Solace & Grief

by Foz Meadows

  In the distance was a flat bridge of stone, devoid of rail or barrier. It arched over a dark chasm between what looked at first like two sheer cliffs. On the right was a long, featureless plain stretching into darkness, while on the left…

  With Solace's scrutiny, the image swooped closer. On the left was a castle – not Gothic, really, but somehow not anything else. The stone was a burnt reddish-gold, with windows made by turns of clear or coloured glass. Dozens of turrets, towers and spires sprang up from the mammoth base, although one stood out from all the others, piercing the darkness like a slender stone needle. Its roof was decidedly odd, but Solace was too enraptured by the myriad carvings and statues to take proper notice. These sculptures were intricate, subtle, beautiful, terrible things: gargoyles, dragons, griffins, nymphs, angels, demons, pixies, monsters, spiralling over the outside walls in impossible places, crouched on, posed beside or hidden by nooks and ledges, some tiny, some mammoth. Other features began to stand out, too: balconies, gardens within courtyards – the complex seemed to go on forever, and with seemingly no way to enter bar that narrow stone bridge betwixt the void and a single, solid, iron- and oak-bound door.

  And as she watched, the door opened – not with a creak, but with liquid, well-oiled, silent speed. Seconds later, a horse emerged at full gallop. Solace could hear the echo of its breath, the rattle of hoof on stone, the creak of leather and the flap of the rider's cloak as he rode, clutching something hidden to his chest. Before she could wonder what it was, a single cry, piercing and full of anguish, drew her attention back to the doorway, in which a sobbing woman had collapsed. From behind, someone began to manhandle the woman back inside; their grip was not kind, and she wailed and sobbed, biting and thrashing and kicking until, glimmering with the wicked red of firelight, a large brass candelabrum, hefted by a second pair of hands, crashed into the side of her skull with a sickening crunch. The woman fell heavily and was dragged inside; the door slammed shut on the scene.

  Fire blossomed in one of the towers, and Solace heard shrieks as some unwary occupant or other burned alive. The clangour of narrow battle, fought in stairwell and passage, rang out into the eerie, unnatural gloom. Solace tried to will herself inside the castle, but it was like running into a deflector shield: she came as close as she could, within metres of the outer wall, but could go no farther. As screams mixed with the crackle of heated stone and burning flesh, she began to cry out, shaken with panic and horror and a fear she couldn't name, as though the fires were burning not just the castle, but her.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried.

  But it didn't. Solace shut her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to calm herself and failing.

  ‘Take it away,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Take it all away.’

  Silence.

  She opened her eyes cautiously. She was back in the warehouse, and though time had passed, she wasn't sure how much. The skylight had fallen dark, but the faint, lingering scent of crushed flowers still filled the room, while the ageing studs of the leather chair glinted like molten silver, or tiny moons. Suddenly, she realised she was lying in someone's lap – Glide's, she realised with a jolt – and that the tips of his fingers rested tenderly on her left cheek. Once realised, the thrill of the connection fizzed through her skin like a neural wildfire, so that she fought actively just to lie still beneath it. Still, her consciousness betrayed her; Glide felt her twitch and looked down, concern and some unfathomable humour bright in his broad, green eyes.

  ‘Welcome back.’ He smiled, and even the Vampire Cynic melted a little.

  ‘Now that,’ Evan said, ‘was interesting. Also, downright scary. But it wasn't tripwalking.’

  ‘Wasn't it?’ Manx asked, dazedly. Shivering, Phoebe burrowed her head against Evan's shoulder. Electra and Jess looked wan. Somewhat automatically, when no one answered, everyone looked to Glide, who shook his head.

  ‘She wasn't seeing the present, that's for sure. And she dragged the rest of us with her.’

  ‘I what?’ Reluctant though she was to sit up, Solace managed it, turning to face Glide. ‘How do you know that?’

  Lightly, his face flickered. ‘Trust me. The tripwalk was yours. We saw what you saw. We felt what you felt.’ Almost accidentally, he brushed her hand with his.

  Solace trembled on the brink of speech, but Jess arrived there first.

  ‘Don't,’ the seer snapped. ‘That wasn't your fault. This isn't even a fault thing.’

  Electra bit her lip. ‘But if it wasn't the present –’

  ‘Past,’ Glide answered. ‘It was the past. Whose, though, is another question entirely.’ His eyes darted to Solace.

  She swallowed. ‘What does it mean, then? Why me? Why now?’

  For a moment, there was silence. Glide leaned his head back, thinking. Then, quite abruptly, he laughed. ‘I honestly don't know,’ he said. ‘I've no idea at all.’

  Learning Curves

  Solace closed her bedroom door quietly, the guilt of the ruined tripwalk pressing on her shoulders like a physical weight. She hadn't confirmed Glide's suspicions out loud – that the burning castle had something to do with her – but then again, she hadn't needed to. Instead, she'd expressed a desire to read her mother's book before Laine arrived, and declining both Jess's offer of company and the lure of Glide's touch, she'd headed straight upstairs to do just that.

  In the little time it had taken her to exit the lounge, Solace had replayed the vision in her head. The past, she thought. My past. Ever since Sharpsoft had first caused her to speak the word Starveldt, her imagination had conjured up images of a grand, improbably-situated castle out of hope and fantasy – or so she'd thought. Now, she wondered whether some older intuition had been at work. Seated on the bed she shared with Manx, her back to the wall and a doona draped over her knees, she opened her mother's book with steady fingers and started to read, beginning with the heading:

  After Grief

  Date: Unknown

  The Revolution is done for. Some nights ago – how many I do not know, but surely at least three full days have passed – Sanguisidera and her Bloodkin raided our home. The Five Clans are scattered and without leadership; I know for certain that Lars and his brethren are dead; and what will undoubtedly become of those taken captive does not bear thinking about. I can only hope that the raid was a consequence of Sanguisidera's madness – of all things to hope! – and not revenge for her discovery of the agent in her midst. I will not even write their name, in case this book should fall into her hands. And so, though I burn to tell more, I will only say this of the most important matter: the heart of our plans has been stolen. Only the grief of Sanguisidera remains.

  Aaron and I live. I will not attempt to describe our present location, except to say that it is strange, and that we are far from home. In truth, there is little sense in concealing such information from paper, but this reluctance is grown more from exhaustion and sorrow than caution. I do not even know why I write at all, nor why I troubled to save either this book or quill when all around us burned. Aaron tells me I grabbed at many things in our flight – trifles, mostly, though some were things of value – and that he had not the heart to deprive me of them all. I smiled a little at that, for he spoke kindly to me. What am I saying? He always speaks kindly to me.

  We need to rest. I am closer to collapse than perhaps these words let on. I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my chest. So much work, and so many plans, destroyed by the wrath and madness of our enemy. Sanguisidera. The name means ‘bloody star’. I can only think these events mean that hers is rising.

  Solace jerked her head up. She had read and re-read the first entry several times. Reverent, her fingers traced the page.

  ‘My mother wrote this,’ she whispered. My mother. The woman I saw in the vision. Lady Morgause Eleuthera of Starveldt. Wife of Aaron. A strange thought occurred to her. Did vampires even have mothers, or was there a different word for it? She knew she'd been born in the normal fashion, but given her rather unusual na
ture, did that still imply the same relationship as if she'd been wholly human? Could Morgause – or, for that matter, Solace – be both a woman and a vampire, technically speaking? She snorted. Of course they could. But the thought was persistent, nonetheless: that as with certain other creatures, there might be some obscure, eccentric word for a vampire male or female. Just then, she realised she was shaking, but whether with mirth or fear she couldn't tell. Reflexively in either case, she snuggled under the covers.

  ‘I know who I am. I know what I am,’ she said aloud, and gulped in the silence that followed. For a moment, she'd almost believed herself. Just because you've never killed doesn't mean you can't. Or won't, the Vampire Cynic whispered.

  Rather than think, she immersed herself in the book. It was a strange, haphazard diary, although most of the entries were frustratingly undated, leaving no means of telling how far apart they'd been written. Beginning with Morgause and Aaron's flight from Sanguisidera, the book chronicled the collapse of what her mother referred to as ‘the Rebellion’– a terminology which only made Solace think of Star Wars – and the rise of their enemies, the Bloodkin. It was some time before the history of this was made apparent. Solace felt her heart begin to pound as she read:

  Even should this book ever fall into Sanguisidera's hands, no harm could come from explaining what is already known to her, and – as Aaron has teased – in the event that anyone else might ever come across it, such a thing may prove useful, though how or why this might be I cannot fathom. Still, I will humour him – he reads over my shoulder as I write, and likes to know that his suggestions are taken to heart.

  Sanguisidera is fond of saying that vampires are among the eldest of the Rare, although the knowledge with which she supports this claim is unknown – to me, at least. Our kind has been given different names in different times and places, but ‘vampire’ seems to have become the most universal, either for good or ill. Folklore says many things of us, some of which are accurate, others of which are not, always remembering that we are each of us different, and that what may be true for some is not necessarily true for all. But there is one thirst which binds us under our common name: a lust for blood, and in particular the blood of man.

  Of its own, this doesn't make us evil. We are – most of us – no more monstrous than humans. We all have the urge to feed, but are generally capable of eating other substances. There is nothing which compels us to drink of humankind, save for one complication: that the blood of man is powerfully addictive. I do not know why, but there is the truth of the matter. Those who consume it exclusively will, in short order, become incapable of eating anything else. Once, I witnessed the effects. A friend. For him, the craving became intense to the point of pain and withdrawal. He tried to fight, but more and more, he saw humans only as food. The scent of them – and the guilt of his own reaction – drove him mad.

  There are those of us who have pledged not to feed on mankind for one reason or another: because we are safer if they leave us alone; because there is no need; because addiction in any form is demeaning; because they make poor sport; because they, like us, are thinking, feeling creatures.

  Sanguisidera disagrees.

  I do not know how old she is, although our present state is enough to attest to her power. We who oppose her began to ally more closely in response to her openand wanton butchery. Her disciples grew in number, vampires who would rather eradicate mankind than coexist – and not just our kind, but others of the Rare with similar, destructive goals. When her vampires began to refer to themselves as the Bloodkin – perhaps to distinguish themselves from her other, more mercenary followers – Aaron and I, along with the heads of the Five Clans, formed the Rebellion. It was not a war, not exactly, but what other word may apply? Sanguisidera hunted us as keenly as we hunted her. Lives were extinguished or broken in the course of it, Rare and human alike. And now the conflict is lost; our plans were shattered the night Starveldt burned.

  Only one more thing will I say; these failures pain me enough. Sanguisidera does not kill those whom she takes prisoner; neither does she ransom them, although at first she pretended to. Always her methods are the same: to feed the captive nothing but human blood until the addiction takes hold. If they are other than a vampire, she turns them first, and after that, they are lost. That I know of, only three have ever fought and conquered the addiction, due as much to mental harm as physical, because our bodies adapt to that single source of food. Many have died simply from being too far gone: they could not eat anything else, and starved. Men have called us immortal, but we are not invulnerable. Certain things will kill us, and although we may live for centuries, vampires – like all the Rare – must still replenish our flesh. Starvation is a slow killer of our kind, and an ugly way to die. The blood grows thinner and thinner, our minds weaker, until we can neither move, nor think, nor hope; until our bodies have dried into shells and the bones blown away.

  Enough. I will write no more.

  Shivering, Solace closed the book. A part of her brain begged her to register what had been said about Starveldt – that she effectively owned a whole entire castle, and that she'd seen it burn – but the rest of her couldn't think. Raised human, she nonetheless thirsted for something more than mere food. For as long as she could remember, Solace had been hungry, and not just because there was so little she could safely eat. Blood addiction sounded horrific, and all at once she found herself overwhelmed by the paranoia of what if. What if she'd bitten someone in childhood, in play or anger? What if, when Kelly had taunted her, she'd snapped a different way? So many possible accidents might have seen her lost, become a murdering, shambolic slave to a hunger she hadn't earned. It terrified her.

  Angrily, she shoved the book to the furthest end of the bed.

  ‘Stop it,’ she told herself sternly. ‘Now you're just being stupid. You're not a Bloodkin killer and you never will be.’

  That's what you think>

  ‘What?’

  The intruding voice had come from nowhere, androgynous and cruel. Solace leapt up at the sound of it, almost shrieking, but the room was empty. Heart thundering, she picked up her mother's book again and smoothed out the cover, trying to catch her breath. She knew that voice from Lukin's dungeon.

  ‘Faceless man,’ she whispered.

  ‘You okay?’

  This time, she did let out a yelp, but regretted it instantly. It was only Glide, leaning around the door with an awkward, apologetic look on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I'm interrupting. It's just – I thought I heard…’ His voice trailed off.

  Solace gulped, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘I scared myself, that's all. You can come in.’

  Glide stepped forward, pulling the door shut. Uncertain of what else to do, Solace moved the book aside and perched on the edge of the bed, her nerves jangling. Cautiously, as though uncertain of whether he was welcome or not, Glide sat down next to her, just close enough that their legs touched at knee and hip. Fear forgotten, Solace felt her stomach flip over. Part of her wanted desperately to rehash everything that had happened with Lukin, the better to explain why her mother's book and the faceless man had scared her so, but she didn't want to put Glide off, either. The tension between them felt electric. Frantically, Solace searched for something to say, but nothing sounded right. As he shifted his weight beside her on the bed, she turned, uncertain, and met his gaze.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘Don't be. You're always welcome.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’ Solace gulped. ‘I mean, we live together, right? It's not like I'm going to lock you out of my room.’

  ‘What about Manx?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Solace stared.

  Glide glanced away. ‘It's his room, too. You guys are… close. He probably doesn't want me hanging around you, least of all in here.’

  ‘But we're not together.’ Solace felt her voice tremble. ‘Not together together. We just s
leep together. But we don't – it's not like that. I said that wrong, we don't sleep together, just share the mattress, and anyway, I think he kind of has a thing for Electra, although nobody's actually said so, it's just this vibe, and I –’

  ‘Solace.’

  Glide cut through her babble. Solace blushed. Even the Vampire Cynic felt forlorn.

  What happened next seemed frozen in time, a moment of acute and aching slowness in which she almost forgot to breathe. Tentatively, Glide reached out and cupped her chin in his hand, drawing her gently forward. The tips of their noses brushed, and then, sweet as nepenthe, his lips found hers. Clumsily at first, Solace kissed back, but then, as his fingers stretched and twined through the hair at the nape of her neck, she moved more passionately, leaning into Glide with a pent-up yearning that matched his own. Then, just as suddenly as they'd come together, the two of them pulled away, touching foreheads, trembling, to gain a measure of space.

  Solace bit her lip, smiling. Glide smiled back. Each of them opened their mouth to speak, but before they could, someone hurtled upstairs and burst through the door. Guilty and startled, they sprang apart, but not quickly enough to fool Paige, who stopped dead in the centre of the room, eyes wide. Raising a hand, she pointed at them, awestruck.

  ‘You were –’