Page 113 of We Were Eternal Once

I sit back and bite into my wrist, pressing it against her lips. My blood dribbles into her mouth, down her throat. Some of it pours out the side of her mouth and I wipe it with my thumb. Her throat works weakly, swallowing what she can.

Her heart slows.

And slows.

Then stops.

I remove my wrist and wait.

How long does it take to make a vampyr? I remember my heart stopping, then I was alive. How much time passed?

My memories of then are unclear. Surely we did not stay on that altar all night and into the next day? We would have died by the sun.

I wait an hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

Zora does not stir. Her sightless eyes stare at the ceiling. I nudge her, trying to get her to move. She doesn’t.

Have I done something wrong? Was there a vital step I missed? I think back to my creation, just as I have time and time before. No—these were all the steps. This is what it meant to create, to make.

Why wasn’t it working?

I wait another hour, pacing the small room, nudging Zora every few moments. Still she does not stir.

Anxiety becomes panic and I shake her body, trying to rouse her. I slap her face, I smack her chest, I do anything I can. I pinch her fingers, hoping the pain will wake her.

Still, she does not move.

I need you. In my darkest moments, in my most desperate, it is you I reach for. I need to find you, to tell you, to ask what I’ve done wrong. What step am I missing? Does she need more time?

I try to abate my panic with reason as I run through the streets to our home. She needs more time, there is a step missing. You will tell me it, and I will turn Zora. I will apologize later, I will beg and cry and prostrate myself before you for forgiveness. I will make all the amends, I will spend another century bargaining.

I will do anything.

You are in the parlor, playing that blasted piano.

I fall to the ground at your feet, my hands on your thighs. “Please,” I say.

For the first time in ages, you look at me. Your red eyes are wide with worry.

“Melinoë, what’s wrong?”

“I need your help,” I say, my voice trembling.

“Anything,” you say. You stand and there is no hesitation, just your undivided attention.

The last few years of silence are forgotten. You are once more my lover, my protector, my creator, my everything. All I had to do was ask and there you were, ready to love me once more.

I lead you through the streets, ignoring the shocked glances of the humans we pass. We head underground and I lead you to her body.

Zora remains just as I left her.

“What is this?” you ask carefully, circling her body. You sniff the air, looking around the space. The silver cross is still embedded in the wall. Her discarded items are on the floor—the silver cross, the jewelry, the bread long gone stale.

“Melinoë, what have you done?” Your words are careful. They are not an accusation, they beg for understanding.