The girl who chased the moon

Chapter 11

By the time I got home, the sun was already rising steadily over the outstretching orchards and forest. The light hit the roof of the chateau and cast shadows on the darker sides. I could see Lydia closing the shutters in the downstairs rooms so, should she need to, she could come above ground. 

I was clutching katiana tightly in my good hand, while holding my right wrist close to my chest, cradling it. I dared not look at it any more, it was swollen to more than twice it's normal size and turning blotchy blue and purple. It looked like someone had thrown paint at a canvas, only the canvas was my skin. My hair was hanging limply around my face, stuck down by sweat to my clammy face. 

Entering the house, I had to place katiana under my arm and fiddle with the key in my left hand. Eventually, after minutes of struggling, the door swung open. Carlisle knew I was home. I sighed in relief and stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the lowered light, the candles had been lit and flickered on the walls; it was ominous, or would have been to those unused to such things. 

I walked through the corridor wearily, I was about to turn up the stairs before I heard a voice behind me. "What happened to your wrist?"

Turning to face an expressionless Carlisle, I looked at my battered arm, "I got into a fight with an arrogant werewolf"

Suddenly, the humanity returned to Carlisle, and a wry smile played on the corners of his mouth. "Did you beat him?" he asked, trying to hide his amusement. 

"Kicked his pompous arse" I said proudly.

Carlisle chuckled and stepped towards me, "do you want me to strap it?"

"It should be okay" I replied, though knew it wouldn't be. 

He scoffed, "don't lie Beatrice, come on, I'll strap it and I'm sure I can accelerate the healing"

I walked down the stairs and smiled sleepily, "as long as it doesn't take long, I'm shattered!"

"It won't" he promised. 

**

True to his word, half an hour later my wrist was strapped, and I had drunk some vile concoction Carlisle had stashed in his safe. Soon, much to my relief, I had finished soaking in a hot bath and was tucked up in bed, the sheets warmed from the pan, and the fire flickering in the corner. 

The pain in my wrist began to fade, and I began to unwind, my aching muscles stretching out on the mattress, my joints popping and groaning. Around my neck I could feel the weight of the ring, and I could not help but unhook it and slip the ring onto my hand. It shimmered softly in the candle light, and then suddenly, I wasn't in my room any longer. 

It was dark, and I was pacing the floor, my footsteps bouncing off the floor and echoing around the cavernous room. There was silence, apart from the constant rhythm of my feet, and the occasional sigh. Confusion filled me, as I tried to deduce what was going on. I could not control what was happening only watch on trapped in a body I could not use. 

I noticed a large portrait hanging on the wall as 'I' paced. The man in the picture was large and imposing, holding a severed head with a triumphant and sadistic smile on his face. Behind the man was a pile of bodies; men, women and children. All heaped together with mouths ajar in a silent scream and dripping in blood. The man in the picture was painted deathly white, but what marked him out was the crimson eyes, and a top his head was a gold crown, incrusted with rubies. It was then I recognised the picture, from history back at Rowhurst. 

The man was not a man, but the vampire king before Vladimir. It was Ivan Dalca, who had ruled from 894 AD. He had been ruthless, cruel; so many had lost their lives at his hand.