Distract my hunger

by X. Williamson

  A small trapdoor was barely visible on the floor. He bent forward and made it open. It didn’t quite move at first, but after fiddling with it for a fraction of a second it creaked open. With expert movements he searched in it and took a small cloth bundle out of it. Whatever he got from there was wrapped in some kind of yellowing silk cloth. It seemed old and tattered, but for some reason its oddity made my heart start pounding harder.

  The dusty silk seemed to nearly disintegrate as soon as Corbin started unfolding it. Small pieces of rotten yellowish cloth and ancient cobwebs fell to the floor upon his measured movements. My heart seemed to explode with expectation, until I finally saw it. A small, black, leather-bound notebook emerged from all the wrappings.

  The notebook looked very old and fragile, but as soon as I saw it I just knew it was the one I was told to look for in my dream. I hoped I could read it, that it was not too deteriorated or in a language I could not read. I had no idea of who wrote it, but I knew I was meant to read it. I believed Violet wanted me to see something in there, to discover maybe the meaning of this whole thing. Maybe I could understand something more about all this prophetic business. I honestly did not know why, but I knew I had to read it.

  CHAPTER 10

  The notebook

  Upon the sight of the little black leather book Corbin and Jonathan held their breath. Corbin looked as if he were unsure he should complete the unveiling of the secret while Jonathan’s eyes grew wide with curiosity. The three of us seemed to freeze upon its sight, each one quite unsure of what to do next. It was just a book, but Corbin held it just as if he were holding a weapon of massive destruction.

  He caressed its cover and looked at it with sad longing. Maybe he was sad to part with it, or perhaps he was just unsure of what would be best.

  His full lips pressed into a face I could not read completely and he looked at Jonathan, at the small item and then at me to only start all over again.

  “This is yours. I haven’t set eyes on it for quite some time, and to be honest I wished I never would again. Sometimes wars are unleashed with mere words and sometimes nothing can be done about it once the sand-clock is turned.” Whispered Corbin nearly under his breath and handed me the package.

  I stretched my hand to get it and then stopped to look at Jonathan. He almost imperceptibly nodded and pressed his lips into a tight, worried smile. It was his way of saying “go ahead, don’t be scared” I imagined, so I finally took it in my hands.

  The notebook seemed less ominous and smaller in my hands. It smelled of pure leather and camphor. I could feel the weight of the thick pages and felt the roughness of its skin against mine. Its gold-lined pages glistened under the light and made me think of ancient magic books. I thought of books of shadows being passed on, generation after generation, adding new thrilling knowledge with each new bearer. Magic seemed to ooze from the small book, and I still had no idea of its content.

  I turned the supernatural object in my hands, mesmerized by its promising power and absorbed its every edge. It had no title, no markings, no words on its outside but a softly engraved Iris; it was made of simple, soft, fragrant leather. The black leather was slightly cracked and fading in some places but besides that it was in perfectly good condition. I let my fingers run over it and marvelled in its smoothness, in the handmade stitches on every border and its perfect spine.

  The notebook seemed to have life of its own, a perfect being in latent state, like a spore, simply waiting to be brought to life.

  I could only wonder on its contents and who wrote it. I had no idea if it had one or several authors, and why it was so important. It was a mystery waiting to be unveiled.

  A thin crimson bookmarker made of satin emerged between the gold-rimmed pages of the notebook. It seemed to be marking a page or pages; looking at it I imagined it was not put there on a random whim and caressed it between my thumb and index fingers. It was soft and slippery, its smooth surface slid from my skin like a snake. I felt that whoever wrote it believed it was important to highlight these pages; here was the connexion with an older time. In those pages were the words that hung unsaid, that waited for many years to convey a message. And now, it was me the one to end their silence.

  If you ask me why I felt the bookmarker was important and why I believed it was not randomly set I can only say: I have no idea. It might have simply been the book’s energy, but I truly do not know.

  What would I find? What was on those pages? What was so important to keep so tightly hidden? I was absorbed by the prospect of a secret and could think of nothing else than opening the book. I was anxious and somewhat scared. I felt at the brim of an abyss or awaiting a tempest. I knew that once I opened the notebook nothing would ever be the same, but I could not stop the sand-clock now. My destiny was set and I had to succumb to my curiosity.

  With the soft carmine bookmarker between my fingers I finally opened it to admire the pages and let my destiny unfold.

  It was all written with smooth and perfect handwriting in black ink. The pages were mildly yellow yet unstained by ink or time. It was impossible to imagine how old the small notebook was just by looking at it. The pages seemed too well kept though the handwriting looked very old-fashioned.

  I traced the letters with my index, not really wanting to start reading yet and intending to savour every second of my encounter with the book. The pages where I opened it had no title, no drawings, only words. Words that were so evenly spaced, so perfectly drawn that I imagined delicate hands taking utmost care with them.

  I closed my eyes and could almost see a female bent over the tiny leather-bound book and writing. She could be writing anything from cooking recipes to her memoirs, but she did it with utmost care. She treasured the words that tattooed each page and took her time to trace every word with utmost care. Don’t ask me why I felt such a strong female presence clinging to those pages, but I did. It was almost as if a ghost haunted them and showed me an image of its long gone life.

  Who could the woman I imagined be? Did she even exist? I was sure she did exist, and that she was the author of the unread pages. I was as sure of that as I was sure that the woman that told me to look for the notebook was Violet.

  In my mental image, this woman was writing with her back to me, I could not see her but her back and her hands. Her hands were very pale and perfect. They held the quill like an artist holds its brush, with divine perfection and care. Her hair looked very much like mine, it was a long flowing cascade of jet black hair. It looked glossy and I imagined it smelled like rosemary. I know it sounds funny to even imagine the smell of a probably imaginary woman’s hair . . . but I was sure I was not having an overactive imagination.

  She looked like someone but I couldn’t quite match the picture with a name. “Where did I see that woman before?” I started asking myself, but linking her silhouette with a name was not easy, my mind felt foggy. I couldn’t make the connexion but I knew if I tried hard enough I would do it. I struggled thinking on this, feeling stuck for what seemed like a long time. And that’s when it came to me, she reminded me of the other woman of my dream. The one that was running. She looked tense then; she was with a man, running away from something. That’s why it had been so difficult for me to link the two; in this image I got from her she was calm.

  I puzzled on why did this woman pop into my head again and who she was. She looked so desperate to get away from something in my dream, she and the man with her. Could I discover what they where running from? Would I find out who she was? I wanted nothing more than to immerse myself in her writing. I needed to know something, anything about her! The smallest data would suffice, my curiosity was too big.

  So I just kept on standing there, in the middle of Corbin’s room dazzled with the notebook. I completely forgot my surroundings and started to read.

  . . . “I believe they are sometimes overreacting with all this nonsense. I can’t believe that our past two council meetings only dealt with the topic of a nonsensical prophesy.<
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  Voting in favour of measures that prevented its fulfilment is one thing but Aidan’s obsession in stopping it at all costs is a completely different matter. With this, I’m not stating that I don’t believe in its words for they came to me as clear as the clearest stream in my dreams. I felt the words whispered, like a hushed lullaby ringing in my ears. They where so patent, so precise that I can close my eyes and feel them lingering around me:

  Crossing northern seas and more to come

  A newborn baby, a rising sun.

  From noble cradle born

  And human raised,

  Strongest blood

  Will someday praised.

  Raven feathers on his head

  Eyes to see beyond the dead.

  Amethysts will crown its sight,

  In dark moments all its might.

  For when the time shall fall

  Only he will choose:

  To change our world

  Or doom us all.

  He will see beyond the hearts

  And make us see beyond all fear.

  The purest blood will make him come,

  In newborn’s hands

  The truth will steer,

  And make our fate forever clear.

  The four stanzas cling to my mind since they were first shown to me in my dreams. I cannot forget them, that’s true, but I don’t feel them as a terrible omen as the rest of “The Council” does.

  It is quite clear that this vampire alleged to hold our fates will be born from the union of two ancients, therefore becoming stronger than its parents . . . but . . . can we truly believe that it should be stopped?

  Will this vampire be our doom? In the words it’s not so clear. It could be a light in the darkest sky; this vampire could be our hope of a new world. And THAT precisely is what scares all of the council members, all but Duncan.

  Sweet Duncan, he’s always so reflexive and wise! I believe he is different from the rest; he is not as power-driven as we all are. He sees things where we can’t, I wish I could be more like him sometimes . . . He is very cautious with his views and his thoughts; I think that he is a bit reticent to share them too much just in case Aidan’s thirst for complete supremacy feels attacked by them.

  I secretly back him up, though I won’t tell him so unless it is completely necessary.

  How could this prophesy shake so much of the council’s foundations? Why do I seem the only one besides Duncan that doesn’t feel completely threatened? We have been the ones on power for many centuries and perhaps it’s not so long for our time to be over. Change is not always bad I mean.

  Unfortunately my views were not the ones mostly supported when we voted. I don’t mind not bearing children from another ancient so as to try and stop the pythonic poem from coming true, but killing any offspring with those conditions is a bit too much.

  In the end I had to bend my will and vote in favour of such atrocities, I’m much too scared of their blood-thirsty ways. They will stop at nothing to prevent this vampire coming to life. Deep down I despise me for not stopping them, but I won’t be of any good dead. After all, I’m one of the six strongest vampires alive and that should count for something some day. I feel I will be needed in the future.

  When we agreed on killing any progeny that had two ancients as its parents or that was bearer of violet eyes I felt sick. My stomach turned and I had to concentrate with all my might to hide the sick feelings I had inside. I saw sadness in Duncan’s eyes too, he’s such a noble soul. Morgause, on the other hand, completely let me down.

  I felt so disappointed! He is my greatest and most cherished friend, we always supported each other and before this, I thought I knew him. I couldn’t believe he so easily agreed on killing our newborns. They could be stronger than us, but they were of our kind! He agreed also on killing any ancient that is too strong and any couple that has two ancients as its members.

  How can he be so cold-hearted? I can’t believe he is like the others, I believed he stood for what was right . . . So much blood will be spilled now, and it won’t even be spilled by human hands.

  The law will be expressed to other vampires tomorrow . . . with blood. We won’t proclaim, we are bound to hunt our own. I will kill my own species on behalf of fear and power, I hate myself, yet I don’t know how to do differently.”

  The first entry I read was so powerful and sad that teardrops tumbled down my cheeks. I could feel the woman’s despair and sense of betrayal; she seemed so impotent against political struggles! I could picture tears running down her cheeks while she wrote the entry.

  I was flabbergasted, I couldn’t even dry my tears. It was so unfair that a killing spree fell upon innocent vampires because this so called “Council” wanted to ensure their supremacy.

  Jonathan wiped my tears with his thumb and looked at me with the most endearing eyes. I would have kissed him on the spot if I didn’t feel so heartbroken. He seemed on the verge of tears too and I realized I had been broadcasting what I read.

  “It’s so awful.” I said and I finally let myself fall into Jonathan’s protective embrace. His strong arms circled me, I felt safe in them and the depressed feeling seemed to recede a bit. He smelled sweet and secure, just like home. I nuzzled against his shoulder letting out a sigh and a repressed shudder and freed myself from the nesting arms.

  I looked at Corbin, he was lost somewhere in his thoughts completely motionless. His face was a mask of pain, deep down, the notebook seemed to have affected him as much as it did me. He looked as if all of this was new to him, he seemed to be quite clueless of the whole matter.

  “That’s why ancients are so scarce, right?” I asked and not waiting for an answer continued, “They killed them, and I was supposed to have been killed at birth too.”

  Nobody answered, nobody moved. They were much too hurt or baffled to speak yet their silence was like a huge nod. I knew I was right, I was supposed to die by law. Die for having deep purple eyes and die for probably being the child of two ancients. If Jonathan’s clan were to follow the law, I should be executed, yet I somehow was sure that they had decided to move outside the laws and guard my life. I felt so thankful upon realizing that, I owed them much more than I could ever pay back.

  Lucrecia had been wrong, it wasn’t that many ancients decided not to have children: it was that they would be on death-row if they did.

  “I knew legends about a council existing above all vampires, but I had no idea how complex the whole thing was . . .” said Corbin still lost in his thoughts.

  This notebook was much more controversial than what I expected, and as much a weapon as Corbin had made it look like. It could start a war, and it most probably would.

  “Please keep on reading Iris” Corbin said, and as if preparing for the worst, took hold of his copper claymore and sat on the bed. With his hands on the sword’s handle and his head bowed he looked as much as a guardian angel as any picture I ever saw.

  I pressed my lips into a tight smile and almost unwillingly gave him a nod. Then reluctantly I looked back at the hand-written book in my hands and began to read another entry.

  “Oh Goddess, what have I done? The blood-stench will never leave my blood-stained hands.

  We butchered them. We killed thousands of our kind.

  Any newborn whose parents were ancients became the sheath of our swords and those who tried to stop us were killed too.

  Too much blood was spilled today, we are faster and stronger that any other ancient, and they were unprepared. They were unexpecting prays to trained hounds; they had no chance against our blades.

  Aidan’s blood-thirsty ways showed no mercy. We ended up killing almost anyone that crossed our way. I don’t believe many ancients remain after today and many strong inheritors also lost their life in vain.

  We murdered them, and I did nothing to stop them.

  Liam was completely blood-crazed. He swung his sword at almost any vampire he encountered and took pleasure in the slowest and most painful deaths.<
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  His eyes glowed with his desire to exterminate anything that could get in his way, and maybe, he is even more demented than Aidan. At least Aidan’s merciless killing was less cruel and more “noble” (if I can even call it that) than his. Liam never cared who he was killing and didn’t even mind that some of his victims where not breaking the law.

  There’s a terrible image that will haunt me till my end. I still close my eyes and have it burned in my mind. I see Liam’s raged, almost black eyes staring at a kid. She is a small girl of about seven, with her strawberry blonde hair in two plats. Her tiny hand is holding a tattered doll and she is dancing at her small cottage door. Her dirty-white apron sways over her blue woollen dress and she seems to have no clue of what is going on. He runs at her, with his hands outstretched like claws and grabs her by her shoulders. She never fights him back, she seems as limp as her doll in his grip and he shears her throat with one of his hands. Then he licks the blood oozing from her severed throat like a hungry cat. There still seems to be some life in her unfortunate body when he tosses her at Gwen who mimics his cat-like attitude and finishes draining the feeble soul.

  The poor girl didn’t even seem to be an ancient, she was probably a mere mild-inheritor, but little did Liam care about that. His desire to kill seemed to excuse anything at all. After that awful death, his brown hair clung to his temples full of the girl’s blood.

  Gwen on the other and did not surprise me at all. She had always been cold-hearted and lethal. She was actually the one that proposed killing any ancients who even had a relationship with another ancient. Ruthless was her synonym, and our killing-spree convinced me not to ever let her out of my sight. She would probably backstab me (or any of us) at the mere opportunity.