Chapter 40

Chapter 40

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Eliot would have given anything in the world to erase the past.

To erase those bloody old days from his memory and pretend that they had never happened.

Pretend that he was different.

Start over.

But the truth was...that a part of him would always belong to his old self—he couldn’t escape it.  That violent person, who craved blood, would always exist.

Still did…

A few short years of reform couldn’t erase centuries of bloodshed.

In the end, he would always be a vampire.

Besides, waking up without a heartbeat wasn’t exactly an easy experience to forget.  The shock was forever etched into his memory.  The icy realization that his chest wasn’t rising.  That his lungs weren’t filling up with air.  That he was so very cold—and yet…somehow…alive.

He could still taste that old terror if he thought hard on the memory long enough; the agonizing fear of losing yourself and becoming something different entirely.  But in the body of a newborn vampire, pain and sorrow left only enough room for two other emotions.

Rage…and hunger.

Looking back, Eliot wished that he could say he hadn’t given in to it.  That he had struggled against the monster he’d become.

Tried to fight.

Cling to humanity.

But he didn’t.  He didn’t want to; after years of pain, and loss, and suffering he had gladly let his old self go and greedily accepted the new beast in his place.

He had been happy to become a monster.

And Vaddrian had capitalized on that desire.  He had been the one watching Alazzdria dance in the marketplace that day.

His men had been the ones to surround the courtyard after nightfall, waiting to attack.

And Eliot had been the one stupid enough to walk right into the middle of their trap.

He had been on his way to the Inn, he remembered, after spending the day scouting for information as to where the local army was recruiting solders.  He had brought some bread at a stall and was on his way to spend his few remaining coins on a cheap bed when he saw her.

The dancing girl.   Only she wasn’t dancing just then.  Head bowed, she sat on a mound of beaten earth near the edge of the deserted marketplace, twirling a sad-looking flower between her fingers.

The petals had been a fresh, rose-colored pink he could still remember to this day.  A bright color one didn’t see much amid the greens and brown hues of the fields and the gray of hard stone.

He had gone over to her, though he wasn’t quite sure why.  Maybe it was because he had a sister once, who had died of sickness a few years earlier?

The girl reminded him of her; small and pale with a wistful look in her unseeing gray eyes.

Crouching down beside her, he told her his name, and in a whisper she told him hers.

Something foreign that fumbled over his tongue.

“Alazzdria”

Awkwardly he had tried to start small talk.  He asked her where she was from.  Told her about his small village in a land to the northeast.  He asked about her age.  Why she danced.  How she learned.

But, she skirted every question with nothing more than a firm shake of her head.

After a while, he had given up, preparing to head to the Inn and get some rest before he’d meet his fate the next day.  He started to stand, but then she startled him by opening that small mouth.

And in an instant his whole life changed.

“I’m going to die this night, Eliot,” she said.  Her soft voice about as bracing as a bucket of cold water splashed in the face.

Alarmed, he had turned to her, wondering if the poor blind soul was mad.

“What makes you say that?”

“Those men,” she whispered, pointing a shaking finger across the courtyard where Eliot could see nothing but shadows.  “They’ve been following me for a while now.  They think that I know…”

Eliot frowned, by now fairly positive that the girl was mad.

What should he say?  Like most citizens, he usually steered clear of cripples and beggars.

Still, something in the fear that hitched in the girl’s voice—the way her fingers trembled over the front of her ratty tunic—make him shift closer without thinking.

“I have a sword,” he said, patting the hilt of his father’s old blade.  “No one can hurt you while I am here.”

The blind girl couldn’t possibly know that the old iron was cracked and hung from his waist more for show than actual use in battle.

Still, she didn’t seem very convinced.

“You are mortal,” she said gravely, cupping her crumpled flower in the palm of her hand.  “They are—”

She broke off as horror washed over her pale face.  It was then that Eliot caught sight of the figure, shrouded in darkness, watching them from across the now deserted courtyard.

There was no one else around.  None of the troubadours from the dancing girl’s traveling show.  No servants rushing for last-minute errands.

Only the men, who appeared seemingly from nowhere to close in on him and Alazzdria.

“Stay still,” Eliot told her, drawing his sword.  The old piece of metal shook in his hands, wavering in the air, as the first of the men approached.

“Put the weapon down, boy.”  The voice was as cold as ice.

Colder.   The dark tones didn’t even seem human—beast-like, instead.  The voice of the devil himself.

He had skin paler than a winter’s morning, with eyes the color of ice and hair the exact shade of blood.  Rich clothes covered him from head to toe; silks and velvets all in a dark shade.

Eliot winced as those eyes took him in; slithering over his body like a snake before moving to over Alazzdria.

“I have been searching for you, little witch,” He said.  “It’s not often that one of the Danva slips from their enclave to join the world.”

Danva?  Eliot didn’t know what the strange word meant, but behind him he could feel the blind girl shrink and shiver.  She seemed too terrified to speak, but the strange man nodded as if she had.

“Oh, yes.”  His mouth formed a feral grin of ivory teeth.  “I’m sure there’s much you could teach me about the old ways, pretty one.”

Eliot felt his grip tightened over his old blade.

He noticed that four other men had slipped from the shadows to circle him and girl on all sides.  They reminded him of a pack of wolves he had observed hunting once in the forest, sneaking up slowly on an unsuspecting deer.

Helpless, he scanned the courtyard for any sign of someone else—a city guard.  Someone.

But all he saw were puddles of shadow spread between hanging lanterns.

“Stay back,” he said stiffly as the richly dressed man took a step closer, laughing as he attempted to raise his sword.

“What are you going to do, boy?”  The man wondered on a dark chuckle.

Eliot swallowed and forced his hands to grip the hilt even tighter, even though he remembered that his father had always claimed that the best way to hold a sword was loose and easy.

He was afraid.  He was on his way to throw himself in the middle of a war and he was afraid.

“I…I’ll bring you to justice,” he warned, trying to keep his voice from shaking.  “I’ll—”

“No!”  The fierce whisper came from behind him.  He felt tiny fingers pull at the hem of his tunic.   “You don’t understand.  They’ll kill you.   They’re—”

“Enough.”  The man reached to his side and leisurely drew his own blade; a fearsome black sword that but Eliot’s dulled metal to shame.  “Let us end this, shall we?”

Eliot didn’t know what to do.  The man was obviously a nobleman, trained in sword arts, and he was nothing but a poor farmer’s son, roaming from town to town without a penny to his name.

He wasn’t even that skilled in fighting, but he knew enough to realize that this man would kill him.  This—whatever this was—had nothing to do with him.

He should have run away.  Left the girl.

But then he heard her whimper, the sound of her breath hitching out of fear, and just reacted without thought.

He lunged.

The first blow caught him on the broadside of his arm, as quick as a viper’s strike.  The second, sliced through his side.  And the third jab of the man's sword, pierced the skin at the curve in his throat.

Not enough to kill, but to bleed.

All in the space that it took him to blink.  He hadn’t even seen the blade move, but he could feel the blood, dripping down to smear the flagstones as he fell.

It was a strange sensation.  Pain battered through him, blotting out everything else—but all he could focus on was the face of the blind girl as she stared in horror at nothing.

“Come now, witch,” the man cooed, wiping his blade on the side of his cloak.  “Don’t be afraid.”

One of his men reached for her and Alazzdria screamed, throwing herself down beside him.  Bleeding, Eliot could only watch her feel blindly over the ground until her pale hand brushed his.

“Don’t move,” she warned him, trembling fingers reaching for his sword.

“Wait,” the man called to his men as the witch attempted to heft the blade.  “Let us see what the herbwoman does...”

Eliot had a feeling that it wasn’t much.  The girl seemed only pale and frightened to him, and he wondered if she had lost all hope as she dragged her pale wrist across the sharpened edge of his blade.

“No!”  Groaning, he tried to reach out, but it was already too late.

In bright red drops her blood dripped down to mingle with his.  But then, to his surprise her grip tightened over his wrist and he winced out at the feel of metal slicing deep.

“Do not move,” Alazzdria warned again.  Then, she brought carefully brought their bleeding wrists together.

He didn’t feel anything…at first.  Nothing but pain and agony, as his blood slipped down to pool beneath his chest.

It was getting so much harder to breathe.  To move at all…

But, then it all went away beneath a sweet sudden cloud of peace.

“Well done,” Eliot heard the man laugh from above, as the agony left his body.  “Very, well done witch.  I just may keep you alive after all…”

But by then Eliot’s vision had already faded, plunging everything into darkness.

It was only later that he learned the man’s name was Lord Vaddrian.

A vampire.

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Eliot didn’t even realize that he had lost himself in thoughts of the past until he heard shouting from behind him.

“What the hell does a stupid prophecy have to do with you being here?”  Sage demanded in a growl.  “Why don’t you take your stupid piece of paper and just leave?”

The vampire looked like he wanted nothing more than to march over there and make the witch do just that, but Alazzdria just laughed off the threat.

“There are some things a fool like you will just never understand,” she said, with a smile that revealed her fangs.  “I won’t waste my breath trying to explain them to you.”

“Then leave!”  Hazel shrieked, lurching to her feet. “I don’t understand why Eliot puts up with you every time you come sneaking around, when all you do is stab him in the—”

“Knock it off,” Eliot demanded, turning around.

Sage and Hazel glared at him, but to his surprise they shut up.

For now.

“Well done, Eliot,” Alazzdria murmured, running her fingers through her hair.  “So nice to see that you have them trained, at least—”

“Don’t play games with me, Laz,” he told her coldly.  “You’re hiding something.  If you already knew about the prophecy, then why steal it?”

Alazzdria innocently shrugged her shoulders.  “I wanted to be sure… After all, if it does turn out to be true, then one would want to be fully prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”  Eliot found himself asking.

“Chaos,” she said simply.  “The chaos of all seven races clashing together.  You remember the old tales, don’t you?”

He forced himself to nod, even though he knew she couldn’t see it.

“But you really believe that these seven ‘beings’ will be strong enough to undo ancient blood magic?”  Sage asked skeptically.  “What are they; seven vampires?  Demons?”

“Something like that,” Alazzdria murmured.  “One vampire.  One Demon.  One mortal—one from each of the seven races.”

She might as well have said seven ponies.

“Oh rubbish,” Hazel snorted.  “Do you really expect us to believe that a mortal would be able to undo blood magic?”

The vampire started to giggle to hard that she almost fell off her chair.  Sage's mouth kept twitching as if he was fighting to keep himself from laughing as well.

“No,” Alazzdria snapped.  “I’m surprised that you can even comprehend anything at all you stupid little--”

“But that could be anyone,” Sage blurted before his sister could reply with a nasty retort.  He rolled his eyes to the window where Miriam’s white house loomed on the hill. “Even that little mortal over there could be one of this ‘all powerful’ seven.”

“Yes,” Alazzdria said quietly.  “She could.”

The twins blinked.

“Don’t bring her into this,” Eliot warned.  The nape of his neck prickled like it did when he knew the witch was scheming.  It was the same feeling he usually got before she did something bad that had both of them running for their lives.

“Why not?”  Alazzdria tilted her head.  “It’s not like the prophecy could possibly refer to Miriam anyway—not when she’ll die before she’d be of any use.”

The cabin went silent.  Suddenly, Sage moved forward, gaze dark.

“What do you mean, she’s going to die, witch?”

“Yes,” Hazel added, sounding unusually serious, for once.  “Are you threatening her?"

Alazzdria laughed and folded her pale hands neatly in her lap.  “Why on earth would you two beasts care?”

The twins shared a look.

“Eliot likes her,” Hazel said quietly, glancing in his direction.

“He’s been different around her,” Sage pitched in with a smirk.  “Not as weird…and frozen.  We thought he might be slipping back to his old ways at first, and—”

“Kill her,” Hazel filled in.  “But he hasn’t.  And obviously, he’s told her about us.”

Sage nodded, black eyes dark.  “She didn’t faint like an idiot when she saw the body from—”

“So,” Hazel said quickly, cutting off her brother.  “We just assumed that Eliot was…”

She glanced at Sage.

“Grooming her,” they said together.

“Grooming her?”  Alazzdria’s smile was far too satisfied for Eliot’s taste as she stared into the empty air.  “For what, may I ask?”

Hazel shrugged.  Sage rolled his eyes again as if the answer was obvious.

“To become a vampire,” they said.

Suddenly, Eliot turned away and moved over to that small window.

Alazzdria hadn’t bothered to cover it—the sunlight barely harmed her anyway.  The sky was gray and overcast overhead with white bits of snow drifting down over everything.

That little white house looked like a glass figurine in the center of a snow globe.  Fragile.  Untouched…

“How sweet of you,” he heard Alazzdria croon to Hazel and Sage.  "I didn’t know you little brats had enough room in your black little hearts to care for someone other than yourself.”

“At least we’re loyal to him,” Hazel countered in a hiss.

“Sometimes,” Sage added under his breath.   “When it counts, at least.  All you do is use him and then shove him aside when you’re done.”

Alazzdria shook her head.  “All you two are is a pain that Eliot is willing to suffer as a way to atone for his past ‘evil ways.’”  He half expected her to put air quotes around the words.He would never understand how she could do that—just minimize what they had done in the past like it didn’t matter.

As if his crimes had been little more than imaginary.  Stealing.  Some bloodshed here and there, but only a little.

Nothing to fret over.

The past would always matter to him.

“Besides,” the witch went on from her spot on the floor, “he’d need one of you ‘pure’ little wretches in order to turn her, anyway.    Are you little brutes willing to bleed yourselves for dear old Eliot?”

Hazel looked skeptical, but Sage brandished his pale wrist.

“I am,” he said.  He turned to jab his blazing eyes into Eliot’s.    “I’ll do it Eliot.  At least when you’ve been around her, you haven’t been up me and Hazel’s ass—”

“No,” Eliot said without turning around.  “I’m not turning her,” he added for good measure.  Slowly, he turned to face them, surprised to find the twins almost looked…disappointed.

“But why?”  Hazel demanded.  “You can’t deny that you like her—that you’ve been acting differently around her.”

“We like you, Eliot,” Sage added hesitantly, “but traveling around with a moody bastard for the past several decades hasn’t exactly been fun.”

“Why won’t you turn her?”  Hazel asked again.   “For a mortal, she doesn’t seem too annoying—”

“No,” Eliot said again.  “I won’t do that to someone.  Not her…”

It was tempting, he couldn’t lie.  But all it took was the thought of that hazy blood filled night so many years in the past.

He had become a vampire and it had changed him.  Instantly.

He wished that he could say he resisted and loathed the evil inside of him—but he had relished in it.  He had lost himself, and it had taken several long years to try and find that old person again.

All he had to do was think of Miriam, brown eyes stained red with bloodlust and soft mouth smeared scarlet, to make up his mind.

“I’m not turning her.”

Sage looked confused.  “But why?  The witch said that she’d die—”

“I said no.”

Reluctantly, Sage moved to another corner, crossing his arms, but Hazel just watched him with an odd look in her eye.

“How very selfish of you, Eliot,” she said in an uncharacteristically hard tone.  “If you’re not going to make her immortal, then why are you around her?  Do you like torturing yourself?—is that it?”

She paused as if waiting for an answer.  “Do you know how awful it will be having to watch you mope for the next few hundred years?   You’re not the type of person who can just walk away.  And even if she’s going to die, then why not—”

“He’s a coward,” Sage snarled.

But for once, Hazel held up a pale hand, cutting her brother off.

“Eliot,” she said, black eyes boring into his.  “Miriam’s quite the little doll—but if you’re going to let her break anyway, then maybe you should just not play with her at all.”

Eliot figured that he must have gone insane just then, because Hazel was serious for once.

Dead serious.

And something she’d said actually made sense.