I know, I know, I'm one day late… Sorry.
First things first: I want to thank FateMagician, my Beta Reader, for editing my work and helping me improve it. I don't know what I'd do without you :)
I also want to thank those who reviewed the story and added it to their favourites. It's always good to know you enjoy my hard work! And to the Guest who was wondering if this is a rewrite: yes, it is. Fear not, there are many more chapters to come!
Okay, so I skipped a few episodes here since Enola's presence didn't have much bearing on them. This chapter takes place during Bad Blood (yeah, I know, the title is kind of a dead giveaway, but there's another reason why I chose it). Prepare for some insight into Enola's past.
Enola woke up with a jolt and bolted upright in her bed, wide-eyed, panting and completely disoriented… Wait.
In her bed?
Something wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be in any bed. She had entered Purgatory with Abbie and Ichabod… Or had she? It was so blurry… She could remember glimpses—a headless Redcoat, a brownish misshapen giant, a majestic crypt, an old map with lines converging towards a single point… But was it real? It felt like a very vivid dream… One of those during which you're certain you're awake.
Enola ran a hand through her tousled hair. Something was very wrong. Only she couldn't pinpoint what. She was certain of only one thing: she shouldn't be there. And where was that, anyway? She looked around her: this was obviously a bedroom—a small but comfortable one, and unnervingly familiar. Dim sunlight was seeping through the window shutters and she could see the tiny motes that were lazily waltzing in the thin shafts of light. She scanned the room, the knot of dismay in her chest growing tighter with each piece of furniture she recognized: the nightstand beside her with its fabric-shaded lamp, the book-filled shelves that covered almost every available wall, the wooden desk and the unplugged laptop lying on it, the built-in closet and the clothes-covered chair. Three photographs decorated the blue-painted walls, and she knew that one was signed by Steve McCurry, another by Henri Cartier-Bresson, and the third by Dennis Stock.
Then there was the scent, a combination of clean cotton, book pages and wood varnish among which lingered traces of citrus shampoo and cool skin—a combination that was seared into her mind.
A sigh rising on her right nearly threw her out of the bed: her head whipped around and when her eyes fell on its source, she froze as the world tilted off its axis. There was a head poking out from under the comforter. A clearly masculine head. Light brown curls, thin angular face, thin lips. And big blue eyes.
His eyelids were closed, but she knew it. She knew him.
Cyrille.
Nausea clenched her throat and for a second, she thought she was going to be sick. No. It wasn't possible. She had nothing to do in his bed. He abandoned me. He left me alone to face eternity.
… Did he?
God, everything was so confused… She clutched her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to put some order in her thoughts. First: she was wearing a cotton tank top and shorts, to her huge relief. Second: she was in the bedroom of Cyrille's flat in Paris. Third: she had to leave. Now.
She slipped out of the bed and snuck towards the door in the right-hand corner. Her fingers were shaking when she reached out for the doorknob. They touched its smooth wood, wrapped themselves around it…
"If you're trying not to wake me up, it's too late."
Enola nearly jumped out of her skin at the amused, sleep-scratchy voice that had risen behind her. She spun around and faced Cyrille who sat on the bed, his eyes already sharp and smiling warmly at her. Although his smile disappeared faster than Ichabod confronted with skinny jeans when he saw her expression: it was a mixture of fear, disgust, and uncertainty, and she was staring at him as if he were a ghost from her past.
"Nola? Love, what's wrong?" he asked in an alarmed tone.
He left the bed and came towards her, but she recoiled until her back was against the door. He reached out to her but the growl that rolled in her throat, her bared fangs and her blood-red eyes stopped him.
"Eno–"
"Don't touch me," she spat. "You abandoned me like a toy you'd grown bored with. You let me face eternity alone!"
He looked so genuinely baffled at her words that she began doubting their truth. Still, she didn't waver in her aggressive stance: it would take more than a doubt to throw herself in his arms.
"Enola," he began slowly, carefully, looking straight into her eyes, "I would never, ever leave you. Why would I when all I can see if I picture eternity without you is an endless, pitch-black night? When all I can feel is a bottomless pit where my heart should be? I love you, Enola, and I always will."
He sounded so honest, his gaze was so warm and clear, that his words became branded in her mind and her heart. All her doubts suddenly seemed silly and insignificant, and every single vague memory, merely the remnant of some nightmare which was soon blown out of her mind like dust in the wind. Her human mask came back on and she let Cyrille embrace her. She nestled against him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—clean clothes and Armenian paper. That was all it took to finish grounding her.
"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I'm so sorry… I don't know what came over me… I think I had a nightmare… An awful one. But I can't remember it."
"Shh… It's okay," her boyfriend whispered, stroking her hair. "It's over now."
Yet Enola could still feel the ghost of her nightmare in her and she shivered, clutching Cyrille's T-shirt a bit harder. A small voice at the back of her mind was stirring, whispering to her that something was off, but Cyrille's voice snuffed it out.
"You look pale," he remarked with a concerned look on his face. "When was the last time you fed?"
"I... don't know," Enola admitted, frowning as she sifted through hazy memories. "I can't remember. Must've been a while ago."
She did feel hungry, now that she thought about it. Not to the point of actual discomfort but still... A blood bag wouldn't hurt until she could go hunting.
"How about a blood bag, hm?" Cyrille offered quite opportunely. "And tonight we'll go out and hunt together."
"You read my mind," Enola replied, brushing his cheek with her fingertips.
"Nah, I just know you really well. Come on, let's go and raid the fridge."
He took her hand, led her out of the bedroom to the living room, and made her sit down on the couch, kissing her forehead before padding to the kitchen. There, he fished two clean glasses from the dishwasher and went to rummage into the fridge. Enola was content to watch him through the arched doorway—his precise gestures devoid of any superfluous movement, his long fingers holding the glasses, his T-shirt suggesting his well-built torso and showing his toned arms, his attentive expression as he searched the fridge.
Everything was perfect. Well… almost perfect. That little voice at the back of her mind was still there and still buzzing its warning like an annoying insect. But it wasn't enough to break her peace of mind: she felt like a castaway who had found dry land after days spent clinging to a raft tossed around on a wrathful sea. She hadn't the desire nor the courage to question the safety of her refuge.
"So... O negative or B positive?"
Cyrille's question roused Enola from her thoughts and she focused on her boyfriend who had closed the fridge and was waving two blood bags in her direction, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
"Don't they all taste the same?" she pointed out with a lopsided smile, folding her arms atop the back of the couch and resting her chin on them.
"Yeah, but I thought I'd give us at least the illusion of choice."
She laughed and shook her head.
"B positive then," she decided.
"One bag of B positive blood for the lady, coming right up!"
The young woman laughed again as he joined her on the couch, the blood bags in one hand and the glasses in the other. He opened the bag she had chosen and poured half of its content into one of the glasses which he handed to her before repeating the same gestures with the other bag. As he did so, Enola considered the blood in her glass with a faint grimace and missed the malicious glint that flashed in Cyrille's eyes when he glanced at her.
"Tonight we'll get the real thing," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and smiling when she looked up at him. "In the meantime, cheers, I guess."
"Yeah, cheers," she replied snarkily, clinking her glass against his.
She brought her glass to her lips but the sound of a small bell being struck twice interrupted her gesture.
"That's my phone," she sighed, lowering her glass.
She bent over and grabbed the device which was lying on the coffee table in front of the couch. The text was from her mother and she smiled fondly: of course, her mother would remember she'd soon begin her internship in one of the numerous Parisian high schools. Enola sent a reassuring answer then put her phone back on the table.
"My mother," she specified when she met Cyrille's inquiring gaze.
"Did she want to know whether you've killed someone yet?" her boyfriend joked.
Enola chuckled and shook her head.
"No, she trusts me."
Naturally, she had told her parents about her lost humanity. The only other option was to cut all ties with them so she wouldn't have to explain why she refused to eat anything during the family dinners or why she had cancelled all her medical appointments, and that wouldn't happen. Of course, Cyrille had been reluctant, not only because she would reveal the existence of a whole hidden community to people he didn't know that well, but also because he had known how much she'd hurt if her parents rejected her. It was for the first reason that Enola had agreed to let him erase her parents' memories if her confession didn't go well.
Fortunately, Enola's parents were open-minded people. They had been understandably shocked and had needed a couple of days to wrap their heads around the idea that there were such things as supernatural creatures, but they had accepted their daughter the way she now was—fangs and all.
"Enola? You okay?"
She blinked and focused her attention back on Cyrille, to whom she offered a faint smile.
"I'm fine, it's just... I'm going to miss them, you know," she sighed wistfully. "My parents. They've always been there for me."
Cyrille took her hand and squeezed it lightly with a loving smile.
"I know," he said. "But you'll never be alone, even when they're gone. I'll be here for you."
Enola simply smiled at him, her eyes shining with gratitude and love, and lifted her glass to her lips.
"I'll always be with you. I promise."
She froze, the preserved blood barely half an inch away from her lips.
Promise.
Never trust men's promises of love. Otherwise, you'd open your chest and your heart to them, and then they'd be free to get inside you and destroy you. Better to push them away than to take that risk—it would spare you a lot of pain.
Promise.
Broken promise, broken heart. No, not just broken. Mutilated was a more accurate word to describe what she'd felt—as if a good half of her heart had been ripped off, crumpled like a piece of paper and tossed in a bin, and the wound rubbed with salt. And suddenly she knew what was wrong: that piece of her heart was still missing. She still wasn't whole. Which meant…
"This isn't real," she whispered.
As if these words had been magical, all the memories came back. Abbie and Ichabod. The Apocalypse. The Horseman. Henry. Katrina. The Purgatory.
She looked up and started with a gasp: Cyrille's face was contorted with devilish malice and his human mask had vanished. She leapt away from him and quickly backed off towards the small hallway, horrified, still clinging to the glass; he got up too, slowly, and advanced on her.
"Took you long enough to understand," he growled, his voice distorted into a deep, flanging mockery of itself.
Enola threw the glass at him but he ducked to avoid it and it crashed on the wall, splashing blood on the coral paint.
"You missed," he sneered.
All right. Run. And so she hurtled to the front door, followed by the warped voice of the creature that had taken her former boyfriend's shape.
"Seriously, Enola, how could you think for even a second that this was real?"
She shook the doorknob, tried to break down the wooden panel with her fists, but it wouldn't budge.
"Mais tu vas t'ouvrir, saleté?!" she cursed.
"Did you really think I'd come back to you?"
Don't listen to that thing. It's not Cyrille. Focus. Get out of here. The flat was beginning to tremble and everything around her was shimmering with a dull white light: the dream was falling apart at the seams, and the fear that she would dissolve with it was a shard of ice in her stomach.
"Teaching you to be a good vampire was fun enough, but really, it got boring. You got boring."
The voice was coming closer and the muscles in her back clenched in anticipation. She could feel his presence approaching behind her, like a hand pulling on her shoulder so she'd look back. But she stubbornly resisted, slamming her body against the door with all her might instead, because part of her dreaded to look at fake-Cyrille's twisted face and see what Purgatory had done with the most painful part of her life.
"You think your Witnesses like you? They just need your strength and your speed. They'll dump you as soon as this is all over. Or they'll die before they can. And you'll be alone… again and forever."
The last words had been whispered in her ear. She whirled around, swinging her fist with a furious hiss… and then the door opened behind her. With a yelp, she was pulled into a big white brightness.
Introducing Cyrille, Enola's ex-boyfriend and the vampire who turned her. You'll learn more about their story later, don't worry. He might appear some time during the story, but I'm really not sure about it. If he does, it will be much later, so I still have some time to think.
Right, next time: Purgatory proper! And Katrina!
And don't forget: I always like hearing from you!
Translation:
- Mais tu vas t'ouvrir, saleté?! = Will you open, you bloody thing?!