Descent Into Madness (37 page)

              “Together,” Bree whispered as the sun breached the buildings and each felt the heat upon their skin. “Let us stand together in the sun.”

THIRTY-NINE

June 12, 2013

5:30 am

M
ovies and television, they do not adequately capture the daylight’s splendor,” Wesley remarked, breaking the silence.

              “They do not, my love.” Aleksandra moved to his side, clutching onto his arm as the four stood on the balcony overlooking Chicago on the cusp of a new day. It was the first glimpse of affection she had shown him since the dreams began plaguing her – and he eagerly embraced it.

              The city swelled with life: motorists honking on State Street – their frustrations growing as traffic snarled. A pale, muted world now awakened before them as they stood on the precipice of a new day. Centuries of darkened nights and endless star-filled skies replaced with the vibrancy of cotton clouds and a robin-egg blue sky. The sun breathed a warming breath upon their skin, washing their bodies in a golden glow. They surveyed this new world – a world of color and possibility, with open and wanting eyes.

              Sunlight bounced off the high rises and twinkled off the skyscrapers, blinding them. The swirly, etched metal handrails caught the sunlight as the moonlight had always failed to do. Holding them now, in the presence of daylight, welcomingly toasted their hands. They tasted and felt freedom in that moment, standing together on the balcony.

              “The void,” spoke Wesley finally. Dawn’s brightness swelled his eyes as he squinted, bloody tears embracing his ageless face. “That is where you’ve been.”

              Judith sobbed watching the traffic below. It had not been long since she had been one of the day walkers, navigating the hurried Chicago rush hour, fighting the nine-to-five grind.

              “Bree, how is this possible?” Colin asked, squeezing his daughter’s hand.

              “How can we be standing in the sun?” asked Judith. “I thought I would never feel its warmth again.”

              Bree released Wesley’s hand and stepped into the Study, taking a seat on the sofa. One by one, the four followed. Wesley sat across, perched on the edge of the settee. Colin leaned against the cracked fireplace, his fingers tracing the veined marble. Aleksandra sat in the green armchair, her arms crossed on her lap.

              Bree opened her palm; the skin charred, burnt and crinkled beneath the amulet. The portrait remained beneath a heavy layer of soot and skin, both of which she brushed away as the others watched. She held the trinket, twirling it between her fingers, as the three silently waited.

              “Sr. Veronica,” Bree replied finally, clutching the amulet in her charred hand.

              Wesley clutched his face. “I was hoping,” he tried, but struggled to explain.

              “You hoped foolishly, brother.” Bree rose and tossed the amulet into Wesley’s lap. She walked toward the balcony, stopping at the curtains. “The pain I carried these centuries – the pain of leaving her to die without me, Wesley; and you knew. You knew all those years.”

              He picked up the amulet and rubbed the image beneath his palm. “I knew you would not forgive me. I could not survive knowing my sister hated me. Living with my guilt, that seemed easier somehow.”

              “Has it been easier, my love?” asked Aleksandra. “Has it been easier carrying around the truth of what you did, lying to your sister?”

              “Wesley, what is going on?” demanded Judith. “What are you all talking about?”

              “Judith,” Aleksandra answered, “there are some actions a vampire must never take.”

              “Is that not right, Wesley?” Bree stated.

              “I went to her that night – Sr. Veronica,” he began, his face only now rising from his cupped hands. “Just as I told her, she had been dying. She had been calling for you, Bree; searching for you. I waited until the others were gone, then I slipped in under the cover of shadow and twilight. I watched as her breathing slowed; I listened as her heart weakened.”

              He rose and walked onto the balcony. The construction crew had begun work across the street; their jackhammers angrily ate at the steel and concrete. Traffic was jammed behind city buses and cement mixers, while frustrated drivers voiced their angst through cracked windows and noisy car horns.

              “She called your name, Bree,” he noted, looking toward her. “She said your name and peered into the darkness as if you stood before her. For a moment, I thought you had slipped into the void. I thought were gone from this world.”

              “You must understand,” he explained, “I was weak.”

              “She will never leave the void, then?” asked Bree.

              “No,” Wesley replied. “She cannot. Her heart was not strong enough. Veronica’s heart stopped when I started turning her. Somehow, though, she was caught in between worlds – trapped in the void.”

              “She can slip between our worlds,” he explained. “And that isn’t meant to happen.”

              Bree’s footsteps were light upon the carpet as they watched her walk back to the sofa. Her tanned hands rested comfortably on the silky, leather cushions. Her khaki skin now a rich match with the mahogany sofa.

              Wesley strolled to the couch, handing the amulet to Bree and returning to his seat on the settee. He slowly ran his gangly fingers through his hair, feeling each slippery strand.

              “Why is she with us now?” he questioned her. “Why was she with you?”

              “She saved me,” Bree answered. “She saved you, and Colin, and Judith. And Aleksandra,” Bree whispered, motioning to her daughter who had not moved from the chair.

              “The Women in Black,” Colin sighed.

              “And that?” He gestured to the amulet. “Is that why you went into the sun?”

              “Yes,” answered Bree.

              “Aksel,” Judith sighed.

              “Aksel was foolish,” Bree spoke.

              “Bree,” Colin started.

              “We have entered into a new world, Colin,” noted Aleksandra. “Open your eyes.”

              “Aksel said it was a good luck charm,” Bree’s haunting voice began, “and a weapon. He knew its power. Veronica knew, too.”

              “Immortality,” Judith uttered; her voice was barely above a whisper.

              “That is why Francesco seeks it,” guessed Colin.

              “Except, he is not who the archivist thinks he is,” spat Bree. “And the archivist needs to be warned.”

              “No,” whispered Aleksandra, the others turning to her. “He is like us.”

              St. Peter’s Square glistened beneath the noontime sun, the timeless marbles, and ancient architecture a reminder of Bree’s past. Touristy throngs packed the square, eager for a papal glimpse. They patiently waited for tours and solemnly prayed in the Mediterranean heat, a hodgepodge of languages messily mixing. Sweat mixed with incense, and incense mixed with desperation.  

              Bree’s feet found the newly lain marble on the private balcony slippery beneath her feet. The door was closed to the summer heat, and the massive maroon curtains drawn. Bree was thankful the archivist’s chambers were hidden from the crowd, shaded from prying eyes and the noisy, unceasing pilgrimages. Unlike the sun’s revealing brightness, the night’s shadow protected her, comforted her. It loved her unconditionally – as a mother loves a child.

              The heat toasted her skin, the tiny hairs prickling from the warmth as her hand extended and reached for the brass handle. The sizzle of warm metal against her skin surprised her still; the sensation rushed to her tanned face and tickled her cheeks. The genteel Mediterranean wind that blew against her face – carrying with it the fresh aroma of olive trees and salty waters – thawed her weary bones. The night winds, no matter how warm they had been, could not accomplish what the day wind did in that moment.

              The door opened outward, creaking as it did. Bree entered, brushing aside the curtains. The meager altar was set as it had been before she entered the sun: the linen, crisp, the cross, gilded and jeweled. He sat within, hunched over a desk, studiously writing. His mind was elsewhere, lost and troubled.

              Atrocities had occurred while she slept, while she healed.

              Jasmine and lavender drugged the air and filled her nose. Bree did not have to take her eyes off the altar to know Veronica was behind her. She felt a hand fall upon her shoulder, smoothing the fabric beneath its fingers. Veronica’s long sleeve brushed against Bree’s neck, the rough cotton scratching her newly bronzed flesh.              

              “You know what you must do now,” Veronica whispered, her lips gracing Bree’s ear lobe.

              “Yes,” Bree replied as Veronica faded into the surrounding daylight. Her sweet aroma lingered.

              “Father,” Bree called from the foyer, startling the man. Agile despite his graying years, the archivist leapt to his feet, pushing the chair to the floor. He swiftly crossed the room, his feet carrying him effortlessly to Bree’s side.

              His fingers reached to stroke her cheek. “It worked,” he extolled. “The old texts – ‘turn moonlight into day’ – it worked.”

              “What does this mean?” he asked.

              “The amulet was a weapon, father,” Bree replied.

              “The threat is over?”

              “No,” Bree replied. “Francisco still seeks its power. He knows it still exists.”

              “Then we shall never have peace,” the archivist sighed.

              “Francisco has been turned,” I told him. “He may have been a vampire for years, I do not know. But he is no longer the man you once knew.”

              “But he can have the amulet,” Bree said.“It’s useless now.”

              “But…” he stammered.

              “It’s a trinket!” Bree spat. “Keep it as a good luck charm. But I warn you, it never brought me any.” She smirked at the bewildered man before her. His face twisted like a knotted tree trunk and questions jammed his weary mind. “I hold its power now, father. I’m the weapon now.”

              “You’re the weapon?” he asked as he brushed his fingers against Bree’s cheek once more. “What does this mean?”  

              “It means, father, Francisco has started a war and it has spilled into both our worlds,” Bree said. “Let us stand united.” 

              Bree knelt before the man, her head humbly bowed. He watched as she extended her arm and opened her fist. Within her charred palm laid the amulet, scrubbed clean of soot – her portrait cracked and aged while she remained ageless. He fingered the jewel, sliding his hand over her roughened, sun-scarred palm as he picked up the trinket. He looked at the image, turned the amulet over in his hand, and then stared at her expectantly.

              “We are at war with Francisco,” Bree told him. “Ready yourself for battle.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Woods-Field holds degrees in Professional Writing from Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College and Patient Safety from the University of Illinois-Chicago. Woods-Field is a freelance writer, educator, and women’s health advocate. She resides in Illinois with her husband, Tim, and their two children.

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