Forsaken (12 page)

The night was still, and the cold air frosted Hannah's breath. A dark head shadowed her shoulder, his skull pressing against her bone, but it was not painful; her discomfort remained deep inside. This strange man, an
Englisher
, leaned into her, and she was grateful for her wrap forming a thin protective barrier between them. His breathing sounded ragged, his footsteps halting, his weight heavy.
What was she doing?

Dat would not be angry for her helping an injured man; helping others was their way of life, but he would disapprove of her going to the cemetery. Not because she was alone, not because it was night, but he would not understand her need to be near Jacob. This unending grief was
not
their way. God's will was not to be questioned or doubted or even resisted. No matter what happened, they moved on to the next season obediently, without question. But questions and doubts churned inside Hannah, as they once had Jacob. Maybe she'd learned that from him.

Her wickedness surely exceeded the actions of her friends who had thrust themselves whole-heartedly into their running around season, for she could not accept God's will concerning Jacob. How could Jacob's death be good for anyone? How could she be sure God's will was for her to marry Jacob and then he died before that could be? God's will didn't make sense. Maybe it wasn't God's will after all. She resisted it. Resented it. Hated it. It was to her disgrace and to her shame, but it was the truth.

She was all alone in her grief. No one would understand. Not her parents. Not Rachel. Not even her close friend, Grace. Even Levi seemed to have moved beyond his own brother's death as easily as the seasons shifted into each other. The Lord must surely look upon her with disappointment, but what greater displeasure if she abandoned this man in need too?

And yet she knew her motive wasn't entirely charitable: this man
knew
Jacob. And even for a second, it made her somehow feel closer to her beloved, especially because this was an area of his life that she had never known.

But there was something else…something about this man felt familiar. And yet everything about him seemed strange to her. Was it simply that the poem he quoted was the one etched on her own heart? Or was it the cleft of his shoulder that felt as if she'd nestled her head there once before? She couldn't make sense of it.

So she would hide this stranger as she had hidden her resistance to God's will, her unwillingness to let Jacob go. For to bring this stranger out in the open would require answers, answers she didn't have, answers best left in secret. She prayed he would not die. She prayed he would be healed, that she too would one day feel whole again. She prayed God still listened to her prayers.

Her back ached from shouldering the man's weight, her muscles cramped under the strain. His breathing was labored, harsh, and ragged, too much so for conversation. There was a slight rattle when he exhaled, which reminded Hannah of her grandmother's breathing before she succumbed to the pneumonia. But this man didn't cough. He didn't even speak. He plodded forward, one labored foot at a time.

Questions churned and frothed in her head, but she could see this stranger was in no shape to answer her questions about Jacob.

When she saw the post, which held the mailbox at the end of her family's drive, she gratefully turned toward the house. It wasn't far now. Thankfully, it was still dark. But for how long? Dat awakened at four. Levi arrived by four-thirty. It could not be much earlier than that now. And what about Toby? Could she sneak this man past the doghouse? There was but one place she could think to hide him, and she veered toward the spring house. The moon still rode in the sky, high enough and full enough to offer light, so she snapped off the flashlight, dousing them in darkness, so that no one would see their approach.

The man came to a sudden halt, and Hannah realized she too was breathing hard and through her mouth. His gaze settled on her, unsettled her. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin from the long, arduous walk. Moonlight reflected off his pale features. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, but he didn't look all right. He looked pale, deathly pale. His eyes were sunken into his skull and appeared as dark as a pit.

He opened his mouth to speak but at first no sound emerged, just that raspy breath, then he managed to speak. “I must not be discovered.”

Hannah glanced toward the house, where the windows were dark. It had taken much longer to walk back from the cemetery than it usually did. “We should hurry.”

With a backward glance at the house and keeping a wary eye out for Toby, she unhinged the rusted lock, swung open the wooden door, and urged the man inside. Clicking the button on the flashlight, she shone the pale yellow light toward the back. “It's all right,” she said more for her benefit than his. In the dim light, his face was pale but passive, unconcerned, like granite. “You'll be safe here.”

He took a few steps forward, stumbled over a cord, and made his way toward the back, sitting hard on the ground and leaning his head back against the wall, his legs splayed outward. One of his hands rested near his heart.

Hannah breathed easier to have at least made it here safely, without incident. Now as he lay sheltered from the chilly temperature, she should check his wound. Zippers were not allowed under the
Ordnung
, but she had seen them before on friends'
English
clothes, which they had begun to buy during their running around time. Carefully, so as not to disturb his rest, she knelt beside him and tugged downward on the metal tab, the zipper trailing in parallel tracks, like teeth opening, exposing the dark stain on his white shirt.

But he covered her hand with his own, his touch ice cold, and fear shot through her. She remembered helping Mamm when Grandma Ruth got sick last year, her skin growing cool as she neared the end of her life, her breathing labored and ragged—and then when she lay in her casket, her skin shrunk on her skeleton, her cheeks sunken, her form hard and cold.

What if this man died? What would Hannah do? How would she explain? Would she be at fault for not getting him help soon enough? Her heart pounded in her chest. Should she tell Dat? Have him call for a doctor? She stared into those black eyes. She'd known others with dark brown eyes but these…there was no distinguishing the pupil from the iris, just solid black. Something about those eyes compelled her to lean closer and her hand moved to cup his jaw. He rezipped the metal contraption on his leather jacket, all the while watching her with those impossibly dark eyes as if gauging her response.

“You should leave, Hannah.” His voice sounded cold too.

“I didn't mean to startle you.” Her voice sounded calmer than her heart felt. She didn't want to panic him or confess her concerns. “You need blankets.” She stood. “They'll warm you.”

He shuttered his gaze. “I'm going to be fine.” His voice wavered. “I just need nourishment.”

“I can get you something.” She backed away, stepping over the cords and wires, her heart beating in the frantic rhythm of the pump. The flashlight's pale glow moved along with her, bouncing, shifting, leaving the man in tempering darkness. “Maybe some bandages too. And salve.” She was thinking out loud more than speaking to him, her mind skipping in different directions. What could have caused such a wound? Could he be in trouble? She paused at the doorway. “What happened to you?”

Even in shadow, she could make out his frame. He leaned his head back against the wood-planked wall. Were those dark eyes closed or was he still watching her? She sensed the heat of his gaze and her skin felt warm in spite of the coolness outside. “You would not understand.”

With distance between them, she felt somewhat braver than normal. She'd seen similar wounds in deer, which Dat and Levi shot in the winter. “Were you shot? W-with a gun?”

He didn't answer. Again, she longed to ask about Jacob. What was Jacob doing with a dangerous man such as this? How did they meet? After a minute, his breathing became deep and even, but at least he was breathing. He needed sleep, so she carefully backed through the doorway.

“Will you come back, Hannah?” His voice remained soft, yet there was an urgency lining his words, a need. Or was it fear? Did he realize how ill he was? Was he afraid of being alone?

Her answer was a whisper in her head before she spoke: “Yes.”

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…

Akiva's belly burned with a hungry ache, but remembering the Poe poem drew an ironic smile from him over his ravenous state. His integral system of arteries, veins, and capillaries constricted with need, and he grew colder and stiffer, his usual beyond-natural strength waning, and no amount of blankets could warm him. Only lifeblood, hot and pulsing, could fill him, warm him, heal him.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

In his mind, he watched Hannah enter her family's house and knew she would be out of his way and safe for a few minutes, leaving him time to find nourishment. With great effort, he pushed to his feet, leaned against the inside wall, and drew deep gulps of air. Then he sniffed, his senses much keener and sharper than they were in his other life. A light, delicate scent called to him, and he followed, his footsteps quickening as the sweet aroma became more potent and intoxicating. The fragrance swirled around his head, muddled his thinking, and stirred the raw need building inside him. Food, such as it was, would make the wound heal that much faster.

At one time, he'd been the one afraid, sensing fear, running. But no longer. Being on the prowl, the one hunting rather than being hunted, strengthened him, filled him with a surge of power. Fear, the tangy, pungent scent of others' fear, was invigorating. It fed something inside of him, a raw and urgent need, which came over him gradually, then built until he could no longer deny its fierceness. And it drove him.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

In his former life, when he was running around, drinking alcohol had been fairly new for him, and he enjoyed the escape it provided, the heat it generated, the confidence it induced, real or false didn't matter. But now he thirsted for something more stimulating than shots of bourbon or bottles of beer, something that truly imbued him with a power he had never known existed.

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

Crouched low, he stalked into the cold night. Surely there was an animal nearby that could slacken his thirst. But a powerfully sweet scent filled his mind with a swirling red haze. It had the heady strength of youth and seduced him into following. He stumbled forward, chasing the alluring scent, which stripped him of all reason. His urgency made him rash and foolhardy, but his desperation drove him onward as he took the corner of the house and came to the back—a solid wall of wooden slats, punctured by the occasional window. He stared up at a darkened, shaded window.

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the Lamb make thee?

He rested a moment, catching his breath, and that tiny amount of time allowed doubts to intrude. Some small part of his conscience from his past life gnawed at him. Guilt was a human emotion, beneath him now, and yet…it was Hannah who stirred it in him.
She would be the one to suffer if we pursued this tempting blood. She would weep for her loss, for the loss of something so pure and good.
But it was that pureness that made the sacrifice so powerful.

If God made all things, then Akiva, even in his new form, was a part of that creation, and in this life where good battled evil, some sacrifices had to be made. God never required the sacrifice of something old and worn, something injured and diseased. He demanded something young and pure, without blemish.

In the past two years, Akiva had learned more about death than he'd ever understood before. Life did not end here. This would not be the end of purpose and hope but the beginning of something more wonderful. Those that mourned over a death would one day understand. Maybe that's simply what God meant in the Garden of Eden when He spoke of the fruit revealing the truth—gaining God's perspective on this life as but a second—and Akiva had been given that privilege.

This day, this sacrifice, Hannah would not understand, but someday she would. Someday she would embrace it and understand the purpose. Even today, she would not deny him to save a loved one. He knew her heart so well. She would come to understand that this small sacrifice would empower them to be together, to love each other and live forever. How could that be wrong?

The tender life force calling to him was strong, the heartbeat arousing, and his focus became a laser, blocking all reason, all thought, the why's and why not's banished to another time, another life. He braced himself at the base of the house, gauging the height to the window. It would be an easy jump under different circumstances, but wounded, he had to garner his strength, concentrate more, and will himself beyond his waning abilities. With a hard push, he leapt, clutched the frame, his nails biting into the wood, and crouched on the ledge that only provided inches for the toes of his shoes. The window was unlocked, and he gained entrance quickly, though not as smoothly as he might when not injured. Still, he stood in the deep shadows of the room waiting, watching, wavering with need.

The young girl slept soundly, her face pale and delicate, her features soft and similar to Hannah's. Her long hair billowed around her, yellow with the light of heaven. Her breath remained steady and even, undisturbed by his presence. Her dreams stayed plain, simple, uncluttered with fear or stress or dread. He siphoned through her thoughts as her scent whirled around him, tantalizing, enflaming, provoking.
Katie
. One so young had strong powers for healing; too young would have the opposite effect, but still this one would do very nicely. He concentrated on taming her thoughts, injecting the desire to please, to offer herself without regard or restraint, and he took a step toward the bed.

But another presence in the room emerged from the shadows, revealing herself, eyes blazing, and despite her diminutive size, she emitted a stalwart sense of power and strength. The old woman rose from a rocking chair beside the bed, the wood creaking, and Akiva recognized Hannah's Grandma Ruth, who glared at him, her eyes keen and alert in her ancient face. She gave a slight shake of her head as if to say,
This one is not yours
.

With a guttural growl of frustration, Akiva lunged for the window, the green shade slapping the window frame, and retreated into the night. He landed hard on the ground, the wound in his chest throbbing, and he gulped in air as if that could save him. He searched the darkness, sniffed, then with a last glance back up at the window, he rushed toward the barn, his footsteps light and swift.

He made no sound—the perfect predator. A phrase came to mind—
prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour
—and he smiled to himself.
Precisely.
His gaze pierced the darkness. He didn't have long. Dawn was near.

Hooves scuffed the dirt and hay-strewn floor, and an animal snuffled. The dusty scent of hay and the raw, earthy smells of dung filled him with memories, some good, some not so good. He rarely thought of his family anymore, those he had known drifted far from his mind, but being here, among the Amish again, memories crept up on him, and for a moment a sentimental longing welled up in him to be near his family and part of a community again. But that was impossible.

He was separated now.

Isolated.

Forgotten.

Forsaken.

Vampires did not live in packs as wolves did, moving, hunting, living together. They were more like grizzly bears—loners, finding their own kills, defending their own turf. Some paired up, but many kept to themselves, distrusting all. The bloods he had met over the past two years, he did not trust either. After all, one had stolen his life from him, changed him without regard, her desires outweighing his.

With stealthy movements, he crept toward the far stall. He didn't much like animal blood, which lacked something vital humans carried, but it would have to do. For now.

A lamb, young and tender, lay on its side. When he entered the enclosed space, it raised its head. The warm, brown eyes were soft and innocent and expectant. It knew no fear. Not yet.

Before it could rise to its feet, before it could make a protesting noise, before it could bolt, Akiva sprung forward and swooped down on the blameless animal, sinking his fingers into the thick, soft wool and restraining the head, arching the neck. A leg kicked outward, but the struggle for life finished before it really began. Warmth spread through Akiva, pooling in his chest and spreading outward to his limbs. Blood filled him, restored him, rebuilt his strength. He became like new.

His father had attributed rebirth to another source, but Akiva knew another life now, another birth, another salvation. He shoved the limp animal back on the strewn hay, its neck flopping lifelessly sideways, revealing a gaping red hole.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?