Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  “Where are you going, sweet one?” the countess asked delicately, tilting her head to one side so that her beautiful blonde hair swished over her shoulder.

  “I…” Nick said. “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere, what?” the countess replied, the same sugary sweet voice.

  The silence that followed was heavy. Nick’s fists were clenched. Emily could only barely see the back of him, but she imagined that he had his teeth clenched too.

  “Nowhere, my lady,” he said, finally.

  The countess smiled at her small triumph. “Good. Then I would best return to your place. I would not wish to hurt you before your time.”

  The words were cruel and cold, but Nick, to Emily’s dismay, obeyed. He turned back and slowly went to his place beneath the chandelier, where he waited, blank-eyed and distant. Were you to snap your fingers in front of him, there would be no reaction. He had gone far away.

  Now was the time, Emily had to do it. Her dress had already been torn to bits, so she grabbed a wayward strip of cotton and tore it from the hem. Emily clamped the cloth to her throat, and she felt it grow warm and wet with her blood. She tore off another shred and pressed it down over the first, now plastered to her shoulder. The second piece was less saturated with her blood, but she needed something better. She tore off one last piece of her dress and pressed down hard; she would hold it there for as long as she could. She couldn’t press down as hard as she needed to really stop the bleeding, but there was nothing else to be done. She rolled off the slab and landed on the floor heavily, her limp body absorbing any damage but leaving her still weakened and practically naked. She pushed herself up, arms shaking and body straining to achieve this small task. It would not be long before Volkov noticed what she was doing, though for the moment he remained focused on Nick, still angry that he had attacked him and done him some harm, no matter how small. The countess was still far away enough that she didn’t pose a threat, but she could move quickly like Volkov, and there was no way that Emily could stand against her. She could barely stand at all.

  But she had to. She told herself this over and over. She took a deep breath, but her lungs ached as they expanded and she could only take so much. Then, somehow, she gathered up the last of her energy and pushed herself up and began to run across the ballroom towards the centre, where the chandelier hung magnificently from the ceiling, the sound of her bare feet slapping against the cold floor. Time was fluid, warping around her and seeming to slow down before her eyes as she careened towards Nick. She couldn’t tackle him; she’d never survive it. But she could do something else.

  “Emily?” Volkov said. “What are you doing? You don’t have the strength!”

  “What is that ridiculous girl doing?” the countess called, finally deciding to come in now that there was something interesting happening.

  Emily stopped and, before the adrenaline wore off, slapped Nick about the face and said: “Remember Simone Dawson. You love her. She’s waiting for you, so wake up!”

  And she started to run again, curving around the ballroom in the vain hope that she could somehow evade the countess and get through the door. She tried to ignore the hot, sticky blood creeping down her body and how badly her muscles ached. She put aside the pounding of her head and the haziness of her vision; she had to keep moving. She ran and ran, and for a time nothing evaded her. It was only when she reached the door that she found herself falling, tripped by long, elegant skirts. She threw her arms in front of her and only just managed to break her fall. The countess laughed, a high and mean sound that reminded Emily of certain girls giggling together on the playground as they tore their fellow pupils apart with their cruel observations.

  Nick blinked. And when he blinked, the light came back into his eyes. He grinned and rolled his shoulders, turning his head left and right until he heard a satisfying crack. He locked eyes with Volkov.

  “Well then,” Nick said in a low, rumbling voice quite unlike his usual softly spoken self. “Time to end this, wouldn’t you say?”

  Volkov smiled and remained where he stood. “My lady,” he said. “Stop the girl. She must feed, or she will die!”

  The countess stopped in her steps abruptly, allowing Emily to scramble up and limp pathetically past her, leaving only a trail of blood and dark red footprints upon the floor.

  “Richard,” she said, dangerously. “You are too proud, too arrogant. You forget your place; I will not be commanded by anyone, you least of all.”

  Volkov stared at her, Nick no longer of concern to him. By the look of it, there was only anger and disbelief running through his head. Then he rolled his eyes and shook his head, openly contemptuous.

  “You would make this difficult,” he said darkly. “My lady, your selfishness never ceases to amaze me.”

  Before the countess could react, Nick leapt forward and tackled Volkov, throwing his arms around his waist and knocking him down. Wasting no time, Nick scrambled up and awkwardly straddled Volkov’s middle. Ridiculously, Nick tried to punch him. But he was hesitant, not used to violence, and when he followed through and collided with Volkov’s jaw, it was only with half of his strength. It didn’t stop the pain from shooting up his arm, vicious and insistent. Nick cried out, swearing colourfully and pulling back his hand. He couldn’t know it, but this was his mistake.

  Volkov rose up and grabbed Nick by the throat, grip tightening until Nick could no longer breathe. He grasped at Volkov’s arms, trying to desperately free himself and fight against the urge to give into unconsciousness.

  Volkov quickly grew tired of this torture. “Sleep,” he said, and let go of the boy’s neck. Nick crumpled like a rag doll, unable to resist oblivion any longer.

  The countess watched all of this impassively, bordering on outright boredom.

  “You were going to fuck her, Richard,” she said, suddenly. “You were going to do to her what the prince of the north did to me, weren’t you?”

  Richard ignored her, only threw Nick’s prone body from him and got back to his feet.

  The countess looked over her shoulder, watching as Emily reached the door, and went through it. Volkov’s enraged cries rang through her ears.

  ***

  Emily was feeling faint. She was growing weaker with every step, limping so hopelessly through the corridor as she tried to reach the smoking room. The bunched-up cloth had long exceeded its usefulness, so she abandoned it and kept going. If they want blood so badly, they can eat that, she thought. How much longer did she have? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Emily practically fell through the door of the smoking room and dragged herself towards the portrait, which stood untouched and undisturbed by the chaos around it. The candles were still lit, most of them now melted down to fat, wax-clogged stubs, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the flames, no matter how small and weak, remained.

  She went to the portrait, every step a chore more difficult than the last, and when she did come to it she couldn’t help but be struck by it a second time. Now that she had been away from it a while she could see it for what it truly was rather than what she believed it to be when she created it. But it was still her masterpiece; that much was evident. A fine likeness indeed, a great work, and yet tainted by all that had gone before. Emily found herself crumpling in front of it, cursing herself. She was so close.

  “Miss Emily, what do you think you are doing?” Volkov said with so much malice that made her blood ran cold. “You must feed.”

  Emily remained on her knees, her back turned to Volkov. She could just make out her bag, her true salvation. She reached out and grabbed it, yanking it open and shoving her hand inside. She grabbed the lighter fluid, one of the heaviest items in the bag, drew it out and sprayed the liquid over the portrait. She did this with her eyes closed.

  That was when Volkov grabbed her and forced her to her knees. She didn’t have the strength to fight back, and let him push her down.

  He came around to her front, releasing her shoulders
as he did so. He knew that she didn’t have the energy to run away, not now. She had lost too much blood; she was pale, even for her. Her skin was the white of a corpse, one that had been drained. She was his.

  With one hand Volkov brought Emily’s head up by the chin, and the other he brought to his mouth, which he opened to reveal a row of shining, sharp white teeth. He bit into his wrist in one movement, sinking his fangs into the soft, yielding flesh of his wrist. He leant forward, took his hand from her chin and looped his arm around his waist, arm snaking up her back. Emily tried to resist, but it was all rather pointless in the end. Volkov, as ever, held all the power. He brought his wrist, already trickling with slow, wicked vampire blood, to Emily’s mouth; she tried to turn away in disgust. Volkov grabbed at her face with his free hand, pulling it back so that she was forced to look him in the eye. As always, he took delight in this, the brutality of his actions and the cruelty of his decisions. Volkov was not a good man, this much was clear.

  “Drink, Miss Emily,” Volkov said. “You must.”

  It was a command, but she wanted to refuse. Wanted to but couldn’t. This was slavery of the mind, an atrocity. Volkov’s hand slipped to the back of her head, where he gripped her skull with sharp, painful precision. He pushed her head forward, closer to his bleeding wrist, which he continued to hold out to her like an offering of a gift.

  “Do not resist it, Miss Emily,” Volkov said in a voice that was strangely and probably dangerously gentle. “Do not make this harder than it need be.”

  She found herself bothered by his reasonableness, the calm in his words infuriating her to the point that she couldn’t form words. Instead, she contorted her face into a frustrated expression and grunted like an animal, lips forming a tight seal.

  Volkov gave a soft but exasperated sigh, a surprisingly human gesture that made her shiver. Without looking at her, Volkov pulled hard on Emily’s chin, digging his fingers deep into the skin as he forced her mouth open. She tried her best to fight it, but his strength, even in small doses, was greater than hers.

  “I don’t want it!” she cried, grasping those last few seconds of mortality to appeal to the man inside of the beast that worked so hard to dominate her. She was sick and tired of being dominated. Even if she couldn’t stop what was to come she would fight until the very end. She tried to throw her body about, but she was too weak, and she hated that she had been made so weak. She would do her best not to swallow the blood, but her fate was clear nonetheless. Volkov cackled cruelly, sadistic glee ringing in the peals of his laughter. He forced his fingers into her mouth and pressed down on the flat, fleshy pad of her tongue. Emily gagged instantly - she had always had a sensitive reflex – but Volkov only pushed down harder. He held his slit wrist aloft, hovering it above her open mouth. The blood dribbled down and hit the back of her throat. Emily gagged again, but her stomach was empty. Drool coated her chin, unable to contain it. It mingled with the blood and turned red and sluggish. She tried her best not to swallow it.

  Volkov abruptly removed his fingers and clamped his wrist to Emily’s mouth.

  “You will drink, Miss Emily,” he said. “Pretend that it is the wine I gave you the night we first met. You liked that, did you not?”

  Emily limply grabbed at Volkov’s forearms, attempting to strike him and failing. Her mouth was full of blood; she could no longer ignore it. She had to swallow, or she was going to choke. Her natural instincts kicked in and forced her to gulp it down. Her mouth was soaked in the metallic taste, and more flooded in; she was drinking it. It was done.

  Emily reached out behind her. Her fingertips brushed cold metal, and she realised that she had found a candelabra. Volkov was distracted, his eyes fixated on her face as she swallowed, obsessed with ensuring that it went down her throat; what did he care what she did with her arms?

  With the last of her energy, Emily pushed her fingertips against the stand. For a tense moment it hung on the edge, only to topple towards the portrait and hit the ground with a great clang that echoed in her ears, louder than anything she had ever heard. Volkov stiffened at the sound and pulled his wrist away. He pushed Emily to the floor, his hand flat against her chest as he forced her down.

  “What have you done?” Volkov implored, bringing his face close to Emily’s; their noses were practically touching, and Volkov intoned again: “What have you done?”

  Emily swallowed the last of the blood, but her mouth was still coated with the sharp, metallic taste, and when she spat, the mucus was bright red. And she did spit, with contempt and rage. It landed on Volkov’s cheek, right beneath his eye. Emily pulled herself up, suddenly energised. She quickly turned her eyes to the fallen candelabra, and watched as the flame took to the lighter fluid, grabbing on to the droplets that fell from the canvas. Soon her masterpiece would be nothing but ash; it pained her to watch the fire creep at the portrait’s borders.

  “Fire spreads fast, Mister Volkov,” Emily said, speaking while bearing the pain of what she could only presume to be the change; there was so little time left to make everything right.

  Volkov made a strange choking sound, like the smoke of the fire had disturbed his precious throat. But then Vampires don’t breathe. The whole thing, Emily thought, was well and truly fucked up, but she had done what needed to be done.

  “You can’t!” he cried.

  The flames grew higher. Emily closed her eyes against it. The light hurt. She turned to face Volkov, and smiled before opening her eyes again.

  “Oh,” she said, unable to resist a small smile. “I believe I can.”

  The fire caught the trail of lighter fluid, that flame travelling along the ground before creeping up to the portrait, erupting in flames.

  Volkov noticed, of course, and was greatly displeased. “How could you?”

  The question was spoken with such softness; it was disarming and distracting at the same time. Emily’s smile only widened further.

  “Richard,” Emily said. “I can do whatever I want. Your desires are irrelevant.”

  The fire began to spread.

  11

  Simone was the first to wake up. She stood groggily, shaking her head like she could force lucidity with enough force. The reverend and Emily’s parents were there, but no Nick. And then she remembered what Emily had done. How sorry she had seemed, despite the wickedness of her actions. Everything was eerily quiet.

  “Oh shit,” she said aloud. “This isn’t good. This really isn’t good.”

  Though panicked and worried, Simone was not the type of woman to let herself crumble when the chips were down. She immediately set about waking everyone up, and for the most part all responded the same way as she had: groggily and grumpily. Simone had given Victoria a little more time to sleep, because she could see by looking at her that the woman was not well. She really would have to wake her soon.

  Abrahms was the first to say something.

  “Where’s Emily?” he sounded faint, drunk. “What happened?”

  Simone went to help him up. “I don’t know where Emily is and I don’t know what happened to you exactly, but my boyfriend is about to die in some fucked up cult vampire ritual because of my traitorous best friend and unsurprisingly I am not happy about that. We need to go get him, now.”

  Christopher was the next to wake. Victoria was quiet, twitching now and then like a dreaming dog. Christopher smiled weakly.

  “My wife is… my wife is unwell,” he said flatly, like a prepared statement and with all the emotion of one.

  Simone nodded. “All right, I’ll go alone then. You get your wife out of here, Mister Van Buren. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  Christopher was on the verge of tears; he had always been a sensitive man and never felt shame when he wept, only sadness. “What…” here Christopher’s voice broke and he had to recover himself. “What about Emily?”

  Simone pursed her lips and thought for a second. She rose to her whole height and said: “Don’t you worry about Emily. I’ll take care
of her.”

  Christopher went to Simone and put his hands on her shoulders, staring at her gravely. “Do you promise? I’m already afraid that my wife won’t live through this, she’s been so sick. And it’s all because of him. Don’t let him take my daughter too, Simone, please.”

  He squeezed her shoulders a little too hard, more absent minded than malicious. Simone looked directly into his eyes, which she had always thought were kind, and said: “I promise.”

  Christopher smiled, fresh tears sliding down his ruddy cheeks. “I’ve always been fond of you, Simone. You’ve been a good friend to her.”

  “Thanks Mister Van Buren, but I really have to go and actually do the saving now, okay?” Simone said as gently as her naturally aggressive personality could muster.

  Christopher immediately removed his hands from her shoulders, fingers spreading out like a fan. “Of course.”

  Simone began to ascend the stairs, but Abrahms called out to her, and she stopped.

  “I must go with you,” he said. “I must atone. I feel that I have done something terrible even though I don’t remember. The only thing I remember is that wolf, and the woman, and then the need to serve. But how I served…” he shook his head. “Heavens, I suddenly feel so old.”

  Simone snorted. “I don’t have time for this, rev. Come if you want, but I’m going now, have a crisis of faith in your own time and help me save Nick and Emily.”

  With that she returned to her descent of the staircase. After a few seconds, the sound of Abrahms’ footsteps joined hers, and he followed her from a slight distance as she landed in the entrance hall. The smell of smoke prickled her nostrils, and she decided to follow the smell. Though she felt like crap, she could at least remember the plan. The fire was supposed to happen; it occurred to her that they would need to deal with the portrait that hung above the stairs. Not until Emily’s parents were away from this God forsaken place, though. It would have to wait. She had to get everyone out.