Estimated reading time — 14 minutes

I CAN’T MOVE. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

The only thing keeping me alive right now, despite the stake in my chest, is the black substance running through my veins. I look like an unnaturally pale young lady, but don’t be fooled.

My great-grandfather was a vampire.

He wed my great-grandmother, who bore my grandmother, who bore my mother, who bore me.

Vampires and their descendants are cursed. Some have the wasting disease. Others have cravings to murder as well as to drink blood. Still others are driven mad by their hunger. The stronger it is, the more reality slips away. Me? I have it easy.

I’m afflicted with gravesight: the ability to see souls as constant presences.

The farmer kneeling on top of me is furious. His crimson soul quivers and quakes.

“Why aren’t you dead yet? I drove a stake right through your blasted heart!”

The stake is on the wrong side. My heart should be on the left, where it is, but one of the other traits of my heritage is that all my organs are reversed. My heart is on the right, and the stake is only paralyzing me. To die, I have to be paralyzed and then burned. The stake has to be in the correct location, too. Strike three against the farmer is that he’s trying to strangle me. His hands are wrapped around my neck, squeezing harder than anything has a right to be squeezed. I close my eyes and rely on the breath of the undead. It inflates and deflates a unique organ sac between my lungs and liver. My chest neither rises nor falls.

“I’ll teach you to kill my pigs,” the farmer says, releasing my throat once he sees I’m still alive.

He’s lucky I didn’t go for him. Before he can do anything more, I hear a woman shriek:

“Thomas! What in Law’s name are you doing?”

“I – this fiend – She ate one of our swine! Sank her teeth right into it and bled it dry.”

“What? That’s impossible. Get up off your knees and face me like a man, not like a coward.”

The farmer scrambles to his feet, allowing his wife to see my staked body. She screams again.

“Quiet, Mara! You’ll wake up everyone in Milham’s Ford. I took care of her.”

I want to speak, but I can only breathe through my special sac. I don’t want to give these people reason to believe I’m anything other than human.

“You took care of her, all right. You just committed murder. Do you want to be hanged?”

Mara’s soul is a sickly yellow, like pus, but it doesn’t tremble with fear. Instead, it approaches me with remarkable courage as she rips the stake out of my chest. My blood sprays all over her and makes her frantically wipe her face. Ichor stings normal skin, including mine. “Do you see?” her husband Thomas cries. “I told you. This one’s undead, and she needs to be staked and burned!”

Mara hisses for silence. “Dead or undead, she’ll bleed out if we don’t help her. Since when is it a crime worthy of death to eat a pig, even a live one? She shouldn’t have stolen it, but we can’t help that. I’ll bandage her up. Go back in the house, you superstitious fool.”

Thomas opens and closes his mouth like a dying fish, which is more than I can do. The hole in my chest is a gaping pit filled with pain. His wife tears one of the sleeves of her sackcloth dress into strips, wraps them around my torso, and knots each one for good measure.

“There,” she says. I finally draw a breath in my lungs. “That ought to do it.”

“Th-thank you,” I stutter, coughing up more ichor. My rescuer wipes it away with her other sleeve.

“Tell me the truth, lass. Are you a vampire?”

“One-eighth, yes.”

“So that means you’re a…?”

“Dhampir.”

The farmer’s wife stares blankly.

“I’m sorry I drained your pig,” I tell her before she can say any more or re-stake me. “I was hungry, and I ate. Usually, raw meat does the trick, but it’s been a while since my last feast.”

“How long?”

“One cycle of the moon – er, a month. That’s how long I can go before I need blood again.”

“Ugh. Why didn’t you attack Thomas, then?”

“I try not to feed on mortals whenever possible. I value life, and he jumped me first.”

“I suppose I should thank you for sparing both of us. What’s your name?”

Against my better judgment, I decide to tell her. “Tenetrilaiova.”

Another blank stare.

“Call me Tenet. As in a belief or principle.”

“Like all undead should be staked and burned, no questions asked and no mercy given?”

I try to smile, but my lips only stretch feebly across my fangs. “Right.”

“Well, I don’t care what you are. You won’t die under my roof. Here. Hold on tight.”

Mara bends down and motions for me to grab onto her shoulders. I do, and she carries me over to a large pile of hay. She lays me down and covers me up so I’m well-hidden. I sink into the heap’s scratchy depths, grateful for the bedding and the shelter.

“You can stay here until dawn. Thomas will be up and about as soon as the sun rises, which bodes ill for you. You won’t burn up in broad daylight?” I shake my head. “Good. Rest easy.”

She turns to leave, then doubles over in a violent coughing fit. I can smell blood as she hacks some up. When she spits on the ground, the spot in the straw is red. I can see it in the dim light from a torch on the barn wall. The reason why it’s burning now is one of my shameful secrets.

“You have the plague,” I tell Mara. “Not the rat-borne one. One that spreads through the air. I know because I almost died of it last year. Only my lifeblood saved me. Come here, if you please.”

Mara does. I gag ichor up from my throat. It oozes from my mouth onto my chin.

“Wipe this onto your bare hand, then lick it off.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not about this. One mouthful of it, and you’re healed.”

“What if I die from drinking that poison?”

“You’ll die tomorrow night if you don’t do as I say.”

Mara shakes her head. “I’ll call for a priest. An Inquisitor. My faith will heal me.”

“Why hasn’t it done so before?”

“I didn’t believe strongly enough. The Inquisitors say we must have faith unto death if we’ll live.”

“Would you rather believe in that tenet or this one?” I gesture to myself.

Mara kneels down, fights to keep from coughing again, then wipes ichor onto her hand and licks off a mouthful. She swallows, gagging but not retching. We wait. I can only imagine how it must have sizzled going down her throat. Still, a bitter medicine can cure. When she thinks she might have yet another fit, she convulses, then stands. “I feel strong. Stronger than I have in years. That’s how long I’ve been sick. Three years. I’ve gotten worse over time.”

I nod. “The strain I had was fast-acting. Same illness, though. Why hasn’t Thomas gotten it?”

“I know not. He’s hardier than most folk, I suppose. If you’ve cured me, I owe you my life.”

“Spare mine and we’ll call it even.”

Mara smiles and nods, then continues staring at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

If she guesses correctly, she’ll renege on our bargain for sure. I return her gaze. Unbeknownst to Mara, I’m using the last of my strength to cloud her mind: another vampiric boon.

“Your face. Your voice. So familiar…” She trails off. “Maybe I’ll recall in the morning. Good night.”

She leaves the barn, and I shut my eyes. I’ve escaped for now.
If Mara had thought a bit longer and harder, she would have recognized me from our local tavern, The Pit. I’m a bard. I perform there three nights a week. Even though she couldn’t place me, I’ve seen both her and her husband in the audience. I have an excellent memory for faces.

I also have an excellent memory for those who seek my other services.

A minstrel’s life is often a poor one. I wash dishes and scrub floors at the tavern when I can. Yet when I really need coin, I sell more than my singing voice and lute-plucking fingers. Thomas came up to me tonight, his soul blazing orange-red. Not with anger, either.

“Come along,” he said. “Fifty silver pieces up front. Half the earnings from this year’s harvest.”

I blinked, and not only at his offer. “What would your wife say?”

“Mara won’t know. She’s gone home to bed. Please.”

I looked at him and smelled the sweat of desperation mingled with desire. He was starving, and so was I. “I won’t accept your money, but if you have fresh meat, raw meat, I’ll take it.”

“Done. We’ll do business in my barn, away from all these prying eyes.” He gestured to the crowd, which was large for a weeknight. We made our way through the drunk patrons calling for me. When we reached our destination, all I saw was the pig. Not the one who wanted me, but the one I wanted. The one I drained dry. Hence why I wound up in this predicament. Mara may be gone now, but she’ll come back. And she’ll remember me.

I have to get out of here. However, the throbbing in my chest prevents me from moving.

It’ll take at least seven hours for the wound to stitch shut. Eight or nine at the most.

According to my great-grandmother, whom I met right before she died, her husband could heal in two hours. Mobs had staked him twice without discovering that his heart was on the right side. Unlike me, he’d been nearly immune to the pain. He’d turned himself into a wolf and fled into the forest outside Milham’s Ford. Hunters had pursued him, but they couldn’t tell him from a real wolf. He’d returned to his wife right before the sun rose. He’d let her pet him on the head and feed him a slab of raw beef before transforming back. I had to laugh at that little tale.

Great-Grandmother had wanted to share his undeath. Her husband had refused to bite her, saying she would also share his curse. Would she be able to stand seeing the souls of kith all around her, straining and struggling for life in their mortal bodies? She said yes. This would allow her to help them. Heal them if need be. As a more severe warning, Great-Grandfather had also said that even if he didn’t turn her, if they ever had children, they’d be half-vampires. Again, his wife had agreed, and their line eventually produced me. My gifts may have been diluted by four generations, but they still come in handy.

I fall into an uneasy sleep, then find myself in even more dire straits.

I’m standing in a boneyard. All the graves are empty. Their inhabitants have risen. They stand in a line that stretches as far as my night-attuned eyes can see. I smell the stench of their rotting flesh, hear their mournful cries, feel the glowing red chains that bind their hands as well as mine, taste the dust of long-decayed corpses, and behold a masked figure at the head of the queue. This is the Master Inquisitor, the Final Judge. He’s come to put us all on trial. None of us are innocent.

One by one, the risen souls approach him. He lists their transgressions, then convicts them.

They blaze with a color signifying their worst sin: red for wrath, orange-red for lust, green for envy, flesh-pink for gluttony, gold for greed, violet for pride, and gray for sloth. What color is mine? I can’t tell. When it comes to myself, I’m soul-blind: another part of my curse. As for the Master Inquisitor? He has no hue. Either he’s especially good at hiding his own sin, or he has no soul. My heart plummets when I look at him long and hard, and realize the latter is the case.

“Step forward,” he says. “Approach me and be tried in death for your misdeeds in life.”

The souls do, and I follow them. What other choice do I have? As for our sentences?

Eternal rest would be a pardon we don’t deserve. The Master assigns us a place in one of the eleven hells. He doesn’t describe our punishment. He simply calls out a number. If it’s low, we sigh, resigned to our fate in the realm of wandering ghosts. If it’s high, we scream as if we’re being murdered. Many of us have been. Those who are consigned to the eleventh hell are denied even the mercy of screaming. With their spirit voices silenced, they ascend to burn in the everlasting Void, where there is no fire, only darkness. I say a quick prayer that I won’t be sent there.

My turn comes. The Master Inquisitor scowls down at me from an impossible height.

“Miserable sinner! You’ve come to be judged, and judged rightly. Not only are you the descendant of an abomination, but a whore as well. You’ve enticed many, convincing them to break my Law. Now my Law shall condemn you, as it should have long ago. Have you anything to say?”

“Yes. How am I to blame for my lineage? As for my other sin, a girl’s got to eat. Cleaning floors and singing for my supper didn’t earn me much. I don’t see how I can be damned for doing more than getting by, even if the Law calls my second trade a crime. Your Law, which I say is unjust.”

“Wretch! Your transgressions stand unforgiven and unmitigated. I am the essence of justice. I hold the eternal Scales, and they must balance.” He pauses. Then he surprises me by saying, “Perhaps they do. You saved one of my most devout servants: a faithful farmer’s wife whose unfaithful husband wanted you. Although your blood is a vampire’s ichor, you gave it freely and with compassion. This counts for much in my court. I shall spare you for now, Tenetrilaiova.”

I stand humbly before the Judge, gritting my fangs as red-hot chain links bite into my wrists.

“Repent! If not, I’ll send you to the second hell, where you will join the lustful in indulging your appetites forever. You’ll wallow in pain and call it pleasure. You’ll also sing of your sins. Even the damned love tales of woe.” He lifts his skeletal hand and waves its fingers dismissively. “Begone.”

“Hold, Master! Where am I to go? What am I to do?”

“Seek the cemetery,” the Inquisitor says after a long moment. “There you shall find your calling.”

In the silence that follows, my ears prick at two distant sounds: roaring and the beating of wings.

I shiver right down to the soul I can’t see.

The dream fades. I smell hay, manure, and the tang of fresh ichor.

Now I remember. I’m in a barn. I must leave, but the hole in my chest isn’t healing fast enough.

I brace myself against another wave of torment. Then I hear rustling. “Mara?”

It’s not her or Thomas. In the pitch darkness, I squint and discern the form of a wolf. I’m done for.

“Grrreetings, great-granddaughter,” it growls. “I am Orukin, and I heard your soul cry out.”

I give a start. “I never said anything. How did you get in here?”

“Simple. I can hear souls, too, and the stupid farmer left the barn doors open just a crrrack.”

“Fair enough, but all this time, I thought you were – ”

“Dead? Ha! It takes more than a stake on the wrong side of my chest to end me, even twice. After the second time, I fled Milham’s Ford. For good, I thought, but I couldn’t abandon you. You’re the only child of our bloodline left. All the others have met their untimely demise. Undeath can make you immortal, but if you face the sun? You burn, just like most of them were forced to. Chained to stakes and scorched to ashes. I must rescue you before you face the same fate.”

“That won’t happen. Mara wouldn’t give me up to the Inquisitors. I saved her life.”

“Yes, but you didn’t save Thomas. You didn’t even give him what he wanted. For that, he wants revenge. Never mind the pig whose blood you drank. The real swine has it in for you. At sunrise…”

Great-Grandfather doesn’t need to say what happens. I don’t burn in daylight, but I’m sensitive. My skin itches worse than if I had my lifeblood all over it, and my eyes feel like hot coals. I sleep through the day for good reason. Tonight’s a notable exception.

Orukin slinks over to me and spews ichor from his wolf-throat into the hole in my chest.

My mouth falls open in a silent howl.

“It hurts. Everything about undeath does. Our curse is a burden, but the real one is knowing we’re living on borrowed time. Every sunset, we awaken. Before dawn, we must sleep again. I’m taking a massive rrrisk to come to you. The people of this hamlet have small minds and long memories. Most of the men were in the mobs that tried to kill me. They needn’t have. I’m not a murderer or a madman. I simply drink blood and see souls. Theirs were red and full of rage, but also weak and putrescent green. Disgusting. Mixed together, they were the color of vampire vomit.”

I wince. Then I catch a glimpse of Orukin’s soul: deep violet.

“I must depart. Unlike you, I can’t survive the sun, and this form will dissipate soon.”

“Thank you for your help. However, I must tell you about a dream I had tonight. I don’t understand it. Maybe you can.” I describe it in detail. In his wolf guise, Orukin gives a toothy, inscrutable grin.

“The Master Inquisitor. I know more about that Void-filled bastard than I’d ever want to. Excuse my language, but that’s what he is. The great Judge happens to be the worst of the damned.”

“Maybe, but he didn’t send me to the second hell right away. He could have. He spared me.”

“That’s because he wants something from you. Don’t go to the cemetery as he says. Instead, rest up, then go before the sun arrives. I’m off to the forest, as I have been countless times before. If you need me, call out with all the strength of your soul. I can’t help you all the time, though. Only in emergencies. Farewell, Tenetrrrilaiova. Take care. Stay away from the boneyard.”

“What’s there that you want me to avoid?”

“Everything.”

“And the roaring and beating of wings in my dream?”

Great-Grandfather harrumphs with another growl. “The less you know about that, the better.”

His hackles rise. Thomas is waiting at the entrance to the barn, his pitchfork horizontal.

He charges toward the false wolf, who doesn’t dodge. Instead, Orukin leaps into the air, lands on top of the angry farmer, and tears his throat out without hesitation. I hear him munch on the raw flesh. Despite myself, I’m hungry again. The pig I drained had been scarcely more than a piglet.

“Share and share alike?”

The wolf climbs off the body as if to say, “Help yourself.”

I sink my fangs into Thomas’s chest. His heart’s blood fills me with vigor. I can’t believe I’m feasting on a man who propositioned me not three hours ago, but here we both are: me alive, him less so. Once I’m finished, I notice the hole in my own chest has finally closed.

Orukin’s tail flashes as he darts out of the barn. I could follow him, but I won’t. I don’t know my way in the woods, and if I stay right on his heels, he’ll evade me. Two vampires together are much more likely to be caught. Still, I’m wondering if there’s another reason he’s in such a hurry besides the coming dawn. I climb out of the hay, brush it off, and leave my philandering prey behind.

I don’t pity Thomas. I feel bad for Mara, who’ll find his mutilated body with his throat removed. She doesn’t deserve anything that happened tonight. Not her husband going astray, but not his being killed either. The Inquisitors in Milham’s Ford will investigate. I must be gone ere they do.

I flee into the light of a full moon in the sign of the Cupbearer. My legs pump, and I breathe hard. Great-Grandfather has preternatural speed – so Great-Grandmother said – but I certainly don’t.

A sign appears at a fork in the road. On the arrow pointing left, there’s a picture of a temple with a steep spire. On the arrow pointing right, there’s a crude drawing of several tombstones.

I won’t head for the temple. It belongs to the Exarch and the Law, two things that aren’t in my favor. On the other hand, Orukin and my dream told me to avoid everything about the cemetery. If I’m damned both ways, where do I go? Didn’t the Master Inquisitor say I’d find my calling if I went to the boneyard? Where can I conceal myself in the wee hours of the morning?

I turn right.

The cemetery in Milham’s Ford is the oldest for miles around. I’m looking for a quiet place to hide. That’s not what I find. Instead of gravestones standing silently over their charges, dozens and dozens of souls float past each other, their arms bound by the same red-hot chains in my dream. Each soul has its color; each soul has its sin. They’re all stuck here, but why? Why haven’t they gone to their rest on the plane of paradise, or else one of the eleven hells? I’m horrified to see a familiar face among them: an older woman who used to smile, but who now moans in agony.

She looks at me. Gooseflesh prickles up and down my arms and on my scalp.

“Hello, child.”

“Great-Grandmother?”

“Yes. I’m here. As are all the poor spirits in every graveyard in the whole realm. Even in Exarchion.”

“What? You’re supposed to descend to the eleven heavens or ascend to one of the eleven hells.”

“That’s what the Law says. That’s what the Exarch preaches. However, the reality is far different. Here we are buried, and here we’ll stay throughout eternity. That’s because we have no one to take us to where we need to be. There once was an usher, a gentle guide. No more. He’s trapped in the Void. No one can rescue him. No one would want to, even if they could. If we can’t go to the paradises or the hells, then we can’t be judged accordingly after we die. That’s why I’m here, and all the others are here. We thought we would no longer face the eternal consequences of our actions. What we didn’t know was that this endless waiting would be its own damnation.”

I remember the Master Inquisitor’s words: “There you shall find your calling.”

“So you need a new usher?” Great-Grandmother nods. “Why me?”

“Because you can see and hear us. Your bloodline grants you this gift, even though you are cursed as a dhampir. Will you turn it into a blessing and take us with you so we can rest? Even if we’re bound for one of the hells, that would be better than staying here.”

“I can’t. I’m now a fugitive. I have to go somewhere on earth and hide.”

“We’ll help you,” Great-Grandmother says, “but first you must take the Oath of the Grave…”

Credit: Tenet