Grey Francis

BOUND BY A VAMPIRE: CHAPTER FIVE

The following is a chapter from Bound to a Vampire. It follows a brutal scene where Cassandra (still Annwyn at this point) is rescued by Killian from witch hunters. It is their first meeting.

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THE TURNING

I wake to the taste of tears in my mouth. The warm salty drink has a mineral flavor, not unpleasant, but not something I altogether favor. And yet I am swallowing it, one mouthful after another, my body craving it the way the parched crave water. My belly swirls with warmth, and my skin tingles. But what I notice most is the absence of pain. My eyes flutter open and I see that I have my mouth pressed to the Angel’s wrist. It is his blood that flows into my mouth and down my throat. It is his lap, his arms, I lie cradled within. Realizing what I’m doing, my stomach contracts and I gag. Untroubled, the Angel pushes his wrist back to my mouth, but I turn my head away.

“Drink or you will die.” His voice is calm and absolute.

I glance around, trying to gather my bearings. We are sitting on the ground in front of the bonfire—bodies and severed limbs lying in pools of blood, carnage strewn all around us. My mind races, tracing backward, the events of this horrific night rushing back to me.

I should be deathly afraid of this creature who effortlessly committed this slaughter, almost too fast for the eyes to see. Then his feeding on the Magistrate, his fangs buried in the wretched man’s throat. I should not be lying in his lap, suckling his wrist. And yet here I am, doing so without fear.

This close, I can finally see him. And what fills my eyes is a blend of pure masculine strength and bewitching feminine beauty. His exotic eyes are a radiant purple possessing unknowable depths. The sculpted angles of his face and sharp edges of his cheekbones are offset by a straight, noble nose and full, sensual lips. A scar runs down the left side of his unearthly face, giving him the appearance of an archangel emerging from millennia of battles. His blond waves fall to his shoulders in a golden, blood-drenched mane.

“Am I alive?” I ask weakly, reaching for my throat, finding the cut has stopped bleeding.

“For the moment, but your injuries are grave.” He runs his finger over the slice across my throat. “Fortunately, your captor was not given the opportunity to finish the job or there would be little I could do. However, you have lost a great deal of blood. What was left I have taken, so you may accept mine. It is the only way.”

“Are you…an angel?”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “No. That is one thing I am not. But you can call me Killian.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, “I do not know if you will make it through, lass. Most do not. Tell me now and I will let you die a peaceful death. But if you wish it so, I will make you like me.”

“But I do not understand what you are,” I rasp, coughing up splatters of blood, aware of how difficult it was getting to breathe.

He hands me a handkerchief made of fine linen edged in delicate lace. “At this point, the name is not important. You do not fear me. Not since the moment you saw me. Let your instincts guide you, lass. Going forward, you must take a leap of faith that I am not something fully malevolent or evil.”

He runs a sharp claw over his other wrist. As the blood blooms to the surface of his white skin, he offers it to my lips. In this moment, there is no choice, only an inborn reflex to grab hold of life and not let go. Perhaps I really am a God-hating heretic willing to forsake salvation. It matters not. I find myself opening my mouth and accepting the blood offered to me by the angel who is not an angel. A demon, perhaps. Either way, my desire to live prevails over any fear I might have for my soul.

I close my eyes, telling myself not to think. If I think, I will be frightened. Think, and I will likely vomit. But once again, I am surprised how accepting my palate is of his blood, how evenly it flows down my throat, the throbbing warmth spreading to every corner of my broken body.

Not until my stomach lurches, burning with pain, do I pull away. This time he does not object, lowering his lace sleeve, apparently satisfied with what I have taken from him. My head feels heavy and I have an overwhelming need to sleep. I shift onto my side, resting my head on the lap of the angel and close my eyes.

When I wake, I am alone. I know not how long I have been asleep, but the air has the chilled wetness of deep night. I sit up, feeling myself restored but completely different. My hand flies to my throat, finding the slash little more than a quickly healing scratch, dried blood the only evidence of what it was. Looking around, I notice that the bodies have been gathered up and thrown into the fire. Staring into the giant pyre, I am relieved to see Killian standing on the other side. He, too, watches the bodies blacken and shrivel. I should turn away in horror and cover my nose. No matter what they did to me, they were still human beings. Yet I cannot help but recognize the irony in the situation. This could have easily been my fate had I gone back with the Magistrate. Or stayed in the cart. I can tell myself it’s better them than me, but I still have to fight off an urge to be sick.

I look down at my person, discovering I am wearing one of my own heavy cloaks over my destroyed dress. While I slept, he must have gone into my cottage and found this. Something inside me clenches. After what was done to me, this simple act of decency feels like the rarest of gifts. I force myself to swallow the anguish that swells inside, knowing if I let it come to the surface, it will never stop.

Wiping away my tears, I realize my face no longer hurts. My fingers explore farther, my cheekbone no longer shattered, my lips no longer split and bloodied.

None of this is possible.

I open my cloak, examining my body, finding the deep gouges and scrapes from the dragging reduced to quickly fading bruises. There is tenderness where my ribs were cracked but nothing more, my breathing restored. Blood is caked on my inner thighs from when the men violated me, but the raw, torn soreness in my sex is gone. Blood and dirt are everywhere, but underneath it all, I am whole. There is no question in my mind that these are miracles, committed by a celestial being. I look across the bonfire at Killian, who watches me with an unearthly stillness and gleaming jewel eyes. Perhaps his origins dwell lower than the realms of Heaven and Earth. Either way, it is too late now.

Then I hear it—the steady pulse of drums. I pull my gaze from Killian, looking around for the source. At first, it sounded off in the distance, but it has grown too loud to ignore. Each drum beats quickly with its own frantic rhythm. But something else emerges in the background, sounds I hear every day. It is the scratching, breathing, braying, squeaking, clucking noises of my animals. Noises so clear, I expect to see the inhabitants of my farm all lined up along the periphery of the yard. But other than the scattered horses, the yard is empty. And then I know: these drums are the heartbeats of my animals, from the most robust horse to the tiniest barn mouse.

Less pronounced, I hear the same chorus coming from the meadow and the forest beyond. Hundreds of living, breathing creatures, with blood flowing through their veins, to whom I suddenly feel inexplicably connected. I turn to the meadow, expecting to see a moonless, black night. Instead, what meets my eyes is so unexpected, so unsettling, I need to hide behind my hands.

It takes me a long moment to uncover my eyes. I know the blood has done more than hasten the healing of my body. The sound of the animals’ heartbeats is evidence of that. But what meets my eyes is wondrous. The night opens up, revealing the same world but seen in an entirely different way. Every blade of grass in the meadow, every leaf on the fruit trees, every detail of the forest’s edge shimmers in perfect clarity within layer upon layer of grey, blue, purple, and silver. The colors of night.

I have become something else.

I turn, startled to find Killian next to me. “You will grow accustomed to it. In time, you will hear and see only what you wish to.”

I pull the cloak around myself, overcome with chills. “Thank you for my cloak.”

He nods, but his eyes remain on the fire, light dancing on his breathtaking face. “It was the least I could do. What those savages did to you offends me greatly.”

“I am healing,” I announce gratefully, not certain how to speak to this creature.

“You are strong, that’s good,” he says, settling down, his knees bent before him. “You will need a great deal of strength to get through this night.”

“I know not how I am alive, or what gifts you have bestowed upon me, but I am forever in your debt,” I say, bowing my head in reverence to him.

“You may not want to offer gratitude for something you will one day curse me for,” he says, a faint smile touching his lips.

I ignore this comment, the humor behind his smile putting me at ease. “Regardless, all I know is, you could have killed me with the rest. But you chose to spare me.”

“I do not kill indiscriminately.” His face hardens, the chiseled edges of his bone structure sharpening, making him appear even more beautiful, more deadly. “The affront to you was not unlike that done to my Kind for a thousand years. The ugliness and cruelty of humanity is more than I can bear sometimes. I felt the need to intercede.”

Watching him, even after having seen the carnage he is capable of, I cannot find evidence of evil within him. A darkness, yes, a dislike for humans, undoubtedly, but nothing that makes me regret drinking his blood. “Killian? What am I becoming?”

He throws a stick onto the blaze, his expression unchanged. “As I said before, you will know in time. If you survive.”

I pull my cloak tighter around me for warmth. I am growing cold, my body trembling and aching with fever chills. “But I thought, with all the changes, I had survived.”

Once again, his calm purple eyes shift back to me. “The true change is coming. Your body must die before it can be reborn.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, my stomach churning, growing more upset by the minute.

Killian is on his feet, his eyes scanning the horizon. “The illness you are beginning to feel is part of the Turning. For the next hour or so, your body will empty itself completely. It is unpleasant, to say the least, but it is over quickly. I will give you your privacy, but we must not linger here too long. Others will be coming.”

My stomach lurches and I fall forward onto my hands, spewing wave after wave of sickness. Behind me, Killian sinks to his heels, holding back my long hair as I continue to retch. There is a short pause as I struggle to catch my breath, when Killian ties my hair in a knot at the base of my neck and rises to his feet.

“It passes, I promise. Right now I must destroy evidence of what happened here,” he says, stepping clear of the mess I am making. Before he disappears into the darkness, he pauses, looking back at me. “And lass…when you’re up to it, you might want to free your animals. You won’t be returning.”

Two hours later, we stand in the meadow watching the flames climb into the inky black sky as my farmhouse burns to the ground. The cart lies on the ground, a smoldering skeleton, while the carriage sits abandoned a great distance from the farm in a desolate field. Killian has been keeping busy with the clean-up while I stayed apart, attending to my body while my bowels and stomach repeatedly released. When there was nothing left to come up and the cramps began to wane, I washed up the best I could from the well, changed into a fresh gown, and readied myself to leave.

It should be difficult but it’s not. Whatever attachment I feel to this place has been severed by the violence done here. My own kind has betrayed me, plucking me out of a world filled with sunshine and beauty and plunging me into a darkness so frightening, I would not be surprised to learn I am already dead. And this fallen angel is helping me bid farewell to my human life and cross over into whatever hell he sprang from. Either way, dead or alive, I am going with him.

There is no coming back from this. The Magistrate and the Lawmen are dead, but others will be coming in their place. Even if Killian had gotten to me before my throat was sliced open, even if I never drank a drop of his blood, I could not return to my life. Being a condemned witch is bad enough. Now, I will be held accountable for these men’s murders. Death was my fate. It may still be. But at least with Killian, I have the chance to choose a different kind of fate.

“What do they call you?” he asks without looking at me.

“Annwyn.”

“A name from old times.”

I smile to myself. “My mother… She said it was a family name.” I shake my head, pushing away her face from my memory. “But they’re all gone now. It’s just me.”

“‘Tis better not leaving anyone behind,” he says thoughtfully as he puts on his gloves.

I give him a sidelong look. He is remote and unknowable, his angular face alight from the red glow of the fire “You’re a Scotsman.”

“I was. A very long time ago.”

A wave of sickness hits me all at once. I sway and Killian catches me, bracing me on his arm. My deteriorating state doesn’t seem to trouble or surprise him. The angel has a quiet resolve about the whole matter, as if he expects me to die at any moment. But now with my fever spiking, drenching my skin with a layer of cold sweat, I question my ability to travel with him. Underneath my skin, my veins burn and my muscles throb with tightening pain. Shivering, I watch the horses scatter around the meadow, feeling oddly in tune with their distress.

“Shall we take them with us?” I ask, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “I ride well.”

“I can move much faster without them.”

“But—”

Killian scoops me up into his arms, holding me close to his chest. “Close your eyes, lass.”

I don’t. Not at first, anyway. When Killian moves, it feels as if he’s lifted off the ground and is flying like a raven. Only faster. Much, much faster. I have no words, know of nothing in the world that moves this fast. In a second, we are in the forest, darting between the trees, moving over streams and up hills at an inconceivable speed. After a few moments of this, I close my eyes against this dizzying, continuous blur.

The wind whips over us and I nestle closer to Killian, feeling small and fragile. In this moment, he is shelter and protection and my only chance at survival. I understand nothing of what is happening to me. Nothing of the changes that transform my senses or the illness that is strangling the life out of me. Never in my life have I known what it is to be safe. But in his arms, I know nothing can harm me. I am safe to change into whatever it is he is. And safe, if need be, to die a peaceful death.

It is more than the brutal, epic power of him that has won my trust. It is the choice he gave me over my destiny, when he easily could have taken this from me. It is the cloak he found in my cottage, and the way he held my hair when I was sick. This is all I need to know of him. With my head pressed against his chest, I hear the beating of his heart and I wonder why an angel would need such a temperamental organ.

And then it’s over. Killian stops and I open my eyes. We are in a clearing in a forest I know to be miles from my home. There is a dark green carriage and a team of horses standing before us. The driver has jumped down from his seat and is already walking over to us, as if he was expecting us. As he approaches, I see he is a heavily armed warrior, wearing a harness criss-crossed over his chest, with a sword worn at one hip and a holstered pistol on the other. He is young, closer to my age. He has a lean, muscular body, and stands slightly taller than Killian. His straight dark hair, falling below his shoulders, partially tied back, revealing a ruggedly handsome face with a rakish goatee. But what strikes me most about this warrior are his guarded, stormcloud grey eyes.

“Sleeping, Pet?” Killian asks, meeting those grey eyes, his lips curving.

“Can only jerk myself off for so long,” the warrior retorts, returning a wry smile. “How is she faring?”

We are some distance from my farm and I wonder how this warrior already knows about me. Unless Killian has been back here.

“It remains to be seen. But she is a strong, wee bit of a thing,” Killian says, glancing down at me. Even half awake, I feel the warm familiarity between these two.

“You certain this is wise?” the warrior asks, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

Killian shoots back a silent reproach, an expression that makes plain the subject is not open for discussion. “Annwyn, this is Alastair. He is a Protector. He belongs to me, so you need not fear him.”

Looking up into the warrior’s grey eyes, I recognize the expression I find there. It’s the same expression I have worn many times and have tried to hide from countless patients. He does not expect me to survive the night.

Alastair turns on his heel, leading us to the carriage and throwing open the door. “I can get us to Anthrope by dawn if we leave now.”

Alastair swings himself up onto the driver’s bench while Killian climbs into the carriage. Inside, he lays me down, tucking a heavy fur blanket around me. He shuts the door and flops down across from me, kicking up his knee-high boots. “Hold on, lass. He drives like a demon out of Hell.”

The carriage pulls forward with a start and after a couple turns and bumps, we quickly pick up speed. Up front, I hear Alastair calling to the horses, pushing them to go faster.

Lying on the seat, I curl into a ball, pulling the fur under my chin as the carriage careens down the uneven roadway. Across from me, Killian looks nothing short of a nobleman. Except, of course, for the blond hair streaked with blood. As he pulls off his leather gloves, I see that his claws have retracted but that his nails are also stained with blood.

“Sleep, little one. I will wake you when it is time to feed again,” he says firmly, without looking up.

“What if I don’t wake?” I ask in a small voice.

He lifts his astounding purple eyes, his face revealing nothing of his feelings on the matter. “Then you shall be at peace.”

“Then the matter is in God’s hands,” I say, more to myself, trying to find some reassurance in the face of my impending death.

Killian lets out a resigned sigh. “From what I’ve seen over the centuries, God has little to do with any of this.”

I wait for him to say something more, offer some words of comfort, but he only returns his gaze to the darkened landscape passing outside the window. I have been a healer too long, helped too many souls pass out of this world, not to know what a person needs to hear as they face the end. But there would be no such words of comfort from this creature.

“Tell me, lass,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “What did you do in your life that made these men fear you so?”

“I am a healer. A midwife by trade. But it was my hands,” I say, my teeth chattering. “They take away pain. The Magistrate said it was evil and unnatural.”

“Of course he did,” he says, leaning forward and pressing his large, elegant hand against my own. The heat from his palm calls forth my own gift, causing a slight vibration between us. “Interesting. You definitely have power within you.”

I have so many questions for Killian. But I am too unwell now, feeling myself drawn into the heavy pull of sleep. “You speak of centuries,” I push on, determined to stay conscious. “How old — “

He separates his hand from mine, running his velvet touch down my face, closing my eyes. “Later. Sleep now.”

As Killian predicted, it’s a rough ride, but I find the beating of the hooves and the jolting movement of the carriage oddly lulling. With fever bearing down on me, the only thing I want is Killian. A creature who, mere hours ago, was unknown to me. A creature whose power is unfathomable. And now, having taken his blood and known the closeness of his body, his proximity and his touch are the only things I want. But much to my growing distress, he remains separate on his side of the carriage, pensively staring out the window. As I feel myself slipping deeper into fever, I fear if I do not have his hand to hold, I will die when he’s not watching and will be lost between worlds, without a body for this one, without a soul for the next. I do not know if these fevered thoughts have reached my lips, but when I open my eyes he is sitting next to me, clutching my hand.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice a dark, silky caress in my ear. “You can let go now.”

As I finally drift into sleep, I am under the impression we are lifting off the ground, taken up by the wind, and that the dark-haired warrior up front is driving us straight into the eye of a great, swirling storm. At some point, I am awakened by Killian and given more blood. But the fever has made everything hazy and dreamlike and I immediately fall back into painful, sweat-drenched sleep.

The images that haunt my dreams are of blood. Blood pumping through veins, under skin and fur, and filling a heart chamber. I find myself inside the body of a great cat, her perfect night vision scanning the lush forest for her prey. I am aware of a familiar, delicious scent close by, and I see a flash of fangs in the moonlight. Another great tawny cat, a large male, stalks out from the shadows, his body tight with restrained power and violence. We fight, a whirl of agile strength and claws, but the male easily dominates the battle, pinning me to the ground. He savagely holds me by the scruff of my neck with his massive jaw and I raise my rump up to meet him as he mounts me. I roll over in my mind and the cats turn into a man and a woman, bathing in blood, their bodies intertwined in forceful lovemaking. The images churn, going back and forth between the glistening, candlelit bodies colliding with almost desperate violence to the savagery of the cats, it all stopping dead when I look up into my lover’s face and into those purple eyes…

I start awake, breathless and painfully aroused, and find Killian leaning over me, his vein open with rivulets of blood pouring onto his lovely lace sleeve.

“It’s time. You need to feed again,” he says in a rough, throaty voice.

He looks haunted, something both burning and fearful behind his eyes, and I wonder if the Turning is not going well. I do not hesitate to take his wrist this time, my mouth latching on with surprising force. As I drink from him, my sense of taste has undergone a transformation not unlike that which changed sight and sound. Suddenly, his blood is a ripe, spiced wine laced with earth, ocean, and the best tasting flesh imaginable. I take a lot, unable to stop, until Killian unlatches me.

I am in twilight, floating between waking and sleep. I am vaguely aware of things, but not much. His soothing cool hand on my head, the reassurance of his voice in my ear, the violent bumping of the carriage. My body is full of fire. I feel it gathering inside of me, spreading and growing stronger, absorbing and laying waste to all that was there before. The burning grows unbearable and I know I am reaching the end. I know this is the Turning. Suddenly, like a great beast, it bursts to the surface and I am overtaken and swallowed whole by fiery pain. Burning alive, I shriek and cry and fight. Any modesty I might have ever known vanishes and my blanket, cloak, and dress fall away as I tear and scratch at my boiling skin. Flooded with rushing power, my body convulses, jerking and thrashing and I fear I will explode into a hundred pieces. My head expands, swimming to such soaring heights, I do not expect to ever come back. What is left of my consciousness lifts out over the carriage and floats in the cold night sky before plummeting down, like a falling star, back into my writhing body. Somewhere in the background, I hear my screams. I know Killian is now on top of me, holding me down, my arms pinned at my sides. I know the carriage is racing on and that the sky is turning from black to grey.

And then nothing.