Page 158 of Afflicted

“Come on now.” He strokes my hair, his chest shaking as he coughs. “It's alright, don’t cry.”

“You were dead!” I look down into his face, shaking my head. “I don’t understand, you were - they dumped the silver, and you, you were - you were dead.”

The curtain opens behind me, and the nurse appears on the other side of the bed. I back up as she leans over him, turning his head side to side gently, then gesturing for him to open his mouth.

“Well, this is unexpected.” She regards Silas critically. “Hmm. We have a doctor here from the National Guard, he’s an expert in fee - in vampire health. I’ll have him come take a look at you.”

“Silver should have killed him,” I say stupidly. “How is this possible?”

The nurse shrugs. “No idea, I deal with humans, not vampires.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You look like shit though, so that silver definitely weakened you. Stay down, and I’ll send the doctor along.”

She leaves, and Silas and I just stare at each other.

“Sorry I scared you.” He coughs heavily, rolling on to his side with a groan. “Fuck me, I feel like shit, too.”

I help him settle back on the bed, and he winces as he smiles at me.

“Guess it just wasn’t my time yet, ey?”

I sit back down and take his hand. “I don’t understand, but I don't really care either. You’re here. I thought I’d lost you.”

“So did I, angel. But fuck am I glad I’m still here.”

The curtain flies open with a loud hiss, and a man in a white coat strides in. He pushes the silver glasses he’s wearing up his nose, and looks at us both with raised eyebrows.

“I’m told we have a vampire who’s immune to silver in the house?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Impressive.”

“Hardly immune.” Silas coughs heavily, a loud rasping echoing through his chest. “I feel like death.”

“Feeling like death and being dead are two very different things, my friend.” The doctor rounds the bed, and I move back so he can examine Silas. He shines a light in his eyes, and grumbles something to himself. He inspects Silas’s fangs, then straightens up. “When were you turned?”

“1995.”

“And what do you know about your maker?”

Silas rolls onto his back, hissing in a sharp breath of pain. “I mean, plenty, why? What do you need to know?”

“Anything unusual about her appearance?”

Silas frowns, his eyes scanning the ceiling. “Um, I mean, not really.”

“Nothing unusual about her eyes?” The doctor is smiling in a way I don’t understand, as though he’s anticipating something amazing is about to happen.

“She had blue eyes, nothing unusual-”

The doctor hacks out a laugh and balls his hand into a fist. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” I ask. “What is going on here?”

“Your boyfriend’s maker, she was an Original.”

“Husband,” I snap, and the doctor rolls his eyes. “What do you mean an Original?”

“That’s not possible.” Silas tries to sit up, but has to stop, and collapses back down onto the bed. “She was turned during the French Revolution, she told me about it, many times. She was 31 years old in 1792. She told me all about her life. She wasn’t an Original.”

“Only the Originals had human eye colors,” the doctor says.

“That’s a ridiculous myth,” Silas scoffs.

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