I'VE GOT OVER ONE HUNDRED REVIEWS! When I first started this story, I didn't think I'd reach even one hundred. Thank you so much, everyone, for your support and your questions! Next objective: two hundred reviews ;)
And thank you, FateMagician, for your outstanding work as my Beta Reader! I'm certain that, without you, I wouldn't have gotten as many reviews/followers/faves!
Now, as you perhaps noticed, I changed the titles of all the chapters. That's because, like the oblivious idiot I am, I recently realized that I would never have enough themed phrases/quotes/etc for the whole story. I mean, I've got forty chapters just for the first two seasons, and there are two others after that. For the sake of consistency, I decided to change everything.
WARNING! This chapter is part of the reason why I rated this story M. If blood and violence are a trigger for you, I would suggest skipping the passage that starts at "With a nerve-raking screech" and ends at "run down her chin". It's not what I would call extremely graphic but it is pretty brutal.
On the following day, her schedule being free of classes to teach, lessons to prepare, and tests to grade, Enola drove to Willow Point estate in the mid-morning. Only, instead of heading for the house, she made for the stable, driven by the sudden impulse to go and say hello to Archon—he was quite friendly, after all.
The vampire pushed open the large double door and slipped into the building. As it had three days ago, the warm scent of hay brought back memories of her pre-teens that made her smile fondly—she had practiced horse riding for three years before her father's job as a college British literature teacher took them to Paris. At the noise Enola made when she came in, the white stallion exited one of the stalls, his hooves clattering on the stone slabs, and gazed at her with curiosity.
"Hello, Archon," Enola greeted him with a slight bow.
The horse replied with a nod and a nicker, and the vampire took it as a permission to come closer and place a hand on his neck. His snow-white coat was thick and soft underneath her fingers, and warm too—unlike his master, Archon wasn't undead, simply… well, hellish.
"You're handsome, you know," she whispered with a smile.
The horse head-butted her lightly and her smile widened.
"Don't let it go to your head!" she teased, scratching him behind his ears.
Archon let out a short, falsely indignant neigh and head-butted her again, hard enough that, had she been human, she would have staggered. She laughed and swatted his shoulder.
"Bad horse!" she scolded playfully. "I was thinking of bringing you apples, but I'm starting to reconsider..."
The steed shook his head and snorted in protest.
"All right, all right, you're a good horse," Enola relented with a smirk. "You'll get your apples."
The satisfaction in Archon's red eyes made her chuckle. She rested her head against his neck around which she threw her arm before closing her eyes and sighing contentedly as she enjoyed the rare peaceful moment and listened to the horse's strong heartbeat.
"Why do you even like me?" she wondered. "We're supposed to be enemies…"
The stallion snorted and gave her a skeptical look.
"Well, your master and I are enemies," she pointed out. "He doesn't like me very much… Wait. I think I just made the understatement of the year."
The horse rolled his eyes and shook his head again.
"Well, what? That's true!" the vampire laughed. "You should see how he avoids me! I swear, the way he almost flees the living room when the history lessons are over, you'd think I asked him to go shopping with me or something... Pretty sure it'd take at least that to scare him off."
The neigh that Archon gave sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"I feel as if I'm a leper or something," Enola joked on. "It's quite offending you know… Why are you looking at me like that?"
The horse was gazing at her with a knowing look, and she could have sworn he was smiling. She raised an expectant eyebrow.
"Yes? Is there something I should know?"
The horse nodded and struck the cobbles with a hoof. The vampire's second eyebrow joined the first as, on her face, curiosity turned into perplexity.
"Really? Wait, let me–"
She broke off at the same time as Archon whipped his head towards the stable door, his nostrils dilated and his ears flat on his head. She had heard it too: a car slowly approaching the estate, its tires crunching along the earth trail.
"Weird," Enola mumbled.
It couldn't be Abbie and Ichabod, they'd have called her first. Archon and she listened intently as the car stopped at a small distance from the estate; the engine was shut down, doors opened and closed, and then there were voices. Four of them. Masculine. Enola tensed up, a low growl rumbling in her throat, and bared her teeth.
Parrish.
She'd recognize that voice anywhere.
She removed her arm from Archon's neck, staring at the stable door as if she could see the warlock through it. Her eyes were filled with such hatred that the wood would surely have burst into flames if the horse hadn't nudged her with his nose, catching her attention. She turned her head, meeting his worried gaze, and she managed a tight smile.
"Yeah, I know," she whispered. "Can't be good. I'll wait until they enter the house, and then I'll go and sneak a peek."
The horse nodded. A few seconds later, Enola heard the estate door swing open, then Parrish's voice again :
"Sorry to arrive unannounced."
He didn't sound sorry at all. Enola patted Archon's neck and kissed his cheek; the horse replied by bumping her shoulder with his nose. Anticipating a fight, she shed her coat and her scarf, which she draped over the door of a stall before sneaking out of the stable, as silent as a shadow. She prowled towards the open estate door, all the while thanking the good idea she'd had to park behind the house—that way, there was no sign of her presence. She forced herself to remain discreet, even when she heard Katrina cry out.
"Unhand me!"
At the sight that awaited her inside the dining room, a great bristling wave surged inside her like a sea of angry cats raising their furs and arching their backs all at the same time. Two burly men dressed in black had the witch pinned to the back wall while another, also dressed in black but more elegantly, was observing one of Katrina's eyes through a retinoscope.
"Everything is as expected," he declared a handful of seconds later.
Parrish, who was turning his back on her, nodded; but Abraham, who was standing next to him, frowned, worry written on his face in bold letters. Doesn't he know about Parrish's plans? If he didn't, it could only mean one thing: Parrish intended to harm Katrina, which definitely wouldn't sit well with his fellow Horseman.
"Now, Moloch has a new purpose for her," the warlock said with a satisfaction that made something snap inside Enola.
"And what might that be?" she asked loudly, stepping in the doorway.
Oh, how she enjoyed the shock that appeared on his face! He hurriedly thrust his hand in a pocket of his coat, no doubt trying to take the vial of cursed blood, but she didn't let him finish his gesture. She rushed to him, swinging her fist as she did; the punch connected with his jaw, hard enough that his consciousness was snuffed out before he even touched the floor. As much as she hated him, Enola wouldn't kill Katrina's son in front of her. The other three men, however, weren't so lucky: all the anger, all the loathing she couldn't take out on Parrish, she unleashed on them, her self-control crumpling like a piece of wet paper in a fist.
With a nerve-raking screech, she swooped down on the doctor, her clawed hand shooting out and ramming into his chest with a sickening crack—he died with a choked gasp and bulging eyes, ribs shattered and heart crushed. A quick twist and pull, and her hand, now coated in a glistening scarlet glove, squelched free from the corpse which pitched forward with the movement. She shoved it aside carelessly before rounding on Goon 1 with a savage swipe. Her claws rent the air and then, with just as much ease, flesh. The wet patter of blood against wood and clothes was closely followed by a dull thud when the man collapsed to his knees, his hands desperately clutching his throat in a futile attempt to seal the four gushing rictus, his gaping mouth spitting gurgles as he fought to breathe through his shredded windpipe. The vampire didn't waste time watching rivulets of blood spill between his fingers, his body slump to the floor, and the light in his eyes go out; instead, she lunged at Goon 2 who was trying to make a run for the door. The man gasped when his collar, grabbed from behind by an iron grip, brutally dug in his throat. He clawed at the fabric to try and pull it away from his skin, but the vampire caught one of his wrists and twisted it behind his back while her other arm encircled his waist and pinned his arm to his side, as unyielding as a steel hoop around a cask.
Then she sank her fangs in his neck.
The man screamed in pain and panic, writhing like a frenzied animal, but she hardly paid any attention to his struggle. She only felt the exhilaration of letting go for the first time—all restraint gone, she was biting to kill. And she didn't do it cleanly: she tore the flesh, letting blood spill from her mouth, smear her lips and run down her chin. The man's jolts quickly weakened and when they ceased, Enola pushed him away, her red eyes smouldering and her bloody lips parted with a slow, satisfied exhalation. Her body was thrumming with a warm, heady energy that purred along her nerves and left her wanting for more—more blood, more killing, more abandon. She was still lucid enough to rein it in but the moment she did, it curdled into bile-tasting realization.
Oh God, what have I done? Enola stared at the dark pool slowly spreading from under the man whose throat she'd just mangled and, as it crept over the floor, a numbness unfurled inside her like tentacles of frozen mist. With each breath she took, the smell of blood bloomed in her nose, though its velvety sweetness was already starting to wither, a warning of the consequences of ingesting a dead man's blood.
Drip. She looked down. Drip. The red glove that covered her right hand was starting to slip, drops of its sheen lazily beading at her fingertips before plummeting to the floor—drip—and adding to the cluster of bizarre flowers growing there. Well, this is going to be a bitch to clean up, she thought with a kind of remote detachment, as if she were watching herself through someone else's eyes.
"Sorry about the mess," she said flatly as she looked up at Abraham.
He was staring at her with an inscrutable expression. There was appreciation, perhaps, in his eyes. Or perhaps not. She couldn't muster enough interest to try and read him. She barely had the gumption to conceal her true face before turning to the fastest of the two heartbeats in the room—Katrina, who flinched, her hands tightly clasped together against her breast and her wide eyes reflecting a vicious beast back to Enola. The young vampire felt something sink inside her and she had to refrain from wiping her mouth and her chin with her hand, well aware that it would only make it worse.
"Did you kill Henry ?" Katrina asked in a strained voice.
Enola glanced at the unconscious warlock with indifference and shook her head.
"No, I didn't, but he won't wake up soon and he may have a concussion. Honestly, I won't lose sleep over it. Right now, I'm more worried about you."
And for good reasons: the witch's face was ashen and covered with a pellicle of sweat, her hands were shaking, and she gave off the dying-lilies smell of sickness.
"I woke up this morning in this state," Katrina explained. "I am positive this illness is unnatural."
The vampire nodded. The urge to wash her face from the blood she felt drying on it was becoming harder and harder to resist, as was the need to put a few rooms between herself and the witch's wary gaze. She'd rather cut out her own heart than admit it out loud—actually, even admitting it silently set her mind astir with unease—but right now, Abraham's presence brought her a twinge of comfort. It was nice to know that not everyone in the room wasn't staring at her as though she were about to gorge on the flesh of the corpses.
"Sit down and drink some fresh water," she advised. "I'm going to get cleaned up."
Enola hurried to Katrina's bathroom which communicated with her bedroom through a door in the left-hand corner. When she saw her reflection in the mottled mirror above the wash basin, she gasped.
"Oh God."
The tip of her face was painted with a blood moon that hung, a snarling crimson, amid her fair skin. Moved by the sudden and inexplicable impulse to look at her right hand without taking her eyes off her face, she lifted it to the level of her chin, its back to the mirror, and another splash of red was added to her portrait.
"Come and see," she murmured to herself as she let her human mask slide away.
Whatever appeared then in the mirror, she didn't recognize it even though it stared at her through her own eyes, an unfamiliar creature she had intruded upon, drenched in red—hair, eyes, mouth, hand, all were red. There was too much of it, too much, it was all she could see, and for the first time since her turning, she couldn't find herself in the vampire. For a long minute, she stared into the mirror, struggling to make herself out among the red blots, like someone trying to see the black faces instead of the white vase. Or the rabbit instead of the duck. Eventually, she was able to recognize the outline of her face and her features inside it, but it wasn't enough—she knew that this red mask of death was her face, but she didn't... feel it.
The excess of red had to go first.
With her clean hand, she grabbed the tall porcelain pitcher that stood in a corner of the large washstand and poured water into the basin until it was a little more than half full. Then, after yanking her blood-edged sleeve up her arm, she plunged her right hand into the water and scrubbed it with the other, foregoing the washcloths so she wouldn't get blood all over them. Her taut fingers pressed harshly into her flesh, pushing ripples of skin before them, and tore at the scarlet glove until she had to use a brush to remove its last shreds from the cracks of her skin and from under her nails.
When finally her hand had regained its usual marble-white, she attacked her face without pausing. Bent over the water, she cupped it in her hands and splashed it on her lips and chin before wiping them forcefully until she felt only her skin beneath her wet fingers, single-minded in her determination to get rid of the blood, a dull silence pulsating against the walls of her skull.
Suddenly, just as she dipped her fingers in the water, she realized how red it had become and froze. Looked up. In the mirror, her reflection was staring at her with wide eyes and tousled hair, a few wet strands stuck to her cheeks. A fleck of blood still clung to the tip of her chin but otherwise, the only red to be seen was in her hair and in her eyes, as it should be. Relief leached out the tension from her body—yes... yes, this was her. She knew it in herself, now. Unfortunately, her release was short-lived, for she had forgotten what was lurking at the edges of her mind—low, quick shadows with button-round eyes that glowed white. The instant she relaxed, they pounced on her and the realization engulfed her in a fist of bone-freezing water.
I killed three men.
I took three lives.
Her stomach lurched and the blood she had fed on only minutes ago rose in her throat like a sob. She bent convulsively over the sink, clamping a hand on her mouth and screwing her eyes shut. Non pas ici pas maintenant non non non. She swallowed and swallowed, feverishly, until the content of her stomach was back in place, her mind drifting like a frail boat caught into the currents of a giant maelstrom. Her breathing ragged, her legs shaking, her head spinning, she clung to the edge of the washstand as if anchoring her body could somehow anchor her thoughts too. I killed. I killed. I killed. She repeated the words in her head until they lost their meaning and became a mere collection of sounds, but it didn't change what she'd done or how she felt.
She wanted to run to Abbie and Ichabod. She wanted to hug them and tell them what she had done and hear their comforting words. She wanted to curl up somewhere and cry over the loss of another shred of her innocence. She wanted to rant and rave against the war that had turned her into a killer.
She couldn't.
She had no time.
Katrina was sick and Parrish had something to do with it; she had to be taken to a hospital and thoroughly examined. Abbie and Ichabod had to be called and informed of the situation. So for now, Enola had to shove her distress to the back of her mind and lock it there—she had to calm down. The thought drew a brittle laugh from her lips: easier said than done… Closing her eyes and letting her head hang, she forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly, but as it did nothing to calm the frantic, broken static of her thoughts, she resorted to the method she would use as a newborn vampire when she needed to drag her focus away from her thirst.
"Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
'Come buy our orchard fruits...'"
She molded the world around the words that came out of her mouth and those that waited in her memory, until they were all that existed.
"'Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck'd cherries...'"
She didn't even hear Abraham approaching the bathroom.
Aaand… cut! Sorry guys, you'll have to wait for the Enola/Abraham moment because the next chapters are yet to be edited. In the mean time, feel free to drop comments and/or questions. I always answer them quickly, just so you know.
The poem recited by Enola is Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti.
Translation:
- Non pas ici pas maintenant non non non = No not here not now no no no