Chapter 31 The Maker #2
“No. Not anymore,” he said. “When you are newly born, as you are, the sunlight sears the eyes, and every sound claws its way into your skull like a nail dragged across slate.
But you'll adjust soon.” He rose then, crossing to the window to pull heavy curtains over the wooden shutters.
Why, I could not guess. The cold night pressed in, but my skin gave no shiver, no reaction at all.
His gesture felt almost human—an instinct, a habit carried over from another life.
Perhaps some remnants we never truly lose.
He turned toward me, his face a mask of pity.
“I'm sorry, Magda. I know you don't believe me, but I am not to blame for what happened to you. Perhaps you think death would be kinder now that your husband and child are gone from this earth. But I saw something in you that day in the glen—your defiance, your fierce conviction that you were born for more than this.”
I huddled on the bed, arms wrapped around my knees, gutted. The day he spoke of was three years past, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago.
“You feared me,” he continued. “Yet when you felt my power, you moved it around inside you for a moment, testing its weight, to see if it fit. It was only when you realized I was inside your mind that the fear took hold, but even then I felt you grasp for it.” He looked in my eyes, but I refused to let him win.
“We are alike, you and I. I was never meant for a small life—just as you are not.”
“Life? Don't speak to me of life. I have none—I am undead.” The ache in my chest burned at the thought of Buna, the iron-willed woman who loved me with a tenderness she rarely showed. “What would my grandmother say, seeing me like this?” I said to no one but myself.
“When you are ready to leave, perhaps you should ask her.” He said lightly. “I know it's small consolation, but your grandmother still lives.”
“Buna?” I whispered. “Take me to her.” I begged.
“You aren't ready yet, Magda,” he said, loosening the button at his cuff and lifting his wrist to my mouth.
It was the same wrist he'd offered me before, yet the skin bore no mark, as though teeth had never pierced it.
I brushed a fingertip across the spot, expecting to find a scar and surprised I did not.
He caught the unspoken question in my eyes. “We heal quickly,” was all he said.
He raised his wrist the rest of the way. This time there was no revulsion, no hesitation. The blood beneath his skin called me, and I answered.
At the mere thought of that honeyed scarlet syrup, my fangs slid long and sharp, the ache startling me. The skin gave way so easily—warmth flooded my mouth—life itself streaming down my throat—and I drank greedily until his voice cut through my hunger with a single command to stop.
I pulled away obediently now, a thin trail of blood sliding down my chin. I lifted my hand to wipe it, but the thought of wasting a single drop made me catch it with my tongue, licking the red line from the back of my hand.
“Your lessons begin tonight,” he said, his voice calm, measured, as though this were nothing more than instruction in a trade.
“You'll come with me, and I will teach you to hunt game.
There will be times when it is more convenient to rely on animals to sustain you.
Once you've mastered that, we will move on to humans.” He gestured toward the wardrobe.
“There are clothes that should fit. The boots may be a little large, but I will see you properly outfitted soon.”
He rose, moving toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, hand on the iron key. His gaze lingered on me. “Be ready within the hour.” The lock turned with a sharp click, leaving me alone with the echo of his words and the lingering taste of blood on my tongue.
I found a pair of men's trousers and a rough-spun tunic.
Save for the leather belt drawn tight at my waist, they would have slipped past my hips.
A long woolen cloak completed the ensemble.
The boots were far too large, but with two pairs of thick socks I managed.
Even worn and ill-fitting, they were the finest boots I'd ever had on my feet.
I paced the room, restless, rifling through drawers and the trunk in the corner.
At last, I pushed back the curtain and opened the shutters, peering through iron bars into the courtyard below.
A stone barn stood north of the main house, torches flickering against its walls.
Several horses' heads jutted from the stalls, busily pulling at hay.
Two of them had the same pale cream coats as the mount I had seen him astride in the glen.
A knock sounded at the door—an odd, hollow thud that rattled inside my skull. Another followed, and then his voice: “Magda—did you find the clothes in the wardrobe?”
I cleared my throat, unsettled by the gesture of privacy, especially after he had stripped, bathed, and dressed me himself when I'd arrived. “Yes. I am dressed,” I answered.
The dull click of the key echoed in the room as the door opened.
“Come,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass over the threshold.
A short hallway opened to a narrow staircase, the beams so low in places that I had to stoop to keep from striking my head.
At the bottom, another corridor led into a large chamber.
Stone hearths anchored both ends, vast enough that I could have stepped inside their mouths.
A long table stretched between them, its surface crowded with candelabras that lit the scatter of maps and heavy books.
To one side, several chairs ringed a fine rug, and behind them a case overflowed with books—stacked haphazardly on shelves, toppled into teetering piles on the floor.
These were not for ornament. Serban lived in these pages, used them, wore them thin.
The heart that once belonged to the old Magda—the girl who had dreamed of far horizons and salt winds, who once yearned to see the sea—gave a sudden, foolish skip.
Then the memory struck: that girl had died long before her human life was taken, the moment she set aside those silly dreams to marry a good man who gave her daughter a father.
Serban's eyes followed mine to the overflowing bookcase. “Do you read?” he asked.
“Yes. Some,” I admitted, careful not to overstate it, afraid he might put me to the test. “Buna taught me. I know it's uncommon—for a peasant, and even more for a woman. But Dani—“ My voice faltered, the name catching like a thorn. “He used to sneak me books from Drago Burián's library.”
His expression darkened, as though my grief sat heavy in the air between us, something he did not know how—or perhaps did not wish—to touch.
“You may choose some to keep in your room when we return,” he said.
“Later, when you can be trusted—when you're free to roam the keep—you may take whatever you like.”
“Why do you keep me locked away?” I asked.
“The newly turned are unpredictable. I can't watch you every moment,” he said, voice grim.
“Unpredictable?” I echoed. “What is it you're afraid of?”
“That you might hurt someone. Or be hurt by those who work for me. I'd rather neither happen,” he said plainly.
“Who could I possibly hurt?” I asked, not knowing what he meant.
He gave a small shrug. “Any of the humans who serve me.”
I stared. “There are humans here? In the house?”
“Petra,” he called from the doorway to the main room, down another hallway. I heard shuffling footsteps grow closer and after a moment an old woman appeared.
I heard the pitter-patter of her heartbeat the moment her steps ceased. She saw me and inclined her head. “You are awake.”
Serban's gaze stayed fixed on me. My limbs began to tremble as my vision sharpened, every detail etching itself painfully into my mind—the hollows beneath her eyes, the creased skin of her throat, the brown speckles scattered across her cheeks and hands.
Her heavy breasts strained against the plain weave of her dress and apron.
But then I saw it: the faint flutter at her temples, the steady rhythm beneath the curve of her jaw, the pulse pushing life through her veins. My fangs slid down, and a hiss—feral and unbidden—escaped my lips.
I took a step toward her. A flicker moved at the edge of my sight. Before the thought had even fully formed, Serban had me pinned against the wall, his hand clamped around my throat, holding me as though I weighed nothing at all, my feet dangling inches above the stone floor.
His dark eyes—the nexus of his power—locked on mine. I couldn't look away, though my body strained to focus on Petra.
“This is why you are locked in your room, Magda,” he said. “You will learn control, but the early days are the hardest.” His voice was firm, yet threaded with an unexpected sympathy.
Strength flooded me, a heady rush that made my pulse race even though my heart no longer beat. Power surged through my limbs—intoxicating, dangerous.
“Why isn't she afraid?” I demanded. Some part of me wanted to taste her fear; its absence stung like disappointment.
“She knows I wouldn't allow any harm to come to her.” His gaze never wavered. “I enthralled you when you first came, so you were powerless when she bathed you and changed your gown.”
I had assumed Serban had done it. No man—save Dani—had ever treated my body with respect. But I had misjudged this one. The shock must have flickered across my face.
His expression hardened, almost affronted. “After five men had abused you, I thought your healing should begin with the gentler touch of a woman.”
I swallowed; words caught rough in my throat. “How many other humans serve you?”
“There is a groom in the stables. A boy.” His hand eased at my throat, the pressure loosening once he was certain I understood, and I slid down until my feet again touched the floor. He turned toward Petra and dismissed her with a nod. “That will be all. Thank you.”