by Lana Melyan
“Oh, that?” Amanda smiled to herself. “The car is fine too.” She dropped onto the couch. “I left it at Hanna's. She'll bring it back tomorrow before school.” But her father still wore a question mark on his forehead, so she added, “I had champagne.”
“And Craig?”
“He didn't, so he could drive me home.”
“Very thoughtful of him.” The question mark disappeared. “They’re good friends.”
“Yes, they are. Look at what I got from them.” She held out her hand.
“It's beautiful.” Her dad leaned down, took her hand, and looked at the bracelet closely. “And it seems to be handmade.” He walked toward the cabinet and pulled out a small, light beige box. “I also have something for you.” He handed it to Amanda.
The box contained a white gold necklace. A pendant in the outline of a big drop hung on the chain. At the bottom of the drop was a small flower. Tiny diamonds covered both.
“Oh, Dad, it's gorgeous.” She hugged him tightly. “Thank you.”
“Let’s try it on,” said her dad. He took the necklace out of the box and put it around Amanda's neck. She went to the hallway mirror.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He walked up to her. “I was worried. I’m getting older, thought I’d lost my taste.”
“You? Getting older? No, Dad. You are young and handsome, and you are the coolest dad ever.”
“Okay, that's the alcohol speaking,” he said, but a tender smile appeared on his face. He put his hand around Amanda's shoulders. “Let’s go. I just made hot chocolate, and your cake is waiting for you.” She took his waist, and they shuffled to the kitchen.
It had been a long day. Amanda lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. All she could think about was Craig. She remembered his touch, his smile, and his voice echoed in her mind. It probably didn't mean much. It was her birthday, and he was just trying to be nice. But still, he wasn't only worried about Hanna—he was worried about her, too. And when he drove her home, he didn't leave until he knew she was safe.
What had made him so worried? Why did Craig ask all those questions when they were already home safely? It seemed Craig and Hanna knew something Amanda didn't. And Hanna, she became so different, so serious and grown up.
Amanda shook off those thoughts. She didn't want to think about it right now. She put one hand under her cheek and the other on the bracelet and fell asleep.
5
Craig's eyes followed Amanda as she left the car. The moment she entered the house and closed the door behind her, he gripped the wheel and drove home at full speed.
“Hanna!” he called from the hallway.
“I’m here.”
Hanna's voice came from the living room. He found her curled up on the couch.
“Are you out of your mind?” he said furiously.
Hanna blinked.
“Craig, I know I should—”
But Craig went on.
“Two leeches prowling around you and you say you didn't want her to worry?”
“Craig, I’m sorry—”
“You should have dragged them into the car and left instantly! What were you thinking?”
“Listen,” Hanna shouted back, “I can't act like that every time. They already look at me like I’m some freak.”
“Your purpose here is to protect her. We are here to keep her safe. Hanna, she turned eighteen tonight. This is it, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”
“Craig, they’re not going to hurt her. They need her, too,” she said, her voice calming.
“But they can take her away, and by the time we find them, it could be too late.” He sat beside her. “And think what kind of danger we’re putting Kimberly in every time. She can become an innocent victim.”
“I know,” Hanna sighed.
They sat in silence for a minute. Then Craig stood up and headed upstairs to his bedroom.
“Good night, Craig,” said Hanna.
Craig looked at her.
“I crossed the line today. I was too nice to her. I shouldn’t do that.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. She’s in love with you, I can see that.”
“I can see it, too,” he said. “But right now, she’s just a girl who doesn’t know anything. I want her to know first.”
He stepped into his bedroom and walked to the open window without turning on the light. The sky was clear now, and only a pleasant smell of wet grass reminded of the past rain. He took off his leather jacket, threw it on the bed, and lay down.
He remembered Amanda’s smile, her soft hand and flushed, silky cheeks. It was so difficult to keep cool, to hide his feelings when her warm brown eyes looked at him. He wanted to press her to his heart and bury his face in her long, brown hair. Imagining that, his chest filled with pain. The image reminded him of another, almost the same—he was pressing to his heart a young woman with long, brown curly hair. But that picture was from his distant past. The woman’s name was Eleanor. She was dead. Craig, his face buried in her hair, was crying and screaming, because the pain of this loss was unbearable and probably would have killed him, had he been able to die.
It was the year 1669. The mount Etna erupted in Sicily. The citizens of Catania didn’t leave the town, truly believing that its defensive walls would protect them. A huge amount of ash, like black snow, covered streets and roofs. The destructive lava got closer and closer, demolishing everything in its path.
When the first houses started burning, the people, overcome with delayed panic, tried to run as far as possible. The luckiest ones, who had carriages and wagons, sped out of the city, leaving behind hundreds of others crying for help.
A young man was giving a hand to his mother and father to climb into a carriage when he saw an old woman with two little girls clutching her legs, standing on the small balcony of the burning house. He was the last passenger the carriage waited for. The coachman, who was barely holding his restless horses, yelled at him, “Veloce! Veloce!”
The young man put one foot on the step, hesitating. Then he looked at his mother and said, “I need to do something. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find a horse. I’ll be right behind you.” Stepping back, he yelled, “Go!” to the coachman. The moment he slammed the carriage door, the horses raced.
“Craig! No! Craig!” his mother cried.
“Come back!” his father called.
But Craig threw one last glance after the speeding carriage and ran to the burning house.
Saving the girls wasn’t a problem. They were small, and the woman, holding them by the hands, hung them over the balcony and dropped them into Craig’s arms.
The problem was the woman herself. Craig didn’t speak Italian, and he tried to gesture for her to drop down too. But the woman wasn’t looking at Craig, with his hands up, ready to catch her. She was looking at the girls, telling them something and desperately waving them away from her.
Craig didn’t have much time. The whole house was on fire, the roof beginning to fall apart. He started to climb, clinging to hot protrusions which could crack at any second and let the flame out.
He reached the balcony and begged, “Please, Signora, please.” She let him help her over the railing. When he lowered her down, he saw two men on horses riding toward them through the crowd. One of them jumped down from the horse and hurried the girls away from the house. The other man rode closer to the balcony and said something to the woman that made her finally let go of Craig’s arm, which she had been clutching with both hands, and drop down onto the horse.
As the man led the horse away, Craig lifted his leg to climb over the balcony. In that moment, a heavy object hit him over the head. He fell down. Searing pain rushed through his body, and all sounds became distant. He smelled burning hair and fabric. He pushed himself up but was knocked over again, this time on his back. From the portico, he saw a blurry picture—burning pieces of the roof cascading on top of him.
The first thing Craig saw when he opened
his eyes was a torch hanging from the low ceiling and swaying side to side. The room moved with it, and the muffled sound of waves lapping against the wooden wall left no doubts that he was on a ship. He sat up and looked at his hands, then at his chest, then carefully touched his face and hair.
The last thing he remembered, before everything went dark in front of his eyes, were the burning logs collapsing over him and the pain that came along with them. But now there were no traces of burns, no pain at all. The white shirt he was wearing wasn’t his—it was clean and undamaged. Somebody had saved him, and that somebody was probably the man on the horse, although Craig could not understand how. And even if that man had saved him, how did he cure him so fast? Was it fast? He didn’t know how long he had been lying here.
He stood up and took a few steps. For somebody who had been lying unconscious, he felt surprisingly well—no numbness in the feet, no dizziness, not even the slightest headache.
He didn’t just feel good. It was more than that. He felt a rush of energy in his body, felt his loud heartbeat. Question after question popped up in his head, and he needed to find somebody to answer them.
He walked to the door and stepped out into a small hall. There was another door on the opposite side and stairs, going up. He took the stairs. They led him to a large, windowed room, unlike the previous one. It was dark outside, and only one torch, standing on a massive table, lit the room. The room was empty, and Craig didn’t hear any voices. He supposed that it was deep into the night, and most of the people were probably asleep.
He went out on the deck. The sky was covered with clouds but even without the moonlight, he could clearly see the endless surface of the ocean. The sharp, cold wind didn’t bother him. Craig had always been energetic and athletic, but it was nothing compared to what he felt right now. Every muscle in his body screamed for action. He wanted to run, jump, fight, and do it all at the same time. He took a deep breath of the cold, wet and salty air. An inexplicable sense of freedom and power filled him.
Craig saw three men standing beside the wheel on the other end of the three-mast ship.
“Welcome on board the Destiny,” spoke a calm, deep voice behind him.
Craig spun around.
“Thank you, sir.”
“My name is Samson. I am the captain of this ship.”
Even though the man was without his hat and wig, revealing his shoulder length brown hair, Craig immediately recognized him. As he’d thought, it was the man on the horse, the one who’d helped him save the old woman. He wore a white shirt and a leather vest, tightly bound to his strong body.
“How do you feel?” asked Samson.
“Very well, sir.” Craig smiled. “Too well for somebody who should be lying dead right now.”
“Good to hear,” said Samson. “Your English is very good. I assume that you are not Italian.”
“No, sir, I am not. My name is Craig Kaylan. I am from Scotland,” said Craig, then added, “You don’t look Italian yourself, sir.”
“I was born in England,” said Samson. He looked at the three men beside the wheel. Two of them started toward Craig and Samson. “Not now,” said the Captain.
At first Craig thought he was talking to him, seeing as he spoke in the same low voice. But then he saw the two men on the other end of the ship stop and walk back.
“They heard you? How can they? It’s sixty feet between us,” he said in astonishment. The creaking of masts and the noise of the waves made Samson barely audible even to him.
“Let’s go inside,” said the captain, pointing to the door.
They stepped into the cabin.
“Sir, I am very grateful to you for saving my life,” said Craig. He approached the table and stood behind one of the six tall chairs around it.
“I’m glad I succeeded.” Samson sighed. “You were lying under burning wood and the house was about to collapse.”
“It was very brave and noble of you. I hope you didn’t harm yourself,” Craig said.
“It’s not that easy to harm me. Even then, I heal fast. It’s you I was worried about. Half of your body was covered in burns. Your pulse was so weak you could have died at any moment. I needed to get you to the ship as quickly as possible.”
Craig looked at his hands again and ran them through his hair.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“But, sir, that’s impossible,” said Craig.
His excitement increased. Samson, who could probably tell, waited patiently for the next question.
“Sir, you just said that it’s not easy to harm you,” said Craig. “What does that mean?”
Samson glanced at Craig, then walked to the chest of drawers. He took out a sheet of paper, rolled it, and lit it off the torch. As the fire grew, he put his hand around it and held it there until almost all of the paper had burned. He squeezed the rest and threw it away.
“Look,” he said, extending his hand.
Craig leaned over and looked at the hand closely. It wasn’t red, not even pink. It wasn’t damaged at all.
“Is it an illusion?” he asked.
“Illusion?” Samson smiled, bemused, and cleared his throat. He walked back to the chest of drawers. This time he pulled out a big knife and handed it to Craig, “Does this knife look real to you?”
Craig took it. First he tried to bend it, and then he tested the blade on his thumb.
“Yes, it is real,” he said warily.
Samson took the knife. He put his hand on the table and stuck the knife through it.
Craig’s stomach clenched. Only a few beads of blood spurted from the cut. When Samson pulled the knife out, it was red but the wound wasn’t bleeding—it healed right in front of Craig’s wide eyes, and in a few seconds, it was gone. Craig was stunned. He closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Who are you?” His brow furrowed. “Or, what are you?”
“I am human,” said Samson folding his hands behind his back, “but I am different than others.”
“How different?”
“As you saw, I can’t be harmed. That means that my friends and I, we can’t die. Besides that, we are also very strong and have powers.”
“Powers,” Craig repeated thoughtfully. “Is healing people one of them? How did you cure me?”
“No, I don’t have healing powers.” Samson bowed his head and began walking back and forth.
“Sir?” called Craig.
Samson stopped.
“There was only one way to save you,” he said, looking straight into Craig’s eyes. “I made you one of us.”
Craig’s mouth went dry. His next words came out as a whisper.
“What did you do to me?”
“I am sorry that I didn’t give you a choice before I turned you.”
“Turned me? What did you do to me? How did you do it?”
Craig looked at Samson, suddenly remembering the legends about the powerful and immortal vampires who looked human. How people tried to hunt the creatures, but they were too fast and too strong, and the hunters ended up dead. According to legend, to turn somebody into their kind, the vampire had to first drink the victim’s blood and then feed the victim the vampire’s blood. Most of the victims had bite marks on their necks. Craig’s hand flew up to his neck, inspecting his artery.
“You are not a vampire,” said Samson.
Craig realized that even if he had been bitten, the trace would have been gone by now, same as the rest of his wounds.
“Vampires don’t have a heartbeat. Put your hand on your chest.”
But Craig didn’t need to. His heart was beating so loudly that the sound plugged his ears.
“Then what am I?” he asked angrily.
“Vampires are monsters,” said a soft voice behind him.
Craig turned around and saw a young woman ascending the same stairs that had led him to this room. She was in her night robe, her gorgeous black hair flowing down her shoulders.
“Yes, we
have powers and we are immortal,” the woman continued, “but we are humans, and our purpose is to hunt down those monsters and destroy them. We are Hunters. There is a lot more out there than just vampires. There are also werewolves, demons, and other beasts.” She looked at Samson. “How am I doing for my first time, my love?”
“Remarkable.” Samson smiled.
“I thought you might need some support.” She walked to him and leaned back on his chest. She was almost as tall as Samson, her head coming up to his cheekbones.
“Definitely. You see, my charm doesn’t work on him the way it works on you.” He hugged her and kissed her hair. Then he looked at Craig. “This is my wife, Gabriella. She became one of us only fifteen years ago, and you are the first transformation she’s witnessed.”
“Fifteen years ago,” repeated Craig. He looked at her, trying to guess her age. “How often do you . . . do it?” he asked.
“It happens very rarely. It’s not easy. I can’t simply bring anybody,” said Samson, letting go of Gabriella.
“Does it mean that you turned me not because I was dying, but because you chose me?” asked Craig.
“Yes. I couldn’t let you die. We need people like you.”
“People like me? What’s so special about me?”
“Your question only proves that I made the right choice,” said Samson. “You are a very brave man. You sacrificed your young life to save an old woman. It doesn’t happen every day, and we are not always around when it does.”
“Then I should consider myself lucky,” said Craig bitterly. “How rare is it, I mean, how many are you?”
“With you, we are now six. The last one before Gabriella, I turned eighty years ago.”
Craig stared at him. “How old are you?”
“I am twenty nine.”
Craig narrowed his eyes.
“And I’ve been twenty nine for the last four hundred and fifty years,” added Samson.
Craig looked at Samson’s forehead, then his eyes slid down to Samson’s neck and hands before they froze on the knife still lying on the table.
“This can’t be true,” he whispered.