Grave Burden Page 3

  I closed my eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath, appreciating those warm fingers against my skin.

  I did trust him. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have come to him in the middle of the night that first time, seeking comfort when anxiety and fear wracked my brain.

  Maybe I did love him.

  Maybe I didn’t know what love was, or I had a distorted view of what it should be.

  It was nice to be there beside him, his gentle touch against my neck.

  He felt so good, and his embrace was so warm. I felt safe. And whole.

  I opened my eyes again and focused on his. He smiled sweetly and rested his hand on my bare shoulder, his fingertips massaging my skin.

  Maybe I was overthinking everything.

  “I do trust you, Derek.” I reached out to graze my fingers across the side of his face; the stubble along his jaw line tickled my fingertips. “I do.”

  His gaze drifted down to my lips, and then I let him sweep me up in to a passionate kiss.

  Every spark of his energy was focused on me, as if he had intended to win me over with that kiss.

  And maybe he did… as my body began to tingle, and a sense of perfect harmony and contentment washed over me.

  His strong arms embraced me and his tongue tasted mine, seducing me with his skilled, perfected craft. He knew exactly what I liked, and his intense hunger for me made me lightheaded.

  He pressed forward, supporting me from behind as he lowered me onto my back against the plush comforter. Then he came over me, pinning my body firmly against the bed.

  His hot breath swept against my throat as one of his hands inched up under my shirt to caress my ribs. My lungs quivered when he pressed a kiss against the hollow of my throat. Then the fingers of his other hand entwined with mine, and he pushed my arm over my head, against the mattress.

  Every sensually warm, sex-starved curve of his body had brushed up against me in just the right way that it had me trembling involuntarily, my heart racing as my fingers tightened on his hips.

  It felt good—the touch of his skin against mine, and the primal longings inside which implored me to let go of my inhibitions. He was a man in love wanting nothing more than to consummate his feelings for the woman he had chosen.

  And there I was, unable to decide what I wanted.

  My body wanted him, but my conscience…

  He peeled his shirt up over his head, tossed it off the bed, and then shifted to slide a knee between mine. He lowered himself back down on top of me and began folding my shirt up toward my breasts, planting a line of kisses across my stomach as my back arched. A playful pinch of his teeth against my side made me writhe.

  I’d succumbed to his desire and absorbed it like a drug. My mind grew fuzzy and disoriented, but the decision became clear—I wanted more and I could think of nothing else.

  Desire and triumph glinted in his eyes, as if he knew he’d finally gotten me where he had wanted me, and that there was no turning back.

  His body pressed against mine and he brought his lips close to my ear.

  I dropped my head back and gasped, my fingers inching past his neck and nestling into his short hair.

  “I will marry you, Kathera,” he whispered, the deep, visceral truth of his words forcing the last threads of reason from my mind.

  I awoke, with a start, to the vibrant green of Matthaya’s widened eyes staring down at me.

  “What was that?” he asked, searching my face for the answer. The moonlight reflected off his pale bare shoulders as he leaned over me.

  “Only a dream,” I replied, hoping he wouldn’t pry the truth from my mind.

  “Oh?” Matthaya knew me too well. “Only a dream? Somehow, I feel there was more to it than that.” He moved beside me and leaned back against the headboard. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I sat up, too.

  “When I was with Derek, I-I...” The words tangled upon my tongue. “He wanted… He’d hoped that I’d...”

  “That’s natural,” he interrupted, confirming he already knew what I was stumbling over. “He was a man in love, and that is how we often think. When instinct takes over, we are driven by forces much more influential than mere reason.”

  “But, I said no,” I added. “I told him that I wouldn’t—not until I was married. I didn’t want to sleep with him until I knew for sure he was the one I’d stay with.”

  “I understand.” Matthaya’s gaze drifted down to the tattoo across my finger and he stroked his hand over mine. “I love you, Kathera. You can tell me anything. No matter what it is or who it was with.” His fingers wrapped around mine. “Please, don’t hesitate to speak the truth. I have no right to be jealous of things you did, or even thought about doing, in my absence.” His face tipped to the side and his eyes implored me to confide in them. “Was that dream a memory of something that had actually happened… or?”

  “Well, I...”

  Damn it. The words just wouldn’t come.

  But he waited, not an inkling of impatience about him.

  “Some of the things in that dream did happen, but, in reality, I stood my ground and I said no. In my dream, I gave in.” I felt relieved to have finally gotten the guilt off my chest.

  The expression of sympathy on Matthaya’s face didn’t seem to change, but I noticed his lips fighting back a brief grimace.

  “It’s natural for you to question your past actions,” he replied quietly. “To believe he deserved more of you than you had allowed him to have at that time. Your grief is making you overanalyze your choices in an effort to reconcile with the past. You feel that his death was caused by your decisions, but—”

  “It was,” I said flatly.

  “You cannot spend eternity dwelling on it.” His fingers released mine. “You simply can not.” The spice of anger tainting his words jarred me, and I sensed the remorse he still harbored over the unnecessary fatality Derek had become. “You made the decision that was right for you at the time, and—despite how his life may have ended—you owe him no debt.”

  “I’m glad the hurricane changed course, aren’t you?” my client said, pushing back against the seat as she scrolled through social media on her phone. She kept her leg surprisingly still, in spite of her constant fidgeting.

  I traced the dragon egg outline on the side of her calf with black. The machine’s buzzing was more apparent than usual, and it rattled through my brain, putting me on edge.

  Before I could answer her question, she changed the subject and said, “I still can’t believe you don’t have an online profile for this place. I’m surprised I found out about you, but I am so glad that I did.”

  I wiped off the excess black, then switched out the needles and began inking some texture details with pine green.

  “But, whatever,” she continued. “More time for me, I guess. I’m on fall break right now. A friend recommended you. She got inked about a year and a half ago. It was, like, a broken heart or something. Her breakup was tragic, but the guy was a dick, anyway.”

  I remembered that client. She was full of bitterness and sorrow, and I had wondered, at the time, if she might regret the tattoo.

  She glanced down toward her calf. “Dragons are cool, though. So, were you a GoT fan?”

  I lifted the needle from her skin as I looked up. “No. Not really.”

  “What? No way.” Her brow furrowed. “I think you’re the only person I’ve met who wasn’t.”

  I was familiar with the series, but not interested.

  She shrugged. “Oh, well. R.I.P., Jonerys.”

  I went back to coloring in the scales of the dragon egg. The Game of Thrones-inspired design began circulating several years ago, but I hadn’t been asked to tattoo one before.

  Mainstream images were not my preference, but with my creative energy fizzling, it made sense to work on something—anything—instead of letting my skills decay.

  “I apologize for being quiet,” I
said, highlighting one of the shield-shaped scales with golden yellow.

  “Huh?” She looked up from her phone screen.

  I smiled and went back to work. She went back to scrolling.

  I spent the next hour silently coloring and shading each scale, adding highlights and texture until the egg was complete. Behind my polished, intricate cover-up tattoo, was a poorly drawn, stick-and-poke “tattoo” of a baby dragon. It was tasteless and juvenile, like something out of a kid’s coloring book, but less refined. Stick-and-poke isn’t something to be disrespected, and many artists are wholly capable of producing beautiful, unique artwork with the right techniques, but this was not an example of that.

  At least she could show off the dragon egg with pride. It had turned out quite lovely, even though it wasn’t my design. It had hints of my style buried in the line-work, but the originality ended there.

  “All done,” I said, peeling off my gloves and tossing them into the trash. I’d just added healing balm and then a bandage.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “It looks friggin’ amazing. So much better than that scratcher’s crap. I shouldn’t have let him practice on me.” She rolled her eyes. “So stupid. Anyway, I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I walked with her to the front desk, where my new receptionist—a young man named Kieran—took care of the rest. Then my client and I parted ways. Like most fall break customers, I’d probably never see her again.

  Matthaya had told me to stop working with them if I wanted to challenge myself, but I didn’t want a challenge right now. I was struggling to rekindle my passion.

  I didn’t want to stay home and do nothing.

  It was the middle of the day and the sun wouldn’t set for a few hours. Matthaya stayed home, as he typically did, until dusk. It would get darker and cloudier as winter drew nearer, but until then, he’d stay away most of the afternoon.

  This is also why I had agreed to hire a receptionist. It was, surprisingly, Matthaya’s suggestion. Kieran was in his twenties and had medium-length, emo black hair with an electric blue streak over his brow; he considered himself a social outcast, but fit in perfectly with us. His hidden compassion and ability to listen and follow directions were traits I appreciated. He didn’t ask questions about our odd hours, or odder complexions, and he did his job right the first time. I could feel that he was happy to have stable work with people who treated him like a human being and not a number.

  Having him around the shop allowed me to stop worrying about all the little things, like booking appointments and consultations, and let me concentrate on my canvases and their design needs.

  I only took clients by appointment, so anyone who walked in off the street had to go through Kieran first, and it saved me precious time.

  “You’ve got one more scheduled for tonight,” Kieran said.

  I had just begun sanitizing the studio and packing up my autoclave bags when an itchy feeling washed over my skin.

  “Kathera?” Kieran called, this time poking his head around the corner from the front desk to peer into my studio.

  “I-I heard.” I grimaced and clenched my teeth, trying to shake the uncomfortable twinge quaking through my veins.

  Hunger.

  Now is not the time.

  I’d not yet learned how to predict or repress it, even though Matthaya was trying to teach me to be aware of the signs.

  It would come at strange times. In weird places. Weird hours of day or night.

  I’d be fine, and then suddenly all my skin would be crawling and a sensation of pressure in my ears would build. Then the sounds around me would grow louder—more intricate and disruptive.

  With Kieran around and another client scheduled to come in soon, it was in my best interest to go home early. Else, I’d risk letting the hunger overwhelm me and… bad things could happen.

  We didn’t keep blood in the shop for obvious reasons.

  “Actually,” I started, sealing the last package and setting it onto a metal tray. “Would you mind rescheduling that one? I’m not feeling well. I think I should call it a day.”

  “Oh, sure, leave me with the dirty work,” Kieran said with a laugh. “Clients love rescheduling.”

  I glared at him, more harshly than I had meant to; it was the hunger and anxiety setting in.

  “But that’s what you pay me for,” he added nervously and then zipped back to his computer to look up the client’s phone number. “I hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks.”

  I packed up my things and left the shop.

  The tingling, itchy sensations intensified as I walked, and I fought to stay focused. We didn’t live far, and I’d be home soon enough.

  Assuming the hunger would subside. The thunderous rustling of the wind through the dying leaves made me flinch, the sharp crackling sounds grinding through my brain like twigs being snapped by my ears.

  I heard voices in the distance.

  I blinked several times in an attempt to reduce the colorful fringing beginning to take shape on my surroundings—indicators of movement and heat designed to assist us on the hunt.

  This had happened before, and I’d been able to keep the symptoms to a minimum until I’d arrived home, but these were much stronger than they had been in the past.

  The sheer intensity provoked me to take a different path, a shortcut, crossing through the cemetery instead of going around it. There were fewer people there, and I could take a brief break to try to calm the urges.

  I found my mother’s grave and sat beside it to rest.

  Slowing down and closing my eyes helped dampen the primal impulses.

  Matthaya had taught me this in the beginning. He’d taught me that whenever the hunger struck, I had to find a quiet place to rest and allow it to pass.

  I was at peace near my mother’s grave, tamed by pleasant memories of a life that once was.

  It was also where I had met Matthaya. Before things grew complicated, we would sit and talk beneath the light of the moon.

  I sat on the bench near my mother’s tombstone and rested my hands in my lap, lifting my face up and taking in a long, deliberate breath of early autumn air.

  Trees. Grass. Flowers that had been set upon the graves of others. Scents of those who had come and gone throughout the day—the fragrant perfumes and soaps they’d used to wash their bodies and clothes. All these things lingered in the wind.

  I kept my eyes closed and let my mind drift off into a calm, meditative state, willing the approaching sunset to quell the hunger pangs.

  And it did… eventually.

  Darkness came like a thief, spiriting the sun away beneath a cloak of stars.

  The wind blew, tousling my hair around my face, forcing me to tuck unruly locks behind my ears.

  I sniffed the air. Humidity was high and the pressure changing.

  It would rain soon; I felt it in my bones.

  I pushed up from the concrete bench and turned to head home.

  A familiar scent wafted by, causing me to freeze where I stood. It was a warm, vibrant amalgam of musk and amber, and it was familiar. Too familiar.

  A twinge of discomfort flushed through my bloodstream and my adrenaline spiked, altering my vision to better detect movement in my surroundings.

  I was not alone in the cemetery.

  I swerved to confront the intruder and growled fiercely, baring my fangs.

  “Hi,” he said, raising an eyebrow while grinning fearlessly.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular. His skin had an unnatural tinge of yellow to it, the result of a fading olive tan. Ruddy bleach-blonde flecked his short dark hair, and his deep brown eyes had a hint of supernatural golden light circling the irises.

  “Derek!?” I stiffened. “This can’t be,” I whispered, though neither my nose nor my eyes deceived me. “You died.”

  His presence launched my senses into overdrive, and a dozen colored o
utlines traced his silhouette, shifting in and out of focus as if he were a threat.

  I’d watched him die.

  He stepped closer to me. “Actually, I’ve been informed that the dead can’t be taken.” He smiled maliciously, so I could see his shiny new vampire incisors. “A Sire can’t take someone who’s already dead, because there has to be some life left to convert.”

  But, Ve’tani had torn him open… I saw him bleeding out. He was…

  My chest tightened at the sickening revelation racing through my brain.

  He was never dead?

  We... I left him there… alive!?

  Derek stretched out a hand toward me, but I quickly withdrew from his reach.

  “You never pulled away from me before,” he said with a scowl. His voice had an eerie timbre to it, reminiscent of the vile maker, Ve’tani.

  Thoughts darted through my brain at breakneck speed, and confusion shrouded my mind as an overwhelming sense of guilt crashed over me.

  It was really him.

  I stood my ground and tried to stifle the hyperactive instincts so that my sight, and my racing thoughts, would stabilize.

  He approached again and reached for me a second time.

  Maybe I should have been leery, but my condition made me less cautious than my former self. I let Derek take my left hand into his, and I watched as he examined the band across my ring finger.

  “This is new,” he said, caressing the wedding tattoo with his thumb. “So... what should I call you? Mrs.?”

  I was tempted to yank my hand away. Knowing that he was alive (in some sense of the word) planted a myriad of paralyzing thoughts in my mind.

  Should I say something, or apologize, even? I wanted to.

  Should I flee?

  Why would I fear him now when I hadn’t before?

  My mind caught in a vicious loop of questions, not a single word came from my lips.

  “I’m just curious,” he added with a nonchalant shrug. “I’d like to know who ended up taking my place.”

  “No one took your place,” I said, gazing into his dark brown eyes. They’d become unnaturally vibrant, flaunting bright golden undertones and a glimmer of bioluminescent light. “I thought you were dead. You were bleeding everywhere after th-that monster—”