Chapter 13 #2
When I get to Aba?’ chamber, I find it empty and the fireplace cold.
To make sure I didn’t just miss him, I check the other rooms on his floor.
I find the study and the bath quickly, both empty and dark.
I wonder if he might have stayed in his secret room, so I head to the cellar to check that out, too.
This time, I fetch a small stool I saw on my walks so I can open the passageway without clambering up the wall.
The moment I reach the cellar, I recoil in disgust. Unwashed bodies, rancid milk, and road kill seem to combine into a stench so repulsive, it makes my eyes water. I press my coat onto my face, hoping for some reprieve while I fumble to turn the stone.
Thankfully, the moment the secret passage’s wall closes, it leaves the festering smell behind.
I exhale in relief and then realise I have no way of lighting the torches.
I feel my way through the passage in complete darkness, scraping myself up more than I’d like to admit.
But at least this time I’m wearing shoes, so my soles are spared from more damage.
When I reach the end, I knock three times.
I wait for what feels like too long and wonder if he might be asleep at this hour.
I know Aba? said he could walk in the sun, but maybe he still slept during the day?
After all, I don’t actually know which so-called vampire rules are true and which aren’t.
Finally, I step in, but this room seems empty, too.
A weak sun ray is fighting its way between the heavy velvet curtain, trying its best to push aside the shadows.
When I open the drapes, I see everything exactly as it was yesterday.
The fur blanket is still in the middle of the floor, the bed only slightly rumpled.
The only difference is the hearth, with its wood completely reduced to ashes.
I turn away, disappointed, until something new stops me in my tracks.
The heavy wooden door is covered in intricate carvings.
I step closer, tracing the geometric shapes with my fingers.
There’s something strangely comforting about these cut edges, something I can’t quite explain.
But still, even here, there is no sight of Aba?.
With nothing else to do, I return to the laundry room and reluctantly pull the wet fabric out of the buckets and hang it up. Of course, I end up completely soaked and thoroughly chilled. Afterwards, I eat the gruel waiting for me in the kitchen and go back through all the rooms looking for Aba?.
Three full days pass exactly the same way: I eat stale food, sleep restless nights. I look for Aba? in the morning and in the evening, and in between, I continue to work through a seemingly never-ending pile of laundry. It’s not until the fourth day that something finally changes.
When I wake up that morning, I already know it’s going to be a bad day.
There’s something about the too-bright sun cheerfully shining through my room that feels particularly annoying.
A murder of crows joins with an unusually chipper song, yet there’s a thickness to the air that makes it harder to breathe.
After breakfast, Bayard takes me to the grounds and hands me a shovel. I watch him carefully, but his face betrays nothing. The sun is still mocking me with its brightness, and Bayard…well, Bayard, like a switch turned on, glares at me as if I were a stain on his otherwise spotless shoe.
“You know what to do,” he says bitterly, nearly turning away before facing me again. “Three this time,” he adds, thin fingers pointing to the sky. Then he turns around and walks away.
The soil is just as dry and dense as it’s always been, stubbornly gripping onto itself and refusing to yield to my shovel.
The mouldering stench seems intensified in this heat, and I try my hardest not to inhale too deeply.
Just as my sweat starts to stipple my skin, a cold wind attempts to dislodge my cap.
I ignore it, but it only gets stronger, almost as if it’s offended that I paid it no attention.
I drop the shovel, holding onto myself as the wind rustles through my clothes, dragging and tugging with breathless abandon.
But the complete silence that suddenly falls around me makes me look up at the sky.
Now there are no more crows; even the howling wind is silent.
A wall of clouds, dark and menacing, sprawls over the horizon, unnaturally cutting the sky in half. The other side stretches pale blue above me with a stubbornly cheerful sun refusing to acknowledge the building storm’s existence.
Usually, I would welcome stormy weather, the cold breeze, and the fresh scent, always a reprieve from the usual city stench, only this one feels wrong, and I dig as quickly as I can.
But the storm never breaks, and the wall of clouds continues to loom oppressively in the distance. The silence stays firm; only the screaming of the shovel hitting rock penetrates it on occasion.
I spend the rest of the day shovelling dirt, already dreading tomorrow’s unavoidable soreness.
I know I should feel bad that I’m digging graves.
Hell, I should probably refuse to do it.
Maybe even confront Bayard about his deeds.
But instead, I’m more preoccupied with Aba? than the people who will end up in these holes.
You’re completely obsessed with that man, get it together, Astaire.
It takes me hours to finish digging. When the sky is finally darkening and my dirty clothes hang heavy from my shoulders, I return to my room.
Exhausted limbs drag beneath me as I move through the familiar halls.
I keep looking over my shoulder the entire way back, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.
In the end, I choose ignorance over anxiety.
My blistered hands try to keep me firmly here, but my mind only wants to return to last week, remembering what happened after I finished the same task, and think only of Aba?.
I can’t help but worry. After all, I don’t actually know if he’s immortal like folklore says. Maybe he just got sick of me and is avoiding me altogether.
It’s the middle of the night, and the only light in my room is the full moon shining brightly through the window.
I’m lying in bed, finding shapes in the marred wood of the ceiling beams. I’m not wearing my headphones because I’m trying to listen to the sounds of the night.
Time passes frustratingly slow until I finally hear what I’ve been waiting for.
A dragging sound drifts up to my window, followed by a quickly muffled scream.
I crawl over and scan the grounds thoroughly.
Now that I know what I’m looking for, the dark figure moving along the castle walls is clearly identifiable as Bayard.
His stiff movements and recognisable gait are unmistakable.
I was sure that last time he brought the body into the castle before burying it in the ditches.
Even though Aba? said he hadn’t killed that man last week, I just assumed that he used his blood for food.
Does this mean he had to stay hidden the days before he fed?
But I’m certain Aba? hadn’t disappeared before last week’s scream.
I remember bumping into him every day, and now that I think back to it, it felt almost deliberate.
I guess, I don’t really know. But if I’m right, all I have to do now is wait until tomorrow, and hopefully, I will finally find him and get more answers.
The next morning, I knock at Aba?’ door, half expectant, half sure he isn’t there.
When I hear no answer from the other side, I nearly turn away.
But something is telling me to open the door anyway.
The bedroom is dark; only fading embers light the area closest to it.
I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room, but at a quick glance, I see no one.
I enter anyway, shutting the door behind me. Just to make sure, you know.
“Aba??” I say quietly, stepping further into the room.
I hear a muffled groan coming from the bed, and when I turn, I can make out a dark shape huddled in the corner.
I walk over, kneeling in front of the mattress.
Aba? is lying there, buried under the covers.
His black waves fall over his face, obscuring it from view.
I gently move them aside, revealing him underneath.
He blinks too slowly, eyes unfocused for a long time.
He doesn’t look good; his once bronze skin is ashen and so dry it’s almost cracked.
His eyes, dull and completely black, search the room aimlessly.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
When he hears my voice, he finally focuses on my face and lets out another quiet groan.
I touch his cheek; it’s icy cold. Looking around the room, I see blankets hanging off the bottom of the bed and draped over the armchair.
I gather them all and cover Aba?’ body as best as I can.
Then I go to the fireplace and add more logs.
“Are you sick?” I ask Aba? when I return to his side. “Can you talk?”
He blinks a few times before opening his mouth. Instead of words, only a quiet, painful croak escapes.
“It’s okay, I’m here,” I reassure him.
“Drained…too much,” he whispers.
For a moment, I don’t understand what he’s saying until the meaning dawns on me.
“How can I help?” I say.
His eyebrows furrow at my words.
“Do you need blood?” I add.
“No,” he whispers, very slowly shaking his head. He’s not very convincing.
“Don’t do that, please. I know what drained means. You think I’ve never watched vampire movies?” I say.
He actually has the gall to roll his eyes. “Not…yours.” His voice is still barely audible.
“Why? What’s wrong with mine?” I ask.
“Control… Can’t…” he explains.
I think I understand. But he looks so wretched, I feel deeply wrong when I look at him. Something squeezes inside me. I can’t keep sitting here doing nothing.
I scramble off the bed determined to find something, anything, to help.
I look around the room carefully. When I see a small desk in the corner, I check if there might be something useful in there.
I only have to open one drawer to find the perfect thing.
Of course, Aba? has a knife in his bedroom desk.
I can’t say I’m surprised, but I suspect it’s only a letter opener.
The blade is completely dull, but I’m sure I can cause enough damage if I try hard enough.
I climb back on the bed, pulling Aba? onto my lap.
He groans again when I move him, but seems too weak to do anything about it.
I try to figure out the best way of doing this.
If I used enough force, I could stab the side of my neck, but that seems a bit risky.
I might use too much force and die before I can do any good.
Even though I know the tendons might make this a bit tricky, I decide to use my wrist, cutting horizontally above the bone.
But the blade is too dull, leaving only faint pink scrapes on my skin.
I try applying more pressure, but it just hurts instead of cutting into the vein.
Frustrated, I grumble, then glance at Aba?.
His eyes are closed, and his breaths come ragged and far apart, maybe one every twenty seconds.
Each time he inhales, it sounds like it might be his last.
I take a deep breath before using as much strength as I can muster and stab myself in the arm.
When the letter opener finally pierces through flesh, blood squirts from the wound and onto my lap.
I swallow a scream and quickly press the tear to Aba?’ mouth.
My blood drips over his lips and onto his chin.
He doesn’t move at all, lying there completely unresponsive. I’m afraid he died before I could help him. Still, I keep my arm there for what feels like an eternity.
When his lips finally part, his icy inhale makes me shiver.
The moment the first drop makes its way into his mouth, he gasps.
His eyes flutter open for just an instant as he starts to slowly consume me.
Nearly imperceptibly, he sucks at the wound, making the pain more acute.
I close my eyes, suppressing a gasp as it overwhelms me before vanishing completely.
The room fades away. The pain fades away.
All that’s left is heat slowly growing inside me.
I open my eyes, and now there’s only Aba? and me in this world.
Suddenly, I see my blood entering him. Like an anatomical model, I watch it moving through his mouth, slowly dripping into his throat, then his stomach.
There, it spreads, being absorbed into every part of his body.
First, his arteries start to fill, like crimson spiderwebs spreading across his skin.
Then veins plump up, juicy and purple. The more he drinks, the more animated he seems. Alive. Beguiling.
Aba?’ tongue laps at the puncture, and the languid movement of his lips distracts me from the spectacle of his skin. My breaths quicken as my pulse slows down. I feel pulled and pushed, hollow and full.
His hands claw their way up my body, pulling me tighter, as closely as my bones allow.
I melt into his flesh, trying to mould myself into every crevice.
I feel his tongue digging deeper into the wound, trying to draw out more and more blood.
I can feel it being dragged out of me, leaving my body and then entering his.
It’s as mesmerising as watching Lumière’s “Danse Serpentine” for the first time, so breathtaking, I can’t look away.
The room blurs, and cold creeps up my limbs. My breath slows further.
I start to feel faint and wonder if this is how I’ll die.
I’m not scared of dying. I always knew that death was coming for me. I’m just glad it’s from being consumed in Aba?’ arms.