Page 2 of Blood & Bedlam

I had hope that the world would have evolved, but the violence visited by men seems more forefront than it did even before I was turned. Perhaps it is that the spark of their resilience reminds me so heavily of the light of another, a face I have not gazed upon in centuries. Perhaps it is because I know that she would have wanted me to help them. Protect them.

I think of what I saw, in Camille’s memory. Smell the terror and fear mixed with the blood and semen dripping from the others behind me, and it chokes me with rage and disgust. I recognize them from the memory, know their names, the conviction of their love for one another. Fury sears through me, but I tighten my grip on my wrists, soothing the beast that resides inside my chest. My darkest passenger, who at this moment calls for more blood. Always more blood.

These women have no one in the new world, and with what has happened to them, I hold little hope they will find happy matches. The harsh truth is they will always bear the shame of what has befallen them, shame that should be solely laid on the corpses jostling with each rock of the ship around us, but that is not the way of the world. I look into the blue eyes of Camille, an unfamiliar swell of warmth rising in my chest at the proof of the resilience she has in her. Even with her blonde hair matted with blood and filth, she shows unwavering strength, and I know that I am theirs.

If they will have me.

“I am Vladimir to some. Dracul to most,” I rasp.

“And what should we call you?” Camille presses as I sigh, mind resigned to this new path. I take each of them in, their scared eyes, broken and bruised skin. I hear four hearts beating fast and strong, even when faced with a creature designed to make them prey.

These girls are fighters, and they belong to me now.

“That depends entirely on your answer to my next question. If you say no, then I will simply be Vladimir. If you say yes, I will be your Dracul.” I turn my gaze to the others. I have no idea if they want my protection, but one way or another, they will have it. I will either turn them and give them the power to protect themselves, or ensure they are guarded from the shadows. Either way, a kinship has been forged this night.

Hunger claws against me, blood a fury under my skin trying to break free. With a few furtive glances at Camille, the three remaining women scramble over, carefully giving me a wide arc as they rush to the side of their companion. I taste the sins of these dead men on my tongue, see them in violent clarity in my mind’s eye, shown to me in the betrayal of their blood through Camille’s memory. I should have taken my time, forced them to suffer the cruelties they showed these women, but the blood is a call of its own and it demanded payment for months of starvation.

The brunette with green eyes, Fleur, gathers Camille in her arms, whispers to her in French as though I cannot hear. The fear coming from them tastes caustic, acrid on the air. I clamp my hands together and listen to them whisper their relief.

“Camille! You’re alive. I thought, I t-thought …” The dark-haired girl sobs, but the choked sounds are angry. Camille soothes her hair, rocks their bodies together. It’s clear that the two of them share a deep connection—perhaps sisters, or close to. The small redhead twists her fingers together, eyeing me carefully, terror still radiating from her bones. I force myself to breathe, to show the appearance of humanity, an attempt to make her more at ease.

“Shh, he’s dead. They all are,” Camille assures them, as though the deck does not run red with the proof of it. When she gathers the other two in her arms, it is clear she is the protector of these women, either by kinship or forced responsibility. “Fleur, look at me. Is there anyone else?” she asks. The brunette shakes her head.

“Just us. Minuet and Shoshanna … Elise—they butchered them.” Fleur trails off, her stare cold as though replaying what she witnessed in her mind. “Juliette grabbed me when he came. We found Claire after and waited,” she adds, inclining her head to the others.

I do not interrupt them as they process and weep, but I watch them together, curious at the pull in my chest. They are young, children in my eyes, and though I burn to know what brought them to this fate, I know I cannot rush them.

The choice they must make is life or death.

“Oh, Claire, you’re bleeding.” Camille reaches down and rips a filthy scrap of linen from the side of her torn dress, wrapping it around what looks to be a bite mark against the redhead’s throat. I am sickened by the abuse, by the scars they might wear forever on their bodies, in addition to their minds.

“I’m okay. What about … him?” she whispers rapidly in French. Camille shoots me a look, assessing me the same as I do them.

“He saved me. I don’t know where he came from. One minute I was being … then he was there. He killed du Cur.” Camille locks my gaze as she speaks, and I feel a resolution in my chest, a vow of protection I cannot deny.

“He said his name is Vladimir,” Claire reminds them in English this time, and I give her what I hope is a comforting tilt of my lips.

“You may call me Vlad,” I offer, keeping my voice low. There is still a guttural sound to it, otherworldly to their ears, and I do not wish to frighten them further.

“Are you a demon?” Fleur asks, and I do not miss the way she pushes herself more in front of the others, a barrier between them and me. Her protective spirit is endearing.

“It is not an unfitting moniker. I would wager you have not heard of my kind yet, though I am certain word will reach your homeland in due time. I am what you will learn to call vampyr.”

There is no spike in terror or even a spark of recognition between them, as there would have been in Wallachia at the word. We are legends spoken into the night, dark terrors that promise death and ruin to our people, but these women show no new fear. They have suffered too much to care about ghost stories.

“Will you kill us, then?” Claire asks. Juliette tuts her tongue, warning her not to push me.

“I can offer death, but with it, new life. I can give you power that will transform your being from the inside out into something unbreakable, unkillable by the hands of mortal men.”

They listen intently, turning my words over as I speak. I offer them the gift of immortality, something I have never freely given since the day I destroyed the host of my own people. I tell them of the Thirst of the Blood, the slaves they will be to it until they learn to control it. I spare no detail and they listen. For hours, the shift drifts listless over the waves as I lay the potential path before them, answering their questions in return. A small spark of hope batters at the loneliness that lives in my soul, deep and dark and isolating, but the other part of me begs them to flee. To turn down my offer and disembark from this ship, because I offer power, but no power comes without cost.

“The choice is yours to make but be certain that you can endure it. There is no returning once the process is complete,” I warn. I watch them consider. Juliette cries quietly, either from the trauma of what she has gone through or the words coming from my lips.

“Will it be painful?” Claire asks curiously.

There is no comfort in a lie. “Yes.”

“If we sell our souls, surely we are damned creatures?” Fleur ponders. I give her a terse nod.