Page 99 of Cloak of the Vampire
I heard the gasps from the audience, but they sounded as though they came from an underwater tunnel. My senses were focused on the sensation of blood trickling from the wound I’d made.
A soft, almost unnatural breeze tickled my face as I opened my eyes and pressed my bleeding arm against the white canvas, smearing it across the surface, before letting my hand fall. Strangely, the breeze grew somewhat, cocooning me in its translucent blanket as, with my fingers, I began to draw.
Please,I thought desperately as I drew silhouettes of three men.Please help me.
I didn’t want to leave the Rayne League.
I didn’t want to be bought by anyone other than Ragnor.
I wanted to stay.
And right now, whether I drowned in self-loathing or fear because of my desperate decision, this was my only chance.
Quietly, in a soft, broken murmur, as I continued to draw, I began to chant:
“Deep in the forest, no bird is safe,
For crumbles of berries, the Gods shall grow;
Found in the heart of nature’s womb,
The Morrow Gods shall come ...”
I detailed the bright red bodies and then drew their limbs gently as I sang.
“The wind and the ocean caress your fears,
For love and its death are God borne;
Open your eyes and watch the miracle,
As the Morrow Gods return ...”
The blood dried too fast, so I broke my skin again, spilling more and soaking my fingers in it. My hand began to shiver as I returned it to the canvas, and I forced myself, against all the barriers and walls I’dput up in my mind, to bring to the forefront the childhood stories my father used to tell me about the Morrow Gods.
“First away the birds will fly,
Fear is theirs to take;
For the Gods, whose eyes are singed,
Are the endless woven storm ...”
I brushed my thumb above the men’s eyes, drawing their brows. Then I dipped my finger in the blood and started drawing the background. The breeze was now a bit stronger than before, blowing wisps of my hair away from my face, attempting to wash away my misery as well.
“Fell and locked, they shan’t know,
Just what is their fate;
From mournful bones, they will rise and bow,
For their fire’s birthed the flames ...”
It became harder to breathe as the breeze became constant, refusing to die down. Yet I still twirled my fingers against the canvas, laying out the flames of the infernal abyss. I made it the darkest shade of red I could, and my voice rose as my urgency did too.
“Deep in the forest, a well of bleeding blaze,” I chanted as I drew the lines of distant trees, the breeze almost choking me.
“Scars the land bare and raw,” I sang as I brushed my fingers against the would-be sky, creating a horizon full of crimson, while the wind rubbed against my skin, leaving a trail of risen hairs in its wake.
