of my demon's rage and hunger surged into my mind. I shuddered. Never did I want to lose that much control again. Never. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. Too many memories, none pleasant to remember.

  She reached out with a thin hand and touched my knees. I shut my eyes. Her touch wasn't just comforting, but… more… like the comfort my old master gave. The comfort of lovers.

  "You were a sight, but, I've seen much worse on the battlefields. Sword and spear do great damage to bodies." She shifted and scooted toward me, so she sat in the crook between the old log and its stump. She slid her right arm around my shoulders and pulled me into her side.

  The comfort she gave was welcome even if intense. A sigh escaped my lips as I relaxed into her embrace. I had been on the run too far, on emotional stamina too long. I had tried to hold myself together when I wanted to scream or cry or lash out. Despite not knowing who she was, or anything much about her, I was eager for the touch and comfort she offered.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “In truth, though,” she said. Her voice quiet as the fire crackled in the night. “I wasn’t certain who was the aggressor when I first arrived.”

  My demon didn’t scream at me with this Gwen so close. I could hear her heartbeat if I listened. I could sense her pulse through our contact. Slow and steady. She was content. This dryad or druidess must have assuaged my thirst. But how?

  I felt the arrival as much as heard it. Green wolf eyes peered at me as familiar shapes trotted into view. Gwen chuckled.

  “It was their eyes that told me the truth of the battle I came upon,” Gwen said.

  Three wolves loped into view. Each carried a rabbit. Mother wolf came first, followed by her two… well, they weren't pups, or even younglings any longer. They, in just a couple of weeks, had filled out. They were young but had crossed the final growth spurt they needed to be full sized. Each of them dropped their kill next to me and reached out with their muzzles to take in my scent.

  I reached out and nudged the hares back to them. My demon was well fed. I didn’t need to drain the small animals of blood like I had when I ran from the Witch Hunters. I felt the mother wolf’s presence in my mind

  “We hunt together.” She took the larger rabbit in her jaws and moved off into the scrub to eat. Petram had to put his nose directly into my face for a good smell. I felt his mind touch mine. Just comfort and contentment. I was still part of their pack. Their presence reminded me of Greyback, and his reply to whatever I had to say.

  “We are pack. We run together.”

  Running sounded like a great idea. I’d killed two Witch Hunters, but more would follow. I was not free of them here.

  But, I was content. My wolf friends were with me. My demon was under control. And this woman, Gwen… well…

  “We run together…?” Petram projected his thought.

  "Yes, we will, my friend," I said and rubbed his furry face between my hands.

  18

  Stories by the Fire

  “They were what kept me from letting you die in that clearing.” Gwen’s soft voice added as I sank back into the warmth of her embrace as we sat by the fire. “You’ve learned how to hear them, too. I suspected as much. Wolves don't often run with humans.”

  "You know I'm not mortal any longer?" I asked, and I turned so I could see her face. She had to know. How else had I recovered? Someone to give me the blood, and enough to sate my demon's hunger.

  "Yes," she said and graced me with a smile. Her eyes, light blue, seemed to unlock a door to my soul. My hand drifted up and down her arm. Gentle strokes. I felt I felt relaxed with. But why?

  "Rarely would I expect to find dead humans, a dead pack leader, injured wolves, and a blood-drenched… you're not a cyhyreath…" she said, as though she searched for the right term.

  “Cyhyraeth?”

  "My apologies. I forget you are not native with our language and culture," Gwen said. "A moaning spirit, with no body, often heard right before someone dies." She repressed a shudder and looked down her hands. "A ghost, if you will, out to capture the spirit of the newly deceased." She turned her eyes up and reached over to touch my hand.

  “You have flesh, dead or not.” She found her smile again. The way it graced her face sent a wave of joy through me. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around her, to hold her. I felt comfortable with this mysterious Gwen.

  “What name do you give your kind?” Her voice pulled me out of my reflection.

  “Child of the Night,” I said, and fought the urge to
grasp her hand with my own. “That was what my master called our kind.”

  “The term fits well,” she said. “I had heard tell of these Children of the Night, Lady Mair. I may be mistaken, but you have noble titles, do you not?”

  “Yes,” I said. “As do you, Lady Gwen. Are you ready to tell your story?”

  She shifted but kept me close. Her right arm still wrapped around me. I found her touches somewhat intoxicating. That feeling of finding a new love, someone I connected with on a deep level. That surprised me. But, I didn't want her to move away.

  "Why did you splint the pack leader's leg?" She wasn't ready to share yet.

  “Because he was hurt,” I said. “I don’t like to see anyone… even an animal suffer.” I had pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, again. Protecting myself. From what? I wasn’t sure. Onion Breath and his compatriot weren’t here. Just this mysterious Gwen. Who I wanted to hold and cherish. Gah! Why did I feel this way? Was she a witch? Some spell perhaps?

  “I was on the run from the Witch Hunters,” I said. “But I couldn’t leave him there.”

  "Why were you running? What are these ‘Witch Hunters?'" Her voice was soothing. Her body warm as I leaned back against her. I grew even more comfortable with her as we sat, which was unusual. I should have been cautious, and wary of a stranger who knew my nature. But I wasn't. I found myself in the tale before I could question my feelings.

  "At first, I wasn't," I said. "I was on an extended trip through the Anglo lands. We were in Mercia when brigand attacked our caravan one evening. The merchants and priests were easy targets."

  “You travelled with men of the church?” she asked. “I thought they… you…?”

  "I'm skilled and can hide my nature. As long as I stay sheltered from the sun, I can move about like a normal person." I said but realised she had another question, unspoken. "Ah… their holy symbols have no power over my kind. Gods don't care about us."