Bleeding Hearts: Book One of the Demimonde

by Ash Krafton

  Rodrian closed his eyes for a moment and held his breath. A curtain in my mind slowly slid back, reuniting me with my memory. All of it. At once.

  I never took my eyes from his face as he unraveled the control he'd set on my memory. Maybe I blinked a few times. Rodrian gave me a look of marvel, perhaps thinking how brave and strong I must be. Truth was I felt pretty much dead and I simply didn't have the strength to react.

  He smoothed back my hair and spoke softly, explaining that the people in the room were healers and that I'd lost a lot of blood.

  "I remember," I said.

  "Marek managed to close the... wounds on your..." He brushed unsure fingers at along the edge of the bandage as if he couldn't believe it was there. "If he hadn't..."

  Rodrian bit his lower lip, unable to continue.

  The harsh voice spoke up and the face of its owner came into view. An older, fair skinned man with short red and grey hair stepped closer to the bed. Dunkan?

  He handed Rodrian a cloth, motioning he should place it on my head. "If he hadn't, you would have bled out completely. I've never brought back a human who was so close to death before. You're as close to a miracle as I've ever come and I do some pretty miraculous work."

  "Indeed." Rodrian smiled up at him. "Your gifts are much appreciated, Pontian."

  Appearing mollified, the older man gestured to the other people in the room and they left. Rodrian fixed the cloth upon my head, coolness against the heat burning from within.

  "Rode." The dryness in my throat splintered my voice into a fit of coughing. He produced a cup of water and pressed the straw to my lips. I couldn't bear the pain past a few small swallows but the water helped. "What else happened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  My voice shrank. "Jared."

  "Ah. You know he..."

  "Yeah." I didn't want him to say the word. It would only make it true.

  "We recovered him. Pontian... erased... some of the outward damage and set wards on his body to hide the cause of death. We returned him to his rooms, where someone 'discovered' he died in his sleep from a failed heart."

  I pressed trembling lips together. Jared, whose heart had been strongest of all. His heart never would have failed.

  He was in the ground before I'd even opened my eyes. "He was seen to, Sophie. I knew how much he meant to you. I took care of everything myself. Please, don't ever doubt that."

  I tried to smile but it felt shallow. "Thanks, Rode. I needed to hear that."

  He squeezed my hand and rearranged the cloth, powerless to do anything to help.

  "Marek? Is he coming soon?"

  "Oh..." Rodrian looked at the wall over my head and fresh tears welled in his eyes. He took three deep breaths before getting the words out. "His survival was as dubious as your own. He left instructions for your care and withdrew from us. He's gone."

  His quiet voice held massive disbelief, betraying his confusion and pain. Even in my sorry state, my heart and will couldn't leave him to suffer alone. I closed my eyes and reached out for him with tired mental fingers, wanting to ease his pain.

  I met cold resistance. My eyes flew open as I sought the source of the block.

  Pontian stepped over to the bedside. "I'm sorry, Sophia. I can hear what you're thinking so I know what you're trying to do. You're weak and I cannot allow you access to your gift until I know it won't kill you. I've got your veins filled with volumizer to keep your heart pumping. The exertion of using your gift could cause your body to shut down."

  "My gift? I don't understand."

  "Your gift." He sounded a trifle annoyed he had to explain. "It's the ability to feel. Empathy. It's what makes you aware of us. It's what brings the Sophia. And it is tied to your blood, the same as our gifts."

  I stared at him. "You knew? Why didn't someone explain this before?"

  "Not everyone understands their own gifts, let alone the Sophia's."

  "But you knew," I accused.

  "Yes, because as a healer I get into people's bodies. I know how things work, which is why I can fix them when they break."

  "Why couldn't you have told someone?"

  "No one ever asked me. And I'm kept rather busy tending to this lot."

  Nice bedside manner, I thought.

  "Do you want manners or miracles?" He shrugged and left the room.

  Rodrian had a pensive look on his face and seemed preoccupied with the way the blankets had been folded. "I didn't know."

  I closed my eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't want it back. Marek is gone."

  "Sophie, you can't give up."

  "I can't?" I cried but no tears came. My body couldn't spare them. "Why not?"

  "Because I need you." He leaned over me, holding me again, careful this time not to disturb my head. His shoulders began to shake and I slid my hands around his neck, pressing him to me, utterly helpless to heal his pain.

  We cried together before I slipped back under.

  When next I dreamed, I knew I dreamed.

  I woke into the dream, sitting up. My neck hurt but it was merely a hint of pain, muted by the sleep that held my true consciousness down. Peering into the darkness I sought the cause of my abrupt alarm and found it. Standing at the foot of my bed was Marek.

  Marek wore the darkness the way a portrait wore its paint. His loose hair fell over his shoulders and melted like a veil onto his black overcoat, giving him the appearance of a weeping monument, grey and bleak. His eyes, misty green energy, were the only flash of color in this room of shadow.

  I leaned and reached for the light at my bedside, unable to take my eyes from him. Fumbling for the switch, I missed the lamp altogether and almost crashed onto the floor. He caught me and set me back gently against my pillow without turning on the light, lingering but a moment before retreating.

  Although I couldn't feel him or his power, I remembered what had happened the last time he touched me. I cringed. If I cried for help, would someone wake me?

  His voice was a deep whisper inside my head. I cannot stay long. I will not have them know I was here, and I cannot abide seeing what I have done to you.

  Have you come to finish me?

  I need your forgiveness.

  I need you here with me, my heart and mind cried. I need us back the way we were.

  I cannot be. He turned away and his long jacket whirled around him, as if a slow-motion breeze played with the fabric. I am of this place no longer.

  He melted toward the open windows. The curtains swayed gently, reaching out to him with beckoning arms. I was right about you all this while. You will always be with me. In my mind. In my heart. And, though it is to be my greatest grief, in my veins. Forever.

  Marek bowed his head, the glare of the streetlight making his outline a sharp contrast of light and dark.

  I am sorry, Sophie. I loved you so much. Forget me, now. I will not taint you with mine own damnation.

  The curtain billowed out, enveloping him and drawing him into the night. His voice faded into the sounds of wind. Tears, hot and wet and devoid of color, pushed me back onto the pillows. I surrendered to the shadows of sleep before I drowned.

  I woke easily into the late morning sunlight and stretched, weary but awake. Reaching up, I rubbed my bare throat. No bandages.

  Hmm. I must have overslept. Crazy dream.

  Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I pushed to my feet and headed toward the bathroom, intending to heed nature's call. Instead, I flopped flat on my face onto the floor. I banged my knees and my elbows and the shock was almost as loud as the noise.

  The bedroom door flew open and Dahlia rushed in, helping me to my feet, scolding me and coddling me at the same time. She helped me across the hall and onto the toilet, all the while talking, talking, talking.

  All I heard was a voice in my head repeating itself. It was real. Not a dream. It was real.

  She hovered over me, trying to avoid stepping on my feet or falling into my lap. Really, my bathroom was too small for more than
one person. "You okay? You won't fall off the toilet?"

  "I don't think so." My pride wouldn't allow for it. Bad enough she half-carried me while I was clad in a tee shirt and underwear. Self-esteem dropped another three percentage points because she even asked.

  "Can you stand a bath?" Her voice held more tact than I'd have liked. "Because you really need one."

  Okay, four points. I screwed my eyes up at her. "Thanks, Dally."

  "No offense. I'll get the water started if you think you won't drown."

  "I'm not ready to die yet."

  "I didn't think so," she said with a grin. "But we'll skip the bubble bath just in case. It makes resuscitation a bitch."

  Twenty minutes later, I soaked in the tub with the curtain half drawn. She insisted on being able to see my head from her watchful perch on the sink.

  Dahlia filled me in on what had happened in my life while I'd slept through it. Posing as a cousin, she'd taken care of my affairs while I was ill. She called me off work, using the excuse I needed time off for a funeral.

  "There's a load of flowers from your friends at work. Wait 'til you see the living room. You'll think it's a flower convention out there."

  "How long have I been out of it?" I tried to talk around my toothbrush. The taste in my mouth had been overwhelming. Dahlia agreed it was too risky standing in front of the sink so she gave me a cup to spit in and let me brush my teeth in the tub.

  Dahlia gave me a careful look as she replied. "Four days."

  "Oh." I didn't know what to say. I never lost four days before. "Anything good come in the mail?"

  Eventually I was dressed and propped up on the couch. She hadn't exaggerated; my living room had become a hot house. Fraidy curled on the table under a canopy of petals and leaves, peering out like the jungle cat he often pretended to be.

  "I'll pour a dose of treatment," she said. Dahlia brought me something to drink and disappeared into my room.

  I stared at the glass of ugly she'd left on the coffee table. She must have been mistaken. I mean, it was foul. Green and chunky. I doubted it was even liquid. If the muck had farted at me, I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.

  I still eyed the glass with suspicion when she emerged from my room, holding an armload of bedclothes. Her eyes lit with accusation. "You didn't drink it."

  "Hell, no. That's not meant to be drunk." I pointed a finger at the offending glass. "That looks like it would take off paint."

  "Doesn't matter. It's revitalizer. Pontian said you have to drink three glasses a day once you wake up. You stayed asleep longer than he expected."

  I remembered Pontian. I didn't want him to show up and force it down my throat himself, as charming as he was. I sighed, defeated. "Can I have a cup of coffee, first?"

  She winced, looking apologetic. "Nope. Sorry. No coffee. Pontian said it would chase out the stuff he filled your veins with. I mean, you don't even smell like real blood anymore."

  I suppressed a big ew. "Didn't know I ever smelled like blood to begin with."

  She smiled, almost wistfully. "Yeah, you did. It was nice. Sweet, like smoked apples. Now your blood is so thin, you smell like KY or something. Bland. Boring. Blah."

  "Explains why I feel so blah."

  She left the apartment with my bed sheets, taking them either to the laundry room or the dumpster. I chuckled weakly. Maybe it was the insane laughter of a broken woman but, hey, a laugh was a laugh. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

  As the door slammed shut behind her, I reached determinedly for the glass of Mr. Yuck and almost took a sip. "Do it," I scolded myself. "Do it or you'll die and they'll send even more flowers and the cat will go feral."

  I sat on the couch, alone for presumably the first time in four days, bewildered by the forest of flowers surrounding me. All I could think is, why? Why any of it? The flowers were meant to console me in the death of someone I loved. Which one? And why both?

  "Damn it!" I punched the cushions next to me, desperate for something to throw. "Why both? Why does God do this? Why did He take my everything, again?"

  I wept, my throat tight with the things I couldn't bear to remember. Now was the time when I needed answers and the Sophia was nowhere to be found. Exhaustion arrived promptly. I fell asleep where I sat before Dahlia returned, the glass of grime untouched. So much for trying to get better.

  Truth was, I kind of felt like dying, anyway.

  Dahlia was a true champ. She completely ran my business until I recovered enough to care for myself. I probably would have died if she wasn't there to make sure I drank the revitalizer she prepared. It was evil brew and must have had spinach in it for both color and flavor. Donna used to drink this slime at work, vamp slut that she was. No wonder she'd been such a bitch.

  At any rate, my anemia rapidly improved. I got out of bed the day after I woke up, and felt back to rights within the week. Not bad, considering I had come through the fight with barely enough blood to register a measurable blood pressure.

  I didn't see much of anyone except for Dahlia and, occasionally, Shiloh. I got the impression she was being discouraged from coming over. In typical teenage fashion she rebelled and came over anyway. Seeing her flopped on the couch with take-out containers all over the coffee table gave a semblance to normalcy I desperately needed. It kept my mind off the salve on my neck and the itchy scab on my chest.

  Dahlia made it clear from the beginning—she knew nothing about Marek. She wouldn't bring Rodrian over so I could pester him, either. The only thing she'd tell me was there was a tremendous upheaval in the business sector that was both vamp- and DV-managed. Rodrian had his hands full.

  It was even harder to ask Shiloh about Marek. Her dad was going through hell. I couldn't help myself and I hounded her anyway. In retrospect, I know I acted like a selfish little shit because all I could think about was finding Marek. I didn't make room for anything else. It didn't matter what anyone else felt. Just me. The girls did what they could to redirect me toward productive things and honestly, I did try. I just sucked at it.

  When I found I could climb up the stairs of the apartment building without rolling back down, I told Dahlia I'd be okay on my own. She protested, saying Rodrian would kill her, but I insisted I needed my space.

  So did Euphrates. He didn't freak out at Dahlia the way he always had around Marek but his fur constantly stood on end, making him look about twenty pounds heavier. The cat would have a stroke if he didn't relax.

  Reluctantly, she conceded after negotiating a once weekly visit to check on me and to bring more revitalizer. It was as good as I'd get and I didn't mind much, after all. Dahlia had become a good friend and I got the feeling she genuinely cared about me. I'd miss her if she left all together.

  I needed time to put everything together. When Dahlia was satisfied I could survive on my own and Shiloh decided the fun of rebellion wasn't worth listening to me whine anymore, I got my wish. I got my space.

  Trouble was, once I was finally alone, I had no idea where to turn.

  Except to trouble.

  Pontian made a brief stop by my place the same day Dahlia packed her overnight bag. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was stalking me. One minute I'm turning on Soap Net and the next he's standing next to the couch, leaning over me. He extended one hand to press the center of my forehead.

  A fullness spread like thick fog through my skull, a familiarity, an opening of my senses.

  "My Soph—" I started to ask but he cut me off.

  "Of course. How else can you take care of yourself?"

  Before I could formulate a proper retort he vanished. I sighed and rewound the forty seconds of Days of Our Lives that I'd missed.

  With Dahlia gone, I called Barbara and asked permission to use the vacation time I'd accumulated. I kept a reserve of column letters so Barbara had more than enough material to cover my absence. It was only two weeks but it was two weeks longer. I could pretend. I could avoid. I could hide two weeks longer. And I could search for him.
r />   Folletti's had been sold to a tycoon from New Mexico who wanted to establish a foothold in our city before the gambling vote. A little research determined the business was completely non-DV. I made one brief trip there. The wards, the bright eyes, the porcelain sugar bowl... all gone.

  One night, Dahlia raved about a new club down at the waterfront. The Mag had published a review on the place about two months earlier when it fell under new management. I had a pretty good idea who I'd find running the joint.

  Dahlia wasn't good at keeping her feelings a secret from me. I felt guilty about not cluing Dahlia in about my ability to read DV emotions. Apparently my gift wasn't widespread knowledge. Of course Rodrian knew, and Marek had known, and Pontian acted like he put it there in the first place. But outside my intimate circle, no one else knew.

  I wouldn't show all my aces again, even if it meant not telling someone as close as Dahlia. I needed the extra information it allowed me to pick up from time to time, and when she mentioned the club, it was no exception. I gleaned what I could, deduced the rest, and made my plans.

  I got dressed up and went out hunting.

  The moment I walked in, every nose in the room caught a whiff of me. Each step was weighted by their eyes although I never caught anyone looking in my direction. There may as well have been a spotlight on me when I sat at the bar. Each second that ticked by meant greater danger. I was smart enough to realize it, yet too stupid to leave.

  A familiar face appeared at the end of the bar and I gulped a large mouthful of Cosmopolitan. Rodrian leaned his head toward the bartender but locked eyes with me, nodding at whatever the barkeep told him before making a beeline to my stool.

  I stirred my drink and met his gaze, dismayed to see his expression so far from hospitable.

  Casually, he smiled around at the other patrons and subtly stroked his jaw before brushing the back of my neck. He turned to look down at me in an extremely patronizing way.

  The signal to the Demivamps was unmistakable. His mouth, my neck: he claimed me. The oppressive stares diminished and I exhaled with relief as the weight and the threat lifted.