Thank you, scerena83 for your interest. It is much appreciated.

Here's the next chapter; hope you like it.

-Scarlet


Chapter 6: The Aversion

November 28th 1813, 11:45pm

Hoquiam, Oregon Country

I sat on my bed with my dark-brown flannel cloak wrapped around my shoulders, reading my new novel by candlelight. The flame flickered in the pitch-black room of The Featherbed, dancing off the pages of Oliver Twist. Three of my hard-earned dollars went into the purchase of that book, so I would never tire of reading it… even if it was my seventh time through.

My room was sparsely filled with my random acquisitions. An iron teakettle sat near the hearth, steaming with the fragrance of the black tea leaves I bought from Mister Stockton. In the wardrobe, a new set of fur-lined boots sat next to my old lace-ups; my old purple dress from the East hung next to my finished nightgown on the clothes bracket. A new batch of peppermint sticks sat on the table next to the bread Martha served with dinner. My half-finished red satin sewing project was laid over back of the chair next to the fire, with The Seamstress's Helper below it on the seat. This time, I was making a floor length, three layer gown for the cold winter that had settled in. I planned to buy white fur for the collar if the weather allowed the following morning.

I raised the cup that I had clutched in my hand to my lips, but found that the liquid was gone. Hopping down from bed, I tiptoed to the hearth in my stockings, and poured some more tea from the kettle. There was only half a cup left.

After bookmarking my place with a fork, I set Oliver Twist aside and took up my sewing.

It had been a full month since my discourse with the gold-eyed demon. I had been successful in my campaign to avoid him during those weeks. However, his scent sometimes wandered farther into town than merely the doctor's office. And I knew that he was tracking me just as I was him, because his scent sometimes wandered into my hunting grounds in the forest. What could he could possibly be doing? Setting traps, trying to scare me…

In addition, I had often sensed the feeling of… being watched. I could feel eyes on me when I brought wood into the General Store from the woodpile in the back alley… or when I sat in the tailor shop, taking knitting lessons from Millicent… or when I dawdled in front of Timmins' shop, pining over the shiny watch in the window. Was he messing with my mind? Learning my habits, my vulnerabilities…

It was Friday night, so I wouldn't have to work in the morning. I hadn't eaten Martha's shepherd's pie just so I could hunt that night. I had made a decision: since he was so curious about me, I'd do a little surveillance of my own. I knew, from past investigation, that the demon left for long periods of time every other Saturday (which was his time off from the clinic), starting Friday night after he left work. I had tried tracking him the Saturday before last, but his scent went so far north that I'd given up. I'd even gone so far that I ran across Titus Black in the Quileute territory. I'd asked him if he knew where the "Cold One" went every other week, but he'd had no knowledge of it.

So… tonight was the night. The night that I sacked his lair.

Of course, when he returned the following Sunday night, he would know that I had been there. My scent would linger, and he would know. But I didn't care, you see. I was crazed by that demon… that demon with gold eyes.

I pulled on my new winter boots, secured my brown cloak around my shoulders, strapped Lakota's dagger under my skirts, and blew out the candle on the table. After sticking a peppermint stick in my pocket for the trip, I gently opened the small window above my bed. I hoisted myself through and dropped onto the large eve on the back of The Featherbed. Closing the window, I jumped the 15-or-so feet to the snow covered ground.

The first snow had been two weeks prior, and it had been piling up to one and a half feet ever since. It had stopped snowing hours ago, but the blizzard clouds still obstructed the stars from view. I landed knee deep in the white powder, with a soft thump. Glancing up, I pulled the hood of my cloak over my hair and ducked out into the night.

After being sure I was far from human sight, I broke into a run. My feet barely touched the snow, and my toes dusted along the top inch. Once I reached the forest outside of town, the snow was shallower and I slowed down to catch a scent.

He had been all over those woods. I had hunted several days before, and had barely missed an encounter with the demon himself. Stalking me, trying to intimidate me…

I soon came along a doe and her fawn. I watched them for several minutes, until a stag came along and shooed his family on. I couldn't bring myself to separate them.

After wandering around some, I came along a faint scent and some paw prints in the snow. Fox… my favorite. I pulled out my dagger and followed the trail to a small den. He wasn't home, so I followed his scent even further until I found him. I snapped his neck quickly and made a deep cut in his neck with my dagger. I leaned over the body of the fox and drank deeply until I was satisfied, not letting one drop of the crimson liquid fall to the white snow.

I buried the body and cleaned my dagger in a snowdrift, then set off the demon's vial domain.

The house itself was very humble; the plain wood paneling and high roof peaks were not very noteworthy. However, the sheer size of the two-story dwelling was enough to impress me. Nearly twenty people could live here comfortably! Snow glistened in the clearing around the house, and was piled high against the low eaves of the first-story windows. The cold night breeze made me shiver as I cautiously came out of the forest around the house.

I double checked the scent around the front door; it was hours old. A large overhanging shielded the front entryway from being snowed-in, and I rubbed the ice from the transoms around the heavy oak door to peer inside.

The space beyond looked like an ordinary receiving room. There was a cold, ashen hearth with some quilted chairs and a sofa. A cabinet for coats and hats stood next to a set of French doors, which appeared to lead to the next room. It was all very conventional, which again surprised me.

Crossing my fingers, I reached for the brass doorknob. I turned it slowly, and it found that it was unlocked. Not surprising, since the home was so far from any civilization. I stepped into the receiving room, and the door closed against the threshold with a soft thud.

I glanced around the room; it wasn't furnished very well. The wooden mantle was bare and dusty, and the hearth looked as though it hadn't been used in months. I passed by all this and pushed open the French doors.

The room beyond was an absolute mess, and even simpler than the receiving room. The plain, hard wood floors had rugs and mats of various sizes scattered across it, and the few pieces of furniture clashed with the lime-colored walls. I could barely recognize the room as a parlor/library/study. Three large bookshelves lined the back wall, covered in ten-times as many books that the book shop in town offered. A large desk sat to the right, with half-written parchments and broken quills scattered across the top. And to the left, in front of another dusty hearth, was a large storage chest with three locks.

However, I truly noticed none of this. When my eyes held in such rapt wonder was the object suspended above the impressive, carved mantle. Even though the rest of the room was covered with dust and grime, this piece was not. There on the wall hung a large, plain, wooden cross.

Maybe it was the dark, mysterious house I was in... or maybe the sheer frigid temperature of the room... but when I saw the object above the mantle, I shivered. What would a creature such as he be doing with an item of such sacredness? Crosses are holy... vampires are not.

I quickly left the sinister dwelling, not bothering to replace the umbrella into the stand that I'd stumbled over in my haste.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

"Did you sleep well last night, Miss Cornelia? You seem anxious..."

I looked up from my bowl of untouched oatmeal, and watched Martha slowly sit in the seat next to me. A small pucker was between her eyebrows; she was worried about me.

I rubbed my eyes to feign tiredness. "Perhaps not... I do feel a bit unrested." But the grey under my eyes was from a different source entirely.

It was Monday, a work day. Mister Stockton requested that I come to work at seven in the morning, to help set up shop before he opened at half past. Sadly, it was two full hours before my shift began. I hadn't slept for days, ever since I'd visited his home. I had laid in bed all night the last evening, staring at the wood paneling of the ceiling. The demon would return that early morning, and come into town for his work at the clinic. Who could sleep with such horrors occurring?

"Oh..." Martha frowned, and then brightened with a thought. "Perhaps the day spent working will keep your mind off of it," she said comfortingly.

I gazed at her curiously. She was very perceptive, just like her brother. "Yes, perhaps... thank you, Martha. You're my sanity, you know." I smiled affectionately.

"Aw, Miss." She flushed, standing to receive a guest that had entered.

I forced myself to swallow the oatmeal, not tasting anything at all. I stared out the dim, ice-crystalized window panes at the gently falling snow. The weather was dropping ten degrees a day, and the snow didn't relent one bit. Across the street, a brave soul ducked into the General Store.

I shook the lace cuff off my wrist and took a drink of my warm water. Millicent from the tailor's had helped me scrub all the dirt from my Eastern dress, and mended the sleeves and hem. She charged nothing, claiming that the sight of the style alone was payment enough. The dress had been designed for a corset, but I had never used one. And apparently, to my delight, people in the West did not wear corsets.

"Good day, Miss Cornelia. Do you fare well today?"

Glancing behind myself, I saw Mister Wells closing the door to his chambers. "I fare fine, Mister Wells. I trust your night was peaceful as well?"

"Yes," he said, wiping the frost from the window by the door, "very peaceful." He gazed out at the hazy morning.

"Good morning, Caleb! Did you sleep soundly, brother?" Martha chirped, skipping over to peck his cheek. I never understood why Martha was always so chipper in the mornings. She even had to walk from the apartment above the tailor's to the inn in the cold weather. Mister Brown must make her very happy.

I couldn't finish most of my oatmeal; my stomach was in knots. My mind was on the demon in the doctor's office. Will he be angry? I could imagine the schemes of revenge he was devising to counter my despicable action. Will he care? I couldn't picture him brushing it off as simply an accident. Because it wasn't an accident; it had been very intentional. What had I been thinking? He'll hunt me down and -

"Miss Cornelia, you haven't moved for quite a time... are you alright?"

I jerked out of my thoughts and looked over at Martha, who was slowly winding some brown string into a ball behind the counter. She watched me curiously, worriedly.

I popped out of my seat, putting a hand to my clammy forehead. I had sat there for hours. "Nothing! Yes, no... I'm just fine, Martha. Thank you." I stumbled up the stairs to retrieve my cloak, and promptly ventured into the snow-painted landscape of Hoquiam.

Mister Stockton was in an unusually bad moon when I arrived for the day's work. Apparently, his younger brother, Daniel, had gotten into some trouble back East.

"My whole family lives in New York," Mister Stockton told me as I organized the spice rack behind the counter. "They've lived there for years; my grandfather came over from Scotland before the War."

"Y-You're Scottish?" I asked as politely as I could. He didn't look it at all.

He chuckled at my surprise. "Scots-Irish, but you couldn't bear witness for one shinny penny. How about you, little lady? How did your folks end up in Boston?"

My hand froze as I put a jar of cinnamon on its shelf. Mister Stockton had never asked about my family in the East, and I hadn't had time to come up with a reasonable response. "I... don't know where my mother was from." I paused, deep in thought. "But my father was from Europe." An extremely vague response - all Americans were from some eastern country.

However, Mister Stockton didn't press the matter, like the gentleman he was.

Martha had been right: work did help keep my mind off him. Patrons were few and far between, due to the weather, but Mister Stockton had plenty of work for me nonetheless. But, every once in a while, my eyes would wander to the misty windows where the white snow drifted through the air... and I would wonder if he was in town. If he had found the evidence I left so carelessly at his home. If he was mad or insulted or offended somehow.

And, worst of all, I wondered if he was wondering about me.


Review? Anyone...?

-Scarlet