by P. Anastasia
I bent down until my face was close to hers and quickly ran my tongue across the wound, covering it with a thin layer of saliva that made it instantly sizzle and heal. It would have healed on its own—eventually—but I didn’t want to take a chance of her waking to it before then. I had no way of knowing how little or how much of the “dream” she would remember.
Intense bitterness made me grimace, and the taste of her vampire blood turned my stomach. But it was a small price to pay, as the horror of whatever Derek was doing in her mind continued to play out without me, and there was nothing I could do but stand there as she battled a monster in her head.
Why was he doing this to her, and how?
Only a Sire and Taken have a psychological bridge, and yet he’d been able to hijack ours and divert my attack on him there onto her physical body.
I would not stand there and let him manipulate her any longer.
I wouldn’t let Ve’tani’s newest creation tear my wife apart.
Since I’d severed ties with my Sire, I could not pick up even a semblance of Ve’tani’s scent or a blip of imagery from my prior mental connection with her.
Not a single lead in sight or in mind, and that posed a problem in my search to find her.
I knew Ve’tani well enough, though. Her fetishes for compliments and good fights compelled her to linger in red light districts. There, she could find easy prey and feed her vanity. I’d been living in the city long enough to know where to find such a place.
Past the cemetery. Past Restless Ink. Past a row of downtrodden homes in desperate need of repair. To a stretch of sidewalk lit with colorful neon signs and pavement thundering with the vibration of bass music pouring out of nearby clubs.
I passed a rotating glass door with a large, muscular man in a spike-studded leather vest standing guard. He eyed me up, all too eager to send away anyone who didn’t fit the dress code or couldn’t pay the cover.
It was different now than it once was. In the early years of my vampirism, Ve’tani and I preyed on poor inebriated bastards who had no friends to guide them home at dawn. Those lost causes with no family, and no job to return to in the morning. Desperate, forlorn souls at wit’s end.
Ve’tani would speak of “excess” population and “culling the herd,” and she was proud.
I wasn’t proud of any of it.
They were easy victims, but the alcohol saturating their blood made them unappealing. We did not always have an opportunity to be picky, and she made many excuses for why we should feed upon the downtrodden over the rich and, frankly, better tasting humans.
She also enjoyed posh company and lush compliments, something she’d get more often from the upper-class party goers, so she tended to leave them alone. Feeding her ego came first.
A couple popped out through the door of one of the bars and I tipped my face to the side to avoid eye contact with them as they staggered past me, laughing.
What was I thinking, walking these questionable parts of town as if I’d had a chance at finding her? In a city of nearly one million, how did I expect to find only one?
I turned a corner and walked down another block. With each passing minute, I grew more antsy and concerned about Kathera. She’d be safe in our home, but knowing Derek was out there somewhere, traumatizing her from a distance, made me furious.
I had to find them. Or I had to convince them to find me.
“Ve’tani!” I shouted up at the sky, and the sound quickly died in the atmosphere. If she were anywhere nearby—even a few miles away—she’d hear me. I sniffed the air, hoping to get a trace of something that might point me in the right direction.
Nothing.
I crossed the road and headed down a lengthy backstreet snaking behind a grocery store. The dark stretch of loading docks littered with broken grocery carts appeared devoid of people.
Trying to find Ve’tani in the enormous city, without so much as a single clue, was futile. With no idea where else to search, and my concern for Kathera growing stronger, I finally took a turn down another block and headed home.
The walk back was quiet and uneventful, but the moment I turned the corner by Restless Ink, my senses piqued, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure moving in the distance. It paused as soon as it saw me.
I approached the shop cautiously and waited for them to make a move, remaining calm in case they were human.
“You look as though you are searching for someone,” a familiar raspy voice spoke. Ve’tani moved out from beneath the awning and onto the dimly lit sidewalk. Her bangles jingled with each step.
“I… was.” I composed myself and tried to hide my uneasiness. “What do you want?”
“I thought you were looking for me,” she said, lowering the hood of her cloak. Curls of straw-colored blonde hair glistened beneath the streetlamp. “I heard you beckon my name from the depths of the city. What an appalling part of town, may I add. No class, whatsoever anymore.”
“Why didn’t you come?” I asked.
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “I am not your pet. I did not feel like wasting my energy. I knew you would be back here. Although…” Her index finger rose to tap her lower lip. “You seem quite ungrateful I even bothered to wait for you. Perhaps I should go.” She turned.
“No!” I nearly lunged for her velvet cloak, but stopped myself before I could make the desperate move. “Please… wait.”
“Ah.” She turned and grinned villainously. “Did I just hear you say ‘please’?” She rolled her eyes. “What dire predicament would force you to use such niceties with me?”
“Derek,” I replied gruffly. “He’s out of control. You must stop him.”
“Stop him?” She cackled. “What makes you think I can control him at all? I could not even control you. Derek will do as he pleases, and only after he satiates his feral desires will he return to willfully accept his place beside me. You should know that much, Matthaya.”
“I’ll kill him,” I seethed. “If you don’t get him under control, I’ll kill him.”
“Do as you wish,” she replied with a shrug. “He means nothing to me. He was an opportunity, and it seems my decision to save him has made your life hell. It is what you deserve for abandoning me for that… girl.”
“I didn’t know I was a Sire until you tried to murder Kathera, forcing me to do whatever I could to save her. You brought this upon yourself. Now tell me where to find Derek.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged again and laughed.
“Liar!”
Her bright yellow-orange eyes glistened angrily at me. “Oh, if I knew, I wouldn’t be wasting my time here!”
“How is he doing it?” I asked.
“Doing what?” She narrowed her eyes, as if she’d had no idea what I was talking about.
“How is he getting into Kathera’s mind?”
“Into her—” She drew her head back with surprise. “That is a very interesting accusation.” She toyed with a lock of her curly hair. “But it would explain why I cannot seem to distance myself from you two, try as I might. The essence of Kathera’s consciousness lingers in the back of my mind, and with it, a sliver of your own.”
“He bit her,” I added spitefully.
Her eyes expressed shock for a split second before she pretended to not be affected.
“Bit her, you say?” she repeated, intrigued. “Well, that is different.”
“Now he’s manipulating her—haunting her in her sleep.”
“Then why not pop into her consciousness and throw him out?”
“I can’t. I tried.”
Ve’tani gazed at me intently.
“He’s blocking me from reaching her. I tried to stop him, but all it did was get Kathera hurt. Tell me where he is and I’ll—”
“I can not.” She crossed her arms. “Even if I did know where he was at this very moment, which I do not, I would have no reason to tell you.”
I darted toward he
r, but she stood her ground, unyielding.
“I could kill you, too,” I said through clenched teeth, with eyes glinting green. “I could kill you both.” The thought of it was almost… satisfying.
“How do you think your wife would feel about that?” She sneered at me. “Killing the man who took care of her when you abandoned her. How would she feel if you murdered the man she might have married?”
I hissed. “She had no intention of marrying him!”
“Is that the truth?” Ve’tani raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Or is that what she told you?”
“She… told… me…”
“You can never be too careful. We women do not always say what we mean. I would think twice before going after him. Unless you want to lose her again.”
“Damn it!” I huffed angrily. “Why are you so horrible?”
“I beg to differ,” she snarled. “Do you think I enjoy intermittent visions of Derek’s newfound fetish twisting through my brain? I. Do. Not. And the sooner he stops, the sooner I can move on and leave this despicable place for good.”
“Why don’t you leave him now? Why not abandon him and look for another? Since you obviously despise him so much already.”
“Despise is a strong word for it,” she replied, pressing the fingertips of both hands together. “He is a nuisance, yes, but he is not as gifted as you. I may be fond of the idea of having finally sired a vampire with a little less thirst for power. He will be controllable in time. I am certain of that. He is not what you were, but that may not be all bad.
“Kathera will survive whatever Derek chooses to do to her and, in time, he will grow bored of the game. If I were you, Matthaya, I would let it run its course.”
“You want me to let him do this to her? She’s been through enough hell already and I would never—”
“What is a bit more, then?” she asked with a cruel smile.
“If you don’t get him under control, I will.” I clenched my fists. “And don’t think I’m above killing you to stop him.”
Ve’tani let out a brief, un-ladylike snort of laughter. “I do not think you are above anything.” She clicked her tongue. “I also do not believe you.” She turned, tossed her hood back up over her head, and then sprinted off into the darkness.
She had proved her point. I did not pursue her, though I considered it.
The thought of killing her was tempting, but it wasn’t the solution. She was strong, and she wouldn’t go down without a long, bloody fight. I couldn’t risk my own well-being while Kathera lay at home, asleep, fighting for hers.
I returned to our house and entered quietly. Kathera’s thoughts flitted through me, leading me to feel that she had awakened and was active somewhere inside.
I entered the living room, but she wasn’t there.
I walked upstairs to the library, where soft candlelight bounced from the walls, leaving a warm glow emanating from the threshold.
“Kathera?” I stepped into the room and approached her; she sat at the desk at the far end with a large sketchbook cracked open in front of her and a desk lamp bent to shine its piercing fluorescent haze onto the pages.
“Where have you been?” she asked, placing her pencil down and then twisting in her chair to look back at me.
“I took a walk.” I approached her.
“Are you all right?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
She glanced away. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about this.” She tucked her wrist down beneath the table to hide the mark from me.
“How can I not worry about you? I did not swear my loyalty to you, only to let a man harm you whilst I stand idly by.”
“There are battles you cannot win, Matthaya,” she whispered, gazing up at me with sadness in her eyes. “And there are demons I must face alone.”
Her words pierced my heart.
Like bubbles rising from the ocean depths, a memory long tucked away came rushing to the surface.
I could not find the words to reply to her just then, because a scar of my own had begun to bleed anew.
Regret. Tragedy. Loss.
I’d faced such demons before—and a battle I could not win.
My face lowered and I turned a wrist over to watch lamplight dance across the mismatched cufflinks on my sleeve. My coat had been altered to accommodate two pairs, though the norm was one on each cuff.
Despite my anger toward Derek, I could relate to Kathera’s feelings of grief, and her sympathy toward him for the loss. Losing a friend is difficult and the wounds left from their absence never truly heal.
There was a sudden growing sense of urgency in me—a deep desire to unearth a piece of my past with which I still struggled to cope. I took a seat in an adjacent chair. “May I… tell you a story?” I asked, gazing at her.
Kathera likely sensed the grim tone in my voice. She reached back to close her sketchbook and then nodded in reply. There was a glimmer of anticipation in her expression.
My gaze returned to my cufflinks; the shimmer of yellow gold reminded me of events I had buried years ago, and the loss of a friend, whom I struggle to lay to rest even a century after his funeral.
By the year 1887, I’d already been living in the Hounslow district in Greater London, England, for nearly a decade. There, I had taken up work as a night watchman for an antiquities dealer, using the position as a means of networking with art dealers who might help me locate Kathryn’s painting. It was my solitary responsibility to secure and upkeep the shop after dark. A place fueled by history was a good fit, and the time spent toiling there was generally pleasant.
In only a few years, the city around me had changed dramatically. I witnessed the fall of gas lighting as it succumbed to the advent of electric street lamps. With technology creeping into commonplace, the overall pace of life, for many, had begun to hasten.
A royal cavalry, known as the 10th Hussars, had been stationed nearby. They were a segment of the British Army under the rule of the Prince of Wales, Edward VII, referred to as the “Prince of Wales’s Own” regiment. They made rounds about the city every now and then, though I did not know much else about them. Their flashy navy blue uniforms featured multiple accoutrements and aiguillettes, and a sword hung at their sides as they rode their mounts through the streets, seemingly only to make a spectacle.
One cold winter evening, as frost dusted the cobblestone and a light snowfall began to drift down from the black sea of stars, a commotion outside the shop caught my attention. I left my post, locking the door behind me, and went to investigate. Around the corner, I came upon a decorated soldier caught in a power struggle with his horse. I remained a safe distance away to observe.
“What in God’s name!” The man tugged the reins and rapped the horse’s hindquarters with a crop. Judging by the elaborate, even excessive decorations on his uniform, this was the captain of the Hussars.
The horse whinnied and shifted its body with great difficulty and discomfort, snorting and bowing its head repeatedly.
“Come now!” The captain raised his voice and clicked his tongue several times, but the animal refused to respond.
I’d seen such behavior before.
“Pardon me, Sir.” I stepped out from the shadows and into the lamplight, holding up my empty hands so that he could see I was unarmed. “May I be of assistance?”
The captain glared at me. “State your name and purpose here, young man.” He tried to compose himself, but there was uneasiness in his heavy, tired eyes as he shifted in his saddle.
He had called me a “young man,” but he appeared to be in his early twenties. The prominent, thick, curled mustache below his nose—a popular style at the time—could not distract from his long face and soft, round features, which gave him a youthful, statuesque complexion.
His jacket was decorated with an array of medals, colorful badges, and several lengths of gold aiguillettes draped across his chest and arms.
> “Matthew Stewart,” I answered. I’d been going by the pseudonym, at the time—a simple first name, and an inconsequential, absurdly common surname. “At your service.”
“What are you doing about at this hour?” The pallid shade of his face and listless expression relayed little emotion, but there were shadows of fatigue around his eyes, as if he’d carried some great burden in his soul. Something, other than the horse, had been tormenting the man for many days.
“I superintend R. Ridley’s shop at the corner.” I looked off to the side and lowered my head respectfully. “I meant no trouble, Sir.”
“What is it you want, then?” he asked, pulling back on the reins again, without avail. His horse’s head suddenly jerked downward, pulling the captain forward in the saddle and nearly off the beast’s back. Embarrassed, he yanked the reins forcefully, drawing the animal’s head back up.
“You are having trouble with your mount,” I said, trying to assess the situation. “I have a great deal of experience working with horses and I wish to help.”
A look of relief came over him. “Ah, well, that is a fine coincidence, then.”
“May I approach to examine him?” I asked.
Animals are naturally apprehensive around vampires, but in winter, their senses are dampened by the frigid cold, and my scent masked by it.
“You may,” the captain replied. “He has been acting strange all evening, refusing to follow direction.”
I neared the pair and the horse lifted its head with a start, a frightened look gleaming in the whites of its eyes. But as I raised a hand toward its withers, and spoke soft, comforting words to it, I saw that it was not fear in its expression, but discomfort.
“Could you dismount, please, Captain?” I looked up at him, lifting a hand to request the reins.
The captain came down off his saddle, his heavy boots clacking against the cobblestone, and then moved to stand beside me, watching his horse intently.
“Does he have a name?” I asked, bending to press a hand to the back of the horse’s front leg. My fingers moved firmly down across the hair, toward the cannon bone and fetlock.