by Casey Lane
In addition to the gash on my head, I could feel bruises forming all over from being pushed and shoved in the streets like chattel. Rivulets of blood were running down my limbs from various cuts and scrapes. I had seeping, open sores from ash burns. Ordinarily, they would have healed by now. I briefly considered trying to do a spell for the pain.
But I realized that, even if it worked, using magic on anything other than healing might mean my doom. I had to conserve as much magic as possible if I expected to survive. As it was, my stores might not be replenished in time to save me. It was starting to look like a chance I was willing to take. I thought I knew suffering. But I hadn’t understood just how much my healing powers spared me from it over the years. I almost sympathized with mortals, if this was what injury felt like to them.
Slogging through the ash was like moving through quicksand until I got to the atrium, which was only slightly better. It was no easier to breathe indoors; the smell of gas followed me everywhere, which did my queasy stomach no favors. I futilely brushed ash from my hair, my shoulders.
I could see how Vesuvius’s rumblings had taken their toll on the house. There was more ash in the atrium than in the other rooms because of the skylight. The gray powder had quickly overflowed the shallow impluvium and spilled onto the mosaic floors, now cracked and broken. Oil lamps had been knocked over and extinguished in the ash. Now, the only light came from small fires burning all around me. Brought in by pieces of the volcano, these unmoored torches were fed by the wall tapestries and shattered furniture. I tried to shield myself from them, covering my face with the back of my hand, moving as quickly as I could from room to room.
Huge pieces of the walls had been ripped away, leaving gaping holes where scenes of farms or dancing gods had been. I saw several of these pieces suffocated by ash as I made my way through the house, the deities’ features eroding as Vesuvius claimed these lesser gods. Egnatius was nowhere to be found. I doubted he’d managed to sober up and make it back from the brothel yet. He could be lying dead in a heap of whores, for all I cared. My only thoughts were of Sabine.
There were occupants remaining, but they were all slaves. “Where is Sabine?” I demanded of them. “Where is your mistress?” But they all said they did not know, even when I shook them, slapped them, and punched a few of the men in the face. The blows did not land as hard as I expected. I am weakening, I realized. These were the lower slaves, chained to tables and chairs—no doubt by the ones with more authority. Perhaps, the latter thought Egnatius would look on their own attempts to escape with pity, should they be returned, if they helped minimize his other losses. All were screaming to be freed, begging me, with outstretched arms and pitiful wails. They promised to serve me faithfully if only I would release them, spare their lives.
I ignored them. I wouldn’t have been able to save them, anyway. If I sent them into the streets, they would’ve been killed by the same forces at work inside the house. Better they should meet the end here, than have to witness it through the apocalypse outside.
No, I had to find Sabine. She was all that mattered, and the sole person who could save me from my own grievous injuries. I tried calling her name, but my throat was so dry, hardly any sound came out. Unlikely she would hear it above the slaves’ shrieking, anyway.
Sabine! I screamed in my mind, sending fresh pain reverberating through my skull. Sabine, where are you? But there was no reply, either in my thoughts or out loud. Finally, I reached Sabine’s bedroom, and nearly collapsed from shock.
There she lay, in bed, as I had seen her many times before. But unlike those other times, she still had her stola on. There was hardly any ash in the bedroom; its door had been closed against the onslaught, unlike the rest of the house. Which meant the lamp here had not yet been extinguished, and I could see Sabine clearly in its flickering light. She was slumped to one side, head resting in the crook of her arm. Although her eyes were wide open, she could not see me. She was not moving. Blood oozed from the center of her chest.
A dagger protruded from it.
My heart stopped. Then, it started to pound uncontrollably. Though I moved only a few steps toward the bed, perspiration poured down my body. My breath came in short, gasping hiccups.
It’s a trick, I thought. A glamour to fool onlookers. Maybe she needs them to think she is still here because . . . I didn’t know why. What difference would it make who knew she was here? The slaves were chained up; the rest of Pompeii was running for its life.
But I knew enough of magic to see there was no glamour. Sabine lay before me, as cold and lifeless as the corpses of Pompeii piling up outside. Blood seeped out from her stola onto the bedclothes. Pompeiian red. A warm draft moved through the room, gently lifting and dropping the curls on my lover’s forehead, as I’d done so many times with my own fingers.
One of the slaves killed her. Revenge for years of servitude before running away. Or Egnatius managed it. Yes, that must have been it. Egnatius had come home early, found out about her and me, somehow. Then, in a fit of rage, he—
No. That couldn’t be. Even if he’d stabbed her, Sabine was a witch. The wound would have healed with supernatural speed. Which meant she’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Egnatius—far more than she would about our affair. But that was a whole other story. The only way a knife to the heart would kill her was if she didn’t have magic to heal from the blow.
But there was no indication she’d depleted her magic the same way I had: battling Vesuvius. The volcano hadn’t calmed down even a mite, except when I tried to subdue it. Possibly Sabine had tried at the exact same time, but that seemed unlikely. And there was no way Egnatius could have woken from his drunken stupor and made it back before me—even accounting for my fight with Vesuvius in the Forum.
Besides, after more than two decades, I knew him better. Egnatius wouldn’t have returned to his house for anything. Not slaves, not gold . . . not even his wife. He’d want to save his own skin, to leave Pompeii as quickly as possible. And if I were a slave, I’d think along the same lines, if it were my life at stake. No matter how much I might want revenge, I wouldn’t have wasted precious time killing my mistress. Not after I’d just gotten done tying down the other slaves. The first action rather defeated the point of the second, anyway. Why trying to impress an owner you were only going to murder?
A memory was coming back to me now, one I desperately didn’t want. It was Sabine and I, in a different bedroom. I was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. But she was irritated with me. She was saying something . . .
There are ways we can die, Titus. Fire. Decapitation. Certain kinds of spells. Sometimes, even by our own hands.
Certain kinds of spells. Even by our own hands. All a witch would have to do was perform a spell to prevent themselves from healing. After that, it was simply a matter of choosing the manner of—
No. I looked on in horror as I leaned on the wall for support.
The sole person who could have been Sabine’s murderer was . . . Sabine.
I don’t know why I was surprised. Sabine had casually mentioned her family dying in much the same manner, though she never specified the exact means. Perhaps suicide was hereditary, like eye color. Or perhaps Sabine thought it was.
Did she know what was coming with Vesuvius? Is that why she did this to herself? But, if so, why didn’t she at least try to warn me? Surely, she cared about my life, if not her own. Or was I been wrong about that, too? Was the “permanent” thing she felt coming Vesuvius? Or had she had some even worse premonition of what the blood in the chalice would bring?
So many questions. Desperately, I glanced around, but there was neither note nor letter. No explanation or apology. Just an angry, empty hole in my heart and mind. Sabine had left me with nothing.
I wanted to shake her awake. To jerk her out of her stupor. But furious as I was, I could only think, Sabine, my darling. My voice cracked even in my thoughts. How long had she been dead? Days? Hours? Her skin was already
the color of Vesuvius’s ash, the dark pink draining from her lips. It couldn’t have been days; someone would have noticed. Hours, then? When had she done it? Before Vesuvius? Or just as the eruption started? If I had made it back earlier, could I have stopped her?
I did not weep. I did not know how. I mean, I do, though if you ever share that, I will deny it, then kill you. But, in that moment, I seemed to have forgotten how. My body and soul felt like a dried-up husk. And you cannot squeeze tears from a husk.
Still, my chest heaved. I reached out one trembling hand to her. My lips tried to form words, but they could only soundlessly mouth her name. Sabine, Sabine.
I barely had time to yank my hand away before the ball of fire came through the roof.
Chapter Seven
The force of the fireball—and the subsequent ceiling collapse—threw me back against the wall opposite the bedroom. From a distance, I saw Sabine’s room engulfed in flames. The air was knocked from my lungs. The fresh pain in my head had me seeing stars. Still, I struggled to my feet. My only thought was to rush in to save her . . . till I remembered there was nothing to save.
The blast renewed the chained slaves’ begging and screaming. I ignored them again as I stumbled to what was left of the bedroom door frame. Everything inside was burning and crackling, unrecognizable. Then, the edges of the hole in the roof collapsed into the room. With them came ash that doused the flames. The ball of fire had come down right on Sabine, as if to deliberately obliterate her body.
You hateful bitch. I didn’t know if I meant Sabine or Vesuvius.
Even the room’s lamps had been snuffed out, their iron stand decimated. Now, the fires that had provided light were swiftly being extinguished by the rising ash. I hardly had a moment to react to the new horror of Sabine’s complete erasure. Renewed cries arose from the slaves. Far from moving me to pity, they reminded me that more balls of fire might be on the way. And even if they weren’t, I had no time to tarry here—not for mortal lives or sentiment. My own life was at stake.
Then, the room began to sway.
I could no longer deny the extent to which my injuries were taking their toll. Everything seemed shrouded in darkness. I couldn’t tell if it was because my eyesight was growing dim, or because the light from the fires was going out. I could barely keep my balance, and had to pat my way along the walls to remain upright. My stomach roiled like a sea at storm. Now that Sabine was gone, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had only vague, wavy thoughts that I had to find a way to heal so I could escape Pompeii—if another fireball didn’t kill me first.
But it was impossible to get far, let alone do it quickly. The ash was knee-deep, now. I groped my way to the ancestral shrine, where I saw more of the fireball’s handiwork. The shrine’s statuettes—including the genius—had been knocked over. There they lay, broken and destroyed, in the swelling ash.
So much for the protective power of those gods, I thought bitterly. Damned if they did anyone who dwelled here a bit of good. Not even Sabine. There is no one who can protect a witch from themselves.
But the ball of fire had done something else: blown a sizable hole in one of the adjoining walls. The hole was about half the size of a man. Through it, I could see the partially demolished painting of some dancing fauns.
The chalice room. Sabine’s secrecy spell had been no match for Vesuvius’s fire. Whatever was in the chalice might be able to heal my injuries, if the chalice itself was still intact. Sabine said those who drank from it exhibited rapid regenerations and increased strength. But they had taken only sips. Perhaps downing the whole draught would save me. Or would it turn me to stone, the way Sabine thought it momentarily did to the others? I had to take a chance. In my heart’s wild panic, I thought anything would be better than death—even the life-in-death of a statue.
But getting into the room was more difficult than I anticipated. I had to crawl on my hands and knees through pools of ash. My body was growing heavier; the back of my head still hadn’t stopped bleeding.
What if the chalice isn’t there? I thought in horror. What if it was obliterated, too—claimed by Vesuvius?
I finished creeping through the hole in the wall. Light from the fire-lit atrium shafted inside, allowing me to see a little. There was less ash covering the floor here. A surge of relief washed over me: the chalice still stood, in the center, untouched on its podium. But would I be able to reach it in time? The nausea was gone; in its place was more heaviness in my limbs. It was as if I carried the weight of Vesuvius with me.
I am dying, I thought, in wonder. After all these years . . . this is what it feels like. Pompeii is dying, and she is bringing me with her.
It took all the strength I had just to keep breathing, to draw myself up to the podium, clawing at its sides. Even then, I was too weak to stand. I didn’t know if my feeble grip would hold the chalice. Still, I reached for it with outstretched fingers. One of them hit the cup, and the chalice shook violently. My eyes bulged.
No!
I saw the chalice go over the other side of the podium. I squeezed my eyes shut, and with the last burst of magic I could muster, pulled it back within my grasp. I barely managed to wrap my fingers around the stem. I didn’t so much lift the chalice to my lips as I let the liquid spill over them. I fell backward and onto the floor, the now-empty chalice clattering next to me.
I remember thinking it would taste like wine.
I’m sure you all know how vampirism works by now. A vampire drains your blood and replaces it with their own. Then, you’re essentially immortal—ageless, and frozen in time. Of course, it would have been helpful to have this information before I drank from the chalice.
But the myths and legends surrounding such things were not as prevalent then as they are today, dear reader. This much you have already seen. And frankly, at that moment, I would’ve drunk the lord of the underworld’s blood if it allowed me to live.
At first, all I tasted was iron, as if my mouth were full of metal. No different than the times opponents struck my lips or teeth and made me bleed. I was quite accustomed to the flavor of my own blood.
But this was different. Almost immediately, the flavor changed to something I couldn’t identify. My grip on the chalice tightened. I found I had the strength to stand. I did so tentatively, still incredulous.
It healed me. It actually worked.
That’s when I felt something take hold of me. As if my throat were a long rope, weighted at one end by my head, and someone yanked the rope—hard. I clutched my chest and doubled over. There was another yank—in my stomach, this time—and I dropped to my knees. Then, the pain wouldn’t stop. My entire body was host to malicious contractions that seemed to go on and on and on.
It is amazing what suffering one can endure, and not yet die. One would think the heart or mind would give out from sheer agony. Collapse under its weight, like a roof under ash. But often, it does not. And soon, you are little more than a corpse that moves, unsure why. I thought I knew this from being a soldier, then a general. Again, the gods seemed to delight in smacking these false ideas from my hands.
I remembered what Sabine once told me. Illness can invade our bodies if we’re not careful, if we’ve lost too much magic. I had all but spent my stores trying to placate Vesuvius. Was this then a sickness? Had I contracted some foreign disease the moment my lips touched the blood? But I had never heard of illness—or even poison—taking hold so quickly. Or violently.
Also, illness and poison did not increase one’s vigor just before killing them. I know not how long I lay on the floor, begging death to take me. I only know that, as the pain subsided, it was replaced by a loud thumping noise. In my confused haze, I thought rescuers were pounding on the front door. Or maybe looters.
They sound so close, I thought, my cheek pressed to the stone floor.
It’s my own heartbeat, I realized. I listened for a few more moments in mute fascination. My heart is beating. I am alive. Then, I found my pain was completely
gone. The yanking feeling throughout my limbs, my head . . . everything. I sat up with no effort whatsoever, stretched out my arms and legs, and examined them. The burns, cuts, scrapes, bruises . . . all gone. In fact, my skin was not my skin anymore at all. It was still porous, but now colder and harder, like movable stone.
I touched the back of my skull, but found only dried blood there. I scratched my head. The sound was so loud. Like someone raking leaves. And I could feel the sound, not just the impression of fingers in my hair. My senses had run amok. Is it going to be like this all the time? What if the blood’s effects aren’t permanent? They could wear off, leaving me the dying shell of only a few moments ago.
I stood up and brushed from me what little ash the room held. My tunic was now nothing more than a large rag filled with holes, belted and draped over me. But that didn’t matter now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the chalice on the floor. This time, I called it easily to my hand. I looked at my reflection in it. A pale man, his blue eyes glistening like new coins, stared back at me. His skin looked as hard as mine felt, except his had blue veins running along the temples. I opened my mouth as if to speak to him. That was when I saw the fangs. Nothing as protruding and gauche as your penny dreadfuls would suggest. Just ordinary human canines, but sharper, and I’d wager a quarter inch longer.
Fangs? I furrowed my brow and lifted my upper lip to better examine my teeth. The man in the chalice did the same. Sabine didn’t say anything about the worshippers having fangs. Then again, none of them had drunk the entire contents of the chalice.