BloodRose

1. Thanatos

Calliope Jade Thistle. Cal. My mother's favorite muse of Greek mythology. The color of my eyes. The name of the thorny flowers that decorated my back yard. She changed my last name to suit me like her mother changed hers.

"The flowers are beautiful," my mother said, "beautiful and dangerous."

Protected from threats by the thorns, their beauty allowed to flourish freely. They would never be devoured or trampled. That's what she always said she wanted for me.

"To be stunning and safe from harm."

I wish I could have lived up to it. I wanted to make her happy, be what she wished for me to be. I couldn't imagine anything more fulfilling than that. I was that girl for a while. I was safe. I was good. But you know what they say........all good things must come to an end.

I did.

Calliope Jade Thistle. I read the name over and over again, as if by pressing it into my thoughts, I can feel like her again. Calliope Jade Thistle. Calliope Jade Thistle. Calliope Jade Thistle! Instead of putting life back into the name, the repetition only serves to drain the meaning from the words. Calliope Jade Thistle. Born May 22nd, 2000. My eyes hitch on the words, as my breath would if I were speaking. Died........May 21st, 2018. Unlike my name, those dreaded words seem to flood my body with a numb cold no matter how many times I feel them whisper through my skull. Died. I am well and truly gone. Forgotten. Nothing of me remains in the world, nothing, but this rough stone, bereft of flowers, marking an empty grave, and carved with a meaningless name.

Calliope Jade Thistle. Feeling like the name is now, finally, devoid of any and all personality, I turn, put my back to my grave, and march toward the waiting car. The sleek body of the limousine seems to be made of molten stygian in the sun. The heat coming off of it only adds to the effect. I hesitate as I reach the door and it swings open before I can take a full breath.

"You coming?" The voice is grating and I steel myself before ducking into the seat across from my murderer. I say nothing as I get into the car, refusing to talk to him. I can barely look at his face, let alone make eye contact and I only stare at his hands. They are scarred, but otherwise smooth, older than they look, unaffected by his many centuries of life. The hands trigger a memory, a painful vision I have tried to forget over the last few days. I cannot forget. I will never forget.

*One Week Ago*

"Cal!" My mother's expectant voice rings from upstairs. I smack my forehead and grab up my dirty laundry from beside my bed.

"Coming!" I yell back. I think I can hear irritation in her voice and I pound up the stairs two at a time. I run the clothes into the laundry room and put them in the already half full washer.

"Cal?" she says again, and this time, I realize the sound is coming from her bedroom. I just hauled my clothes up here for nothing. She probably hadn't even realized I hadn't done it yet. I hear feet shuffling on the floor and my eyebrows draw together uncertainly. Her voice has an excited ring to it, like she wants to show me something. When she really gets excited, she finds me. She doesn't just stand around and wait for me to come to her.

A muffled sound comes from her room and I creep down the hallway. I have seen too many tv shows, read too many books, to just walk carelessly into an unknown situation. What if there is someone else in the house? What if they are threatening her? What if they're here to kill us? Who knows what dangers lie beyond the half-closed door to my mother's bedroom? I shake my head and tell myself I'm joking, but a doubt worms its way inside my mind.

Before I can fully scan the room, the door swings open. I see one face before I feel an excruciating pain in my neck. I scream and a taste like metal fills my mouth. Blood. As I fall unconscious, I see my mother's still body on the ground and have time to wonder vaguely if she is still alive before my head hits the floor.

Despite my screams and the close proximity of the neighboring houses, no one hears and I wake up later that night. I don't know what time it is. I don't know anything anymore until I see the man sitting in the corner of the room. He appears to be only a little older than me, his hair smooth and dark, chopped raggedly uneven. By contrast, his skin is pale and the only flaw I can find is on his hands. They are covered in scars. Without the beard anyone passing him on the street might assume he's a senior in high school or maybe a young college student, but the longer I look at him, the more something seems off about him, aged, timeworn. He doesn't move from his seat as he starts talking.

He explains everything. He tells me what I am, what I must do to survive. I yell at him, but I barely even know what I'm saying and everything he says is so logical that I can't contradict it, as hard as I try. My killer should not be helping me. I should not be listening to him. I remember where I am, what happened here, and turn to the body still laying on the ground, blocking the sound of his calm voice as best I can.

My mother has long since lost any warmth she had and I don't try to stop the tears that flow freely down my face as I cradle her, now lifeless and stiff. I whisper her name to myself, as if it will somehow give her life again.

"Rose Jaylin Stone." It only serves to remind me that she is dead. Gone. Still as the mountainside she was named for. I will never get her back.

The man, the murderer is repulsively gentle, almost calming, but urgency finds its way into his voice. I almost ignore it, too angry and distraught to even consider his words. I can't put my hands over my ears without letting go of my mother.

"We have to go," he says, "The police will be here soon. I called them. Unless you want to take the blame for your mother's death, I suggest you come with me." I glare at him, still choking on sobs that I struggle to hold back.

"Why would I ever come with you?" I ask. Rage and sorrow make my voice shake. I hate it.

He looks at me for a long time and I think maybe he will attack me again, deciding I am not worth the trouble. Then his face softens the tiniest bit, "Because you have no other choice." He puts his back to me. "I can help you; you just have to let me." He walks away without looking back to see if I follow.

I brush my mother's hair out of her face and leave her lying alone on the floor. I pause beside the second pool of blood on the ground. My blood. I wish I could lay back down and stay there, dead, with the only person I love. Instead, I walk down the front steps and out my door to the waiting car, each step taking me farther away from who I was.

*Present*

Alias ducks his head so that his grey eyes are level with my green ones and slowly I drag my gaze up from the floor. I know what he is about to say before he says it. He's already tried several times, but bitterness still fills me as the words come out of his mouth. "I'm sorry." That's it, not an excuse, not a reason, just that he is sorry. His apology comes too late. If he expects forgiveness, he won't get it from me. When I don't respond, he leans back in his seat, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Fine. I get it. I killed you. It won't matter in a few years anyway."

I'd use my gaze to burn a hole through his face if I could. "It won't matter?" I try to keep my voice level as I have done around him these past days, but a little of the boiling rage inside me seeps through my filter. "What do you mean it won't matter?" Was I really that insignificant?

"I mean, it won't matter to you that I was the one who turned you. You'll call me a monster and then come crawling back as soon as you realize you can't control the bloodlust either," he says. His manner is nonchalant and I keep forgetting how old he is. This must be the thousandth time someone has looked like they want to stake him. His calm demeanor tells me he is either way more powerful than me and has nothing to fear or he doesn't care what I think. Both are equally as likely.

I ignore him. Repositioning in my seat so that my head leans on the window, I drift off to sleep. I feel my murderer's eyes on me and can only hope I don't become like him as he drags me into my new life. If you can call it that.