Sybrina Page 6

  With her nestled in my arms, I make it to my cabin with no pursuers. Of this I am pleased because my present circumstance may cause me to do something rash to any crew member who attempts to stop me. Not only would it probably end with their death, but also blow my cover as minister aboard the ship. I want neither of those things. I want Sybrina well and vibrant.

  Using the back of my boot, I kick the cabin door shut. With great care, I place her upon my timbered shell of a bed, the mattress filled with down and soft. Her feminine frame sinks into the sheets. Her breathing is shallow. I feel around and her underclothes are biting into her skin. I work swiftly, lifting her shirt, and cup my hand around her tiny back and tear the fabric that binds her. In a rare instance of sheer beauty, my sight beholds the fleshy baubles of her breasts, milky white, fall free. My own clothes tighten near my waist and I quickly cover her, pulling the boy’s shirt down over her stomach again. I turn away to calm myself. I am a man in many ways, albeit eternal, but continue to have the urges and needs of a human. Desire, passion, and want creep their way in and I have little left in restraint.

  Distraction my only alternative, I cross the small room. I throw the locks open on my chest that carries bits and pieces of my history and reminders of my mistakes. I search for a blanket, sticking my hand into the crevices of the old trunk. I shuffle the trinkets around and my hand brushes a cross given to me in my youth by my mother before touching soft cloth. I feel the bare threads of the quilt she labored on for me and my marriage bed. To her disappointment, betrothal was never my destiny, but I carry the symbol of her wishes and dreams as a testament to the love that she had for me and I for her.

  The fabric once white and embroidered with careful stitching is now yellowed and fragile. Just touching it brings back the memories that shaped the man that I am in a time before my immortal life.

  I drape the quilt across the inanimate body of Sybrina. I stare at her for a long time drinking in her mesmerizing features. Her brown hair fans across the bed, her hat lost, her perfect cheekbones pale with sickness. I take her delicate hand, examining it as though it was ethereal and priceless. Then I place it beneath the quilt and tighten the blanket around her.

  An abrupt chuckle of amusement grips me thinking of how her small elegant hands could ever be a surgeon’s hands. Such a bold woman is she. So passionate to aid others that she would brave the wrath and disapproval of family, peers, and society. When others of her age and station yearned for a good match to a wealthy man, Sybrina cared nothing for it.

  It is shameful how long I’ve watched her and how many days I stood by unbeknownst to her. It is grievous that I could not save her family. Even in my immortal form I cannot be on two continents at the same time. The guilt I bear is suffocating. All of the selfishness has brought us to this place. If I had only walked away, this rare gem of a female would still be at school educating herself in the art of medicine, writing detailed letters to her family, and counting down the days with excitement until she could see them again.

  Sybrina and her family had a deep love for each other, as deep a bond as a family should have. Honor, respect, and understanding ruled them. It was a pleasure to watch them. Picnicking on their sprawling estate outside of Boston, their camaraderie was enough to make others jealous. That and Sybrina’s disposition is what drew Vadim.

  Vadim’s drunken rampage of power didn’t start overnight. It didn’t flourish and grow within a fortnight. A cruel devastating devouring of his morality increased over time as his strength and loss of bewilderment in his immortality became an impenetrable fortress that, I, his most trusted friend and confidant, could not break down.

  My eyes narrow at just the thought of his name. My chest twinges with remembrance of our last battle. My enragement at his exploits—the fiendish murder of her family. Evil is not measured by its deeds but by the blackness of its core. Circumstance dictates whether the action is damning or necessary. I stand to ponder these hellish things at my window and it rekindles my fury at the captain.

  The angry, ignorant Captain Stokes, locked in another time, is a man as antiquated as the ship he so proudly commands. His mere sixty years are a trifling in the sea of infinity. He is a stagnant mortal unable to bend with the progress of the world. If it was not for the need of a safe voyage, I would be tempted to rip his illiterate head from his shoulders. The impudence of banishing someone to the brig for reading is preposterous and only highlights his caustic vanity.

  A light rapping on my door makes me turn.

  A whisper follows. “Minister?”

  The one called Mouse. I go back to my station at the window of my cabin and call out, “Come in.”

  The door opens and the scratching of the hinges is followed by a long silence, then a stammering, “Thank ye...” He’s embarrassed and fearful with hesitation. “There was no reasonin’ wit thee captain... I jus’ wanted to see how she fares.”

  I face him and watch Mouse flinch back in fear of me. Those with common sense always do—vampires should be feared.

  “She is unwell. I will watch over her,” I convey flatly, suppressing volatile emotions so close the surface.

  “Thank ye, sir.” He casts his eyes down upon my bed and Sybrina’s still form—an irrational envy consumes me. For in that second, I want to slap the well-meaning boy away like an irritating fly. “Does she need anything?” he questions, severing me from my despicable thoughts.

  “I have everything she needs. You may leave,” I order, dismissing him.

  Mouse takes one last look at the beauty in my bed before he puts his hand on the weathered wooden door to close it.

  Chapter 7

  Sybrina:

  My hair is pinned carefully to my head in cascading curls, shiny and rich. My dress is fine silk the color of fresh cream. The mirror before me is ornate, reminding me of one that inhabited my mother’s dressing room in Boston. I twist the back of my dress, styled with a deep “V” and curving to my form splendidly. The material flows with grandeur down my hips, thighs, and legs, puddling onto the floor. I feel womanly, powerful.

  Through the eye of the mirror, I capture a man’s reflection behind me. Handsome, with flawlessly white skin and tall. A dark suit hugging his masculine structure. With majestic grace, he holds his hand out for me to take. I accept his offering and bow in acquiescence. A perplexing fascination overcomes me when I behold his eyes. They are a mesmerizing jade green that heat up like white lightning and transform to crystals as he keeps his gaze upon me. It stirs an ache in me I have never experienced before, a foreign wanting. He disappears and I have to run away clad in my brother’s clothes.

  The classrooms at Oxford are enormous, and I run through them all, but a mysterious man with shining blue eyes finds me at every turn I take. My horror and frustration build until I scream into the cavernous rooms. My voice echoes upon itself and I turn to dash away again.

  Exhaustion sneaks up; I stumble and splay across the floor, quaking with terror. Hovering above is a man with blond hair, long and beautiful, but of a fashion of the past. He swoops down upon me, and I am cast into darkness.

  Elijah:

  Hours turn into days, and I wrestle with the idea that maybe I should feed her—give her a drop of immortal blood. That would hasten her recovery ten-fold. The sailor youth stops by every now and again wanting a report on her condition. Nothing has changed, unfortunately. I sop up the sweat from her brow, listen for her heartbeats, and attempt to give her water. In her unconscious state very little travels down her throat; most ends up on the sheets and pools around her neck.

  A gentle knock at my door.

  “Minister? I have the sheets you asked for.” I reach for the door from my position of sitting on the edge of the bed and pull. Freshly laundered linens and a white nightgown embellished in lace are in his hands. “One of the crew gave me this. He bought it for his wife in Boston and was bringing it home to England. But he said Miss Sybrina needs it more, and his wife would be angry if he did not give it
to her when needed.”

  “That is very kind.”

  Mouse’s demeanor, which is typically fearful, changes to anxious. “The captain,” he starts, and I know my eyes have morphed into a raging depth. He takes two steps back. “He wishes to see you.”

  “I’m sure he does,” I concur offhandedly as I absently tuck the blanket around Sybrina.

  “He told me to stay with the miss if you said you did not wish to leave her... I will do whatever you want me to do, sir. I care not for the captain’s treatment of someone who has been so nice to me.”

  The boy’s words slice through me and soften my hard core. I sigh and do not wish to see him in trouble with the captain or below in the brig for disobedience. I should, sooner rather than later, take care of the nuisance which is the captain.

  “You may stay while I make a visit to the captain.” I rise off the bed and feel a pang of loss at being away from her even if only for a short time. This bereft sensation frustrates me because it fuels my want.

  The enclosed hallway that connects the chamber on the ship is vacant as I stride through. I find Stokes at his desk in his archaic but opulent captain’s quarters. He stands when he notices me in the doorway. He takes an instinctual step back. I hover, filling in the space of the captain’s refuge and home on this little world on water. His face is a cold mask of ignorance with weathered lines.

  I wish to make my task quick so that I may return to Sybrina. I move with lightning speed, watching as the captain’s eyes jut around looking for me, but my movement is too fast for his slow human eyes.

  I grab his throat from behind and twist his head, not in the hopes of snapping it, but of commanding his mind’s attention for my immortal’s trick of persuasion.

  With his eyes wide and focused on my own, I begin, “I find you repulsive and your lack of insight infuriating. You will allow the boy Paul to read to the crew. You will acknowledge Paul as Sybrina. You will treat her as the woman she is, of elevated station and as your guest aboard the ship.”

  The power of suggestion motivates the simpleminded to adhere to the requests of the vampire. The older I get in this life the more I find I use this ability. In my early days as a vampire, I felt it a sinister betrayal to interfere with a human’s sense, but then I came to realize in my wisdom that it is necessary for many things, like my own selfishness. If you held that a vampire had any sort of decency, it is only to charm its prey. A brutish turn of the cycle of this life—another ageless ideology that spans the gamut of time.

  I release my hold and the man falls. The captain first hits the chair and then crumples to the floor. He will sleep for a short time and not remember our encounter. Stepping over him, I leave, shutting the door behind me, and I make my way back to the beautiful Sybrina.

  Mouse is perched atop my trunk staring at Sybrina with hope on his face that she will stir or show some sign of consciousness during his vigil. Alas, I believe it is time.

  “You may go,” I order. Mouse slips off the trunk and walks the short steps to the door.

  “She never moved.” His words are heavy with anxiety.

  “I think you will find by the end of today she will be much better. Go about your duties, boy. She is in good hands.”

  At the exact moment that the door is closed fully, I raise my finger to my mouth and sink my left incisor into my deathless flesh. I tip my finger and let one lonely drop of my dark crimson blood fall into a cup of water by the bed.

  Sybrina:

  I am gagging on liquid that is running down my throat and an odd coppery taste lines my mouth. I cough and sputter. A sharp pain is pounding in my head making it difficult to open my eyes.

  “Drink more. It will help,” a deep, disembodied voice orders. Eyes closed, I sip some more but a potent wave of nausea hits my stomach. I cover my eyes with my hands, willing away the discomfort accompanied by the need to expel the nothing of my stomach.

  I choke out, “Please, no more. I may be sick.” A cool hand wraps around my neck and I sense a presence close to my face.

  “Look at me,” a deeply refined masculine voice commands. I shake my head no as the pain is too much. “Look at me,” the presence demands, and his hold on my neck tightens.

  With difficulty, my eyes flutter open. A large man with wide shoulders looks down upon me. His eyes are emerald gems that would put any fancy jewelry to shame. I stare into them.

  Slowly, the queasiness of my stomach eases and the pounding in my head dissipates. A smooth comforting calm takes over my body. I inspect his eyes more closely and notice they have turned luminous. They remind me of the chandeliers in my family’s home covered in hanging crystals. When the sun would hit them at their core, a prism shone, casting a faint glow of colors.

  A mane of dark hair, long enough to slip forward, is caressing his handsome face. I am bewildered by his beauty, and the eyes I had trouble opening don’t want to close and lose his image.

  “Better?” he asks.

  My lids grow heavier by the second and I no longer can keep them open. “Yes,” I manage to say before I slip into oblivion.

  *****

  A melodic cadence wakes me. I am on my side, my eyes open, and I am facing a wooden wall. The light in the room is dim. I can see a faint golden light dancing off the windowpanes above me. It is nighttime.

  I shift to look at myself. I am dressed in a white nightgown on a soft bed with a tattered old quilt on top of me. I feel much better, but I am weak. I rise up on my elbows and slowly absorb my surroundings. A candle burns in the corner of the small room. A large, tall man with dark hair stands at the end of the bed looking out of the window.

  He is immense and is consuming the room space not only in size but in demeanor. His hands are in the pockets of his dark suit and his profile resonates power and conviction. He turns toward me and I am taken back by his white collar—the minister!

  “I never tire of listening to the crew’s sea songs,” he muses. With a deep, genuine smile that awakens butterflies in my empty stomach, he asks, “How are you feeling now?”

  “I am feeling more myself, although weak.” Awkwardness finds its way into my processes and my cheeks pink.

  “Your friend will be bringing the evening meal soon. Would you care for some water?”

  His large hand grasps a cup by the bed and hands it to me. I take it with two hands, afraid that I would not be able to support it with one. I take a trying sip, concerned that I might feel the queasiness again. A coppery flavor coats my mouth. I cringe at the taste and hand the glass back to the minister. I recline my head, having used all my energy, and sink into the pillow.

  “How long have I been ill?”

  “A few days,” he discloses.

  “How are you feeling? You have been ill,” I question.

  An odd expression crosses his face. I may have overstepped my bounds and insulted the minister. It may be a condition he wishes not to speak of. Men can be quite closed-mouthed about their maladies. A long silence passes between us and the awkwardness creeps its way back in.

  “I apologize, Minister.”

  “My name is Elijah and you have nothing to apologize for.”

  A quick faint rapping on the door causes us both to look toward it. The latch gives way and a very familiar face appears. Mouse! He carries a wooden tray. Atop it is a white cloth covering a plate. Beside the dish is a delicate porcelain teacup.

  “How are you feeling, miss?” Mouse asks with a bit of shyness. I struggle to sit myself up.

  “Better. Thank you.” I smile weakly at him. I appreciate seeing a familiar face. His boyishness and naivety are a welcome sight.

  “I brought you dinner. And Mr. Tinker insisted that a cup of tea will help you.” He reaches down to place the tray upon my lap but is intercepted by the minister.

  “She is not well enough to hold this.” The tray is placed on the trunk across the small room. My savior, Elijah, picks up the tea. “I believe you should start with this. Your stomach is empty. Mr. Tink
er is correct. It is excellent for your constitution.” He sits beside me and tips the hot liquid toward my mouth. I sip it and it is heavenly, warm with a touch of sugar.

  “Delicious, thank you.” I look at Mouse. “It is just what I needed. Please send Mr. Tinker my regards.”

  “You may go,” the minister orders.

  Mouse shrinks back. The two of us are shocked by the minister’s rude dismissal. Mouse was very generous and sweet to bring dinner.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Mouse. I am sure the meal is wonderful. I look forward to eating it.”

  Unsure of himself, Mouse backs away and out the door. Before it shuts he calls to me, “Get well, Miss Sybrina.” I nod in friendly acknowledgment and adjust myself on the bed to a more comfortable position. Now that I have been awake longer, I am starving.

  The minister reaches behind me and I flush as his arm brushes my shoulder. He fluffs the pillow behind me. I glance at his face; it is hard and unreadable. As if catching his own demeanor, his face softens and he offers me more tea.

  “I think this is the best cup of tea I’ve ever had,” I declare.

  “You have been extremely ill. Anything would taste like nectar.”

  “Not the water,” I comment.

  He places the cup back on the tray and lifts the white napkin, revealing a cut of roast and potatoes. Using the fork and knife provided, he slices the meat and carries the plate over to me. He sits on the edge of the bed again and holds a forkful of roast to my mouth.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I believe I can feed myself.” Wordlessly, he holds the morsel closer to my lips. I don’t have the strength to argue, and really don’t know what my own abilities are, so I tip my head forward slightly and accept the bite of food.

  I very slowly chew and savor the solidness of it. The minister prepares another forkful, and I take it willingly. After the third bite, eating is becoming an effort and my stomach feels full.

  “I don’t think I can eat any more.”