the blood of the first (week 11)

Weekly Vampire Serial Fiction.

The Daywalker Chronicles, Season 2. The Blood of the First.

the daywalker chroniclesDarkness surrounds me, holding me hostage under a blanket of bitter cold. My body could very well be frozen in ice, for all I know. Has autumn’s sun already set? Have I missed the first thaw of spring? A bitter twinge coils my insides as I realize I have no clue where, or when, I am. The passage of time has no meaning for me, slipping by unchallenged. My only measure of the elapsing seconds comes in the form of an incessant drip somewhere in the distance. Like a watery metronome, keeping beat for my silent requiem.

I fear I may be trapped here forever.

But if I’m here, where is he? How long has it been since I’ve heard my love’s voice? Moments? Days? Years? Was he even real, or just a hallucination…a figment of my all too vivid imagination? Have I been trapped here so long my mind has withered completely?

No. How could I ever doubt his existence? Without the slightest hesitation, I hear the timbre of his voice, reverberating in my ears, even now. His taste…his delicious scent…memorized by the very cells of my body. Yes, I would undeniably know him anywhere. Surely, he will come for me. And yet a dim memory belies that belief…a fragmented vision, twisting and weaving its way into my cold, dark soul.

My Sebastian left me here.

The faint flavor of blood reaches my nostrils, permeating deeply into my lungs. It smells wrong…not human. It’s not even a large animal, but, despite my discerning palate, I long for a taste with every fiber of my being. My veins, surely filled with dust by now, ache for the warm, viscous, life sustaining substance. My brain sends the signal to my extremities to move, but they won’t. My limbs are shackled to my sides by…what? Not rope or chain.

I’m paralyzed and I have no idea why.

Again, time clicks by unmeasured…unrestrained…nothing but the constant drip to keep me company, as I fade in and out of consciousness.

And then, music. Not just music, Mozart. The hum of delicate strings echoes throughout the space around me, and all that I am relaxes into the complex melody. Concerto number 3, I know this piece so well. This is what played the night he first shared his blood with me. What I wouldn’t give to dance with him now, pressed delicately to his chest as we glide together, my gold satin dress fluttering through the air as he effortlessly swirls me around the ballroom. A perfect vision, all but the bodice, forever marred by dots of vibrant red.

Why that concerto? Why now? Is my cruel mind playing tricks on me, again? Of all the pieces to play, is it too much to believe this was nothing but a chance occurrence?

The music fades away, replaced by hushed voices, and I hear him. He’s here. Sebastian. He has come for me…finally.

Perhaps it’s been too quiet for too long. My ears are overly sensitive. But my mind flinches away from a horrible grating sound. Iron chains? Lead shackles? I hear them fall away, clanging to the dirt below with an eerie thud. And then the lid creaks open slowly, letting a shaft of unnatural brightness in behind it. My eyes blink furiously, desperate to adjust to the introduction of light after too much darkness.

Shapes. Shadows. Nothing I can make out.

An overwhelming need to stand shakes me to my core, but still, my body will not cooperate. A lead block presses down on my chest. Chains, forged in life, swaddle me to my spot.

But he’s here. I heard him. And then I’m free.

I don’t know what’s happened, but I can move…slowly. A flash of heat seers through my veins, like a hot spring awakening within me. And now that I have regained, at least, some of my faculties I smell his sweet scent in the air.  

With unsure hands, I try to pull myself to sitting, blinking yet again against the light. It cannot be day, or I would burn…but what candles burn so bright?

A dark figure leans over me. “Sebastian?”

“No, thank Christ. If I was Sebastian, I’d stake myself.” He reaches a hand out. “The name’s Claude. It’s nice to finally meet you, Anne.”

Copyright © 2000-2018, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
Posted on July 25, 2012 .