Hello, Eleazar. I trust you are doing well. I, on the other hand, will have a headache for the next hour thanks to the jab you just drilled into my mind.
He chuckled. Adriel was never one to keep her emotions to herself. That will teach you not to knock. Now, what can I do for you, old girl?
I thought you would be interested to know that there has been talk of Isaiah Hartzler.
Why would that interest me?
Because Isaiah’s kin, the young Hartzler twin, has just returned to the farm with suspicions that his great-uncle is still alive.
She did have the bishop’s attention now. Impossible, he thought back to her. The male turned rogue over eighty years ago. He would not have survived.
The boy, Cain, he disagrees. He approached Ezekiel upon his return. The elder called a council meeting directly after he received the news, she informed him.
Eleazar was not convinced. Isaiah was Ezekiel’s brother. It’s natural for him to believe any rumors. The male has never been able to give up hope that his brother could still be saved. That exact hope is what almost got him killed eighty years ago.
It had been 1929 when Isaiah Hartzler, patriarch and council elder of the Hartzler line, had been called. Soon after he had displayed symptoms that accompanied the calling of one’s true mate, sensitivity to the sun, lack of appetite, increased hunger for blood, mostly that of a mate’s, vertigo, and loss of control, Isaiah had left the farm to find her. Only he never returned.
When an immortal does not find his mate, he becomes the unanswered, more animal than a rational-thinking being. When the calling is unanswered and one’s mate proves elusive, the mind begins to fragment. The sun begins to limit freedom and the bloodlust becomes a force too powerful to ignore. Small creatures no longer satisfy appetites and actual food becomes too complex for their systems to digest. This leads to a need for more blood in order to sustain any energy. Only the blood begins to run through the system like water. There is only one blood that will stop the process. The blood of a true mate.
Once all of the symptoms have taken effect and the immortal is no longer in control of their own actions, being led more by animal instinct than rational thought, the male becomes incapable of courting said mate. He is what their kind referred to as feeish, more animal than man, a nocturnal beast that lurks in the shadows, bearing fangs and claws and watching the world through glowing eyes.
An unanswered immortal will become so blood hungry and confused, they will begin taking victims at random, a game of roulette, hoping to fall across their called mate. When the blood hits the system and they realize it is again not satisfying the need the way a mate’s would, they become a feral beast and fall into a rage, sometimes ripping the victim’s throat out. This was how Isaiah had been the last time they saw him some eight decades ago.
The carnage and loss of innocent lives destroyed at Isaiah’s hand was tragic. Those lives lost were The Order’s burden. They had hunted Isaiah. The council took it upon themselves to stop him. When they found him, they attacked, but he was so full of human blood and rage, he had become much more powerful than all the others combined. Males had been hurt, some even lost limbs. It was Ezekiel who finally ended up restraining the monster Isaiah had become.
He had held his brother in his grips, his own claws and fangs out, ready to deliver a deathblow, when he hesitated a moment too long. Eleazar could still recall the paralyzing shock at seeing Isaiah slit his brother’s throat so deep it almost severed Ezekiel’s head. After that, Isaiah had escaped. The others had become distracted with saving Brother Ezekiel Hartzler. There had never been another sighting of Isaiah. The council had assumed him long dead, most likely driven to a point of insanity too deep to survive.
He could have survived, Eleazar, Adriel said, pulling him back from his memories.
Doubtful.
I think you should return home and hear the evidence for yourself.
What evidence? he asked. Do not pretend you do not eavesdrop on every meeting, Adriel. I am well aware that you do.
She sighed. Fine. The boy says that there have been twelve murders, females, all of them.
How does he know this? I do not trust Cain Hartzler. Perhaps he has killed these women.
Perhaps, but why would he return home and draw the council’s attention to the act? He says the deaths are all over the English news. Cain, prior to returning, went into the woods where a reporter had said the most recent murder had taken place. He said he found markings, impressions that only a male, traveling at immortal speeds, could make in the earth.
Eleazar was growing tired of this conversation. He looked up toward Larissa’s window. This is only speculation. Such propaganda will only encourage the others. I suggest the council make note of Cain’s claims and then lay the issue to rest. I assure you, Isaiah Hartzler is dead. He would not have survived eighty years without his mate. It has never been done.
But Eleazar, the women—
I must go, Adriel. I have work to do. Good-bye.
Before the connection was cut off, Adriel yelled, Each victim was drained of blood!
Eleazar stilled. Drained of blood? Oh bloody hell. He looked back at Larissa’s window one last time then turned in the opposite direction. He walked, irritated that he was once again being distracted from his task, and soon came upon an English convenient store. He yanked the glass door open and growled at a woman who smiled at him. Up against the front windows of the store, was a rack stacked with newspapers and magazines. He snatched a paper from the top of the pile and began scanning the headlines. He flipped the pages noisily, causing some pages to flutter to the floor.
“Sir, you have to buy that if you’re going to read it,” the clerk at the counter whined.
“Quiet!” he barked, giving the girl a mental push to mind her own business.
On the third page, under a picture of a young boy and an even younger girl, both appearing deep in mourning, was the headline, Beast Leaves Children Orphaned.
The article recapped the events of the past year. Adriel was right. The murders were right in the town of Jim Thorpe, not far from their farm. Words jumped out at Eleazar as he read. Bloodless. Drained. Females. Sexually Assaulted. Man. Eye witnesses. Carnage. Puncture marks at the carotid artery.
Eleazar slammed the paper down and left the store. He would need to return home and get an exact account of what Cain Hartzler had seen. If this was in fact Isaiah, returned to the area and running rogue, he would need to be hunted and destroyed. The bishop would make it clear that this time no other Hartzler would accompany the men on the hunt so that there would be no hesitating upon killing this rogue once and for all.
More irritating than all else was the fact that this would postpone Larissa’s return to the farm. Sure, he could have easily retrieved her from her apartment and dragged her back home to her husband, but something inside of him did not want to rush things where she was concerned. He knew where she was living. She would no longer be dancing at that house of sin. He could return home, speak to Cain, and come back for Larissa by tomorrow night. He decided that was exactly what he would do.
Chapter 6
He was there again, the mortal graveyard, the ground turned out as the coffin, covered in yellow roses, was lowered into the earth. Jonas knew he was dreaming. He had had this dream over a dozen times in the past few weeks, always the woman he recognized as his called mate, always the crying children he didn’t recognize, always the middle-aged man holding the bible. It was as if he was being haunted by the dark dream or perhaps his mate was and she had managed to project the images into his subconscious.
Clara seemed to look right at him this time. Her snowy hair was pulled back into a bun at the back of her neck, a few wisps escaping in the breeze and caressing her plain face. She was dressed all in black with the exception of the bulky, gray sweater that covered her. The worn garment looked more like an old afghan than an article of clothing. The children, one boy of about fifteen or sixteen years and one g
irl some five or six years younger, both stood to Clara’s right with their heads bowed, the boy’s arm around the girl’s shoulders. There were no tears, only expressions of disbelief as if whoever’s passing they were mourning, was simply inconceivable to them all.
Clara’s withered hands clenched at her afghan sweater as the blustery wind moaned over the vacant cemetery. She appeared smaller, thinner than what he remembered her being from his last dream. He watched her as he always did, but like always he never spoke directly to her. Speaking to her would make his presence there too real and he could not dream of another woman. He could not share such a bond with a female that was not his Abilene. He would not allow it. Yet when Clara looked right at him this time, he feared his unobtrusive presence was about to be brought to light.
Her face was bare of any makeup. Her skin seemed to wear age beautifully. Although she bore creases around her sharp, blue eyes they never seemed to detract from her attractiveness. Those fingers of age reaching out from her fine lashes seemed to only add to her distinguished appearance. She was small and frail, but there was strength in her posture and those old, blue eyes. He was unsure of her exact age and while at her age she would still be a baby were she an immortal, as a mortal she appeared weathered and past her prime, but still beautiful. Jonas could never deny her beauty and he felt as if he were betraying his wife all the more each time he acknowledged that fact.
The man with the bible continued to speak softly over the grave. The children continued to stare numbly at the casket. And Clara continued to look at him. Her gaze felt so intense, Jonas would swear if she looked away, he would feel the relief of its weight, but she did not look away.
“Why are you here?” she suddenly demanded of him. She had never spoken directly to him. He was so taken off guard that she did now, he said nothing in reply.
The others did not seem to hear her or even notice his presence, most likely because it was not their dream. Her chin stuck out with defiant determination Jonas did not understand. She was not pleased to see him in her dream.
“Are you the angel of death?” she asked accusingly and he was shocked that she would associate his presence with death. He was merely a quiet bystander of her dreams up until this point. “If you are, I suggest you go away. I’m not ready to go. You’ve taken enough from my grandchildren. Leave me be!”
Her words were clipped and resolute, but Jonas saw the slight trembling of her chin, the uncertainty and vulnerability of her eyes. If he were the angel of death, she still would not lower herself to beg for time, no, his mate was too dignified for that.
“I am no angel of death or otherwise,” Jonas assured her and some of the tension left her shoulders.
“Then who are you? Did you know Sharon?”
“Sharon?”
“Yes, my daughter, Dane and Cybil’s mother,” she replied, jerking her chin to the plot.
“I am sorry, I did not.”
“Then what business do you have here? This is my memory, my nightmare. I have seen you here many times yet I have no idea who you are.”
“I am Jonas.”
“And what does that mean to me, Jonas?”
Apparently nothing, Jonas thought, as he hoped her presence in his dreams could mean to him, but he knew better. He knew he could not remain a quiet bystander forever. “Eventually I will come to you, Clara.” At the use of her name she stiffened, sharp, blue eyes drilled into his. “When I come to you I will offer you the gift of eternal life. You will offer me salvation.”
She laughed in a way that lacked humor. “I see I truly am dreaming. You cannot promise me eternal life any more than I can promise the children a home that will survive the next year.”
“The children have lost their mother,” he stated and she nodded. “You are all they have left?”
“Yes. Isn’t God thoughtful? He has given two children an old woman at the end of her life to watch over them.” Her words dripped with sarcasm and Jonas could not help but smile.
“I also have found issue with our Lord’s decisions as of late.”
“Have you lost someone?”
“No, but I will soon.”
“In seventy-two years I have never forsaken my God, yet now that I am running out of time, I find myself wondering what I had ever done to deserve the life I was dealt. Perhaps death is the reward. I find life more and more punishing the longer it goes on.”
Seventy-two. She did not look seventy-two for a mortal. She looked much younger to Jonas, but what did he know. He was a century-and-a-half-old immortal. “God has also bestowed me with a fate I find unkind.”
“And what is that?”
He took a deep breath. He would be honest. “I will likely die very soon.”
The smile that spread across Clara’s face was unexpected. “So will I. The doctors tell me I only have a few months left.”
“How can any man decide such a thing?”
“Science,” she stated concisely. “I find it rather inconvenient to know such things. I would prefer ignorance. At least if I were ignorant, I would be able to enjoy my grandchildren in these last moments rather than find myself in a constant state of distraction, burdened with worry over what will become of them.”
“And what will become of them?”
“They will eventually fall under state custody. If they are lucky, they will remain together, but the chances of that are unlikely. It has been six weeks since Sharon was killed and Cybil has not spoken a word since. Dane seems to understand what she needs, but if he is taken away from his sister, who knows what will happen to her. Psychologists will label her and she will have only some state-employed excuse of an advocate looking out for her well-being.
“So you see, Jonas, while it is all well and good to fantasize about eternal life, it will never be more than a fantasy. I have real issues that require my attention. I suggest you go pester someone else.”
“And what if what I said was true? What if neither of us had to die?”
She laughed again, this time it was dry and brittle and caused her to cough for a moment. Jonas waited as she recovered. “Why would I want to stay in this life? I feel as if I am steadily losing those I love. First my husband and son-in-law, now my daughter, not to mention numerous friends and my cat. I want to go. I want to leave this place with nothing more than a hope and prayer in my pocket that I will find my husband, Arthur, in the hereafter. The only purpose I would serve by staying is in acting as a guardian for my grandchildren. I love them dearly, but I am tired. I am all out of fight. I want to go home.”
“I could take away your tiredness.”
“For a young man you seem to have an issue with your hearing. I do not wish for my youth or vitality. I only wish for peace. This life is a burden I can no longer bear.”
It was Jonas’s turn to laugh. “I assure you I am no young man.”
“Not a young man, not an angel, what are you then?”
“I don’t know. I thought I was a good man, but perhaps I am not.”
Clara began to cough. The children standing to her right no longer seemed alive, but rather two-dimensional figures frozen in time, as did the man with the bible. The drizzle that had begun, no longer fell from the sky, but stood suspended in midair. The trees and grass remained in a perpetual breeze that never increased or decreased in force nor changed direction.
“What is happening?” he asked.
“This is one of my paintings. I have painted this day a hundred times. Don’t worry, it will fade. In the end I always wash it away.”
Just as she said it would, the gray clouds began to bleed into the fading-blue sky. Browns formed as the smudges from the sky blended with the faded autumn leaves on the trees. Like puddles of mud, the children melted away. The black casket covered in yellow roses became a whirlpool of black where all the colors smeared into the center of the page. Clara stood before him covered in paint as if she had been working in her studio for days.
“You see, Jonas, nothing lasts fore
ver. Beauty fades, as do our memories. The only thing that continues on in this world is the pain.”
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” he suddenly confessed as if this woman could take away all the pain that had been suffocating him of late, all the hurt he had put in Abilene’s eyes.
“And that is why I welcome death.” She turned and walked away. Jonas’s vision slowly faded into black just as the paint had.
He felt his body settle into his bones and out of a dreamlike state. Before he opened his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and found comfort in the scent of his home. He opened his eyes from his seat facing the fireplace of their den. At first he did not see her. At first all he noticed was that the fire had burned low and was due for another log. It wasn’t until he looked toward the woodpile at the foot of the hearth that he saw her and froze.
Abilene stood stock-still, her expression one of utter disbelief. Her arms hung lifeless at her side and her face seemed drained of blood. Her eyes watched him, never once seeming to blink as her mouth hung open in shock.
Her voice was no more than a breath whispered over the chilled air, but he heard her nonetheless. “You were dreaming.”
Unable to speak, unable to form a lie, at least not to his undeserving wife, he simply stared back at her, hoping she saw the agony he felt over what was happening to him. Minutes passed. Not a word was spoken.
The silence of the room was shattered when she suddenly shouted, “Answer me!”
He swallowed and the dryness of his throat chafed all the way down to his heart. This would destroy her. “Yes,” he admittedly whispered with a voice so weighted in grief it sounded nothing like his own.
Abilene’s body began to tremble. Her lips were devoid of color and her soft, brown eyes suddenly took on the feline quality their kind often had when they were experiencing heightened emotions. Males often had those eyes when in a rage. He had never heard Abilene even raise her voice before today. He had only seen her eyes turn when she was in the throes of lust. She certainly was not feeling lust now. Her emotions were as heavy as lead, painful and inescapable in the drafty room.
Calling for a Miracle [The Order of Vampyres 2] (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 8