🚀 go-pugleaf

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                               BLOOD SEASON
                     The Origin of Chalandra Harkness

                           Chapter Four of Five
                                 "Flying"
                                    by
                               Gary W. Olson


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     Morning found them on the balcony, sitting on the stone floor, just
above the early, dissipating fog.  Chalandra stirred as she felt the rays of
the sun on her face, and shifted slightly; she was leaning against the
corner where the wall met the door frame, and it wasn't very comfortable.
     The woman who was nestled against her other side was, though.  Were it
not for the slight press against Chalandra's side she gave as she took in a
breath, Chalandra wouldn't know she was breathing at all.  Her clothing was
rumpled, and a shoulder had torn out, revealing the ghostly pale skin
underneath.
     Chalandra moved a strand of saltwater-dampened hair out of her eyes, and
she murmured, quietly.  Even though she was slightly older, Little Fang seemed
almost childlike as she slept, at peace for the first time in ages.  Chalandra
touched her fingertips to the holes in her neck, now a bit larger than
before, and remembered...
     The depletion had been tenative, at first, when Little Fang sank her
sharpened teeth into Chalandra's neck.  She knew what to do, but was
inexperienced, and Chalandra had begun to wonder if asking Little Fang to
turn her was a good idea, after all.
     A change, almost imperceptible, happened a few moments later.  She altered
the angle of the entry of her fangs slightly, so that they acted to stretch
the hole in the blood vessel.  She pressed her mouth to Chalandra's neck and
drank with increasing fervor, her arms pulling Chalandra in with an embrace
that grew in strength.
     Her vision waned, and she must have cried out, for the teeth left her
neck moments later.  Eventually, she realized that Little Fang was staring
into her eyes, a worried, panicked look on her features.  A wave of dizziness
assaulted her, and she wondered if she had lost too much blood too soon, if
her disobeying of the Count Dracula would result in her premature, and final,
demise.
     Then the rush hit her.
     Her body ached with the loss of blood, with the cessation of the drinking,
and yet, an ecstatic flush was sweeping through her, curling her toes and
closing her eyes.  She had felt it before, when Dracula removed his fangs from
her neck, but the feeling had been muted by his hypnotic, overwhelming
presence.  He told her it was a form of body magick, a conditioned response to
intense pain that he would mute, to allow the magic that he had implanted
within her to grow, unhindered.
     Chalandra opened her eyes, and saw Little Fang, still staring at her, with
blood on her lips and chin.  She leaned forward and kissed her chin, savoring
the taste of her own blood, wishing her fangs were fully grown in.
     They savored a bloody kiss, and Chalandra knew, somehow, that Little
Fang had found the way to regain her strength.
     "Let's get out of here," Chalandra suggested, smirking.
     They moved out to the balcony, and Little Fang scooped Chalandra up and
leapt over the edge, falling upwards, instead of down.  Chalandra knew she
should have been terrified, but, at that moment, it had seemed terribly
funny...
     A shift.  Chalandra blinked, and looked up at the sun again, as its
golden rays pierced the light morning cloud cover.  Little Fang was awake now -
her eyes were open, though she did not move, aside from a single shift of
weight.
     "I should...get back to my room..." Little Fang said, her voice a bit
raspy.  She winced, when she spoke.  "My head..."
     "Drank too much?" Chalandra asked, fighting the urge to giggle.
     "Something like that," Little Fang answered.  "Ack, I smell like
saltwater..."
     "You're the one who insisted on skimming the English Channel," Chalandra
reminded her.  "I told you those waves could be rough."
     Little Fang nodded, and sat up, arching her back and stretching her arms
out.  "Ow.  I feel better than I've felt in...ages."
     "My blood seems to have given you strength," Chalandra noted.  "Did you
know that it would?"
     "Didn't know what to expect, really," Little Fang said.  "It felt a lot
better than I anticipated."  She leaned over and kissed Chalandra's cheek
before standing.  "I'm going to go back to my room...see you at breakfast?"
     "Late breakfast," Chalandra told her.  Little Fang nodded and rose into
the air, floating across to the balcony that jutted from the guest quarters
and disappearing inside.  She turned, smiled softly, then went inside.
     Moments later, there was the sound of a door opening, from somewhere
within Chalandra's rooms.  Chalandra didn't rise to see who it was; at this
hour, there was only one person it could be.
     "Out here, Belim," she called.
     There were footsteps across the floor, and Belim peered out of the
doorway, looking down at her.
     "I hesitate to ask," she finally said.
     "You already know," Chalandra countered.
     "A point taken," Belim admitted.  "Are you sure you know what you're
doing?"
     "No," Chalandra admitted.  "What happened tonight was unexpected...I'm
not sure quite how to deal with it, yet."  She looked up at Belim, who
seemed unreasonably tired, both for Belim and for the hour of the day.  "I
certainly don't regret it, though."
     "As well you shouldn't," Belim told her.  "But the Count may cause you
to do so."
     The Count.
     The two words forced their way into Chalandra's mind, piercing the hazy
warmth that had been her cocoon since she had awoken.  She forced herself to
stand, and faced Belim.
     "Has he returned yet?" she asked.
     "He's not expected for another two weeks," Belim reminded her.
     "He needn't know," Chalandra said.
     "He will," Belim insisted.  "He will read it in your mind, and taste it
in your blood.  He will be angry -- you'll have to be ready to face that."
     "I may not need to," Chalandra said.  "Little Fang may be able to turn
me on her own."
     Belim's expression of concern did not change, but she could see the
muscles in her neck tighten, as if growing slightly tenser.  It was a way of
seeing she had recently learned, a way of noticing things that would otherwise
be overlooked.  Little Fang concerned her for some reason, concerned her even
more than Dracula did.
     She said nothing of this, however.
     "Your bath is ready," Belim told her.  "A hot one, the way you like them."
     Chalandra smiled.  "Thank you, Belim," she said, as Belim turned to lead
her into her rooms.

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     The mist thickened, coalescing into matter.  Chalandra did not stir from
her chair, nor did she blink as she observed the rebonding in progress.  His
presence in her room was expected; she had felt his presence from the moment
his coffin had been unloaded from the merchant vessel that afternoon.
     Riding on the bloodbound waves was anger, some directed at her, some
directed at Little Fang.  Chalandra had expected the anger, and willed her
heart to be calm, to let the rage pass through her without touching her.
     She had not expected the pain.
     It was more than a feeling of betrayal, though that was present, too.
Something had taken a toll on him, physically.  She wasn't sure she wanted to
know what that might be.
     Little Fang waited, in a chair in another corner of the room.  What
Chalandra had to will, Little Fang appeared to achieve with ease.  She was
wary, but unafraid, displaying the quiet confidence of one who knew her foe
all too well.
     She had never mentioned any previous meeting with Dracula.  Chalandra had
not thought to ask.
     Nor was now the time.
     "Chalandra..." his voice said, a bit huskier, a bit weaker than she
remembered.  "Why?"
     "I think you know why," Chalandra answered.
     "I do not," Dracula answered.  "Tell me."
     Chalandra took a breath, and forced herself to speak.
     "Because you're no different than the Baron, in the important respects.
You think of me as a possession, something to be conquered, or won, then
broken into submission."  She breathed again, and tried to keep her voice from
shaking.  "I'm just another trinket to you, aren't I?"
     Dracula smiled, and shook his head.
     "I can see you have much to learn," he said.  His head turned, to regard
Little Fang.  "Things this one cannot teach you."
     "Can't she take a correspondence course?" Little Fang asked, smirking
slightly.
     Dracula blinked.
     "The nature of your jest eludes me," he said, at last.  "Nevertheless, I
urge you to not attempt to turn Chalandra."
     "Why?" Chalandra asked.
     "Because," Dracula said, turning back to Chalandra.  "She is killing you."
     Chalandra opened her mouth to speak, and found she could not.
     "How do you know this?" Little Fang asked.  "Her once rich skin color has
started to pallor, and her fangs have started to appear."
     "I do not deny that you have been able to help the process along," he
said.  "The magic of the process is conditioned upon the consumption of the
blood within the host by the turner, or another vampire."  He looked at her,
fixing his crimson eyes upon Little Fang's slim form.  "But it is not within
you to consummate the Turning.  Your blood can not make her one of the
children of the night -- it is foul and twisted, as though it were not your
own."
     Little Fang stuck her tongue out at him.  Dracula chose not to notice.
     "Your words...feel true..." Chalandra managed to say.  "But you have
deceived me before..."
     "Have I?" Dracula inquired, an eyebrow raised.  "Or have you only been
deceiving yourself?"
     "What..."
     "Make your decision, pupil," Dracula said.  "Who shall turn you?"
     He was speaking the truth, or, at the very least, he believed what he was
speaking was true.  But was it?
     Even if it wasn't, did it matter?
     She started to speak, but never got the chance.
     "Leave," Little Fang said, rising quickly and moving in between her and
Dracula faster than Chalandra could see.  Dracula was startled as well - he
took a step backward, and his stance became slightly wider, set for a fight.
"She's made her decision, and you can't change it now."
     Dracula's face twisted into anger, and his arm lifted upwards, fingers
outstretched, moving in towards her neck...
     ...when he glanced at Chalandra, and froze.
     Slowly...painfully...he retracted his hand.
     "I...must obey your wishes," he said, haltingly.  "But there is time to
change your mind.  In five days time, Chalandra, you will die.  No force in
the universe can change this, at this stage.  You have lost too much blood."
     Little Fang stepped back a bit.
     "On the eve of the last day, I shall send my driver, Waits, to the
market square.  Should you change your mind, meet him there, and inform him
of your decision.  He will be able to transport you to the Baron's villa, where
I will await."
     He turned, and strode out the balcony.
     With a fluttering of wings, he was gone.
     Little Fang smiled, and turned to face Chalandra.  Her smile faded, when
she saw how Chalandra was regarding her.
     "How...dare...you..." Chalandra said, emphasizing each word without
raising her voice.  "How...*dare*...you..."
     Little Fang's eyes were wide, now, and pain was creeping into them.
     "...answer...for me..." Chalandra finished, hearing the tremble in her
voice, without the strength or will to rid herself of it.  Her whole body
was trembling, in fact, and there was a pain behind her eyes that she refused
to release into tears.
     "I...I'm sorry..." Little Fang managed to say.
     "The decision is *mine* to make," Chalandra told her, a bit more firmly.
"Not his.  Not yours."
     "*Mine.*"
     Little Fang looked away.  Chalandra knew that she was hurting her friend,
but she couldn't not speak.
     She turned away, and sat upon the sofa, her eyes facing the darkened wall.
Chalandra closed her eyes, afraid that the emotion inside her would never
subside, not even after she died.
     After some time, she felt a hand on her side, and felt Little Fang's
breath on her ear.
     "Hey," Little Fang said, in a painfully quiet whisper.  "I'm sorry.  I...
I spoke when I shouldn't have."
     "I know," Chalandra answered.  The hand left her side and touched her
shoulder, joined by its companion on the other side of her neck.  They began
to knead her tense muscles, fingers speaking without words.
     Despite herself, Chalandra purred slightly.
     "You never told me you did backrubs," she said.
     "You never asked," was the reply.
     The tension behind her eyes started to lessen, as her muscles relaxed.
     "Forgiven?" Little Fang asked.
     "Always," Chalandra answered.
     Slowly, reluctantly, the pain was giving way to emptiness.
     "What would you have answered, if I hadn't barged in, as I'm wont to
do?" Little Fang queried.
     Chalandra took a small breath before responding.
     "I wouldn't have said no to him," she said, at last.  The fingers on her
neck and shoulders hesitated, but only a moment.  "Despite everything, I still
can't tell him no."
     The night deepened, and Chalandra sensed she would not sleep, much.

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     He moved through the death-pale fog, slowly, but with sureness of foot.
A poor man's cloak was wrapped around him, obstensibly to protect him from the
unseasonable chill that had descended that night.  The man looked neither to
left nor right as he made his way.
     Behind him, Chalandra Harkness followed, her footsteps far more silent
than she would have believed possible, only a few weeks before.  But she had
gotten lighter, as the blood magic in her body did its impartial work, and
she had Little Fang's example to follow.
     Little Fang glided behind her, her feet just a half inch off the ground.
It was no wonder to Chalandra, now, how she had been able to appear in her
room that night when Dracula had come to tell her of that he had to return to
Transylvania.
     Then, she had been weak, and the short flight had used almost all of her
energy.  Now, after having consumed Chalandra's blood, judiciously, for close
to three weeks, she seemed to be almost well again.  She could fly away and
rejoin the friends she claimed were searching for her.
     Chalandra would have asked why, but decided she didn't want to know the
answer.
     She refocused her attention on the man, who had turned a corner near the
market and was advancing towards the docks.  There was some life in the city
at this time of night, still.  The sound of drunken revelry emanated from
the pubs and the whorehouses, each building a small, isolated world of its
own on that night.  From an alley, there was the sound of fighting, but
Chalandra did not turn her head to identify its source.  Her eyes were
fixed upon the man in the tattered cloak, whose eyes were fixed on a point
that only he knew.
     The man was Martin Luther, and Chalandra was very curious as to why he
was in this part of town at this time of night.
     The question of his purpose in London had bothered Chalandra ever since
she and Little Fang had almost run into him in the seamy side of the city
weeks ago, returning from the docks.  The things he said, about reformation
of the Church, and covert support from the Merchant Adventurers, perplexed
her.  The last exchange she had heard from him and the Bishop concerned her
more, due to what it implied.
     Little Fang agreed to the idea of following Luther quickly; Chalandra
sensed that she was growing restless, that she was not one who liked to stay
in one place for long periods of time.  Tonight, as she had for many nights
since the night Chalandra had yelled at her, she was quiet, seemingly
introspective.
     They were approaching the building that Luther had exited on the day they
had almost encountered him.  Little Fang pulled her away from the walkway,
into an alley, just as he turned to look behind him.  Chalandra waited a few
moments, then chanced to peek around the corner.  Luther seemed satisfied that
no one had followed him.  His hand reached for a doorknob, and started to turn
it.
     The attempt proved fruitless.  The door was locked.
     Chalandra could have sworn she heard him sigh, heavily.  Hesitantly, he
raised his arms, and stretched his fingers so that they were fanned wide.
With his thumbs, he pushed back the hood of his cloak, and touched the tips
of his ears.
     He cleared his throat, and spoke a single word.
     "Bl00p."
     The door creaked open, and Luther dropped his arms.  He stepped inside,
and the door closed again.

(continued in part two...)

        Gary W. Olson         <^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v
swede@drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu  >  "If you're so special, why aren't you dead?"
     swede@drycas.bitnet      <      - The Breeders, "I Just Wanna Get Along"