Forsaken

by Leanna Ellis

  If God made all things, then Akiva, even in his new form, was a part of that creation, and in this life where good battled evil, some sacrifices had to be made. God never required the sacrifice of something old and worn, something injured and diseased. He demanded something young and pure, without blemish.

  In the past two years, Akiva had learned more about death than he’d ever understood before. Life did not end here. This would not be the end of purpose and hope but the beginning of something more wonderful. Those that mourned over a death would one day understand. Maybe that’s simply what God meant in the Garden of Eden when He spoke of the fruit revealing the truth—gaining God’s perspective on this life as but a second—and Akiva had been given that privilege.

  This day, this sacrifice, Hannah would not understand, but someday she would. Someday she would embrace it and understand the purpose. Even today, she would not deny him to save a loved one. He knew her heart so well. She would come to understand that this small sacrifice would empower them to be together, to love each other and live forever. How could that be wrong?

  The tender life force calling to him was strong, the heartbeat arousing, and his focus became a laser, blocking all reason, all thought, the why’s and why not’s banished to another time, another life. He braced himself at the base of the house, gauging the height to the window. It would be an easy jump under different circumstances, but wounded, he had to garner his strength, concentrate more, and will himself beyond his waning abilities. With a hard push, he leapt, clutched the frame, his nails biting into the wood, and crouched on the ledge that only provided inches for the toes of his shoes. The window was unlocked, and he gained entrance quickly, though not as smoothly as he might when not injured. Still, he stood in the deep shadows of the room waiting, watching, wavering with need.

  The young girl slept soundly, her face pale and delicate, her features soft and similar to Hannah’s. Her long hair billowed around her, yellow with the light of heaven. Her breath remained steady and even, undisturbed by his presence. Her dreams stayed plain, simple, uncluttered with fear or stress or dread. He siphoned through her thoughts as her scent whirled around him, tantalizing, enflaming, provoking. Katie. One so young had strong powers for healing; too young would have the opposite effect, but still this one would do very nicely. He concentrated on taming her thoughts, injecting the desire to please, to offer herself without regard or restraint, and he took a step toward the bed.

  But another presence in the room emerged from the shadows, revealing herself, eyes blazing, and despite her diminutive size, she emitted a stalwart sense of power and strength. The old woman rose from a rocking chair beside the bed, the wood creaking, and Akiva recognized Hannah’s Grandma Ruth, who glared at him, her eyes keen and alert in her ancient face. She gave a slight shake of her head as if to say, This one is not yours.

  With a guttural growl of frustration, Akiva lunged for the window, the green shade slapping the window frame, and retreated into the night. He landed hard on the ground, the wound in his chest throbbing, and he gulped in air as if that could save him. He searched the darkness, sniffed, then with a last glance back up at the window, he rushed toward the barn, his footsteps light and swift.

  He made no sound—the perfect predator. A phrase came to mind—prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour—and he smiled to himself. Precisely. His gaze pierced the darkness. He didn’t have long. Dawn was near.

  Hooves scuffed the dirt and hay-strewn floor, and an animal snuffled. The dusty scent of hay and the raw, earthy smells of dung filled him with memories, some good, some not so good. He rarely thought of his family anymore, those he had known drifted far from his mind, but being here, among the Amish again, memories crept up on him, and for a moment a sentimental longing welled up in him to be near his family and part of a community again. But that was impossible.

  He was separated now.

  Isolated.

  Forgotten.

  Forsaken.

  Vampires did not live in packs as wolves did, moving, hunting, living together. They were more like grizzly bears—loners, finding their own kills, defending their own turf. Some paired up, but many kept to themselves, distrusting all. The bloods he had met over the past two years, he did not trust either. After all, one had stolen his life from him, changed him without regard, her desires outweighing his.

  With stealthy movements, he crept toward the far stall. He didn’t much like animal blood, which lacked something vital humans carried, but it would have to do. For now.

  A lamb, young and tender, lay on its side. When he entered the enclosed space, it raised its head. The warm, brown eyes were soft and innocent and expectant. It knew no fear. Not yet.

  Before it could rise to its feet, before it could make a protesting noise, before it could bolt, Akiva sprung forward and swooped down on the blameless animal, sinking his fingers into the thick, soft wool and restraining the head, arching the neck. A leg kicked outward, but the struggle for life finished before it really began. Warmth spread through Akiva, pooling in his chest and spreading outward to his limbs. Blood filled him, restored him, rebuilt his strength. He became like new.

  His father had attributed rebirth to another source, but Akiva knew another life now, another birth, another salvation. He shoved the limp animal back on the strewn hay, its neck flopping lifelessly sideways, revealing a gaping red hole.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was quiet. Too quiet.

  With arms laden with woolen blanket, pillow, and bread from supper, Hannah returned to the spring house. “Mister?”

  There was no answer. Where was he? Had he left? Or expired?

  Her heart pounding, she tiptoed toward the back of the spring house, past the old well her grandfather had used, following the circle of light from her flashlight as it slid around the edge of the room and scattered shadows. There, along the back wall, the stranger slept. Hannah kept the flashlight aimed at the ground, but even so she saw the man’s color had brightened and he looked better.

  She made a pallet, stretching out the blanket and folding the top back. Whispering, soft and mysterious, teased her ears, and the hair at the back of her neck prickled. She glanced back at her guest. Was he awake? Watching her? But he had not moved. His face looked as if it were carved from stone. His chest appeared still. Too still. An icy chill of fear wafted through her. What if he wasn’t asleep? What if he were actually dead?

  She edged toward him. Slapping her hem out of her way, Hannah knelt and reached toward him, hesitant, and yet when he didn’t move she grew bolder and touched the backs of her fingers to his forehead. Heat radiated off him. In that instant, his eyes opened.

  Hannah gasped, the sound filling the inside of the spring house, and she pulled her fingers away.

  “I am still here, Hannah.”

  Her heart thumped crazily in her chest. She attempted a smile and folded her hand against her skirt. “I am glad.”

  “No need to fear, Hannah, I won’t die.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she pressed her hand to his forehead again. “You have a fever. I could…”

  The muscles along his jaw flexed with what she imagined was discomfort, and he shifted, breaking contact with her, but his gaze remained, burning into her, making her insides shift and squirm.

  She cleared her throat, rubbed her hand against her apron. “I could, uh, arrange to call someone…a hospital…someone better equipped to help you.”

  “No, I’m better.” He sat up, his motions quick and fluid, proving the truth of his words. He closed a hand over her wrist, his touch like a fiery poker. “I do not want to put you in danger or you to get in trouble over me.”

  “I will not be in trou
ble for offering aid to someone in need. We believe in helping others.”

  “And that God is in control of it all. His will, right?” His mocking tone caused her eyebrow to lift but she felt the internal poke of truth in the sensitive area of her own doubts.

  She unrolled cotton bandages that she’d brought in her apron. “Are you an unbeliever then? Not simply an Englisher?”

  He chuckled in a derisive way. “Oh, I believe God exists. It is He who has rejected me.”

  “God forgives. All you have to do is ask.”

  His expression softened. “Sweet Hannah. So innocent.”

  She felt a jolt straight through her at the familiar use of her name. Her insides quavered at the way he said Sweet Hannah, the way it reminded her of the texture of Jacob’s voice, Jacob’s hand cupping her chin, Jacob’s mouth covering her own.

  But this stranger didn’t seem to notice her distress. “Some things,” he said in a contemplative tone, “can’t be forgiven. But, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  Her spine stiffened, and she wasn’t sure if her irritation stemmed from his words or her chaotic emotions. “I may be plain but that doesn’t mean I don’t know the different types of sin.”

  He leaned closer, his breath bathing the skin along her neck and causing a tingle along her spine. “So you know all types of sin, do you?” A smile played about his lips, curling them, making something curl inside her. Was he toying with her or simply amused with what he considered to be her innocence? “Tell me, Hannah, of this sin you know so well.”

  Heat rose inside her and seared her cheeks. Images flashed in her mind of stolen kisses, intimate touches, whispered promises, and forbidden thoughts. “I do not have to commit a sin to recognize it as such.”

  And yet she had sinned. She knew that as well as her own name.

  “And do you see the sin in me, sweet Hannah?”

  Sweet Hannah. That part of her heart that had been closed, locked up tight as the chicken coop, was suddenly pried open. It was as if she recognized Jacob in the voice of this stranger. But he wasn’t Jacob. He was a stranger. His eyes were black and dark and not her beloved’s. His use of that endearment scraped along her nerves. “Do not call me such.”

  “You are though. Sweet as the honeysuckle. Tender as—”

  “No!” The forcefulness of her own voice startled her. She blinked as if her eyelids were keeping the rhythm of her heart, and she pressed a hand over her chest to quiet the erratic beat, surging to her feet. “I’m sorry.” Shaking her head, she backed away. “Jacob.” His name snagged on her vocal chords and her voice sounded huskier than usual. “He called me that.”

  This stranger’s playful smile vanished and something akin to satisfaction lurked in those eyes, but maybe she was reading something that wasn’t there. How could he see what she felt? And why would that please him? “Ah”—his tone dipped low—“you are not over Jacob yet, are you?”

  Her peace of mind or what was left of it wrenched loose. To cover her fraying emotions, she reached for a blanket, unfolded it, and settled it over his legs. “I will come and check on you later.”

  “You are young still, Hannah.” He swept a twig off the floor, rolled it between his long, lean fingers. “You are in the time of rumschpringe?”

  His use of Pennsylvania Dutch unnerved her even more. “How did you know…? Jacob?” Then she shook her head. “I am ready to take my vows.”

  “Are you now?” His gaze brushed over her, lingering here and there and causing a shift inside her. “A faith untested…” He bent the fragile twig until it snapped.

  She bristled. “I know what the Bible teaches. It does not take sinning to test a faith.”

  “Is that what you think rumschpringe is all about?”

  Her gaze fled the intensity of his, and she clasped her hands together, her fingers reddened from diligent work. “What do you know of this? Of running around? Of our faith?”

  Her ire surprised her, and she drew a steadying breath. She should probably apologize, but instead she lifted her chin a notch and met his gaze solidly with her own challenge.

  “More than you can fathom. But you explain it to me, Hannah.” He gave a confident smirk. “What does it take then?”

  “Plain living. Obedience. Discipline.” Inside her chest, she felt the prickle of heat, her own awareness that she had already failed the test.

  “And has your faith been tested, Hannah?”

  She nodded. Tears sprang to the surface and she squeezed them back.

  “You can’t force it, you know. You can’t make yourself have faith.”

  Opening her eyes again, she studied him, wondered about his life, where he had come from, what he had seen and done. He looked young, not older than twenty, and yet he seemed as old as a rock with a hard, crusty edge of bitterness or disappointment.

  “Don’t you think there comes a point in someone’s life when it’s just too late? They’ve gone too far?”

  A trembling started down inside her. She wasn’t sure if the fear that welled up was for her or for this stranger. Maybe it was for both of them. “No.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, rested his hands over the wound in his chest. “If it’s okay with you, I may hold on to your belief. It sounds better than what I know to be true.”

  “Maybe you do not know the truth.” For a long moment, she watched him, wondered what had made him that way. The life of an Englisher was so far removed from her own, she could not even imagine what it must be like to not grow up with a faith, which seemed like a leaf falling from a tree, nothing to anchor it, nothing to hold it in place, nobody to care where it fell, and then it was tossed and tumbled about midair by every wind, then finally trampled under foot. Even when she had her doubts and the wind blew and made her shiver and quake, she was still secured to the root of her faith. She must pray for this man. But then she realized—“I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It will help me to pray for you.”

  “You would do such for me?” A smile tugged at his firm lips and a ripple passed through her abdomen.

  “Of course.”

  “You may call me Akiva.”

  “Akiva.” She tested the name on her tongue. Somehow it suited him, different and exotic. “Is that foreign? Are you from some faraway place?”

  He laughed. “You could say that.”

  “It’s an interesting name, Akiva.” She watched him as he closed his eyes again and seemed to drift to sleep. Hannah’s brow crinkled with concern not only for his wound but also for his soul. “I will pray for you to believe.” She clasped her hands together for affirmation. “I’m not sure at all who you are. But I will pray. For you.”

  She rushed out the door, closed it firmly behind her, and leaned against the wooden planks, giving her pulse time to calm. “And I will pray for me too.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The nun was dressed in pink.

  Fog curled around the edges of St. Joseph’s and crept over the grounds, giving the Philadelphia neighborhood an otherworldly charm. The nun seemed to float out of the mist like an angel rising from a cloud, as she walked at a slow, reverent pace along the stone steps from one building to the next. The white head-covering hid most of her face in the gray dawn hour.

  Mesmerized by the sleepy and sepia quality of the early morning scene, Roc leaned against the Mustang parked along the curb and watched her for a moment, remembering back to his childhood when nuns were his teachers, his tormentors, his conscience, their black and white habits a reflection of their staunch views. But what manifested pink? He supposed if nuns could wear pink then the existence of vampires might not be so outrageous.

  Before “Mother Theresa’s” pink shadow could disappear through the doorway, he called out, “Excuse me!”

  The nun’s footsteps halted,
and she turned toward him, waiting patiently as he jogged across the grounds.

  “Hello. Sorry.” He crammed his hands in his pockets in a feeble attempt to stay warm. “Didn’t mean to startle you or anything.” The nun’s youthful features looked calm and serene as if she’d just come from a spa treatment rather than prayers. “I’m looking for Father Roberto.”

  “He is usually in the garden at this early hour.”

  “The garden?”

  She gave a slight nod and inclined her head to Roc’s right. “Around the back.”

  “Great. Thanks.” He took a step in that direction and then paused. “You’re wearing pink, right?”

  She gave a tolerant smile. “Yes.”

  “Good. Thought I’d really lost it there. Thanks.” Then he headed off in the opposite direction of the pink nun and rounded what looked like the main building. If his parochial school nuns had worn pink instead of black, maybe they would have looked like this one instead of just old and cranky. His breath puffed out before him as he strode along the edge of the stone cathedral, the domes, arches, and spires above looking bleak in the weak light. This early in the morning, the streets were deserted and empty, save for an occasional garbage truck rumbling along, but those inside the spiritual sanctuary were already bustling about the day in their do-good mode.

  Passing the small rectory and then the school building, which still looked asleep, Roc came to an inner courtyard where several benches were strategically placed around a drained fountain, creating quiet spots for meditation and contemplation. As with everything else in Philadelphia, the grass was dormant, but some of the plants in the beds managed to remain green, exhibiting an optimism Roc had long lost; he sided with the withering, shriveled plants—realists—and huddled inside his leather jacket.