Page 16 of Nosfer-Meet You

A VILLAGE OUTSIDE OF LYON, FRANCE, 1793

The smoke invades my lungs, blacking them like dark clouds obfuscating the sun. My father chokes and gasps somewhere behind me. I reach back to take his hand, but he collapses into the dirt before I have a chance to touch him.

“Pa—” I start, but the pain stays my tongue. It feels as though my throat has swelled to the size of an onion. I slide across the road on my belly and latch on to his wrinkled hand, but his fingers are as limp as wilted herbs.

Gone.

No. No, Papa. I press my blistered lips to his forehead and say a silent prayer to the gods to take my father’s spirit somewhere far from here. Away from the flames, the smoke, the unfairness of it all. His body is completely still as he lies face down in the dirt, and I force myself to swallow the sob that desperately seeks escape. I know that I will join him soon. When I roll onto my back and weep, no tears come. The encroaching crackling flames have turned even those to steam.

I dig my fingernails into the dirt as pain lances through my body, threatening to shatter my spirit right along with it.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? A little bird lost in the darkness?” a man’s voice says somewhere above me. Whoever it is sounds old and well-bred. The sort of articulation you would hear from someone of immense privilege. But there’s also an accent I can’t quite place. Whatever it is, it’s not French. Perhaps he’s a hallucination come to taunt me as I die. One final insult from the gods.

The stranger crouches down beside me so I can see the shine of his black boots and the coattails of his slate gray jacket. I cannot lift my head to see his face, so I can only guess at his age. Older than Papa, I am sure. “You are holding out well, little dove. Tell me, though, would you like to live?”

What sort of question is that? I clamp my eyes shut as the flames draw nearer and lick their way through the dry grass. A raspy, animalistic sound claws up my throat, so ugly I don’t even recognize it.

“Ah, but you cannot speak. Your throat is damaged, isn’t it? Poor thing. I suppose I’ll have to fix it for you.” The man scoops me up into his arms, cradling me gently like an infant. When I open my eyes, my pulse jumps in my throat. This is no mere man; the gentleman’s face is as white as the full moon, his eyes as red as wine. His gaunt cheekbones would normally be the envy of every woman in the city, if it weren’t for his other terrible features. Pointed ears and no hair on his head to speak of. But … this man is no man at all. He doesn’t even look human.

Realization hits me all at once. The bedtime stories Maman told me about the people who drank the tainted blood of the Great Pretender, Kasha the serpent woman, and turned into something else. Something twisted, dark, and violent. But those were only stories to scare people who might directly disobey the Seven. They weren’t real.

“Yes, little dove. I am Nosferatu. One of the monsters from your bedtime stories,” he practically coos, and I shiver in his grasp. Did he read my mind just now? Is that even possible?

Suddenly, a pair of leathery, bat-like wings appear behind his shoulders as though by magic. Perhaps it is magic. He launches us up into the air above the flames, above the smoke, and away from my father’s body. There is no way I will be able to retrieve it later. He will be carrion for the ravens and wolves. Papa … oh, Papa, I am so sorry…

In the distance, the city lights twinkle in a dazzling display. But below, my village burns to cinders, the smoke clawing at my legs like greedy, fat fingers. I reach a slender hand down toward my father’s body, as though trying to grasp it out of thin air. The Nosferatu clutches me tighter against his chest in response and clucks his tongue. “There, there, little dove. Do not fret. I will take care of you now.”

What does he mean, take care of me? Is he not going to feast on my blood and toss my body into the river? I have so many questions and no voice with which to ask them. And I dare not pound my hands against his chest, not when we are so high above the city. Not when he could easily drop me out of the sky and onto one of the rooftops below. I did not escape death by fire just to be discarded like yesterday’s refuse now.

His massive wings allow us to glide above my burning village. People below scream and beg for their lives before their throats are ripped out by more Nosferatu. There are dozens of them, perhaps hundreds. Some look like the creature carrying me now, while others have a much more feral appearance, gangly creatures vaulting on all fours, their fur so dark it’s almost impossible to spot them against the blackness of night. And some wear dresses and pants like normal people while others writhe about completely naked. Their flesh gleams against the sienna flames, and I recoil in horror as a woman my own age is thrown onto the ground and feasted upon by … one, two … six monsters.

Maman was wrong, then. It was not the Revolutionaries who came for us after all. But now I am not sure which is worse.

“I apologize for the sight below,” the Nosferatu carrying me says casually, as though making pleasant conversation. Nothing about this situation is pleasant. “Not all my brethren turned successfully, you see. None of this was even supposed to happen.”

Another question on my lips that will remain unspoken.

“But when you ingest the blood of a damned goddess, what can you expect?” The Nosferatu chuckles at his own remark. I don’t see what is so funny about the situation. My father is dead. My mother probably met the same fate. “It is not an exact science, I’m afraid. But that will not be your fate, little dove. Oh, no. I have such wondrous things in store for you!”

My blood turns to ice in my veins at his words. This man, creature—thing—is insane. He grips me tighter, as though hugging me, before dipping down over a low-hanging cloud. The mist and cold of the cloud clings to my skin like a chemise. We soar over the final few rooftops of the burning city and pass over farmlands. The stars overhead glitter like diamonds, unaffected by the massacre below. I open my mouth to speak again, but it’s still no use.

“Rest your voice,” he says. “There’s no point in aggravating the pain. I’ll fix it soon.”

Fix it? The air chills my skin, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. My forearms prickle with gooseflesh. Fix it how? Nosferatu don’t “fix” things. They ruin them. But the creature looks down at me with tenderness in his ruby red gaze, and I actually see the corners of his thin lips curve upward.

There is no way he could be expressing a positive emotion, either. The creatures of the damned don’t feel anything besides bloodlust.

“I’ve always wanted to be a father,” he says.

My heart drops into the depths of my stomach.

Chapter 10

Scotty

BACK UP

“Wait, wait. Back up,” I say.