HUNGER OF THE WICKED

13.

Darya awoke with a stinging migraine and the feeling of being a useless lunk. She put her face in both hands, tried to chase away the terrible tightness that twisted her skull, and then rolled to the side to first get on her knees. A hammer banged hard up there, not wanting to stop. What a fool! If she ever got her hands on that lunatic, he’d understand her pain! For now, she had to make it back to town. Gently, as if it would change anything, she lowered her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The total absence of noise, inconceivable in the middle of the forest, made her open them very quickly.

She was in the middle of a cemetery. But not just any one. Her cemetery, the one that extended beyond the window of her living room. Bewildered, she stood up and contemplated the surroundings. Beyond the graves, there was nothing. Absolute black, emptiness, like a new limit imposed on the world. Even her house was gone. Haggard, she wandered among the vaults and mausoleums, noting in passing that they no longer had any names. All the slabs were blank. Darya felt that she was dreaming: her mind was screaming at her to wake up, to sweep away this aberrant vision and return to reality. But she couldn’t; trapped in this dream as real as it was disturbing. The girl stopped, split between the desire to know more and that to escape this bad dream. Stunned by sudden pain, she put a hand to her right temple. Her scar was swollen, blood was pounding in her veins; it was very unpleasant. How could she suffer in a nightmare? Perhaps her subconscious was making sensations, infused with an overflowing imagination.

A movement caught her attention. The woman with the weathered complexion, the one who had been harassing her since her accident, advanced in her direction. Wearing her usual white linen dress and her veil, she still held her staff topped with a stag antler sculpture. Darya found her much more real than during her other appearances. She brandished an accusing finger in her direction and began to shout. Her voice, clear and powerful, suffered from a strong accent that made her archaic Russian all the more incomprehensible.

The girl raised her hands to silence her, tried to speak, but no sound came out of her throat. She was mute.

Suddenly, the woman threw herself on her, drunk with anger, and shook her like a plum tree. Again! She began to beat her, to search her, and from one of her pockets took out the red carnelian beetle. Kolevski uttered a silent roar, tried to retrieve her treasure, and grabbed her opponent. The other, much stronger, threw her to the ground and her skull exploded under the force of the shock.

Darya opened her eyes wide. Lying on a thin sheet of snow, under the trees of the forest that she knew so well, she gratefully sucked in the frigid night air. At first, reassured, she stood up and wavered, nauseous, while plunging her right hand into the pocket of her jeans. It was there. Breathless, she squeezed it in her fist for a long time, staggering like a drunkard, before looking around. The moon lit the fir trees with a raw, unpleasant light, which gave the landscape a cold, almost dangerous hue. But the girl was used to it. Thanks to the stars, visible in the clear sky, she guided herself and directed her uncertain steps towards the Zelenogorskiy Bridge. She didn’t care what happened to Ugo da Vignola. The real question would be when she returned to town and when she reported to Droski. If she told of his assault, there’s no doubt that her loving mafioso would want to skin the vampire.

She walked on thinking about what would happen next. She hesitated, the image of the only man she could see still alive in her mind, filled with lead. The shock of her meeting had been so harsh, so desperately pleasing, that she couldn’t dismiss it so quickly. This amounted to sacrificing her only healthy relationship, her only connection to society, even if it proved to be inconsistent. Suddenly, she stopped, on the alert, a hand on her weapon. She heard a noise. Stealthily, she approached its source, bent in two. Someone was crying. Rounding a tree, she saw, lying on the ground in the foetal position, Rempert, cheeks wet with tears. His outfit was studded with fir needles and the ground was in such a state that he must have been rolling on it like a madman. This distressing vision upset her. Her certainties about vampires deserved to be forgotten! Supernatural creatures, almost indestructible, far superior to humans!

Darya stepped forward, still on her guard, and stopped at two meters from the Italian. He heard her and opened his watery eyes. He looked at her, astonished, but remained unresponsive. She knelt and waited a few moments. No result. He seemed lost. And terrified.

“Rempert?” she said gently.

He smiled, happy.

“Yes! Rempert! That is my name, you know!” He remained silent for a moment. “And you, who are you?”

“You don’t remember me?”

“Remember? Remember?"

His face twitched in pain and he began to cry again. He hammered the ground with his fist, repeating the same word over and over again. Darya didn’t know what to do. He seemed so fragile, so weak! Finally, she approached, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it in hers. He didn’t try to remove it. She sat down beside him and waited, silent. Soon, the tears gave way to noisy sniffles. Ugo da Vignola wriggled, took a handkerchief out with his free hand, and wiped his face before blowing his nose. He was still holding Darya as if clinging to a buoy that he feared to let go. In his eyes, she could see a spark, a reminiscence of the man she knew.

“Darya?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes, I’m here. Everything will be alright.”

He frowned, unconvinced, and gave her a desolate look.

“I did not want to hurt you. I swear to you.”

“I believe you. But there are things you need to tell me. Your behaviour... You’re sick, aren’t you?”

A vague smile floated on his lips and his eyes went to the stars. He contemplated them, pensive, before resuming.

“No,” he said. “No illness. I am old, that is all. Too old.”

The girl frowned. She was about to ask more questions, but she realized this was hardly the right time. Rempert hadn’t recovered yet and he risked becoming angry again. She helped him get up, checked that he wasn’t hurt, and then, like a child, guided him to Zelenogorskiy. Her questions could wait.

An hour later, the bridge finally came into view. Rempert had followed without protest, without saying a word. Hand in hand, they went down the road, followed it for a hundred meters then began crossing the bridge. A few cars came and went, but no one paid them the slightest attention. Fortunately because, given the state of their clothes, they didn’t make a good impression. Darya, accustomed to typical nocturnal dangers, watched the area with twice as much vigilance. So, she spotted the junkie very early, zigzagging on the sidewalk, coming in their direction. He posed a potential risk to them, especially if he was in need. She glanced at Rempert, still immersed in contemplating the stars. Maybe he was trying to find his bearings? She shook him a little and he finally turned his attention to her. With a nod, she pointed to the man coming toward them.

“Trouble,” she said.

“I must feed,” he whispered as an answer.

Darya’s eyes widened in surprise and an icy chill ran down her spine. He’s a vampire, what did you expect? But there was something else. Ugo da Vignola seemed sorry to say this, embarrassed by his words. The girl cursed against her lack of foresight. Of course! His drawn features, his empty gaze, his weak body... He must regain his strength. Before she even thought about what it meant, she made her decision. She let go of Rempert’s hand, rushed straight at the junkie, who, seeing her coming, took a knife from his pocket. When the Tokarev appeared in front of his face, he released it and urinated on the spot. He could only wait for the girl’s goodwill. Only she didn’t seem decided. He then tried to take a step back.

“Don’t move, asshole!” she blurted.

He stopped immediately, trembling from head to foot. Behind her, a strange guy dressed like a golfer, covered with pine needles, was dragging his feet, very weakened. He looked at him in the dark and the junkie read the lust, the need to satisfy a severe addiction. This expression he saw every morning in the mirror. When the man threw himself on him, he didn’t understand what he wanted. He had nothing. Then he felt a sudden pain in his neck, he heard a horrible sound of sucking and blood flowed on his skin. Fortunately, he was in too bad a condition for it to last a long time and he fainted. Rempert withdrew, licked the wound quickly, and got up, already refreshed.

“That’s very bad blood for vampires,” he said with a shameful smile.

“You didn’t kill him,” she said.

“No. I try to avoid it, as a rule, especially with this kind of person. I would poison myself, too.”

“All right, let’s get out of here.”

Darya pushed him towards the end of the bridge. He felt much better and was able to walk fast enough. She guided him to his house and accompanied him to the door of his room. There, she discovered, to the height of surprise, that he slept in a bed. No dirt, no coffin. Did all vampires behave this way? He stood for a moment at the door, searching for something appropriate to say. Nothing satisfactory came to his mind, so he just smiled sadly, his eyes still a little vague. The girl replied by squeezing his hand in hers and gently pushed him into the room. Rempert double-locked his door and she remained a long time, motionless, imagining him undressing. Nightgown and hat? Despite the situation, she giggled, the pressure of the day suddenly dissipating. Accustomed to problems, she needed a lot more to upset her and even more to scare her. On the other hand, she needed to establish a relationship of trust with the Italian: what happens next would depend on what he would agree to reveal to her. She gazed for a moment at the closed door, thoughtful, then returned to her room, a slight smile on her lips. Exhausted, she pulled off her clothes, took a good hot shower and, in her pyjamas for the first time in several nights, slipped under the covers. She picked up her cell phone, sitting on the bedside table, to send a text message to Droski.

The client odd but okay, we’ll leave tomorrow for several days excursion in the mountains. Kisses.