Page 12 of The Diary of the Vam'pir Jacques

Inka remained strapped down and was trying to pull her legs up to her chest. Vomit dripped down her face, and she became sick once more in front of me. Inka’s bladder had burst, and there was excrement all over the bottom of the bed.

She was whimpering and twisting in obvious pain.

I froze, and as I did, there was a sharp jab in my arm.

I pulled away, but too late.

The serum had been injected into me. That didn’t matter. My world had shrunk to Inka and what was happening. Blood streamed from her ears and eyes and poured from her mouth and legs.

Inka was dying, that much was clear, and I was helpless to rescue her. I willingly let them tie me to the bed again, my mind numb with the horror. Luckily, I had managed to blank the worst from my head; I think we all have.

“Maurick?” I heard somebody ask.

“He’s fine. Let’s get him into a chamber,” someone answered.

“You can’t—”

“Of course I can. Now give me the needle, or I’ll inject you, too.”

I recognised the voice. Claudias.

Betrayal.

You, too, Maurick, have been betrayed.

All around me, I heard screams and cries of suffering and torment. However, it didn’t matter; it seemed like only Inka and I existed. In vain, I watched as her body performed its last death throes.

Inka turned her head to face me, and all I could see were huge blue eyes filled with agony. When she comes to mind, those memories resurface. Full of pain and imminent death. Full of love for Mihal and me. Inka understood, as we all did, that she was dying.

Betrayed by our own people. Deceived by our well-known friend.

I told you that I loved words and especially betrayal. It has so many meanings. Handicapped by our trust and helplessness. I could continue, but I’m sure you would grow bored.

Returning to the death of our innocence…

As I stared into Inka’s eyes, I saw her wince one last time as a great pain sliced into her. Inka bit her lip so hard to stop herself from screaming that she drew blood.

She arched her back and started thrashing about the bed. Her wrists began to bleed, and Inka released a final scream as her head lolled towards me. Then life fled her beautiful eyes.

Inka had died.

As I struggled to understand, the stasis chamber lowered and cut my view of her off.

“I love you, Inka,” I sobbed out, tears streaming down my face.

As I remember all this, it causes me to cry.

Since I’d left Kaltos, I made myself forget her death, and this opens the emotional wounds back up. The image of Inka’s demise haunts me despite the passage of time.

Inka was dead, so young and so beautiful, she had been snuffed out for a perverse git’s pleasure.

Did her life flash before her eyes? I don’t know. I’ve never asked. None of us Original Vam’pir’s have ever talked about our ‘Deaths.’ We all wish to forget. Another reason to kill me for writing this book—and dragging out all the bad memories we all have.

As Inka died, my death began.

My muscle control over my bladder and bowels relaxed themselves, and they emptied. I was past all caring by now; I wanted to curl up and die.

A searing shaft of pain shot through my abdomen. I didn’t fight or cry out. After all, my life had just been ripped apart.

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