16. A Reasonable Task
16
A Reasonable Task
Calliope
A s soon as the kitchen door swings shut, Calliope collapses in the chair, feeling the last of her magic seep from her fingertips and down onto the tiles, dispersing back into the Ether where she pulled it from. A fine layer of frost lines her fingertips. She buries her hands in the skirt of her dress to warm them up.
It had been pure instinct that led her to craft the illusion, a burst of self-preservation wrapped up in a spark of magic.
She sinks into the chair, knees shaking with something like shock. Or adrenaline? Can vampires produce adrenaline? She hears the front door close, and Rory walks back into the kitchen.
The feeling of her mouth on a stranger’s skin, the foreign warmth, the tapping of his pulse against her lips, comes back to her in flashes. She reaches a shaky hand up to her mouth, feeling the smear of blood drying against her lips. Fear and shame and regret steal through her. Hun had been so loud, maw dripping fire, claws sharpened on the stone of her instincts. It was all she could hear—all she could feel. Now, Hun sits cowed, with her tail lowered and ears flattened. I’m not mad at you, Hun , she thinks, hand pressed to her belly.
She looks up at Rory as a breathy, desperate huff of a chuckle escapes her. He gives her a puzzled, wary look. She shakes her head, unable to remember words, let alone decide which ones to use, then she bursts into tears.
She hears a muttered curse from Rory and his hesitant footsteps coming closer to her. Her face is buried in her hands, heedless of the tears coating her cheeks. Her shoulders are shaking. The manacles bite into her skin and for once, she is grateful for them. They are a reminder of what she is now—what she could have become if not for the magic inside of the iron.
She understands Rory’s fears.
With another muttered curse, softer, almost sweet, Rory abandons whatever reserve he had been wrestling with. She hears the scrape of chair legs against the tile and then he is gathering her in his arms. His embrace is cool, smelling of vetiver and neroli and a hint of spiciness from the cigarettes he smokes. His hand snakes through her hair to cradle her head against his chest, while his free hand traces tiny circles in between her shoulder blades.
She has only been conscious in his embrace one other time, when the house created a room for her, and she clutched at him as he protected her from falling debris. It feels the same now, strong arms blocking out the world as she crumples into him, knees bent, legs half in his lap. She should be embarrassed, but she doesn’t care, pent-up emotions spilling from her chest, the walls around her heart broken.
She cries, and he mumbles words of assurances against her temple. His lips are cool snowflakes as his words kiss her skin. “It’s okay. He’ll be fine.” The stubble on his chin slides against her forehead, sending shivers down her spine.
Time slips between her fingers, which are far too busy clutching at the front of his shirt. She looks up—minutes or hours later—with dried tears stiff against her skin. She swipes at her cheek and is alarmed when her hand comes back covered in blood. She looks down to see Rory’s shirt stained in blood, as well.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for more: getting blood on his shirt or almost killing a police officer.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “An unfortunate side-effect. Vampires don’t, uh, cry very often, so not many people know about it.” He gently brushes a thumb across her cheek, a futile attempt to wipe away the remnants of her breakdown .
“I wanted to kill him,” she says. Her voice sounds too loud in her ears. What she doesn’t explain—what she’s sure she doesn’t need to explain to him—is how she wanted to rip that man apart. She wanted to tear into his skin, feel his blood against her gums. She feels sick to her stomach, dizzy with fever.
Rory loosens his grip around her shoulders, but his hand continues tracing a path in between her shoulder blades. “But you didn’t. There was barely a scratch on him. He’ll think it was a mosquito bite he scratched at too much.”
She looks up at him, tears still forming in the corner of her eyes.
A soft click of a beak draws their attention to Kane, who has moved closer to them, nails clacking against the kitchen table. “It happens to all younglings. Sometimes, it isn’t something you can control. But there’s something else that’s more worrying. The illusion was impressive, but we already knew you must still have some magic. You pulled it from the Quintessence, didn’t you?”
Calliope affirms with a nod, curls bouncing around her shoulders.
“It’s the compulsion that worries me,” continues Kane, “Or lack thereof…”
Rory leans back and runs a distracted hand through his hair, though he keeps the other on Calliope’s back. “Compulsion can be difficult even for older vampires. She just needs practice. ”
“Perhaps,” admits Kane. “But I wonder if we could try something?” His golden eyes bounce between them. “If she does indeed lack compulsion, I wonder if she also lacks the inherent mental shield that prevents vampires from being compelled in turn?”
Rory frowns and tightens his arm around her shoulders as if trying to protect her from the mere assumption. She wishes she could curl up into his arms again, hide away from—well, everything.
“You want me to try to compel her?” Rory asks.
Kane nods. “Yes, just something simple. If you don’t mind?”
Calliope bites her lip. “What does this matter?”
“It would mean that other vampires can control you. And I don’t think it would do the world any favors to have an immortal being who can do magic and whose mind can be controlled by another.”
She looks at Rory, who is still frowning, deep lines on either side of his mouth.
“Alright. Let’s try it.” She tries to give him a reassuring smile, but she’s sure she falls short of her intentions, her skin still stiff with dried blood. She keeps her eyes trained on his, marginally aware that his touch against her back has gotten slowly, softer. She suppresses a shiver, his fingers like ice against her feverish skin. She watches as his pupils dilate.
When he speaks, his voice seems to snake out from between his lips. Like a wisp of smoke, the words curve their way into her brain, and she hears his voice echoing in her head.
Stand up.
A simple command. An easy command. Her body knows the movement so well—has been doing it for ages now, standing up and sitting down and standing up again. Yes, it knows how to do this and it’s happy to oblige with such a doable, reasonable task.
It’s just past noon and the sun slants harshly through the window, casting their shadows against the tile floor, the checkerboard awash in shades of pale blue. She has the odd sense that she’s just a marble chess piece being moved across the board and it’s only Kane’s alarmed squawk that cuts off the incessant echo of Rory’s honeyed voice inside of her mind. She blinks down at Rory and Kane, taking in their matching looks of worry.
* * *
Calliope sits at the top of the stairs, watching the water as it laps gently at the last step, crusted in shiny green algae. She has scrubbed her face and changed into a fresh dress, the pale blue cotton reflecting the color of the summer sky above.
She looks up at Rory, who’s sitting in his chair on the porch. He’s changed, too, once again wearing his worn pair of jeans with the hole in the knee and another flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She wonders how he manages to wear long sleeves all the time. Even with the threat of sun sickness, the temperature is punishing, especially to her, with her fever. Kane is perched on her shoulder as she sips a glass of blood. She hadn’t been thirsty, but Rory still insisted that she top up, so to speak.
“But there are no other vampires here,” Calliope is saying in between sips. She had barely tasted Burton’s blood but even then, she’s glad she still finds the cow blood palatable. She almost prefers it, cool against the ache in her throat. Hun releases a low, satisfied purr deep in her belly. “Does it even matter that I can be compelled?”
“There are no other vampires here now. But you won’t always be here,” Rory says into his glass. He motions toward the sliver of sunlight that’s made its way to her. “Sun,” he warns.
“We don’t even know if I’ll get sick from the sun,” she mumbles to herself, even as she scoots back with a huff.
“Better safe than sorry,” says Kane gently. He clenches her shoulder to avoid being dislodged with her movement.
She softens her frown and rubs the top of his head. “So how can I protect myself?” She takes another sip.
“You could build a telepathic shield,” says the bird.
“How do I do that?”
Kane nips at a wayward curl, already escaping from her ponytail. “We’ll do some research. It’s been a while since I’ve had to construct a psychic wall. ”
She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “And I suppose you’re just going to drop that little tidbit and then suddenly forget how to speak?”
He squawks.
She laughs lightly. “Thought so.”
A companionable silence falls between them, and she gazes absentmindedly out at the lake below, a steely blue in the afternoon sun. A high-pitched ringing begins to grow in her ears as she observes the dark shadow in the center, swimming in slow, almost lazy, circles.
Kane pinches her skin, a distraction enough to keep her there, to stop her from slipping into the Ether. He has found his words again. “Can you see the creature?” he asks.
“No. Not any better than you, anyway.” She takes another sip of blood, letting the coolness of the liquid coat her gums before she swallows. “How is your research going?”
“It’s been frustrating,” admits Kane. She feels his wings flutter against her ear. “I wish the shadow would reveal itself, even just a little.”
“Why are we so worried about it again?”
Rory answers, calling down from his spot on the porch. “Because it’s clearly a magical creature. And the only thing keeping… us safe, is that we are the only magical creatures in Willow Lake.”
“We’re keeping a low profile,” adds Kane, in as close to a whisper as a grackle can make .
“Oh, yes. Indeed,” she replies, sotto voce . Another sip from her glass leaves it empty, and she sits it on the step, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Are there any grimoires in the library? From the coven who lived here before? Maybe they would know about something that would live in this lake.”
Kane cocks his head to the side. “Thank you. That’s a good idea. Perhaps we could work together this afternoon? You could help me select some grimoires and I will find a book on mental shielding for you.”
She nods. “I’d like that.”
When the house created Calliope’s room, it seems to have taken anything witch-related and stuffed it onto her bookshelves. Rory has left to pick up his order from the Clayton Farm and she and Kane retreat to her room upstairs in search of a helpful text to solve their shadow-creature problem. They find a row of grimoires there, just underneath the haphazardly stacked cauldrons of various sizes and materials.
Kane flies into her room with a small hardcover book clutched in his feet and deposits it in her lap. Calliope fluffs up the pillows and settles in to begin her reading, as Kane takes over the side table next to the couch.
The Art of Psychoshielding: Practical methods for the construction and maintenance of mental wards by Cassius Fiorintini is slim, and the introduction emphasizes that it is meant to be only a primer for those looking to engage with basic mental shielding. A list at the back provides additional resources for the experienced psychoshielder.
She begins to read, losing herself in Fiorentini’s words.
Excerpt from The Art of Psychoshielding: A practical primer for the construction and maintenance of mental wards by Cassius Fiorentini
[T]he mind is a wondrous thing, resilient and elastic, though so many assume otherwise. The art of psychoshielding is, in effect, quite obscure, though the basics of mental magic are nothing new. There is a long-standing tradition of psychical exchange among witch tribes of Europe and occasionally, a coven in the Americas will make use of such a technique. Vampires are a good example of psychical exchange as well, as they inherently possess the ability to incite the transfer of mental energy, though it is always a unidirectional exchange.
The most effective method for psychoshielding lies in forming an impenetrable thought-structure within one’s Mind’s Eye. Most people think of a library or a filing cabinet. Some find success with the image of a house or a long hallway with many rooms. Whatever the governing paradigm, the construction of this thought-structure is imperative. One cannot shield something that doesn’t exist, naturally.
There are two speculative approaches when it comes to thought-structures. Some believe that they are inherent. That is to say, that we are born with our unique thought-structures, and we do not create them, but, instead, discover them. Others believe that thought-structures can be created and formed.
The latter is particularly interesting, as it leads to a reasonable assumption that the final form of a thought-structure can be affected by any number of factors, including (but not limited to) age, religion, culture, economic status, and education.
However, I would say that my own studies regarding the creation and nature of thought-structures would seem, at least in part, to support the former, though more research will need to be taken to come to a firm conclusion.
Regardless of which side of the theoretical argument one leans toward, the crux of the matter is that a reliable, well-developed thought-structure is imperative in making any sort of headway in the field and art of psychoshielding.
Further, an adept psychoshielder will find even greater success in subverting mental attack with more than fortitude. They must throw up diversions, though what form those diversions may take is highly unique to the individual and, indeed, the final form of the thought-structure .
For instance, a long hallway with many rooms may have locked doors. A book may be misshelved in the wrong section. Why, even a […].