Arc 1: A Second Death (Part 4)

‘STOP!’ yells a voice that I don’t remember ever hearing so panicked.

I freeze, but then I realise that Canus’s command wasn't directed at me. Scintilla, meanwhile, has gone lax, eyes wide with fright and despair.

I turn my head. Canus had widened the hole in the wall where I’d broken through when I tackled Chryseus off of him, staring through the opening at Scintilla and I with the strangest expression on his face. His cold eyes are bright in the dim light of the room, reflecting the diffuse light of dawn spilling inside through dingy egress windows that hadn’t been properly boarded up.

He looks afraid, I realise with a start, but I don’t know why he’s afraid. The emotion makes him approachable in a way that I’ve never felt before. I want to comfort him, tell him that everything is fine, that he has nothing to fear.

I struggle again, and Scintilla lifts easily off of me. I don’t glance at her face; I can’t bear it. I can’t stand knowing that she loves me still, but chose to betray me anyway. It would have been better, I think—cleaner, if she hated me completely. I would prefer it to knowing that she cares, but not enough, that my closest companion for the past three decades has simply found something more important than me.

Scintilla collapses to the side, bound by Canus’s command to an extent that I hadn’t even realised was possible. This is the risk in choosing to defy one’s Sire, after all. Without expending any of his own vital force, Canus can issue simple commands to our bodies in a way that we can’t ever resist. If Canus tells us to stop, we stop. If he tells us to sit, we sit. If he tells us to stand outside and stay still, we will do it until we are burnt to ash at sunrise.

I push myself up, staggering to my knees and shuffling awkwardly towards Canus. Chryseus is in the way, no longer convulsing but laying still, unbreathing. I don’t know if he’s dead beyond repair, and I don’t really want to know anymore. The anger and adrenaline of betrayal has fled me by now, leaving only heartbreak.

I loved Chryseus, but it seems that he’d never felt the same way in return. If the taste of his blood is anything to go by, I’m not sure if he’s even capable of such an emotion.

Canus extends to me a hand, and I take it, allowing him to pull me to my feet entirely, helping me stumble over the supine heap of Chryseus’s body.

‘We must leave,’ Canus tells me, his voice strangely gentle. ‘Daybreak is in less than a half-hour.’

This block of townhouses is about a quarter-hour’s sprint from Canus’s estate. The way I am right now, I don’t know if I’ll make it back in time. I nod anyway, focusing on putting one foot before the other.

Canus leads me to the stairway that I blocked off with sorcery just earlier. I make a feeble gesture at it, but nothing happens. I try again, physically clawing my hand through the shadowy tendrils that form the barrier. It finally dissipates, leaving me even weaker than before.

Suddenly, Canus’s arm is before me.

I stop, thinking that he means to prevent me from ascending the steps.

But then he waves his wrist pointedly towards my mouth and says, ‘I can’t promise much, but it should revitalise you at least a little.’

The last time I drank from my Sire, I’d still been human. I don’t actually remember that night, for human memories are fleeting, and it was more than thirty years ago.

I swallow. It’s not forbidden to drink from another vampire, but it isn’t exactly common practice. Canus does it all the time, of course, but he has his bloodline curse as an excuse, and it’s also more acceptable to drink from one’s progeny than to drink from other vampires. There’s another exception to this minor social taboo: vampires bound to each other in matrimony. Drinking blood from each other is part of almost all marriage ceremonies.

As far as vampiric blood goes, the most that I’ve imbibed have been accidental splashes in the heat of battle, or criminal vampires that I was in charge of keeping subdued. Never have I drunk from a fellow vampire for mere sustenance—never have I even considered the idea. With the way the bloodline curse has manifested in me, most vampires are rather unpalatable.

Now is not a time to get hung up on trivialities, however. Now, I either have to drink from Canus and find enough strength in it to fuel me until we return to his estate, or I will be left alone in this townhouse for Chryseus’s subordinates to find me tomorrow evening.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and I bite down.

Canus is silent as I draw a bare mouthful from him. His blood isn’t sweet, the way my favourite humans tend to be, but it’s rich and smooth. I find it to be more of a boost to my vitality than I first expected, however, and it is difficult to stop myself from drawing too much. In what little I do take, I notice that Canus’s blood is flowing very weakly. He’s on his last reserves as well.

‘Thank you,’ I repeat upon releasing his wrist. He makes no move to retract his arm, and I have to close my eyes and stop breathing in order not to be tempted into taking more.

‘You should just leave me here,’ I say with what little air I have left. I orchestrated this entire mess with the sole goal of killing him. I deserve to be left behind.

Canus swallows audibly. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says, and then he ascends the stairs.

The insult is such an unexpected return to normalcy that it shocks me out of my guilt. After a small pause, I follow him upstairs.

It is so bright outside that the streetlights have already dimmed. Lesser vampires might be blinded by a dawn so bright, but to Canus and me it is a mere inconvenience.

Canus has only just finished gathering shadows to obscure our bedraggled forms from mortal eyes when he suddenly stops. He takes three rapid steps back towards the townhouses, then spits out a strangely archaic curse. He turns back towards me and whispers, ‘Run. Run home. Run as fast as you can bear.’

My body is moving before I even process the command, turning the corner down the quiet street in the direction of my Sire’s estate.

Canus follows behind me, keeping pace at a slight distance. It’s about a quarter to eight in the morning, and, as we approach the main roads, we start encountering more and more humans, pedestrians and cars alike. We’re shrouded in shadow, but we’re still moving fast enough that some more discerning humans might notice something amiss, and it’s a complete violation of our society’s most basic law. I can’t stop, however, because Canus’s command has superseded my own instinct to hide from the humans.

At first, I can’t help but wonder what has made Canus so careless. But then I sense it—a dread and terror so tangible that I almost choke. I’ve felt lesser versions of this before, in my years as one of Canus’s primary enforcers of justice, but only a handful of times, and only once from such a distance: the echo of sacrilege caused by a vampire’s very soul being consumed.

It’s a Desecrant.

And not just any Desecrant. As strong as it feels, as fresh as the violation must be, it must be a very powerful vampire that has just been consumed, and there are only two possible candidates for the identity of this Desecrant—Chryseus or Scintilla.

I don’t know which would be worse.

We continue to run, but my speed begins to wane after only five minutes. At first, Canus says nothing, just continues to keep pace behind me. We had a minute or so of head start on the Desecrant, and I think we were faster than it at first, but then, slowly, the terrible power behind us begins to close the gap.

‘I—I don’t think—’ I start falteringly. ‘I don’t think I can make it.’

I don’t know how far behind us the Desecrant is, but I do know that I’ll probably die in the sun before I get back to the estate. I’m fast, even for a vampire. On a good day, I can sprint one kilometre in about a minute, but we’re nearing the ten minute mark now, and we’re barely into Islington. At this rate, it’ll be another ten minutes before we reach the safety of the estate, and I can sense that sunrise will come before that.

Canus doesn’t say anything for another city block. Then, after I sprint around the corner at the next intersection, he suddenly orders, ‘The alley.’

I duck into a strange little covered alleyway. It’s a dead end, however, so I turn back to give Canus a questioning look.

His dishevelment is especially evident in the light of dawn. Blood and grime streak his face, and his clothes—a collared shirt in the regency style tucked into more modern trousers—are torn beyond repair. His skin has become pallid and grey-tinged, and he no longer has control over his fangs, which rest precariously atop his bottom lip, needle-sharp and stained with drying blood.

I know what is needed from me right now, but I don’t want to do it. I remain stubbornly silent, waiting for him to give the order. Whether it’s Chryseus or Scintilla on our heels, the Desecrant will be on us soon. The only hope of survival for Canus is to stay one step ahead—become a Desecrant in turn, eat my heart for the boost in power it’ll give him, then fight the Desecrant on even footing.

Canus takes a step towards me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse to flinch. I don’t want to die, but I no longer have a choice. To the bitter end, I remain little more than sustenance for him, tagged like livestock and kept pristine until slaughter.

I’ve known that I risked final death from the moment I began to plan Canus’s demise; either I would succeed and be freed, or I would fail and be culled. I don’t like it, but I’m ready for it.

Suddenly, firm arms wrap around my shoulders, and a light pressure exerts itself against my forehead. Even in my confusion, I recognise it as a gentle kiss.

‘Favilla. My dearest Favilla.’

I tense, waiting for it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Canus says. Despite the speed at which he speaks, there’s an unbearable sadness in his voice, a genuine sorrow so sharp that I feel its edge cut through my very core. I hate him for it, for showing compassion only now that he’s about to kill me for good.

‘He’ll catch up soon,’ he continues. ‘He’ll kill us both if we go on like this.’

Canus seems to think that the Desecrant is Chryseus, and I wonder why. It would be easier for him, if the Desecrant turns out to be Scintilla. The act of Desecration tends to temporarily suppress the obligations between a vampire and her sire—I know because I once investigated a case of Desecration where a vampire committed the sin twice in one night, once upon her brother in blood, and again upon her Sire. I’m not very well versed in the theory of blood bonds, but I suspect Canus might be able to reassert his authority over Scintilla if he too became a Desecrant—order Scintilla to stand down and win without a fight.

But he sounds so certain, so frightened. Maybe he can feel it, then, feel the violation done to Scintilla’s physical form through his bloodline curse. I don’t want to think about it, but I also have to know.

‘Scintilla is dead, then?’ I ask.

His arms tense around me. ‘Why do you care? She betrayed you.’

I don’t know how to answer that, so I stay silent. I wonder why he’s taking the time to speak to me like this, why he hasn’t already ordered me to lie back and offer him my heart.

He sighs. It’s a familiar sound, filled with unspoken exasperation. ‘Listen to me, Favilla,’ he says. ‘You must do as I say, even once—’ He falters, his arms squeezing more tightly around me. ‘No matter what happens, you must do as I tell you, alright?’

‘Yes, Sire,’ the words emerge from me unbidden.

Canus sighs again, more forcefully this time, frustrated instead of exasperated. ‘I should have done this years ago,’ he mutters. Then, more firmly, he continues, ‘Favilla, you must go to my sister when it’s all over, do you understand? Ask her to tell you about it. She’ll know what you mean.’

I try to lean out of Canus’s hold, to look him in his eyes, because I don’t understand the order. When it’s all over? How will I be able to do anything when it’s all over?

Suddenly, Canus slumps a little, and our postures shift. He’s not that much taller than my five-foot-nine-inches, so slouching allows him to rest his forehead against the crook of my neck.

‘And now,’ he says, breath whispering over my collarbones, ‘you must hurry. Drink from me—’

The order forces me to act before my brain catches up with it, and already my head has turned, my fangs sinking into the side of Canus’s exposed throat. I fight to not lose myself to the indulgence of feeding.

Canus gasps, but it doesn’t sound quite like pain. I try to pull back anyway, but then he says, his voice strained but determined, ‘Drink me dry, my love, and then eat my heart.’

The next moments pass in a blur—the dregs of his blood revitalising me even as his body grows still in my arms; the gentle give of his flesh against my nails; the crack of his ribs as they’re bent back by an unnatural force fuelled by the blood that has just left his veins; the sticky-slickness of his heart against my palm; the tear of arteries and veins as his most vital organ is torn from his chest—

And then I return to myself. I realise now why Canus told me everything earlier—now that he’s as good as dead, now that I have no Sire to obey. I hold his heart in my hands, and I feel a distinct compulsion to consume it, to swallow this twitching pile of viscera that holds the core of my Sire’s vitality. I don’t know how much of the urge comes from the fading grasp that his orders have on my body, and how much of it comes from my own thirst, my bloodlust and gluttony and greed.

I want to give into the compulsion, the terrible urge to seize this power that has been freely offered to me, but the greater part of me is still frozen in shock.

Canus had me right there, waiting and resigned to death, but instead he sacrificed himself so that I might live. He called me ‘my love’.

I’m not stupid. I know what this means.

I just don’t know what to do with this information—the fact that Canus loves me. Canus loved me, and I never even suspected it until he made me drink him dry and tear out his heart.

So, instead of granting him his final wish, instead of listening to my Sire like a good little girl, I merely kneel there in the grimy little alley, paralysed with guilt.

I’m still in the same position minutes later, when Chryseus tears into the alleyway in a rampage, all aglow like a fallen angel, bright-haired and bright-eyed and healed of all the injuries inflicted upon him earlier tonight—this morning, I should say, as most of it had happened as the sky slowly brightened with dawn.

At first, Chryseus seems intent on combat, but he does a double take when he sees me with Canus’s heart cradled in my hands.

‘Oh, Fav,’ he says. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ His voice is lovely—musical and alluring. If I hadn’t just experienced the greatest upheaval of my entire existence, I might have been moved by it.

Instead, I remain silent. I think I lost my ability to speak somewhere between sinking my fangs into Canus’s neck and thrusting my hand into his chest.

Chryseus is undeterred. ‘It’s a pity we don’t have much time. I’d have liked to enjoy you more. Scinty wasn’t much fun either, you know. I’d have liked her more if she’d been able to move. It’s strange, I never thought Canus had it in him. He was always so terribly precious with you lot, keeping you on such tight leashes, so afraid that you would become tainted by the realities of our world. But really, I must give him some credit if he was able to leave Scinty to the mercies of my men.’

I feel slightly faint, both refusing to consider what Chryseus was implying about what he did to Scintilla and unable to stop thinking about it. It makes no sense. Scintilla was always our Sire’s favourite, his first progeny. I hadn’t considered it at the time, of course, too confused by it all to wonder why we hadn’t brought Scintilla along with us. She had still been relatively fresh. Our Sire could have sustained himself on her blood, brought her back to the estate to await later punishment. Why didn’t he?

Why does it even matter any more? Scintilla is dead, her soul consumed by the monstrosity before me. Canus might as well be dead, condemned by his own orders. They’re faint now, but only due to his complete indisposal. I can still feel them active at the back of my mind—eat it, eat it, eat it.

Chryseus takes a single step towards me.

I’m too frozen to even back up. I suddenly realise what Chryseus must be planning. He’ll take Canus’s heart from me and eat it, and then he’ll take my heart and eat it as well.

I can’t let him do it. I refuse. I cannot bear the thought of anyone else snuffing out the final spark of life that remains of Canus. But I also can’t bear the idea of Desecration.

There has to be another way, I think. I look down at the slick organ in my hands, and I pray with desperation and reverence that only the soon-to-be-dead can muster, there must be another way. Please let there be another way.

And something out there must be listening, because, without experiencing even the slightest tug of sorcery on my personal energy, I feel Canus’s heart begin to heat. It’s not a nice heat, not the warmth of blood and humanity, but something bright and unyielding, a heat that never lived, and thus can’t die.

I remain still even as Chryseus continues to approach, letting the sensation burn through me. I feel the briefest touch of Chryseus’s hand on my shoulder, and I hear his yelp of pain, but they’re so very distant in comparison to the unbearable heat coursing through me, this flameless fire that cleanses and destroys all at once.

I stare down at the still-slick organ in my palms, and I see it begin to glow—pink at first, and veined, like the insides of eyelids that are too thin to block out light, then white, as the webs of colour begin to fade into a brightness that is blinding without at all hurting my vision. And then my hands are glowing too, but the heart is disintegrating into glimmers of ash and floating away on the breeze. The heart goes first, then my fingers and my hands and my arms, atomising into countless flakes of cinder. I don’t even feel pain any more, not really. All I know is heat. Heat and light.

At first, I burn alive.

Then, quite suddenly, I’m burning dead.

﹒

I’ve mentioned before, but don’t actually remember how I died the first time. It’s not uncommon among us vampires. Trauma, I’m told, makes memories erode more readily. Actually, I don’t remember much of my human life at all, not really. All I know is that, by the time I became a vampire, I was in my twenties, and I’d recently been orphaned.

I don’t remember any friends or family. I barely remember anything other than a terrible hospital and a lonely funeral. By the time of my transformation, I’d been alone, completely and utterly, grieving and lost.

I don’t remember dying the first time, but I do remember waking up, still lost but no longer alone. Beautiful and powerful and immortal.

﹒

Dying the second time was worse, I think, than dying must have been the first time.

It wasn’t painful, per se, though my memory of it is. You see, vampires tend not to forget much once we become properly immortal, because then our memories are tied not to our fallible (and very dead) brains, but our souls. I didn’t feel any physical pain as I died a second time, burning away in an act that I can only deem divinely miraculous, but I do remember how I felt emotionally—all the rage, all the sorrow, all the guilt and remorse and despair.

And I don’t even have the mercy of oblivion that had been promised to me back when I first learnt about vampiric unlife. Fire, they said, like sunlight, like hunters and all our other natural enemies, is enough to destroy a vampire’s soul.

But I must have been lied to, because I burned, didn’t I? I felt the heat and saw the ashes and the light. I felt the fire consume my body until even my heart fell apart, until the seat of my soul disintegrated the exact same way that Canus’s heart had.

So why is it that I can still think? Why is it that I still feel thirst? Why is it that I can open my eyes and peer into the darkness?

Why can I see the polished grain of a wooden surface not six inches before my nose?

Why am I not dead?