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Sleeping Cherub Kelantha
He
did not tell me and yet I knew. The profoundness of the blood that passed
from his veins onto my lips was so strong that I immediately knew of its
origin, and looked at him then with a kind of hurt comprehension that he
must have found painful, for his pale eyes met mine for a lingering moment
and then deliberately glanced away. It was unfathomable to me, this world
in which I now dwelled. I had thought to be no longer among the living, to
bear no strains of a mortal coil that might bind me to earthly mortality,
and yet the life growing within dispelled all my notions. It was
impossible to me that I might nurture a child, that these motherly
feelings within me, those that disrupted so violently my habits and
desires, that seized me with the incomprehensible desire to move about in
sunlight and endure the presence of humans without intending them harm,
could stem from any such creation; and yet I knew unquestioningly that he
was right, it was so; that somehow, in a sacrilegious and morbid twist of
some puerile brand of a miracle, I was to give the master of the night a
son. I
knew it was a boy in the same peevish intensity that I knew the blood of
Mister Westenra flowed through my veins. My
husband was eager to leave that place, so eager that he abandoned his
formal pursuits and became insistent, convinced I would do myself harm in
one of my random fits of despondency, which caused me to lose all
comprehension of my limitations. I held out for one more night, determined
to have my way and to bid the child farewell that had lured me into the
garden. That I was willing to go out that evening concerned him; that I
drew on my cape and tied it around my neck with steady fingers
disconcerted him; that I went purposefully forth into the darkness alone
agitated him, and yet if he followed, for indeed I do not know for
certain, but believe he must have, his footsteps never reached my
listening ear as I strolled alone along the promenade by the bank and
turned to the west. Though
I knew very little of where the charming little house�s occupants had
gone in their horrified flight, something drew me to the outskirts of
town, where there were fewer prostitutes and more open spaces. I was
tempted to go beyond into the wood and from there become lost in the
magnificence that was a moonlit existence, but forced myself to turn into
the little inn. The lights had been extinguished and all were abed. I
shook my head over their foolishness in leaving the side door unlatched
and quietly entered, ascending the stairs and pausing just outside the
near room. I could hear them sleeping within, the quiet rise and fall of
their chests as they breathed. It was too heavy to be that of a child, and
I went to the next door. It
opened beneath my tenacious hand and admitted me into a gloomy existence,
a mere parlor adjacent to a small bedroom. They did not stir as I entered
the patches of moonlight filtering through the chink in the curtains. I
stood staring down at them, the mother holding the child in her arms,
cheeks tearstained and features mildly flushed in sleep. Lucy stirred
faintly as I came to her bedside, resting my hand on the pillow beside her
head and lowering so that I might gaze into her blissful features. Neither
sensed my presence, but I found a strange satisfaction in observing them
thus, tranquil in their bedroom. It was much more meaningful than the
lives I took on the street, alluring to the point of the enchantment that
lay heavy over us all, an inescapable cord that bound us together in a
mutual fate that had not yet been revealed. Stroking the blonde curls, I left them there without a mark or ill intention, shutting the door silently in my wake and slipping out the way I had come. I wandered for many hours, encountering many that might have fulfilled my needs but touching none of them. It was in the wee hours of darkness before the dawn when Dracula came upon me, and taking his hand, I drew him into the obscurity beneath the bridge. He silently offered me his wrist once more, where a succession of marks were apparent against the pallor of his skin. His touch was warm, and I took it, but rather than lifting it to my lips, I drew him near. My lips turned in the direction of his throat, asking without presumption, and though he hesitated, his hand closed about the back of my neck and drew me near. I caressed the skin above his collar, pulling at the cravat so neatly tied, and breathed deeply of his scent, for it reminded me of Transylvania. But I could not, and with a sad little whimper, sought refuge in his embrace. I know that it disappointed him, but such was my malady, such was the state of magnificent confusion in my mind, that I knew nothing more, not the arrival of the coach and him lifting me into it, nor the many miles we traveled at incredible speeds, nor even the scent of the woods as we passed through them. It was not truly conscious until midway through our journey, when we came to an inn with the intent of resting the horses. There, gentle arms slid beneath my limp form and he carried me up a narrow flight of stairs, placing me on a soft and welcoming mattress. He spoke in Romanian, ushering the hovering and concerned tavern maid from the room. Then, and only then, did I sleep.
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