I shove aside the lid of my coffin. Many vampires have eschewed caskets for the outwardly human appearance of a bed, but ours is an ancient family and my mother is a stickler for the traditions. I spent my first century sleeping in a coffin, and even after I ran away and came to Black Crag, I found I could not give up the comfortof the darkness. Beds with their flimsy sheets feel too exposed. I’ve heard enough tales of vampires staked in their beds at night by zealous villagers. The coffin, at least, offers some protection against superstitious would-be heroes.
Even with the heavy curtains closed and the lamps extinguished, the oppressive sunlight leaks into my room. We vampires will not burn up in a cloud of ash upon immediate exposure to the sun, but the burning hell-disk will make us sick. Prolonged exposurecankill us.
Some vampires can train themselves with short exposures to endure the sun, and some of the modern vampire clans have a higher tolerance. Years of preserving our noble bloodline have ensured our Valerian blood is more sensitive than others, and most members of the Valerian Clan shutter themselves away completely.
I have never seen the appeal of exposing myself to that raging sphere of agony … until Winnie entered my house. The more time we spend together, the more I’m loath to spend a single moment away from her.
I throw on a shirt and breeches and head down to my study to paint. I begin another three paintings and a sculpture, but they’re all terrible, so I toss them in the priest’s hole. I am midway through a fourth painting when I realise that Winnie should have been awake by now.
Reginald has been keeping me informed of her schedule, and she would usually have come downstairs, eaten her breakfast, and started work. Winnie is like me – she enjoys her work so much that it’s the first thing she thinks of when she wakes.
At least, I used to think of my work. Now, my first thought upon waking is ofher.
I hope she is sleeping, and that she has found some peace from her nightmares.
I drag my weakened body across the castle and climb the stairs to her bedroom. I cannot hear her music blasting from downstairs, so I assume she is still in bed. I tell myself that I will not enter her room. I simply wish to assure myself that she is safe and sleeping soundly.
My steps are slow, sluggish, dragged down by the lines of orange fire that singe my skin from through the arrow slitsin the tower walls. I am panting as I reach the landing, and discover her door flung open, and her bed empty.
“Winnie?” I call out.
I hear a muffled giggle from far away. Not inside the castle, but …
Tentatively, I part the edge of the curtain. I wince, flinching away as a triangle of fire scorches my retinas. But I need to see her.
Winnie’s window overlooks one of the two inner courtyards of the castle. This particular courtyard is one of my favourite places to sit in the evenings – the moonlight glints off a serene Medusa fountain and captures the beauty of the nocturnal flowering plants I tend. In the daylight, all is harsh and dire.
From the wild grin on Winnie’s face, she doesn’t think so. She and Mirabelle are playing some kind of game – chasing each other around the narrow stone edge of the fountain. As I watch, smiling at their antics, Mirabelle darts through Winnie’s legs, and Winnie wobbles, her arms flailing out to the sides.
Even with the dark-tinted windows, the thin streak of sunlight burns against my skin. I drink in one final look at Winnie, then drop the curtain with a sigh.
SPLASH.
“Help!”
Winnie.
The distress in her voice has me flinging the curtains open. I shield my eyes from the burning light. It takes a moment for her to come into view. She is submerged in the fountain, which had once been a reservoir for storing water during sieges and is much deeper than it appears. Mirabelle sits on the edge, happily cleaning between her toes as Winnie flails in the water, her head disappearing beneath the surface.
She can’t swim.
I fly down the staircase and through the house, pouring speed into my sluggish limbs. As a vampire, I’m fast, but I’m also dulled by the sunlight. By the time I make it outside, she’s already underwater. The sun beats down on my back, hot and harsh,or perhaps that’s my fear. I leap in after her, screaming for Reginald before I duck below the water’s surface.
The cold liquid offers only momentary relief from the sun’s wicked burn. I can barely see her through the red welts in my eyes, her body sinking like a stone down into the black depths of the reservoir.
I pour strength I do not know I possess into my legs, kicking hard. I grab her beneath the arms. She is dead weight, her head lolling, her eyes wide and lifeless.
No, please, no.
The red dots swallow my vision. My limbs are on fire, but I hug her to my chest. Her skin is supposed to be warm against mine but she’s cold, so cold. I kick, hoping that I’m kicking in the right direction?—
My head breaks the surface. Mirabelle yelps in distress as I send a wave over the side of the fountain, drenching her. The cruel sun beats down, and I’m screaming with agony as I haul her from the water and cradle her in my arms.
“Winnie, I’ve got you. Please, Winnie, wake up.”
I tilt her face to mine, but she’s not breathing. I don’t know what to do. Humans are so fragile, their bodies so easily broken.
I don’t think about how wrong it is or how I’m skirting the edges of breaking my oath to myself.
