Page 16 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Kane returns his attention back to his own book, but his feathers look a little more ruffled than normal. “I suggest beginning with Chapter Five.”

Excerpt from Carpe Noctum: An Account of the First and Second Blood Wars, Chapter Five: Youngblood by Colette Sabine

[M]otivated by an insatiable thirst for vengeance, Aodhán Mac Eoin, then the Right Hand of the Fíor, endeavored to elevate a new figurehead in the conflict: his biological brother, Ruairidh “Rory” Youngblood.

Born as Artur Mac Eoin, Ruairidh Youngblood’s Turn occurred in the mid-fifteenth century under the Fang of Irina Dobrev, who typically favored lean, aesthetically pleasing individuals for Turning. Youngblood, however, deviated from this norm, with his dark, brooding features, aquiline nose, graying hair, and burly physique.

Speculation regarding Dobrev’s motives are many, with rumors circulating about a possible romantic entanglement and the existence of an immortal progeny, although such claims remain largely unsubstantiated. At the very least, Youngblood’s famed skills in alchemy were surely a benefit, even if they were not original motivation. Coupled with his strength and ruthlessness in battle, Youngblood’s alchemical experiments made him a formidable foe in the throes of war.

He is credited, in fact, with the creation a tonic that causes unimaginablepain to the drinker, a weapon that was employed often in the torture tactics of both sides of the war. Uniquely, the tonic, given the somewhat simplistic and yet hyperbolic name ofquiritatio tonicus, led to a number of witch casualties as well. While the full implications of the First and Second Blood Wars in relation to the witch community is discussed in more detail in later chapters, suffice it to say that Youngblood has more than vampire blood on his hands.

Indeed, renowned for his ferocity, it didn’t take Youngblood long to emerge as a formidable combatant. Accounts depict him as a merciless adversary, purportedly engaging in acts of brutality such as the extraction and consumption of his victims’ still-beating hearts. But what lies beneath the seemingly unscrupulous persona of Youngblood, is, by some accounts, a soft and gentle man, whose devotion to Dobrev guided him through the first round of the First Blood War. Youngblood parted ways with Dobrev when the vampiress purportedly turned her favor to a new youngling, Edward Vale, who quickly became somewhat of a rival for Youngblood, at least where Dobrev’s affection was concerned.

What’s more important to note, however, is that the dissolution of Youngblood’s affiliation with Dobrev coincided with the Nicu Rebellion in 1452, preceding the orders sent by his brother, who had just ascended to throne of the Fíor, to suppress the uprising and execute itsinstigators.

This confrontation escalated into one of the bloodiest clashes among vampires to date, marking a notable chapter in the annals of vampiric warfare. Furthermore, Youngblood evaded prosecution for his actions aligned with the Fíor and in particular what occurred as a result of the Nicu Rebellion. It wasn’t until both Wars had ceased that Youngblood’s full role was unveiled. Unbeknownst to many, Youngblood acted as informant and spy for the Unaligned, passing along information that categorically saved hundreds of lives.

Youngblood, of course, went even further during the Second Blood War when he ultimately turned on his brother, who at the time was mad with bloodlust. Aodhán Mac Eoin was dispatched with a wooden stake, effectively quelling the conflict and dismantling the Fíor once and for all.

Following the conclusion of the Second Blood War, Youngblood receded from public view, save for a solitary sighting at the funeral of his slain brother, wherein he tendered a ring bearing their familial crest to his former sister-in-law, who cried one single tear and promptly struck him.

Public opinion of Youngblood’s actions varies greatly. To some, he is a hero. To others, he is a traitor.

10

The Quintessence

Calliope

The front door slams, shakes the walls and windows, and Calliope jumps, startled away from her reading. The lights dim briefly, then flicker back into full strength.

There are no heavy footsteps rushing up the stairs, just Rory standing in the doorway, framed against the floral wallpaper of the hallway, a newspaper clenched in his fist. His hair is disheveled as if he’s just come in from a gathering storm. She almost looks out the window, wondering if there is indeed a summer storm brewing.

“Are you a murderer?” he asks, voice pitched low.

The absurdity of the question takes a moment to sink in. She blinks. “What?”

He takes a step closer, just one, but she suddenlyfeels cornered. Trapped. It’s so familiar—the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness—that she scoots back in her chair, the book clutched in front of her chest like a shield. The chain rattles, the sound jarring compared to the warmth and coziness of the library. The rough metal has no place here, among plush rugs and dark, glossed wood.

Her body is braced for an impact, but there has been no harsh growl of a curse, no beer bottles thrown at her head. The walls haven’t been punched and, anyway, she’s not entirely certain the house would let him treat it as such.

Instead, Rory is quiet. She’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. She is conscious of his gimlet stare as he asks, his words slow and stilted, “Have you ever killed someone?”

“Would that make me less worthy of your help?” She grips the book tighter. “Because I think that’d be a bit hypocritical of you, Youngblood.”

Rory’s eyes darken and then trail down to the book, head tilted to the side to read the spine. “Don’t call me that.” The newspaper in his hand crinkles as he tightens his fist.

“Don’t accuse me of something I’ve never done,” she says dismissively, turning away from him. She waits, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He is still. Statuesque. He could be cold marble carved by the Greeks.

When he finally moves, he walks towards her, hisheavy boots muffled by the rug. He tosses the newspaper down, and Kane squawks when it scatters near him, wings puffing up as he hops away. He takes refuge on the top of the nearest bookcase.

“I may have thought twice about turning you if I knew you were wanted by the police,” Rory says.

She leans forward to see the newspaper. Her face smiles back at her, her top left canine slightly chipped because she fell a few weeks before. Smacked her tooth right on the concrete curb.Not chipped anymore, she thinks, her tongue teasing the sharp point of her tooth. She grimaces. “Goodness, what an awful picture of me.”

She recognizes the picture, though. It’s cropped from a photo of her and her husband taken a month ago. It was the day after she received her much-coveted perm, which quickly became a regret. The curls look bushy and awkward, highlighting the roundness of her face in a way that she’s always hated.

What’s been cut out from the photo, however, is her husband standing next to her, arm wrapped possessively around her waist, a beer bottle and cigarette balanced in his free hand. She remembers the tightness of his grip, his dirty fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her side, snagging on the fabric of her dress. “Too soft. You need to lose some weight,” he would say, his breath smelling of cigarettes and the yeasty aftertaste of beer. Despite his poor habits, his teeth were white, his skin smooth and unblemished,his smile annoyingly charming. She hated his face, but she hated herself more for giving him so much control over her body and her magic.

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