Bloodstains
Picking a book from the school definitely won’t work as an excuse now, Myra thought as she walked towards the prison cell. She had no way of explaining the bucket full of dead rats. The sticky blood covering her clothes made her feel as if she had committed a terrible crime and was now trying to hide the evidence. Which, in a way, was true.
At least Zack had stationed no guards at the prison door, apparently realizing the prisoner was in no condition to cause trouble. She put the bucket down to unlock the cell and stepped inside.
She coughed, choking. The air was moist and heavy everywhere in the Resistance’s caves, but the cell where they kept vampire prisoners was the worst. Taking a slow breath, Myra brought her candle forward and squinted in the darkness.
Tristan sat on the dirty floor with his back to the wall, his head hanging down and his hands and feet chained. Myra’s heart clenched. He looked so fragile. Why had Zack insisted on restraining him?
“Tristan?” she called softly even though she knew it was in vain. If anything, he would be weaker than he had been a few hours ago.
Myra gulped and walked in front of him, placing the bucket on the ground and raising her candle to illuminate him. He was hanging from his chains, completely limp, his skin even paler than usual. The wounds on his chest, neck and shoulder were still red and raw; perhaps they would not even start to heal until he had fed. His long silver-blond hair, now matted with dust and dry mud and blood, fell down in a curtain, concealing his features.
She reached out to brush his hair away and frowned. His face was like wax, sickly pale and twisted into a grimace of agony.
“Vlad will kill me,” she murmured under her breath and bent down to take a rat from the bucket. Her stomach turned as her fingers closed around the soft dead flesh. She drew in a deep breath before she brought the animal to the vampire’s lips.
“Come on, Tristan, drink. Don’t make this hard for me. I have no idea how to help you.”
After what seemed like ages, the vampire sniffed the air and instinctively started sucking on the rat’s wound. Myra nearly sobbed in relief. After the rat was sucked dry, she reached out for the second one.
After the fifth rat, Tristan frowned and a soft moan escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly before they fell shut once again.
“Tristan?” Myra called. “Tristan, can you hear me?” She slapped him gently on the cheek. “Please, open your eyes if you can.”
He made no sound or movement, and Myra reached out for the sixth rat. The vampire devoured it quickly and whimpered when there was no more blood. “Come now, I know you’re strong,” Myra said. “Armida said you can’t handle captivity. Open your eyes and prove her wrong.”
Tristan’s lips moved, and she leaned in to hear the barely perceptible sound.
“My lord?”
She frowned and grasped his uninjured shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just me. Myra.”
He blinked a few times and turned his bleary eyes to her. She tried to smile. “That’s it. You’ll recover.”
“Where am I?”
She winced. “Save your strength. I have one more rat. Drink it and we’ll talk.”
His eyes shot wide open, no longer bleary but focused and sharp. “Rat? Are you mad? I am going to stink.”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Honestly, this is your problem? That’s the only blood I can get you, so stop complaining and drink. I promised Vlad I’d take care of you. Don’t make my work harder than it already is.”
“You could have at least skinned it. My mouth is full of putrid hair.” Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait, what? Take care of me? Why?” He frowned. “I am at the Resistance.”
“Yes, and you need your strength. Drink.”
This time he did not protest and obediently drank the rat dry. After he was done, he gasped, throwing his head back, his face contorted.
“Are you in much pain?” Myra asked.
He made no response, but his twisted features were enough of an answer.
She moved the candle forward until the light illuminated his waxy skin. “Is it your wounds? Let me wash them.”
He shook his head, his eyes closed. “No,” he moaned. “My chest.”
“Your chest hurts?” Her eyes traveled over his pallid torso, trying to find something wrong, but nothing stood out apart from the two red spots where Armida had bitten him. “You mean the bite wound?”
He coughed and tried to curl up in a ball, as much as his chains allowed. “Not wound. Inside.”
She frowned. “Why is your chest hurting inside? What is wrong with you?”
His only response was another pained gasp before he tilted his face to one side, resting his cheek on his shoulder. Myra sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me, but I want to help. What can I bring you?”
“My sire’s blood.”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Right. Sorry, but I somehow forgot to ask Vlad to squeeze a bottle of blood for me before he left. Tristan, be serious. What can I bring you?”
“Painkillers.”
She bit her lower lip and looked away. “Tristan, I’m sorry. We ran out of painkillers last year. We never found any more during the recent patrols.”
Wait… why on earth was she apologizing to this creature? It was because of the vampires that they had no medicines, and many of her people had suffered as a result. And yet, seeing Tristan like this disturbed her, and she wanted to help. Myra reached out, brushing a few damp strands of hair from his forehead, revealing his ashen face. His skin was cold and clammy under her fingertips.
“Vlad will kill me,” she murmured.
To her surprise, Tristan grinned and opened his eyes to slits. “No, he won’t. I will tell him you took good care of me.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course. I am a gentleman. Besides, I know you are doing your best to help me. It is no fault of yours that you are incompetent.”
She rolled her eyes and stood up. “Is there anything at all I can do to help you?”
Tristan’s eyes fell shut, and he shivered. Myra stepped closer. “Are you cold?”
He shook his head. “Cold cannot harm vampires.”
“No, but it can still make you uncomfortable, especially if you’ve lost blood.” She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.
“You want to help?” he said. “Then get out. I have no use for your pity. I am not broken.”
She stepped back and sighed. “Of course not. You’re in perfect health, which is why you’re moaning, and groaning, and shivering, curled in a fetal position. Fine, then. I’ll leave you to enjoy your excellent well-being.”
She walked to the door but turned back before she opened it. “Tristan, in a few hours my people will come to feed you. You must pretend to be unconscious before you eat. And try to appear as weak as possible—they can’t think you are a threat.”
“Will try,” he said. She left the cell, leaning her head against the metal door as she closed and locked it behind her. Tristan would not need much pretense.
Medicines in the Resistance were scarce, and Zack always kept them under lock and key, to be distributed only when needed. Luckily, Myra was one of the few who had access… and she was now abusing the trust placed in her. She hesitated only a moment before she pulled bottles of rubbing alcohol and iodine tincture, as well as plaster and bandages, out of the metal locker. The rat bite wasn’t bleeding too heavily, but it could still become infected.
Once she had picked all she needed, she returned to her room. The first thing she did, before even sitting down, was change out of her bloody clothes. The relief once the sticky blood was no longer touching her skin was immense, but she still needed to wash the blouse and pants. They had so little clothing in the Resistance, and she could not afford to throw them away.
Weariness spread deep into her bones, and all she wished to do was collapse on the cot. But she could not—the blood would be harder to wash out once it dried. As quickly as her fatigued arms allowed, she finished cleaning and dressing the wound and picked up a clean bucket. Myra left her room and walked to the underwater stream.
What’s wrong with Tristan? she wondered as her feet mechanically carried her along the familiar path. Vampires can’t get sick, and his wounds aren’t so bad. He is drained and starving, but that should cause weakness, not pain.
This was hopeless. If Tristan were to escape, he had to be able to at least stand on his own two feet. Currently, he was in no shape to even keep his eyes open.
Did Vlad know this would happen? He must have. And yet, he let it happen so he would spare me.
She sighed. Vladimir was a bloodthirsty monster, and one strange act of kindness could not erase all the murders he had committed. Still, she felt responsible. Vlad could have easily fed her to Tristan. He had held her in an iron grip, leaving her no chance to fight or run. Still, he had chosen to let Tristan end up in this condition instead of harming her. If Tristan was suffering, it was in a way her fault.
A treacherous thought struck her. After what Vlad had done, could she break her promise to him? Could she go back to her original plan—refuse to help Tristan escape, and give humanity a chance of survival? But would that make her eviler than the Prince himself?
Myra reached the stream and filled the bucket with as much water as she could carry. Her arms ached as she staggered towards the kitchen. She had to stop and take a break every few steps, and her destination seemed nowhere closer.
Lost in thought, Myra yelped when she nearly collided with Lidia.
Her friend laughed. “Another nightly stroll? Your time with vampires has messed up your perception of day and night.”
Myra grinned back. “I still couldn’t sleep. I thought I could do some laundry to make use of the time.”
Lidia raised an eyebrow. “I wish I had your enthusiasm for hard work. Come. Let me help you with that.”
Lidia grabbed the bucket and led on, and Myra followed, gazing at the floor. How many more times would she need to deceive her friends? Vlad had taught her to lie convincingly, but he had never told her how to suppress the guilt.
Once they had reached the kitchen, Myra built a fire, while Lidia poured some of the water into a kettle and let it boil. They sat at the table to wait, and Myra stared at the flames. Lidia is unwittingly helping me hide my crime. This is so unfair.
“Myra, what’s wrong?”
She looked up at her friend, startled. “Nothing is wrong. Why do you ask?”
Lidia smiled. “Come, now. Midnight walks to get a book? Doing laundry when you should be sleeping? Something is up, and if you tell me what, perhaps I could help.”
You’re already helping. “Thanks, but there is nothing to help with, really. I’m fine.” Great. And now she was alienating herself from her friends, from the people who had supported her all her life, and all for the sake of a cruel bloodsucker.
“Are you worried your plan won’t work?” Lidia prompted. “Do you really believe Prince Obnoxious will destroy the WeatherWizard in exchange for the pretty vamp?”
Myra snorted. Oh, he would. He would blow up the Wizard and more, if that meant getting Tristan back. Instead, I’m going to let our prisoner go and demand nothing in return. “He might,” she said.
Lidia nodded. “Well, then, I will support your proposal to keep him alive. Come, the water is ready.”
Lidia walked Myra back to her cellar and paused in front of the door. “Do you need help with the laundry?”
Myra’s breath caught in her throat, but she smiled. “No, thanks. I know how much you love housework.”
Lidia bid her goodbye and left, and Myra entered her room, nearly collapsing on the cot.
Unfortunately, there was no time to rest. With a sigh, Myra pulled out three metal basins from underneath her cot and poured cold water into the largest.
The water for the prewash had to be cold, so that the blood would not congeal, but this knowledge did not make it easier on her hands. Myra shuddered as pain spread across her palms and wrists, but she did not pull out of the icy water.
The moment she soaked the garments, red inky tendrils spread from them, until the water turned a sickening pink. Myra resisted the urge to retch and scrubbed at the stains, trying to get the blood out. The more she scrubbed, the more hopeless it seemed. The rusty brown stains stood there, bright and visible against the pale fabric. Myra scrubbed vigorously, on and on, until she had scrubbed the skin off her knuckles. The raw, skinless flesh stung as it made contact with the soapy water, and Myra sobbed. Her bandage fell off and her blood mingled with the rats’.
She felt like a murderer trying to hide the deed. And yet, the crime she was committing was much more heinous.
Myra mixed cold and hot water to continue washing in the second basin, and rinsed the clothes in the third. She would have to throw all the crimson water into the waste pit before anyone saw it.
After she was done, she wrung out the wet clothes and hung them on the chair, then collapsed on the cot, staring miserably at her hands, which now felt painfully dry. The skin was rubbed raw in a few places, and the rat bite would need redressing.
Vlad, the things I do for you, indeed. With a last look at her abused hands, Myra finally fell asleep.