“I know,” I whispered.
FORTY-TWO
December 22, 1891
I looked around, confused. I was in a cabin sitting on a bed.
I was starving.
A beautiful man stood before me, with pale skin and long, dark hair cascading like a waterfall around his shoulders. A knowing smile played at the corners of his lips as he approached me.
“You must feed, Rosalia,” he said, handing me a bottle and bringing it to my lips.How does he know my name?I sniffed the liquid and drank. I instantly felt better, as warm fire spread through me. The scratch in my throat subsided. As I drank, visions flickered through my mind:fleeting glimpses of someone farming and potatoes being pulled from the earth. The images blurred together in a kaleidoscope of sensations, leaving me breathless.
“What is that?” I asked the man.Draven. My husband. I recognized him again. My heart strained as he sat next to me, but the familiar drumbeat in my chest was not there anymore.
“What do you mean?” he asked me, his voice tender.
“I keep experiencing visions in my mind.”
“Memories and thoughts,” he began. “It takes time to acclimate, but it occurs when you consume a human’s blood.Some Blood Hunters develop an addiction to it, pursuing the intoxicating rush of power that comes from exploring their prey’s psyche. They fancy themselves capable of manipulating their victims through their memories and emotions. However, I find such methods distasteful. I prefer to select individuals with simple lives, whose memories are tranquil.” His tone was decidedly matter-of-fact. “I shall teach you how to set aside those thoughts and concentrate on other matters when you feed.”
“Why did you not tell me this before?” I asked, troubled by the thought of experiencing others’ memories and emotions each time I needed to feed.
“I apologize, my heart,” Draven replied, his voice tinged with regret as he drew me closer. “It has been a part of my existence for so long that I often forget this burden is not one that humans bear.”
“Humans do not drink blood,” I spat at him. I struggled to make sense of the feelings raging within me. Anger surged through me like a tidal wave, a torrent of emotion that threatened to consume me whole.Why am I so angry?
I reached for the bottle once more, only to find it empty, leaving me unsatisfied. It felt as though I was crawling under my own skin. I desperately scanned the room, searching for another bottle of blood.
“Rosalia, let me help you.” Draven reached out to touch my arm. I swatted his hand away as a feral growl escaped my lips. I bared my teeth at him, as hunger consumed my thoughts. My husband was an obstacle that stood before me.
A soft blanket of snow greeted me as I flung open the door of the cabin.
“My heart, come back inside. I have more for you to drink,” Draven urged, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. In a sudden burst of desperation, I whirled around andshoved him. The force of my action was unintentional, but he stumbled backward.
I felt ashamed that I pushed him, and I ran away before he could say anything more. I escaped into the night, allowing my new senses to take control, running barefoot, deeper into the woods.
I was faster than when I was human. I let my hearing and sight take control. My skin prickled as I saw a white rabbit about a hundred yards away. I moved quickly, stalking my prey, and when I reached the rabbit, I picked it up and pierced my teeth into it. I couldn’t explain the feeling of drinking blood straight from the vein. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Soft, clear, and vivid memories of grass, clovers, and sun filled my mind as I devoured the rabbit, though they stopped right before the last drop of blood.
A sense of fleeting satisfaction washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by an insatiable craving for more. I knew that I needed something larger, something more substantial, to quench the voracious hunger that gnawed at my core.
I continued to run, following the instinctual pull of my senses. The journey felt long, as our cabin was nestled deep in the woods, far from the nearest town. I could hear the bustle of people long before I caught sight of them. I emerged from the trees and into the edge of a town.
The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay, mingling with the pungent odour of stale alcohol and cheap perfume. The streets were narrow and winding. Dilapidated buildings lined the alleys, and windows adorned with faded curtains. Dim light emanated from taverns, brothels lit up the streets, and whispered conversations filled the air.
I searched, eyeing the prostitutes lingering, their painted lips and vacant stares turning my way. Men lurked in theshadows, and the town’s inhabitants moved with a sense of caution, their eyes darting nervously as I walked. I couldn’t wait any longer.
At the end of an alley, I saw a woman walking into her house. I approached her, hunching over and faking a limp.
I attacked.
My fangs sank into the side of her neck, and I drank, her hot blood filling me. I drank deeper and deeper. I felt as though I’d never eaten in my life, and I couldn’t drink fast enough. Soon, flashes of her life flooded my senses and I closed my eyes. It didn’t help; I still saw everything.
Young hands gently combing a horse’s mane. A woman igniting a fire on a wintry morning. A young man extends his hand to dance.Yet, beneath it all, I felt her fear creeping in. The same fear I felt as a human, but I continued to drink. I saw myself—barefoot, my hair wild and wind-tossed, covered in blood. My appetite was ravenous. Then the visions stopped, and she slumped weightless in my arms.
I started to shake her. “Wake up!” I yelled. But I drank too much. She was dead.
I killed someone.
