The Vampire Keeper (3 page)

“I had it authenticated by a specialist.”

Being intrigued with old things herself she wanted to know more, so she asked, “Did the bag come with a story, when you bought it?”

Realizing Jezalyn was probably not going to give up until she discovered the bag’s history, Wyler decided to tell her all that he knew. “The historian discovered that it had been passed down to a war surgeon’s son.”

Jezalyn eyes widened, and she mumbled, “He did?”

“Yes,” replied Wyler. “It was at an early age when the son had to join his father on the battlefront. His father sent for him to assist with the suturing of wounds and the extraction of projectiles. After a few years, his father graduated him from being his simple assistant to an equal counterpart in the field of removing lead balls and sewing up soldiers himself. Unfortunately, General Charles Cornwallis of the British army had captured them at the battle of Charleston. Luckily for them, Cornwallis’s surgeon got caught in the crossfire, so the General offered them a less restrictive lifestyle in exchange for their medical services. Preferring not to be prisoners of war, they agreed.”

“On no,” squeaked Jezalyn covering her mouth with her good hand. Before Wyler continued, he produced a comforting smile to put her at ease. Once he saw the tension in her face lessen, he reported:

“After the battle of Charlottesville, the son was left with nothing but his father’s little black medical bag. It was not during the crackling roar of war that his father expired, but after the sound of exploding earth and whistling orbs gave way to the moans and wails of injured soldiers. The day was waning, for dawn was soon setting. Fighting extreme fatigue, his father, moving some wounded patients into his medical tent, tripped and fell into the tip of a bayonet. The surgeon’s son ran to the aid of his father, but discovered his efforts were useless when he heard the blood gurgling in his father’s throat as he removed the tip of the blade. Still clinging to hope, the son applied pressure against the wound as he heated the metal blade that penetrated his father. Unfortunately, the searing of the wound would not be enough to stop the blood from entering his nicked lung and he died in his son’s arms.

Before the death of his father, the surgeon’s son had only observed amputations. He held his ears to block out the maddening blood curdling screams of the patients as the cold jagged steel blade of the saw tore through the meaty flesh of its victims. Eventually, after his father’s death, he had to put his entire training into action. Now as the head surgeon, he found every amputation endless and hard to stomach. He tried to pretend he was hacking off a piece of beef or swine, but the vomiting still came as the saw crunched against the bone, but after a while the sound faded and the removal of a body part was done almost effortlessly.”

The word, “Ew!” escaped Jezalyn’s lips, but Wyler did not stop.

“By that time Cornwallis had fell at the battle of Yorktown, the new young surgeon gained skill in the world of war and survival before regaining his freedom and heroically setting off homeward, with nothing but a few biscuits and his father’s black medical bag.”

“That’s an amazing story,” declared Jezalyn. “You have yourself a real treasure; it should be in a museum or something.”

“Maybe one day,” replied Wyler mindlessly as he doctored Jezalyn’s hand. A few minutes had passed following the application of the powder. Her hand had stopped bleeding. Wyler grabbed an alcohol swab, brushed over the cut lightly removing the blood clot residue. Once it was clean, he dug in his bag for a bandage. As he dressed the wound, Wyler thought,
I haven’t needed my father’s bag since …
,

Examining her doctored hand, she graciously said, “Thanks, Wyler, it looks like a professional patched me up.”

Her sincerity cut off his thoughts. And, being quick of mind, Wyler devised a believable excuse for delivering such expert care. “Thanks, I took a first-aid class with Ana a few months back.”

Scrutinizing over her damaged hand, mortification came over Jezalyn at the thought of her accident; she let out a little giggle. “I’ll go clean up my mess.”

Wyler nodded his head in agreement, as he tossed his first-aid equipment back into the bag.

Jezalyn, hand all bandaged, placed the knife and cup of tea in the sink, while Wyler retreated into the shop. She thought,
I’m such a moron
, as she emptied the now opened bag of sugar into the sugar canister before wiping down the counter.

Wyler heard the phrase “all clean” come from Jezalyn’s voice as she snuck up behind him.

He turned and said, “Thanks! How is your hand doing?”

“It’s throbbing a little, but other than that it’s good.”

Wyler handed her a slip of paper, “Here, I finished the schedule. Let me know if you see any problems?” She studied it, but found nothing wrong. Wyler continued, “Since you have tomorrow off, your first day will be Thursday.”

An “Oh” escaped out of Jezalyn’s mouth followed by, “So does that mean I am not working today? This schedule says I am supposed to work until seven tonight.”

He flashed a smile, “No. I think that’s enough sweat and blood out of you for one day.”

Jezalyn, still feeling somewhat insecure, gave an uncomfortable nervous laugh, “Well, since you won’t need me, I’ll head up to my room and lay down for awhile.”

“Okay, but if you need something else—even for your hand—I’ll be in the stockroom.”

Wyler entered the stockroom as Jezalyn departed in the direction of her apartment. He put up the few dishes Jezalyn had washed before returning downstairs. Immediately after placing his bag on top of the refrigerator, Wyler lowered his hands in time to see Larkin approaching him.

“Here, let me take that,” said Wyler as he reached for Larkin’s empty teacup.

“No. I got it.” Larkin stepped to the sink and washed his teacup. “I think that was the best tea you ever made.”

Wyler caught off guard, since he did not make it himself, was not sure what to say and changed the subject. “I asked Jezalyn what she was working on in her mythology class, and she said something about the relationship between Medusa and Athena.”

A spark of curiosity flickered across Larkin’s baby-blue eyes, “Really! That’s interesting.”

“I thought so, too. I am going to ask her more about it next time she comes down.”

Larkin moseyed back to his resting area, lay down on the floor, propped his legs up on the sofa, and said, “I am feeling weary. I think I will rest awhile.”

Wyler gazed at him for a moment contemplating,
Tired? Larkin is never tired. Depressed, deliberately reflective, but not tired.
Then, climbing the stairs back to his shop Wyler declared to himself,
There must be something afoot here.

Jezalyn awoke in the middle of the night not to the sound of roaring thunder or the thud of rain pounding on the roof and windowpanes, but to the stabbing pain in her hand. She pulled off the bandage and examined the cut that appeared to be turning bright pink. Her foot felt around for her slipper and, once found, she made her way to the bathroom. Jezalyn ran her hand under the water and searched through the medicine cabinet above the sink for something to aid her hand. At the back of the top shelf, she found a small bottle of peroxide and a butterfly bandage. Jezalyn watched the peroxide fizz and bubble up as she poured it into her palm. She placed the band aide over the cut only after the once bright pink tissue turned white.

With a newly bandaged palm, Jezalyn returned to her bedroom where she rummaged around in her purse for something, anything to take away the pulsating pain. She found a small cylindrical tub of ibuprofen, took two, and got back in bed. She checked her cell phone for the time and noticed she had a text message. It was from Blaise sent at 9:29 p.m. A smile crossed Jezalyn face as she read a message that superseded her last response by about an hour, “I have to go. Class is at 9 and I still need to study for chem test. Don’t worry about the accident. Feel better and try to get some sleep.” She responded to his text, “Sorry, I fell asleep, I hope you ace your test tomorrow,” before replacing the phone back on the nightstand. She tossed and turned, but she could not fall sleep. The rain had turned to sleet and it sounded as if someone was outside throwing gravel at her window. Being unable to go back to sleep, she decided to work on her mythology report.

***

Downstairs Larkin sat up and scanned the pitch-black room with his sharp, cat like eyes. Rubbing at the stinging sensation in his right palm, he searched for something, anything that may have caused the pain. After discovering nothing crawling near and finding nothing visually wrong with his hand, he lay back down and tried to clear his mind. He could not concentrate. All he could hear was the sound of the rain. The rain pounded so clearly in his head, and he thought,
It sounds as if I were standing outside. Why is it so loud? What’s going on with me? Maybe I just need some blood; it will help me get my bearings.
Larkin rushed to the fridge, without even an attempt to grab a cup, seized a bag of blood and drank it quickly. He let the empty bag drop in the sink, before returning to the living room, and sat down on the couch trying to clear his mind. The loud thudding of the rain seemed distant. The sensation in his palm was starting to wane.
Ah! This is much better,
he thought, but subsequently as the loud thudding fell into the distance it was over taken by the chattering of a voice.

It was female
, I cannot go back to sleep with this storm. Why does it have to be so loud? Oh, it’s sleeting.

Larkin leaped off the couch and thought,
The pain. The loudness of the storm. The voice in my head!

“Whose blood did they give me?” Larkin wailed.

He paced back and forth and thought,
Calm down; they know that I can’t drink a living human’s blood. They know the thoughts and feelings of humans will transfer over to me, until their death.
His anger grew until the rage was uncontrollable; he darted toward Wyler and Ana’s room. When he entered the room he heard,
Medusa was once a beautiful woman who was forcibly taken by the water god Poseidon in one of Athena’s temples.

Wyler raised his head, “Is everything alright, Larkin?”

The words continued to run in his head,
Athena, enraged from the disrespect in her temple, turned Medusa into a hideous monster. Medusa’s gorgeous black curls turned to writhing black snakes, her teeth became like fangs, and her eyes turned any man that she gazed upon into stone.

As the thoughts went on, Larkin just stood there unresponsive,
Poor Medusa! She was robbed of any chance at finding true love. Even if someone had overlooked the curse Athena put on her, she would never be able to gaze intimately into a man’s eyes ever again.

Wyler eased out of bed careful not to wake Ana and placed one hand on Larkin’s shoulder. “Larkin! Larkin! Is everything …”

“Yes, Yes. I am fine. I thought I heard something that is all. I only came in to check out the noise.”

“Oh, do you want me to go upstairs and check around?”

“No. There will be nothing there; it’s only a storm.”

Wyler, with an alarmed face, said, “I forgot about the storm. I hope Jezalyn is alright up there. I was supposed to tell her about the winter weather advisory; it called for freezing rain tonight.” After a little silence, he mumbled to himself, “I should’ve gone up after the accident.”

The small murmur did not pass Larkin’s astute hearing, so he asked, without being able to hide the tension in his voice, “Accident! What Accident?”

With anxiety in his face and voice he replied, “She was making us some tea when she cut herself. Don’t worry; there was no need for a paramedic or doctor to get involved.”

An intrigued Larkin abruptly questioned, “Where did she cut herself?”

“On the palm. She couldn’t get the sugar bag open or something. Do you think I should go check on her? See if she needs anything?”

Larkin turned to go out the door, “NO. She will be fine. Go back to bed. If she becomes distressed, I will hear it and let you know.”

After pulling the door closed tightly behind him, Larkin lent against it as his mind investigated the facts.
The violent thudding in my head—a winter storm
,
pain in my hand—a cut, rambling of the Athena-Medusa scene playing out in my head—a mythology class…
His eyes widened as he proclaimed, “It’s the new tenant.”

Larkin examined his palm and rubbed at his imaginary injury.
She probably cut herself right here,
he concluded, before pacing back over to the couch to take a seat.

He was pondering as to why Wyler would let him drink of her blood.
Surely he could not have known about the blood or he would not have given it to me—or would he
. Larkin’s thoughts were interrupted, yet again by the babbling of mythology.
Perseus handed Athena the decapitated head…

***

Upstairs under a pile of blankets, Jezalyn was finishing her report,
After receiving the head, Athena mounted it to her shield
and so ended the Athena-Medusa saga
. Glancing at the clock, Jezalyn could not believe she had finished; it had taken her most of the night to type it. With only three hours before time to get up, Jezalyn jumped out of bed, grabbed her bag and stuffed her computer into it. She told herself,
Ugh, only a few hours’ sleep. I better set more than one alarm to get in bed or I’ll never make it to class on time tomorrow
. So, without further delay she turned off the lights and climbed into bed. Closing her eyes, Jezalyn had one final thought, which was more of a wish,
If only this medicine could take away the embarrassment of my accident like it had the pain.