by Roh Morgon
Unwilling to admit my terror aloud to him, I stammer, “Oh. Okay.” I take a deep breath. “When?”
“Soon, I think. The sooner you confront your fear, the better. I believe you will find the company of The Chosen preferable to that of the humans with whom you have been forced to associate.”
He may believe that, but I’m not sure. I take a sip of my now-cold tea, my mind spinning dangerously out of control. The beast and the hunter, both curiously quiet for days, waken.
“If you do not mind me asking, Sunny, why does the idea of meeting others of our kind disturb you so?”
“I don’t know.”
But I do. The only one of my kind I’ve met, besides Nicolas, turned my life into a nightmare. The pain and violence and horror associated with that experience is embedded in my very soul. However, that’s not my only concern.
“You say I’m different. What if I’m too different? What if they don’t accept me? What if they’re stronger than me?”
This last is important, because I instinctively sense that strength and speed are crucial for survival in their world. For all of Nicolas’s sophistication and culture, I feel that whatever it is that lies within him is quite deadly.
Nicolas reaches out and raises my chin.
“Ah, well, I think they will find you fascinating, as have I, and will appreciate your differences. And as to your last concern?” He laughs. “I do not know any who have the skills necessary to wrestle a full-grown bull elk to the ground and kill it. Most of them would be afraid to soil their clothing or muss their hair.
“No, you are more than a match for them, in spite of the short time you have spent in this life.” His eyes spark dangerously. “Besides, if any of them threaten you in any way, I will simply eliminate them.”
I swallow. Is that how they usually resolve their arguments? By eliminating one another?
“But come, it will be dark soon, and we have ski slopes to conquer. We can talk more about this later, if you wish. Yes?” His question is more like a command, and in my anxious state, I nod, eager to end this particular conversation.
He presses a button on the armrest and seconds later Alfonso opens the rear door. Nicolas gets out and turns to assist me. I take his hand, along with a deep breath of the cold mountain air, and feel some of my fears begin to dissipate.
Nicolas seems to be in no hurry as we stroll back to the slopes and the storage rack holding our skis and poles. He unlocks them, hands me mine, and shoulders his own. When we get to the staging area, he drops his skis and steps into the bindings. I do the same, then we make our way to the chairlift that will take us to the top of the night-skiing area and wait in line. The lights of the ski runs wrap around the mountain, like Christmas bulbs strung around a tree, and excitement fills the crisp air.
But just as we near the front of the line, the lift stops. We wait a few minutes, then a guy walks down the line and tells us the lift is temporarily out of order and that we’ll need to take the gondola to the top.
Nicolas frowns and I realize that so far we’ve avoided the crowded gondolas—or sharing a lift chair with anyone, for that matter.
“Perhaps we should wait until they complete the repairs,” he says as we leave the line and wander to an open area away from the other skiers.
“Why?”
“Sunny, it is not unusual for human crowds to place great anxiety upon a young Chosen. To be in such close quarters that contact with them is unavoidable can trigger impulses that are not easily restrained. I do not wish you to endure such stress.”
What?
“But Nicolas, we’ve been to museums and the opera, and everything was fine. I don’t understand what’s changed.”
He reaches out to brush the hair back from my face.
“If I had known then how new you are to this life, I would never have placed you in such circumstances.”
“Do you forget that just earlier today we were in the ski shop, and in the restaurants? Those were both crowded.”
“What I do tend to forget is even though you can move about during the day, other aspects of your physical and emotional development are less mature. The gondola will be very tight. There will be no way to avoid contact.”
Less mature?
Indignation begins to fester within me.
“Nicolas, I can handle myself just fine. And you forget, they are not my prey, nor have they ever been. So you don’t need to worry about someone touching me and ‘triggering’ any impulses. I’m not going to freak out and attack anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Please do not be offended. I did not intend any insult.” He takes me by the shoulders. “No, my only concern was for your well-being. Nothing more. And you have spent much time in close association with humans, so of course you have greater control than other Chosen of your age.” He draws me close and kisses my forehead. “Please forgive me.”
As suddenly as it flared, my anger melts away.
I squeeze his arm and he looks down at me.
“It’ll be fine. It’s not that long of a ride,” I tell him. He nods, and we walk over to get in the other line.
After waiting several minutes, we climb into a packed gondola, make our way to the side, and face the window. Nicolas stands behind me, hands pressed to the glass on either side of my head, as though he were sheltering me from the crush of humanity. I look back up at his face, but he’s staring out at the scenery, eyes dark and jaw tense.
I nestle against his chest in reassurance, and he looks down and gives me a tight smile. We do seem to share a common aversion to being touched by people, but I suspect the causes of that are not quite the same. Mine stems mostly from the need to protect my secret. I’d rather not think about his reasons.
The long ride comes to an end, and we gather our skis and poles and step out. We both take a deep breath once we are out and away from the mass of people, then work our way over to the edge of the hilltop.
Unfortunately, the runs appear to be nearly as crowded as the gondola, and Nicolas scowls at the swarming slopes. Rather than let his mood get anymore foul, I shout, “Race ya!”
With a powerful push of the ski poles, I hurtle myself down the slope. I crouch low, my poles tucked under my arms, and weave at top speed through the forest of skiers with Nicolas hot on my heels.
He pulls alongside, but rather than pass me, he waves his pole in front of me. I start to slow down, cutting across the slope in several sweeping arcs, and he matches me, then slips in front, all the time slowing. Puzzled, I follow.
As I work back across the slope, someone slams into me from behind.
Knocked flying, I twist around, barely getting my skis untangled in time to land on them, but then one of them catches on something, and I can’t right myself. I tumble and lose one ski and then the other, but now I’m sliding down the mountain even faster. As I wrench around trying to stop, Nicolas appears, skiing right beside me in a deep crouch. He reaches out and grabs my jacket while veering back uphill, slinging me along with him until he jams us to a stop.
I lie on my back looking up at him, and his face is rigid, his eyes full of fear.
“Get up. We have to move before another fool hits us.”
I scramble to my feet and we quickly work our way to the edge of the run. He steps out of his skis and grabs me, pulling me tightly to him. He then steps back and starts checking me over, looking for injuries.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice shadowing the fear in his eyes as he moves first my head and then my arms.
“Yeah, I think so.” Nothing seems to be broken. But I do feel a little shell-shocked and shake my head trying to clear it.
He unzips my jacket, apparently still looking for damage.
“I’m okay, really. Just a bit shook up. I’m fine.” I lean back, a little annoyed at his relentless examination.
He stops and looks at me, the fear in his face giving way to anger.
“Have you ever been seriously injured, since your change?” h
e demands, his eyes full of fire.
“No, just cuts and scrapes I get when hunting. They heal almost immediately, so I don’t worry too much about getting hurt.”
“‘When hunting.’ In other words, when you feed. Yes, the blood heals us almost instantly. Have you ever been injured and not fed shortly thereafter?” His eyes narrow, and I shift back, not sure what he’s getting at.
“No, not that I can recall.”
“Ah . . .” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Well, let me explain to you what happens to one of our kind if we get injured and there is no blood readily available.”
My eyes widen as I begin to grasp his implication.
“If it is a break, there will be some pain accompanying the injury itself. The real pain sets in when it starts to heal on its own without the benefit of fresh blood, and the pain will continue to increase until it drives one mad. In addition, the natural response our bodies have to injury of any sort is instant hunger, and the more severe the injury, the more intense and uncontrollable the hunger.” He looks grim, as though he speaks from personal experience.
“If bleeding is involved, the need for blood is tenfold. The more blood we lose, the more insane we become, until we will attack anything or anyone. As you can imagine, this is a highly dangerous state to be in, and one to be avoided at all costs.
“Had you been seriously injured, do you have any idea what I would have been forced to do? Elk are not readily available. There is only one source of blood here. I do not think you are ready to make that Choice.” He looks at me, his eyes asking the question as well.
I swallow. No, that’s not a choice I’m willing to make. I’ve been avoiding it for the last five years.
“And I do not want to have to make it for you. It is your Choice, and one you will make if and when you are ready. But make no mistake, should you suffer injury, I will gladly take the first human that comes along, no matter who or when or where. And that puts us both in danger.”
I look at him a moment, then down at my feet, alarmed as the truth of what he’s saying sinks in. He steps forward, opens his arms and gently embraces me.
We stand, motionless, until finally Nicolas relaxes his hold. He lifts my chin and brushes my lips with his thumb.
“Wait here while I go find your skis.”
I nod, watching as he hikes up the slope carrying his skis and remaining pole. When he gets part way up the hill, he steps into the bindings, and then checking uphill for oncoming skiers, he zips across the slope to where I’d been hit. I see no sign of the person who crashed into me and guess that he or she is probably all right. Nicolas retrieves my gear, stops once more to pick up the pole he’d dropped when he grabbed me, and returns to where I’m waiting.
“As I was hoping to explain before you took off, the slopes are only open to the public until nine p.m. When I saw how crowded it was, I decided we would take our time, get safely to the bottom, and wait until everyone leaves.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“The final part of your surprise is that I have reserved the slopes for us for two hours after closing. They are ours and ours alone until eleven.”
He steps forward and cups my cheek.
“It is nearly nine, and most of the people are taking their last run. Are you ready to try it again? If you would rather not, I will call Alfonso and we will go home.” He looks at me expectantly.
“The slopes are ours? No one else will be on them?”
He nods, smiling.
“Great! I’m ready to tear up some snow. I’ll even beat you—”
“No. We stay only on one condition.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“No racing,” he says sternly.
“No racing? But we did earlier today, before our tea break.”
“Yes, well, that was rather impulsive of me and I instantly regretted my actions once I recalled the ramifications of an accident. I am sorry to have put you at risk.”
“Oh, don’t say that. It was too fun, and I enjoyed every speeding second. But all right. I agree not to race anymore. At least for tonight.”
“Good. Then shall we?” He hands me my poles and I grin, then step into my skis.
We take off together and, carefully crisscrossing the slope, make our way to the bottom.
I lean against Nicolas, my back against his chest, his arm around my waist. The streetlights of the freeway zip past as the Mercedes speeds us home. Neither of us speaks, seemingly lost in our thoughts and memories of the night.
The rest of the evening on the mountain was spectacular. We made repeated runs, matching our turns, swaying like dancers as we skied down the slopes. I practiced my form and technique and saw the approval in Nicolas’s eyes whenever he looked over at me.
Our final run was the most amazing of all. Nicolas had tipped the lift operator quite generously to turn out the slope lights. The cloud cover blotted out the stars, as well as the waning moon, and we had come down the hill in absolute darkness. Being true creatures of the night, we could see better without the lights, and the details of the snow and the surrounding forest jumped out, crisp and clear and absolutely beautiful.
Nicolas had stopped us partway down the hill, planted his poles, and stepped out of his skis. I did the same, and he moved to stand behind me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. We stood there, looking out over the mountain, and drank in the night, and I could feel a soft humming in his chest. At one point he started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and stayed silent. After a while, he said it was time to go and, with a final tightening of his arms, released me. We skied to the bottom holding hands in the dark.
I nestle deeper against him, recalling our time on the mountain, and reflect at how quickly everything has happened. It’s been only ten days since I first saw Nicolas, but it feels like we’ve been together ten thousand years.
CHAPTER 23
We arrive back at the estate a little after one in the morning. I get out, Nicolas behind me, and together we walk up the steps. The door opens and Marie welcomes us.
“Good evening, sir. Good evening, mademoiselle.”
“Good evening, Marie,” Nicolas responds, and I smile and nod to her.
We walk in and Nicolas, his hand on the small of my back, heads to the library door. Opening it, he says, “I will return momentarily. Make yourself comfortable. I will have Marie bring in a pot of tea.”
I nod and go in, and he closes the door. His footsteps echo down the hall.
Drifting over to the bookshelves, I start reading the titles. Many are in other languages. I recognize French and German, but I don’t have any idea what the rest are. I guess if you’re five hundred years old and don’t need sleep, you would have plenty of time to learn all sorts of things.
Marie’s step outside the door precedes her soft knock.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Come in, Marie.”
She walks in with a serving tray and sets the teapot and cups on one of the tables by the fireplace.
“Will there be anything else, mademoiselle?” she asks.
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” She walks to the door.
“Wait, Marie. Can you please tell me something?”
She stops and faces me, waiting.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Ambrus?”
She hesitates. “A while, mademoiselle.”
Nicolas walks in carrying a stack of books, looking pointedly at Marie. She blushes, bows her head, and leaves.
That was kinda weird. Like he doesn’t want her talking to me, or vice versa. Or maybe it’s just a servant thing. I too easily forget what a different world it is that Nicolas comes from.
He moves over to the round table near the window and sets down the books.
“I thought perhaps you might be interested in a little of our history. Here are several volumes that focus on our European experiences. Look them over. They may help answer some
of those questions you have so far opted not to ask.” He smiles and holds his arm out, inviting me to the table.
I walk over and pick up one of the books. It’s thick, heavy, and bound in rich, dark leather. Embossed in the center of the cover is Nicolas’s crest with the two ravens. I look up at him and he gives me a brief smile.
“I have business to which I must attend. Please, sit by the fireplace, have some tea, and enjoy.” His dark eyes are somewhat distant. I wonder again what it is that calls him away.
He nods to me and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I pick up the other books, walk over to the fireplace, and set them all on the empty table. After pouring a cup of tea, I settle into one of the chairs and again pick up the book with the crest on it.
After examining its beautiful leather cover, I carefully leaf through it. It’s not a diary, as I first thought, but rather a history of Europe from a different perspective—that of what Nicolas calls The Chosen. Fascinated, I read about the various ways The Chosen have tried to blend with human society, some successful, many not. Humans seem to have a problem with being a food source, and as a consequence, only Chosen who are very smart and have excellent self-control are able to survive for any length of time.
Oddly, a number of Chosen worked as healers in villages and cities all across Europe. Their particular talent was diagnosing disease. Chosen senses, distinctly tuned to the smell of blood, could detect any taint or abnormalities. Their diagnostic abilities and treatment skills were passed down from their Makers, and many had significant status as disease specialists in their communities.
I chuckle, noticing the book doesn’t mention the fate of patients who came in bleeding.
The door opens, and Nicolas strides across the room wearing a black three-piece suit.
“That was fast. I’ve barely started the first book.” I smile up at him, but he doesn’t return it. The earlier distant look has now become troubled.
“Ah. Unfortunately, I am being called away. I will not be back until morning. But you are welcome to stay and read. Marie has your room made up for you. She will take good care of you until I return.” He looks at me, but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.