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“Come on now, dandy! Lost your way? I sure know where you can go. Your mom’s loving arms.” He drummed his hands on his knees, laughing. “You can come into mine too.”
“Gentlemen,” Mircalla greeted them from afar. Valerie hoped they did not hear the feminine tinge in her voice. “I’m afraid you’re at the wrong party. What’s the matter?”
“Having a tad conversation with you lot, eh? What are you doing at this time of night? Wait a second.” He stepped back and likewise, other men retreated on cue. It was very theatrical. “Are you one of the creditors?” His face soured under moonlight, a puff of smoke from his cigarette blowing out of the corner of his mouth. A gleam caught in his eye, pensive and suddenly taciturn and the group fell silent for a moment.
“That I am not.”
“Good.” The man grinned. Cheers and roars rang in the air. “That chap left the cottage and won’t return.”
“Is that so?” Mircalla started walking towards them, a hand in her pocket, her voice dangerously low. “If I ring the bell and ask for a good-for-nothing son or a husband, will they tell me the man left?” She clicked her tongue. “Or will I find a screaming babe in the arms of a wailing mother, accursing the man for drinking too much and never bringing bread to his house?”
“You vazey fucking…” he spat contemptuously as the bottle in his hands shattered on the snow and the fists rose in its place. The other men imitated him as well, babbling about Mircalla being an unfair fellow, provoking them to start a fight, and that they would show it to her what it meant to fall on her ass. Their mouths were gaps, drooling and toothless like old men. That’s when Valerie noticed the lines on their faces, the crack in their voices, their grizzly beards. Although strands of black and brown showed about their ears and their thick brows, they stood listless, withdrawing themselves, like condemned men. They could not have been older than her husband, yet they did not stir but only gaped at her wide-eyed.
“Let’s go,” Valerie whispered to Mircalla, who was striding towards the group. The curdling inside her kept her from moving.
The sound of laughter again. A flash of sharp teeth in the shadows. It was Mircalla. “But if you keep annoying me, I’ll make sure you never speak again. It would be hard to beg when you’re tongueless, right?”
The group exchanged glances. One flicked his cigarette butt towards them while the other smashed his bottle to the wall. Figures behind curtains disappeared, candles were being put out one by one. The man in the middle who spoke to them crossed his arms then rubbed his hands together. “Well then, dandy. Let’s do it your way.”
They met in the middle, the narrowest part of the street, shoulders hunched, knees bent slightly. Valerie peered at them through a crevice in a wall. She knew something had to happen soon. The click-clack of boots, the terrible loud breathings, each beat of hearts terribly pulsing. All the windows were dark now. They were left alone.
Then nothing happened. A voice let loose a grumble, as if fatigued, then it became a snarl and the men ran into the street crying where they came from. The lingering smoke and the bitterness of beer clung to Valerie’s lips. She could not dismiss the feeling of dissonance, ever so slight, yet perceivable; the chilling and disquieting dread which left Valerie inexplicably drained.
“What happened?” Valerie asked out of breath, hurrying to Mircalla’s side. She broke into a voice of shrill desperation.
“My sweet, curious Valerie,” she purred, the moonlight turning her eyes to gold. “I don’t particularly feel good about my actions but I wasn’t going to let a group of sots taunt us.” She offered her hand. A silent invitation, the sight of which ran right through her.
20
They trudged back upthe hill but not to Vertigo Peaks. Valerie walked around like someone in a trance, crisscrossing the streets and imagining what she had wanted to do. She did not grasp what was forward, nor did she care. Mircalla was leading the way again and Valerie was struck by the wonder of her, a force of life she had never seen before, held at her bay, filled with greediness to the brim, which turned then to craving.
They reached a vast clearing and Valerie’s eyes swept the edge of it. She knew the woods. She knew beyond that stretched her home and the peaks. Yet, she still glided to the shadows to listen to its humming voice. The place seemed bare at first, only a blanket of snow as company, no place to hide. Upon a closer look, Valerie noticed, her throat rattling, figures slowly dancing at the end of a path. Fire had put a tranquil glow on their outlines. She half expected to recognize them before approaching; arms linked, bodies in gentle repose. But these were wanderers, who ceased to wish upon perseverance, revived only by the mere passing of a scenery.
“You shall be nearer to me than you have ever been.”
Mircalla took hold of her arm. She recognized the soft lull of her voice, but everything else was drowning in darkness. She felt her cold breath on her neck, inhaling before withdrawing her arm, and an ache in her teeth made her wince in pain. When she finally saw the dancing figures from the flare, her wounds itched again.
“Who are they?” Valerie tried to whisper, but the sensation was so strong that her throat tightened. Her memory faltered. Had she seen these people before? She searched the faces to focus on, but everything within her called for one distinct memory.
She had felt the soft crust of trees on her back before, pine needles pricking her bare feet, a distinct pluck of ardor, and her throat ripped apart. She remembered the screams, the terrifying thump of struggle, a particular sort of chase, air rippling through the nape of her neck. Black spots hovered before her eyes.
Mircalla caught her before she fell.
“What is this place? Why did you bring me here?”
“Valerie,” Mircalla’s voice sliced through the stillness, “There’s something I must tell you… orshowyou.”
Slack expressions and mouthfuls of blood. There was a combination of metallic crispness and burnt meat in the air. The fire subdued and Valerie saw the faces smeared with blood, pieces of skin dangling from teeth. A girl was convulsing, a pool of blood spewing from her gash and over her limbs, spread and twisted in weird positions, all mangled and torn open like a bag.
Mircalla tugged on her arm. “I am not of this world, my dear. Not of flesh or blood. I rise beyond the grave.” Valerie could feel her cheeks were hot. Her eyes were blazing with a sensation, darker still, that crept stealthily up her legs. The swell of her tongue full of thick desire.
“A vampire, they named me. But you know me as the beast. The plague bearer. They found me and illuminated my path. I don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Mircalla knelt before the girl, who was not convulsing anymore but regarded them with glassy eyes nevertheless, and dipped her chin to her chest cavity, ribs exposed. It was a moment of waking remembrance, producing the familiar sensation of disgust and excitement. The small movements of her head, her devouring mouth reflected in those dark, glassy eyes.
Mircalla’s head tilted back sharply. She extended an arm, a slick and crimson brilliance in her smile. Her nose was encrusted with blood, as if it sprung from her, part of her. Every nerve in Valerie’s body was buzzing and bright; a familiar energy grew in her fingertips. Mircalla lured her, fascinated her to the edges of her sanity, a sign that turned Valerie into a slow and deliberate creature. Here, there was nothing sweeter.
“Come closer, Valerie,” Mircalla said. “This you shall become, this you shall crave more.”
