"We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels." -William Shakespeare
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Chapter 1: One to Watch, One to Pray, and Two to Bear My Soul Away
It was the veins in my arm that told me. Victor played back his conversation with Sir Malcolm in his head. He paced his loft, hugging himself tightly.
When they collapse you have to find fresh ones. I'm running short. Beads of sweat had started to form on his brow. So I'm addicted.
He felt a tingle down his spine. That strange, but familiar sensation of being watched crept slowly in. He had grown used to it by now, what with his first-born's ceaseless stalking. He turned to the dingy window and pulling the curtain aside, peered out into the night.
But the eyes that met his from the street below were not yellow, but green. They were pale and soft. A mint green. The face they belongs to was equally soft, surrounded by a curtain of silvery blonde hair. He quickly withdrew his hand. But even as the thin fabric fell across the window, he felt her gaze. He backed away from the window, suddenly cold.
It wasn't Lily. It wasn't…him. But whoever she was, she was watching. Victor pressed his back against the wall next to the window. Glancing over his shoulder, he carefully peeled back the curtain with a single finger. But the street was empty. Shaking his head, he turned to his medical bags.
He fished out the opium bottle and, with an unusually unsteady hand, filled a syringe. Looking at his bruised arms in defeat, he raised a hand and examined the spaces between his fingers. Biting his lower lip, he raised the needle to the patch of skin between his middle and ring finger.
Just then, there came a sharp rap at the door. Startled, Victor gasped and dropped the syringe. Scrambling to his feet, he clutched a hand to his chest. He felt his heart pumping wildly in its cage. Another series of knocks, softer this time. Regaining his composure, Victor strode briskly to the door. His hand hesitated on the knob. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
Definitely mint green. Those eyes stared up at him intently. Expectantly. The figure was only about 5 feet tall. But she had a presence about her. Not unlike Miss Ives, he thought to himself. Not menacing, but definitely eerie.
She's a witch. Has to be. There's no way she could have climbed those stairs so fast. He slammed the door shut and bolted it. He turned from the door and cried out in fear.
She was in the room, her unblinking eyes locked on his. He lunged for the gun on his table. No sooner did he touch it, a cool, pale hand covered his.
NOT A WITCH. His head filled with whispers from a thousand languages. But they all translated to the same message. NOT A WITCH.
He looked up and found her faces inches from his. He dropped to his knees, trembling. The face smiled softly and Victor slumped to the floor, losing consciousness.