State of Grace (Resurrection) (30 page)

I ate my
bread, pleasantly surprised it wasn’t stale, washing each dry mouthful down with a sip of water. Although monotonous, the meal had quelled my complaining stomach for a while, and I found that with my hunger and thirst taken care of I was more alert. Not that being alert was going to help me any: it simply meant I was able to think more clearly, generally about things I didn’t want to think about. Like, what exactly was going to happen to me when Bernard had completed his enquiries and discovered no one could vouch for me? That is, if he remembered he had put me in this cupboard in the first place; I would have thought he had more important things on his mind. Or perhaps he would bide his time and bring me out to entertain the troops (images of Christians being thrown to lions and people being burnt at the stake rose in my head). I shied away, unwilling to consider that particular train of thought any further.

I
paced to keep warm – five steps, turn, five steps, turn – until the constant turning made me dizzy, so I sat back down, my squeaky, furry companions quiet for the moment.

I began to sing under my breath, needing to keep my mind away from negative thoughts.
After going through the whole of my iPod collection, I resorted to songs from my childhood, ones my mother had listened to on Radio 2 and Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs. Abba tracks: there were millions of them; ‘Dancing Queen’ was quickly followed by ‘Waterloo’ and I wasn’t surprised to find I knew all the words. My father had good-naturedly put up with the blond quartet, but his tastes ran more towards Queen, Bruce Springsteen, and, unexpectedly, the Foo Fighters. I had also heard him whistling (yeah, whistling) along to ‘Smack my Bitch Up’. Go figure. Mum would have slapped him across the back of his head if she had caught him listening to such anti-feminist stuff. These days I often found her listening to Radio 1 and getting the words to the latest Rhianna or GaGa track wrong, as she clattered dishes in the sink, or fended off the attentions of Flick’s last litter of puppies which were too young to be kept out in the boot room with the other two dogs.

I wondered what she was doing now, and how much time had elapsed while I was trapped here
. A sob escaped me as I fought a growing certainty that I would never return, that I would be stuck in this time and place for the rest of my short life (which was going to be even shorter than I had anticipated if  Sibyl had anything to do with it), whilst my real-time body shut down and faded away. I thought when my actual body died, I would probably cease to exist here as well. I wondered of the reverse were true: if I died here would I die in real time also? I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t get to find out.

I was on to Queen
now, having given up on Abba with Soupa Troupa, my least favourite. I didn’t think ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was the best choice I could have made, given my frame of mind and my situation, and I spluttered into silence at the chorus, casting around for something more upbeat, but nothing would come to mind.

I longed for light. The darkness was starting to fray my nerves, forcing me to focus on
mental images I would rather forget. I thought about hospitals and my own personal alien I unwillingly nurtured in my head. Not for me the dramatic and mercifully swift ripping apart of my chest; I was getting the slow, subtle treatment, but no less deadly for all that, as the tumour relentlessly destroyed my brain.

I thought of Joe and how carefree life had seemed less than a year ago. How I had thought he might be ‘the one’ and how shallow the feelings between us were when faced with my
illness and early death. We had laughed and loved whenever we had been together, but on reflection I could see the all-consuming passion that the truly in love should experience hadn’t been there. His leaving had hurt, but it was mainly my pride; it hadn’t touched my heart or my soul. I certainly didn’t blame him. I would probably have done the same thing, although I hoped I wouldn’t have. I wanted to be a better person than that.

I smiled in the darkness; it was ironic that at the end of my life I had found someone I could care about, even if that someone was no longer the same species as me, and certainly
didn’t reciprocate my feelings, and was probably a product of my imagination. How screwed up was that? I vowed whatever happened, I would keep Roman and Viktor’s secret. It wasn’t mine to share and anyway I couldn’t be sure that this whole time travel thing wasn’t a creation of my own mind, and even if it was real vampires couldn’t exist in the twenty first century, could they? What with genetic mapping and DNA someone somewhere would have discovered their existence, so his ‘kind’ had probably died out well before I was born. Therefore, I reasoned, there was no need to tell what I knew. Anyway, who would believe me?

I screamed at the sudden wrenching of the door from its hinges, scrabbling to my
feet, aches and pains forgotten in my terror.

‘Grace,’ Roman hissed, and relief made me weak. I clutched at the wall behind me for support.

‘Roman,’ I whispered through clenched teeth, although I didn’t know why I tried to be quiet as he had made enough noise to wake the dead.

‘Hurry,’ he commanded, reaching for my hand unerringly in the darkness as he moved into the cell. ‘Put your hood up and
cover your hair,’ he instructed, and I did as I was told without hesitation. He had returned for me. My heart swelled, singing out an erratic rhythm in my chest. His sweet scent saturated the air and I breathed him in gratefully. Fresh air never smelt as good as he did.

His pale face illuminated the night, chas
ing the shadows of my fear away and I put my trust in him completely and let him lead me out of my prison. Hurrying, he drew me down one of those infernal passageways until, without warning, we were outside. The postern gate was a few feet away and within seconds we were through and running over the wooden bridge. Roman ran silently beside me, but my feet clumped on the timbers, the noise reverberating through the night.

The air was ice cold in my lu
ngs and throat and I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. My legs were burning and a stitch sent lances of pain radiating out from my left side. As I ran, stumbling next to Roman, he half-carried me, moving faster than I thought I could ever move. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep this gruelling pace for long.

The slushy snow covering the dirt road leading away from the castle
had frozen solid, the conditions under my pounding feet slippery and treacherous, but I was grateful that I wasn’t up to my ankles in mud. Roman was surefooted enough for the pair of us.

I risked a glance behind and nearly fell,
stumbling over my leaden feet and he hauled me upright.

‘No one is following,’ Roman said calmly, and I marvelled that his breathing was normal, even as mine rasped in and out of my labouring lungs. I was panting heavily, ready to stop, when he scooped me up, cradling me in his arms. I nestled into his chest. Most humans would have been slowed by the extra weight but, if anything, our speed increased.

I peered back over his shoulder, astonished at how far we had come. The castle was a warm glow in the distance, becoming smaller with each stride. It was almost fully dark but I could see, the snow covered ground bouncing light back into the sky, illuminating our way. Roman’s skin shone in the reflected light and I lifted my head to stare at his profile, shocked anew at his beauty.

Eventually, when the castle had disappeared entirely from view, he stopped and gently stood me upright, keeping one arm around my waist as he walked me forward. I leant into his strength as the adrenalin took its toll on my body and the shivering began.

We had hardly said a word, but the slower pace made it easier to talk. I needed something to distract me, to calm my shredded nerves and ragged emotions.

‘You came back for me,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

I wondered if all vampires
were so reticent, or was it just him.

‘Why?’ I was curious. ‘You could have been caught’.

‘I very much doubt it,’ he snorted.

‘You didn’t
… um… kill anyone, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’ I breathed a sigh of relief, noting my tactics were working; the shivering had nearly ceased. It was desperately cold, but the brisk walking pace that Roman was setting kept me warm for the time being.

‘I did not kill any
one because it was not necessary,’ he volunteered and I had no doubt he was reminding me of his non-human nature.

‘Y
ou haven’t answered my question,’ I persisted.

‘No,
I have not.’

‘You’re not going to, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He stopped abruptly, turning me to face him. ‘Human,’ he warned, ‘you are starting to annoy me.’

I caught a glimpse of his extended canines
. ‘You don’t scare me, so stop trying to,’ I admonished.

He blinked, surprised for one brief second, then without warning I was on my back, pinned to the ground, the snow cold and hard underneath me. I squeaked in alarm as his face, inches from mine, contorted into a snarl. I still wasn’t scared, only taken by surprise at his swift attack. He wasn’t going to hurt me.

‘Stupid, ignorant woman,’ he growled. ‘You still have no idea how deadly I am.’

I pushed at his chest without effect. It was like trying to push a house. I resorted to squirming and wriggling, trying to get out from underneath him. The only effect it had was a noticeable hardening in the breeches area as he pressed against my thigh. Oh, boy. I stilled, an answering heat flowing through me, and watched in fascination as his fangs lengthened until they had extended fully. There was something
very erotic about that. My heart pounded and I couldn’t catch my breath. Roman’s response was to move his lips against mine and run the tip of his tongue slowly over one extended canine. I began to melt, from my stomach up.

‘You will be the death of me,’ he murmured, dipping his head to my neck.

I tensed, waiting for him to bite. I didn’t want him to, but I would let him anyway. I would have little choice – and I owed him.

Instead of teeth I felt lips, soft and gentle, just under my ear, and this time my shiver was from pleasure. I moved my head, wanting to taste hi
s mouth, and he obliged, his lips meeting mine, the kiss tentative and fluttering at first, then deepening as our passions rose.

He took me there in the snow. I was glad.

Chapter 13

I felt a very human, very girly need to hold his hand as we continued on our journey. His expression was quizzical, but he let me anyway. Our joining had been a confusing mix of hard, wild abandonment and tender lovemaking, and I didn’t want to let the tenderness go. Roman seemed happy to oblige me.

My cloak was sodden and he had given me his. The cold didn’t bother him. I was trying not to humanise his actions, but it was hard not to. He probably didn’t want the burden of a sick woman on his hands, rather than any concern for my health, but I appreciated the gentlemanly gesture all the same. And he hadn’t bitten me.

I could tell
he had wanted to. I sensed his thirst even now after our lovemaking was over, but he had controlled his need for blood, sending his urges in another direction. I thought I might not be able to sit down for a week, and the remembered pleasure made me smile.

Roman noticed. He noticed everything. ‘Why are you smiling?’ he asked, the corners of his own delectable mouth turning up.

‘I was thinking about… you know…’ I actually blushed. The rush of blood to my cheeks didn’t go unnoticed either. I heard him inhale.

‘Do you want me again? I want you.’

‘Well, yes,’ I replied, embarrassed, though why I should feel coy after what we had just done was beyond me. ‘But not right now. Give me a couple of hours.’ I had an eyebrow raising thought. ‘You mean, you could go again? Already?’  It had been less than ten minutes.

‘Of course.’

Oh my. ‘You don’t need to, ah, recover a bit first?’

‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘I am ready again if you are willing.’

I bit my lip, letting that sentence sink in, and my knees went weak at the thought. Looks like I had found something else vampires were better at than humans. I was sorely tempted, but sore was the operative word right now.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, to change the subject. ‘We’re going in the wrong direction for the
cottage.’ We were heading north-west.

‘
It is not safe at the cottage any longer. Viktor has laid a false trail there. Sir Bernard’s soldiers are following that.’

‘Is that why we…
because no one was following us?’

He shot me an odd look. ‘I would not have mated with you if we were being pursued.’

Of course not! He might be vampire but he wasn’t reckless. Silly me!

‘Where is Viktor?’ I wondered out loud.

‘He is ahead of us with the horses. We will go north, Chester maybe. It is unlikely Sir Bernard will find us significant enough to send messages to castles and manors nearby, but I do not wish to take the risk. Still, he is likely to forget about us in a few days. He has more pressing matters on his mind.’

‘Lady Nest?’ I hazarded a guess.

‘Lady Nest,’ he confirmed. ‘It is possible he took more of an interest in you than he otherwise would have done because of her actions.’

‘I haven’t been unfaithful. I’m not even married,’ I protested.

‘With shorn hair it is reasonable for him to assume you are adulterous. Or are a bride of their Christ.’ He chuckled, ‘It is lucky that no one saw your…’ He gestured to my nether regions. ‘It is a common punishment to remove a woman’s pubic hair if she has been unfaithful, or has otherwise seriously displeased her husband.’ He saw my confused expression and added, ‘The removal of hair takes place in public. The woman is humiliated and scorned. Bernard and his men would have been certain of your guilt. I would not like to consider what they would have thought of your eagle. They would have called you witch for certain.’ He paused for a second. ‘It will be interesting, keeping you safe,’ he mused.

Interesting
?
I’m glad I amuse you, I thought sarcastically. My new purpose in life – an antidote to a vampire’s boredom.

Now
I was safe (relatively, at least, I wasn’t certain exactly how safe a human could be with a vampire: even though my heart was telling me he wouldn’t hurt me, my head was telling a different story), I was aware of my stomach. All I had eaten in the last twenty-four hours (at least, I thought it was twenty-four hours, but the days and nights had been somewhat scrambled in my mind lately, so my estimate may be way off) was a hunk of bread. I was also very tired and the cold was starting to become a major issue. I hoped we would reach the horses soon and Roman would remember my human needs.

We were still walking quite briskly, but I didn’t think
I could keep this pace up for much longer. Roman loped along beside me, deep in his own thoughts, all coiled power and fluid grace. I stumbled and lumbered along, trying to keep my feet moving. I wasn’t normally as uncoordinated as this, but the physical and emotional rollercoaster of the last few days were taking its toll.

I stumbled badly this time, seeing the blur of Roman’s arm out of the corner of my eye as he shot out a hand. The shock when he failed to catch me was immense. In
the last split second between bracing myself for a hard landing and actually hitting the ground, my consciousness seemed to snap and ping in my head, like a rubber band that had been stretched then released and I knew exactly what had happened. I was home.

The headache was instantaneous and monstrous. My brain felt simultaneously too large for my skull, ready to explode and take the top of my head off, and as if it were caught in the jaws of a vise, being crushed smaller and smaller until there was nothing of me left. Sweat beaded my skin, clammy and wet. I felt hot and very, very sick.

Luckily my eyes were closed because when I tried to open them the light stabbed my retinas, vicious daggers of photons racing towards the soft yolk of my brain, frying my corneas and superheating my mind.

I whimpered, curling into a ball, clutching my skull in both hands, fingers tearing at my hair, trying to rip the pain from my head.

That is how my mother found me.

‘Grace. Gi-gi.’

Consciousness was slow in returning. My body was battered and bruised, sore from the ends of my hair to the bottom of my still-cold feet. The only thing that felt remotely good was my head. No headache. The relief was all-encompassing. The terrible pain and pressure in my head was gone, leaving me weak and cotton-mouthed. I had a vague memory of my mother scrabbling frantically in my bedside table drawer, hunting for those tablets I had been given for occasions like this, and had not had to use: until now. Her searching hands had sounded like the scrabbling of the rats in the straw of my cell and I shuddered.

I was drained, spread-eagled lethargically across my bed, lacking the energy to even think.

‘Gi-gi.’ My mother could be persistent.

I twitched a finger
in response, then realise she probably couldn’t see it. I was covered from neck to ankles in my duvet. Only my feet stuck out of the bottom: that’s why they felt cold.

‘Gi-gi. Grace.’

‘Go away,’ I tried to say, but all that came out of my mouth was a thick groan. I wanted, no,
needed,
to be left in peace with my various hurts. I had always hated being fussed over and, luckily for me, my mother had never been the fussing kind. Always immensely practical, always calm, she was never flustered. Even when I fell off the back of the tractor and shredded my arm, shrieking like a banshee at the amount of blood rather than the pain (well I was only five!), she had calmly picked me up and driven me to the hospital for stitches, both of us spattered in gore. I had seen her sew up the throat of an ewe, which had been torn open by someone’s beloved pet dog, without flinching. Nothing seemed to faze her. And I followed her in my natural inclination to just deal with something on my own, and maybe discuss it later. This is why I hadn’t told her, or any of my family and friends, when I was first diagnosed. My reactions had been that of an animal: I wanted to hide away and lick my wounds in solitude. And then there was always the buried unrealistic hope that if I didn’t tell anyone then it couldn’t actually be happening; as if talking about it made it real. It also seemed pointless to let them worry for longer than they needed to. So I didn’t tell them for a long time, until I could hide my condition no more.

I didn’t think my mother would ever forgive me for that.

‘Grace,’ she commanded. ‘Open your eyes. I need to get some fluids inside you.’

See what I mean?
Practical.

I obediently tried to pry my eyelids open. It took several attempts because they appeared to be stuck together, although on refection I think I simply didn’t want to
wake up. And I was worried the light would hurt.

It didn’t. When I eventually got both eyes open and looking in the same direction, I was squinting and everything was slightly blurred, but nothing more serious than that. It was dark outside anyway, and the only light was the glow cast by a small tiffany lamp on top of my chest of drawers, throwing muted reds and greens through the coloured glass onto the wall behind.

‘Sit up,’ Mum insisted, helping me to raise my upper body up off the bed, whilst she thumped pillows and added a couple more. Satisfied, she let me gently back down onto them and handed me a glass of water.

‘I want you to drink this, then I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’

I smiled inwardly – the typical Welsh reaction to everything was to make a cup of tea. Tea will solve anything. I took an obedient sip and then another.

‘Coffee?’ I
croaked, the water lubricating my throat enough for me to speak.

‘I don’t want you having too much caffeine,’ she scolded.

‘Hmph. There’s more caffeine in tea than there is in coffee,’ I replied, my voice stronger by the second.

She capitulated, as I knew she would. ‘Ok. Coffee. But only a weak one, mind.’

She perched on the edge of the bed, eyeing me critically.

‘What is the date?’ I asked.

The question worried her, and she frowned. ‘The twenty-first.’

‘Of what?’

Her frown deepened, and there was a dull panic living in the depths of her eyes. ‘November.’

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I
had only been ‘gone’ for about… I tried a quick calculation and failed, but it had only been hours, not days.

‘Grace, I think we ought to call Mr Cunningham,’ my mother said.

‘No,’ I replied firmly. ‘This is normal. It is part of the progression of my …’ I waved a hand in the general direction of my head. ‘Anyway, I’ve had headaches before, just not quite as bad as this. It’s to be expected.’

She pursed her lips, thought about arguing, then gave me a slow
nod. She knew deep down there was nothing to be done that hadn’t already been tried. All that was left was to manage the pain, and that could be done, for now at least, with those magic tablets. I fuzzily remembered her forcing me to swallow some earlier in the night. I must have woken her but I couldn’t remember anything after that.

I could remember what had gone before, though. Every little detail. Much clearer than any dream, the memories were sharp and focused. I felt an inordinate sense of loss and tears were near.

‘Coffee?’ I reminded her, managing a small smile. I couldn’t let her see I was upset.

She patted my arm. ‘Ok,’ she said, and went down stairs, happy to be doing something.