Morgan Rice: Destined

Caitlin stopped in her tracks, turned and faced the mob. If she was going to die, at least she’d go down fighting.

As she stood there, she closed her eyes and breathed. She focused, and the world around her stopped. She felt her bare feet in the grass, rooted to the earth, and slowly but surely felt a primal strength rise up and wash over her. She willed herself to remember; to remember the rage; to remember her innate, primal strength. At one time she had trained and fought with a superhuman strength. She willed for it to come back. She felt that somewhere, somehow, it still lurked deep inside of her.

As she stood there, she thought of all the mobs in her life, all the bullies, all the jerks. She thought of her mother, who begrudged her even the smallest kindness; remembered the bullies who’d chased her and Jonah down that alleyway New York. She thought of those bullies in that barn in the Hudson Valley, Sam’s friends. And she remembered Cain’s introduction on Pollepel. It seemed that there were always bullies, bullies everywhere. Running from them had never done her any good. Like she’d always done, she’d just have to stand and fight.

As she dwelled on the injustice of it all, the rage built, coursed through her. It doubled and tripled, until she felt her very veins swelling with it, felt her muscles about to burst.

At just that moment, the mob closed in. A villager raised his club and swung for her head. With her newfound power, Caitlin ducked just in time, bent down, and threw him over her shoulder. He went flying several feet in the air, and landed on his back in the grass.

Another man reached back with a large stone, getting ready to bring it down on her head; but she reached up and grabbed his wrist and snapped it back. He sank to his knees, screaming.

A third villager swung at her with his hoe, but she was too quick: she spun around and grabbed it mid-swing. She yanked it from his hands, wound up, and cracked him in the head.

The hoe, six feet long, was just what she needed. She swung it in a wide circle, knocking down anyone within range; within moments, she established a large perimeter around her. She saw a villager reach back with a large stone, gearing up to throw it at her, and she hurled the hoe right at him. It hit him in the hand and knocked the stone from it.

Caitlin ran into the dazed crowd, grabbed a torch from the hand of an old woman, and swung it wildly. She managed to light a section of the tall, dry grass on fire, and there were screams, as many villagers rushed back, in fear. When the wall of fire got large enough, she reached back and hurled the torch directly into the mob. It went flying through the air and landed on the back of a man’s tunic, lighting him and the person next to him on fire. The mob quickly gathered around them to put it out.

It served Caitlin’s purpose. The villagers were finally distracted enough to give her the running room she needed to take off. She wasn’t interested in hurting them. She just wanted them to leave her alone. She just needed to catch her breath, to figure out where she was.

She turned and raced back up the hill for the church. She felt a newfound strength and speed, felt herself bounding up the hill, and knew she was outrunning them. She only hoped that the church would be open, and would let her in.

As she ran up the hill, feeling the grass beneath her bare feet, dusk fell, and she saw several torches being lit in the town square, and along the cloister’s walls. As she got closer, she spotted a night watchman, high up on a parapet. He looked down at her, and fear crossed his face. He reached a torch above his head, and screamed: “Vampire! Vampire!”

As he did, the church bells rang out.

Caitlin saw torches appear on all sides of her. People were coming out of the woodwork in every direction, as the watchman kept screaming, and as the bells tolled. It was a witch-hunt, and they all seemed to be heading directly for her.

Caitlin increased her speed, running so hard that her ribs hurt. Gasping for breath, she reached the oak doors of the church just in time. She yanked one of them open, then wheeled and slammed it behind her with a bang.

Inside, she looked frantically around, and spotted a shepherd’s staff. She grabbed it and slid it across the double doors, barring them.

The second she did, she heard a tremendous crash at the door, as dozens of hands pounded on it. The doors shook, but did not give way. The staff was holding – at least for now.

Caitlin quickly surveyed the room. The church, thankfully, was empty. It was huge, its arched ceilings soaring hundreds of feet high. It was a cold, empty place, hundreds of pews on a marble floor; on the far side, above the altar, hung several burning candles.

As she looked, she could have sworn she saw movement at the far end of the room.

The pounding grew more intense, and the door began to shake. Caitlin burst into action, running down the aisle, towards the altar. As she reached it, she saw she had been right: there was someone there.

Kneeling quietly, with his back to her, was a priest.

Caitlin wondered how he could ignore all this, ignore her presence, how he could be so deeply immersed in prayer in a time like this. She hoped he wouldn’t turn her over to her mob.

“Hello?” Caitlin said.

He didn’t turn.

Caitlin hurried over to the other side, facing him. He was an older man, with white hair, clean shaven, and light blue eyes that seem to stare into space as he knelt in prayer. He didn’t bother looking up at her. There was something else, too, that she sensed about him. Even in her current state, she could tell that there was something different about him. She knew that he was of her kind. A vampire.

The pounding grew louder, and one of the hinges broke, and Caitlin looked back in fear. This mob seemed determined, and she didn’t know where else to go.

“Help me, please!” Caitlin urged.

He continued his prayer for several moments. Finally, without looking at her, he said: “How can they kill what’s already dead?”

There was a splintering of wood.

“ Please ,” she urged. “Don’t turn me over to them.”

He rose slowly, quiet and composed, and pointed to the altar. “In there,” he said. “Behind the curtain. There’s a trap door. Go!”

She followed his finger, but saw only a large podium, covered in a satin cloth. She ran over to it, pulled back the cloth, and saw the trap door. She opened it, and squeezed her body into the small space.

Tucked in, she peered out through the tiny crack. She watched the priest hurry over to a side door, and kick it open with surprising force.

Just as he did, the main front doors were kicked in by the mob, and they came tearing down the aisle.

Caitlin quickly slid back the curtain all the way. She hoped they hadn’t spotted her. She watched through a crack in the wood, and saw just enough to see the mob racing down the aisle, seemingly right for her.

“That way!” screamed the priest. “The vampire fled that way!”

He pointed out the side door, and the mob rushed right past him, and back into the night.

After several seconds, the never-ending stream of bodies fled from the church, and all was finally silent.

The priest closed the door, locking it behind them.

She could hear his footsteps, walking towards her, and Caitlin, shaking with fear, with cold, slowly opened the trap door.

He slid back the curtain and looked down at her.

He extended a gentle hand.

“Caitlin,” he said, and smiled. “We’ve been waiting a very long time for you.”

Rome, 1790

Kyle stood in the darkness, breathing hard. There were few things he hated more than confined spaces, and as he reached out in the blackness and felt the stone encasing him, he broke into a sweat. Trapped. Nothing was worse for him.