Sanctifying Grace (Resurrection) (27 page)

Alert in a way I had never been before, I slowed to a walk and stalked my prey. Rapid, panting breaths and a thrumming, too-fast heartbeat enticed me. I felt my own heart thud in the cavity of my almost-silent chest in sympathy. I lifted my face and scented the air. One human, alive, another dead?

I was too new at this to trust my senses, but I approached anyway. I had to. If I didn’t feed soon…

The urge was overwhelming, all consuming, undeniable.

I slunk between the trees, crouching low to the ground, placing my feet with all the care of a leopard stalking a gazelle. I made no sound, yet somehow the man knew I was there.

He called out, his voice cracked and thin.

I stopped and stiffened, fear making my mind sizzle and pop
, and I reached out with everything I had, searching for danger. He was close to death, the blood bubbling in his lungs, and I heard the fizz of it as the precious ruby liquid mingled with the air.

He coughed, a drowning gurgle, and I rushed to his side. I dimly noticed the other body lying a few feet away
, but it was dead, so had no interest for me. But this one was still alive, even if only for a short while, and, as I bent to him, my canines extended with an almost sexual frisson and I groaned in pleasure and excitement.

I knelt beside him, not noticing if he was young or old, handsome or plain: all that registered was the scent and sight of his blood. He was healthy, that much I could sense. His death was not going to be a result of disease but from the stab wound to his chest. I knew, without being told, the blade had punctured a lung and he was slowly drowning in his own fluids. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t save him. And I didn’t want to.

I gathered him to me, one arm supporting his head, which lolled back, exposing his neck. I could see and hear the blood pumping slowly through the vein there, and I dropped forwards and opened my mouth. The canines slid in like the proverbial hot knife through butter, then the taste of his blood flooded into my mouth and I cried out with the ecstasy of it.  The man, too, cried out: in horror and fear, and possibly pain, but I paid him no heed. My only thought was blood.

Greedily I drank it down, sucking and pulling, drawing deep draughts of it, until his heart beat no more and it was like sucking on a straw that had reached the bottom of the glass.

I lowered him back to the ground and sat up, wiping my mouth with my hand. My hand came away red. I tried to find the revulsion I had felt earlier, but it had fled, gone for good, swept away by what I had just done.

I felt magnificent: a warm glow saturated every cell of my body, my skin tingled as the wind danced over me, my muscles flexed over sleek bone. I was vibrant and alive, and so very strong. Power thrummed in my mind and body. I was invincible.

I shrieked a triumphant call to the skies and hushed every animal for a half a mile radius. The world stopped and waited for that next inhuman yell, but I stayed silent, too busy listening to the sounds of distant humans. They, alone, hadn’t heard my cry. Good. I didn’t want to scare them. I was still hungry and humans meant food.

I didn’t stop to take stock of my situation, to guess where or when I was, to decide what I should do next. I simply acted on instinct, an instinct as
ancient as vampires themselves – the unending quest to slake that burning thirst.

I was going hunting.

I sped through the trees on sure, fleet feet, silent and determined, focused on the sounds the humans made: a groan of pain, a quite cough, hushed voices, the clink of metal on metal, the pouring of water into a mouth, the sound of swallowing.

They were so very close now. Five of them. Two were injured, but not badly: their hearts beat strongly in their chests, and, although I could smell blood, lots of blood, not much of it belonged to them. I was in awe: I could scent the difference in the blood. Each person’s had their own fragrance and the odour on one of the men was the same as that of the man I had just
drained. I surmised it was the man ahead of me, covered in my meal’s blood, had delivered the fatal wound.

I knew I could tackle all five at once
, but decided not to. I would take them one at a time, as I needed them. If I faced all of them now, they would most likely die before I could drink from them. Then a memory surfaced – Roman explaining how he didn’t kill, but took a little from each. I saw the logic in this, but didn’t know if I could hold back once I started drinking. An image of an alcoholic and a bottle of whiskey came to mind.

Drooling slightly, I held my straining muscles in check. Every part of me wanted to launch myself at them and sink my teeth into each one in turn and feel the heat of their blood as the red liquid slid down my throat. I shuddered and shivered with delicious longing, yet held back. One at a time, Grace, one at a time.

I would wait and try to single one of them out. I wasn’t confident I could try enthralling them: what if I couldn’t do it? Or only one of them was susceptible? I ran the possibilities through my mind and came to the conclusion that I would wait for one of the men to stray a little from their camp. Surely they would need to fetch firewood or water?

One by one
, they rolled themselves up in their cloaks, and the sounds of their talking faded to snores. I listened in fascination as their heart rates slowed and steadied as they sank deeper in to sleep. All except one. He was sat with his back propped against a tree.

I debated moving in
, and had taken several cautious steps closer to their fire, when the sentry stirred.  I halted, scared I had been seen, or heard. Then I smiled at my silliness; it wouldn’t matter if I were discovered. I was no longer a weak human, and a female one at that. I had nothing to fear from five mortal men.

I watched as the man stood up, sighing. He rubbed his lined face and stretched, grunting as his ligaments popped, then he walked several paces away from the fire, stepped behind a tree and rummaged around in his clothing. It wasn’t until I heard
the splash of water I realised he was urinating.

I waited politely for him to finish.

Then I attacked.

He had o
ne split second to register that there was something to be afraid of, then I was on him, my hand over his mouth and nose. I didn’t want him crying out, waking the others, but even with my hand blocking his airways he was still making too much noise, so I hit him.

He collapsed, unconscious
, and I grimaced, thinking the blow had killed him, relieved when I felt his pulse beneath my fingers. Touch and hearing confirmed he wasn’t badly hurt and as long as I didn’t kill him with my razored kiss, he would recover.

I drank, blissful and content, my mouth at his throat and time seemed to stand still.

A change in his breathing told me I had drank too much of his blood, yet it took determination to pull my teeth out of his skin. I had taken this much, what difference would a sip or two more make? His death, that’s what, I told myself, and somewhere deep inside I was shocked at the ease with which I had contemplated taking the life of another. Another shock was the thought that I didn’t care whether he lived or died, per se, but I did care about whether I could steal another meal from him in the future. I recalled a conversation about not needing to kill the cow in order to milk it.

My dispassion was unnerving and I narrowed my eyes in consternation. So this was what it was like to be a vampire? All selfish concern and no compassion?

I could drink some more (I had the feeling I was always going to be able to drink some more, no matter how much I had taken), but I was no longer ravenous, and the unendurable thirst had retreated for the moment.

I studied my victim. He was possibly in his late twenties, early thirties, clean-shaven, short hair, dark
, and swarthy. Heavily muscled, wearing a mixture of cloth and fur and armour. He had a short, fat sword at his waist (much good that had done him), and thick, leather boots on his feet. He wore a cloak, and leather encased his forearms – protection in a sword fight, I guessed. He was relatively sweet smelling and clean, so although his attire suggested medieval, his cleanliness suggested another era. Or perhaps he had only recently had his twice yearly bath. I had no way of knowing. I did know that I hadn’t understood when the men had spoken, and I hadn’t understood when the man I had drained had called out to me.

I knew where I was, I just didn’t know
when
.

Then it occurred to me that this might all be a dream, albeit a really clear one. There was no way I ha
d time travelled now that Roman’s time had caught up with mine, so this must be a last ditch attempt of my mind to make sense of what was happening to me, of what was going to happen to me, when I woke from my transformation to be resurrected as a vampire. Perhaps this was a kind of practice run in my head, so I wasn’t too freaked out when I actually woke up. Perhaps every vampire had gone through this. Roman hadn’t exactly had much chance to prepare me. And if this were a dream, it would explain the distinct absence of Roman.

Then I wondered what my family was doing now and I was swamped by an all-too-human sadness, swiftly followed by relief that I wasn’t simply a blood drinking machine, that I could feel emotion. Perhaps not all of me would be lost in the resurrection process – perhaps I would retain enough of me to still be me.

The
me
part of me was abruptly scared that I had just killed someone. I examined the man whose blood I had just drunk and saw he was still alive. His pulse wasn’t as strong as I would have liked, but at least he still had one. He had a lump on his head where I had hit him and I probed it as gently as I could with my fingers, thankful when I couldn’t feel any sponginess. I hadn’t broken his skull, but he probably would have one hell of a concussion. He moaned, and I shushed him, mindful of the four other men only a short distance away.

Carefully
, I lifted him into my arms, surprised anew at how strong I was, and glided back to the camp silently. I laid him down beside his tree, broke off a branch and placed it next to his head. His companions might treat him more carefully if they thought he had been knocked out by a falling piece of wood.

I could do nothing about the tell-tale bite marks on his neck, or the memory of being attacked when he went to relieve himself, but I hoped he would put the former down to being scratched by the falling branch and the latter to being confused because of the blow to his head.

I remembered Roman and Viktor stage-managing a massive branch in the former dining room. It seemed like such a long time ago: another place, another time, another life.

I wondered where my body was now, and that led me to speculate on how Roman had managed to remove my body from the undertakers, and who was going to be cremated in my stead. Perhaps they’d had to kill someone, or they had stolen a Jane Doe from the morgue.

I hoped they had stolen a body and not created one, but my brief return to humanity was wearing off, and the dispassion was once again dominating my mind.

Blood. I wanted blood. The need to drink was making itself felt again, and as my gaze sharpened on one of the cloak-wrapped meals, I made the connection between my thirst and my humanity. If I was hungry I was more vampire than if I wasn’t craving blood. The vampire in me could afford to take more of a back seat when I wasn’t desperate for a ruby fix.

I left my unconscious victim where he lay and considered what to do with the other four men. I could hardly knock all of them senseless, one by one; the falling branch scenario wouldn’t work a second time.

I had run out of ideas: I mi
ght be stronger, faster, and have heightened senses, but I wasn’t any smarter. I could always just drink one of them to death. There would be no need for stories or scenarios then. If I picked one of the injured ones, then the others might think his wound was more serious than they first thought. I ignored the little voice that asked what I was going to do about the other three men. Why didn’t I just drain all of them and be done with it…

I gave myself a mental shake. My thoughts shot off down an ironic route: vampires need human blood to be more human. Without it (and even though I had imbibed one and half people) vampires soon los
e the humanity they once had. Perhaps it was because my own blood was only very newly vampire that I needed to feed so frequently. I never remembered Roman being as needy, except during daylight.

Daylight. It was close. I hadn’t realised before, but now
that the thought had entered my head I realised I knew.  I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I could sense it. I urgently needed to drink, then get under cover, and, with that thought in mind, I didn’t care if my next victim told vampire tales. I wasn’t going to be around long enough to have to deal with the remaining men. 

I swooped down on another hapless prone figure and carried him off, out of hearing of the others. I could eat my meal in peace.

I failed to take the opinion of my meal into consideration. It screamed and fought, and although I held it still with ease, the noise was quite distracting. I hadn’t even gotten the wrapper off before it was squealing in fear.

I must have looked a sight. Incredibly pale (even I could see I was paler than most vampires), almost luminous in the pre-dawn darkness, naked, scimitar toothed, incredibly strong, and covered in the juice from my last two meals: I terrified him.