Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  And then he realised that he was cold. But it was not simply coldness on the surface of his skin. It was a coldness that ran through his body, a coldness that came from the inside. He understood now what the countess had meant when she said: “It is one thing to feel a cool breeze upon your skin, but it is another to have ice in your veins and wrapped around your heart.”

  When he was still human, he had willed himself to be as cold and perfect as snow, because this would save him from the persistence of pain and sorrow and hopelessness. If this meant sacrificing whatever it was that made him human in the first place, then so be it.

  The countess finally pulled back from the girl, blood dripping in thin and glistening strands from her mouth. She smiled, her mouth splitting her face in two, and Richard saw her true face again. This time, her twisted visage held no fear for him, and his heart did not flinch when she took the girl’s head in her hands and gave a short, sharp twist, breaking her neck. He supposed that his own face had now become a mask, one that he would have to wear until the end of time. The sound of that girl’s neck breaking, it would remain with him always.

  Richard turned from her, away from her monstrous smile, and went to the window. The sun would rise soon, he could tell by the changing light creeping over the mountains, and with the ritual complete, he and the countess would be called to rest. He would never see the sun again; all that was left were the brightest stars, still shining in the retreating darkness.

  Like Milton’s Lucifer, Richard Volkov had fallen from the greatest of heights. Now he could only gaze up at Heaven, knowing all the while that God had turned his back on him.

  6

  It was not long after Richard died and was reborn that stirrings of rebellion began in the village below the castle. The straw haired girl’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed, and when they found the blood behind the rocks not far from the outskirts, they knew that she had been taken. Her father, made furious by his grief, gathered together an angry mob of men and women who were finally broken by the cruelty of the nobility that lorded above them in their ivory tower. They planned to seize the castle and receive justice. The countess had taken their boy children for years and years, and now she was coming for them. No more, they said. No more.

  The countess, of course, had spies everywhere, and word soon reached her of the impending attack from her subjects. She and Volkov had dutifully gone to the crypt, where they slept deeply and dreamlessly in elegant coffins alongside the countess’ long dead ancestors. The crypt was carved deep in the bowels of the castle, a place where no sunlight would ever penetrate and the only truly safe place for their kind. Even Richard had been afraid to go down there when he was a boy. Death hovers over every human shoulder, even children.

  When the countess had led him down the curving stone steps into the dark tomb, he felt no fear. The closeness of the walls, the overpowering smell of damp and age, the presence of so many dead, it was all strangely comforting to him. This place, he realised, felt like the home he had never had. Were he human, he might have wept, but this new life gave him only a vague sense of his former self.

  The countess had led him to her sleeping place and directed him to the coffin beside her. Richard looked inside, and even in the darkness he could see the dirt piled up inside.

  “The dirt from our homeland nourishes us,” the countess said, as if she had read his mind. “It is not like blood, of course, but it enriches our sleep and keeps us strong. Mother nature has her way in all things.

  “Before you sleep, let me tell you of how I was changed, Richard.” The countess spoke softly, like she was trying to soothe him. “Let me sing you my lullaby.”

  Richard said nothing, only climbed into his coffin and lay down, resting his head upon a mound of dirt. He felt safe here, in this forsaken resting place, and the elation from the feeding had given way to lethargy that was only intensified as he breathed in the rich scent of the earth around him. He remembered all those nights throughout his human life, the nights spent lying awake and wondering if this would be the night when death would finally place a hand on his shoulder and take him away. That night had come at last, but Richard had merely shrugged the hand away.

  The countess went on, as he knew she would. She did not need him to answer. As ever, she would do as she pleased.

  “I was fourteen years old when my father decided that it was time for me to be married. My first bleeding had come, and so I was ready to bear sons and to continue my family line at last. My father had always resented me for being born female, and when my mother died he was left only with me, a useless girl. Though I suppose I was not entirely useless. Women give birth to sons, do we not? There would be no men if there were no women, and yet we are seen as less than them. I could not help the circumstances of my birth any more than anyone else could.”

  Richard almost balked at that, recalling the ceaseless hunger and fear that had been his former life whilst the countess at least had the benefit of luxury. But there, in the dark, he forced himself to listen to her. He had gone for so long incapable of understanding her, and his hatred of her had not dissipated with the changing, but now was his chance to see her for the girl that she had once been. The idea of it intrigued him.

  “My father sent letters to the neighbouring lands, informing them that his daughter was eligible to be wed and that a grand celebration would be held. Any prospective husbands were to attend, and my father would choose a groom for me. I was to be in attendance, but I was forbidden to speak to any of these men without permission. I was to be displayed to strangers like a prize cow, dressed in all my finery. My beauty was considered something of worth, you see, and I was growing more beautiful every year. Men from the noblest families flocked to the castle, young and old, all vying for my hand without even knowing me.

  “They did not know how I loved the ivy that crept up the castle walls in summer, or how I so dearly adored music and the books in the library. They did not care that I had thoughts and ideas because I was not allowed to express them aloud. How could they? I suppose it was all that they knew, but I couldn’t help but hate them all the same.

  “On the night of the celebration, I was instructed to sit upon the throne and allow the men to present gifts to me. If the gift was pleasing to me, I was to bow my head. There were ten men in all, selected by my father from the hundred in attendance. The men that had not been chosen were drunk and boisterous, like men that had lost in a game of cards. I was relieved, because I knew for a fact that some of those men had more than one wife. But the ten men chosen offered the full variety of mankind, fat and thin, young and old, ugly and handsome, light skinned and dark. These men were united by the power of wealth and lineage.

  “The gifts were mostly tedious and, to me, without worth. I had no need for exotic perfumes and fine silks; I already had enough smothering gowns and jewels. I wished that I could deny each and every one of them, but my father had demanded that I select three of the best. I had chosen two: the first was a book of fairy stories with the most beautiful illustrations on every other page, and the second was a sword. I chose the first because I genuinely appreciated it, and I chose the sword because it was an unheard of gift to offer a young girl and I admired that. By then there was only one man left, and I would have to choose his gift, for I had remained stone faced for many of the offerings, dismissing men that I knew father favoured deliberately, a small act of rebellion on my part. This man was a prince from the north and had the tall and broad body of a warrior. I remember his face so clearly from all the others. I remember his deathly pale skin, the long blonde hair, a dirty yellow colour so unlike my own golden curls, bound back in leather thongs, and the braided beard that crept down to his chest. And I remember his eyes, black as coals and twinkling in the candlelight, and when I looked into them I felt afraid. He came before me on one knee and placed his gift upon the ground. It was a statue carved from a deep green stone to look like a dragon with its wings unfurled, ready to strike.”

&
nbsp; The countess’ voice had changed, growing quieter, rougher, but she continued.

  “I looked at that dragon and was almost overcome by a terrible sense of foreboding, but of course I was not allowed to refuse this offering. There must be three men for my father to choose from. I could see its incredible beauty and knew that it was easily the worthiest gift, but it filled me with fear and disgust regardless. I nodded dutifully, because I did not know what else I could do.”

  Then Richard spoke for the first time since the story had begun: “The prince from the north was chosen to be your husband.”

  The countess gave a little laugh. “Of course he was. He was the son of warlords and a prince to a proud people. He was also, as you have undoubtedly ascertained, a creature of blood and shadows. He came into my chambers later that night after I had finally been dismissed from the festivities. He turned me, and I remember how much it hurt. Even now, I remember. I was young and scared, and he was so strong. He said I was beautiful but broken, and that he could make me whole. And I tried to scream, but I couldn’t, for he commanded me with his magic. His blood… it tasted awful, an old and sour taste that made me feel sick. The blood of my first was a guardsman who had come to check on me, and I couldn’t wash the taste of it from my mouth. I recall the unbearable strength of my hunger and it drove me to bite and scratch and feed. If you let it, the hunger can consume you.”

  In the silence that followed, Richard pieced together the parts of her story.

  “You are forever the age of fourteen.” Richard stated flatly. “You really are just a child. I’m older than you, in some ways.”

  “I was never a child,” the countess spat back vehemently. “I was only property to be sold. But not anymore, Richard. He took everything from me, but I did not let it break me. Think of me what you will, but I belong to no one. Not even him.”

  No, Richard thought, but I belong to you. The knowledge of this was like a rock in his stomach, weighing him down.

  “I am your maker and so we are bound, but he did not respect this natural law of our kind. He and his men were gone before dawn, and I was found in my bed covered in blood that had come not just from my neck, but between my legs. You did not think that he only bit me, did you?” the countess said, and Richard imagined her face going blank for a moment, as she looked back on her old life and the horrors it had offered. “He did it to me while I was still human. It hurt very much. He licked the blood from my thighs and laughed at my tears. Then he made me taste it, shoving his fingers into my mouth before biting me and taking me all over again. Be thankful that I only bit you, Richard. Be thankful that you will never know the depths of that violation.”

  Richard decided that he had had enough and closed his eyes, thankful for the comforting embrace of the dirt and the closed safeness of the coffin. He wondered when the countess would lose her temper with him for falling asleep without her permission. But instead she kept talking, her voice now low and maudlin, and he drifted away on her words.

  “My father decreed that I had been ruined, because my virginity had been taken before the payment of the dowry, and that he would go to war with the kingdom in the north. It was a war that I knew he could not win. Not that it mattered. I killed him not long after. And it was easy. I had always hated my father.”

  ***

  When they awoke at dusk, it was to a deep, rhythmic thudding that echoed even throughout the crypt. Richard’s ears were sharper than they had ever been, and to him it rang as clear and true as it would if it were right beside him.

  The countess gripped a piece of paper in her hand. A servant, with no tongue to speak, had written it and left it in her coffin. She read it quickly, eyes darting over the page before shredding it into pieces. Richard watched her do this impassively.

  The countess looked at him and said: “It is time for us to go, Richard.”

  Richard cocked his head. “My lady?”

  “It would appear that they have come for me at last, Richard,” the countess said. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it. But then Richard was not afraid either. They didn’t even know that he existed. “I have remained here too long, and so now we must find a new place. And we must go now.”

  The countess climbed out of her coffin and smoothed down her blood-stained skirt. “There is an escape route, via a secret passage in this very tomb.” She smirked. “There is much to account for when you exist as we do.”

  Richard stood up. “Will we require luggage, my lady?”

  The countess scoffed. “I am the ruler of this land, and I have always spent my money wisely. Over the centuries I have obtained several properties abroad, lands far away from here, reachable only by sea. We will go to one of these lands, Richard, you and I.”

  When Richard was human, he had wanted nothing more than to be away from this castle, to be able to see the world, but not with her. Even now the thought filled him with dread, but it was also his only chance.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said.

  “Then follow me.” The countess turned and began walking into the darkness of the crypt. Richard followed her into the shadows and found that he could see her, such was the power of his new eyes. It wasn’t until they reached the end that the countess turned left, to a coffin propped up against the wall. She removed the lid with ease and laid it down carefully before turning to Richard and beckoning him to follow her into it. It led into a tunnel that must have taken years to carve out, and it was narrow and small. Richard had to crouch to pass through. The tunnel led out to a ledge carved into the mountain side that bore up the castle’s structure. A winding set of stairs made its way down into the black canyon below. Richard felt the wind on his face and wondered how it would feel if he were still human. At present, he only felt the wind, and that was all.

  The countess immediately began undressing, pulling the dress over her head and removing her under garments, which were girlish and practical, before throwing them over the precipice without a care. Her body seemed so thin, almost breakable; Richard could count her ribs beneath the parchment-thin skin and see the dead veins along her arms and into her hands. Without her finery, wild haired and still stained with blood, Richard could finally see the girl that she once was, and she was only a girl, given an immense, cruel and beautiful burden far too young.

  “Undress, Richard,” the countess commanded without looking at him. The darkness was growing deeper, and they could hear the angry cries of the villagers not far from where they stood. They would breach the castle soon enough, one way or another.

  Richard obeyed; he was glad to finally be rid of the shirt that now clung to him like a second skin. He felt no shame in his nakedness; such things seemed trivial to him now. He stepped out of his trousers and, like his mistress, threw them over the edge and watched them disappear into the shadows. Silently, he bid farewell to his old life, and paid greetings to the new. The wind whipped across his naked body, but there was only the coldness inside him. He looked down at himself, his long and slender torso, at the sprouting hairs around his nipples and the soft trail down his belly. At least, he thought, he had the body of a man, and he realised that he was grateful to the countess that she had given him that time, after all.

  “Now, Richard,” the countess said, turning to look at him at last. He noticed that she kept her eyes affixed to his face, never once drifting downward. “You must become the wolf. It is a talent of our kind, that we may take the forms of the lower beasts. The wolf is strong and persistent, a natural predator like us. They make valuable allies, and valuable forms.”

  Richard frowned. Once, he would not have believed her, but his existence proved that there were powers in this world beyond the realms of understanding. “My lady, I do not know how.”

  “Well of course you do not,” the countess said as if he had just said something very, very stupid. “Now is the time for you to learn. Close your eyes.”

  Richard closed his eyes and remained perfectly still.

  “Quiet your mind,” the
countess said in a soft, lulling voice.

  His mind was as quiet as a hallowed hall of worship. It was amazingly easy to let go, to be only barely burdened by the cares of humanity.

  “See the wolf in your mind. Remember how I changed before you, and remember your name. Richard Volkov, the dark wolf. You are the wolf. The wolf is you.”

  He saw the creature, its vulpine eyes shining in the moonlight, the fur glowing white. But he was the dark wolf, and so he envisioned the sleek fur so dark that it blended into the night. And then he felt himself changing, as if he were merging with the wolf within his mind and becoming one. Part of him wanted to resist it, to try and make one last break for freedom, but it was a small and easily repressed part.

  He shifted, no longer solid, and he felt that his spirit was breaking apart and reforming, bit by bit, into a new shape. His thoughts were reduced to basic needs and impulses as he felt the fur sprouting along his skin and the contortions into his bones and in the place of the man, a wolf, black furred and beautiful, now stood.

  The countess smiled, satisfied. “There, now that was not so very difficult, was it?”

  She reached out, and the wolf went to her and sniffed her hand, forcing its wet nose into her cupped palm. She ran her fingers through its fur and scratched him behind the ears. The wolf leaned its head into her fingers, closing its eyes in pleasure. This was the only true affection that the two would ever exchange.

  “Good boy,” she murmured.

  Then she changed, and there were two wolves standing together: one as white as snow and the other as black as ebony. The white wolf led the way, trotting on delicate paws along the ridge and down the curve of the steps. The black wolf followed, its heavy head held down, sight sharp even in the growing darkness of the approaching night. They fled from the villagers as they broke down the castle door, brandishing flaming torches and righteous anger. By the time they discovered the crypt, they would be long gone.