A Long Time Dead

For Alessandra, who deserves the world. There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandl’d were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. I guess, ’twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she— Beautiful exceedingly! Mary mother, save me now! (Said Christabel) And who art thou? —Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Christabel Part I Somewhere foggy, 1837 Chapter 2 Poppy woke, and her throat burned. “Roisin?” she croaked, but she was alone. “Roisin!” She needed, oh god— Thirst overcame her, demanding satiation. Her skin was hot and cracked, her mouth a salivating, dripping mess. She ached for blood, craved it, a desire as fundamental as a heartbeat. And it was urgent, a single-minded drive propelling her up and out. She raced down the halls and through the kitchen, bursting from the house. The moon was full-bellied and bright, lending its light to the overgrown wildness of the grounds, limning the clover in silver. She was as one with everything that grew, wild as the dandelion between her toes, seeding the earth, unpruned and unstoppable. She fell to all fours, sniffing the air. Nothing for a moment, and then—in the distance, something rich and red, shifting and shuffling in the gorse needles. Her legs moved without thought. She careened into waxy leaves and biting thorns she barely felt. Her hands grappled with something warm and furred. She felt an aching pressure in her gums, licked at the pointed tip of a dropped fang. She was made for this, built to hunt and kill and feed. She raised her mouth and dropped her teeth into the hare, hearing the plaintive squeals just as her mouth filled with hot, sweet blood. She moaned, drinking desperately, sticky heat dribbling down her chin. Not enough, not enough. The second one was easier to find; she caught in a single fist and thoughtlessly tore the creature in twain, salving the horrible burn. Pleasure ripped through her, shivering and terrible, and she wanted more, needed more. To feast on the earth’s creatures, to fill her swelling belly with their red, flowing vitality. To dig her flesh into the earth, to take it as a lover, to bear its children and devour them like a hungry god. A third hare—a fat one, greasy and rich, and she gorged herself upon it. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh. More, more, she needed— “Poppy?” A voice, somewhere in the distance. She lifted her head, ear cocked like a wild dog. “Poppy, are you out here?” She knew that voice, and she liked it. Yes, yes, it was a voice she liked. She rose, stumbling after the sound. “Poppy, is that—Poppy!” Hands on her, touching her hair and face, lifting her blood-sodden chemise over her head and tossing it away. “Are you hurt? How many did you eat? Oh, this is my fault. All my fault. I’m so, so sorry. Poppy, I’m so sorry.” “Roisin,” Poppy slurred. She blinked her vision clear. Tuppence-silver eyes filled with concern swam before her, tucked under a furrowed brow. She gazed down; her breasts and belly were smeared with blood. “I’m nude.” “Very good. Well spotted. Saints, this is all my—oh, dear, let’s get you inside, shall we?” Poppy toddled toward the house, supported by Roisin’s arm wrapped around her middle. Inside, Roisin dumped her in a large, comfortable chair by the kitchen hearth. Poppy didn’t need the warmth, but the crackle and smell of the fire were something of a comfort. The kitchen was a largish room, stone-floored and high-ceilinged. Several iron rods ornamented the hearth, perfect for hanging pots and pans, had they any. On the other side of the room, a shelf, presumably intended for more kitchenware, was piled with a haphazard assortment of books. A hulking wooden table stood in the center of the space, scarred with burns and gouges, accompanied by two long bench seats. The armchairs by the hearth were perhaps newer than the rest of the items in the house, but not by much. They were mismatched, one striped, the other solid, each festooned with what had to have been the world’s least necessary antimacassar. A basket of blankets waited by Poppy’s chair, moth-eaten and dingy from ash. “Don’t move,” Roisin intoned. “I’ll be right back.” She bolted out the door. When she returned, it was with a wet cloth in her hands. “Where’s water?” Poppy asked. “Don’t try to talk just now.” “It was a-a question. That’s wet.” She pointed at the rag, now dripping onto the flags. “Where’s water?” “Oh! A well. Just round the other side. May I . . .” She gestured at Poppy’s body, a gory wreck of blood and turned earth. Poppy’s mouth was sticky and buzzing numb. “Please.” Gently, almost reverently, she washed the blood off of Poppy’s soft body. Poppy watched in helpless silence as Roisin went about her careful ministrations, dragging the rag across Poppy’s shivering skin. When she was done, she wrapped Poppy in a blanket from the basket—more for decency than comfort, Poppy imagined, as temperature no longer bothered her. She nearly laughed—how many London nights had she spent trembling against the icy sleet? Now she was as immune to a winter’s night as a statue. “Feeling better?” Roisin asked. “A b-bit. What was that?” Roisin took the chair on the other side of the flickering hearth. The fire lit her face, casting shadows against all of those stark angles. “A frenzy, I’m afraid. I should have known.” “You . . .” Her mouth was numb, her words clumsy. “Don’t try to talk. It’s all right. You’re very young, and your thirst for blood is very strong.” “I’m t-twenty.” A tight nod of acknowledgment. “So you are. But as a vampire, you’re a newborn. The best way to keep