Aleron: Book One of Strigoi Series (Stringoi Series) (16 page)

“Aleron, what happened to you?” he repeated.

I chose my words wisely. “I’m more than the son you knew.” My tone was humble yet powerful. As my father, he demanded my respect, as a human, my restraint.

“Are you the son I knew?” he whispered, almost more to himself than to me.

With only a thought, I caused two candles to catch flame and illuminate the room. Then I appeared in the opposite corner of the room. Completely surprised and caught off guard by my sudden movements, he nearly leapt out of his skin as he turned toward me. I allowed Aknon to see his immortal son. He looked at me slowly and carefully, eyes full of confusion and compassion. He continued to stare.

Astonishment only briefly displaced his fear. Fear was an emotion not readily accessible to Aknon. For all of my mortal years I had never known my father to fear anything or anyone. My father, the eternal protector of his house and all who reside within it, the pillar of our family, was as strong as the cornerstone to the great pyramid of Giza. But this man was in fear of what stood before him, the chilling countenance and unflinching stature of his son standing in his home. He knew I was unnaturally cold. He knew I wasn’t the son who disappeared that night when I was taken by infatuation and force. Had it been more infatuation, or more force?

Aknon continued staring at me. With mouth agape, his eyes followed my new endowments from head to toe, from my long black coat to my black shoes, which carried the various reminiscences of towns I’d had the pleasure of visiting that night and every night before. My hair had grown to a mane, a side effect of vampirism. My clothing, though dark, was noticeably caked with dried blood that I hadn’t bothered to clean off before my return, and this startled Aknon.

“What happened to you, my son?” his tone that of a forgotten father’s love for his son. “How did you get like this?” His face slowly transformed into disgust. “You’re not my son! You’re a specter! A demon!” His pulse hurried as sweat began to drip from his hair down the side of his face.

Before I could answer, we heard a faint murmur from the bedroom. My father turned slightly toward the room while I remained as unflinching as stone. He turned his attention back to me.

“She can’t see you like this. I won’t allow it!”

“What makes you think you can stop me, Aknon? What makes you so sure you can exert the strength necessary to keep me from doing my will? Why do you think I came here?”

“Have more respect for my wishes in my house!” he retorted sharply and with rejuvenated confidence. “The sight of you like this will terrify your mother. She won’t be able to sustain an encounter such as the one you desire. You know this to be true!”

He was right. Seeing me would spell her death. Seeing me could arrest an already faint and weakened heart. My mother deserved my respect and my understanding. But did I deserve her forgiveness? Before I could respond to Aknon’s demands, I felt what he truly must also have felt, complete sorrow and sadness. For he knew my mother would be gone soon, and he wanted her undisturbed. He wanted her to breathe as long as her lungs would allow, without laying her sunken eyes upon her vampire son. Surely she would drift off to her eternal rest immediately after the initial shock of my return and my inhuman appearance. She would indeed die.

“Aknon,” my father’s name struggled to find its way from the other room through my mother’s dry, cracked lips.

“Stay in this room and don’t leave! I’ll check on her and will return.” He walked past me into the hallway. As he passed, he knew his commands no longer held authority with me. I wasn’t going to stay. I was going to leave the moment he entered my mother’s room, and so it came to pass.

CHAPTER 13

pon leaving the home of my mortal life I wandered the streets of al-Montaza. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mortal mother, her sickened state, and about Aknon’s disapproval of my presence. I thought about the thoughts he held closest to his soul, of my transformation, or becoming a demon, as he put it. A demon. Ironic, considering the notion of God’s true purpose for mankind on Earth, to live within the physical boundaries for all eternity—until the true demon persuaded the first mother to be disobedient. Treachery was the charge and death the sentence. Life for man changed at that moment. Life meant death. From that moment of original sin, man was born to die. Man would spend his entire existence preparing for death. But as for vampires, life meant forever. Aknon believed me to be a demon, though as a vampire I was closer to the true nature and purpose of man than all of mankind. Why then were we the damned?

As I pondered the thoughts I had stolen from my father, I came to
realize that it was an enigma. We killed to live. We seized the blood, thus forsaking the life, the soul, the gift from God to live. This was why we were demons. This was why we were the damned. We stole from God. Thieves. Aknon was indeed right. We were demons!

Dawn began to approach, and I sensed the onset of the paralyzing metamorphosis. I sought salvation in a tomb at a familiar place. There was a graveyard between Cairo and Alexandria that housed more than the dead. Many migrants traveled the route, passing through it in search of a more prosperous way of life. The journey was long and sometimes impossible to accomplish. Those who couldn’t continue took shelter within the confines of the graveyard. Thus its name became the City of the Dead, for the city never slept even though most of its inhabitants were dead. Those who resided in the City of the Dead were poor and tended to keep to themselves, often not speaking to another inhabitant for several days or weeks. It was the perfect temporary resting ground for me, a demon.

As I approached, I caught the unmistakable scent of death. It permeated the air, and even those who were alive wore its funk. The graveyard was as vast as it was old and neglected. Its statues had always fascinated me, born from timeless marble, stained with dirt and decay. They resembled angels and people, perhaps depictions of the more permanent residents they celebrated. The portraits of the dead were larger than life yet perfectly proportionate. The garments they wore, though perfectly still, were in a constant flow of motion. The faces were always melancholy. Their eyes, open without an iris or a pupil, stared into nothing, frozen in a timeless state of sadness.

The angels suggested something else entirely. They stood gigantic and towering, commanding allegiance to all whose eyes captured them. Their wings were never outstretched; they rested—enormous, spanning the entire length of the body, adorning the face of hope, justice, and love. They did not wear garments, which, of course, made perfect sense, for clothing was manmade and originated from earth, while the angel was made from the very hands of God and thus was inherently perfect. And one doesn’t hide perfection.

Of course, the City of the Dead had its fair share of crucifixes. I believe
there were more crosses of varying shapes and sizes than the dead who found eternal rest there. There were traces of flowers that dressed some of the graves; however, their splendor had been forgotten long before my arrival.

Many centuries ago, this burial ground was for the wealthy. Therefore, no expense was spared in the preparation for the final resting place. The tombs were as big as small homes. How fitting it was: garments of silk, a house of marble, a guardian angel or deity, complete with one or more crucifixes, symbolic of a pathway to what lay on the other side. A fitting place for me—a demon.

I would come to find rejuvenating slumber beneath the earth, adjacent to the permanent residents. I thought the disturbance would go unnoticed if I borrowed a sarcophagus for one day.

I arrived and was completely out of sight before anyone could notice—any mortal, that is. There was indeed another near me who was well aware of my presence in the City of the Dead. I felt it. I found myself racing against the coming sun as I eagerly searched for a suitable place, away from everyone and everything, including my follower, whom I had begun to fear, for it was innate to fear the unknown.

I chose a tomb where life had left long ago—a tomb whose size and weight would be more than enough to deter any mortals from disturbance. I moved the stone covering from the mouth of the tomb and entered. It became increasingly difficult to maneuver and position as the hour grew early and the night’s strength in me began to subside. Immortality has its ironies. Though we were depicted as free of time’s boundaries, we were bound by the very celestial bodies that determine daily and nightly progression, and so we were confined and regulated by a much smaller timeline than that of a mortal life, ironically immortal.

Slumber found me faster that day than any other day I could remember. The thought of the stalker reminded me of the vulnerability I felt the time Mynea saved me from the lake after I slaughtered those men.

A vampire was stalking me, and it wasn’t Mynea. It had the same grace and same pace but a different scent. If this vampire was pursuing me and the effects of the sun didn’t cause it to abandon the hunt, then this vampire was older and perhaps stronger, I concluded. I felt
the vampire getting closer to me. I began to hear the moving of the dirt beneath the stone entrance. My body stiffened as I desperately tried to keep my eyes open. It was futile. I was at the vampire’s mercy.

“Sleep,” the vampire said with a soothing voice. I heard her as if I were awake and listening to her; however, I was already asleep. At that time, I didn’t know how to will myself conscious. It was a skill I would perfect a few years later.

The damp ground beneath me gave as I lay beneath the cemetery. Visions of mortals and immortals alike flooded my mind, with places and sounds only familiar to me during my vampire sleep. Night after night, week after week, year after year, I dreamed about a distant castle, whose ancient inhabitants were unaware of my curiosity and presence and where the central figure towered over all he commanded. His voice I shall never forget. Yes, these dreams, though unwelcome, returned again and again.

Day after day they revealed more and more. This time was to be no exception. However, the dream du jour wasn’t of a rich, dark, menacing castle along a mountainous region. The dream wasn’t of places Mynea frequented or of people and places our shared and unshared victims remembered upon their death. No. This dream was of someone I hadn’t dreamed of in decades. It was a dream of my mortal blood sibling, my long lost Shani.

We were young and carefree, running through the house playing hide-and-seek. There were three rooms, a kitchen, a common area, and five closets at our disposal. The floors were hardwood, so one had to tiptoe to disguise the direction of their chosen hiding place. I welcomed these memories, for it reminded me of a home full of life, full of love—a home that contained several portraits characterizing my sister and me, along with our parents, paintings of sunsets as well as abstractions. Our furniture was always handmade by my father and sewn by my mother. Yes, I welcomed these memories.

Shani was counting, and I was hiding. As a young boy, I could always find a hiding place secret to others. Our home had many nooks a child could hide in, but I found the best. This proved most frustrating to the patience and expectations of a young girl. She spent many minutes
searching for me, which can seem an eternity to a child. I found a small spot within the attic of the house where the light couldn’t reach. As I waited quietly, I could hear her stumbling footsteps below searching for her seemingly vanished brother. I held back laughter as she went to and fro beneath the attic door. Exasperated, she began to call out to me and then began to cry. I purposefully made a noise just loud enough for Shani to hear and return to the spot beneath the attic. Sensing I was near, she began to climb the unsteady stairs to the attic. I readied myself to scare her. And as I saw the top of her head peek through the pitch-black opening, I sprang from the shadows, and I yelled out to frighten her.

Her eyes widened immensely as she screamed, and something I didn’t consider occurred next. She fell backward and landed awkwardly on her arm. With another scream, a thousand times more dire than the first, she called out to mother. I knew she was hurt. I rushed out of the attic and down the stairs. She was holding her shoulder, and her arm looked slightly out of place. I knew in that moment, when her innocent and tormented eyes met mine, that I would never cause such despair in my sister ever again. I would always protect her. I would always look after her.