THE HEALING HEART

by Zelda Clemens

  With cold fingers, August reached out to brush against the old withered stone. She was weakening, she could sense it. August was in dire of need of blood, so thirsty yet too submerged in her sorrow to do anything about it. She would not leave here like this! She vowed not leave that empty grave until she had truly mourned a life that had not lived. After all, it was the least she could do as she stood in immortal mockery at her child's grave. Her child who never got to see the light of day?

  Suddenly August was furious at Everard. A fire burned so intensely inside of her that she was afraid that she would lose control. She felt sick with crazed curiosity if he had even visited their child’s grave. As she stood beside the grave, August wondered if he had ever bothered to make an effort to grieve for the one thing in his mortality that he truly lost. Or if his selfness nature barred him in fear that the mud there at the cemetery would be too unbearable for him to endure on his new shiny boots?

  Two hundred years in the blood had not only hardened a once gentle heart, but also corrupted it into a selfish, arrogant being who was insufferable and quite detestable. August understood completely why others of their kind hated him. The immortals hated to love him, and they loved to hate him. Who could resist the rebellious one? The raven haired one, the arrogant one? After all, Everard only acted out what they kept as their secret fantasies. Everard wanted to tell the world that he was immortal and that they would love him just because they could. It was hard to resist him no matter how much of a cruel fiend he had become over the centuries.

  But could her Everard be so cold? So many questions flooded her mind at that moment that August suddenly had an urge to go back to the chateau in central Paris and confront him about it, but thought better of it. What was done was done, and she had to accept it no matter how bitter a taste it left in her mouth.

  Mournfully, August turned her head to the side of the tomb to look at the inscription upon it. Nothing. An unmarked grave, an open invitation to all kinds of evil without the Lord’s blessing.

  Pain. Anger. Thirst. In a cold fury, August tore her hand away from the tomb and descended into the night air once more. She had to leave that place. She couldn’t take it no more. The sky was already turning pale with the promise of sunrise. Shades of pale pink and peachy orange painted the sky. There would be no time to hunt now.

  In her rage, August knew that she had two options of where she could find rest and sleep off the day. She could either choose to return to the one being that she had loved who she had not seen in over two centuries, or she could face her demons and sleep in the empty tomb of the nameless child. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she had made my decision. August turned on her heel and once again, like a figure of a lost soul, quietly made her way toward the tomb.

  August forced open the stone lid before piling herself inside. She was drained, so very drained. She pulled the lid shut and lay there for a moment in the dank, dark silence wishing that the body of her child was in her arms and that she was singing to it. But it was just a fantasy, and no matter how hard August tried to remember that she was no longer mortal, the pain would consume her. Never again could she bear a child; never again would she feel the warmth of a newborn babe upon her breast. August was doomed to be this creature. Taker of life, cold and unfeeling. The walking death.

  Embracing her nature with bitter resentment, she let herself fall victim to the age of sleep.

  *****

  August’s burning and raw thirst woke her up. Her throat had become dry, and she could feel how tightly she clenched her jaw as she resisted the urge to bite down into her own lip and draw blood. She needed to hunt. August had gone too long without blood which was foolish of her to do. She knew she should have hunted before her descent to Paris, but August was so desperately curious as to why she had been summoned by her old lover that the idea of draining a human slipped her mind.

  Silently August cursed herself for being so careless. She was always so careful.

  The twinkling lights of Paris engulfed her as she stood beneath the grand Eiffel Tower, drinking in the beauty around her.

  August watched the young sweet couples who huddled together in loving embraces beneath the illuminated tower of romance. August was hungry, insanely hungry. The scent of the blood of the mortals intoxicated her and almost made her drunk on the smell alone. She had to close her eyes to stop from revealing her true nature.

  All the issues from the previous night left August’s mind as her main priority became feeding. But she had a problem, there was no evil that lingered within the grand central. They were all good people, innocent and in love. The only evil here was her.

  However, August needed to feed and nourish her aching body. Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear Everard’s mocking laughter as she fought with the urge to hunt an innocent. As wicked as he was, the one thing Everard taught August was to only hunt defenseless humans, the ones that littered the streets in sleeping bags and begged for mercy. They were not evil people, and when she fed upon them, she did it out of kindness. August released them from their pain, but Everard was not so kind. He would kill all of them and not bat an eyelid as long as his thirst was sated.

  August was certain that she could go and find one of the undesirables so that she could quench her burning thirst. She was positive there was one lurking in alley somewhere waiting to rob or to rape a young woman. If her strength had been up to it, she would follow them like a hunter, but she was weakening by the minute and could not last another hour without sustenance.

  So, August did what she had to do.

  She found her target. He was a young man of about twenty. Dressed alternatively as August, as was the fashion. His hair was black as the night itself and fell down his back in a long waterfall. He could have almost passed for one of the undead himself, but for the fact she could smell his life-force on him.

  He had been to a concert and was now returning to Central Paris to meet some friends at a club. He asked August to join him, and she, ever the hunter, accepted. If she was to drink from him, then she needed to do it in private.

  They reached the alley where the underground club was located. The alley was completely abandoned, all its occupants already inside. August was grateful for that. Slowly he turned and gestured to the doors.

  “In here,” he purred in perfect French. “It is a hidden doorway to stop others gate crashing our turf.” He smiled proudly.

  He was so beautiful.

  When August didn’t move, he frowned. “Ma chère are you not coming in?” Slowly August stepped closer to him. He was tall like Everard, if not a few inches taller. August quietly thought to herself that Everard would not like that. As she stood there, she could feel his gave fixated on her.

  “Indeed, I do wish to go in,” August whispered softly into his ear, “Though, I fear I am very thirsty and in need of a drink before we continue.”

  August heard him give out a slight laugh. It was obvious he didn’t know what she was and she was glad for that. It meant that his death would make her feeding all the quicker.

  “There are drinks inside,” he said to August while taking her hand and edging her toward the door. He didn’t flinch at her coldness. “Come.”

  It was then that August chose to make my move. Quickly she released her hand and pinned him to the wall next to the doors, her face staring up at him. He didn’t seem shocked.

  “Or if you're in such a hurry we can go back to my place,” he whispered seductively, his arm snaking its way around her waist. For a moment, August found herself enjoying this activity but the need for blood was making her feel dangerous, and one wrong move on his part would force her tear him to pieces.

  “Hmm,” August whispered leaning up to his slender throat. He tilted his head at her as if he knew what was coming. “As much as I would enjoy that, my love, I’m afraid I must cut our meeting short.” With that, August sank her teeth into his neck.

  Hot blood filled her desperate, wanting mouth in a crimson w
aterfall. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t cry out, he only sighed, one that encouraged August to bite deeper and she gladly I obliged.

  In a red tidal wave, his life was revealed to August. He was an innocent. He lived his life the way he chose, played in a heavy metal band and aspired to be famous. He loved his family, his mother in particular. She was ill, and he was looking after her; she was all he had.

  August ripped her fangs free and let his body slump to the floor. He wasn’t dead just unconscious. If August had held on any longer, he had would have been dead. She had intended to kill him, to spare him false mercy but August found that she could not. He wasn’t an evil man, and no matter how much she thirsted for the rest of him, she refused.

  Slowly August bent down to him. His eyes fluttered open and closed. With a serene expression, she whispered to him, “Do not be frightened my love. You have been spared. Go home and look after your mother. She needs you as much as you need her.” And with that, August left him there for a mortal to find and to care for him.

  *****

  “It’s me,” August spoke quietly into the slender phone.

  “August?” his deep voice questioned. Silence followed. He never was much of a conversationalist.

  “I’m coming home,” August told him.

  “From Paris? I expected you last night, but you never returned.”

  August let out a long sigh at his words.

  “I... there were some complications,” she assured him calmly. It was his turn to sigh now. Oh, how August missed his sighs.

  “He's in Paris, isn't he?” Kyle asked calmly as if he already knew what it was that had prevented her return the night before.

  “A distraction,” August replied impatiently, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “What was the urgency?”

  Kyle’s clipped tone suddenly caught August off guard. Her mind had begun to wander with thoughts of her one true love. “I will tell you when I arrive back in London. I will meet you back at the house. Have you fed?”

  “Not yet,” Kyle said.

  “Remember what I told you. Stay safe, and when you feed keep out of sight. The world is even more dangerous than we thought it was.” At that, August hung up.

  The night was young, and the lights of the city still sparkled before her. Part of August didn’t want to leave the city; it had been so long since she had been ‘home’. For over a century, she mourned for the city that she had so loved. For over a century, she had mourned for her mortal life and for her dead child.

  August loved Paris as much as she despised it.

  ****

  Kyle was an artist, a great painter with a talent so raw that his musings always made August weep. He was beautiful and knowledgeable, and gentle where Everard was angry. He was everything that Everard should have been, yet Kyle was everything that she didn’t want.

  August loved him, but she didn't love him enough. Kyle appreciated her, and she him. He was her companion and many a night they would sit on the balcony of their hotel and quote poetry to each other, and talk of dreams, passions, loves and the nature of their kind.

  Once there was a time when August did that with her Everard.

  The thought of Everard made her bristle. The memory of the previous night burned inside August’s mind, picking away at her until she gave in and went back to the old chateau where the black-haired lord resided. But what reason did she have to go back? Everard wasn’t her problem any more. But then she thought of the voice and what it had said to her. August was to die by her maker’s hand. Well, she would not run away from death.

  ****

  August found him in his chateau, lying on a bed of silk. The black silken shirt that had adorned his body was thrown upon the floor next to the finest, shiniest black boots that only Everard could wear. His black undershirt was unlaced at his chest, revealing the cold hard marble skin beneath. His perfect silken mane was loose and spread about him like a velvet veil. Blood painted the corners of his mouth. Next to him, the source of that blood lay lifeless.

  Blood drunk, August’s mind whispered. Everard’s victim had been young, perhaps a girl of nineteen. Not slender but voluptuous. She had been a whore.

  Everard was sleeping outstretched with his arm still beneath the young girl’s waist. He hadn’t been kind to her when he took her. Her neck was savagely torn. He did it out of anger; he was always the same. Each time he and August argued, he would always go out and hunt, lure them back to their home before brutally ravaging them in front of her.

  August was glad that she left him when she did.

  The girl was a drug user; August could smell the chemicals in her dead blood. Fool August’s mind snapped at him.

  Everard had done it to get a fix. He was bored of the usual. He desired rebellion, freedom and a contaminated little whore was just the supply of ecstasy that he needed.

  August stared down at him debating what she should do. She didn’t even know why she had come back. August had promised Kyle that she was coming back to London, yet here August was, standing over her maker with no reason to be there.

  Slowly August turned away from the bed and sat in the velvet armchair. She watched Everard lying there, unmoving. For a moment, she contemplated killing him but she knew that she couldn’t do it.

  Groggily, Everard began to stir. August got to her feet and walked back toward the bedside. August’s hand entwined with the white silken lace that concealed her face.

  “Have you sunk so low that you only feed on harlots now?” August’s eerily calm voice questioned her lover as he stretched out lazily on the bed. He knew she had been there all along.

  “Blood is blood, my love,” came his bored reply. August revealed herself from the lace confines. She stared down at him with an expressionless face. His blue eyes penetrated her soul.

  “Even contaminated blood Everard?” August snapped, “She was a drug user. Could you not smell it?”

  A cocky look crossed his alabaster face, “Of course, I could smell it!” he retorted sharply. Her eyes narrowed down at Everard.

  “Fool!” August hissed and turned away from him, striding back into the living room. She knew his eyes followed.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” his silken voice questioned authoritatively. “Shouldn’t you be back in London?”

  “I should,” August answered, “I am leaving tonight.” And then the cocky vampire laughed as he rose to his feet. Hair in disarray, shirt revealing his body. These were the actions of a troubled vampire that she knew all too well.

  “You won't go,” he sneered.

  “Why won't I?” August questioned harshly. This was something that August wanted to hear. Slowly Everard approached her in the living room. The scent of the girl’s blood was still strong upon his lips.

  “You have too much here that you don’t wish to leave behind.”

  “And you're certain of that, are you?”

  “Yes,” he snapped impatiently, “Paris is your true home. Not London. you belong here, not there. A Paris vampire always remains close to home.” His blue sparkled.

  “I go where I see fit,” was all August answered, her voice emotionless. For a long while, he studied August in silence. He was still angry; she could feel it.

  “Why have you come back here? You made it clear that you wanted no part in this.”

  At his words, August sat down. August answered, “I came back of my own accord.” An arrogant smirk crossed his face as he began to pace the room.

  “Is that so? Two centuries and not one word of your existence until you received a letter from me, and only now you decide to visit me?”

  For once August didn’t have a reply to his sarcasm. She didn’t know why she had come back. August suddenly wished she was in London, away from here, and away from him.

  “Do not flatter yourself Everard” August said coldly. “I can assure you that I have not returned out of my love for you.” He drew closer; August backed away. He laughed a mocking laugh at her acti
ons.

  “Brave of you to admit such a lie so fondly.” Everard chastised her as he all but fell into the silken bedclothes, resuming the position that he had when August first entered the chateau. August didn’t answer him. She didn’t know what she was doing. In her mind, August whispered Kyle’s name. She didn't know why she thought of Kyle, but as soon as the name crossed her mind, she wished that she could have taken it back.

  *****

  Everard looked up at August sharply. A rage burned in his blue eyes. For a moment, she stared at him dumbfounded, uncertain as to why Everard was looking at her with such malice.

  “What?” his velvet voice snapped at August. She blinked.

  “What?” August whispered a little breathlessly. His frown deepened.

  “You said his name.”

  August frowned, confused. “Whose name?”

  “You know damned well whose name!” he hissed. August realized what he meant.

  “Kyle?” August rasped. Everard’s reply was a curt nod before he tore his eyes away from hers.

  “Is that why you’ve come back? To gloat? To mock?” Everard hissed.

  Testing her patience, August approached him before perching herself on the armchair opposite him. Everard couldn’t look at her, and it was at that moment that she realized that her lover was ashamed at what he had done. A sick satisfaction took hold of August. She was glad he was disgusted with himself. That was why he was angry. He was angry at himself.