Grave Burden

by P. Anastasia

  “Where was Kathryn born?” she asked.

  “Ulster province, though I can’t recall the exact county. Her father’s land kissed the ocean shore.”

  “And how old were you when they took you in?”

  “Six, I believe. I suppose I was born in 1600.”

  She opened a web browser and navigated to a search engine, where she typed in the province and my birth year.

  “This was during the Nine Years’ War,” she said, pointing to a color-coded map of English and Irish territories and settlements. “It looks like much of it was under British occupation, at the time, but there were a few Irish clans holding residences outside this occupied area.” She pointed at a section of sparse purple, representing rogue Irish settlements. “Do any of these county or city names sound familiar to you?”

  I grazed over the extensive, rather colorful list, but nothing jogged my memory. “No, but then I cannot remember much of my childhood before meeting Kathryn.”

  “Then I’ll try something different,” she replied, not losing morale over my lack of details. I waited as she swiftly typed in some other terms and navigated at lightning speed to a series of other pages—encyclopedias of Irish clan coat-of-arms. “Maybe there’s something here that will help guide us.” She pointed to the switch beside the kitchen faucet. “Turn on the main light, please.”

  I stood and then crossed the narrow hall to flip the switch, illuminating the room with fair yellow light. Our hunting instincts allowed us to see movement and prey well in low light, but the fine details of the ring escaped us.

  She lifted the ring toward the light and rotated it slowly. “The dragon has two wings, three horns, and a tail with an arrow-head point at the tip.” She squinted and held the ring a little closer to the lamp. “There’s a distinct bend in the tail. Do you see that? It looks like a snail shell or a coil of some kind, only it has square angles.” The ring moved into my line of sight and she held it there a moment. “That design in the tail, isn’t that weird?”

  “I believe that is a variation of a Celtic rune,” I said, taking the ring into my own fingers. “I don’t recognize it.” I skimmed over the shape, following the lines back to the large emerald. “The prongs,” I said, “they, too, have etchings on them—the same rune.”

  Kathera scrolled down several dozen images of heraldic crests featuring Celtic dragons, shaking her head because none of them appeared to resemble the one on my ring.

  “I’m not sure where else we could look,” she said. “There are so many variations, and not having a firm starting point will make it difficult to narrow these down.” She shifted on her stool and reached a hand up to grasp her cross pendant, tangling the chain gently around her fingers, as she sometimes did when she was thinking intently. “The library may have something more useful. Maybe a book related to the specific time period and region. Or the museum downtown. They have a small archive collection from Ireland. I remember seeing it when I was there on a field trip back in middle school. I don’t know if it’s still there, but—” Her face came up and she dropped her pendant. “Wait.” She stood from the seat. “I have an idea. Come with me.”

  I followed her into the living room where she brought me over to Kathryn’s painting and gestured toward it. “Would you mind taking it down from the mantel so I can look at it?”

  I was hesitant at first, but then carefully reached up and grasped the old oil painting by the sides and lifted it from the shelf. “Where would you like me to put it?”

  “Right here is fine,” she said, kneeling down onto the rug in front of the fireplace.

  I knelt, too, and placed the painting carefully before us.

  Kathera sighed and leaned over the painting, her fingers inching toward the cross pendant hanging from Kathryn’s neck—the exact one Kathera now wore. “I… never really looked at her this closely before,” she whispered, raising her hand to clasp her necklace again. “This painting and this necklace both survived over 400 years because of you.” She smiled at me. “Thank you for keeping them safe.”

  “I did everything I could to protect them.” I reached to touch her hand. “And I will do whatever it takes to protect you, too.”

  Kathera released the cross. “I know.” She leaned over Kathryn’s painting and her gaze traced the perimeter of the canvas.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” I asked.

  “A signature or something to indicate who the artist was.” Her finger hovered over the painting as she searched. “Do you remember anything about the painter?”

  I thought hard on it and only one tiny detail came to mind. “He had a strange accent. I do remember thinking that, at the time.”

  “Strange? As in?”

  “I was preoccupied with not being caught watching him work while I did my chores, so I don’t remember anything else.”

  “Here!” She pointed to a scribble of dark paint on the corner of Kathryn’s sleeve.

  “Armand?” I read out loud.

  “Is that what it says?” She cocked her head and peered more closely at the sloppy signature. “I can’t read that.”

  “The A is there.” I pointed to the top of the shape and then the crossbar. “And the D. It’s difficult to read, but the M is legible if you ignore the extraneous R between the first two letters. I’ve heard that name before. It could be French.”

  “Or German,” Kathera added. “My father was friends with a man from Germany with the same name.”

  “French or German, what does this artist have to do with me?”

  “Back then, skilled painters often traveled to do work for hire. Maybe this one traveled around Ireland doing paintings for different families. Maybe he worked for someone from the same village where you were born. It’s a little bit of a stretch, I know, but I don’t know where else to begin. We have to use the information we have on hand. This painting—the artist—it’s a time stamp. It will give me a starting point.”

  The deep blue color of her eyes pulled me in, and I could see now how very passionate she was about discovering where I’d come from, even though I did not share that enthusiasm.

  “This is very important to you, isn’t it?” I asked, gazing fondly at the sudden spark of interest lighting her smile.

  “It is. Occupying my time with this research will help keep my mind off Derek. Maybe switching my focus to something completely different will give me time to recharge and find my creative fire again.”

  I briefly thought to tell her that she might never find that creative fire again—that the disease was not kind to our passions, and that vampirism could drain her soul over time, siphoning out most, if not all, of her creative energy.

  I couldn’t.

  Those words were harsh, and the reality too dark for her now.

  And even hypocritical.

  If I could experience love toward Kathera, then she might retain some of the artistic ambience our disease threatens to take away. I did not know all there was to know about our kind, so I would leave it to her to prove me wrong in my assumptions.

  “Shall I go with you? To the library? Or the museum?” I asked.

  For a moment, I thought she might say no, but she must have sensed my apprehension about her wandering around town alone with Derek on the loose.

  “You can come, but they close early each day, so I am not sure it will work out that way.”

  Kathera could expose herself to sunlight as if she had never been turned, and that limited my ability to accompany her, at times. It had made me unsettled at first—but I learned to let it go and accept the gift for what it was. Hers.

  “We will find a way to make it work for us both,” I replied confidently. I lifted Kathryn’s painting and placed it carefully atop the mantel, adjusting it to rest against the wall.

  I turned to Kathera, who was staring at the portrait with a sorrowful expression.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She veered toward me as
if I’d surprised her somehow.

  “What were you thinking?” I could have simply pried into her mind to find out, but I chose to not. She deserved privacy, and I wanted to give her space and freedom from our binding—sometimes invasive—connection.

  She looked at the painting and smiled bittersweetly. “She was beautiful,” she answered. “Do you see much of her in me?”

  “I don’t need to see her in you in order to love you.” I brushed my fingers across her brow, sweeping her bangs to the side. “You, Kathera, were shaped by this era. Regardless of the ties you may have with her, you are not Kathryn, and you need not feel pressured to be like her.”

  Kathera looked off to the side and a twinge of sadness spiraled through her mind.

  “You’re beautiful,” I continued, lifting her face back toward me. “When I look at you, I see my wife—the woman I love.”

  She smiled, and I sensed some of her doubts lifting.

  Kathera sat on the couch in the living room with her laptop balanced atop her knees. Her studies had taken her long into the night, until brilliant beams of sunlight framed the window, overflowing from the blackout curtains.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  She lifted her gaze from her monitor. “I’m having a hard time focusing,” she said. The dark shadows around her eyes were a shade deeper than usual, and noticeably redder. I did not sense a thirst for blood rising in her, but it was possible she needed it anyway.

  “Do you hunger?” I asked.

  “No.” Her eyes met the glowing screen again and the cool white light illuminated her face.

  “Do you think you need rest?” I approached her side and bent toward her. “Kathera?”

  Her exhausted gaze met mine again. “I wanted to keep searching… but…”

  We did not need much sleep, but I feared Derek’s bite was making her lethargic.

  I carefully pressed my fingers to the back of her laptop screen and pushed it closed.

  “But…” she began, as I lifted the computer away from her.

  “History isn’t going anywhere. You can continue your research after you get some energy back. It is more important that you rest and recover. Your mind needs it, too.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied, narrowing her eyes skeptically at me. “Why are you so worried? It’s not like I’m in danger of sleep deprivation anymore.”

  I didn’t want to tell her, but the color of her eyes appeared gray-blue now, and the intensity of her under eye shadows planted new fears in me. Something was off, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

  But she sensed my fears even before I could respond, and a look of concern twisted her lips. “I’ll sleep then,” she uttered. “Where will you be?”

  “Here, of course. I’ll stay right here,” I said, gesturing to the chair beside her as I set her computer on the nearby coffee table.

  She resituated herself on the couch on her side, stretched out, and tucked a small pillow under her neck.

  I contemplated retrieving a blanket for her comfort. While many senses had been dampened by the disease, simple mortal pleasures sometimes soothed what little humanity remained inside us.

  I looked over at her. “Would you like a…” She’d closed her eyes. I pressed my hand onto hers, but she didn’t respond; her consciousness had gone silent.

  It was the fastest I’d ever seen her fall asleep, and that made me suspicious.

  I sat beside her and retrieved her computer from the table. As I opened the lid, I noticed several icons on her desktop with various titles, as well as folders for different things, such as crests, cities, and surnames. There was a document titled “links” there, too. I clicked it. There were at least a hundred URLs on the list, each labeled with a small description typed by her.

  I’d barely had the time to pay bills and take care of Kieran’s wages, and somehow, she had been able to do extensive research.

  Kathera was much better at utilizing the internet than I was.

  Keeping up with technology never was my strongest asset. Not because I was incapable, but because I chose not to care. Technology comes and goes in flashes while Mother Nature carries on at a steady pace.

  My wings twitched under my shirt, longing to be stretched. It had been a long time since I’d allowed them that freedom. Kathera had asked to see them a few times since I’d rescued her, but I kept them tucked away. They are a constant reminder of what I am—a beast, a creature of the night designed only to take life, not to give it.

  I pushed the urge aside, as I had many times before, and filtered through some of the notations in her documents. Another folder contained a series of images featuring various etchings of dragons on jewelry made in the 17th century. None of them looked anything like the one on my ring. A wyvern—a long, snake-like dragon with no front legs. A European dragon with four legs and two wings, but no horns. None of them featured strange twists in the tail, or an extra horn.

  There was also a folder of some runes and their interpretations. I clicked on it and began scrolling through the images.

  I had only viewed a few pictures when a shudder of fear jolted through my mind.

  I veered toward Kathera; her hands were tensed and her body convulsing.

  “Kathera!” I set the laptop aside and shot up from my seat. I wrapped my hands around her shoulders and tried to steady her, but she continued to shake, the seizure consuming her. I closed my eyes and willed myself into her mind, forcing my consciousness into hers so that I could witness what was going on.

  At first, it was dark and I was unable to pass through the heavy blackness of her thoughts. I tried again, releasing all inhibitions, freeing the Sire in me to take hold of her mind, like I was meant to.

  The shadow began to dissipate and my consciousness breached the barrier. I found her—a physical representation of herself—in an imaginary setting deep inside her thoughts.

  “Matthaya!?” She stood at the back of a long, beige corridor, dimly lit by sputtering fluorescent lamps dangling from the ceiling. She clasped onto her shoulders and shivered. “It’s so cold here,” she said. “Where are we?”

  I took a step toward her and the hall suddenly lengthened, forcing us another several yards apart.

  A deep growl reverberated in my throat and, before I considered other options, I bolted after her.

  The room stretched again, dizzying and disorienting me. I slid to a halt, braced myself, and lunged once more.

  And again, like an accordion, the hallway stretched, pulling her out of reach.

  “Matthaya!” she cried out, her voice shrinking into the distance.

  I removed my jacket and roared angrily, willing my feral wings to come free. They snapped open with a powerful flap, catching on the sides of the narrow hall, the clawed tips tearing gashes through tattered drywall.

  Kathera took a step toward me, and a dark shadow manifested between us, blocking her path. The wispy cloud of inky black shifted and warped until it formed a human shape and became opaque.

  Derek.

  How had he infiltrated Kathera’s mind with me there?

  “What are you doing here?” I snarled, approaching him. The room didn’t move this time. Over his shoulder, I saw Kathera rushing toward us. “Get out of her head!” My wings curled inward and trembled anxiously. Another few inches and I could have taken his head clean-off with them.

  “Why don’t you?” He took a step closer to me. “It’s my turn.”

  My wings became incredibly stiff and the joints tightened as I attempted to move them. I tried to take a step, but I was pushed back by an unseen force.

  Derek grinned.

  How had he gained control over this place in Kathera’s mind, and how had I lost my power over her? Even as her Sire, I was unable to stop Derek’s actions.

  Behind him, Kathera was still far in the distance of the darkened hallway, the light illuminating her like an eerie spotlight.

  “Why are
you doing this to her?” I asked, trying once again to move, but my wings locked up and my legs were frozen in place.

  Derek took another step closer, well in range of my attack—had I been able to move.

  “I’m just taking back what’s mine,” he hissed. “You should go. You have no power here.”

  “I’ll kill you!” I growled, baring my fangs. Colored light fringed his silhouette as my hunting instincts kicked in.

  “Did you not hear what I just said?” Derek came closer and looked me right in the eye. His dark brows furrowed spitefully as gold light shimmered in his irises. “You can’t hurt—”

  One of my wings broke free.

  It sliced through the air, cutting a deep gash across Derek’s cheek, which sent him reeling to the side, stumbling into the wall and struggling to catch his balance.

  Before a sense of triumph could come over me, Kathera screamed and tumbled to her knees, holding her face in her hands as blood leaked through her fingers.

  The echo of her painful cry thrust me from her mind, snapping me back into reality.

  We were in the living room again—our living room, just the two of us.

  I was arched over her sleeping body as she lay on the couch, a line of dark burgundy blood oozing down her cheek from a fresh wound.

  But my wings were still tucked away in my back, hidden beneath my jacket.

  How?

  “Stay out of this.” Derek’s voice echoed in my mind. “Or she’ll be the one to pay.”

  I bit down and growled, causing Kathera to stir in her sleep. She wriggled and writhed on the couch, but seemed to be straining to wake up.

  “Kathera?” I pressed my hands onto her cheeks and gently tilted her face toward me.

  Her mind was dark and remained far from my grasp. Derek had blocked me out now and taken a hold of her, forcing her into some sort of mental paralysis.

  Blood drizzled toward her jaw line and I slicked it away with my thumb.