Chapter 7. Whispered Horrors.
The room felt utterly empty once Charlotte and Florence had left. I wished I could appreciate the silence, yet nothing but pure rage invaded my mind.
How could I promise her things I knew I could not keep? Why would she make me swear the impossible? How could I allow another child to get hurt by me...
My hands turned into fists, my nails dug into my skin.
The Moon would never claim my soul after all the innocent spirits’ pain I’d caused.
I was cursed.
Cursed—
The knock on the door interrupted my racing thoughts. “May I come in?” Francis’ muffled voice carried through the door.
I swallowed, staring at my bleeding palms.
“Cordelia?” The door opened ajar.
“Have you reached a plan?” I stood from the bed, caring not how indecent my attire must have looked.
“Yes.” Francis said, walking towards my bathchamber.
“Well, what is it?” I followed after him, wiping the blood against my trousers.
“We will talk tomorrow.” He set a goblet of crimson down on the small table by the bathtub, his hands reaching for the water basket attached to the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” I eyed the crimson goblet; my throat burned with anticipation. “I don’t wish for blood."
“I’m drawing you a bath.” He merely stated, filling the tub with water.
“I need no bath.” I rolled my eyes. “Tell me what the plan is,” I demanded.
“Forgive my boldness, Cordelia, but you do.” He looked me up and down.
“You are wasting my time.” I seethed.
“Bathe, feed, and then we’ll talk.” Francis finished up with different oils and petals that hid in the drawer by the sink. “I need you to look presentable for the plan to work.” Francis smirked.
“Your rudeness knows no limit.” I shook my head, though warm water truly tempted my sore flesh. The blood teased my restraint.
“Would you rather me pity you?” Francis’ eyebrows rose. “We will talk of the plan tomorrow, I have some important business to attend to before then.” Francis laid the flint he'd used atop my drawer before charging towards the door.
“What business can be more important than—” The door to my room closed shut.
Francis had left before I could finish my question. He’d left me all alone with a bath and a bewitching drink that my hands refused to empty onto the floor.
A sudden sheen layer of sweat covered every inch of my body; a quiet shriek scratched the insides of my throat. My stomach turned upside down as I bent, trying to keep my insides in place.
My eyes burned into the blood as my hands brought it to my lips. It was a lost battle I had no strength to fight: and what for? Were it to happen now or later, eventually my sickness would make me so ill I would be forced to feed. This way I could pretend I was in control.
A small drop slipped into my throat. I wished I could hate the drink for being a necessity to my survival, I wished I could hate Francis for bringing it to me, tempting me against my will. In the end I could only hate myself.
Another drop reached my throat; the corners of my eyes filled with tears I refused to let free. Then another drop. And one more. And one—
My hands trembled when I forced the goblet away from my lips, provoking the rage of the beast. My body shook when I emptied the rest into the fire, ignoring the beast's demands.
My head spun from fatigue, yet I paid it no attention as I sat in the bath that I certainly did not deserve: my skin pleased in the warmth of it.
A week of starvation compromised by a few drops of the treacherous drink. A week of agonizing pain draining into the abyss as the fog in my mind cleared slightly.
How could I ensure anyone’s safety when I was so easily controlled? My ill restraint had already killed one, and I couldn’t even last for longer than a week in her memory.
Worthless.
Dangerous.
Pathetic.
My eyes locked on the candle Francis had lit by the bathtub, enchanted by it. Everything around me blurred as I watched the flame dance in the darkness, inviting me to join.
I closed my eyes, listening for any sign of life behind my door, for I could not explain to whoever might come in, the horrors my mind whispered for me to act upon.
When I was convinced of my privacy, my trembling fingers reached for the dance.
The flame caressed my skin in a way I hadn't known before.
Pain.
Pain erupted through my twisted mind. I jerked my hand away from the fire in an instant.
I glanced at my injured skin; my eyes widened. Black—as the darkest of nights—painted my skin. I swallowed the lump that grew in my throat, trying to make sense of such abnormality.
My skin cried in unison with the storm outside, yet my mind was quiet: the dreading hole in my stomach ceased as though it was never there.
As though my lost parts had returned to me, I felt whole.
How could it be?
Fire was the way to kill a vampire for good, yet it brought me a peace I hadn’t known in weeks. The pain that it came with was nothing in comparison to the dread that walked beside me like a shadow.
The black spot on my finger hardened; the skin wailed as I pushed on the abused blotch. Would it stay there forever? I couldn’t find it in me to care if it did. It was a small punishment for what I had done.
I glanced at the flame as it kept whispering to me, daring me to try again.
I held my breath when I brought another finger to the flame. It blackened within a moment; I watched the flame dance in victory at my surrender.
My skin melted as though it was snow underneath the spring sun. Slow.
My skin burned as though it was paper. Torturous.
My heart calmed as the flames tormented my flesh.
I studied my injuries, embracing the pain that came with them.
I closed my eyes, imagining the flame taking me whole; the wicked thought brought me comfort—
A piercing pain erupted in my wrist followed by a loud meow. My eyes flew open, landing on Silver who leaned against the walls of the bathtub with his front paws.
“Silver...” I gasped, inspecting the two small dots painting my wrist red.
A single meow echoed through the bathing chamber in reply.
He had never bitten me before.
No matter my childish refusal, the bath had left me feeling the Moon’s paradise.
Her long-dried blood from underneath my nail painted the water red, disappearing into the drain.
I scratched and scraped on my flesh until nothing but the fresh smell of lavender soap was left on my skin. When not a single hair strand carried the remains of that night I reached for the linen cloth Francis had left me.
Bare, I stood before the mirror, my eyes locked on a wicked stranger in the reflection. My Mother’s features no longer bothered my soul, for the resemblance—I used to despise—was no longer there: my inherited features now had a new owner.
I stared into Kane’s colored eyes, Kane’s full lips and his sharply shaped eyebrows. Nothing in the reflection was mine besides the emerald stone, the color of Charlotte’s mother’s eyes.
My fingers felt its sharp edges, my mind trying to recall the old woman’s riddles.
Don’t let the sorrow stop you... she’d said, tying the necklace around my neck. You are our salvation, she’d declared before disappearing into the void.
The riddle left me confused like the day I’d heard it first. A chill rushed through my bones when I snatched the amulet off my neck, determined to return it to its owner.