Chapter 2 – Dahlia
Dahlia
I’m dreaming again. A nightmare.
Same one as always.
I’m on the ground, cold and frightened. Chaos surrounds me: the sound of thundering hooves, horse’s whinnying, clashing metal, and the feeling of so many people on the precipice of violence.
A man stands above me, dressed in some type of armor, his face full of malice and contempt as he stares down at me.
He has his boot on my middle and is pressing down on my uterus and though I don’t feel any pain in my dream, it hurts all the same.
There are vague feelings that come and go, that he is going to kill my lover, that I am pregnant and he’s trying to kill the baby, that he means to kill me.
The most disturbing feeling of all is that he is my father.
He raises his sword in the air and I know he means to cut my head off. I scream but it’s caught in my throat and I can’t make a sound and as much as I struggle, I can’t move. His boot has me pinned and I am weak in the way that dreams make you. I am frozen in place.
Then there’s another scream. From a man.
It’s my name, even though I can’t understand it, I know it’s my name.
Something so blood-curdling and primal that it makes my skin erupt in goosebumps.
I turn my head to see the man who screamed but I can’t see him.
He is being held back by soldiers and as much as I try to focus on him, he is just a blur of a man.
But I know he wants to stop what is happening.
He just can’t.
I feel his anguish and his love for me and my love for him and in that moment I will do anything to escape, to be with him, to run away.
Yes, I have to run away.
And as I turn to look up at the man above, the devil who I think is my father, the blade lowers and it catches the light of the sun until the glare makes me close my eyes.
I wake up in a cold sweat right before my head is cut off.
Sometimes I feel the blade go in, just a tickle, and then I’m gasping for air.
As I am right now.
This time it takes me a moment, my head reeling, to realize it was just a dream and that I still have my head and I’m safe.
Except I’m not safe, not really.
I’ve never been more unsafe in my life.
I am sitting upright in an unfamiliar bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body shivering.
The window is open though I swear I closed it before I went to bed, and the curtain is billowing as a cold, damp breeze wafts into the room.
Venice has a peculiar smell to it, not as unpleasant as I was warned, but still dank and musty, with a hint of the sea, like exposed tide.
You’re okay , I tell myself. You’re safe in your new apartment. Just breathe.
I push back at the end of my nose to get more air in and breathe in deeply a few times until I feel my heart rate returning to normal.
But even though I’m calming down, my head is swimming.
Fucking jet lag. It’s been years since I’ve traveled to Europe, I’d forgotten how bad it can be.
Even with certain herbs and spells to ease the jet lag, nothing seems to work on me.
I’m sure if I tried, I might find some success, but since I don’t have any excess energy to spare on this mission, I’ll just have to deal with it the old-fashioned way, via melatonin and coffee.
I pick up my phone and glance at the time.
Three-thirty a.m. Now I’m too wired to go back to sleep and I decide to do the worst thing for dealing with jet lag: I look at the time back at home in Seattle.
Seven thirty in the evening. The sun would still be up.
In my mind’s eye I can picture the way the sun glints off Puget Sound, how my friend Kathy would probably text me and ask if I wanted to go to the bar after dinner.
I’d appreciate the gesture, even if it’s one of pity, and I’d probably turn her down to spend another night alone.
This was a mistake , I think, twisting the rings on my fingers around and around. I shouldn’t be here. I should be back at home, trying to live a normal life.
And yet I am here. I’m here because this is my last chance to prove myself, to the witches, to the guild, and to Bellamy. If I fail, I lose everything for good. And then, yes, I can go and try to live a normal life again. But what good is a normal life when you know you’re anything but?
The curtain suddenly flutters as another strong breeze comes in through the window and I’m about to get up and close it when mist starts flowing inside, like a stream of vapors suspended in the air.
I stop and watch for a moment, confused at how fog can just enter through the window like that, until I get an uneasy feeling in my gut, like someone poured cold liquid in my veins. Perhaps this isn’t fog at all.
“Be gone,” I whisper harshly. Even though I have a corner unit in the apartment building, facing onto the lagoon between Venice and Murano, I don’t know how thin the walls are. “You are not welcome here.”
Anyway, if anyone could hear or see me they’d think I was a crazy person talking to mist, but I know it’s not just mist. I can feel it’s something else, the way it sits in the air like cobwebs, like it’s searching the room for something.
Me.
“Dahlia .”
My name is whispered like an exhale of air.
I suddenly get to my feet and push the air toward the window with my palms out and the mist disintegrates, the leftover particles flowing back out the window.
I quickly slam the window shut and while I do so, I glance outside.
There is a small dock that juts out from the main floor of the building and though there are no boats tied up there, I swear I see a dark figure standing at the end.
Except there’s something wrong with it. At first glance it seems like a human, but the more I press against the glass, trying to get a better look, the more it seems to shift, as if it’s lowering itself onto the dock, spreading in directions that shouldn’t be possible.
Almost as if it’s on four inhumanely long legs.
My breath fogs up the glass and I quickly rub it away but when I look again, the dark figure is gone. The dock is empty.
Okay, what the hell was that?
Jet lag , a voice inside me says. You’re tired. It’s jet lag.
I know that voice is only saying that so I won’t think too much about it, so I won’t worry.
Because honestly, I can’t worry. I can’t afford to.
All my energy has to go into my magic for tomorrow morning and for every day after that until my blade has tasted blood.
One slip-up and I’m fucked. Vampires are too good at reading people and they can smell a witch from a mile away.
If my mask were to slip for a moment, he would end me.
The one they call Dracula.
The one I must get close to.
The one I have been sent here to kill.
I didn’t end up going back to sleep. I stayed up until I saw dawn lick the horizon, painting the lagoon in shades of pewter and pink.
I decided to go headfirst into the spell, thinking my energy might wane as the morning went on.
It took an hour of standing in front of the mirror, whispering my intentions while I lit bunches of dried lavender from back home as well as copal resin, hoping it wouldn’t set off any smoke detectors.
The problem with doing a glamor spell, which is essentially putting a mask or shield over you so that others can’t see your true intentions, is that you don’t know if it works until you actually put it to the test and meet other people.
Thank god my contact here from the guild, Livia, is going to meet me for an espresso on the way to school so at least I’ll know if it’s in place before I put myself in direct danger.
At that thought, I feel a little thrill run through me.
I smile at my reflection, taking comfort in it.
I had feared that perhaps I lost my competitive drive, the fun part of the game.
The thrill of the hunt. The desire to deliver justice, to exact revenge.
It’s what has been drilled in me since I was thirteen, to kill the enemy, to do a good job, and take pride in it.
During the last two years though, trying to live that elusive normal life, I started to think perhaps I had been brainwashed all this time.
I felt that side of me drain like an open wound and that scared me, because to lose my slayer instincts meant facing the fact there was something seriously wrong with me, the fact that I enjoyed killing vampires so much, even though it’s what I have been trained to do.
I keep smiling to my reflection, then bare my teeth, checking to see that they look clean and white.
I decide to add a little more eyeliner to my face.
He might not recognize me as a witch, but if I’m to get closer to him I need to up my beauty game.
I’m sure most students at the conservatory aren’t wearing a full face of makeup to class, but I have to stand out in some way.
I add some blush to my cheeks, ever so pale, and wish my foundation could have covered up my freckles.
The eyeliner is a dark bronze that brings out the green in my eyes and I run my fingers through my hair, separating the loose curls.
I’ll never be a sexy bombshell, I’ll always have this look about me that belongs in old paintings and statues—a chin too strong, a Roman nose—but I know I have what it takes to bring a man to his knees if I must. If Dracula is anything like his counterparts, he’ll pick up on the fact that I’m easy prey and he’ll be the one compelling me, not the other way around.
Satisfied with my appearance, I take in a deep breath and grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. With my Birks, wide-leg jeans, and blousy green top, I think I look the part of being a student.