Page 34 of To Save a Vampire
Ky groans against our weight, his teeth clenched as he hangs onto Asher’s wet hand. He pulls us from the rapids, the water fighting to release us. He sinks his boots into the thick mud and pulls us into the bank. Asher pushes me up out of the water. My fingers claw at the dirt as I crawl up the grass. My left leg shoots pain through my body with every move. My mother helps me up and hugs me into her cold, drenched side. Ky pulls Asher up from the water, and he instantly finds his balance. I watch as Asher takes deep breaths, his chest rising and falling under his clinging shirt, the hard lines of his stomach accentuated beneath the translucent fabric.
“Are you okay?” he asks, taking my cold hand in his, his fingers loosely holding mine.
His eyes trace my body, looking for the source of my pain. He leans down to my torn and bloody jeans. Just below my knee, the fabric is ripped away and I gasp when I see the shredded flesh underneath. A shaking breath escapes my lips in a half cry as he pushes the material away from the wound.
Without a second’s hesitation, he unsheathes his blade and slices open his palm in one quick movement. His blood pools in his palm. He brushes his hand gently over my leg where the flesh is torn and bone can be seen.
The light pressure he puts on the wound is enough to make me see spots. My weight gives out; my mother holds me up like a child at bedtime. I bite my lip to muffle my pain, my fingers clinging to her shoulders.
It feels like hours pass, but the pain is gone as quickly as it came. Asher releases a heavy breath and lowers his hand. I swallow hard, blinking back the unshed tears. I breathe out short spurts, trying to calm my racing heart. I take a small nervous step, putting a bit of weight on my left leg.
I wait for the shooting agony, but it never comes. I bend down next to Asher. His palm has already healed under the smear of blood on his hands. I touch my bloody skin under the ripped fabric. Just like Asher, my wound is healed. My fingers run over the smooth unblemished skin. My shin tingles under the touch of my fingers. A warmth spreads through the limb. It feels a bit restless like the blood flow is a current beneath the skin.
“Are you alright?” he asks again, his silver eyes searching mine.
I give a small confused but grateful nod as I try to process what just happened. Ky’s bag rustles. The small opening between the zipper reveals Ripper’s curious little nose. A part of me is even more thankful Ky didn’t throw out his pack at the first sign of trouble.
Ten
An Explanation
After crossing the river,we set up camp. Everyone is wet and tired from the excursion. Everyone except Ripper who, once released from the bag, ran around in circles like he’d just been released from a ten-year stint on the inside.
In blossoming orange and reds, the sun sets, and we fall into our strange but normal routine. Asher found dinner—rabbits. I’ve come to notice he never kills more than we can eat, and I can’t help the warm comfort I find in his unnatural kindness.
With a clatter of sticks and crunching leaves, Ky sets up a fire as my mother and I collect water at the river for the next day. We all eat with little talking. Part of me is thankful to avoid speaking of the incident at the river.
It’s cooler tonight. The breeze isn’t stiflingly warm against my skin like normal but actually cool and soothing. Ky volunteers to take watch. Asher argues, but I think it bothers Ky that he isn’t taking watch over us. My mother and I have been his family for as long as I can remember. They were childhood friends and now lifelong friends.
Asher seems to understand Ky’s need to protect us, letting his protests quiet against his lips and conceding to Ky’s demand to keep look out. Asher sets up his pallet of light blankets, and I wait to see if he’ll actually sleep.
It only takes about half an hour before my mother joins Ky on the river bank. Their whispered voices can be heard in the silence. I can also hear my mother’s laugh. After everything that’s happened, Ky can still make her laugh.
I smile to myself as I look into the fire that has warmed and dried my now crisp clothing. Asher plays with the shiny tabs at the top of the instrument he’s carried with him since we left the house. He had to dump river water out of it, but it seems to work fine, I guess.
He twists six metal nobs back and forth, strumming quickly on each string before returning back to the nobs at the top. He does this relentless strumming and turning for nearly fifteen minutes. The repetitive noise is harsh and grating on my nerves, but then he stops and his fingers begin moving seamlessly along the thin board lined with strings. He simultaneously strums individual chords with his other hand. The noise is shaky at first, then he finds the rhythm and moves swiftly from note to note.
It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard. It’s nothing like the drumming and singing people do during the few parties I’ve been to outside of our camp. The light vibration in the quiet air fills my chest and makes a happiness radiate strangely though my core as if it is competing to replace my own beating heart.
He stops mid-note to glance up at me as though he feels me watching his work. I’ve been caught in the act. I was staring wide-eyed without blinking. I give a shy half smile and look away for a second, afraid he will stop the perfect noise he’s creating, but, when I turn back, he is still watching me, hand raised against the strings, a knowing look in his playful eyes that creates uncertainty in my lungs. The way his deep eyes are watching me makes my breath falter and my heart lose its rhythm.
“Sorry, I’ve just never seen anyone do that before. It was … perfect.” It is the only word I might ever find to completely describe everything about him.
He holds up the instrument and waves me over.
“No, I couldn’t do … what you just did,” I say in a nervous rush of words.
He continues to hold the wooden object in the air, brows raised impatiently as if he refuses my response. I stand up, brushing the dirt from my palms to sit closer to him. Our shoulders brush, his warmth spreading into me. I’m about a foot away, close enough to watch the strings of the instrument, but he glares at the space between us as if it is the enemy.
He turns, shifting in his spot on the ground until he’s behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His legs straddle around me on each side.
“You know, you are pretty demanding for someone who doesn’t speak that often,” I tell him.
He releases a quiet laugh, his breath fanning over my neck as he lifts the instrument over my head and into my nervous hands. His closeness halts my breath, my heart speeds through its beating motions. My body is at war against itself, seemingly unsure of its own natural process. I’m afraid he can hear the pounding noise trying to escape my chest. My heart has turned into a trembling bird trapped within its cage and it beats wildly to escape.
He wraps his arms around mine and holds each of my hands lightly in his own on the instrument as he had held it earlier. He’s literally wrapped around me. No one has ever been this close to me and it causes my mind to question every simple movement I make.
He positions my index finger along the thinner wires near the bottom of my palm, my palm that is sweating against the panes of the instrument. He pushes my fingers down as he instructs my other hand to strum the same wire. He moves my fingers slowly up and down the board of strings while strumming with the other hand. He is creating perfect notes by using my hands. It’s an amazing and accomplishing feeling I start to realize once I adjust to his closeness.
