Harker/Goosevar
I see the woman in the bright summer sunshine. She cuts long stalks of lavender, placing them in a basket. She hums quietly.
Her husband is away on the other side of the rock, where they remove moorstone from the old village for the chapel they build. This work has brought holy men onto the heath; I know them by the symbols they wear. It was men like these who slew and entombed me, sealing my grave with their stone monument.
Some days ago that monument, too, was dug up. Today the holy men hauled it away in a cart.
Now I do whatever is necessary to ensure they never return. Though I must be stealthy and clever if I’m to survive.
But in the present moment, I am fascinated by the woman. I have lived for hundreds of years, never encountering another creature like myself. Never mating or producing offspring, as I have observed every other creature around me to do. Yet I’ve seen this before. I understand that the large, rounded growth at her belly is a child.
It is more than fascination for me. I am drawn to her. Ithirstfor her. And it’s not only that I must feed soon if I’m to survive. I know from my past life that her blood is different. Rich and potent. Blood that creates life. If I drink this blood, I won’t need to kill for a very long time.
There is nothing so likely to inspire another attempt on my own life as taking the life of a woman with child. And yet, if I can managenotto kill her—to feed on her but let her live—perhaps no one need know. It’s not a thing I have ever attempted. And after sleeping for centuries, I am desperately thirsty. Moderation may not be possible.
But I must feed. And solitary victims carry less risk.
My jaws open, releasing fog over the heath.
The woman straightens, rubbing her back, and looks around in confusion. Only a moment ago the sun warmed her. Now she can’t see beyond her low garden wall.
I move closer, making no sound to warn her.
I am only heartbeats away when she senses something stalking her. Fear brightens her eyes, quickens her breath. She drops her basket, which tips and spills its fragrant contents. She turns for the house.
I burst from the trees and catch her easily, like a fawn. Lifting her in my arms, I dig sharp teeth into her soft neck.
She strikes at me with her small fists and lets out a half-choked cry. I feel it through the frenzy of bloodlust. I try to be careful. I try to slow down. It’s not what I was made for.
Suddenly something pierces my side; she still holds the garden knife. Such a weapon is no threat to me. The wound will have sealed by the time I’ve drunk my fill.
Until my death,noweapon had threatened me. Everything had been tried, and everything failed, until a holy man and healer made arrows from a thorny bush bearing a delicate flower. I know now that I possess vulnerability.
Though I am parched like late-autumn leaves, I force myself to stop. I don’t need as much of this potent blood as I desire.
She has stilled now; her breathing has gone shallow. My jaws have left an ugly wound on her neck, and it still bleeds.
I have failed.
Despite my intentions, it seems she will die anyway, and the wound will set the others hunting me.
Then I notice the trickle of fluid at my side, where she’s stabbed me. My own blood is a bitter, dark sap. On instinct, I use the tip of a finger to scoop some of it up, and then I spread it over the edges of her wound.
The wound begins to close before my eyes, leaving naught but a faint scar.
Her heartbeat is weak, as is the child’s, but she may yet survive. Without the wound, no stories of an attack will be given credence, but I leave nothing to chance. Bending close to her ear, I sing a song of forgetfulness.
My thirst is roused again by her close scent, but now come sounds of others approaching.
As my song ends, I hear the echo of it in her blood. And of something else, too. My own ancient magic stirs inside her as my blood sinks into hers. It wends through her, to the child in her belly. Creating a bond between him and me.
Footfalls come heavy through the trees. As I flee, I sense that one day this bond could be made to serve me.
Sweetbriar
Voice shaking, I repeated, “Harker?”
Slowly he blinked, and his face came alive again. My chest loosened, and I took in a breath.
