13. Vampiric Entities
13
Vampiric Entities
Rory
T he rattle of cicadas surrounds him as he stands on the gravel drive smoking a cigarette. He looks up at Graeme House and sighs. His work shift had dragged on, as worries and thoughts about Calliope swirled in his mind. He was anxious to get home, to see how she’s been faring after her first drink, and now that he’s here, he’s stalling, feeling a little like a stranger in his own home.
Is it still my house , he wonders, if it answers to her? He could leave, of course. There’s an itchy feeling in his bones that whispers to him that it’s time to do so. He’s stuck around long enough. It’s risky, after all, to stay in the same town for too long when you don’t age. The memory of mortals may be flawed but it still prefers change; it feels most comfortable when the shadows travel with the day, when leaves turn colors, when hair grows longer. It tends to dwell on things that stand too still.
But Rory has only been still for three years. He’d be foolish to leave now, especially with the ease of his arrangement with the Claytons. Of course, while he’s fine with one to two glasses of blood a day, a new vampire on such a sparse diet is a risk, even if said young vampire insists she is not thirsty. The sun is rising quickly, and as the day fills with light, each moment brings them closer to what he considers to be the inevitable degradation of Calliope into a blood-thirsty fiend.
He takes one last drag of the cigarette before snubbing it out on the side of the empty plant pot by the front door. He lets himself inside, head turned as he listens for any movement.
But the house is silent, save for Kane’s fluttering heartbeat. Not that he expected much else. He knows at least one thing went right during Calliope’s transition and that’s the fact that her body no longer needs a beating heart, no longer needs to absorb oxygen. She is silent in that respect.
Yet perhaps he expected to hear her rustling about the place? The swish of fabric, the soft click of a door being opened, the gentle patter of bare feet against the wood floors. Maybe he even expected her to greet him at the door with a peck on the cheek, asking him how work went .
He’s been alone for too long.
As it is, Kane is the one to greet him at the door, by landing on his shoulder, nails snagging on his shirt, one of the few he now owns that isn’t stained with blood.
With a click of his beak, Kane says, “Don’t panic.”
Rory arches an eyebrow. “Word of advice, Kane. If you don’t want someone to panic, don’t tell them that.”
“Just…come see for yourself.” Kane pushes away from Rory’s shoulder and flies up the stairs, Rory following quickly.
The bird leads him to Calliope’s room, and when he pushes open the door, he spots her lying on the couch, head lolling to the side, and his stomach plummets.
“What happened?” He rushes into the room, knees folding against the floor with a thud. He presses a hand to her forehead, and he almost snatches it away. Her body is still far too warm, the fever still roaring inside of her.
Kane perches on the back of the couch and looks down at her. “She’s just sleeping.” He flutters his wings. “I think.”
His eyes flash at the bird. “You think ?”
“I hope.”
Rory’s nostrils flare as a muscle in his jaw clenches. “How long?” he grits out.
“A few hours.” A squawk. “I was checking on our shadow friend in the lake. When I came back, she was…” His feathers puff out. “Unconscious. But I can still smell her. She hasn’t perished.”
“Oh, well, if you can smell her,” he mutters. But Kane is right. Rory considers her with a deep scowl, watches her eyelids flicker with sleep. Her lips part as she shifts, nuzzling deeper against her pillow.
Rory swears under his breath, wondering idly if her transition went so wrong simply because she’s too stubborn to let it go right. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised. She’s been impossible, headstrong, and challenging since he brought her to the house.
Still, that’s not how the magic works, and he swears under his breath, brushing a curl away from her cheek under the guise of feeling for her fever again. The line between her eyebrow eases as the coldness of his touch relieves some of the heat smoldering below her skin.
“What did I do wrong?” He looks up at Kane, a feeling of helplessness stealing through him.
Kane clicks his beak toward Rory. “Maybe nothing. I’ve found something you should read.”
Excerpt from On the Nature of Vampiric Entities, Chapter Thirteen: Dhampir and Other Breeds by Margravine Isotta
As we’ve established in previous chapters, vampirism is, at its core, a unique strain of a curse passed down through Bite (see figures 3.4-5.6).
We have already examined the intricacies of the most dominant strain. In this chapter, we will look further at variations of the curse, contraction methods, and the myriad of ways the curse may manifest.
The Dhampir
The dhampir is the result of a union between a vampire and a human. This is typically a male vampire and a female human, though there are some documented cases of the reverse. The latter is particularly rare, as the very nature of the vampiric curse makes it quite difficult for a female vampire to carry a child.
Whatever the source of the progeny, the resulting child is often a mix of the two parents, inheriting some vampiric traits while retaining a measure of humanity. Curiously enough, this isn’t always a 1:1 ratio. For instance, a dhampir may be blessed with eternal life, yet require more than blood for substance, or perhaps a dhampir lives as a mortal, but can compel others to do their bidding. In some cases, a female dhampir may even be able to reproduce with either human or vampire.
This, of course, opens the world of vampirism in a remarkable fashion, potentially ushering vampires into an evolutionary chain that heretofore had been denied them by their very nature. While viewed as an abomination by some in the vampire community, it is this author’s opinion that the hybridization of vampirism will ultimately win out; that as our races intermingle socially and culturally, so will our bloodlines, ushering in a new, vibrant age of vampirism. The dhampir are just one display of this inevitability, but they remain the most poignant example.
There are several documented cases of inherited vampire traits that are worth mentioning here, described below as Subjects L, O, and Z.
[…]
Conversely, Subject Z’s inheritance is unknown. Subject Z was a foundling left on the steps of the Daughters of Cadohr Convent (London). The records indicate that the child, who first appeared in the Convent records in 1886, quickly exhibited behaviors outside of what one would expect from a mortal child. The Daughters of Cadohr, of course, were well-equipped to handle the creature, Cadohr being the much-lauded Patron of the Fae, Curse-Eater, and Beast-Fighter.
From the Convent’s records, I have compiled a list of Subject Z’s paranormal behaviors. The full list is provided in Table 112.3 (p. 456); however, I have synthesized the most notable behaviors below, organized by age.
Age 0-2
Craving for blood, though still able to consume mil k
Age 3-9
Sensitivity to sun. Teeth begin growing; Canines exhibit a notable sharpness
Age 10-16
Able to complete basic spells; thirst for blood notably increased. Unable to consume other foods or liquids.
Age 17-[unknown]
Growth stopped at roughly 18 years of age. Daily intake of blood increased to three pints a day.
While Subject Z’s death is not mentioned in the Convent records, a brief interview with an inside source revealed that Subject Z was “no longer.” It was furthermore heavily implied that Subject Z perished, though not of natural causes. It is my belief that if Subject Z had not met with an unnatural end, then they could have lived an alarmingly long time. Indeed, they could have even been completely immortal, in the vampiric sense of the word.
Kane marked the page with a dried leaf, and as Rory leans back in the chair, he fiddles with the impractical bookmark. Although they’re in the library and Calliope’s door is closed, they talk in hushed tones.
“You think she’s a dhampir?” He rubs his chin in thought. He’s only met a dhampir twice in his long existence. The first had been a child, almost angelic, with no tolerance for blood and only an aversion to sunlight as a vampiric trait. He doesn’t know what eventually happened to the child. Maybe they’re still alive, even.
The memory of the second, however, leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Antoinette’s mother had been a witch, but her father was a vampire. While she was a vampire in every sense of the word, there were two things she inherited from her mother: her second-sight, allowing her to see the future, and her ability to be compelled.
Aodhán had been desperate to gain an advantage in the First Blood War and when her failings were discovered, he slipped into her mind and stayed there. He kept her like a pet, throwing her scraps of raw meat in exchange for what Rory always considered half-truths. He tries to remember what happened to her after the First Blood War ended, but can’t recall anything with certainty. Did she flee to Spain? Go back to Brittany?
“I think Calliope has a dhampir in her family history,” says Kane. “I think Isotta is right in saying that the hybridization of vampiric magic is a part of a great evolutionary change. That it’s possible to create a witch-vampire hybrid like Calliope, if the right conditions are met. ”
“A history of vampirism…how does that explain her Turn? Why she still has a fever? Why she’s sleeping , for Hades’ sake?”
“If she has a history of vampirism, then some form of that magic must live in her blood. The vampire magic has different strains. Whatever she was born with, it combined with your strain of the curse to create…well, something new. She might have some mortal traits, like sleeping, but she’s still a vampire in other ways, in much the same way as a dhampir. In fact, I think Subject Z is very close to what we’re witnessing here, with Calliope.”
“What does this mean , exactly?” he asks, looking over at Kane who is perched on the back of the chair next to him.
Before the bird can respond, the lights above flicker, and Rory looks up to see Calliope leaning against the doorframe, arms folded.
“It means there’s nothing wrong. I’m just another version of me.” She pushes away from the doorframe and walks over to Rory and Kane. He watches the casual sway of her hips and wonders if she’s really as carefree and disinterested as she appears.
Not quite , he decides. Up close, her expression is strained. “I’m sorry,” he offers, though the words feel paltry once he says them out loud.
She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“I didn’t know it would be like this.”
She huffs. “Neither did I.” She looks down, inspecting her fingernails, or perhaps she’s seeing the space where her wedding ring used to sit. “I am grateful, though. I don’t think I said that earlier. I didn’t want to die, and you did what you could. This is unexpected, but…” She lets her fingers trail along the side of the open book, just shy of Rory’s hand. He can feel the heat coming off her in waves. “I don’t mind being a little different.” She looks up at him and smiles softly. “I’m glad I still have the Ether, at least.”
“And sleep. I would kill for a nap,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Well rested.” She shrugs. “So, we think I have some vampire in my family history? Did I hear that right?”
Kane squawks an affirmative. “Maybe on your father’s side?”
“Maybe. I’ve never met my father. Or my mother. I was raised by my grandma. She always told me that she didn’t even know about me until my mother showed up one day with a baby, left me there and took off again.”
“So, it’s possible,” says Kane, neck twisted in a seemingly impossible way to peer up at her.
“I suppose so.” She smiles slyly, looking down at Rory through her eyelashes. She pokes his shoulder and says, sweetly, “Since I’m not a typical vampire, does that mean we can take the cuffs off?”
“Not yet,” he says gently.
“Oh, almost forgot.” She rifles through the pockets in her skirt and produces a piece of paper. “Martha called while you were out. Your order is ready.”
“Right. Thanks.” He stuffs the message in the pocket of his flannel shirt without looking at it. Martha can wait . “First, we need to get some blood in you. Come on.”