These eternal bones a da.., p.3
These Eternal Bones: A Dark Vampire Romance, page 3
And eventually it does.
My sobs take the place of screams as I force my burning eyes open.
A deep, melodic voice soothes my nerves, humming a familiar song, but I can’t see where it's coming from in the pitch darkness.
I can’t tell who.
Only that it’s hauntingly beautiful, and I never want it to end. That if I am to burn, this is certainly the devil, and his voice is lovely.
My bones feel like they're locked, set in deep stone as I curl on my side, a breathy groan narrating the effort. Burying my face in my pillow, determined to stay in bed until the pounding in my head subsides. Every inch of my body seems to ache and hum in tune with my pulse, my skirts twisting and tangling between my legs, preventing me from stretching like I need to, but none of it is pressing enough to get me to move. It’s the thirst that acts as a catalyst, a reminder that I am nowhere near home.
The fox, the woods, the sounds, and that terrible invasive tugging of my blood. The wrongness of it all hits me like a slap across my sensitive flesh.
The room around me spins as I jolt upward, pink early morning light streaming through a small dirty window above an even dirtier rusting wood stove. I hiss in pain as I kick at the covers. Just moments ago, they were a comfortable haven, and now they feel like restraints. My chest tightens, and my head goes light as I stumble into the middle of the wide cottage. The sound of a chair scraping the floor nearly makes me jump out of my skin until I realize I’d kicked it. Its position by the bed only further sours my gut. I was alone.
I’ve been alone the whole time.
Right?
The fox…
Giving the small space another quick glance, I jerk up my skirts with trembling hands, staring down at the angry but…clean and healing cut on my thigh. My bottom hits the bed roughly, making it give a warning creak that has me holding my breath. The entire place looks dusty and untouched, aged but sturdy. Cared for but only by reluctant hands. The hole in the roof leaving a wet spot in the wood flooring, and old rugs are piled and scattered around the remnants of what used to be a home.
I’d gotten sick because the cut was infected. I remember how badly it hurt with every step, the nipping of the fox–
No.
The woods…that heavy, oppressive weight. I remember the darkness, how it seemed to writhe and overpower my body.
I had a fever.
I was exhausted and terrified.
Years ago, when brother Artem was little, he’d gotten sick. Scarlet fever our mothers had called it. They’d sobbed and prayed while he thrashed and spoke of things we couldn’t see, his tiny body drenched in sweat.
My eyes slide to the chair now knocked off kilter. “I was sick.”
The hands…
I can feel them still brushing the hair from my face, such a soft touch; my heart gives a little pang at the fact that it wasn’t real. My body gives me little to work with as I shove to stand, my booted feet dragging as I stumble to the back of the cottage to what must be a bathroom. The mirror is mottled with filth. Once I reach it, I wrap my hand with my sleeve to clear a spot to see my…clean face.
“I’d cleaned it in the creek,” I assure myself.
Even now, I can hear it bubbling nearby.
I was alone.
I’d always been alone.
Delirious and alone.
Ripping my eyes from my gaunt reflection, I wince, adjusting the bodice of my dress, trying to ease the uncomfortable stabbing between my breasts before I remember my rock. My fingers are weak and clumsy as I undo the back, digging the sweaty treasure from between my breasts, my smell making bile rise in my throat. Nothing would come within throwing distance of me right now. Surely, my stretch alone is an apt repellent, even to me. It takes a fair bit of snooping, pacing, and deep breaths before I muster up the courage to step outside; the wide clearing in the woods is lightly touched by the most sunlight I think I’ve seen since we docked here. Tall trees surrounding the clearing on all sides as if they were standing guard.
Hopelessness slams into me so roughly that I bring my arms to my middle, hugging myself as if to keep the pieces together. A thousand thoughts swarm my mind, and yet, I can’t decipher one from the other.
Perhaps the bright side will seem brighter when I don’t smell of decay and excrement. I scan the dark woods, wary as I make my way to the creek; my body moving with a will of its own. Desperate to release myself from the disgusting garment, I jerk and pull at my dress like it's on fire, kicking myself for not doing this sooner.
I set my rock carefully on the pile of soiled clothing, shoving the fish incident to the back of my mind as I timidly walk myself into the water, careful not to go too deep. This is more of a swimming hole than I’ve seen so far, the water deep and inviting. No wonder someone built a home here; although in the middle of the woods is an odd choice, I can certainly understand the appeal–under the right circumstances, which are not currently mine. Perhaps they were hiding from someone, too. Running from something that makes the eerily quiet woods and dreadful weather look like the lesser of two evils.
A gasp leaves my throat as I dunk myself, forcing the water up to my chin. It’s frigid, my worn body trembling as I scrub furiously at my flesh. Keeping my thighs tightly together until it’s the last place I’ve got left to clean. Doing anything about my hair seems like an impossible task, the weight of the matting no doubt adding to my headache. Oh, the things I would do for a pair of scissors or even a rusty blade right now. The copper-colored strands look closer to dark brown as I tenuously unknot them from their haphazard braid from days ago. My pulse jumps, my heart shuddering to a stop as I jerk my head over my shoulder, staring back at the cottage, unable to determine what pulled my attention there. It’s the same pervasive feeling of otherness… of being watched that seems synonymous with these woods. I scream as a fish jumps from the water beside me, making me veer back toward the bank, my foot finding a slick rock that plunges my head underwater. When I come up, it's with a gasp and a few very unladylike words, resigning to freeze in the shallows until my hair is untangled enough to wash. Wash being a very loose term, considering I have no soap.
5
Nightmares of Benefactors
Molly
The dusty, quiet cottage greets me again with open arms, and this time it's… draftier than I remember. My dress hangs outside on the line I found in the back to dry. I’d even managed to mash a few leaves with a pleasant smell from the nearby, heavily weed-overrun garden into my skin and the garment. Although that meant taking another dip in the cold water. Whomever placed this cabin here thought of everything, which is working out great for me right now. I tremble, jerking a musty blanket from the bed, my rock balancing on the chair that sits like a taunt just to my left.
“Lie back, daughter.” Mother Bryia urges in her soft voice. The same way they all speak, but right now, it isn’t comforting, not with her hands on me.
“Yes, mother.”
My body trembles as I comply, knowing that misbehaving will only earn me an atonement. Even that seems like a welcome reprieve now, but even so, it will only delay the inevitable.
“You are made in his image, so soft and beautiful. You mustn’t cry, he’s very gentle.” She scrubs, rubbing oils down where I’d always been told not to touch. My stomach tightens, an odd clenching panic beading in my chest as she makes another pass.
My heart thunders as Mother Elina enters the room, my eyes downcast like a naughty child. “Soon you will be a mother too. Your belly will be filled with His grace.”
I should want that.
I should be happy.
Sobbing and grateful, like my sisters and mothers.
Instead, I feel…angry.
Sick at the thought of it.
I don’t wish to be his wife.
I don’t wish to be touched.
My fists clench under the water as new tears bud in my eyes.
I wake with a gasp so violent it makes me cough–the deep rattling kind that stretches and pains your lungs. That feeling of otherness so pungent, I freeze, my eyes darting around the dimly lit cabin as my rumbling stomach makes me jump. My mouth watering at the mere thought of food.
My stomach carries on like a beast, the burning ache making my weak hands tremble as I touch it. I don’t know if it’s the lump in my throat or the hopeless, homesick feeling burrowing in my chest that forces me from the bed. Guilt lies across my shoulders like a heavy blanket, thinking of everything I left behind but most of all, Remmy. She’s young, next in line to be a wife. Her twenty-third birthday looming in the background like an omen. It’s a divine number, so he says. Twenty-three-year-old wives, twenty-three of them. Twenty-three children born under the eye of God, although he long surpassed that number. He’s never provided a reason that it was suddenly okay. I assume it simply befitted him to forget his own rules.
If I wasn’t starving, that thought alone would’ve stayed my hand as I burst out of the cabin, slowly getting more comfortable in my stark nudity. Something I was always taught to be ashamed of.
For what?
It’s my body.
The one I was born with.
One that does amazing things, like carry me through these woods, survive the Tabot, and helped me flee him. One with pretty divots, swells, and curves.
Why should I not display it proudly?
At least when I’m alone.
My heart gives a blasphemous shudder at my own wayward thoughts as I start off toward the creek. For what, I don’t know yet. It's not until I’m there, shivering and covered in gooseflesh, casting a look back at the cottage but refusing the hit to my pride, that I regret not just grabbing a blanket to wrap myself in.
I truly am a wild animal.
Just like he said.
I bend down, palming a large rock with a severe-looking edge. My Anger bubbling along with the hunger and exhaustion in my gut. It’s him I picture when I pelt it into the water. It cools my frustration an inch to pretend somehow, someway, he felt that. To pretend he knows even that if I am to die and starve out here, I have still won.
My arm trembles as I struggle to track the fish through the water, the daylight a mere whisper in the sky now. I headed back to the cottage a long while ago for the blanket, which now drapes around me like a wrap, its dusty ends dancing in the water. A grunt leaves me as I slam the rock down, hope spiking in my chest for a fleeting moment. “I got it! I think I got it!”
My reddened fingers hover above the water, waiting for the sediment to settle enough to see my rock before I jerk it up, my heart dropping to the pebbles under my feet. “One more try.”
I crouch down, straining my eyes, waiting for another fish, although I’m pretty sure I’ve scared off any fish in the next ten miles with the number of times I’ve cursed and thrown this stupid rock. Nothing screams every horror story you were told as a child like the woods at night. I assure myself I didn’t burst through the ground and spiral to the fiery pits of hell upon leaving the grounds of New Eden, so it’s likely the monsters that featured in my childhood nightmares were lies as well, or exaggerations at least.
Wolves who were also men, that would devour your flesh.
Fae who trick and goad you into their realm, only to make you a slave to their whims.
Beautiful, alluring undead. Their hearts and bodies of ice, who survived on the blood of humans.
They came hundreds of years ago, when God first felt the shame of humanity's sin. He created demons on earth to give us a taste of hell. It’s why our forefather, our first prophet, said New Eden was so special, so important. Desolate in the middle of the desert to keep us safe. To keep us pure. There were endless things that terrified me when I stepped foot outside the walls of our home. My first days were spent sobbing and trembling. I hid, waiting for him to drag me back, for the ground to open its maw and swallow me whole. For my flesh, blood, and soul to be devoured by monsters that lived in the shadows.
None of those things happened.
Because he was everything he preached against.
A liar.
A deviant.
And worst of all, a coward.
If given a choice, I would choose the monsters over the man. At least they are honest in their intentions to defile.
Movement catches my eye, a fish making its way around my feet. My breath stops in my chest, and suddenly the surrounding woods seem louder, even in all their silence. My heart whooshes in my ears as hunger burns in my gut. I don’t dare move until the small fish treads deeper out. I hurl the rock, missing by a long shot. The need to scream bubbles in my throat with the desire to stomp, thrash, and wail. Years of silence keep it there, where it festers, bringing tears to my eyes as I quietly gather my wet blanket and head back to the cottage. Not so much as a whimper lost to the night.
The hours that follow drag on like an eternity; not even sleep is a reprieve from the gut-churning hunger. I toss, turn, sniffle, and grumble. Waiting in the pitch darkness as rain pelts the cottage, I stare above me into the dark, willing every creak and bump to go away. My mind strays to places it shouldn’t.
My marital dress that had nearly dried has long been re-wet by the downpour. I couldn’t even bring myself to go get it. Let the wind take it far into the woods so the rats and vermin can use it in their nests.
The bright side is getting-
I choke on a scream as a knock rocks the door, my heart lurching into my throat to cut the sound off.
Everything, even the storm, goes deathly still in the face of such a jarring sound. Fisting the blanket, I tug it to my chin, humming to myself as my pulse whooshes in my ears.
I’m alone.
I’m alone.
It's not real.
There's nobody in the woods.
No….
Thing.
But still the memories that can’t possibly be real haunt me like a ghost.
His skin is cold as he presses his forehead to mine, the faceless man murmuring something in a language I don’t understand. I can smell him, even past my stench. Like spice and cedar, there’s something so familiar about it, it's easy to fall back into my sleep. My mind heavy with fever.
My breath eases out of me for the first time since the knock, each one shallow and calculated until the safety of daylight hits the window. If I had the energy to pace, I would. My fingers rapt nervously on my rock, wishing I had the forethought to grab a bag back home. My paints could’ve put a sizeable notch in the monotony of this place. Something that could serve as entertainment while I waste away. I didn’t even take the time to grab underthings, let alone paint and brushes. Dawn grips the woods, turning the unrelenting black into hazy gray again when I shove myself to my feet, my body trembling.
It was the wind.
I imagined it.
My imagination had always been my downfall, he had said. Fantastical things always seemed more interesting than the reality of the world. Bright colors and the creatures who sported them. They had been the subjects of so many ridiculed paintings. The younger generations of New Eden might not be permitted that at all. Like mine was never taught to read much or write at all. Our mothers knew, coming from the second Lamb, and some of them had even been children of God before New Eden, when our family could come and go as they pleased. My stalling hits unreasonable levels when I stop near the door to absently dust off the top of the woodstove.
“Stop being a coward, Molly,” I chastise myself, still entirely unmoving. “Just go. Right now.”
Squaring my jaw, I don’t allow myself a second of thought before I burst through the door, squealing when my foot knocks into something hard and metal, sending it flipping over on its side.
A serving plate.
I gawk at the upturned food pooling in the lid, my knees crying out in pain as I drop to right it. Hunger outweighs how it got here, who prepared it, or why the simple serving dish looks so…fancy. Like a functional piece of art.
The stark realization hits that I’m, in fact, not alone.
Acceptance of that is forced to the back of my mind when I tilt the embossed dome serving lid to my lips, scarfing down its contents. The bold chicken and herb flavor burst on my tongue, making an involuntary whimper escape me. I don’t take my mystery soup back inside, but instead, sit there in the doorway, nearly completely forgoing the use of the equally artful spoon as I gorge myself on the food. The side of bread has gone stale after the night spent in the rain, but I devour every crumb.
The feeling of fullness warms my stomach despite the food being cold. My heart drops at the sight of an overturned cup. Whatever functioned as a lid popped off, releasing its contents. The prospect of it having been something like hot chocolate or coffee nearly brings tears to my eyes, despite the likelihood of that being low. Chocolate is an expensive import. The powered variant was often the only type we could get, and that was rare in New Eden. It was a special treat, especially on nights when the desert would cool.
My eyes scan the dense woods surrounding the clearing, refusing to linger on their ever-shifting shadows and fog as I gather my plates, heading off for the creek to wash them the best I can. Why? I’m not sure, it just feels like the right thing to do, and I’m moments away from having a panic attack. When I set them back out tonight, I keep the cup for my drinking water. It's far more effective than cupping my hands or using the odd large leaf, which works just about as well as my fingers. I tuck the edges of the worn pillow up over my ears as darkness falls, hoping whoever comes to collect them is content in the shadows.
6
Lighthouse & Runaway
Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier
Molly
The next two weeks go much like the first. My hidden benefactor brings food, matches, pre-cut wood, bedding, and cleaning supplies. Sometimes they bring building materials and things I can use to better the cottage, but after nicking my hand rather badly one day, a deafening roar rattled the woods. It had me screaming and darting for the cottage in unbridled terror; the tools stopped being delivered soon after. In their place, another artful bowl of first aid supplies. This place seems to exist in a space of its own, untouched by time. It's held to a different standard; a unique blend of whatever fabric makes up our world.
