Born in Twilight: Twilight Vows (27 page)

Irish countryside, 1808

I
walked along the path that night, as I often did. Bone-tired from working in my father's fields, coated in a layer of good Irish soil spread fine on my skin and held fast by my sweat. My muscles ached, but 'twas a good sort of pain. The sort that came of relishing one's own strength and vigor. Of late, I hadn't done so any too often. I'd been taken with bouts of weakness, my head spinning sometimes until I passed out cold as a corpse. But today hadn't been like that at all. Today I'd felt good, certain whatever had plagued me was gone. And to prove it I'd worked like a horse in Da's fields. All the day through I'd put my brothers and cousins through their paces, darin' them to keep up with me, laughing when they couldn't. And I'd kept on wielding my hoe long after the others had called it a night.

So 'twas alone I was walking.

Autumn hung in the air, with the harvest beneath it and a big yellow moon hanging low in the sky. Leaves crackled under my feet and sent their aromas up to meet me as I walked by the squash patch, with its gray-blue hubbards as big as Ma's stew pot, and orange-yellow pumpkins clinging to their dying vines. We'd have to gather them in tomorrow. Gram said there would be a killing frost before next Sabbath.

A killing frost.

A little chill snaked up the back of my neck as the words repeated themselves, for some reason, in my mind. Foolishness, of course. I'd spent too many nights as a lad, curled on a braided rug before the hearth listenin' to Gram spin her yarns. This time of the year, her tales tended toward the frightening, with ghosties and ghoulies her favorite subjects. I supposed some of those tales had stuck in my mind. Though a man grown now, and all of twenty years plus three, I still got the shivers from Gram's tales. The way her voice would change as she told 'em, the way her ice-blue eyes would narrow as if she were sharing some dark secret while the firelight cast dancing shadows on her dear careworn face.

'Twas a night just like this one, boy. When all seemed peaceful and right. But any fool ought to know better than to walk alone after dark during the time of the harvest. For the veil between the world of the living and that of the dead is thinning…and parting…and…

“Hush, Gram,” I whispered. But a chill breeze caressed my neck and goose bumps rose there to mark its passing. I thrust my hands into my pockets, hunching my shoulders,
walking a little faster. Something skittered along the roadside, and my head jerked sharply to the right. “Only the wind,” I said, and then I began to whistle.

Any fool ought to know better. Are you a fool, Donovan O'Roark?

I shook myself and walked still faster. There were eyes on me…someone watching from the crisp, black night. Or perhaps some
thing.
A wolf or even an owl. I told myself 'twas nothing, that I'd no reason to fear, but my breath began to hitch in my throat before puffing out in great clouds, and my heart to pound too quickly.

Then the dizziness came.

The ground buckled and heaved before me, though I know it never truly moved at all. I staggered sideways, would have fallen into the weeds along the edge of the path, had I not managed to brace my hand against a nearby tree. Palm flat to the warm, soft trunk, head hanging low, I fought to catch my breath, to cling to my consciousness.

The tree spoke.

“Alas, boy, I thought to wait…but I can see the deed must be done tonight.”

I jerked my head up, then snatched my hand away, not from a tree, but from a man. Yet…not a man. His dark eyes swirled with the endless black of the very night, and his hair was black as soot, gleaming to midnight blue where the moon's rays alighted. His lips, cherry red, and full. Yet the pallor of his skin shocked me. Not sickly-looking, not like death. But fair, and fine, as if he were some fine work of art chiseled of pale granite. As if he were a part of the moonlight itself.

I took a step backward, leaves crunching, the breeze picking up to tease my hair. The wind grew stronger all of a sudden…almost as if it knew something dire was about to take place this autumn night…

…the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is thinning…parting…

I backed away more quickly.

The creature only shook his head.

“Don't try to run. It will do you no good.”

“Who are you?” I managed. “What do you want with me?”

His smile was sad, bitter. “Many things, Donovan. Many things. But for now…just the one.” He reached out, though I never saw his hands move. They were simply there before him one moment, moving expressively as he spoke—and in the next instant they clasped the front of my homespun shirt. I struggled against him, but he pulled me easily to him, and my fighting amounted to nothing at all.

I am not a small man, nor a weak one, despite my recent illness. I stood fully a head taller than my da, and half that much above any other man in our village. My shoulders were broad and well formed by a lifetime of hard work. I'd never met a man I wasn't certain I could whip, should the need arise.

Yet this one, this
thing,
dragged me to him as if I were a child. Closer, inexorably closer, even as I twisted and tugged and fought for my freedom. He bent over me. Fear clutched at my heart, nearly stopping its frantic beat. Pain shot out through my chest, and down my left arm, and I couldn't draw air into my lungs.

Then I felt his mouth on my neck…lips parting, and the
shocking pain as his teeth sank deeply into the skin of my throat, piercing me. Pain that faded almost as quickly as it appeared. And as it faded, so did everything else. Everything around me, from the soft singing of the crickets to the smell of the decaying leaves. I no longer felt the chill autumn air. There were three things of which I remained aware, three things that filled all my senses. Darkness. Silence. And the feel of his mouth on my throat, draining the very life from me.

Then even those things disappeared.

 * * *

“Donovan! Donny-boy, wake up! Wake up!”

Someone shook my shoulders. Da's voice shouted in my ears, sounding like it never had. Raspy, panicky, afraid. There was a taste in my mouth, salty and rich. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, as I fought to open my eyes. When I looked at my hand, I saw blood, glittering in the moonlight.

What had I done? What…?

Da scooped me up into old arms that shouldn't have had the strength to lift me. And staggering under my weight, he carried me toward the village, shouting for help. It was only moments before others came, my neighbors, my friends. Alicia with her flowing auburn curls and cat's eyes as green as Ireland itself, the girl I dreamed about at night. My ma, and sisters. My body was jostled as neighbor men relieved Da of the burden, and bore me swiftly into my home. They lowered me to a pallet, while Ma shouted questions. But no one could answer her. No one knew what had befallen me out there on the path this night. Only me, and one other soul. A monster, a creature of nightmares and Gram's tales.

Gram. Gram would know what had happened, what this meant. I listened for her voice among the others, but it was a long while before I heard it. And its grimness did nothing to reassure me.

“It can only be evil,” she all but whispered. “'Tis the Eve of All Hallows. Foolish lad, out walking alone tonight of all nights!”

Ma hushed her impatiently, but I saw the way she stiffened at Gram's words. She snatched up a lamp, elbowing the men aside and leaning over me as if to see for herself. Then Ma gasped and drew slightly away, her loving eyes going wider.

“Lord a' mercy, there be blood on his lips.”

“Aye,” Da said. “But what does it mean?”

My mother said nothing. Gently, her hands pushed my shirt aside as she searched for injuries. I forced my eyes to remain open, though sleep…

Or is that death?

…called to me, drew me closer just as the stranger had done. I couldn't fight much longer.

Ma looked down at me, fear growing large in her eyes, though I could see her trying to keep it concealed from me. “You'll be all right, my boy. I'll see to that. You'll be—”

As she spoke, she pushed my hair aside. 'Twas long, my hair. Hung well past my shoulders, thick and darkest brown. My Ma lifted the heavy locks, and her eyes changed.

As if the light of love flickered…a guttering candle.

She snatched up a cloth, muttering a prayer in the old language as she dabbed the blood away from my throat with one hand and lifted her lamp higher with the other.

And then my mother screamed. “Devil! Demon spawn! Get the children out of this house, 'tis the mark of Satan!”

I felt my eyes widen as her face turned hateful. I lifted a hand toward her as she backed away. “Ma, what's wrong with you? 'Tis me, your son, Donovan—”

But she shook her head, her eyes fixed to the place on my throat where that creature had feasted, and she continued to back away. “Die, Lucifer,” she whispered to me. Her son, her firstborn. And I couldn't believe she said it, couldn't believe the hatred in her eyes. “You're not my son, nor worthy to be there in his poor body. Die, or I vow I'll kill you myself.”

I'd been fighting to hold on. But her words…the shock they sent through my body…'twas all it took to shake my tenuous grip on life. And I sank into darkness. Into death.

This time, the darkness lasted longer, though I was never aware of the passing of time. I only knew I felt clean when I began to surface toward life once more. My body, my clothing…were fresh. I smelled of heather and honeysuckle. The clothes I wore were not the scratchy, rough weave I wore every day, either. Ma had dressed me in a fine suit of clothes she'd made for me herself, and only allowed me to wear on the most important occasions.

I heard voices, smelled the familiar scent of tallow candles and lamps. And flowers. So many flowers. Someone played a fiddle, drawing the bow 'cross the strings in a slow and mournful wail. I heard the clink of glasses, and smelled good beer, and food.

Slowly, I managed to get my eyes open.

I never should have done that. For I found that I lay in
a coffin. Homemade, likely by my da's own hand. The coffin had been set upon a table at O'Connor's tavern. Women walked past, heads low, tears damp on their cheeks. Men stood still, drinking beer from tin tankards. Sean Ryan stood in a corner with his fiddle tucked under his chin, eyes closed. Alicia, the girl I'd often kissed when her da wasn't looking, sat by herself in a chair, staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing.

Father Murphy stood up front, right beside the coffin, his back to me, his prayer book opened, and by clearing his throat he got everyone to look his way.

“Donovan O'Roark was a good man, but evil struck him down in the prime of his youth…”

Lord a' mercy, they were givin' me a funeral!

“No, Father,” I cried as loud as I could manage. “I'm alive…Da, Ma, I'm…” I struggled to sit up.

Someone screamed, and then the room went dead silent. Father Murphy faced me, white as a specter, wide-eyed as he crossed himself. Alicia leapt to her feet and shouted, “Kill it! Kill it before it destroys us all!”

“No!” I cried. “I'm not evil! 'Tis me, Donovan O'Roark…won't someone listen…?”

“Get the women and children out,” Father Murphy shouted, and for the first time I thought he sounded like some mighty prophet of old. His voice fairly shook the walls. Or perhaps 'twas my hearing that was altered, for indeed it seemed every voice was sharper, clearer to me. And the fiddle…

No time to dwell on that now, for my best friend Sean and some of the other young men began urging the women out of the tavern.

My ma stayed behind, glancing at me, then at my da. “You know what must be done.”

Da nodded, and Ma fairly ran from the room then.

I braced my hands on the sides of the coffin, making as if to get myself out, thinking how they'd all laugh once they realized how foolish they were being, and—

Da shoved me back. Hard. Cruel. Never had he handled me so roughly. I blinked in shock. Then froze—literally felt the ice creeping through my veins—as I saw Father Murphy take a wooden stake from somewhere nearby, muttering, “Your wife was right, O'Roark. 'Tis good we were prepared for this.” He pressed the tip of the stake to my chest, and my da,
my own beloved da,
handed him the mallet.

From outside I could hear my mother sobbing softly and the girl I planned to marry one day shouting “Kill it! Kill it
now!
”

Father Murphy lifted the mallet.

I don't know where the strength came from—or, I didn't know then. I suppose I blamed it on panic or fear, rather than anything preternatural. But when I shoved against the hands that held me—my father's hands—I felt little resistance. I surged from that coffin with the force of a tidal wave, and landed on my feet beyond the two of them. My trusted confessor and my flesh-and-blood sire. My would-be executioners.