Terrible Praise

by Lara Hayes

  Elizabeth weighs nothing in my arms. I cradle her head close to keep her neck from breaking as I run down long deserted service roads to my car several blocks away. All the while, the beating of her heart grows fainter, more erratic. I lay her gently in the passenger seat, pulling the seat belt across her lap.

  My keys are in the ignition before I can properly seat myself, and Elizabeth’s torso peels away from the window as I whip the vehicle across four lanes of heavy traffic. Her head knocks against my shoulder, her face upturned. I chance one hand from the wheel and push a damp strand of blood-soaked hair from her cheek. Her peaceful face fills me with dread. I press the back of my fingers to her chest, just above her heart. Her skin is cooler than mine.

  * * *

  Mr. Collins’s van is absent from the parking lot when we arrive at Carrington’s. If there were a god I should thank it for this small mercy. The last thing I need is for our newest associate to mention my stray to Bård.

  Derek’s lone figure in the dingy light of the basement door is a welcome sight. I whip the car so close to his legs that he takes a leap back over the threshold.

  “Get inside,” I demand before I have opened the driver’s side door. “Now.” He stumbles indoors with his hands raised above his head and I heave Elizabeth’s body from the front seat, following close at his heels.

  “Kathryn…what—”

  “Bolt the door.”

  Derek does as he is told, and I lay Elizabeth’s chilled body on the embalming table as softly as on a marital bed. He takes a moment to understand that I do not deposit her by accident, gaze darting from the table to the cremator. He rushes to my side and makes a quick evaluation. I have always appreciated his haste. There is the faintest hint of blush lingering in her lips and cheek. I would not expect any mortal to notice, were it not their business to deal in death.

  “She’s alive?” he gasps, covering his mouth as if to capture the words before they can reach me. I rip the makeshift bandage from her bicep.

  “She is very near death. Fetch pliers, a rag, and a bowl.”

  Derek freezes. He eyes me suspiciously, the fear blanching his handsome face, and the unspoken why hangs heavily between us.

  “Do not make me repeat myself,” I warn. “I am in no mood.” Poor manners to address an ally so harshly, but Derek responds well to clear instruction. He grabs what I need, and sets the basin beside her head.

  “Leave us,” I command. “Stand outside until I retrieve you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” He asks, standing by the door, unable to help himself. His chest heaves and falls with heavy panting breaths. I bat the bright overhead lamp away from Elizabeth. I can see the bullet just as well without it, and the stark light makes her look as though she already has one foot firmly planted in the grave.

  “She is an innocent,” I reply, and the sentiment is as ill-conceived as this entire evening. I do not believe in the word any more than I believe in hell. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I have applied the term to anyone. But Derek looks upon her with compassion which bleeds to confusion when he finds my face again. He marches out, settling the door closed behind him.

  The bullet shimmers defiantly. I hold the flesh of her arm apart with my fingers and bring the pliers down. The bone makes a sharp crack when I pluck the mangled metal from its twisted crater. I check her face for pain, but Elizabeth is beyond that now—blissfully unaware. The world kept locked away behind her heavy, ashen lids. The bullet rattles once against the lid of the trash can, and falls to the bottom with an impotent thump.

  Rushed by her deathly repose, I dig through drawers until I find a syringe large enough to deliver the last gift I intend to give this woman. I shove the needle heedlessly into the icy blue vein darting down my forearm—visible only because of my recent feed—and fill the vial to capacity. More care is needed with Elizabeth, and I inject her above and below the bullet’s entry point, watching the skin pucker in response. The exposed bone splinters into place, polishing itself smooth. I do not savor the process, fascinating as it is, before plunging the needle down through her breastplate and emptying the rest of the blood into her heart.

  Elizabeth rears up off the table with a gasp like that of the recently drowned, and a wet cough rattles her heaving chest. Her eyes are wild, flitting about the gloomy room. Her unscathed right arm swings frantically, her hand groping the empty air for something to hold on to. I remain bent over her wounded arm as the last slivers of exposed flesh repair. The wound will heal completely in a day or so, as a bullet wound is much more severe than a bite. She will scar. She knots a startlingly strong fist in the front of my blouse and stares up at me, mute from exhaustion and predictably terrified.

  Elizabeth’s eyes show a hundred emotions, only a handful of which I can decipher, and not a single one resembling gratitude. Fear, of course, but anger too, pressing her lips into a thin and unforgiving line. Her brow—so undisturbed moments ago—is ridged with confusion. She parts her lips to speak and I pry her fingers from my shirt, placing her arm at her side.

  I walk over to the sink and fill the washbasin with warm water. When I resume my place beside her, the fight for life has all but exhausted Elizabeth, and she has fallen back against the table. I tear the soiled dress from her torso and slip it off her weakened frame. Her heart thunders, one strong arm lashing out to knock me away, and though the rest of her is too weak to offer much protest, every inch of her tenses in alarm. I press my hand down against her sternum.

  “Calm yourself.” I wet the rag and lift it to her eyes. She locks her jaw and ragged breaths steam from flared nostrils—she intends to do nothing of the sort. Even my fixed stare is no match for her outrage—an alarming development in its own right—my blood within her acting as a potent antidote to my gaze.

  Left with few options, and dangerously short on time, I test our tenuous link. Elizabeth. The name moves through her, as it moves through me. Still rigid under my hands, she relents her physical protest, confounded into momentary submission. Whatever this is, she feels it too. With the warm rag I wipe away the blood that has dried in ruby streaks down the length of her body. She relaxes somewhat into the welcomed heat, watching me closely, a thousand objections rushing through her mind, which is louder and clearer than either of us would like.

  I gather the tattered remnants of her black dress and my own ruined coat, her head rolling around the table after me, eyes never leaving my face. Elizabeth grips the edges of the table as I open the furnace door, convinced I mean to throw her inside. Which is exactly what I should do, what I seriously consider doing as I pitch each article of clothing into the fire. Her unspoken suspicion is oddly offensive in light of the trouble I have taken to ensure her safety. But she is wise not to trust.

  Beside the cellar door rests not one, but three brown paper packages all stacked neatly together and penned in Lydia’s elegant script. One marked Birgir for my brother Bård, the other Dilay for the woman herself, and the last package labeled Kathryn—a potent reminder that my siblings could arrive at any moment with fresh kills in tow. With renewed haste, I snatch my clean clothes and stand over Elizabeth, shredding the wrapping to reveal a fresh set of jeans and a plain black shirt.

  “We must hurry,” I say, hooking the denim around her feet. “The others are coming.” Her eyes seek mine and I sense that some part of her knows the truth of it all already. She lets me slide the clothing up her bare legs, suddenly much more amenable to my aid. Her good arm instinctively covers her breasts, despite the presence of her undergarments. There is something Boticellian in her modesty as I pull the waistband up over her hips. I lift her shoulders to slip the shirt around her back, and she holds that arm over her chest until the last possible moment—a portrait of Venus in my arms.

  “Have you the strength to stand?”

  Elizabeth lifts her chin at the challenge and I finish buttoning her blouse. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her forward against me onto two unsteady legs. I take a step back t
o clear away the last vestiges of our visit. She takes two firm steps behind me and collapses facefirst into my shoulder. I turn as carefully as I can and lift Elizabeth into my arms as her eyes roll back. She is alive, but what strength my blood bought her has gone. Her face is fevered, slightly damp with sweat and pressed into the crook of my neck.

  I swing through the basement door, carting Elizabeth into the parking lot. Derek scrambles up off the curb, and opens the passenger side door. I deposit her gently in the passenger seat, tucking her limbs tight to her body and seal her inside the car.

  “Where are you taking her?” Derek’s voice startles me, and I whip around in his direction with shoulders squared for a fight. He raises his empty hands again and takes a step back into the looming shadows of the building. I relax my stance, and walk around the front of the car.

  “Home.”

  “You know this woman?”

  Poor fellow. Derek sees his folly when I turn on him. His eyes wash with fear so fresh, I can taste it in the balmy night air. He cannot be left to report this, neither can he be killed.

  I seize him swiftly by the biceps. Derek struggles in my grasp, but unlike Elizabeth now—and as any mortal would without the protection of our blood—he succumbs immediately to my stare.

  Each and every time Fane has reached into the recesses of my mind, I felt a stirring of instinct, an awakening I have become adept at ignoring. I recognized the ability in myself and yearned to test my limits, to wield it for myself.

  Derek’s mind unfurls before my eyes, and the evening spreads out around us, like a map studded with photographs. I wade through the images, scattered in disarray, until I stumble into a space that holds the story of my comings and goings tonight. Some pictures are sharp and defined, some darkened and overexposed—clouded with terror. One by one I reach in and pluck them from the tethers that string them all together. The tethers snap like finishing line, and drift away from him. Every likeness of Elizabeth, her face, her wound, is stripped from the halls of his memory, and only a handful of my own face remains.

  When I release Derek, he wears the same dazed expression that Elizabeth had during our first meeting. He stares blankly, blinking slowly as though lost, removed from himself. The swoon should pass quickly. I clasp him firmly on the shoulder and begin talking about nothing in particular: proper disposal of a body, my dislike of Collins, my gratitude to him and my esteem of his long-deceased parents. Derek catches a few of these words, parroting them back to me in a desperate attempt to find his footing in the conversation.

  Pride rises in me. It seems that Fane is not the only being gifted with this power to alter others’ thoughts and memory, though I would have bet my life that such an insight was reserved for the Moroi alone. And through this new skill, can I secure for myself a kind of freedom? Certain now of how Fane sees my thoughts, should I not be able to control what he sees?

  “Get inside, my friend. Birgir and Dilay will arrive shortly, no doubt.” Derek nods his head and stumbling once on the curb, hobbles inside with his hands out to steady him.

  Light-headed, and reeling from the exertion, I plant myself behind the wheel and roll down the driver’s side window to welcome the night air. Beside me, Elizabeth snores softly, her head slumped back against the seat.

  A pleased smile curls the corner of my lips. Perhaps she is a secret I can keep for a while longer. The desire to keep her close, to keep her safe is disconcerting. I had not realized that it was concern for her wellbeing and not simple bloodlust that has been fueling my actions these past few weeks. And why her? Why should this woman be any different?

  Elizabeth’s blood is caked on my fingers. I release the steering wheel and pull two fingers into my mouth, letting my tongue dance around them briefly. Her distinct taste hits the roof of my mouth, renewing my fury, and I strangle the moan that threatens to rip its way through my chest.

  “I should have let him kill you.”

  * * *

  This is not my first visit to her home, but it is the first time I have entered through the patio door. Carrying Elizabeth in my arms I step into the pristine kitchen and slide the door closed behind us, careful not to rouse her from sleep as I make my way toward the stairs. A strange compulsion keeps me from mounting the staircase straight away, and instead, I find myself standing at the threshold of her living room, exactly the room I found myself in when her dream bled into mine.

  My sure steps, as even and delicate as they are, still cause the faintest creak in the hardwood floor. Elizabeth’s body stirs against me and she pulls her injured arm close to her chest. Sleep licks the wrinkles from the corners of her eyes and I hold her closer, standing at the mouth of a dark hallway. At the top of it, behind the closed door, Elizabeth’s mother snores loudly. I can picture the room perfectly, Claire’s position on the bed, Elizabeth standing above her. The black mourning gown, her loose hair spilling down her back as she seals a pillow over her mother’s face. Was the dream a metaphor, or repressed desire? I could fancy a guess, but I suspect that only the heart beating beside my own will ever know the truth.

  Upstairs, the faintest whispers of girlhood ghost about the bedroom: photographs of young smiling faces, a few gilded statues on a dust-laden shelf heralding her early triumphs. I place Elizabeth on the meticulous bedclothes, and miss the intoxicating heat of her the moment we part.

  My blood-stained hands and soiled shirt offer me a temporary distraction, and I move about the room for a change of clothes. Not surprisingly the drawers are stuffed with her uniforms. I linger over a gray T-shirt. The garment is soft, an obvious favorite riddled with her scent. I pull the shirt on, staring at a picture of Elizabeth smiling brightly with her face pressed to the cheek of another young woman. They both hold violins in their raised hands. She looks happy, proud.

  My reflection in her dressing mirror shows the shirt as a ridiculous choice, impossible to explain and certainly not an article Lydia would choose. I consider selecting another, but Elizabeth’s scent envelopes me and it seems no more a choice than leaving the room before she wakes.

  Elizabeth’s violin catches my eye, the shimmering body gleaming in the lamplight. I run my stained fingers down the strings and feel the vibrations beneath my skin more clearly than I can hear them. I have never made the effort to learn to play an instrument though music interests me a great deal. I settle the lid of the case over the violin, casting a glance over my shoulder, but Elizabeth remains motionless.

  The least I can do is allow her to rest in blissful ignorance for a few hours more. The world will be changed when she wakes, and what will I tell her? What will she ask of me? The answers are not mine to give when her reaction could jeopardize the safety of my entire family. Night wanes outside her window, and the deadly grip of sleep rises as the approach of the sun sinks its teeth into me. Soon the pull will be too great to resist without considerable pain, and the new day will evict me from her bedside. That is if my host doesn’t do so first.

  With a fitful sigh Elizabeth rolls over on her side, but the bruise on her left arm forces her on her back and traps her hand beneath her thigh. Quietly, I stand over her and adjust her arm. Her mouth relaxes, and her furrowed features grow soft. I sit on the edge of the mattress and listen to her steady breath, studying her. Purple bruises smeared below both eyes, and an ashen kiss to her cheeks. I would brush them off as symptoms of near exsanguination were it not for the fact that she is noticeably thinner, a haunted and troubled creature. I nearly reach out to trace those sharp cheekbones, stopping myself. I rise and walk to the foot of the bed, standing with my back pressed to the edge of her dresser, as far as I can get without leaving the room.

  The dirt-freckled sole of one bare foot twitches. Her eyelids flutter, impossibly heavy as she wrestles herself awake. The eyes widen in shock. Lips, parted in sleep, spread open and fall slack. Her chest stutters as she downs great gulps of air, scurrying up the mattress until the headboard braces her. She would climb the wall to get away from me, if she were a
ble.

  “I did not expect you to stir so soon.” I tilt my head, amused and curious to learn how much she remembers. Elizabeth scowls, keeping still, but with that same protective posture, the roaming stare, searching some means to defend herself. When nothing presents itself, she pulls her knees close to the chest and remains rigid with her back pressed to the headboard.

  “Who are you?” Her voice is weak, dry, and the sound is little more than a rustle of breeze past her trembling lips. I could not guess how many times I have been asked that question. It never occurred to me to answer any of them truthfully.

  “A sizeable question for this time of night.” I push up off the top of her dresser and stand with crossed arms at the foot of the bed. “You know who I am.” My name tumbles inside of her, caught in a tangle of panic. She sifts it to the surface, holds the name close. A grimace contorts her stricken face as the pain in her arm surfaces, as the adrenaline wanes.

  “Stela.”

  My name is not new. I have lived as Stela for centuries. A gift from my Lord to last several lifetimes, longer even. For all these years, only my name on Fane’s tongue moved me, as it should be. Until now. “You should have full use of your arm within a few days.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers, anything to keep from reaching out for her.

  Elizabeth tugs at the top button of her blouse, pulling the collar away to assess her injury. When she realizes that a full evaluation will require removing her clothing, she desists and cradles the compromised limb to her chest. Her eyes narrow, she licks her chapped lips and mouths the shape of several words, none of which come to fruition. Swallowing audibly, she pulls her right hand through her hair and shakes it back over her shoulders, wincing.