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“Taste it, Valerie,” the group tempted. She had never wanted to dive straight to the bottom of entrails before and the need to soothe her frayed nerves with blood had never been this imminent. She knelt next to Mircalla, the flash behind her eyes blinding and unwavering.
She sank, with torrents of blood like tar, as if exploding in the darkness of the woods. She used to be a blur but images flashed against her closed eyes—Mircalla’s red face, the crackle of bones, the boy’s lantern.
“It was you,” Valerie gasped. Blood still gushed out of the girl but she was already full. Mircalla cupped her face and she could almost smell her unnatural breath. She could not help but lean closer, lingering on the edge of her comforting familiarity.
“I was a monster then. I had no control. When my teeth sank into your neck… I could have killed you. I did not know how to control this… urge.”
“Was this why you were sick?”
“Yes,” Mircalla whispered. “That’s why I was looking for you. I was delirious. All I could hear was your name. I was never a lost traveler, you see, I was just trying to find you. It was hard controlling myself around you however, and I’m afraid I failed time and time again.”
“What do you mean?”
Mircalla’s face took on that pinched look. A sidelong glance was enough to shrink Valerie. “Tell me,” Valerie insisted. They left the corpse there and walked back to the path.
“I was afraid. I thought I was never going to see you again.”
A young man tugged at Valerie’s arm before she could speak, twisting the skin until her eyes watered.
“Taste it,” he demanded. “You shall be one with us.”
Valerie plunged her head again, this time with hesitance, and drank the blood. It was foul, cloying, and lukewarm, like a cup of tea forgotten on a windowsill, and Valerie found herself crying. And though Mircalla’s eyes were on her; Valerie’s hand, like a peregrine’s black talon, gripped the girl’s heart, and caused her to feel, at the thought of death, terror. The young man patted her back, as if celebrating her, and Valerie rolled to her side heaving, ashes sticking to her lashes.
“Come, darling, sit up.”
Mircalla poured ice cold water over her head and wiped the blood off her face. She cried over the shock and cringed as the blood dripped onto her lap. Above her, the sky was darker than she was used to seeing, which she connected to those early days of waiting when she hoped to catch a glimpse of Mircalla, and the sight of it filled Valerie with trepidation.
“Did you…turn me into a vampire?” Valerie asked, tongue wedged in the corner of her mouth. She failed to keep anxiety from her voice. “Is this what I’m feeling? A morbid hunger that I’ll starve for the rest of my life?”
Mircalla was so silent, she wondered whether she heard her. The air was unnaturally heavy, and the woods remained a gulf of space; absolute and silver-patched. Her sleek stillness washed over her.
“Pain and pleasure usually have the same sound.” Mircalla’s voice was hoarse and muffled. “The horror of seeing the heart of your lover on a silver plate is also thrilling. Deep in your bones, you already know. Matter to matter. Blood gives blood. You’d rather die than not eat away what you love.”
Armed with a newfound consciousness, and not for the first time, Valerie was left in awe of this insatiable thirst, the kind that did not adjust or bend, only giving temporary releases by turns. Nothing seemed to stop this appetite; no amount of shock or terror could constraint this outreaching burst of bloodlust. It coursed through her veins, despite Valerie not being aware of its properties, and Mircalla’s voice was full of longing, full of rueful desiring, full of suffering and beauty.
She needed not saving, but giving in. The townspeople would never love her. Her husband would remain a relentless servant of his hollow crown. In the meantime, she would part the veil and look at the other side, just for anything to happen.
21
Mircalla had wrapped herarms around her neck, smiling, laughing; her mouth wandering around her face with that acrid smell like a lighthouse searching for a boat as they moved forward step by step. Valerie took it all in.
“Let’s get you cleaned.” Mircalla gestured at her dress. Valerie looked at herself. The world was spinning faster than her eye could catch. Was she drunk? She recalled the hue of the girl’s chest cavity and her convulsions. It was like she had never opened her eyes before. The image set her on fire as yet another silence engulfed them in midnight blue. Mircalla slid her hand back in hers, cold and restless as ever, and led her to Vertigo Peaks.
Once they were in the house, stumbling upstairs like a child scared of a parent’s scolding, lips pursed and fearful of every creaking noise, they glided past Valerie’s door and made an abrupt turn.
“Come,” Mircalla said, “it’s just you and me.”
Something slithered inside Valerie’s chest, as if a snake coiled itself around her, two white fangs piercing through heart, not in misery but in delight, and she followed Mircalla into the dark hall.
Dust fell off the room—candle wax, moth-eaten books, hearth. It filtered the light as the candles glowed dully, as though afraid of their presence, spreading a heavy moldy smell in the cold air. It became easier to see Mircalla’s expression as her eyes adjusted to the candlelight, looking fluid, as if she could not decide what shape to possess.
The dwindling fire set sparks on her pale cheeks, her eyes lustrous and intent, her lust rekindled. Valerie was aware of everything, the frantic beat of her heart, the heat pulsing on her skin, yet she dared not touch her. All she could do was stand there with her trembling hands, return Mircalla’s stare, drunk with the anticipation of a moment long waited for.
Mircalla took a step forward. “Let me help you,” she said. “Your coat must be heavy.” Her body was all Valerie could see, she filled the periphery of her vision with such ardor and care that her chest ached, for she had known that these sensations lived in her too, once betrayed and cursed. She was tired of fighting them. Not anymore.
She took deep gulps of crisp air. The smoke made it to her lungs. Mircalla approached faster, her head hung low, as if prowling, but Valerie stood still as she turned her around and unbuttoned her coat. There was only a rustling of fabric, a flash of moonlight, and Mircalla’s shallow bursts of breath upon her. Mircalla’s hands were slow—intentionally slow—and when her coat dropped on the floor, she shivered.
Blood had already dried on Mircalla’s lips and she reached for the rusty taste. The hat and hair pins gone, her hair cascaded down her back and Mircalla wrapped a lock around her finger as she kissed her. For a fleeting moment, everything but her disappeared. There was nothing else to lean on but Mircalla’s glowing body.
