Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I have to shake my head a little to focus. “What?”
“The jars and vials in the root cellar?”
“Those were from you?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”
“Of course you don’t. I’ve kept you ignorant, Ryet. It’s all very need-to-know. And up until now, you didn’t need to know. But things are progressing nicely at the present. Your transformation has reached critical mass and Syrsee is just about there as well. Once she comes out of it, it will all go fast. She will need things, Ryet. Things only we can give her. And that is when you will need to meet your Maker.”
“She will need things? What does that even mean?”
“One step at a time. First, go into the root cellar and use those jars and vials. They are for the both of you to share.”
“Which ones? There are a lot of them.”
“I can’t tell you that because I’m not there. I cannot see her symptoms. You’ll have to figure that out yourself. But don’t worry. She’s safe, for now. Because she’s not in the purple, she’s in the gold.”
I make a face of what-the-fuck-does-that-mean.
“It’s a witch thing. Not a place for vampires. But if you can bring her out of it, just long enough for me to find her, then I will be able to prepare her for what’s coming.”
I should ask. I know I should ask. Prepare her for what? But I’m almost certain he’s not gonna tell me, and to be honest, I’m really not sure I want to know. Not yet. One thing at a time.
This feels a little bit like giving up, but what else can I do? I am one hundred percent certain that we are moving forward with whatever plan he’s cooked up, so maybe letting him lead is the best course of action.
“Go now, Ryet. Get the jars and vials and take them inside.”
Suddenly everything around me is starting to fade. Including Paul. “Wait! Don’t leave yet! How do I use the stuff in the jars and vials to make her better?”
And just as everything goes black, I hear his voice, low and distant. “You’ll know what to do. Trust yourself.”
The next thing I know I’m waking up in the dirt, sitting up and letting it all fall off of me. It’s dark, but I can see just fine. And when I look over my shoulder, my wings are exactly as they were in the dream—complete and the bones are covered in a membrane. Except I don’t think it was a dream. I think Paul and I really did just have that conversation.
Then I remember the last thing he said and get up. I pick my way over the various dirt mounds I’ve accumulated in the tunnel over the past week and finally stumble into the root cellar. There’s an old produce basket on the ground, so I just start filling it up with the jars and vials.
Once that’s done, I make my way back through the tunnel and up into the house. I check Syrsee first—still sleeping. Her fever is back. Well, it never really went all the way down to normal, but she’s very hot again. So I take the basket of vials into the kitchen and use a dishcloth to clean the dirt and grime off the bottles, being careful not to get the labels too wet so I don’t smudge what’s left of the old ink.
Then I line them all up on the counter and take stock of what I have.
For jars I have ‘Thirst.’ ‘Hunger.’ ‘Gasping.’ ‘Purging.’ ‘Chills.’ ‘Sweats.’ ‘Fatigue.’
For vials I have ‘Despair.’ ‘Loneliness.’ ‘Regret.’ ‘Contempt.’ ‘Estrangement.’ ‘Fear.’ ‘Shame.’ ‘Guilt.’
The jars are for physical symptoms and the vials are for emotions.
Well, I can’t read Syrsee’s mind, so the vials will have to wait. I choose ‘Sweats,’ since she has a fever, and open the lid of the jar. I expect it to smell rancid—everything in the root cellar looks like it was made decades ago—but it actually smells sweet. A cross between ginger ale and honey. It looks like a pudding or custard and when I dip a finger into it and give it a taste, it is sweet.
There are no directions on any of the jars or vials, but at this point, I might as well trust Paul. It’s not like I have many choices. I’m not sure how I’m going to get her to eat the pudding since she’s unconscious, but then I get an idea—maybe I could mix the pudding with some of my blood and feed it to her that way? But then I get another idea—maybe I should eat the pudding and then just feed her my blood?
I’ve done dumber things in my life, that’s for sure. And for some reason, this feels right. The exchange of blood feels important. At least it’s familiar.