I do not know if I will survive our meeting, but I am prepared for either outcome just in case.
Two new tattoos sit fresh on my skin, still bleeding under salve that will speed up the healing process. They glow under the candlelight. One yellow. One red.
The new sigils are not as clean as I would like, but the equipment is a backup set I keep hidden in an underground bunker that acts as storage and temporary safety, and nothing more.
Having completed them, I gather all the medical supplies from the top shelf and begin setting them up. It is a tight space full of organized collections and various things I have salvaged on my excursions, but it will have to do.
While attempting to get comfortable on the cot, I slap at the skin of my inner elbow.
The needle is thin, but the tubing is not.
The needle point punctures through the skin and slides easily into my best vein. My blood begins to flow, rapidly rushing into the tubing, filling up the clear IV bag hanging just above my head. The first bag connects to a network of others, all lined up and suspended from a system I’ve erected to measure out exactly how much I extract.
It is the only way to accelerate the change.
To weaken myself. Make myself as vulnerable as possible, susceptible to injury or illness.
When I drain as much as I dare, when the edges of my vision darken, and consciousness threatens to slip from my grasp, I carefully pull the needle free and quickly apply a bandage.
The bags hang heavy now, their colors shifting from a muted bluish-grey to purple to pink, and finally to a deep crimson.
I am temporarily restored to my human state, and weaker than I have let myself fall burden to in recent years.
There were times in the beginning when it could not be helped—when poor planning or fatal injury left me too far from my reserves. But that was before I carried small doses on my person at all times, enough to keep death at bay when necessary. It was done more out of fear that it might fall into the wrong hands than anything else.
This is not that.
This is deliberate. A premeditated measure to obtain the result I seek.
I will carry hidden reserves of the elixir and take care not to use them under his watchful gaze. Which means carefully analyzing the situation as it plays out, evaluating timing, and taking a dose only when success is guaranteed.
If I reveal my deception too soon, or give him any hint that my power stems from an external source—one he could take—he could use it against me.
Which means this may be my only opportunity to play the part of the damsel, and my studies suggest it is one of a man’s greatest weaknesses. They want to play the hero. They are caregivers by nature, but not in the same sense as women are. They provide. Protect. I must appeal to that instinct—the part of him that seeks to care for another.
He is the Reaper of All Growing Things and not to be underestimated. Once he discovers the truth—how powerful I truly am, what I’m capable of—any advantage I have will be gone.
Should I fail and, by any stretch of God’s will, make it out of this alive, I may never get this close to him again. All hope rests on my ability to sever his head from his shoulders before he figures me out.
The day comes, and I pack with care. After securing my supplies, I head east toward an area known for good hunting, not far from a settlement that accepts venison in trade.
It will be an arduous journey—but one I must endure since delaying any longer would drain me to the last dregs of my energy and compound the danger of the task I have set in motion.
Already, the gnawing need to feed the elixir back into my system has taken hold. It creeps beneath my skin, activating an itch that cannot be soothed. The tremors have not yet begun—but they will, and all too soon strip me of the precision I rely on.
So for now, I ride the edge of it.
Like crossing a rotted log over a raging river that could give under my weight at any moment, this too is a delicate balancing act. One I navigate with care as I manage between coping with symptoms of withdrawal and maintaining enough power to accomplish my undertaking.
Putting the worry to the back of my mind and muttering come what may under my breath, I tighten my grip on the reins and push on.
Most of the day is spent covering flat terrain—on plains, where the wind makes visibility difficult, and small cyclones of ash spin in the distance like miniature tempests, engulfing whatever wanders into their path.
Hours later, once we reach our desired destination, we weave through the trees until we hit the densest part of the forest.
Enoch, or so I’ve renamed him, seems to love this place. He is content among the healthy Douglas firs, aspen, and spruce trees, which remain untouched by the havoc many other parts of the world experienced in the fallout.
Most are leaking sap, and the strong scent of each species permeates the air, filtering into my lungs on each inhale. Along with the shade they provide, it is a welcome reprieve that makes my suffering easier to bear.
