When last we spent time with our protagonist, the Elder, he had plunged into the depths of the manor and began the process of awakening one of the other vampires in his coven. This is all fine and well, except the vampire had among its effects an item indicating potential drama. You can catch up with Part VI here. Now, what happens as this new vampire—well, new to the narrative, to these pages, to your eyeballs—defrosts? Let’s find out.
The elder led the youngling up to the resort, through it, and commanded them to enter the open cell. Once situated, the elder closed the cell and sealed the security door. They would be able to speak with ease through the polycarbonate. Confident the youngling could not escape, the elder returned the youngling's autonomy with a command to mute the collar's compulsion.
The first action taken by the youngling was to perform a massive yawn, stretching their limbs to the limit. When they finished, they turned their gaze on the elder.
"This collar isn't necessary."
Their statement dripped with sarcasm, as they waved their hand to encompass the empty resort surrounding the two. It was high in pitch, bright in tone, though sounded gravelly nonetheless. The elder may have guessed they were female, but was unconcerned. Their desiccated body left much to be determined; the blood doing its work would reveal all in due time. For now, only the fate of the coven mattered.
He crossed his arms and cast a look that said "I don't give a fuck." The youngling sighed and took a seat on a plastic bench running the length of one side of the cell. They crossed their legs and leaned back against the polycarbonate wall.
This one wasn't fussy. The elder was not dealing with someone who had been turned as a teenager, and whatever the length of their time with the collar, he guessed they had been close to being free of it. Good.
This did not, however, eliminate his unease. Whatever happened in the manor, it appeared vicious enough to strike fear in those who had witnessed it. Or so he presumed. This youngling in her nonchalance brought his thoughts in sharp relief against the idea she may have played a part in the coven's dissolution. He had need to proceed with caution.
The elder walked away from the cell, into the resort, and returned with a metal folding chair which he positioned near the cell. Taking a seat, he leaned back, arms crossed, and watched the youngling a moment. Their features were becoming more and more clear with each passing moment; the blood they drank refreshed their body, turning them from an emaciated corpse into something vaguely human.
"Where is everyone?"
The youngling met his gaze.
"Dead probably."
"How?"
"Why should I tell you? What do you care?"
"I care. How did they die?"
The youngling sat in silence for a moment. Then,
"Who are you?"
There it was. The concern. The suspicion. The rising fear. The elder could make it out in the way she shaped her syllables.
"This was my home. That is all you need to know right now."
The youngling narrowed her eyes.
"I don't know that. You might be one of them."
One of them. Interesting. This youngling knew something, then. The elder stood, removed his jacket, and rolled up the sleeve of one arm to reveal a mark etched into the underside of his forearm. A mark matching that of her own. Their coven's sigil. The youngling's eyes widened a moment, and she leaned back in contemplation. Then,
"You were asleep through the whole thing."
"Perhaps. So you can imagine my confusion on awakening and finding all that." He gestured overhead.
"They said they were going to burn everything above ground. They wanted you dead." The youngling's voice was losing its gravel-like quality, smoothing out. They, again.
"We'll come back to that. There are more pressing matters. Where is everyone? If they're dead, how did they die?."
The youngling hesitated. She shook her head before continuing.
"I don't know."
"Do you really not know?" The elder rose, began to pace slowly along the glass. "I could make you tell me."
The youngling reached up to touch the collar, letting her fingers linger on its surface before dropping her hand.
"I know you could. So make me. It won't make any difference, because I don't know."
The elder paused, returned to the metal chair. He leaned forward, placing his elbows over his knees.
"What is your name, child?"
"Isabelle."
Continued after the break
on sale now
The gift of time is, for many, an incredible gift indeed. Unless, of course, it is not a gift at all and arrives with a cost in excess of what one may be willing to pay …A tale from the Odds ‘n’ Endings Boutique.
"Isabelle." It was always a bit of a shock waking up to find new members in the coven. He found taking the time to taste their name helped in acclimating himself to their presence in the manor. "Isabelle, I am Edgar, though I doubt the name means anything to you at this moment."
Isabelle shook her head. Either she wasn't in the coven long enough to learn about him, or her mind was still waking up, and with it, her memories.
"What do you remember?"
Isabelle fidgeted for a moment, recrossing her legs, then stood up, walked to the wall opposite the bench, pressed both hands into it, then folded at the hip, walking her feet back until her body formed a right angle at her hip. She worked her chest down and let her head drop, holding the stretch for a moment before standing again.
"It's all foggy right now." She lifted her hands to her hair, removing strands which were long and thin as she drew her hands away. It would grow to its fullness once she was well fed for a few weeks. At the moment, this didn't seem to bother her. "I remember fighting. I remember everyone at each other's throats. I remember Penelope Vega and Don Roberto de la Cruz roaring at those who threatened to leave. de la Cruz, that's so specific."
There was no gravel left in her voice. Her words rang clear. The grey of her flesh was almost gone as well, replaced by a warm bronze.
Isabelle moved through another series of stretches, then returned to the plastic bench. She was unbothered by performing in the nude for the elder, but this was expected. Younglings sentenced to the Screech Collar had to earn their privileges, every single one. Clothing included.
Edgar waited with a practiced patience. So far, this youngling was proving capable of managing herself, not being given over to fits of anger, violent gestures, or vulgar threats. He wanted not to goad her, but rather allow her the ability to determine for herself whether or not the collar was truly warranted. The only real problem he considered, in relation to the collar, was the lack of human temptation. He could remove the collar and perhaps the two of them would get along just fine. But if he misjudged her, the first human they came across would be ripped apart without his intervention.
Isabelle began to speak again, tearing him away from his thoughts.
"It's coming back to me in pieces. I remember being shoved into the box. It was quiet, and the one putting me in the barrows said it shouldn't have been that quiet, that it meant my chances for waking up were slim but I had a better chance of surviving this way." She paused, thoughtful. "The woman was my brood mother." At this, she swiftly turned her gaze to meet the elder's. "She gave her life for me."
Brood mother? What does this mean? And who are they? It seems the deeper Edgar delves for answers, the more questions that arise for us, the spectators. Will Edgar uncover the mystery of they? Will we come to understand Isabelle’s plight prior to being shoved in the coffin? Only one way to find out! Continue with Part VIII here.
Please, for the love of all that is unholy and calamitous in this world, please let us know what you think of this content! The buttons below will each take you to a respective survey consisting of two to three questions. Your opinions will help shape the future of Backstage at the Calamity.