PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Jump . . . down there?” I asked, stealing a quick glance downward before looking back at Timothy.

  He acknowledged the comment with a smirk, but nothing more. Turning to walk inside, he placed a hand on my shoulder, leading me through his room and out to the hallway on the other side. I paid fleeting attention to the dÉcor of his living quarters, enveloped in opulence from one wall to the next. This pattern continued through the corridor and bled into the rest of the house. It had been one of my first discoveries about my new residence; I had been reborn into a haven for sophisticates. And even though the neighborhood in which we lived boasted the worst dregs of society, inside these halls we were sheltered by Sabrina.

  Descending the stairs, I pushed my glasses farther up the bridge of my nose and allowed my gaze to wander. A sea of faces became visible as we reached the main floor, all pausing their activity to watch Timothy and me alight from the final stair. A large foyer led into what the others called a ‘common area’ and made up the better part of the downstairs, with the exception of a few tight spaces reserved for storage. I regarded the warmth of rich colors and dark wood for a few seconds longer before my attention was swept up by new siblings.

  The blonde-haired woman who had made up the final member of the silent jury had introduced herself to me as Rose. Too many others had stepped forward, making up a list of individuals with which I was slowly becoming acquainted. Following Timothy’s lead, I navigated past them all, managing to avoid provoking anything other than their curious stares. On our way outside, though, we passed Michael in the foyer. His conversation with a younger-looking vampire who I was almost certain had introduced himself to me as Charles paused just long enough for him to watch me pass. We exchanged a look of mutual disdain, and then severed the gaze. I dismissed it, if only for the time being, in favor of focusing on the task at hand.

  Hunting. It had been my first lesson beyond the basics of survival avoiding sunlight, staying well-fed and blending in with the human populace. As we stepped outside, my predatory instincts honed in on our surroundings; my ears only distantly hearing Timothy talk of the harmony of a pulse. I honed in on those heartbeats, marveling at how new everything around me felt. The night whispered tempting prospects, my vision enhanced despite my visual infirmity and eyes catching sight of every moving creature who ventured past. Each footstep felt lighter and much more graceful. Every time I let my fingers skim a street sign or a store window, the tactile sensation made my skin prickle. So many scents surrounded me, appealing to some distant notion that immortality had transformed this experience as well.

  A pensive silence settled between us, with me already set to the thrill of stalking and Timothy following suit. We paused by a small grouping of humans and watched as a single female departed from the rest of her friends, walking for a narrower side street.

  Timothy leaned close and whispered in my ear, “I think that’s your cue.”

  That same need which had afflicted me when I beheld my first victim overwhelmed me again. A slow nod preceded my first cautious steps forward, a small gust of wind blowing through the short locks of brown atop my head. The winter wind failed to produce a shiver, and while the short, slender woman I trailed pulled her coat closed against her body, I allowed mine to sail open, wearing my apathy like an accessory of the hunt. She failed to hear me approach, which only pleased me further. My would-be victim wouldn’t know I was there until she felt my breath tickle at her neck.

  We passed by the entrance to an alley.

  “Now!” a harsh whisper commanded, from somewhere close behind.

  I leaped forward, grabbing the human girl and pushing her into the alley until her back hit the unforgiving force of concrete. She yelped out the beginnings of a scream, but I cupped her mouth with my hand, my fangs descending and piercing her skin while she wriggled and clawed at me. I could smell her fear and tasted it in quantity while mouthful after mouthful of her blood cascaded down my throat.

  Within minutes, her lifeless corpse fell to the ground at my feet.

  “Brilliant!” Timothy said with a clap, walking forward and crouching down to regard my victim. Lost in the afterglow of such ecstasy, I beheld him in a dreamlike state, the decline back to my senses a slow, but steady one. He glanced up at me and smirked, macabre delight dancing in his eyes. “Why don’t we dispose of this and be on our way?”

  A final shudder of pleasure rattled my psyche as I nodded and bent to help. Soon little more than remains inside a dumpster, the woman had been completely forgotten by the time we made it out toward the street. Mental clarity returned just in time for Timothy to open his mouth to speak.

  “The Mistress tells me you’ve still been having trouble remembering things,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket to light another cigarette.

  I nodded, glancing away. “I probably wouldn’t even know my name was Peter if you all hadn’t told me.”

  “You had a wallet on you. It was hard not to know.” Timothy held the cigarette to his lips, drawing deep enough to cause the orange embers at the end to flair. He paused to exhale first before speaking again. “Memories are superfluous anyway. You know the important things. How to button a shirt. How to speak English. That you write with your right hand.”

  The cavalier way he stated that startled me. “You pay close attention to details.”

  “I always have. You could say I’ve been the Mistress’s eyes ever since my turning.” He offered me a wink, settling comfortably into the silence that followed until we made it to the coven. The downstairs was still bustling when we entered and I felt the urge to slink away from the activity. Michael was mercifully absent, but I felt it best not to tempt fate. “I should settle in a little. You guys gave me so much stuff. I have yet to sort through it all.”

  “Just helping you get comfortable.” He nodded and allowed me to ascend the stairs. Midway up, he spoke my name, prompting me to pause and glance back at him. “Don’t be too troubled about it,” he said. “The memory loss, that is. It’ll come back. You just need time.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.” I flashed an amiable grin, reflecting on the events of that evening. My smile broadened. “I’m having too much fun to be worried about it anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  My gaze evaluated the trappings of my new life again. Rebirth surrounded me, making me an empty canvas waiting to be covered with bloody brushstrokes. Still, when my gaze returned to Timothy, I could not help but to notice the wolfish grin return to his face. I perked an eyebrow. “Are you always like this with new vampires? You’ve been so helpful.”

  “You’re special,” he said, “And the Mistress favors you.” He nodded once before turning his back on me. “Have a good night, Peter.”

  “You, too.” Watching him until he disappeared into the common area, I remained standing there for moments afterward, weighing those words while not sure what his comment meant. The riddle continued to haunt me while I undressed in my room and even when I settled into sleep for the day. It took shutting my eyes in surrender to fatigue for the question to stop rattling around in my mind.

  Deep inside the lull of sleep, however, the cadence of a persistent whisper encroached upon me from some distant corner of my subconscious. I heard a voice speak, bearing the tone of an unwelcome visitor from the grave, summoning me toward lucidity after only a few hours’ rest.

  Lydia.

  Something other than the memory of her dropping dead at my feet rushed through my newborn vampire haze, bringing me face to face with a creature that looked strangely familiar. I saw the person she beckoned staring at me from across an expanse, a tall man who once bore sympathetic blue eyes and a kind demeanor. Shooting to a seated position, I blinked against the darkness while attempting to settle my shaky nerves.

  And still her words echoed.

  ‘I love you, Dr. Dawes.’

  Dr. Peter Dawes. That had been me.

  ***

  The next night, I sat at the foot of the
stairs, staring off into space as I struggled to recall the man I had once been. Becoming a vampire had taken away my reflection, making my neophyte oblivion that much more blissful. I could not even summon any thought toward what sort of music I liked or what I had done for a living. Now that word taunted at me; doctor. Somewhere within lay an entire identity.

  “I see you’ve taken to meditation. Or, at the very least, have dedicated your life to the goal of becoming a piece of furniture.”

  My eyes shut, a groan barely suppressed in the effort not to react to the familiar voice. The distinctive brogue of the man standing behind me bore the hint of an Irish accent, only with a more rigid formality to it. I allowed myself a moment to imagine the smug look on his face before subjecting myself to the actual sight of it, needing to settle myself first. “Neither, actually,” I said. “Just lost in thought.”

  “Meditation isn’t a worthless pursuit.” Michael finished walking down the stairs and wove around to stand in front of me. When my lids lifted, I beheld the very expression I feared would be present. “Not that I am expecting you’ve done much of it.”

  “Did you stop just for the sole purpose of insulting me?” I asked.

  “No. I was actually looking for you.” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk evening to a more neutral expression. “It’s been brought to my attention Timothy’s taken to instructing you.”

  I nodded. “Yes, he has. Since you weren’t available to take me out for my first hunt, Sabrina sent him.”

  “No doubt.” Glancing away, he seemed to ponder something for a few seconds before looking back at me. “The few nights subsequent, as well.”

  “Those, too.”

  “What has he been teaching you?”

  The question struck me as odd. I shrugged. “Survival, mainly. He brings up the things he likes about being a vampire and lets me compare notes.”

  “That must be a fascinating list.” With a flick of his hand, he turned his back on me. “Walk with me, brother. Amuse me with what you’ve been instructed.”

  He strolled away without waiting for my assent. I sighed inwardly and clamored to my feet, jogging to make up the short distance between us as he headed into the common area. “You always have such a poor attitude about everything,” I said. “Have you ever noticed that?”

  “I don’t recall soliciting commentary on my attitude from a fledgling. Especially one who speaks as though he can’t be bothered to recall any proper schooling he may have had.”

  “I was a doctor, I’ll have you know.”

  Michael paused near a set of high-back, leather chairs, hesitating before glancing my way again. Our eyes met, and in that moment, I knew he had me placed under a microscope. I attempted to meet his gaze without blinking. The corner of his mouth curled in a knowing grin. “A doctor of what?” he asked.

  “Of, uh . . . ” When I trailed off, he snickered, sitting in one chair while leaving me the other. I settled in and slid to the edge of my seat. “Yes, I don’t have all my memories yet, but I’m getting a few of them.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry to remember your mortality. It’s insult enough you still have a problem with your eyesight.”

  The reminder of my sunglasses prompted me to adjust them. I frowned. “No, that doesn’t seem to be getting any better,” I said.

  “I don’t know what anybody expected, taking you off the street stained in blood. Or you, for that matter, in accepting the immortal curse.”

  “Immortal curse?”

  “Yes, curse. Live a century and tell me it’s anything other.” He crossed one leg over the opposite knee, adjusting his suit jacket while settling against the back of the chair. “So, inform me of what you’ve been taught. Heaven only knows the tirade Sabrina would have if you killed yourself out of ignorance.”

  I paused to collect my thoughts, finding them a sudden jumbled mess. I hadn’t yet let go of my previous thoughts, and the inkling that I hated being put on the spot threatened to distract me further. “Um . . . Sunlight is dangerous,” I finally managed. “Avoid it at all costs.”

  Michael laughed, a sound bearing sardonic overtones. “Understating that fact hardly helps anybody. No, it’s more than dangerous. It’s lethal. When you see the sky lighten, you must seek refuge at once. Don’t question how many minutes you have. Don’t wager against having enough time and running out. Find shelter immediately and wait out the day until the sun sets again. Otherwise, we will be sweeping up your remnant the next evening.”

  “What do you mean by ‘remnant’?”

  “Dust, dear brother.” Impatience dripped from the term of endearment. “You will be dust and nothing more.”

  I sighed, relaxing into my seat and resting an elbow on the chair’s arm rest. Granted, he was being catty, but at least he seemed apt to be informational. “He also said something about stakes, decapitation, and starvation.”

  “The likelihood of you facing the two bears less urgency than sunlight. And it isn’t just stakes, it’s anything that might pierce your heart. Starvation, on the other hand . . . will drive you mad.”

  “He didn’t say what it did exactly. Just that it wasn’t good.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re too young to go without for too long, we’ll put it that way.”

  “Alright.” Drawing a deep breath inward, I cycled through my thoughts again. The distractions present before were no more absent than they had been since I first sat. I opened my mouth, uttering the words, “What about . . . ?” and trailing off when it happened.

  The flash of an image raced across my mind, ushering a shiver in its wake. The idle notion of feeding brought the thought of blood with it, but rather than enticing me, it ran headlong with one of Michael’s comments. ‘I don’t know what anybody expected, taking you off the street stained in blood.’ I had killed Lydia; I remembered affirming as such upon waking. This marked the first time I recalled my crimson-stained hands, however.

  “What about what?” Michael asked, knocking me back to our conversation. His eyebrow lowered, giving way to a furrowed brow. “You began a question and went back to meditating.”

  “Sorry.” Shaking my head, I struggled to remember the question, when all I could see was that burgeoning memory of my hands. A knife had been clutched in the palm of one; I winced against the onslaught of recollection, feeling my stomach twist in warning that I did not wish to venture further into those thoughts. “What about . . . Um . . . ” I gestured in circles to buy a moment to think. “The myths. The stuff movies and books say about vampires. Like garlic and crosses.”

  Michael continued staring at me for a few lingering seconds, until he answered whatever silent inquiry he had issued to himself. “Mythological devices. Nothing more than religious iconography and mortal delicacies. Which of the gods should be condemning us to which hell? We are no more murderers than any other predator in the food chain.”

  Murderers. Michael continued talking, but suddenly something stole the air from the room, sucking it into a vacuum. I shuddered, attempting not to visit that scene again, but it ripped through my mind like a set of monochrome photos stained with blood. Lydia falling to my feet, oozing life onto her carpet. The other man collapsing after I had slit his throat. My throat tightened and the emotions I had experienced returned, raw and visceral again.

  ‘I love you, Dr. Dawes.’

  “Are you listening to a single word I am saying?”

  My lips almost barked the word ‘no’, while I somehow managed to suppress it. Standing quickly, before Michael could issue an objection, I tried one last time to steady myself enough to counter, “I think I’ve had enough for one night. We should do this again sometime, really. It’s been a lot of fun.”

  Michael huffed derisively. “You usually seem to be so keen to the instructions offered. I see Timothy’s made quite the glutton out of you.”

  “Nothing wrong with enjoying the kill, is there?”

  “Not if it makes you into a sadist.”

  “I�
��ll take my chances.” I met his gaze with a nod. “Good night, brother. Thank you for keeping the idiot from killing himself.”

  “Until next time.” I did not know if he waited intentionally to speak the term, but the moment my back was to him, he added, “Peter the Blind.”

  A flash of irritation froze me in place for several beats. I felt his gaze still upon me and considered, for the briefest of moments, turning around to give him a piece of my mind . . .

  Blood, oh God, blood everywhere. What had I done?

  . . . but thought better of it. Instead, I picked up the pace to my room, taking the stairs slowly at first, then sprinting faster when my reaction to the imagery became more intense. I slammed the door shut the moment I entered my room and pressed my back against the wooden barrier. The small space felt like it was closing in, dizziness overwhelming me until I stumbled to my bed and collapsed on top of it. Tears brimmed, and for a while I wondered if this was what insanity felt like. Sleep claimed me before I could firmly settle the debate.

  The quandary spun around in my mind the next evening. I locked the door, this time to avoid any further interruptions from Michael or Timothy alike. It took hours for me to become numb to the constant imagery, allowing it to replay while sitting on my bed and hugging my knees to my chest. Whoever Peter Dawes had been, he did not revel in death nearly as much as I had started to. In fact, it seemed to drive him toward inconsolable madness.

  He more closely resembled the scared man who first emerged from his transformative cocoon, petrified over this new world in which he had been reborn. My vampire instincts had silenced him, but now, the clock wound backward, bringing out the human I had been prior to all of this. Flashes of Lydia’s apartment interplayed with flashes of mine and small vignettes wove in and out of those recollections. A hospital emergency room. A host of people walking up to me and patting me on the back, all addressing me as Dr. Dawes. An aunt telling me, “If only your parents had been alive to see this day,” when I graduated from medical school. A diploma on the wall, permitting me into residency at Temple University Hospital.