Corben's Thirst: The Thirst Within Part 1.5 (7 page)

“Save your strength, brother,” he said softly.

What strength? I was dying. And I had to tell him. “But I… I need you to know… I am
so
sorry that I hurt you.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard me. I was still focused on his face, and watched as his eyes moistened.

“I forgive you.”

I could feel my life draining out of me. It should have been terrifying, but I was suddenly at peace.

“Thank you. I needed to say… before I….”

“No, do not speak of it. I have to bring you inside, then I will send for the medic.”

The medic! Only then did I remember Charlotte. “No—bring me to Charlotte. She is sleeping inside. Upstairs.”

“Yes. I will call for your wife. But also for the medic—”

“No medic. She will heal me.”

“Corben, you need more help than she can possibly give you—”

“Thierry,” I cut him off, with effort. “She can heal me. She is… special. Please. I need her.”

I heard him sigh. “I will bring you to her. Hold on.”

He picked me up and carried me back to the house with some strain. Every step of the way hurt as much as the pitchfork. Every shift, even the smallest pull of gravity felt like I wouldn’t be able to survive it. But somehow he made it to the front door.

And then we heard a scream. I lifted my head with effort as Thierry turned around towards the voice. It was a woman’s wail, coming from the gate, about a hundred feet away. She was cradling a body; one of the men that Thierry had killed.

“Petyr! No… my children!”

She was about my late mother’s age, but she was
fit
. She stood in a flash and was suddenly running towards us, almost flying, her face contorted with fury. Before Thierry could even react she had reached us; she rounded on Thierry and pushed him, pushed on me, while wailing desperately.

“Madam, what in the….”

But she didn’t give him a chance to say anything.

“Lay him down. Give him to me.”

“My brother? You will not touch him. Look what your people did to him!”

“Give him to me!” she repeated.

“Sod off!” Thierry tried to ignore her, turning around to get us inside the house and away from the crazy woman. But he was encumbered with my weight, and she took advantage of that.

She reached for his belt as he turned and grabbed his sword.

“Stop—” Thierry tried to say, but before he could get another word out she whirled the weapon in the air, two-handed, and with a
smack
I saw as it buried itself in Thierry’s neck above me. I felt his hot blood on my face before I heard his cry. And one second later we were both falling. I was almost numb from the pain but I could still feel the fall. And then I felt the sharp sword piercing my chest. This time it barely hurt.

Then everything went black.

It felt like hours, if not days, had gone by when I next came to. I was groggy and confused, and it took a minute for the memories of that bloody afternoon to come back to me. Before they did, though, during that minute, as I lay on my bed I thought only of Charlotte. I was more than just thinking—my entire being was full of her. She was in my thoughts, my vision, everything. She was inside me. She was
in me
.

I didn’t question what was happening. I only reacted to what was in my head as I drifted pleasantly in a half-conscious stage, where I knew I was awake but I was still in a dreamlike trance, my wife in every cell of my body.

And then I remembered.

Thierry
.

I jumped up, determined to find out what had happened to him—and I realized I wasn’t in my bedroom, but in the attic of my house. I rarely went up there, but I recognized it. Except… it felt different. It looked different; it even
smelled
different. I had just begun to figure out that it was
me
who was altered, as I studied the room before me, when I noticed the body on a cot next to mine.

It was covered in a white sheet from head to toe. And I knew right away. The sheet was tucked underneath his motionless form, giving me an outline of his body. My own body felt heavy, tired; it took me a while to get out of my cot, and when I finally did I approached him slowly. Perhaps I hoped that in the time it would take me to reach him, that maybe his fate would change. That it wouldn’t be him. But before my hand even reached the sheet that covered his face my eyelashes had already moistened with unshed tears.

A dry sob escaped my throat as I pulled the sheet back. And my brother’s peaceful face filled my vision. He was dead. No question about it. Except I
wanted
to question it. I didn’t want to believe he was gone. I laid a hand on his cheek; it was already cold and felt a little stiff. And in a sudden rage I removed the rest of the sheet off him and threw it away angrily. At his neck was a wad of clean bandages; someone had cleaned and dressed his wound. I laid my head on his chest, hoping to hear even the faintest of heartbeats. But I heard nothing.

Then I looked down at myself, remembering my own wounds, and saw that I was still wearing the same shirt I wore to the funeral, but it was torn and bloody. I lifted it and saw I had a similar dressing over the wound in my midsection. I tore the bandages aside—it didn’t hurt—and gasped when I found my skin was perfectly smooth; there was no visible sign of injury. She had healed me—but she hadn’t healed Thierry, or had not been able to.

A scream broke through my self-examination.

Charlotte
—

I stumbled to the window closest to the sound, noting as I did that my legs didn’t quite work, and also that it was almost dark—outside, the sun was about to set—and that it had been dark since I had opened my eyes; yet I had managed to see and distinguish my surroundings in the low light coming from the window. But I only registered these facts briefly in the back of my mind while my attention was drawn to the scene on the grounds below.

A group of four people stood in front of my house, arguing heatedly. Two men carried swords and two women carried torches. The women were the ones that were arguing over the scream. And at their feet was Charlotte, on her knees. Her hands were at her temples, her face twisted in evident pain.

As I watched in horror looking for the source of her agony, I noticed the woman closest to her, a few feet away, had an arm raised and pointed towards her. As I focused on the woman I was surprised to distinguish her every feature in the light of their fires, even from the distance that separated us. And to my dismay I recognized the hag who had attacked Thierry and me.

I was just about to turn around and head downstairs to save Charlotte, no matter how slow or weak I was at the moment, when I realized I could distinguish the woman’s raised voice below, as clearly as if she was next to me.

“No—she must pay for what she did,” she spat. “The demon!”

Again I looked at her and saw her eyes were blazing, her face twisted in a mask of hate. Her raised hand shook and Charlotte’s screams doubled, writhing on the floor like a possessed marionette.

“Azra, please,” a voice I recognized said next to the first woman, over Charlotte’s cries. “She is my child.”

The other woman—she was Deborah! What was Charlotte’s birth mother doing there?

“She is nothing!” the first woman yelled. “Your daughter is dead. As is mine, killed by this…
fiend
! Kill her!”

“No!” Deborah cried.

Deborah advanced a step but was held back by the other woman, Azra. The two men approached Charlotte’s trashing form, and without a word slashed their swords through her chest.

Charlotte!

Her final scream shattered me.

My soul froze. I just stood there, wanting to run to her but unable to move, unable to form a plan or even think. I could only watch the horror unfold before me. I had no command over my body. My lips were moving but no sound came out—I don’t even know what I was trying to say. I could only hear, could only watch—Charlotte’s screams had stopped, and in the next instant the Azra woman had bent over Charlotte’s still form, bringing the torch to her dress. The dress caught fire slowly at first, but as I watched, Azra’s hand moved over Charlotte, somehow spreading and feeding the fire as though the dress was coated in flammable liquid.

Unable to cope any longer, I sank to my knees and welcomed the darkness once more as it took over me.

***

A soft cry woke me up.

Some hours had passed since Charlotte’s death. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I was certain. Without moving I looked out the window above me where I had passed out, and saw it was definitely nighttime, and although there was little moonlight, I was able to see everything clearly.

My mind was fully alert; I knew where I was, and I was aware of my surroundings and of my body. I was numb but I could feel a strange new thirst. It would have been hard to ignore, the thirst, but for the fact that I also remembered clearly what had transpired. Charlotte’s screams echoed in my ears the second I came to, my mind replaying every detail of her death as clearly as if it had just happened. I shut my eyes trying to force the memory away, and focused only on her—her body, her soft skin, her laughter. And again I noticed that I was full of her.

I could feel her inside me, her
essence
, with every breath I took. The feeling was so strong, so real, that for a second I questioned whether she was truly dead. But only for a second. I knew better than to raise my expectations. Charlotte was dead; I was only sensing her blood coursing through my veins as I had briefly the previous times she had healed me.

Yet the feeling was so sweet that I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay there and relish in the sensation of
her
. And I
would
have stayed there, feeling her, except for the cry that had woken me up.

But I had something to do first. I sat up and forced myself to look out the window. No one was below, and where Charlotte had fallen there was nothing but blackened soil and charred gravel. Her body was gone.

I stood up and turned around, ready to go looking for her body. But there was another yelp, louder this time. It was a baby’s cry, and had come from a large basket propped on a table by the trapdoor on the floor… the trapdoor which was mostly covered by a heavy chest. I was surprised to remember that I had seen the basket and chest when I had first woken up some hours ago and discovered Thierry’s body, but I had paid little attention to them. Yet every detail of the room was imprinted in my mind. But there was no time to dwell on this discovery.

I crossed the room and reached the basket, noticing I moved much faster than I could hours before. But I focused on the baby before me. It was Alexandra; she was waking up and making soft baby noises that I knew would turn into full screams in a few minutes.

On the table beside her was a note, along with some parchment paper and a bottle of ink. The ink on the note was mostly dry, but with my sharp new vision I could tell that it was still fresh underneath its surface—as if it had been written only a few hours before. As I focused on the note my wounded heart almost shattered again as I recognized the penmanship.

Charlotte’s handwriting. It seemed as if she had written the note with haste. It read:

My love,

I have little time to explain what I have done, therefore I must attempt to be brief. I woke up from the commotion of the servants to find you and your brother almost dead. William and George had moved you both inside to the sitting room while Gulya endeavored to wake me up. I immediately locked myself in the room with the two of you and fed you my blood. You first, then Thierry. I did my best with him but I lost so much of my blood healing you. Then I went to the drawing room and questioned the servants. From what William and Gulya were able to tell me, some men had attacked you and Thierry, but those men were now dead. No one knows who killed whom.

I went outside and saw their corpses as their mother attempted to take them. I knew them. They were Sara’s brothers. I also recognized their mother, Azra. They live near Garfield Park, where Sara was from. The mother was loading the last of their bodies onto a cart with the help of some older men. I approached her, and the instant she saw me, she attacked me—inside my head! It was some form of witchcraft. I had never felt such pain in my life before. It only stopped when the servants rushed at her, bless them, shouting in my defense. Corben, I am afraid of her. She knows what I am, and can hurt me greatly without laying a finger on me. As she ran away she swore she would come back to finish me!

I have now brought you up here and will block the door when I leave. I believe she is not aware that you are alive and will not come looking for you, but I will hide you in the chance she tries, while you heal. Corben, my love, you are changing as I write this; you will become like me. For this I am sorry, but I had no other choice. You had almost bled to death. Thierry was in much worse condition, his neck sliced open, and his body did not respond to my transfusion. I would have attempted to turn him as well, but I had not enough of my blood to do it. I am sorry you have lost your brother. I also brought Alexandra up here to keep her safe.

I return downstairs now hoping to defeat the witch. She caught me when I was weak, but I will feed and regain my strength. I hope to see you again, but I must write this in case I do not return before you wake up. Take care of our baby.

Eternally yours,

Charlotte

She had weakened herself attempting to heal me and my brother, and paid with her life. A little of her blood had not been enough, apparently, and she had given me a full transfusion. My brother had saved my life earlier today at the cost of his own. And now her.

Strangely, I felt numb. I didn’t register the great weight of their sacrifices; I was frozen inside. There was just nothing left of me, no will to do anything, if she was gone. I had made my decision before I woke up; I only needed to take care of a few loose ends before I executed it. I wasn’t afraid, or nervous even.

After all, dying in a world where she didn’t exist didn’t feel like dying, really.

I moved to Alexandra’s makeshift bassinet, as she had started to cry in the earnest, and picked her up. It was only the fourth time in her short life that I had taken her in my arms, I noted with a pang. My daughter was not yet six months old and would have to grow up without her parents. Her mother was dead; her birth mother was dead. My brother was dead. My mother was dead. My father was unfit to raise a child alone. I would leave instructions with Gulya, the elderly housemaid, to take care of Alexandra and deliver her to Garfield Park, where she may be taken as a ward by the baron and his wife, who had already raised three daughters.

As I pondered this, Alexandra cried louder, and the smell of her soiled cloth diaper immediately filled my nostrils. In her basket were other diapers, washcloths and ointments—Charlotte must have left them there for me to take care of our daughter.

Take care of our baby
.

Charlotte’s written words flashed again before my eyes, but I shook them off. I knew I could not live in a world where my wife did not. I could only provide a safe home for Alexandra and make sure she was in good hands before I joined her mother.

But I would change her diaper, at least this once, before I passed her on to Gulya. I had never done this nor had I seen Charlotte or Sara do it. The baby had basically lived in her nursery, where I had hardly ever set foot. Yet I didn’t think changing her would be an impossible feat.

I picked up a washcloth to clean her and removed her soiled diaper—and as I did, I had to take a step back in shock.

Alexandra—she was a
boy
.

“What is this? Who are you?” I asked out loud, but the only person who heard me was the infant in question. This was Alexandra—her face I recognized. This was my baby. But….