21. Rune #2
Three hours later, I drag my glasses off, drop my head back, and blink at the ceiling.
I’ve looked through every vampire photo I can find. And none of them were him.
There aren’t any official databases. Or at least not any that the public knows about. But seven decades of human fascination means there are several sites that document every vampire sighting. And even more sites that deal in rumors and speculation.
But after looking at hundreds of photos, even drawings, I’m no closer to finding my vampire.
I purse my lips. Then I sit forward and try one last thing.
Opening a new internet browser, I type in vampire cave hibernate.
He might’ve just been sleeping, but the whole scene felt very… long term.
Biting my lip, I think about any other clues I saw that I could use. But there was literally nothing else. Just—
The sword.
I add warrior then hit Search.
I hold my breath as the computer thinks.
And I exhale when it finds zero relevant hits.
“Great.” My stomach grumbles, and I glance at the time.
I groan. “Even greater.”
If I don’t catch the bus in twelve minutes, I’ll have to wait another hour. And I’m not sure how late the library is open.
The lights are still on, and I’m pretty sure someone would walk around to make sure everyone’s gone, but I don’t want to risk getting locked in the library overnight.
After shutting my laptop, I slide it into my backpack and stand. My back protests over so many hours in one spot, and I vow to myself to do more stretches now that I’m thirty.
Making my way through the bookshelves, I spot someone at one of the public computers. And I relax a little, knowing I’m not the last one here.
I’m passing by the aisle for Fine Arts when that weight in my chest suddenly multiplies, and I start to tip forward.
My arm darts out, and my fingers grip the metal bookshelf.
And my gods damned heart does that thing where it beats a single extra beat, then it goes back to normal.
Panting at the effort of staying upright, I glance around to make sure no one is watching me.
What’s happening to me should be alarming. It is alarming. But for whatever unknown reason, I don’t feel scared. And I don’t feel like trying to explain what’s going on with me to a stranger.
I feel… like I need to go down this aisle.
As soon as I think it, the weight lessens and I stand up straight again.
For a moment, I stay still.
I can just leave.
The weight swells.
Or I can walk down the aisle. Just to look.
The weight settles.
Feeling on the brink of total and complete insanity, I turn and step into the Fine Arts section.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. Don’t know that I’m even looking for anything.
But then my steps slow.
My feet, my legs, they just… stop. And turn.
I read the spines of the books in front of me. But none of them are familiar. None of them spark any sort of emotion in me.
My knees bend.
My arm lifts.
And without looking, my fingers hook the top of a book spine and pull.
A large leatherbound book drags off the shelf.
That pressure in my chest swells as I read the title.
Neoclassical Battle Paintings
A chill skitters over my skin. And for the first time all day, I’m tempted to put my cardigan on.
In my pajamas, with all the lights off except the little lamp on my nightstand, I climb into bed.
I hugged the heavy art book the whole bus ride home.
I stared at the closed cover while I ate leftover pizza for dinner.
And I played music loudly while I got ready for bed, pretending my mind wasn’t fraying at the seams.
But now, I can’t postpone this any longer.
Crossing my legs, I set the book on my lap.
“It’s just a book.” I stare at the simple cover, pretending wars haven’t been fought over books.
I open it.
Nothing happens. No surge of wind blows through my apartment. No sudden music with heavy drumbeats. So I turn the page. And the next.
I read the first paragraph of the introduction, skim the second, then page through the lengthy start until I reach the first photograph.
The high-resolution images of paintings are detailed, glossy, and exactly what the title says. Battles.
Page after page. So much violence.
Piles of bodies. Some in motion, fighting. Some still with death.
The images are harsh and beautiful. And filled with so many people it’s hard to discern how many individuals are even in a single painting.
My hand moves methodically, turning the page. Slowly repeating.
Another page.
Another…
My hand stills.
This page is another image depicting battle.
It looks Roman.
The date under the painting shows it was made just over two hundred years ago.
It’s like all the others.
But instead of gripping the edge of the paper and turning the page, my fingers move to the image.
My eyes follow.
This painting looks like all the others. But it feels different.
There are horses and helmets. Fallen bodies. Spears aimed.
Swords.
It’s a battle. Full of humans. But my eyes move over the page. To the back row of painted soldiers.
My breath hitches.
And my heartbeat increases.
Because there, painted into an image from two centuries ago, standing with his hair flowing in the wind, his sword in his hand, and his horns gleaming in the sun, is my vampire.