Immortal Memory (Iris' Atlantis 1)

11: The City's Sacrifice

Timothy

There was a body on the couch. Or had been. Apparently Plume had been in a hurry when he had dumped it there, for by the time I saw it, it had slid halfway out. The arms and half of the torso still lay on the couch, but the legs had fallen and were pushing the heavy glass table out of their way.

There was a body on the couch. In my house.

I approached carefully, inspecting the entity.

I knew it wasn't dead. I could sense it. But it wasn't alive either.

A young man, younger than I was. He looked under eighteen. Curly golden locks and curious garments of deep violet hues.

I guessed he was a witch then.

My guess proved right as I came closer and saw the puddle on the floor where his arm was bleeding. I saw myself reflected in the blue pool. Small particles swam on the surface and reflected light.

He wasn't bleeding anymore, but the blood on his arm hadn't dried. I suspected it wouldn't. Not for some time. Not as human blood would, coagulating and thickening. It would just dry up eventually, like ink. And then flake away, I supposed.

Some instinct in me suggested I should bottle it.

Instead, I fetched paper tissues.

I cleaned the puddle first. Then his arm. Lastly a bite mark on the upper arm, just above the elbow. It would leave a bruise. I heaved his legs onto the couch as well. And noted he had left his shoes onto the backyard porch. (A pleasant detail.) There was a sizable hole in the left sock.

His chest hardly rose and there were long gaps between in-drawn breaths. I pressed two fingers to his throat searching for a pulse that beat frighteningly rarely. Maybe every third second. Maybe less.

He wasn't wearing a talisman. I was certain of it. Otherwise he could have evaded the fangs.

And why was he here in the first place? Why break in, but leave the shoes outside? What kind of a thief did that?

With my tissues I followed little blue prints and droplets upstairs. (I would never get the stuff off the rug!) I was led to Plume's room where I had left the vampire in his own coma this very morning.

He obviously wasn't there. But there was laundry.

As I hauled the bedding with me downstairs and started a washing machine, I pieced together a sequence of events. The witch had broken in. A bit groggy Plume had attacked the intruder. The witch had gotten a share of the vampire's venom. Plume had smelled the blood. He had been weakened from the slumber and had fled to the night in search of a more appetizing victim.

Good. So. Why was the witch here in the first place? I still didn't have the answer

What was here that could possibly interest him so much he had willingly approached a sleeping vampire?

I ran the stairs up.

The book. He had wanted the magic book with the wooden cover.

I searched the bedroom.

My own room.

His persona.

Elsewhere in the house.

I was going through kitchen cupboards when I heard a familiar voice ask:

"What did you lose?"

"A book," I said, lifting a pot onto the counter by the sink.

"A book?" Plume sounded curious. He came to stand by me, also peering into the closet. "You lost a book... Behind all these kitchen utilities?"

I finally turned to him.