- TMK -

Unfortunately, this day was brighter than the last. Glare rebounded from every pipe or window it could find. Such cloudless days prompted Lisaveht to wear her nightglass goggles, tinting the world an eerie shade of brown. Such was a Vampire’s life. While Zharia preached about the glory of immortality, that gift came at a cost. Unlike Zharia, Lisaveht dealt with that cost daily.

           

But despite the glare, Preceptor Maktre’s caning, and the monotonous lecture on scholastic conduct, this day was surprisingly tolerable for the Lisaveht. Joron kept her company during luncheon, while Cantrec stayed his distance. If every school day followed the same pattern, Lisaveht supposed she might be able to tolerate this wretched childhood.

           

Zharia even packed her a bottle of mammoth blood from Harralheim. While it had the tang of preserving salts, a velvety tallow dominated the flavor. It was the Vampire equivalent to bacon, or what Lisaveht imagined bacon tasted like. As an added treat, she helped herself to the mammoth’s memories, visiting the rugged tundra and glaciers of the far north. Those memories carried her through the boredom of school, the tedium of socializing, and through the walk home.

           

The streets of Denagan were relatively empty during the afternoon. Ranchers and ranch hands were busy bringing in their herds. The slaughterhouses were humming.

           

Occasionally, Lisaveht would spot a passerby too busy to notice a little Vampire. That was how she liked it. The peace gave her time to whistle without fear of judgement. Especially with how out of tune her whistle was.

           

Vampiric fangs were no musician’s friend. Sometimes, Lisaveht dreamed about pulling them off, less in self-hatred and more because the damn things got in the way. Vampiric tooth removal was a lesson in futility though. Each fang grew faster than shark teeth.

           

Regardless, Lisaveht whistled her way down the dusty road, oblivious of the boy who hurled the stone at her skull.

           

The rock broke as it bruised her scalp, Lisaveht whirling around with inflamed, orange eyes. She did not have to search long. Cantrec was not a child who reveled in the shadows. He wanted her to see him, to know he was hurting her. When she saw him, the boy was sure to drive the point home with a devilish grin over his face.

           

“Hello, there, little tick,” Cantrec taunted her. “I see you don’t have the iguana looking out for you this time.”

           

He cast another stone at Lisaveht. She acted quickly and caught the stone before it hit her face. She did not throw the stone back though. She would not throw the stone back. Instead she let the stone tumble to the street, locking her defiant gaze on the Human.

           

“Ooh, good catch.” Cantrec fumbled in his pocket for the compact mirror. “Don’t think you’ll be able to catch this though.”

           

Impulse scratched at Lisaveht. She hated him and all the Humans like him. From those people in the spire who pierced her with their vicious stares to the bullheaded preceptor who caned her daily. Lisaveht wanted to hurt them all, to hurt them in the same way they hurt her. Cantrec, though–she wanted to rush the boy and dig her fangs so deep in his throat that no arcane surgeon would be able to stich the wound together. Cantrec she wanted to kill. Before that, however, there was a single question she wanted to know.

           

A question she had to know.

           

“Cantrec!” Lisaveht shouted as the boy flipped open the mirror cover. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? What did I ever do to you?”

           

Cantrec blinked, surprised by Lisaveht’s outburst. He hesitated with the mirror, flipping it open and closed repeatedly.

           

Finally, he spoke.

           

“You personally? Nothing.” Cantrec flipped the mirror back open. “But what makes you think I care?”

           

He aimed the reflected beam of light at her face and Lisaveht’s skin began to boil. She didn’t care though. She had enough pain for one lifetime to tolerate a little extra. So, she ran as fast as she could. Her skin flaked away as blisters dotted her cheek. Yet she would not give in. Cantrec’s horrified look as she leapt on him and dug her fangs into his wrist sustained her. The warm blood that filled her mouth nourished her.

           

Several seconds was all the time she had as Cantrec’s mirror scorched her skin to the muscle. When she could take no more, she released the boy and swallowed what blood had pooled under her tongue. She crumpled into a ball, using her robe as a shield from the sun. Lisaveht hammered her fist against the road as her body healed the exposed muscle on her cheek. Cantrec squealed behind her, no doubt trying to bandage his bleeding wrist.

           

Suddenly, dreams overtook Lisaveht. No longer was she curled in a ball in the Denagan sun. The memories in Cantrec’s blood had taken her to yet another carbon copy house. It was sparse in this home, sparser than Lisaveht’s. There was only a table with two plates, some dirty forks, and an oil lamp in the corner. There was pain, however, not the pain of light searing away Lisaveht’s skin, but a dull aching pain.

           

A pain that kept growing.

           

Every second that passed in this memory, Lisaveht felt as if hammer blows were delivered to her ribs. She felt blood vessels bursting and her skin growing purple. Most of all, she felt nothing more than the wish this pain would stop. When it did, a fresh agony invaded her mind. Because above her was a man nearly identical to Cantrec. From the slight curve in his nose to the flared cheekbones that characterized the boy’s face. The most distinguishing feature of this man, however, was the disgusted expression carved on his face. The man’s bloody knuckles curled into a fist, the reek of alcohol hot on his breath. Instantly Lisaveht knew this man loathed her, his life, and most of all, Cantrec. That was the pain she felt through Cantrec’s memories, a pain she understood.

           

For Cantrec existed in a world that did not want him either.

           

The memories faded then and the exposed muscle on her cheek mended over in reddened skin. Lisaveht panted heavily as she unfurled from her ball. She looked for Cantrec, her eyes welling with tears. When she found the boy, he had crawled to a corner, desperately wrapping his wrist with a torn sliver of shirt.

           

“Cantrec,” Lisaveht said softly. “Your father…”

           

“Stay away from me!” Cantrec panicked. “You just stay over there.”

           

“I didn’t know he–”

           

“Didn’t know what?” Cantrec’s fear turned to rage. “Didn’t know what, Lisaveht?”

           

“I won’t hurt you.”

           

“A bit late for that, you fucking demon!” Cantrec rose to his feet.

           

“Maybe we can tell Maktre, he can get the constables and–”

           

“Shut up, Lisaveht,” Cantrec interrupted her, snot dripping off his nose. “Like I would ever need help from a bloodsucking bitch like you. Go away or next time I won’t be so kind!”

           

The boy gave his back to her, stomping down the alley. Lisaveht thought she could smell his fear, his pain, even as the distance between them grew. Flashes of his tortured life flickered over her eyes.

           

And eventually, the pain of Cantrec’s broken soul made Lisaveht weep.