A Vampire's Rise (2 page)

Thrown forward by the crack that struck my head, pain exploded in my skull. Through a bleary stare, I lay looking up at three men, their shadowy figures looming over me, handkerchiefs pulled up to obscure their faces. The tallest of the three tapped his fingers against his thigh. In his other hand, he grasped a wooden cudgel.

After the third strike, I blacked out.

Chapter 2

THE FAINT SCENT OF ROSES.

Blackness.

I awoke to sobs and realized they were mine. I squinted in the darkness at the four dirty grey walls of a small room. An aching head hindered my ability to focus. Moonlight seeped in beneath the door.

Hands bound in front of me, tied with coarse rope, I rolled onto my side and used my elbow to prop myself up to better see. Shirtless, the cold caught up.

Not just any room.

Resting firmly in the center lay an intricately carved, white marble sarcophagus. Afraid to move, I hoped my heart would stay in my chest and not beat its way out. I struggled to pull up my legs and then realized that my ankles had been bound together and tied to the iron leg of a corner bench. Struggling to free myself, the rope chafed my wrists. Despite the burning, I continued tugging, almost freeing one hand.

I had no idea how I’d come to be in here.

Or how long.

Less than a year ago, my friends had dared me to enter a tomb much like this one, but I couldn’t even look inside, fearful of their stories of rotting corpses stacked high, the stench so bad that it would choke me. Their tales had convinced me I’d made the right decision. Now, laying just inches away from such a tomb, I wondered how many corpses lay within. Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew they were in there. My sobs pushed away the silence.

Make it go away.

Engravings along the sides portrayed ancient Roman battles. Years had worn away some of the dramatic images, but not all. With my struggles came the tearing of my flesh. I gnawed at the rope, frustrated that nothing gave. I fell back and stared up at the ceiling. Then back at the tomb.

Dried scarlet petals were scattered nearby, a few strewn upon the marble coffin lid, fallen from a bouquet, seemingly abandoned in the corner. Mourners had long forgotten this place.

Numbness in my limbs thwarted my movements, and my lips were so dry that they stung when I grimaced. The ground felt rough against my bare back.

The walls closed in.

An awful thought struck me that I might die alone in here. My body would be discovered by the visitors who’d eventually come back to pay their respects, maybe in a week, maybe in a year.

I needed to get out.

I had a faint recollection of scrambling down the rough vines that straddled our house and sneaking out to the amphitheater—an awful feeling that I’d done the unthinkable, and broken the golden rule of bullfighting. The bulls received minimal human interaction, never experiencing a man on foot before entering the arena. To do so would mean they’d know to charge the matador instead of his cape.

But I’d done just that, barely surviving and leaving behind a bull dangerously conditioned. With Fiesta Brava scheduled for that night, set to begin in a few hours, the bull would now be deadly to anyone who approached. And my brother, a seasoned matador, was expected to fight. The fire torches had been lit by someone on purpose, perhaps the very same man who’d worked the bull so hard that a vapor had risen off his hide.

Cobwebs weaved along the sides of the sarcophagus and dangled. Fear of the spiders that had spun them caused near panic. I heard a sound from outside, branches crunching underfoot, and I took a deep breath ready to call out for help.

I froze.

Something was moving in here as well, and though I didn’t like the idea of a rodent scurrying around inside the sarcophagus, it was easily preferable to the notion that I’d awoken the dead. My face itched and I reached up, slightly thwarted by the restraints, and scratched my chin. Something had caked on my face and it crumbled beneath my touch. Dried blood wedged under my fingernails.

I had to get out.

A gust of warmth blew as the door creaked open and a man-shaped silhouette appeared in the entryway. He burst in and stomped toward me, as though expecting to find me. Beads of sweat spotted his brow.

My words came out but had no meaning. I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid of his menacing scowl.

Quiet.

His foot tapped my thigh.

I peeked at the gnarly club poised above me, trying to make out the features of the stranger who clutched it. His thick black eyebrows almost met, and the cleft in his chin was barely obscured by his morning shadow. He wore a sinister glare that declared he was ready to strike at any moment. I feared this was my punishment for the bullfight that I’d unwittingly stepped into, a dance with death that should never have happened. I wanted to explain that I had no idea the bull would be in there.

His knuckles whitened as he raised the weapon high.

The lid of the coffin scraped open. I couldn’t bear to look. He could use that cudgel on the thing. Something heavy landed on my thigh. He’d dropped the club. Peeking through one blurry eye, I saw a young woman standing by the tomb, and felt an inner quickening, a strange tingling in my chest. My gasp echoed off the walls and found its way back to me.

She wore a long, white gown made from the finest linen. Her porcelain complexion was flawless, her features exquisite, and she sauntered as though floating as she approached. Straight raven hair fell over her shoulders and flowed down her back. Gold trinkets on her wrists jangled. Her startling turquoise gaze darted between the man and me.

I shifted. “Don’t hurt me.”

His foot struck my mouth and I winced in pain.

The deepest sigh, or something like one.

I opened my eyes.

He’d gone.

I stared out through the open doorway and saw no sign of him. Just the woman sliding the tomb lid closed. Several dry rose petals fluttered to the ground, one of them resting on the abandoned cudgel.

She knelt close and traced my bruises with her cold fingers. “It’s over now,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“Suna.”

I glanced at the tomb. “I have to get home.”

“You can’t.” She untied me.

I ran my fingers through my sticky, matted hair and shivered with the thought that it might be blood. I scrambled to my feet.

Her fingers wrapped around my forearm and tugged me back. “It’s not safe.”

Alarmed, I considered her warning, and turned toward the doorway.

She gazed out at the twilight. My footing gave and she caught me. I pulled away and bolted out, met by the welcome warmth of freedom, and glanced up at the stark white cross atop the steeple of the nearby church, heartened by the familiar landmark that would guide me home. I glanced back and saw Suna vanish amongst the shadows.

Out of sight of the mausoleum, I urinated a dark yellow stream against a sorry looking hedge, then, in spite of my aching limbs, I scampered through the graveyard, following the few village lights that guided me into town and, just beyond that, the bullring.

On my arrival, I lingered at the arena edge.

Empty seats indicated that the bullfight had come and gone. Short of breath, overcome with a stomach ache, my heart pounded and my hands shook with fear. I ran home ignoring my suffering body, hoping to wash off this blood before my mother caught sight of me. My thoughts carried back to the mausoleum. I tried to understand what had happened and was so relieved that the dead had remained hidden.

The señorita had come out of nowhere, but more alarming was that awful cudgel that man had tried to kill me with, and the dread that he’d try it again. My brother would know what to do.

I stared up at my shut bedroom window.

Sleep would not come easily tonight.

I’d have to enter via the back door that was usually left open. I was shocked by the sight of chaos within the kitchen — sporadically placed unwashed dishes, half-eaten food, and a table left untouched from supper. Not the usual tidiness my mother insisted upon. A basket of clean clothes lay next to the kitchen table. I gulped warm cup of water after warm cup of water, trying to quench a thirst that refused to relent.

In the back room, I leaned over the wash bowl and poured water over my matted hair. I disposed of the pinky-red water before someone saw it. The throbbing in my head caused more waves of nausea. All I wanted was to sleep off the rest of the day.

Hushed voices carried down from the upper rooms. With deliberate footsteps, I ascended the stairs, avoiding the floorboards that creaked, memorized over time. A warm breeze brushed past billowing the curtain of an open window. Through the keyhole, I made out the shape of my grandfather lying upon my mother’s bed.

With a deep breath, I opened the door. My mother rested on the bedside with my grandfather’s hand in hers. Although she turned to face me, she didn’t look at me. My grandmother sat in an armchair and she too avoided my stare.

Roelle Bastillion loomed in the corner, the twenty-three-year-old owner of the ranch where my brother worked. He glanced at me sideways.

I hesitated to explain where I’d been, fearful of worsening my mother’s disappointed demeanor, not only for the fact that I’d gone missing, but also because I’d gotten into such trouble.

Grandfather coughed. The left side of his face hung lower than his right in an unfamiliar grimace and his left arm was twisted beneath him.

“He’ll be well taken care of,” Roelle said. “Discipline won’t put it right, but he’ll gather the magnitude.”

At my mother’s feet lay my bloody shirt. I struggled to speak. Bile rose in my throat and threatened to spew.

Roelle reached for me and clutched my arm. “I know it seems harsh,” he said. “Better to come with me than to the bastille to hang.” His fingers squeezed over a cut near my elbow, and it started bleeding again.

The more I wriggled, the firmer he held me. My grandfather seemed for a moment to recognize me. Mother still wouldn’t look at me.

Roelle dragged me out of the room, shoving me along the corridor and down the stairs. Unable to escape his ironclad grip, and despite my heels digging in, he hauled me outside.

“Your brother’s dead,” he said.

Chapter 3

THE BARE, DANK, DARK cell smelt of musty, stale wine.

With my head buried in my hands, I tried to grasp Ricardo’s death. My mind scrambled to comprehend. Roelle confirmed my worst fear, that my brother had died in the bull ring.

Minimal access to light made it impossible to determine the passing of time. The unrelenting cold chilled my bones. The pain burrowed in. Discarded hessian sacks that I wrapped around me prevented me from freezing.

My arrival at Roelle’s estate went unnoticed. I’d been locked up in the cellars before any of the staff had gotten a look at me.

Nothing but quiet.

Chaotic thoughts took advantage of the silence.

In the stone walls, I made out patterns, and distorted faces emerged. I counted the exposed bricks until memorized, then changed positions to alter the view.

Recalling the way my bedroom had looked, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back there. I imagined the chair I sat in at breakfast, the way the pot in the hearth swung after my mother had stirred the broth, and my mother’s face, the way her top lip curled when she smiled. She’d forgive me, come back for me.

Save me.

Fourteen bricks across and twenty down. Paint still covered the last few I counted. I used my hands to judge how many there were before they reached the ground. After counting the bricks, I kicked them, twisting my ankle and sending brown dust into the air. I didn’t try it again.

I developed a love-hate relationship with the bucket in the corner, grateful that I had it, but hateful when its stench overwhelmed me.

Despite protesting that I didn’t know anything about his friend Aaron, who’d mysteriously disappeared, Roelle used his fists to force my recollection. His knuckles struck my flesh, punching old bruises and making new ones. Curled up, I tucked my knees beneath me, using my hands to protect my face. With each strike came his worsening frustration.

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” I cried.

He stormed out.

My sobs caused a rift in the stillness.

Guilt for my brother’s death eased during the long days when a visit from Roelle distracted me. Physical and mental torture became frequent. Fretful to learn the fate of his best friend, Aaron, he interrogated me. I tried to convince him that I knew nothing.

Sleep was my only refuge. My mind turned to thoughts of the señorita as I tried to recall her face, haunted by her. “Suna,” was the name she’d told me. Sunaria, I called her now, my phantom savoir who’d warned me.

I yearned for home, for my mother’s love, her forgiveness. I surrendered to the despair and embraced the void. With such pain, there’s no hope, and with that no chance of disappointment. When darkness engulfs, there’s no fear of losing one’s way.

One is already lost.

The news that I’d acclimated the bullfight that killed my brother caused terrible anguish. My thoughts spiraled again and again, never finding their way out of the rut of confusion. I had no choice but to relinquish all memories of him as a way to suppress the twisted agony that wrenched at my small, weak frame.