Page 3 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

These musings are pointless, he knows. His mere existence is proof that magic exists, but despite the wealth of his centuries-long experience, he has never found something that can rewrite time. So, Kid shot her and now her blood is pooled on the linoleum tileand Rory is hungry, grumpy, and ready for this shift to just be over.

Probably not the first time this tile has seen blood, he thinks. He scrubs his face with his hand as he kneels, trying to decide the best course of action. He may get away with disposing one body in the woods, but two is pushing it.

The lake, perhaps, would be a better choice for her. It seems fitting, in a twisted sort of way, as the woman’s face is hidden by a mass of curly hair, golden honey even in the artificial lights, and it spreads out across the floor like Ophelia in water.

He suddenly feels a bone-deep weariness and he almost considers just leaving—just getting in his car and driving away with not so much as a resignation letter taped to the door. He’s become unaccustomed to spilled blood in recent years. He can’t remember the last time he slipped into someone else’s head, and, with his empty veins, he’s feeling the strain of pushing himself. He had forgotten how heavy death can be. He feels the weight of it in his bones. If he had a soul, it would feel just as heavy.

She deserved more than a dirty linoleum floor,he thinks. The soothing, cool depths of the lake are the least he can give her. He doesn’t like the idea of putting her in the trunk with the boy who took her life either. The back seat, maybe? There’s a spare flannel shirt he can cover her with. It’s not prefect, but it’s better than leaving her pale skin exposed which somehowseems like a violation. He stays kneeling for a moment longer, cataloging the scene before him, delaying the inevitable—perhaps, even attempting to honor her life by remembering the details of her death.

He gently brushes the hair away from her face, the tips of his fingers barely touching the strands. The soft curve of her cheek is pale with blood loss, her mouth slack. Her eyes are closed and if it wasn’t for the stain spread across her torso, she could just be sleeping. One hand needlessly clutches her stomach, where the bullet entered her body, while the other hand rests on the floor. There’s no ring on her left hand. Her nails are neat and trimmed, long and elegant, even with her blood staining them. She’s wearing a long floral skirt, which is now bunched up around her knees showing off her pointy black boots. Her white sleeveless t-shirt hugs her curves and shows off a thick scar that circles her upper arm.

There’s no purse, as far as he can tell, but she had been holding a slim leather wallet and it rests beside her. He opens it, rifles through, thinking vaguely of taking the cash but ultimately leaves it be. He could use it, but he’s not that callous. Her photo identification says her name is Calliope Jane Grey. She is thirty-three years old and an organ donor. He feels a little sad about that one, knowing her final wishes won’t be fulfilled. Finally, pushing the weariness aside, he leans forward to pick her up—and yet, as soon as he touches her arm, he feels her heartbeat.

He jolts back as if he’d been stung.

She’s still alive, he thinks dumbly. Her skin is cold, colder than his own even, but her heartbeat is there. Shallow—faint—butthere.

Her eyes open then, blearily, confused, like she’s blinking against the sun after being inside for too long. Her lips move, trying to say something. She raises her hand in an awkward beckoning motion. A puppet with her strings cut.

He leans closer to hear her words. She moves her mouth again, and when she speaks, the sound is a raspy caw, a parody of her voice, which he assumes is lovely and bright under normal circumstances. It must be. It has to match the soft dip of her lips and delicate tilt of her chin.

The same for her eyes, which he thinks must be closer to emerald green in the sunlight, but are black now, not even reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.

“Help—I don’t—to die,” she says, words scraping against her chapped lips.

His gums feel hot and painful, his teeth even sharper than before, and he presses his tongue against one of them, as if testing the sharpness of it.

There is a way to save her—but he shouldn’t.

She is so close to death. She is disoriented from pain and blood loss. She doesn’t know what she is asking of him. She doesn’t know what he is.

Her lips move faster now. Her fingers, so cold andshaking, wrap delicately around his wrist. Her blood is still warm, sticky. Crushed hyacinth petals. Rosemary. Dew. He breaths it in, his instincts curling around the smell like a fist grabbing at silk.

“Help.”

He’s not even really sure she says that final word. Later, he’ll worry that he heard it in his head, that he made it up to help him feel better about the decision he has already made. Because even without her plea and her surprisingly strong grip on his wrist, he was already leaning forward, he was already shifting her so he could see her neck. He pays little mind to the blood on the floor soaking through the knees of his jeans as he lifts her up and cradles her against his chest. Her head lolls back as if in offering, pale splatters of blood coating the smooth column of her neck like freckles. Her eyes have fluttered close, and she squeezes his wrist again as if to say, “Yes, I’m ready.”

He brushes her long hair back over her shoulder and pauses, licking his lips. He stops short of looking into her mind. It doesn’t matter if she is worthy of saving, it doesn’t matter what darkness is inside of her. He doesn’t want to kill anyone else tonight.

Hadn’t truly wanted to kill Kid, to be frank, but old habits die hard.

He gives himself another second to consider the consequences of this. If he does this—if he saves her with the thing once gifted to him, centuries ago—he will be tying his existence to hers, however briefly,while she recovers. She will need to be looked after while she adjusts to her new circumstances. The gift he can give her could turn fetid at any moment, her savior becoming her jailer, or worse—her executioner.

It doesn’t really matter what I want, he thinks. His mind is already made up. And anyway, shouldn’t this be a point in his favor? He has seen—and caused—enough death to last him an eternity. He has secluded himself in this remote town to live with his guilt alone, surviving off the bare minimum in his own attempt at contrition, poor though it may be. He ignores the soft, crooning voice in the back of his head that reminds him the salvation he offers is not a true life. She will be neither living nor dead. She will straddle the two, just like him, with a curse of eternal damnation coursing through her veins.

But if he does this, he will be, for once,givinginstead oftaking.

That’s what he tells himself as he licks his lips again, letting his eyes travel down to the exposed column of her neck, as milky-white as the moon he knows is sinking in the sky right now. He bends over until his mouth is so close to her skin, she would be able to feel his breath, if he still needed to take air into his lungs.

Then, he bites into her neck.

3

A Good Luck Gremlin

Rory

Most documented vampire attacks throughout history and even now, in more recent times, are from youngling vampires left unfettered. There was a time, of course, when such behavior was acceptable, even encouraged, from vampires of any age. Rory himself was once known to have such a reputation; he was once a fierce warrior and prominent figure in the more unsavory vampire communities.

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