The Story of the Vampire, L (Completed | Featured )

Part 7 - A Pulled Sash

 It was the beginning of the Belle Epoque, which was a wild time of looseness and frivolity, of evening people wanting to live. But for me, the year with them casts a shadow over all of it. Like Laurent, I prefer the evening, and the people in it. In the day, there is too much noise and rushing around. I don't like to talk to strangers and I avoid busy situations where I might come underfoot of some large animal or a crowd. Paris then was a busy place in general, though up on our hill, it was quieter most of the time.

As I've said before, I didn't know much about what had gone on in the previous decades between them. I had put the two of them well behind me and travelled what to me then was all of the known world. I had learned all about the funny alchemy of poisons and sweet words, which together have power beyond what I, small in body, could hope to wield on my own. But quick thinking, and keeping a clear head, has more power even than that. When I woke up, there was no one in the room, so I left the money I'd stolen from Dasius tucked under a powder tin and went out, keeping under the shadow of the roof, close to wall. My head felt achy and cloudy, as it often does when I am without blood for too long. I shielded my eyes from the high sun, feeling that migraine twitch in my body, an angry, looping and painful irritation, like a far too tight violin string plucked in anger. It took too much time to walk home, and when I opened the door, in the shadow of afternoon, my eyes required a few moments to adjust.

I took in the spatters of blood first, and second, the struggle. Everywhere, delicate objects were scattered and overturned. A porcelain and gold washing jug had been thrown against the large front window. I could see the faint spiderweb of impact on the thick glass. The jug had shattered, but its intricate gold lacework held parts of it together on the wooden floor. I put my shoes back on, though the sound of my footsteps would certainly give me away. It wasn't worth the risk of being cut. On the floor, near my feet, was a bloody golden letter opener -- shape of a bladed crucifix. I recognized it from the desk in Dasius's office and picked it up. It was blooded to the hilt. I feared for Dasius then, wondering where and how many times he had been struck. I saw where he had crawled away, trying to get into the kitchen, which had a heavy door which he might shut, but I know that Laurent in a rage, where he is able to keep on both his feet, is thundering. The night before, he had been subdued before he could get momentum. This, in contrast, had been a studied attack.

But the blood had gone tacky and then dry. It had been some time. The house was as quiet as the dead. I went from the living room back into Dasius's study in my low heels, trying to be silent, but heels give one away no matter the effort. In the study, I saw the drawer, where the letter opener had been, yawning open. The scene was destruction there, too. The desk had been swept of papers and implements, all chairs overturned as Dasius must have tried to crowd the path. There by his desk I could see evidence of the first strike -- a spray of dry blood on the wing-backed leather chair, which had been knocked over on the blow, bloody handprints on the desk, which belonged to Laurent, who must have grabbed onto it to avoid being knocked back. Of course they both would have been covered in blood at the hands and face immediately. It was obvious he'd gotten my brother directly in the neck. I clutched the letter opener tightly and went back out into the sitting room, searching for where they had gone next. There I found a sharp tooth on the floor and picked it up, put it in my pocket. Dasius's face being knocked into the doorframe by another savage blow.

I followed the trail into the kitchen, finally, where there was a black sash that could only be Dasius's, pulled from his dressing gown as he fled to the cupboard, which he could lock himself in. My heart quickened with disappointment on his behalf that he had sought no revenge, gone directly into the cupboard instead of to the large gutting knife I knew to be in the drawer near the sink. It is what I would have done, for dignity. Beyond anything, to my death, there is fight. But I could see on the cupboard door where Laurent had clawed and dug at the lock, could see prints on the floor from bloody knees and hands, imagined the stricken barbarian screams I have heard him cry before, in far earlier times. I raised my hand to knock softly with my palm on the wood, but I heard my brother then, breathing on the inside, and I knew that he had been gotten in the chest many times and was near the door.

I whispered to him in my best child's voice. "Is it dangerous? Should I flee?"

"Not for you, no. It's me he wants. Me, my God, he wants me dead," he said, so softly.

I whispered "Our Father" three times to him, very quietly, pushing air near the keyhole in prayer, like we had been taught as children to do when we're afraid, so long ago. On the third time, I heard him try to follow me, whispering the words haltingly, too long forgotten. "Libera nos a malo," I whispered, deliver us from evil.

"It was me who found that boy," he gasped, quiet like death. "Leis. I loved him first. I did. But he fears my very shadow for what I did."

"Don't waste breath. I was there."

But I know that I was barely there. I wandered away for weeks at a time.

"David," I said. "Where is he?" Ou est-il? Just air, passing my lips.

"Please God, don't use my real name. Not here. Not like this."

I turned from the door, because I knew that he knew I wanted no part of him near death, that I could take no comfort in his pain, and that he could take no comfort from me in that state. I stood on my own terms, and went back the way I had come, into the sitting room, but I backed quickly into the kitchen again, as if falling, because there Laurent was, steathily coming for me across the wooden floor, completely silent. And I saw that Dasius had gotten him, had scratched him across the face and up both arms. His hair was tangled and his eyes sharpened with focus. I won't forget it, because he rarely ever looked so alive again.

But I also saw the other marks, deep bruises and bites on his neck and wrists which were far fresher than the struggle. Dasius never saw them, because even as I watched him, they were beginning their slow fade.

"Who?" I demanded, standing my ground. "Who? What?" I threw the letter opener at his feet, because he had stopped at my entreaty, standing just inside the doorway.

He did not speak a word.

"You are unforgivable. You are in no way capable of love," I hissed at him. "This is too much to bear." But I felt nothing, and because I felt nothing, I began to cry again.

He stood still, a look of bewilderment on his face, as if in this greeting, he had quite forgotten who he was. And but God I wondered again, if I had ever known.