by Amy Rachiele
I watch it with repugnance, and notice suspended in the air hundreds of feet above the deck with arms stretched out to the sides in a deranged interpretation of the crucifixion, Mouse!
Bile crawls up the back of my throat as I watch the old man approach, scaling and flying with ease rope to rope to get to him. The dead man has cat-like reflexes. I stare in horror and wonder what he plans to do.
“Such a simple man...” Vadim muses. “Very fond of you... of course. Who wouldn’t be? A beautiful, smart lady of high society.”
I turn to look at him. His voice hints that he has something diabolical planned for my friend. I hold in my cries and screams that want to be set free. Part of me is incapacitated with fear and the other part roars in want to help Mouse.
“Please. Let him down.” I let the words flow off my tongue as a request.
“I like Mouse there, high above us. He makes an interesting decoration, don’t you think?”
“No.” I pause. “Please release him.”
“Revenant!” Vadim calls out.
Without any provocation, the old man beside him wraps a rope around Mouse’s neck; his neck and arms are coiled in rope now. I feel a hysterical frustration build in my chest. I lunge forward but a steel hand stops me.
“Watch,” Vadim orders.
The ropes suspending Mouse’s arms are loosened by the old man, causing Mouse to hang. He sputters and coughs violently.
“You’re strangling him!” I scream and try to pull free from Vadim, but his hold is iron. The old man swings around above us like a monkey, laughing as he watches Mouse struggle. I can’t do anything! Mouse! I shout in my head. He’s dying!
Each second that goes by is one closer to Mouse’s death. I let my mind work to figure out how to save him as the seconds tick by. “Stop this!” I try again and attempt to rip my arm away from Vadim.
“I want your journal,” Vadim declares.
“What?! Stop this!” I cry, overwhelmed and disheartened.
“Where is your journal?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you are talking about! Get him down, please!” My pleas are frantic.
Mouse’s frenzied kicking and choking are slowing down. He is losing his battle against death. His face is turning purple from the lack of oxygen.
“I want your journal. I know you’ve hidden it.”
“I don’t have anything but a small bag of essentials. Now, please let him go!” Tears well in my eyes and pour down my face. I can’t control it; sobs lodge in my throat. Dark bruises are forming under my skin where the concrete grasp of Vadim holds me. My speech is a garbled mess as I pull and yank, wanting to break free of Vadim.
Bang! A shot is fired and the rope twisted around Mouse’s neck snaps. He is freed of the strangulation in an instant. The ropes around his arms are the only thing saving him from plummeting to the deck below. I make one last attempt at breaking away from Vadim. He lets me go, and I fall down from my own momentum, landing hard. I look up at my captor, feeling insignificant, in time to see his eyes change to sharp glass. I shuffle backward, my hands scraping whatever lies behind me. Rage creeps across his countenance. All is lost! My demise is imminent!
“Vadim!” A powerful voice that I know well, that haunts me now more than the heinous past few months: Elijah! His voice carries eerily on the wind in a rabidly twisted fury.
Springing as if a bolt of lightning, Elijah flies from the captain’s perch through the air, tackling Vadim into a tangle of men. I watch them in bizarre fascination from my position on the floor. They fly fast like bullets over the edge of the ship and plunge into the sea. No! I don’t have time to process anything; I stifle my fear, getting to Mouse my only task. I need to get to him.
On my hands and knees I crawl toward the mast nearest Mouse. He is swinging; only one arm supports him now. The rest of the crew is still powerless and inert to help me.
A hand touches my leg and I whip around ready to fight. It is Michael; a gun is in his hand and his other arm in a sling. He must have snuck up from below. He nods to me and mouths “go” and I continue to crawl to Mouse with Michael behind me. I move as quickly as possible, tearing my dress on splinters and crawling over whatever macabre debris lies about left over from this attack. I move faster, but progress feels stagnant.
As if on cue, the entire crew reanimates, confused and dazed. Slowly, they find their mobility. The old man sees the brewing awakening and does the vilest action. He tears the rope in half that is suspending Mouse. With surreal horror, Michael pulls me to my feet to run. He has my hand as we dash to Mouse, and the Revenant then jumps off the mast and into the ocean.
In terrified realization, I behold Mouse dropping to the deck, arms flailing, and landing in a hallowing crunch. A sheer act of devilry as I have ever seen. Michael’s arms come around me to turn me away from the scene. Time stands still in awed disbelief. I hide my face in Michael’s chest, my body taken over with sobs. Mind and body fighting to rationalize all that I have seen. Mouse! No! No!
“Hard to port!” Captain Stokes yells, pushing the crew to get us out of here. “Pull the rigging! Get us away from here, Mr. Rufus!” The fog lifts and the intruding ship is gone.
Others who survived the attack check over the dead. Some curse with grief while others howl, wounded and feral, for the catastrophic loss of their friends and shipmates. A few around Mouse converse softly, lamenting his death. More shouting ensues, and I hear in the bedlam, “He’s alive!”
“Miss Sybrina!” Mr. Tinker calls to me in a feverish terror.
I leave Michael’s comfort and run across the deck, my dress making me clumsy as I make haste. I hike up one side of it to regain momentum. On the ground is a mass of ripped clothing, blood, and corpses. I kneel beside Mouse. His breathing is shallow and blood leaks out of the corner of his mouth. My vision is blurry through the tears I can’t stop. I suspect internal injuries and a broken back.
“Bring me whiskey and a cot!” I yell to no one in particular. Mr. Tinker sends two sailors away in haste. “Mouse?” I ask gently, wiping the wetness from my face. “Can you talk?” His breathing is shallow and fast. I run my fingers over his bruised neck checking for a break. Those eyes. His eyes are pleading with me but he doesn’t speak. There is so much sadness in his young face. I can’t examine him like this. I reach my hand out to press on his organs and Mouse bucks in pain.
“Can you do anything?” Michael asks.
“I do not know yet.”
I have never seen a person with so many severe injuries. I am surprised he survived the fall. I search around the area for a rope and grab one with my hands shaking. The cot and whiskey arrive. Mr. Tinker has the amber bottle clasped tightly in his fingers.
“Get him to drink as much as you can,” I order. “You there!” I motion for the sailors to bring the cot over. “We need to tie him to the cot to keep him from shifting to bring him inside.”
Mouse dribbles out most of the whiskey and it puddles with the blood by his head. I sop it up with the hem of my skirt. I hope he has had enough because moving him will be cruelly painful. The sailors work adeptly and secure Mouse to the cot we are using for a stretcher. They lift him and a tortured screech releases from him. My heart breaks off piece by piece as I walk behind the procession carrying Mouse out of the elements. Captain Stokes watches us; his face is unreadable. Mr. Tinker tends to others that unfortunately met their demise at the hands of the attacker. My eyes dart around warily looking for what Vadim referred to as the Revenant, waiting for him to strike again and bring mayhem and more death. Michael is by my side, watchful.
Privately, I am crying inside for Elijah and his descent into the cold sea. I am torn between my thoughts. I am eerily aware of his uncanny behavior and strength. He can take care of himself, but the sensible part of me says no one can jump from that height off the side of the ship, taking another with him, and survive. My heart aches. It aches for Elijah, Mouse, and every other soul we have lost in a matter of minutes. Time drif
ts by slowly when you are at the mercy of the devil.
“Miss! Miss! He is calling for you.” I hear it, a raspy small voice, Mouse. I dash forward and reach out to take his hand, walking alongside him.
“Don’t,” I order. “Let’s get you inside.” Beholding his youthful face is all I can bear before deep sobs and watery eyes surface. I need to be strong and keep my wits about me so I can figure out how to help him. Mouse’s eyes close tightly against the pain.
There is no infirmary so the few deckhands take him to the galley where they share their meals together. Long wooden tables weathered with use and the harsh sea air stretch across the room; matching benches sit on either side. They place the cot directly upon the closest table. Mouse is at a perfect height for me to examine but the light in here is too dim for an examination.
“A light please,” I request. Rufus takes a lantern off the wall and holds it above my head. “A knife.” Hesitantly, unsure of what I plan to do with a blade, a young man, probably a few years older than Mouse, hands one to me.
I take the knife and lift the cloth of Mouse’s shirt and slice it in half, neck to belly. I pull the cloth away, exposing his chest. Immediately, I notice two ribs jutting out, broken. By his stomach is a bluish stain. My guess would be most likely the bleeding of an organ.
Helplessness consumes me. I don’t know what to do for him. I can bind the ribs and set them but internally I have no idea. He could have an injured lung or a pierced liver. His back is something I cannot even check because of the pain involved in moving him. Frustration at this predicament rises and my own heart bleeds for Mouse. Futile situations are what push me, but this... I cannot fix. Eyes are on me, waiting for me to say or do something to aid him. I peer around me at the hopeful, worried faces.
“I need a sheet.” I take the whiskey bottle from the man beside me. I lean over Mouse and smile at him, an attempt at a gentle reassurance. “I want you to drink as much of this as you can. Understand? I am going to bind your ribs—a couple are broken. Then the only thing to do is rest.” I run my hands through his moppy hair and kiss his forehead. I lift the whiskey bottle to his lips and he drinks.
Chapter 11
Elijah:
I propel myself onto the deck of The Water Witch as if I have been shot from a cannon. The guard on duty in the crow’s nest is startled and I use my persuasion to silence and ease him. He goes back to his duty, and I, soaked from the sea, enter the ship’s chambers.
Vadim is gone with the Revenant, fleeing with the ship he commandeered and leaving me plagued by my mistakes. I must travel the globe to right them. I made the harrowing misstep of believing in someone; I was misguided and young in this life. I thought his demeanor similar to mine. I was incorrect. I must reach out to those he plunders, causing anguish and death. I am the one responsible. Even with all of my abilities and gifts, I have been unsuccessful in stopping Vadim. These jaunts we have are pitifully common and border on the ridiculous. Back and forth we go like a crosscut saw until one of us tires and relents, bored with game.
Vadim’s words to me, while locked in battle, echo. “I must have her!” Envious greed casts a hungry monster on the forefront of my reason; I want to shred everything in my wake. Just as this ship shreds the water into angry rippling waves and white foam, the bow cutting continually and not stopping until the satisfaction of a destination is reached. She is mine! He can have nothing!
My steps are heavy, cracking against the floor with incensed vehemence. Driven by my senses, I know she is close. Directly, I find Sybrina in the galley. The boy, Mouse, is bound and strapped to a small bed. Sybrina is asleep in a chair that must have been provided for her use at this vigil. Slumbering or awake she is breathtaking and just seeing her eases my fury.
I go to the boy and with one look I know he is not sleeping, he is slipping away. His pallor and the slowing of his heart indicate such. Damn Vadim! I curse and raise my fist to slam against the aged wooden table behind me. Mid-height, I stop myself. This will not solve the ghastly conundrum. Dammit!
Vadim is a fiend of the worst kind. A drop of my blood would never even come close to healing the boy. His death will devastate Sybrina. Sleeping beside her patient with no means to save him will no doubt be an additional burden to her heart. Damn Vadim to Hell!
I pace, grappling with the choices before me. Sybrina has lost so much and it pains me to allow the boy to die. But the mistakes I have made, turning Vadim, and not turning Sarah in time, are crippling my reason and sense. This in no way amends my indiscretion but I want to do something that will ease her, make her happy.
Not knowing a soul’s predisposition has adversely caused this debacle involving Vadim’s rampage. I stand over the boy. His demeanor has been revealed to me when Vadim’s was not. Had I been acquainted Vadim before I found him on the battlefield, on the cusp of death, my decision to make him a vampire may have been altered. I blame Vadim for this. The scope of choices is so finite and irrevocable—turn the boy or let him die.
Sybrina’s breathing is deep and rest needed; I turn to gaze upon her once more. Her own brush with death by illness and then her meeting with Vadim cast a heavy exhaustion over her—not dispelling our botched interlude by my own idiocy. I want to be with her, there is no doubt. Securing her affections and trust will be difficult after such a disgrace.
I step closer to Mouse, sizing him up, making a final decision. I raise my wrist to my mouth and clip the inside of it with my teeth, drawing a good amount of blood. Holding it over his mouth, I let the red liquid run past his teeth and over his tongue. A fair dose is needed to be effective on his injuries.
“What are you doing?” a small groggy voice asks. I spin, caught in an act that to a human would be perceived as witchery. Struggling with her voice, she declares, “You are here. I knew deep down you would come back.” Sybrina lifts her head in weary confusion. My blood continues into the boy’s mouth as we speak.
“I am feeding him,” I profess with caution, and wonder if she will run from me in hysterics. This deed is a perverted transfer of life force.
“Will he become a vampire?” Shifting in her chair, Sybrina speaks with an emotional combination of awe and query.
“Yes, or he will die,” I answer, relieved at her composure.
Sybrina is thoughtful and doesn’t seem afraid of me right now, even though she has been running from a vampire and in the arms of one. She seems resolved to dissect and analyze the situation at hand as her tone takes on a matter-of-fact dissonance.
“That’s good,” she reflects, staring at the floor. Knowing this woman as I do, her mind is processing and thinking about what she has witnessed and the vague puzzle is fitting together.
“The procedure is long lest he become a Revenant,” I inform her, pulling my hand away from Mouse and closing my damp cuff over the wound that has already begun to heal.
“Is your friend a Revenant?”
“No,” I say sullenly. “We stopped any sort of congenial relationship decades ago.” I sigh. “The sailor he turned is a Revenant... a human brought back to life as an undead minion. Their powers are more bloodlust than sense or consciousness. They serve vampires. They are strong and fast but carry only the baser of the human psyche.” I pause, waiting for a response or acknowledgment of what I am saying. But Sybrina is listening intently.
“Humans brought back to life and sired exchange blood between the vampire and the human. It must take place over the course of days and many times, giving them full consciousness, sense, and immortality. No sickness, disease, or earthly injury can destroy them. Vampires can injure each other, but cannot kill one another.”
“Beheading...fire... or dropped from a mast like Mouse?” she questions, rattling off some ghastly human ends.
“No... No known blade can slice our skin. And fire cannot penetrate it.”
“Is that the root of your strength?”
My eyes close with shame. Her question refers to the evening of the unfortunate display of my u
nrestrained abandon. A horrid remembrance I will never forget.
“It is sometimes difficult to... maintain control when we are flooded with emotions that have not surfaced for... a long time.”
“Oh...”
“How did you open your skin just then?” she asks.
“My own teeth.” It is quiet between us as if a settling of grievances. “I will move him to my quarters, soon.”
“How do you not burn in the sunlight?”
“Folklore is told from a perspective that benefits humans and subdues their fears. It would keep the farmers and tradesmen locked in their homes for all time if they knew vampires walked the earth at all manner of hours. The sun weakens us but does not destroy us.” Deductions and conclusions are processing through her contemplations.
“We prefer to hunt and travel in the cover of night; our bloodlust is typically stronger in the evening hours. The night shadows the small differences in our appearance, enabling us to remain hidden. A bright day is uncomfortable, but not detrimental. It is easy to persuade humans that our whitewashed pallor is poor constitution.”
Sybrina’s face tells me that she is absorbing all that I am telling her. Her mind must move like the innards of a clock, spinning wheels, spokes—never stopping and always wound.
“You mentioned powers. What sort of powers do you possess besides... being indestructible?”
“Strength... Speed... Power of suggestion,” I list for her.
Her eyes flitter in thought. Meeting my gaze she asks, “Do you lust for my blood?”
What an ambiguous inquiry! I think with humorless delight. I want her all—blood, body, and soul. I would think my recent actions had made that clear. My dormant needs always rise to the surface with her near—a causal tragedy unable to rectify itself. Her wide beautiful eyes bore into me with the question hanging in the air between us.
