by P. Anastasia
A strained wheezing sound resounded from his throat as he threw his head back and his face wrinkled with agony.
Matthaya and I released him abruptly, in tandem. He tumbled forward, scrambling to stop himself from hitting the ground. A trail of dark blood oozed from his wounds onto the grass and he hunched over, shaking.
I wiped my face with the back of my forearm and a splash of burgundy colored my skin. The acidic substance burned my mouth severely and I spat out blood and coughed. The taste lingered on my tongue.
Matthaya was more graceful with his disgust and wiped his lips subtly with the cuff of his sleeve; he was strong enough to endure the unpleasantness.
A deep churning throbbed in my stomach and I felt the urge to vomit rising up my esophagus. I clenched my fists tightly, fighting back the unusual sensation.
Derek hadn’t been so successful; he plummeted toward the ground, coughing hard as his fingers dug into the earth, tearing into soil and grass. He heaved and a splash of black-red blood spattered the ground.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out beneath my breath and I took a step toward him. Matthaya reached out to stop me, a shake of his head advising me against it.
I stood there and watched as Derek strained to compose himself, another wave of gut-wrenching pain welling in his throat.
It was difficult to watch, and even more difficult to fight back the urge to comfort him in some way.
A few moments passed and he sat back on his heels and wiped his face with the back of his hand. With great difficulty, he came to his feet, avoiding eye contact with us.
“Derek?” I took a step closer. “Are you… okay?”
He didn’t respond.
I looked at Ve’tani, who was watching him intently, and then asked, “Is he—?”
“Yes,” Derek finally replied, turning only partway to face me. He trembled and clenched his teeth as another wave of pain or discomfort washed over him, and he turned his face away. He sucked in a shuddering breath and bit down again, stifling a groan.
I approached him swiftly and pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Derek?”
Matthaya’s anxiety spiked as he thought to pull me away, but he remained where he was in observance.
“Derek, please look at me.” I squeezed my fingers against his arm. He refused to look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He faced me, gawking in disbelief. “Why are you sorry?” He coughed again.
There was blood, his own, on the crease of his lips. I raised a hand to catch it before it dripped down his chin. He froze as I slicked it from his face and then wiped my fingers on my pant leg.
His rich brown eyes stared into mine and his brow crinkled, but I could not feel his emotions or presence inside my mind anymore.
It must have worked.
“I just…” I started, unsure of how to reply. “I didn’t want you to suffer at my expense. Not again.”
“I deserved it for all the things I did to you.” His posture softened and sorrow shadowed his eyes. “And I would never call the time I spent with you before I was taken… ‘suffering’.”
His words stunned me. Was he not bitter about all that had happened? Was he not bitter about my wanting to saying ‘no’ to his proposal?
“But I do have one question,” he said. “Please. I’ll never be able to ask it again.”
He lifted a hand, looking as though he might stroke it across my cheek, but then stopped himself.
Matthaya growled from behind me.
Please. Trust me. I tried to calm him in my mind.
He let up, but only a little.
“Tell me the truth, though,” Derek added. “It’s all I ask.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Did you ever love me?”
The truth? What was the truth? How could I even answer that question?
A gust of clarity swept through my mind and it felt more spacious—Matthaya had backed out of my subconscious thoughts. I looked back at him briefly. He had withdrawn several steps and was allowing me the chance to search for my answer privately.
I felt grateful toward him for it.
The truth…
That night—the one that seemed eons away now—when Derek had thrown caution aside, taken me into his arms, and kissed me—was a night I would never forget. The warmth of his body close to my own, and the passionate touch that stole my sorrows away and fought back the fears lingering in my heart. At that moment, a surge of emotion and need grew in me and I had considered sharing a life with the man who’d handed me a broken heart to mend, trusting and believing that I somehow had that power.
Hearing this wouldn’t put an end to the pain or bring closure to him. It wouldn’t quell the regrets or set him free from the tangled web of mistakes I’d made.
But, I digress…
Did I ever love him?
“No,” I replied, looking him straight in the eye.
I was thankful the vampire disease repressed a flinch.
Thankful that tears would never well in my eyes, nor would a shudder resound in my breath.
Thankful that vampirism allowed me to lie.
“I see.” Derek looked away, nodding slowly, as if he’d known the answer all along.
“I apologize for using you when I needed someone,” I added. “You rescued me from the awful home life—you were my lifeline. You opened up your heart and you gave me a chance. For that, I will always be grateful.”
Always...
I wanted to reach out to him, but I abstained.
“Matthaya and I are bound by more than this lifetime.”
“He left you...” Derek uttered, a hint of bitterness still coloring his words.
“Yes, he did. And I had nowhere else to turn. I’m sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please believe me.”
He remained silent and I swallowed hard, waiting—hoping—he would respond.
I waited, feeling uneasy as I watched him stand there with his arms crossed and his mouth sealed in contemplation.
He wouldn’t say anything else to me.
I looked back. Though I could see neither of them, I knew Ve’tani and Matthaya lurked nearby. Then I looked back at Derek, whose broad shoulders and strong back suddenly slumped, and whose once proud, rigid form had bent and softened with defeat.
“Derek?”
“I do.”
“You do what?”
“I believe you.” He shrugged. “That’s the part that sucks—the part that cuts the deepest.” He shook his head, his face rose, and our eyes met for a fleeting moment. “I believe everything you’ve told me, and that’s why it hurts so goddamn much.” He scowled.
Derek was a brave man. He was strong and confident, but it was clear that my words had broken him, stripped him down to the bare bones of his soul.
I never wanted to relive the appalling dreams he’d forced upon me, but in them—behind that vengeful façade—was a semblance of a man who had loved me.
The pale-skinned creature standing before me was a shell of that man.
Past Derek’s silhouette was a spark of vivid amber light in the distance—Ve’tani’s eyes. Derek lifted his head and turned toward them, as if he’d been summoned. Then he returned his gaze to me.
I mouthed the word, “goodbye,” knowing it might be the last time I’d ever see them.
“Take care of the shop for me,” he whispered, and then turned his back on me.
As Derek walked away and his form slipped further into obscurity within the distant shadows of the wooded area behind the slum, Matthaya neared my side.
When the others were far enough from us that I could no longer feel their presences, I said quietly, “He’s trapped with her forever.”
“They’ll be fine,” he replied, taking my hand and entwining his fingers with mine.
“What if she abandons him?” There were fates worse than death, even fo
r those of us who have seemingly escaped its grasp.
“She won’t,” he replied, shaking his head. “She’s a vain, sentimental old fool. Ve’tani does not make mistakes, nor does she admit it when she does. Even Sires need companionship. You and I both know she is still wounded from my parting, though she hides it behind malice. She needs Derek as much as he needs her.”
He was right. I knew he was right.
Would I ever see Derek again?
Should I even be thinking about that?
He had tortured me. He had burrowed into my mind and torn me apart shred by shred until he had fractured my soul.
He broke me, left me fearing the one man I thought I could never fear.
And yet, I forgave him; I even pitied him.
Derek had loved me, and in his warped, tormented state, he could find no other way to tear the bandage from the wound I’d left on his heart than with revenge.
I should have hated him for it, but the fact of the matter was I hated myself.
I hated myself for what I’d turned him into—a monster inadvertently forged by a series of naïve decisions.
I glanced down at the inside of my wrist—at the small, dark spots left by his venomous bite—and they reminded me of the large scar I’d once seen along the side of Derek’s ribs. It was a mark from his first brush with death at the hands of another, and I remember being fascinated the first time he told me its back story.
We all carry scars from our pasts.
We are all haunted by something or... someone. Aren’t we?
“You did the right thing,” Matthaya said, drawing my attention away from my rampant thoughts.
“Did I?”
“You told him the truth.”
“I told him what he needed to hear.”
There was not much to speak of on our return home. Kathera ruminated over the evening’s events, and I let her, because there was nothing more I could do. She had said her part and he had said his and they had gone their separate ways peacefully.
At least, that was my understanding. I did not listen in on their parting conversation. It was not my place to do so.
“Matthaya!” Kathera called to me from the kitchen.
“Yes?” I entered to find her typing fervently on her phone.
“The doctor, she’s already here.”
Already?
She had told us her plans to stop by on the…
I had forgotten what day it was.
Today.
“She said she’s at the hotel waiting for directions.” Kathera looked down at her shirt and bloodstained hands. “I’m not ready for this right now. I need to—”
“No.” I put a hand onto her shoulder.
“What?” Kathera looked up at me.
“Not tonight. Tell the doctor something urgent came up, and that we will make arrangements to meet her tomorrow. I have already promised to settle all her expenses.”
“Are you sure?”
The hunger was brewing inside me already, and the stress of the night’s events had made it come about more quickly. I could feel it rising in Kathera, as well, though she didn’t seem to have noticed yet.
“We have had a very long, taxing evening. You and I are in no condition to have company.”
“Don’t you want to know what she has to say?”
“Of course, I do,” I replied. “But I also want to do so with a quieted mind and a body unhindered by bloodlust.” I stared at her. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Disappointed but understanding of my point, Kathera nodded and then began texting the doctor to request she delay our meeting until tomorrow evening.
It was for the doctor’s own good, really.
Daylight came and went, and the following evening blew in like a storm, barely allowing us enough time to make arrangements for the company.
“She should be here soon,” Kathera said, peering out the front window. Her anxiety and anticipation put me on edge, but I knew she was looking forward to speaking with Dr. Henson.
Sounds of a car engine neared and then the car shifted into neutral momentarily. A car door opened and closed and then the vehicle drove off.
I knew the proper way to greet the doctor would be to meet her at the door, but—
“Good evening, Doctor,” Kathera said, standing in the entryway with the front door propped open.
My wife had already taken that liberty.
I returned to the kitchen to boil a kettle of water on the stove.
“How was the trip over?” she continued.
“It was fine, thank you for asking,” the doctor replied. Her voice was warm, silvery, and highlighted with a French accent. “Kathera, was it? Oh, I hope I didn’t botch that. Did I say it correctly?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
“What a wonderfully unique name. It’s lovely to finally meet you,” the doctor went on. I didn’t need to be in the same room to know she had set a small briefcase down; it clacked against the wood flooring.
“My hands are very cold, I apologize,” Kathera noted. I assumed she was shaking hands with the doctor.
“Oh, my, they are. My mother’s are the same way.” The doctor chuckled. “Is your husband here?”
“Yes. He’s in the kitchen.”
A strange, brief flash of panic went through Kathera, but it wasn’t strong enough for me to worry. She was likely excited or anxious about the meeting.
I heard their footsteps approach, to which I turned and tried to present a friendly smile.
“This is Matthaya,” Kathera introduced me. “Matthaya, this is Dr. Eleanor Henson.”
“Call me Eleanor,” she chimed.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I replied, shaking her hand.
“Cold hands all around,” she said with a chortle. “I apologize for my silliness. Still fighting jetlag, you know.” She looked down at my hand and narrowed her eyes just before releasing me.
“This cufflink is immaculate… 18th, no, 19th century? May I ask where you acquired such a gorgeous replica?”
They were not replicas.
“I would prefer you didn’t,” I said.
“Oh.” She cut a glance at me and then released my hand. “I’m sorry for being rude. I get excited about random things.”
“No need to apologize,” Kathera interjected. “We’re very grateful for your knowledge.” She gestured toward the stove. “Would you like any tea or coffee before you sit down?”
We did not typically have such things in our home, but since we knew we would have company, we attempted to make our place look lived in, or at the very least, human.
“Tea is fine, thank you,” she answered. “No sugar or milk.”
Good, because we had neither.
Her request for tea, though, reminded me of Prince Eddy, and how he would partake in a cup with milk after spiriting away to his quarters to read a secret letter from his beloved, Hélène.
A seed of sadness sprouted in me as I remembered him again. But there was no time for that now. This was supposed to be an uplifting meeting.
Kathera moved past me and reached into the cupboard for a brand new mug and then opened a sealed box of black tea which was sitting on the counter.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
She poured boiling water over the teabag. Steam rose and danced above the cup as she placed it atop a saucer and handed it to the doctor.
“May I show you to the living room?” I asked.
We entered the next room where Kathera and I sat side-by-side on a sofa and the doctor sat across from us on a plush chair with a nearby end table to support her drink.
“I see you’re wearing it now,” she said, nodding toward my right hand. “May I please take a closer look?”
I slid the ring off my finger, scooted to the edge of the seat, and then leaned across the coffee table to hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She cupped it in her hands carefully
and looked it over with immense enthusiasm. “This is remarkable. The craftsmanship. The etchings.” She turned it to the side and brought it closer to her eyes. “The rune in the dragon’s tail… I believe it’s UI or Uillenn. It’s part of Ogham—a very old medieval alphabet used in early Irish.”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Well, you can see that the line of the tail curls inward, like the golden spiral, if it were made of squared corners. The Uillenn is perceived to represent a honeysuckle or woodbine plant. But the use of the curve in this design—aside from being a letter in the old alphabet—clearly symbolizes something more, seeing how it was cleverly crafted into the dragon’s anatomy. Typically, when it’s used for personal adornments, UI symbolizes discovery or a twisting labyrinth. The search for self and purpose through the winding turns of fate.”
She revealed her phone. “Do you mind if I take a few pictures of it myself?”
“Go ahead.” I wasn’t ecstatic about it, but what harm would be done?
She held the ring under the light of the lamp beside her and began snapping photos with her phone.
“Did your wife tell you about my thesis?”
I glanced over at Kathera and shrugged. “Only briefly.”
Eleanor turned the ring over and took several more photos before returning it to me.
I slid it on to my finger, relieved to have it back.
“My thesis was on the British occupation during the 17th century and its effects on the Irish Chieftains of the South Eastern region. Now, I don’t know if you’ve read my most recent book or not, but let me tell you some of the things I discovered with my research.”
Picking up on anticipation and anxiousness rising in me, Kathera reached over and set her hand atop mine.
“Well, the Irish tried to get out from under the thumb of British rule for years, and in 1594, some of the most powerful clans came together to try to fight back in what was known as the Nine Years’ War. It lasted until 1603, when the clans finally surrendered to the Stuart King, James I, but that’s not the important part.” She reached for her tea, took a sip, and then set the mug back down. “Chieftains O’Neill and O’Donnell fought alongside the Spanish in an attempt to push back against the English government. But it is my belief that they were not the only ones involved in this fight—that not all British were on board with the whole taking-over-Ireland thing.” Eleanor shifted in her seat and leaned toward us, lowering her voice as if she were about to tell us a secret. “I have always theorized that there were, in fact, English sympathizers in the country—defectors, of sorts, who had mingled with the native people and whose opinions had been swayed in their favor as a result.