Get Hooked Anthology

@Monrosey - Of the Blood

With blood-red lips,
My eyes ascend toward the Heavens.
I am consumed.

Of the Blood: Identifying an individual as a vampyre.

(Taken from the Religious Tolerance Glossary of Terms about Vampyrism.)

South Harbor, Connecticut — October 1886

Even from the doorway, the room smells of death. I'd recognize it anywhere. A sickly-sweet odor, like rotting fruit, with the hint of something more.

Candles burn in every corner, flames twitching above half-melted columns of wax, but it's too benign to mask the scent. I breathe through my mouth to escape the stench but it clings to the back of my throat like mold.

I step inside the bedroom. Honor is next to me, fastened to my hand, his grip so tight my fingers pinch between his. At eight-years-old, he's half my age, and has already seen his share of grief. If cutting off my circulation brings him comfort it's a small price to pay.

There's a window across from us with a bed underneath, wide enough to fit two children if they were lying close enough. An uneven lump juts out from the center of the mattress, the rise and fall of breath stirring the quilt.

Honor shifts, the lock of his hand growing tighter. When he looks up, his brows knit in confusion.

"Sissy?" His voice is low; his amber eyes, so similar to mine, too big for his face. He's gnawing at his bottom lip, a habit he picked up last spring. Some days his teeth peel away so much skin he bleeds. I do as Papa says and ignore the anxious tic. "Is Andrew going to get better?"

An ache invades my throat. For a moment I think about lying, but I can't. I won't. "No."

I could sugar coat the truth the way Papa does, but my brother deserves better than that. He won't be a child forever and there are things he must learn. Knowing when a person is between life and death is one of them.

"The Lord is calling Andrew home," I tell him. "Do you know what that means?"

Honor blinks up at me. "Like he did with Mama and Grace?"

I swallow, pushing down the emotions I never allow to spill over. "Yes, just like Mama and Grace. That's why we're here—to say goodbye. Do you understand?"

"I understand." He continues to chew his lip and turns back to his friend.

Only days ago, Andrew Milton scurried about town, his eyes the same vibrant blue as the ocean. He was healthy, happy, as every ten-year-old should be. Today, he's confined to his bed, too weak to eat, too fragile to speak. Too exhausted to notice we're here. No telling why. The doctor lives two towns away, and hasn't been here in over a month.

In the kitchen behind us, burning timbers hiss around the stove vent. I glance over my shoulder at the people gathered near its warmth. Andrew's father, his mother, and younger sister Agnes. Papa's there too, still holding the pot of venison stew we brought with us so Mrs. Milton wouldn't have to cook. She's sniffling again, her cheeks raw from tears, lips chapped over and crusted with blood. Her husband tries to coax her with a steaming mug of tea but she pushes it away, her mouth a stubborn line of noncompliance.

A rustle from the bed draws me back, a rasping wheeze that claws its way out from beneath the covers. And then stillness. Silence. The quiet swallows me like a fog.

Honor curls into me. "Sissy, is he...?"

My lips part, but whatever I'm about to say is wedged between my brain and my mouth. We step further inside the bedroom, our boots whispering against the wooden floor. Waiting for a sigh of breath, for the slightest hint of movement. A trace of something, anything, to confirm Andrew's still here.