Sybrina (11 page)

“
Bring me whiskey and a cot!” I yell to no one in particular.  Mr. Tinker sends two sailors away in haste.  “Mouse?” I ask gently, wiping the wetness from my face.  “Can you talk?”  His breathing is shallow and fast. I run my fingers over his bruised neck checking for a break. Those eyes.  His eyes are pleading with me but he doesn’t speak.  There is so much sadness in his young face. I can’t examine him like this. I reach my hand out to press on his organs and Mouse bucks in pain.

“
Can you do anything?” Michael asks.

“
I do not know yet.” 

I have never seen a person with so many severe injuries.  I am surprised he survived the fall. I search around the area for a rope and grab one with my hands shaking. The cot and whiskey arrive. Mr. Tinker has the amber bottle clasped tightly in his fingers. 

“Get him to drink as much as you can,” I order.  “You there!” I motion for the sailors to bring the cot over.  “We need to tie him to the cot to keep him from shifting to bring him inside.”

Mouse dribbles out most of the whiskey and it puddl
es with the blood by his head. I sop it up with the hem of my skirt.  I hope he has had enough because moving him will be cruelly painful. The sailors work adeptly and secure Mouse to the cot we are using for a stretcher. They lift him and a tortured screech releases from him. My heart breaks off piece by piece as I walk behind the procession carrying Mouse out of the elements. Captain Stokes watches us; his face is unreadable.  Mr. Tinker tends to others that unfortunately met their demise at the hands of the attacker. My eyes dart around warily looking for what Vadim referred to as the Revenant, waiting for him to strike again and bring mayhem and more death.  Michael is by my side, watchful.

Privately, I am crying inside for Elijah and
his descent into the cold sea. I am torn between my thoughts. I am eerily aware of his uncanny behavior and strength. He can take care of himself, but the sensible part of me says no one can jump from that height off the side of the ship, taking another with him, and survive.  My heart aches. It aches for Elijah, Mouse, and every other soul we have lost in a matter of minutes. Time drifts by slowly when you are at the mercy of the devil.

“
Miss! Miss! He is calling for you.” I hear it, a raspy small voice, Mouse.  I dash forward and reach out to take his hand, walking alongside him.

“
Don’t,” I order.  “Let’s get you inside.”  Beholding his youthful face is all I can bear before deep sobs and watery eyes surface.  I need to be strong and keep my wits about me so I can figure out how to help him.  Mouse’s eyes close tightly against the pain.

There is no infirmary so the few deckhands take him to the galley where they share
their meals together.  Long wooden tables weathered with use and the harsh sea air stretch across the room; matching benches sit on either side.  They place the cot directly upon the closest table. Mouse is at a perfect height for me to examine but the light in here is too dim for an examination.

“
A light please,” I request.  Rufus takes a lantern off the wall and holds it above my head.  “A knife.”  Hesitantly, unsure of what I plan to do with a blade, a young man, probably a few years older than Mouse, hands one to me.

I take the knife and lift the cloth of Mouse
’s shirt and slice it in half, neck to belly.  I pull the cloth away, exposing his chest.  Immediately, I notice two ribs jutting out, broken. By his stomach is a bluish stain.  My guess would be most likely the bleeding of an organ. 

Helplessness consumes me.  I don
’t know what to do for him.  I can bind the ribs and set them but internally I have no idea.  He could have an injured lung or a pierced liver.  His back is something I cannot even check because of the pain involved in moving him.  Frustration at this predicament rises and my own heart bleeds for Mouse. Futile situations are what push me, but this...  I cannot fix. Eyes are on me, waiting for me to say or do something to aid him.  I peer around me at the hopeful, worried faces. 

“
I need a sheet.”  I take the whiskey bottle from the man beside me.  I lean over Mouse and smile at him, an attempt at a gentle reassurance.  “I want you to drink as much of this as you can. Understand?  I am going to bind your ribs—a couple are broken.  Then the only thing to do is rest.”  I run my hands through his moppy hair and kiss his forehead.  I lift the whiskey bottle to his lips and he drinks.

Elijah:

I propel myself onto the deck of
The
Water Witch
as if I have been shot from a cannon.  The guard on duty in the crow’s nest is startled and I use my persuasion to silence and ease him.  He goes back to his duty, and I, soaked from the sea, enter the ship’s chambers. 

Vadim is gone with the Revenant
, fleeing with the ship he commandeered and leaving me plagued by my mistakes.  I must travel the globe to right them. I made the harrowing misstep of believing in someone; I was misguided and young in this life.  I thought his demeanor similar to mine.  I was incorrect.  I must reach out to those he plunders, causing anguish and death.  I am the one responsible. Even with all of my abilities and gifts, I have been unsuccessful in stopping Vadim.  These jaunts we have are pitifully common and border on the ridiculous.  Back and forth we go like a crosscut saw until one of us tires and relents, bored with game.

Vadim
’s words to me, while locked in battle, echo.  “I must have her!” Envious greed casts a hungry monster on the forefront of my reason; I want to shred everything in my wake.  Just as this ship shreds the water into angry rippling waves and white foam, the bow cutting continually and not stopping until the satisfaction of a destination is reached.
She is mine!  He can have nothing!

My steps are heavy, cracking against the floor with incensed vehemence. Driven by my senses, I know she is close. Directly, I find Sybrina in the galley.  The boy, Mouse, is bound and strapped to a small bed.  Sybrina is asleep in a chair that must have been provided for her use at this vigil.  Slumbering or awake she is breathtaking and just seeing her eases my fury.

I go to the boy and with one look I know he is not sleeping, he is slipping away.  His pallor and the slowing of his heart indicate such. 
Damn Vadim!
I curse and raise my fist to slam against the aged wooden table behind me. Mid-height, I stop myself.  This will not solve the ghastly conundrum.
Dammit!

Vadim is a fiend of the worst kind. A drop of my blood would never even come close to healing the boy. His death will devastate Sybrina.  Sleeping beside her patient with no means to save him will no doubt be an additional burden to her heart.
Damn Vadim to Hell!

I pace, grappling with the choices before me.  Sybrina has lost so much and it pains me to allow the boy to die.  But the mistakes I have made, turning Vadim, and not turning Sarah in time, are crippling my reason and sense.   This in no way amends my indiscretion but I want to do something that will ease her, make her happy.

Not knowing a soul’s predisposition has adversely caused this debacle involving Vadim’s rampage. I stand over the boy.  His demeanor has been revealed to me when Vadim’s was not.   Had I been acquainted Vadim before I found him on the battlefield, on the cusp of death, my decision to make him a vampire may have been altered.  I blame Vadim for this.  The scope of choices is so finite and irrevocable—turn the boy or let him die.

Sybrina
’s breathing is deep and rest needed; I turn to gaze upon her once more.  Her own brush with death by illness and then her meeting with Vadim cast a heavy exhaustion over her—not dispelling our botched interlude by my own idiocy.  I want to be with her, there is no doubt.  Securing her affections and trust will be difficult after such a disgrace.

I step closer to Mouse, sizing him up, making a final decision.
I raise my wrist to my mouth and clip the inside of it with my teeth, drawing a good amount of blood.  Holding it over his mouth, I let the red liquid run past his teeth and over his tongue.  A fair dose is needed to be effective on his injuries.

“
What are you doing?” a small groggy voice asks. I spin, caught in an act that to a human would be perceived as witchery. Struggling with her voice, she declares, “You are here. I knew deep down you would come back.” Sybrina lifts her head in weary confusion. My blood continues into the boy’s mouth as we speak. 

“
I am feeding him,” I profess with caution, and wonder if she will run from me in hysterics.  This deed is a perverted transfer of life force.

“
Will he become a vampire?” Shifting in her chair, Sybrina speaks with an emotional combination of awe and query.

“
Yes, or he will die,” I answer, relieved at her composure.

Sybrina is thoughtful and doesn
’t seem afraid of me right now, even though she has been running from a vampire and in the arms of one.  She seems resolved to dissect and analyze the situation at hand as her tone takes on a matter-of-fact dissonance. 

“
That’s good,” she reflects, staring at the floor.  Knowing this woman as I do, her mind is processing and thinking about what she has witnessed and the vague puzzle is fitting together.

“
The procedure is long lest he become a Revenant,” I inform her, pulling my hand away from Mouse and closing my damp cuff over the wound that has already begun to heal.

“
Is your friend a Revenant?”

“
No,” I say sullenly.  “We stopped any sort of congenial relationship decades ago.”  I sigh.  “The sailor he turned is a Revenant... a human brought back to life as an undead minion. Their powers are more bloodlust than sense or consciousness.  They serve vampires.  They are strong and fast but carry only the baser of the human psyche.”  I pause, waiting for a response or acknowledgment of what I am saying.  But Sybrina is listening intently.

“
Humans brought back to life and sired exchange blood between the vampire and the human. It must take place over the course of days and many times, giving them full consciousness, sense, and immortality.  No sickness, disease, or earthly injury can destroy them.  Vampires can injure each other, but cannot kill one another.”

“
Beheading...fire... or dropped from a mast like Mouse?” she questions, rattling off some ghastly human ends.

“
No... No known blade can slice our skin.  And fire cannot penetrate it.”

“
Is that the root of your strength?”

My eyes close with shame.  Her question refers to the evening of the
unfortunate display of my unrestrained abandon. A horrid remembrance I will never forget.

“
It is sometimes difficult to... maintain control when we are flooded with emotions that have not surfaced for... a long time.”

“
Oh...”

“
How did you open your skin just then?” she asks.

“
My own teeth.”  It is quiet between us as if a settling of grievances.  “I will move him to my quarters, soon.”

“
How do you not burn in the sunlight?”

“
Folklore is told from a perspective that benefits humans and subdues their fears. It would keep the farmers and tradesmen locked in their homes for all time if they knew vampires walked the earth at all manner of hours. The sun weakens us but does not destroy us.”  Deductions and conclusions are processing through her contemplations.

“
We prefer to hunt and travel in the cover of night; our bloodlust is typically stronger in the evening hours. The night shadows the small differences in our appearance, enabling us to remain hidden. A bright day is uncomfortable, but not detrimental.  It is easy to persuade humans that our whitewashed pallor is poor constitution.”

Sybrina
’s face tells me that she is absorbing all that I am telling her.  Her mind must move like the innards of a clock, spinning wheels, spokes—never stopping and always wound.

“
You mentioned powers.  What sort of powers do you possess besides... being indestructible?” 

“
Strength... Speed... Power of suggestion,” I list for her.

Her eyes flitter in thought.  Meeting my gaze she asks,
“Do you lust for my blood?” 

What an ambiguous inquiry
! I think with humorless delight.  I want her
all
—blood, body, and soul. I would think my recent actions had made that clear. My dormant needs always rise to the surface with her near—a causal tragedy unable to rectify itself.  Her wide beautiful eyes bore into me with the question hanging in the air between us.

“
I lust for blood... but with disciplined restraint, control it.”  She glances at me with suspicious disbelief; the phantoms of that evening hang about the room ensnared within her questions.

“
The other evening was a mistake.  Abhorrence strikes my soul to think on it.  The last thing I would ever want is for you to be afraid of me. I am sorry for making you fearful.”

“
I accept your apology, Min...” She catches herself.  “Elijah.”  Her face shows a hint of merriment.  “It is a good thing you are not of the clergy, for I have never met someone so horrid at it.”

I grin at her jest at my expense.  She is correct; I make for a terrible clergyman.

“Will Mouse kill people?” She halts, reconsidering her words, and softly asks, “Will he have
restraint
as you put it?”

“
He will not be himself for a couple of days.  I will teach and advise him.”

“
Will
he
be back?” Sybrina emphasizes
he
.

“
Vadim will be back.  We must be ready.”  Her silence is the only evidence needed of her fear.  She should be fearful; Vadim wants her.

Mouse
’s body jolts in a macabre lurch. Sybrina’s intake of a sharp breath is discernible. His body is healing itself, strengthening to an impenetrable fortress.  More spastic jumps, the ropes snap, and I hold the boy down.  Sybrina stands, stepping back anxiously.

“
I must take him now,” I tell her.

Sybrina nods with glazed eyes filled with tears pooling in the corners.
“Take care of him,” she mutters, unsure of the situation.

“
Go to your cabin,” I order more harshly than I would have liked.  I soften my cadence to reassure her, “I will look after him.” 

I sling Mouse over my shoulder when he settles a bit and
, with unearthly speed, leave Sybrina alone in the galley with her skepticism and anguish.  Vainly, I hope that this is the beginning of mending our rapport.