Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  Volkov stared at her, golden eyes dark. Emily leaned in closer, so close that he could smell her.

  Extraordinarily, she could smell him too. Not in the usual way; it wasn’t like being stuck on the bus next to a man that clearly hasn’t washed in weeks. It was incredible; Volkov smelled of forests, and damp stone, and air during a storm. She knew that it was part of the curse, but she couldn’t help but get lost in it for just a moment.

  Then, she said. “I may have fought you then, but I won’t fight you anymore.”

  He looked at her for a long time in silence, and she looked back at him, green meeting gold. Then, Volkov closed his eyes and moved his hand away. He sniffed deeply, and visibly sagged before Emily’s eyes.

  “The house is burning,” he stated flatly.

  “Yes,” Emily said. To her, the house was now a place of tainted memories. “It’s spreading fast, there’s not much time.”

  “Not much time for what, Miss Emily?”

  Emily took a deep breath, thankful that she still breathed at all. “For us to… finish what we started.”

  She hoped that would be enough; Emily didn’t have the first clue about seducing anyone, let alone a vampire that was hundreds of years old. Volkov’s eyes opened again, slowly and deliberately. His eyes locked with hers one more, and his intent was clear in his gaze. Emily felt nothing but confusion.

  He grabbed her arms and pulled them around him, forcing her to hold them there. Then he grabbed her head with both hands and pushed her mouth to his in a fierce kiss. She wanted to protest, to squirm and say no, but she had to play this carefully. She made herself kiss him back, and after a while she grew adventurous and bit his bottom lip, feeling a little better for the small release of disgust she secretly felt. Volkov responded to the bite with an aroused growl and began planting rough, wet kisses along her neck. It was horrifying, how good it felt, but she tried not to respond too much. Make him want it more, make him stupid with desire, that’s the way to do it. She told herself this over and over in her head. It made her feel better.

  She pulled back and moved away, going further into the attic so he would have to follow her. And he did, grabbing at her, yet allowing her to pull away and move further into the attic.

  Emily knew exactly where she was going. She had memorised where the sword was being kept. She wanted it, needed it, and so she intended to have it no matter what. With one long pale finger, she beckoned Volkov to follow her, and he did, like a dog. In many ways they were similar to humans really. She wondered how much of themselves every vampire retained. Did it vary from person to person, or was it the same for everyone that had vampire blood running rampant through their veins?

  Volkov was close to her now, and the sword was within her grasp, she could feel it. She needed to get up against the boxes it was stuck between, so she backed up into them and awkwardly arranged herself in what she hoped was an alluring pose. Volkov threw his weight upon her, groping at her breast and moaned against her throat.

  “You’re not going to bite me again, are you?” Emily said, the fear ringing in her voice. She couldn’t be confident, not with Volkov’s mouth at her neck.

  She felt him smile, his lips shifting against her skin. “Why not?”

  “Because…” she floundered; there wasn’t a real answer that she could give, not one that he would respect. So, she resumed the act “I just… I don’t want you to. I want you to…” here she had to swallow, not needing to pretend to be nervous; so much could go wrong here. “I think I want you to make love to me. For real, this time.” she said, keeping her eyes down. If she were still human, her cheeks would be stained red from the mortification of what she’d just done. But she was pretending, she told herself this, “I want to do that with you.”

  Volkov’s eyes softened, which she didn’t expect. She had thought he would instantly turn predatory and do her harm, but the gold in his eyes seem lighter as he looked at her. And then, slowly, he kissed her.

  It was different to the kiss before, which had been all roughness and violence and power. This time he was gentle, considerate, and against her better judgement she felt a little warmth inside. She was at least quick to brush it away and get back to the task at hand. Volkov began to trace soft kisses along her neck; his lips were cool and full, they felt too good against her skin. It’s all part of the act, she told herself, all part of the act. She was waiting for him to move lower, waiting for him to grab her hips and take her. She tried to shut herself off from everything else. She had to say yes, it was the only way she could get any kind of leverage on him. So, when Volkov did take her hips, his fingers sinking into the responsive flesh of her groin, she bucked and pushed her feet against his chest, knocking him back and flat on his backside. A stunned silence followed.

  Emily scrambled over the boxes and grabbed the sword, pulling it up impressively quickly considering the narrowness of the gap. Volkov scrambled up and turned to look accusingly at Emily. His face transformed subtly, but the face he showed now, his true face, was horrifying. It was the face of a monster, his features so twisted, and those blood red eyes glinting like diamonds in the dark. Fear gripped her heart and squeezed tight. She couldn’t breathe, only stare, listening to her heart stutter so incredibly loudly in her ears. But then, did she even need to breathe? How far gone was she now? Emily was afraid that she would become like him, one day, were she to become a vampire. She couldn’t allow such a thing. If she couldn’t be cured of it, then she would have to die.

  And this had to end now.

  Volkov lunged at her, all teeth and claws. Emily gritted her teeth and pushed the blade up with as much strength as she could manage; it was met with the fearsome sound of metal slicing through flesh, a frustrated roar from Volkov. He had landed directly on the blade, but through the gut, not the heart. He hung there, never helpless but suddenly at a disadvantage. Turning her head so she didn’t have to look anymore, she took the sword into both of her hands and forced Volkov off her and to the ground. She put her foot on his chest and withdrew the sword, which came out smeared in that same black, stinking blood that had come from the countess. Emily took her foot away, not wanting to get blood on her shoes.

  He lay there, momentarily stunned. But then he sat up, the wound in his stomach already starting to knit itself back together. Emily still had the sword. She brandished it entirely incorrectly but she didn’t care, it helped her to feel strong. He smiled at her, skin flaking off and fluttering to the ground around him.

  “Miss Emily,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  Emily could feel sweat pouring down her face; she felt feverish.

  No, she thought, no not now. Not now.

  Through the coming haze, she pushed the tip of the sword into Volkov’s chest. He laughed, because she halted there and didn’t move it further.

  “You won’t do it,” he said through his laughter. “I know you, Miss Emily, and you will not do it. You are kind and you understand. That’s why I chose you.”

  Emily felt a deep, desperate urge to pull away, to drop the sword and give in. He was so strong, even when he was wounded. She should have known that.

  “What a fool she was,” said a voice that was not hers.

  She wanted to cover her ears, but that would mean dropping the sword. But she also wanted to let go, she wanted to drop the damn thing. It was hurting her hands.

  Stop, Emily told herself, this is what he wants.

  And she remembered, then. She remembered all the things that Richard Volkov, the dark wolf, had done to her over the course of their ‘relationship’ - she wouldn’t know what else to call it. He had been cruel and cold and strange, and at times charming and something like the man he might have been were he not turned and made icy and indifferent. The cut on her hand, the bite of the rat, the kiss of the vampire. So much hurt, such agony.

  Then Emily remembered Volkov raping her in her dream – she chose to believe it was a dream, to save her sanity – and hated him despite the pull towa
rds him. She could never forgive this violation of her body; real or not, it was a sickening exercise in power that she simply wouldn’t stand for. Not anymore.

  “Do you remember when you said I was kind,” she said, “and that I understood, and that was why you chose me?”

  He looked at her with bemusement, deliberately blasé. “Yes?”

  Emily’s cheeks were wet; she was crying, but she didn’t realise.

  “Well, I’ve seen you for who you are, Richard, and you were right, I do understand. I understand that I’ve seen your true face.” she said, gripping the handle harder until both hands throbbed with in time with her heartbeat. She swallowed, took a deep breath.

  “You made the wrong choice.”

  Emily pulled back before thrusting the blade forward with a hard, vicious grunt. She stabbed into air; Volkov had gone. She staggered forward and lowered the sword, tip clanging against the floor.

  “Bastard!” she screamed, the fury tearing at her throat. She had never felt this angry before, not in her whole life. Was this what she was to become, some violent, hateful thing?

  “Why do you resist me, Miss Emily?” his voice echoed about the attic, but she couldn’t see him. She frantically began to search, no longer concerned with being careful when it had gotten her nowhere in the past. She dragged the sword along with her, trying to ignore her aching arms. She could still feel pain, at least. In a weird way, it was a good thing.

  “I resist you because you want to take and own things you can’t have,” She said, weaving in and out of the cloth covered paintings, the endless number of objects littered across the wooden floors. “You can’t just own people, Richard, surely you understand that?”

  Evidently this was the right thing to say. Volkov appeared a small distance away from her left, and she turned to face him, sword at the ready. It must have looked comical, this small and pale woman brandishing a medieval weapon at a vampire in its true form, but to Emily there had never been anything more serious. Volkov stood up straight, head cocked on one side.

  “You are mine, Miss Emily,” Volkov said in a low, soft voice. “Even if I die the true death as you intend, you will still be mine.”

  His words chilled her, but she didn’t let it show. She straightened up as far as she could go, wishing she could brush the hair out of her eyes. She did her best to toss it back and away from her, but it was unruly, and so it persisted in falling back.

  “No, I’m not,” she said, ensuring that her voice didn’t wobble, that she didn’t sound afraid. “I belong only to myself.”

  And then she ran, pulling up the sword and, with the momentum, drove the sword forward like a soldier trying to bury a bayonet into a bag of sand during training.

  This time, she hit home. The sword slid into Volkov’s chest and straight through his heart.

  ***

  Reverend Jonathan Abrahms used to love the smell of the sea. He enjoyed its freshness and how bracing it was on a cool morning jog; it felt like that air was good for him. He would run, the air filled with the sound of the gulls and the lap of the water, all music to his ears not so long ago.

  Now the sea smelled only of death, and the sounds that once calmed him now only served to agitate.

  He had made it down to the cavern. The lid of one of the boxes had been misplaced, and he could see the dirt inside. The soil was embedded with any number of dead and living insects, and bleached animal bones poked through the dirt. The sight of it disturbed him, and he grabbed the box of matches from the pocket of his coat and set about the job. After covering the boxes with fresh lighter fluid, Abrahms tried to light the match, striking unsuccessfully against the box. His hands shook, and he quickly grew frustrated.

  He tried a new match, and then another, until thankfully the third one granted him a weak little flame. Abrahms gave it a few seconds until the flame grew bigger, then flicked it into the open box. The flames began to spread quickly; Abrahms wouldn’t be able to get past the flames to the cellar entrance. He’d have to make the climb up the cliff.

  He stumbled to the edge, temporarily blinded by smoke that painfully blew into his eyes thanks to the powerful sea winds. Peering up through streaming eyes, the top of the cliff seemed impossibly far away. A distance that he could not travel, he was certain of that. In his youth, Abrahms had not been fond of climbing, and could only just about tolerate long walks. Over the years he came to appreciate the benefits of being active, but he had never gotten over his hatred of climbing. Jogging was one thing, scaling a cliff face was quite another.

  The wind from the sea was ceaseless and sharp, whipping about his face. It was times like this when he would wish he had hair again, to stop his head from going numb in the deeply cold air. He took a deep, shaking breath, and tentatively climbed the first stone step, though it was so precarious, all the steps were incredibly narrow and dangerous.

  And as he slowly made his way up the cliff, back firmly against the wall of stone, he heard the frustrated screaming of the countess. He jumped, startled at its suddenness, almost slipping and falling into the choppy waters below, where he would drown if the rocks didn’t get him first. He threw himself back hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. He stopped for a moment and tried to calm down, which was difficult given that the countess’ screams showed no signs of quieting any time soon. He couldn’t help but feel glad of her pain, even though he was sure that was wrong. He couldn’t help it; he wanted the countess and Volkov to suffer. Speaking of which, why did Volkov not mourn the loss of his earth? Abrahms could only hope that Emily was all right.

  Wearily, Abrahms resumed his journey, trying not to let his breathing get out of control; he was afraid of being overcome by dizziness. He wasn’t overly fond of heights, so he tried to only look up or straight ahead, at the horizon. It was getting lighter all the time; soon the sun would appear, to shine brightly through the thin, grey morning clouds. The waves crashed against the rocks beneath him, as if they were eager to have him. Abrahms shook his head and kept going. He was getting closer now.

  Jonathan Abrahms would die tonight, but not like this. He could give himself to the water, but that wouldn’t be true repentance. He was so shamed by his weakness, but killing himself was never on the cards. The relief he felt when he reached the top was brief, because he knew what was likely awaiting him there.

  He scrambled up and into the graveyard, gasping. It was quiet here, the dead offering their silent company. Abrahms walked through the headstones, past the weeping angels and into the garden where there were no dead.

  At least, not yet.

  Abrahms stopped for a moment to look around. The wind whistled through the shrubs and plants, all rustling around him as he stood there, thinking of what to do next.

  There was no sign of the fire from the outside yet, but it wouldn’t be long before the whole place went up. Abrahms had made sure to leave a trail of lighter fluid that led into the cellar, where he’d also had a busy time dousing the boxes. The fire in the cavern would spread inside; another part of the house sacrificed to the flame.

  Then he heard it. A low growling, coming from somewhere in the garden. From the sound of It, it was at least a short distance away, but it still set the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. He began to look around, searching for the flash of the eyes, a streak of fur against the greenery, but the beast was hiding somewhere and there was nothing for him to latch onto. He turned his head to look at the house again, and he heard the swift padding of paws along the gravel. He spun back around to see the white wolf loping towards him. He flashed back to his youth and his first fight with one of those shape-shifting creatures. He had had a knife then, but no knife now. He could use the last of the lighter fluid, but he didn’t trust his aim when there was an animal staring him down. No, he needed something else. A rock would do, if it was sharp enough. His eyes dashed about as the wolf came closer, and when his eyes settled on it again, he noticed that the beast was in bad shape. Its white fur was stained with blood, the b
ody covered in sores and wounds. It must be the countess. Abrahms groaned.

  “You really are a child,” Abrahms said to the wolf, looking straight into its yellow eyes. “You think you know everything, but you don’t. You need to learn something about humility, little girl. You need to learn when to cut your losses and give up.”

  With that, he jumped forward and grabbed the wolf by the scruff of its neck, locking his arms around it as fast as he could. The wolf snapped wildly, bucking its body in rebellion. Abrahms tightened his grip and tried to choke it; even if it didn’t really need to breathe the reflexes might kick in. The wolf writhed in his grasp, thwacking his back with its tail in a way that was impressively painful; even when hurt, the creature was strong. But Abrahms was strong too; he always had been. He was small but stocky, and good with heavy lifting. He tried to force the beast down, but she snapped at his face and sent him hurtling back to avoid those gnashing teeth. He let go of the wolf and scrambled along the gravel, looking for the nearest window. Along the way, he grabbed the biggest stone he could find and threw it at the glass with all the force he could muster. It shattered, the glass tinkling as it spread itself about the ground. Abrahms scrabbled about, looking for a shard big enough to use as a weapon.

  But the she-wolf was upon him, white fur seeming grey in the dim morning light, not yet bright enough to repel her. She leapt upon his back, forcing him to the ground with a heavy thud. His skin was immediately bitten by the stray shards of glass beneath him. The weight of the wolf pushed him deeper into them, burying themselves in his face and neck. The pain was indescribable. Abrahms’ arms were thrown out on either side of him, and he blindly groped, wincing as he was cut again and again. Mercifully, he found a piece that he could wrap his hand around, and a quick check with the point of his finger confirmed the edges were sharp enough.

  He tried to lift himself up, but the wolf bit at his neck, puncturing the skin as a warning. He waited there, wondering what was going to happen to him. He just needed to get turned around.