Page 65 of Vampire so Virtuous

*

Nantes, France, 1747.

Antoine lay uncomfortably in the bottom of his small cage, his stomach twisting in agony. There was no one to hear his cries.

He wanted to vomit. He longed for sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let him.

What had that woman fed him?

At last, weak from starvation and drained by hours of suffering, he slipped into a fitful sleep, where dark dreams tormented him.

When he eventually awoke, he felt stronger. Perhaps it was some remedy she was feeding him, a medicine to restore his strength, even if his stomachrejected it. The room seemed lighter, too. He could make out the table where the candle had rested, even the melted wax stub in its holder. His frailty had diminished, his hunger dulled, but in its place, a thirst gripped him with desperate intensity.

Time passed. How much, he couldn’t tell. The thirst was a constant companion, growing as the hours crawled by. Yet it was no longer water he craved. His thoughts circled back, again and again, to the thick, salty liquid she had given him.

When she eventually returned, Antoine did not hesitate to take the goblet from her. He could smell its contents—rich, vibrant, spicy, strangely exotic. He was so hungry—no, so thirsty. It tasted better than before, like a thick, heady wine. He slumped back in his cell, sated for the time being, licking his teeth to capture every last drop of that wonderful liquid. It almost reminded him of… but no, that couldn’t be. Not when the flavor was so decadent, so intoxicating.

The pain did not relent. He spent another night in anguish, wondering if she was trying to poison him. Yet if she wished to kill him, she could have done so with ease. And if he refused to drink, he would die anyway.

She had not given him a choice. She had trapped him in a thirst worse than death.

Who was she, this witch?

She left him for hours, his thirst growing until he thought two days had passed, maybe even three. There was no way of keeping track of time in the dark room, all alone.

Though it was not quite as dark as it had been. His eyes had adjusted; he could now see beyond the table with the candle stub. Large crates, discarded furniture, and piles of forgotten accoutrements—the clutter of things with no other home. He knew the room was still pitch-black, and yet he could make out every detail with startling clarity.

She came at last, and he whimpered as he smelled the liquid in the goblet. By now, he’d accepted that she’d been feeding him blood. It made sense, he supposed; perhaps it satisfied both thirst and hunger in one efficient, if barbaric, way.

His hands trembled as he reached for the goblet, and it took all his willpower not to beg.

“Doucement, mon amour,” she chided.

But he would not let a single drop be spilled. Fighting to control his eagerness, he carefully pulled the goblet through the bars, lifting it to his lips and moaning as the metallic liquid filled his senses. It may have beenblood, but it tasted unlike anything he had ever drunk before—rich, wholesome, life-giving, and sweet. Rarely had he known such bliss, such fulfillment.

She stayed to watch him drink, and now his vision was sharp enough to catch the satisfaction on her face. Only then did he realize—she had not brought a light this time. The room was completely dark, and yet she saw him as clearly as he saw her.

“Qui êtes-vous?” Antoine asked.

As always, she simply turned and left, closing the door behind her.

He slumped back on the cold stone floor of his cell. His stomach twisted again, but the pain had lessened—or perhaps he had simply grown stronger. He managed to endure it almost in silence, even though there was no one to hear his whimpers anyway.

It was still some time before sleep finally claimed him.

*

He awoke, more invigorated than he could ever remember. It was like he’d spent a night in the softest of feather beds, not curled up on a stone floor. Thirsty, yes—but what unsettled him more was that it was blood he craved. He felt no hunger, despite having eaten nothing for days, and his frailty was now a distant memory. He felt stronger, so much stronger.

It seemed natural to take hold of the bars of his cage and pull.

They parted easily.

Shock sent him stumbling back, and in doing so, he tore one bar free. He stared at the twisted length of iron in his grasp, his fingers buried in the metal as if it were soft clay. He could still feel its coolness, its density—iron, unyielding and solid—yet he had bent it as though it were nothing.

Disbelief took hold. He tightened his grip, and the rod curled in his hands without resistance.

Antoine dropped the twisted bar. The clang of metal striking stone was a jarring reminder of its true nature—iron, still rigid, still dense, despite what he had just done. His breath came sharp and uneven. He stared at his hands, seeing every detail—his nails, the fine lines on his palms, even the veins beneath his skin.