Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - In the Forests of the Night

But Alexander was hurt, maybe dying. I had no doubt Aubrey had drawn the knife to kill him. How could she tell me to leave him? He needed help.

"I said, leave him," Ather whispered, once again turning me toward her. I stepped back, meeting her black eyes.

Cold shock was beginning to fill my mind, blocking the way of terror and pain. My brother could not be dead—not this suddenly.

"Do you know what I am, Rachel?" Ather asked me, and the question jolted me from my silent world. This was reality—not Alexander's death, not black roses. I could deal with this moment, so long as I did not think of the one before.

"You appear to be a creature from legend," I said carefully, worried about the consequences my words might have.

"You are right." Ather smiled again, and I wanted to slap that smile from her face. I remembered Alexander's words— I am the one who attacked you —and my surprise at hearing them. I could not believe my brother would ever harm anyone. The idea that such violence was in me was shocking…yet also strangely exciting.

Ather continued before I could say anything.

" I want to make you one of my kind."

"No," I told her. "Leave. Now. I do not want to be what you are."

"Did I say you had a choice?"

I pushed her away with all my strength, but she barely stumbled. She grabbed my shoulders. Long-nailed fingers twining in my hair, she tilted my head back and then leaned forward so that her lips touched my throat. The wicked fangs I had glimpsed before pierced my skin.

I fought; I fought for the immortal soul the preachers had taught me to believe in. I do not know whether I ever believed in it—I had never seen God, and He had never spoken to me—but I fought for it anyway, and I fought for Alexander.

Nothing I did mattered.

The feeling of having your blood drawn out is both seductive and soothing, like a caress and a gentle voice that is in your mind, whispering Relax. It makes you want to stop struggling and cooperate. I would not cooperate. But if you struggle, it hurts.

Ather's right hand pinned both of mine together behind me, and her left hand held me by the hair. Her teeth were in the vein that ran down my throat, but the pain hit me in the chest. It felt as if liquid fire was being forced through my veins instead of blood. My heart beat faster, from fear and pain and lack of blood. Eventually I lost consciousness.

A minute or an hour later, I woke for a moment in a dark place. There was no light and no sound, only pain and the thick, warm liquid that was being forced past my lips.

I swallowed again and again before my head cleared. The liquid was bittersweet, and as I drank I had an impression of power and…not life or death, but time. And strength and eternity…

Finally I realized what I had been drinking. I pushed away the wrist that someone was holding to my lips, but I was weak, and it was so tempting.

"Temptation." The voice was in my ears and my head, and I recognized it as Ather's.

Once again I pushed away the wrist, though my body screamed at me for doing so. Ather was insistent, but so was I. I somehow managed to turn my head away, despite the pain that shot through me with each beat of my heart. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, and it quickened until I could hardly breathe past it, but still I pushed away the blood. I believed, for that second, in my immortal soul, and would not abandon it—not willingly.

Suddenly Ather was gone. I was alone.

I could feel the blood in my veins, entering my body, soul, and mind. I could not get my breath; my head pounded and my heart raced. Then they both slowed.

I heard my own heart stop.

I felt my breath still.

My vision faded, and the blackness filled my mind.

Never before and never after have I felt the soul-tearing, mind-breaking pain I experienced that night. I have looked into the minds of willing fledglings; never have I seen my own pain reflected. My line's strength comes at a price, and the price is that pain. It has changed us all. One cannot be conscious throughout one's own death and not be changed.

Perhaps that was the worst part. Or perhaps the worst part of my story is yet to come.

The visions of my past linger in the present. Alexander's face floats in my mind, and I cannot seem to make it disappear. My two lives have nothing in common, and yet as I stand in this house I feel as if I have somehow been transported back to the past, before my brother was killed.

Seeking a diversion, I bring myself to New York City. I do not shift into hawk form. I simply bring myself away with the ability that only my kind has—the ability to change to pure energy, pure ether, for the instant it takes to travel in that form to another place. It takes me only a thought, and I arrive in less than a second.

I automatically shield my aura as I appear in the alley, not wishing to announce my presence to the world. Then I walk through the scarred wooden door that leads to Ambrosia, one of the city's many vampire clubs. This place was once owned by another of Ather's fledglings, a vampire named Kala. But Kala was killed by a vampire hunter. Yes, they do exist; witches and even humans often hunt our kind. I do not know who owns this place now that they have killed Kala.

The club is small and looks like any café — or it would if it had windows and more light than the single candle in the corner gives. Of course, I can see by the dim light, but a human would be close to blind in Ambrosia.

At the counter is another of my kind. I do not know him. He has his head down on the counter, and the skin I can see is almost gray. As I walk through the door he does not even look in my direction, though he does raise his head long enough to empty the glass that stands on the counter near him, and to lick the blood from his lips as a shiver wracks his body.

"Who did this to you? " I ask him, curious. There is no disease on Earth my kind can catch, and almost no poison that affects us, so I wonder why he looks ill.

"Some damn Triste," the stranger growls. "He was in the Cafe Sangra. I didn't even realize he wasn't human."

I wonder how Aubrey would react if he learned a Triste witch had been in the Cafe Sangra.

The Triste witches appear almost identical to humans. If one can read auras, their auras feel the same. Their hearts beat, and they breathe. They need to eat, just as humans do. Their blood tastes just like a human's.

However, they are not human in the least. Like vampires, Triste witches are immortal. They do not age, and their blood is poison to our kind. This child who chanced to feed off one is lucky he did not take much, or else he would already be dead.

"Since when does Aubrey allow Tristes in his territory?" I ask. The two kinds—vampires and witches—are usually enemies. The word Triste can almost be used as a synonym for vampire hunter.

"He doesn't. I was feeding," he answers, cringing a bit. "And then found myself on the floor with my arm broken. Aubrey tossed me away from the witch like some kind of a doll. They got into an argument, and the witch was thrown out. But this witch, he gave me this on the way out," he says, holding up a folded slip of paper. "Said to give it to some fledgling of Ather's."

He adds, “Ather doesn't have any fledglings called Rachel, does she?"

"What?" I gasp. I am the only one of Ather's fledglings who has ever been called by that name, and only Ather and Aubrey know it.

"He said, 'Give this to Rachel—Ather's fledgling.' "

I no longer wish to take the paper from his hand. I do not wish to know what it says. Rachel was human, weak, prey. Only Aubrey would call me by that name. Except for Ather, he alone knows all the memories it stirs, and he is the only one who would try to hurt me with it.