Poison Blood, Book 2: Absolution by Neha Yazmin
Chapter 7: Angel
The summer of 1911 was a hot one. An unforeseen heat-wave broke through and seemed to dry out the entire country, rinse it of life and colour. By then, I’d left London far behind. Never staying in one town or city too long. Perhaps I was being too paranoid? Maybe my pursuers gave up the search after I escaped their clutches in the capital, where both groups’ power was strongest?
I don’t know, but I kept moving nonetheless.
Had it only been February when my life had gone from mediocre to melodramatic? When I was unknowingly working for a group intent on bringing down the government, it seemed I’d been doing that my whole life. It had become my whole life. I couldn’t believe I turned my back on it before reaching the 6-month mark.
“The memories I have of the day I was created is pretty much all… manufactured,” I explained to Selma. Sitting more conventionally on the floor before me, cross-legged, our knees were just an inch apart. Like two friends sharing a story before bedtime.
Or mealtime, as in our case.
“You see, our human memories do not come so easily after we change. It’s as though we didn’t really experience that life. It’s all very blurry. Years later, and if we really concentrate, we can sketch it out in our heads, like I did, but most of us shrug and get on with the new existence.
“You know when you watch a less-than-average film and forget most of it soon after? Then a friend talks about a scene that you just can’t recall, but you can picture it in your mind because you know who starred in the movie, the setting… That’s how my last day as a human will always be to me. A story told to me, which I now believe to be my own memory.”
“The storyteller is also the creator,” Selma guessed correctly.
I nodded, stifling a laugh; the girl couldn’t verbally refer to the process – my transformation from human to vampire. After everything she’d been through, and what she’d be going through, she still feared what was in the past.
“It happened on a Sunday, in the city of Liverpool. The day became known as ‘Bloody Sunday’ because of the bloodshed during a demonstration–”
“I remember that,” the girl interrupted, eyes eager. “Well, from history lessons,” she continued in a murmur. “The police apparently just started attacking the crowds of people who were demonstrating to show support for the transport strikes.”
“I didn’t see any of this, or so I’m told. I was hiding away in someone’s cellar, afraid of drawing attention to myself. The house above me was empty that day. The cellar was dark, damp and filled with hot musty air. I do remember thinking that I could suddenly smell roses. I thought I was going crazy. And I swear the room’s temperature dropped ever so slightly.”
When the girl became perplexed by my last two sentences, I held my wrist to her nose. Instinctively, she sniffed. Then she gasped. Before she could say anything, I twisted my hand and touched my palm to her cheek. She recoiled immediately. Up until that moment, I’d refrained from touching her with my bare skin, always wearing gloves, and maintained a good distance between us, so she didn’t know I was ice-cold and didn’t smell human.
“You don’t smell like roses,” she murmured distractedly, rubbing her cheek.
“No, we all have a different scent.”
My creator smells of roses with a hint of peach. The human senses I possessed back then weren’t unparalleled as they are now, so I didn’t detect the fruitiness to her natural fragrance. I didn’t hear her enter the cellar, but she lit it up when she did.
When I saw her, my breath caught.
Her beauty, I remember. That first sight of her, I don’t think I will ever forget. Luscious white waves floated like cotton-candy around her pale-skinned face. Mesmerising, her hair seemed to have a life of its own, like rolling clouds beside her chalky cheeks, swirling and whirling around a moon on an overcast night. Though her face was youthful and flawless in its features, it was hiding secrets I could only speculate on, and I’d learned many secrets in my short career in espionage.
Tiny in terms of height and weight, her limbs were thin and elegant, her flowing white dress almost too big for her. But she exuded such an aura that I felt small and meaningless in comparison.
I thought I was in the presence of an angel.
It took me a while before I could put my finger on what was wrong with her. Well, maybe not wrong – because how can anything so beautiful be wrong? – but there was something that didn’t fit the angel theory. I had to scrutinise every inch of her face before I made my mind up.
The eyes.
This amazing creature’s eyes were the wrong colour.
Everything about her was white – her hair, her skin, her clothes – but the eyes were the strangest shade of deep crimson I’d ever seen in my life. It was as though someone had injected blood beneath her irises, and far too much because it seemed to be overflowing as she watched my own eyes bulge in surprise.
As I gulped in shock, she said, “Thirsty?” Her voice twinkled in the darkness, calming me momentarily. “So am I. Here,” she said, handing me a metallic pitcher with ice-cold water, “drink this or else your blood will be too thick. I hate it when it’s that consistency.”
I was seriously dehydrated. The heat was scorching and the only time I could eat or drink anything was when the small family who lived in the house above went to sleep and I could sneak into their kitchen. I’d already downed all the water I brought the night before and my throat was burning.
Not like it burns now, obviously.
Unable to help myself, I gulped down the whole jug and didn’t mind it when some of it trickled down my throat. It cooled me down instantly. I gave no thought to her blood references.
“Who are you?” I asked as I handed back the empty pitcher. She already seemed to be a hallucination. She wasn’t like anyone I’d ever seen. So beautiful…
“My name is Lydia,” she told me. “I’ve come to take you with me.”
“Where?” There was no question of not going with her. I didn’t care whether she worked for my ex-employer or the government or some other ruthless organisation. I’d go to hell with her if she took me.
Turns out, she did.
Her answer to my question though, was, “Eternity.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sorry, my love,” she said with a smile, “no time to explain now. We must leave at once, while the family from upstairs are still out demonstrating. Come.”
Like a dream, our departure from the cellar was instant. One moment, she was reaching for my hand with hers, and the next, we were jogging down a lonely street lined with dirty-looking houses.
At the time, I must’ve given myself over to the belief that I was dreaming or hallucinating. There was no way I could’ve known that she’d picked me up in her arms and ran out of that house, that street, so fast that I didn’t even know we’d even moved.
Memories of the transformation, and the moments just before the first bite, are the most vivid ones we have as immortals. No one had to tell this part of the story to me.
“My creator took me to the bedroom of a house on the outskirts of the city,” I continued the story out loud for Selma. “I know nothing of how it looked, how big or small it was, whether there were others present. I only had eyes for her. Her pale white perfection filled my vision. Fascination with her bizarrely disturbing eyes consumed my mind. We stared at each other a long moment, me practically shaking from anticipation of what was going to come next.
“We were in a bedroom. It was just the two of us. The door was shut – she’d been the one to lock it. If there were others nearby, there was no way they were getting in. Something would be happening between us, something special.
“Finally, she began to come towards me. I think I stopped breathing. Stepping up close, she lifted her elegant hand and curved it around my neck. It was ice-cold but somehow I was already accustomed to her body temperature. She stood on her tip-toes, her beautiful face moving closer
“The last thought I had as a human was: ‘Please let this magnificent creature kiss me.’ But I didn’t get my wish.”
Which turned out to be my dying wish.
“She bit you instead,” Selma surmised, gulping.
“She bit me instead,” I confirmed.