Warm Blood

six

6

1831 

It had been a century since the Salem sorcerers performed resurrection magic after I witnessed their very own burn at the stake in front of a sea of vengeful on-lookers, skin withering and melting until it was replaced by a pile of ashes. Lazarus and his witches had done a spell that brought the accused witch back to life after dying, and the thought had sparked a fire deep within me. Up until then, I had lived a life of unfulfillment and emptiness since the passing of my love, but that spell ... that strange magic ... had given me hope that we would be reunited. But after that night, the coven was nowhere to be seen. The witch trials paired with a vampire's presence in Salem likely made them wary, and so they fled, leaving behind no trace of their destination.

The coven was gone, but the fire within me burned brighter with each passing day, motivating me to find the one who could do the same magic. I would scour the Earth, every continent, every country, every civilization, and I wouldn't stop until I did.

I became a scholar, burying myself in every school of thought, religion, and spiritual practice that could lead me to the ones capable of this magic, and my journey had led me to the antebellum south in Southampton County, Virginia. The period was characterized by the greedy and barbaric exploitation of coloured people throughout the Americas, and with it brought the birth of spiritualism and witchcraft among the oppressed. I had heard stories of flying spirits with the same benevolent and malevolent nature as humans who the slaves regarded as the true dictators of nature, and I had to know more.

It was difficult, at first. My appearance as a white woman made it unfavorable for the slaves to trust my intentions—something I had never quite experienced until then. I had no difficulty convincing others to do my bidding before, but the slaves viewed me as a demonic entity because I appeared to them after sunset and gave them feelings of terror—even more so than their masters. The slaves had held one of their own, Nat Turner, in high regards because he knew how to read. His intelligence alone garnered respect among them and made relaying my cause even more challenging.

"I ain't talkin' to you, cracka," he would tell me in a variety of different ways.

"Even if I give you my word," I would propose.

Nat would give me a look of disapproval, turning up his bottom lip and scrunching his face. He was bold in the way he talked, authoritative. He made a good leader, that was certain. "I ain't listenin' to the devil. I smelt it on you. You ain't anymo' human than the massa."

"If you know I am not one of them, then why won't you help me?"

"A cracka is a cracka, human or not. I ain't helpin' you 'cause you damn sure ain't helpin' me," was his usual response. I didn't get very far in my inquiries. It didn't matter who I tried to converse with or what senses I appealed to because one thing was clear—the slaves saw me as their enemy, and you don't help the enemy.

That was until one, dark fateful night when the moon hung low in all its fullness, bathing the estate in its cold glow and providing the only source of light in that erie darkness. It was past the time the slaves would head to their quarters for a dreadful sleep that would undoubtedly prepare them for an even more grim day on the plantation. After being rejected by yet another, my hopes of continuing to follow this thread grew very thin. I probably would have stopped then, if it wasn't for a silvery voice to answer my prayers had I believed in God.

"What you want to know," the voice asked, soft enough to barely be heard above the warm breeze, but still loud enough to make its presence. The voice's owner was a petite female with large, expressive eyes. Even though her irises resembled the night's sky, I could still see the flicker of fear and curiosity in them. Her skin was a rich, deep umber, radiating effortlessly in the moonlight and was probably a delight to see in the warm sunrays. Her dark coarse hair was strategically hidden behind a kerchief, but I would bet it was just as beautiful as the rest of her. Her beauty stunned me, and I wasn't easily stunned.