A Vampire's Rise

by Vanessa Fewings

  The empty wine bottle rested on the side table. A cruel trick of its contents to lie like that, soften one’s feelings yet later produce such ghastly symptoms. And yet Roelle seemed unaffected.

  “Go and help Miguel in the stable,” he said. “He needs a hand.”

  I headed for the door.

  “Daumia,” he called after me.

  I faced him, wondering if this dragging pain in my chest would ever let up.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said.

  I imagined what it would feel like to smash the empty bottle over his head.

  “You’re doing that thing,” he said. “Where you stare off and waste time. My time.” Roelle slipped into the shoes I’d just polished.

  Black wax stained my hands, polish ingrained under my fingernails.

  Halfway down the stairs, I stared back up at Roelle’s bedroom. That painting had been defaced and yet he’d kept it.

  Back in the office, I went straight for the portrait. I turned it over and studied it more closely. In the left-hand corner, in small scratchy handwriting, the subjects’ names were written on the back: Ricardo Velde, Felipe Grenaldi, Roelle Bastillion, and Aaron Luis.

  I turned the painting over again and scraped the smudge that obscured the mystery man’s face, exposing black eyebrows too close together, a familiar dark expression, and a cleft in his chin.

  That awful cudgel.

  Lightheaded, I made my way to the servants’ quarters.

  On finding a bath prepared for someone else, I climbed in. Scrubbing my skin, trying to wash away this unclean feeling, the memories flooded and so did the agony of losing my mother. I’d never explained the truth to her. Biting my hand to quiet my sobs, I slid beneath the surface and water whooshed over the sides of the tub, soaking the floor.

  This time, someone else could clean up the mess.

  Chapter 5

  LYING ON MY BED, staring up at the dirty, white ceiling, my thoughts raced.

  Roelle had been a good friend of Aaron’s, good enough to be painted together. Aaron may not have acted alone. Felipe Grenaldi had requested updates from Roelle on my progress. What had inspired his interest? Those fire torches lit up around the arena had proven that someone else had been there that night, probably the same man who let the bull loose in the ring. The bullfight that killed my brother had been rigged.

  Three men.

  The coldest shiver slithered down my spine.

  Italy beckoned, my father’s homeland. I resisted the urge to bolt. Time spent in Rome would rekindle my Italian. I’d pass off as a merchant. If assumed dead, freedom would be possible. As my plan came together, my mood lifted, and for the first time, I felt hope. With my decision made, it wouldn’t be easy to stay any longer than necessary.

  My room felt less stifling. Staring out of the window, my gaze followed puffs of clouds gliding over the half-moon, caressing its grayish orb.

  Sleep did not visit me that night.

  Before sunrise, I took up my new chores working with Miguel, a fifty-year-old, seasoned horse breeder. His tanned, lined face reflected a lifetime of labor carried out under a scorching sun, his passion for taking good care of the livestock, an inspiration. Had my thoughts not been on greater matters, I may have paid more attention. The mind numbing duties assigned ensured time to think.

  To scheme.

  That same afternoon, Roelle had taken one of his regular visits out of town. With him away, there seemed a palpable sense of relief amongst the staff. As the sun beat down, I found some pleasure in working an untamed horse in the paddock. Nearby, two stable hands discussed Roelle’s dinner party planned for that night and I eavesdropped, hearing that Felipe Grenaldi would be guest of honor. Felipe had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps and become a senator. I also gleaned from their conversation that Felipe had found favor with royalty.

  Over the years, Felipe had occasionally visited Roelle. During his social calls, I found myself confined to the servants’ quarters.

  And I suspected why.

  From the kitchen, I gathered leftover portions of bread and cheese and wrapped them in a small sack, stashing the stolen items under my pillow, ready for the following afternoon when I’d make my escape.

  In Roelle’s study, I found a few loose coins in the bottom drawer of his writing desk, enough doubloons to get me to the port. I buried the money under the root of one of the garden’s oak trees and marked the spot with three stones. In the library, I searched out a book of maps and tore out one of the pages. The chart would guide me out of Spain.

  Having organized Roelle’s bedroom closet, and taken care of his clothes for years, I knew he wouldn’t miss a jacket. I removed one and held it up to myself, checking its fit. Smarter attire would arouse less suspicion. A well-dressed man is often offered assistance and quickly gains respect. The jacket was just slightly short in the sleeves, but it would do.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Roelle lingered in the doorway.

  I slid the suit back, resisting the urge to bite my lip. “Señor, your suit needs tailoring.”

  “I’m told that you’re doing well.” Roelle entered. “Miguel tells me that sleeping with the animals earns their trust.”

  I glanced out of the window and saw Miguel in the paddock, training a skittish horse. His patience was paying off.

  Roelle approached me and followed my stare. “We think it will be good for you to sleep in the stables for now.”

  I swallowed my reaction.

  “I haven’t decided for how long yet,” he said.

  Dusty earth sprayed up around the horse.

  “Do you want that jacket?” he asked.

  Miguel had subdued the horse in record time.

  I’d read in one of Señor Machon’s books that an artist of extraordinary talent, who resided in Italy, had found favor with the Roman Catholic Church.

  “Daumia?” Roelle’s voice seemed far off.

  If Giovanni Bellini agreed to hire me as his assistant, he might take me with him to the Vatican, and there I could receive an audience with the Pope and my sins would be absolved. My mother would have found solace in that.

  Roelle sighed.

  Miguel caressed the horse’s muzzle, lulling him.

  Roelle brushed past me and sat on the bed. “The good news is that you won’t be alone anymore. Your sister’s joining us.”

  I snapped back into the room.

  “I’ve accepted her as one of my housemaids,” he said.

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  “I’m sure we’ll find lots for her to do.” He patted the bed sheet.

  Before me sat the man whose authority had been the benchmark by which I’d measured all things. His morality had shaped my own. Roelle had allowed me in and provided full access, and such was my advantage.

  Chapter 6

  ENTRANCED, HOLDING THE map over a candle flame, I watched it burn, sending a grayish spiral of smoke toward the open window, escaping into the night. I considered whether I’d recognize Alicia. I felt ready to forgive her, though for what I wasn’t sure.

  Miguel had expected me in the barn hours ago, but I still hoped Roelle would change his mind.

  I crept downstairs into the basement, avoiding that terrible cell, the dark dwelling where I’d been held captive. I continued on into the fully-stocked wine cellar. Using my teeth, I uncorked one of the better vintages. The first, fruity gulps stung my taste buds and the cold liquid quenched the thirst I didn’t know I had, and then it came . . . that exquisite flush, that rush of warmth.

  Recalling my previous hangover, I didn’t finish it but shoved the half-empty bottle into the corner where the others had been stacked. Strolling back along the corridor, I considered peering into the cell. I didn’t do it, though.

  Heady with the liquor, with one foot on the first stair leading up to my room, I paused, and then turned to look at Roelle’s office door.

  Inside, I settled comfortably at his writing desk an
d rummaged through his papers. Within moments, I’d located his will, embossed with the Bastillion family crest. I found a perfect match to the paper that his legal document had been scribed on. With Roelle’s feathered fountain pen dipped in fresh ink, I scribed in his handwriting. Within an hour, the Bastillion legacy had become my own, the house and all its contents bequeathed to me. I admired my handiwork.

  Felipe had witnessed the will. His signature took longer. I pressed the official Bastillion stamp into the thick, red, liquefied wax and sealed the document. I destroyed the original.

  This boy had truly proven himself to be Roelle’s protégé. I placed the dispatch, addressed to Roelle’s legal counsel, in the master’s out tray and headed back up the stairs, taking two at a time. When I reached the landing, I almost yelped. My pulse raced so fast, I feared my voice would fail me.

  Roelle had returned earlier than expected. A slender woman stood facing him. Straight raven locks fell down her back.

  Alicia?

  “You still up?” Roelle eyed me suspiciously.

  The woman turned and fixed her turquoise gaze on me. Her jaw-dropping beauty was dazzling, just as I remembered her.

  Roelle glared. “Are you just going to gawp or are you going to say hello to your sister?”

  He’d never met Alicia, so he’d have no idea that this woman, the one from the mausoleum, wasn’t her. More surprising still, despite my maturing, she hadn’t altered.

  “You’ll have to forgive your brother,” Roelle said, “he’s not one for words.”

  Her bracelets jangled.

  A long white tomb inside a deserted mausoleum.

  As though reading my mind, she offered me a smile. Roelle guided her away, down the corridor, and although I knew I should quietly amble off in the opposite direction so as not to arouse suspicion, I found myself staring at her, captivated by her womanly form swaying as she strolled beside him, her fine, black linen gown trailing behind her.

  Roelle shooed me away and they turned the corner.

  This woman had prevented Aaron from bludgeoning me, the lady who’d warned me not to return home. Trying to work out the reason for her being here, and what she’d told Roelle, I pressed my ear against the door.

  Miguel appeared at the end of the hallway. “There you are,” he said.

  I pretended to be straightening a nearby mirror.

  With squeaky shoes, he approached. “I know it takes some getting used to.”

  “What?”

  “Sleeping in the stables.”

  “I’m just finishing off some errands.”

  Miguel raised an eyebrow. “I can see that.” He gestured to Roelle’s door. “Your sister?”

  I stayed quiet.

  “Come on.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Life isn’t meant to be easy.”

  * * * *

  It wasn’t only the noisy animals that made it impossible to sleep. My life teetered on the edge of change and I was eager to see it through. I obsessed over the mysterious woman, Alicia’s imposter, the last person to see Aaron. This woman had willingly entered the Bastillion residence, fully aware that I could give her identity away. I’d looked forward to seeing Alicia but felt relief that it wasn’t her who now lay in his bed, though the thought of my Sunaria there evoked jealousy.

  My plan to leave, with its real promise of freedom, was rekindled. I bit down onto my hand when I remembered that I’d burnt the map and buried my teeth even further when I recalled forging Roelle’s will. It would still be in the out tray.

  Find it and destroy it.

  There were small dent marks where I’d bitten into my hand. Mouth dry, I climbed off my straw-stuffed bed and dashed for the exit, still taken by the line upon line of stabled horses and their ability to sleep on their feet.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Miguel sat by the entrance with an open book resting on his lap, the upside-down title unreadable. He looked up as though he’d been expecting me and said, “Can’t sleep either, uh?”

  I stared at the house. “I just have to—”

  “You read and write, I hear?”

  I nodded, half-distracted.

  “I’d like you to teach me,” he said.

  “Now?”

  Miguel stared at me for a long time. “Who is that woman with Roelle?”

  My gaze fell away from his all-seeing eyes and lingered on his book.

  “She’s not from around here, is she?” His lined face softened with the raise of his grey, bushy eyebrows. “You chose not to tell Roelle that she’s not your sister?”

  “I wasn’t sure—”

  “How he’d react?”

  “Perhaps I should check on her?”

  Miguel tut-tutted his disapproval.

  “What are you reading?” I said as my stomach twisted.

  “I have no idea. I don’t read, remember?” He closed the book.

  “You have no interest in learning, do you?”

  Miguel turned and gazed up at Roelle’s window. “Now that we know it’s not Alicia, we can sleep.” He winked. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “Here, it’s always a long day.”

  “Life is fluid. It changes. That’s one of life’s guarantees.”

  “In my experience, there are no guarantees.”

  Miguel sighed. “So young to be so jaded.”

  “What they say about me, about what happened to my brother, it’s not true.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The animals trust you, which means you trust yourself.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know what happened that night, but I do know that Roelle carries with him a tremendous guilt. I see it in his eyes when he looks at you. He treats you as a son and yet punishes you for things you do not do. He’s punishing himself.”

  I stared down at my worn shoes.

  “I may not read words,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t read people.”

  I returned my gaze to him. “You wanted me out of the house? You advised Roelle to have me come in here?”

  “I choose to sleep near my animals. I wouldn’t expect such dedication of another unless—”

  “You thought I might be safer?” I wanted to believe this. For the first time, I’d find someone who glimpsed the good that I’d always hoped was in me.

  “Go to bed.” He dropped the book and it landed silently on the straw-covered ground.

  I went to express my disapproval of treating a book like that, but my tongue found itself wedged between my teeth. I wondered where he’d gotten that book from. Miguel’s quiet forced me to return to my make-shift bed.

  The smell of the animals was fading.

  * * * *

  At dawn, my stare lingered on the maple out tray, as though Roelle’s forged will would magically reappear if I gazed at it long enough. Heart pounding, taking three stairs at a time, I headed up the stairs.

  Roelle was still in bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. A servant girl laid his breakfast tray by his side - an assortment of breads, eggs, and a small pot of milk.

  With my hands behind my back, I hid their tremor. One hint from Roelle that he knew what I’d done and I’d bolt.

  I blamed my reckless behavior on the liquor I’d consumed last night, foolish to have thought I could get away with it.

  “Can’t the chef be more imaginative?” Roelle glanced at the food and then his irritated frown settled on me. “What?”

  “Alicia?” My voice was quiet.

  Roelle’s expression turned to confusion. “I have no idea who you are talking about.” He rubbed his neck as he watched the maid draw the curtains, allowing the sun to flood in, casting white rays that quickly banished even the sneakiest of shadows.

  I was amazed he’d forgotten Sunaria so soon, but reasoned he just didn’t want to talk, not with me, anyway.

  Roelle’s fumbling fingers clumsily stroked his hairy thigh
. “My skin’s crawling.” He scratched, digging his nails into his flesh, throwing off the bed sheets and kicking at them. His head slumped back onto the pillow, his body jerking, spasming. His jaw slackened and his contorted lips formed into a cry, out of which came a terrible throaty gurgling, and then a screech escaped his over stretched mouth, spittle bursting out and trickling, wetting his chin.

  Roelle thrashed.

  The maid, pale now and shaking, reached for the milk pot as it tipped, its contents pouring onto the floor, leaving a trail of creamy-white liquid snaking its way beneath the bed, as though fleeing in terror.

  Roelle’s skin blistered, and his eyes bulged. He fell off the bed and the tray crashed with him, spilling the rest of its contents. A flash of flames, his hair alight, his flesh melting, as he crawled along, his crazed stare searching, as he lurched for me, arms flailing.

  I grabbed the water jug and threw it over him, ready to jump out of his way if he turned. Roelle rose up and bashed against the window frame, catching the curtain on fire. I seized the maid’s hand and yanked her out of her horrified trance, and out the door, leaving behind that dreadful wailing. We scurried along the corridor and ran for the stairs.

  The breath left my lungs when I saw Roelle staggering behind us, his arms outstretched as he almost caught up, a monstrous human inferno trailing close. The girl tripped and I yanked her up and pulled her with me down the steps. Several of the staff, their faces full of fright, stared past us and up at Roelle, who crashed against the velvet backdrop hanging from the ceiling. Dancing flames leaped from him and onto the drapes, raging ever skyward, spreading wildly.

  The heat pushed us back.

  Roelle’s face was dissolving, unrecognizable. With that awful glow of yellow, orange, and fleeting red, quivering and clinging to him, he tumbled toward us, his grotesque scream now a primal cry.

  Chapter 7

  THE SMOKE HAD FORCED us out.

  Only when the last horse had been secured did I allow myself the indulgence of looking back. My throat felt scratchy and dry. A member of the staff handed out water, but looking at my empty cup, I couldn’t remember drinking mine.

  That painting with my brother’s face had gone. As only fire can, it gutted the house, leaving mounds of grey ash in its wake. As I stared up at where the estate had once stood, I felt free.