6. A Shadow-Wraith Come
6
A Shadow-Wraith Come
Calliope
T he mid-morning light pools on the scuffed wood floors and Rory frowns. “Why is the floor so scratched up? This room didn’t even exist before.”
Calliope watches as he tests the floor with the toe of his boot, then returns her focus to the casement window. Obscured glass delicately etched with flowering vines hinders her view of what lies beyond, and she swings the window open, allowing a burst of tepid breeze to filter in. The lake below shines diamond-bright, the trees on the adjacent shore a dark shape against the clear sky.
Looking directly downward, she can see the side of the house and the small stone patio she glimpsed earlier, only briefly as Rory led her out of the basement and up the stairs to the new room. Decorative railing runs the length of the curved slab of stone, stretching beyond Calliope’s view. A flower bed, such as it is, runs along the railing, softening the hard edge.
She feels Rory move behind her and a second later, the slight chill of his body is at her side. She has the mounting feeling that she is drowning, so overwhelmed with the tightness in her gums and the bright, clear sky and this room, a miraculous bit of magic that her brain, still fuzzy with the transition, can barely comprehend. She gives Rory an askance look, his shadow at her side eerily reminiscent of the one she left in the dark of night three days ago—her husband. She remembers the prone figure of the man, one leg hanging off the side of the bed, his boot just touching the rug. He won’t find me. I am safe. I am free , she tells herself. Despite the manacles. The chain rattles as she slips a finger underneath the wrist cuff to rub gently at the fledgling irritation from the rough iron pressing into her skin.
Kane lands on the windowsill with a bitter squawk. “The house has never given me a room.”
Calliope isn’t sure how to respond, so she doesn’t. She lifts her shoulder in a vague apology. Placing her back to the window, she takes in the remainder of the room, marveling at the emerald green built-in shelving units overflowing with books, leather spines interspersed with trinkets and strange arrangements of metal and glass that are reminiscent of science apparatuses. They remind her of her grandma’s kitchen, cauldrons and glass vials and metal armatures to aid a witch in her Craft. To her left, is a velvet blue couch, overflowing with pillows and knit blankets. “I thought vampires didn’t sleep?”
Rory runs a distracted hand through his hair, attention still on the lake below. “We don’t. But rest is…helpful. Sometimes.”
“Well, this is all very nice,” she says, fingering the corner of a pillow, “but I best be going now. Perhaps you could take these off?” She holds her arms out, looking pointedly at the cuffs.
Rory scowls and shakes his head. “You need to drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.” She takes a step closer, shaking her wrists for emphasis. “I feel fine.”
“Do you?” he asks with an arched eyebrow. “Because those blood shot eyes and fangs tell me otherwise. And anyway, even if you do feel fine now, it won’t last.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and shifts, his figure framed by the window. “Never does,” he adds a beat later, more to himself than anything.
Even as some finely-honed instinct in her body tells her that she should leave—that this large dark figure is actually a shadow-wraith come to carry her away, or worse, that he’s just as black hearted as her husband—she holds her ground, spine straightening in defiance, chin slightly raised. “So, I am being held prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner. ”
She huffs lightly and lets her arms fall in front of her. “That’s bullshit—”
“I told you, it’s just for a couple of weeks or so.”
“Or so? That’s not very reassuring.” Her voice is rough with emotion, and she blinks back tears. “Fine. I understand why you need me to stay here for a bit, but the chains are unnecessary. Not to mention, kind of uncomfortable.” She pauses, arranging her features in as neutral of an expression as she can manage for the moment, trying to calm the sudden roaring in her head. “I understand that you saved me from dying.” He gives her a sharp look. “But I’m really okay now. I’m not thirsty.”
He tilts his head to the side, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly. What was once forbidding, is now vaguely indifferent, if not reassuringly calm. It’s almost impressive how he manages to wrangle his emotions into submission. She still feels a simmer of something wild inside of her, a subtle growl at the back of her thoughts. She wishes she could breathe, because a deep breath would be soothing now.
“The chains stop you from overpowering me,” he tells her, simply.
She lets her eyes trail down his body, taking in his broad shoulders and long limbs. He’s a head taller than her, brawny and heavy-looking. She hadn’t noticed his size at first, because in contrast to the immovable nature of his presence, his step is alarmingly light. Regardless of his size, vampires are supposed to be strong, if the stories her grandma told her are to be believed. And if he was the same size as her, or even smaller, he could overpower her with ease by virtue of his vampiric nature.
“Youngling vampires are stronger than older vampires,” he adds. He seems uncomfortable with her inspection, and he shoves his hands in the pockets of jeans, eyes trained somewhere above her head. “The…magic…will level out over time, but that initial impact can be…rough.”
She raises an eyebrow at his stilted explanation. “So, you’re saying I could overpower you.”
Relief washes over his features—or at least, something she has decided to define as relief; she’s already noticed that his facial expressions tend toward brooding, and the small shift is as close to relief she thinks his brow and downturned mouth can accomplish. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Which is why the chain is necessary. But only for a little bit. When you have more control, I’ll take it off.”
She considers the manacles, brushing her thumb across one of the symbols. Then, she shakes her head. “I don’t think—”
He suddenly seems fed-up with the argument. He extracts his hands from his pockets and takes a step toward her. The sudden change causes her to stiffen, shrinking away from him, that instinct borne from living with volatility and anger hanging over her head for so many years telling her she needs to make herself smaller, just as much as she needs to create distance between her and this dark stranger.
He aborts whatever action he had been about to take, standing in front of her with a frown. He returns his hands to his pockets. “We’re wasting time. You need to drink.”
She finds the strength to push past the instinct, to rally something like indignation. “And what if I don’t? What are you going to do about it?” It’s a childish thing to say and even as the words leave her, she can hear her grandma clucking her tongue at her.
A muscle in his jaw feathers as they stare at each other. Then, his shoulders slump forward, just slightly. Again, she sees whatever anger he must feel unravel inside of him. But unlike earlier, it isn’t replaced with something non-threatening. Worse, his eyes darken with something she can’t quite define. She is suddenly heedful of the space—or lack thereof—between them. Did he move or did she?
Again, she marvels at how light his step is, despite his dark presence, as he invades the space, compressing it further, until it is but an inch wide and if she wanted to, she could reach out and touch the stubble on his cheek.
“Younglings are unpredictable at best. Blood-hungry killers at worst.” He leans down and she feels his next words on her lips. “Are you a killer, Calliope?”
She swallows, wondering where that instinct went—the one that kept her alive under the watchful gaze of her husband. This man is not my husband. She has the inexplicable urge to step forward. To challenge him. The manacles cut into her wrists.
He reaches out and caresses her lower lip with a calloused thumb. His skin is cool against her warm skin. She flinches as much from the sudden contact as she does from the shock of the temperature difference. He cocks his head to the side, silvery gray eyes luminescent even in the brightness of the morning sun. “You know that taste of eating slightly raw meat? A steak cooked rare. Salty, with that slight metallic tang. That’s what people taste like.”
The pain in her gums increases. She teases the pointy edge of her tooth as the memory of the night before comes unbidden to her, tinged in red. Rory’s lips against her neck, the sharp pain of his teeth breaking through her skin. The smell of her blood in the air, musky and brisk at the same time. Rory was bleeding too. She remembers the second gunshot now. That sound seems to echo in her head. That new smell that encircled her—was that his blood? Something crisp and delicate. Did it smell good? Her mouth waters with the memory. The roaring in her head has returned, gathering strength like an ocean wave readying itself to come to shore.
“You’re not a killer,” he says. “And I won’t let you become one.”
“Are you a killer?” She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until the look in his eyes shutters, like a door being slammed shut.
“I’m just asking for a little trust. Give me two weeks.” His voice is still soft, though hoarse, like he’s holding back a storm of emotion. “I expect you to be in the kitchen in two minutes.”
He steps around her, his shoulder brushing past her so quickly she only has the brief impression of cold stone and then she is alone in her room. She doesn’t know where Kane disappeared to and, at the moment, she’s just grateful for his absence.
Because as soon as Rory turns the corner down the hallway, she lowers herself shakily to her knees, hand clutched at her throat as she fights against the acrid feeling at the back of her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing for tears to spring forward and yet hoping they stay put, deep inside of her.
She can’t fall apart yet. Soon, but not yet.