Page 17 of To Save a Vampire
Forty-four watches her inspect the weapon before he waves a hand at the table he cleared moments earlier. Ky steps aside reluctantly for him to pass, and my mother follows. She looks peculiar holding the unearthly sword at her side. It appears heavy, yet she doesn’t let it strain her posture.
The table groans under Forty-fours weight as he pushes himself onto the tabletop. He sits at the edge of it, as if it’s just another casual evening here. He bites his lip and looks my mother up and down before settling his gaze on the sword in her hand. He takes an audible breath before he lies down on the wooden table. The table creaks under his weight as he shifts into a comfortable spot on his back.
Ky and I step closer. My breathing picks up with whatever the two of them might be getting ready to do. Did Forty-four lead us here to kill him? He gave my mother the sword. And now he lies before her as an angel ready to accept judgment. A sacrificial-like setting. Why?
My mother flutters around the kitchen, the sword at her side. She’s like a warrior housewife, ready to make a batch of brownies or slice open a hybrid. She brings over the two lanterns Ky found, placing one on each side of Forty-four’s head.
I’m not sure what she’s doing, what any of us are doing. He looks into the yellow light and then into my eyes. His face is illuminated, again angelic, and his brows dip with concern and determination. He takes a deep breath before looking away from the light, from me, toward the wall.
Is he afraid? I would be. Death brings a heaviness into my thoughts. The mere word settles into me, into my lungs and bones, and pulls at my soul like the mention of it might wrench me from existence altogether.
I’m just starting to understand him, and he’s going to leave voluntarily. I thought he was so strong, powerful. I didn’t think he would willingly be put down like this. This is where our journey ends? Maybe the compound intended to do far worse. Anger replaces my sadness as Shaw’s thin, sneering face flashes in my mind.
“Hold him down, Ky,” my mother instructs.
Ky moves with a limp, his metal leg clicking on the tile floor. The running must have pained him more than he lets on. And yet he remains as stoic as ever, despite his wavering gait.
He does as he is told and grips Forty-four’s biceps, holding him to the table. Ky’s arms flex, putting weight into his grip. Forty-four doesn’t fight or even look at any of us. All I can think is that Shaw damaged him this badly that he’s just lying down and accepting death. And my mother is so afraid of what Forty-four might endure at the compound that she’s willing to kill him.
The calmness of the situation forces itself on me. I should just let him be. Accept his acceptance. I swallow and look away from the table, trying to clear my mind. I blink and release a heavy, shaking breath. I want to help. To save this broken hybrid. But I can’t. I can’t.
So I do the only thing I can do. I walk around the table, near the wall he faces and stand close with my hands resting on the table. Forty-four’s eyes are closed, but I know he knows I’m here. As my mother carefully lifts the blade I take another weak breath, trying to get air into my constricting lungs. It’s not enough. There isn’t enough air in this tiny wreck of a home. I breathe again, still not finding oxygen in the air, but trying anyway.
I watch as my mother angles Forty-four’s face farther away, exposing his neck. His neck is so strained for a moment I think I can see a pulse. Out of panic, I take Forty-four’s hand in mine, trying to comfort him and myself.
At the touch of my palm against his, he opens his eyes to look up at me from the table. I stare into his pale gray eyes, thinking this might be the last time I see the beautiful hybrid look at me. The last time I stare into those capturing, intense eyes. His brows lower in confusion and his thumb begins tracing circles against the back of my hand. I take another small, useless breath.
With slow precision, my mother rakes the crystal blade across his throat. A thin trickle of blood escapes before his skin closes and heals immediately.
My mother huffs and lowers the blade in frustration. She releases Forty-four’s head and he slowly looks at her. His eyes glare at her from under thick, dark lashes.
“Sorry, let me try again,” she says to him.
Forty-four sighs like his murder is a real inconvenience to him, but turns his head back toward the wall. His thumb never stops its busy work at the back of my hand.
My jaw is still hanging open. I’m looking from my mother to Forty-four, trying to take in the insanity surrounding me. I lick my lips and try to remain passively at his side. He deserves someone who isn’t a sobbing mess to be at his side. Even if it’s the first time someone like me might be here for him. Even if it’s the last time.
My mother takes a determined breath and raises the blade again. Again, with patient and careful execution, she strokes the blade over his angled throat. And again the blood trickles and the shallow wound closes.
Forty-four exhales loudly in annoyance before rising to a sitting position on the table, letting go of and leaving my hand behind.
“Let me try one more time,” my mother says calmly. “It’s not as easy as it looks,” she says defensively, trying to sell her murdering abilities.
I want to scream at her to stop this. Instead, I patiently wait in silence for whatever she thinks is best.
I once read it was near impossible to kill a vampire and their offspring are just as difficult. It can be done, but not by a mortal blade. Which must be why the blade at present is being used. He’s healing so quickly we might have to find another way to kill him. The casual thought sinks into my mind, and I shudder at how dark my thinking has become.
Forty-four shakes his head at my mother as if he’s tired of the death game they’re playing. He holds out his hand for the weapon. His posture is perfectly straight, and his eyes are hard as they stare at her. Waiting. She swallows and looks away before handing him the sword.
He tilts his head back from one side to the other, clearly trying to release the stress that’s tensed his muscles for the past several hours. Possibly his whole life.
In his sitting position, his shadow is cast against the wall and the blade sends slivers of light into his shadow as he raises it against the dim lamp. A memory of a childhood story enters my mind, of a boy whose shadow was somehow severed from his body. A happy, carefree character. If only it were that simple. If only this blade had the ability to sever the dark heaviness that follows this hybrid around.
He takes a deep breath. All eyes watching him. Then quickly but carefully he slices the blade across his own neck.
Five
Asher Xavier
