Undead

Summon

“How do we do this, my love?” Odessa asked worriedly “How do we summon it?”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. He moved with a practiced grace, crossing to a tall, carved oak cabinet. His long fingers fumbled slightly as he pulled open a series of drawers. His gaze swept over neatly stacked scrolls and ancient, leather-bound texts before settling on a particular volume tucked away. It was larger than the others, its leather cover so dark it seemed to absorb the dim lamplight, its edges worn smooth by centuries of handling.

He carried the heavy tome to the large mahogany table in the center of the room. Odessa joined him, her hand brushing the cool, aged leather as he laid it flat. Together, they began to turn the thick, brittle pages, each one rustling softly.

Finally, a specific page, marked by a thin, desiccated ribbon, appeared. Vincent leaned closer, his brow furrowed, tracing the ancient script with a finger. “Here it is,” he murmured. He began to read aloud, his words slow and deliberate, the language archaic but comprehensible. “The summoning ritual… can only be performed under the full light of the Luna Suprema.” His eyes flickered up to meet Odessa’s, a grim recognition passing between them. “The next full moon is in a fortnight.”

A sigh, heavy with resignation, escaped Odessa’s lips. Fourteen days of agonizing suspense. But there was no alternative. They would wait.

The subsequent two weeks stretched out, each day a slow, deliberate march towards the appointed night. The house became a sanctuary, or perhaps a gilded cage, for Odessa. Her usually vibrant energy was muted, her movements more deliberate. She rarely ventured beyond their threshold. A subtle glow emanated from her. It was a faint, ethereal aura, a visible manifestation of the potent life burgeoning inside her, making her seem less vampire, more… something else entirely.

Vincent took on the burden of their external needs, particularly her dramatically altered bloodlust. Her usual refined preferences had become savage, primal. She craved not just the life essence, but the very vitality of the freshest, most potent sources. He returned each night exhausted, his clothes sometimes bearing the subtle scent of the hunt, his eyes shadowed with the strain, yet always carrying enough to sate her voracious hunger. He watched her consume, the rapid, almost desperate intake, the way her veins throbbed beneath her translucent skin, and a chill of both awe and fear would trickle down his spine. They meticulously gathered the components for the ritual: ancient herbs, rare crystals, specially consecrated oils, each item chosen with precision, each placement imbued with a silent prayer.

The fourteenth night arrived, cloaked in the quiet majesty of a full moon. Its silvery light, piercing through the gaps in their carefully drawn curtains, cast the room in an ethereal glow, illuminating the precise circle they had drawn on the floor. Candles, fashioned from beeswax and interwoven with potent herbs, flickered at each cardinal point. The scent of frankincense and other, darker resins hung heavy.

Odessa and Vincent stood within the circle, their hands clasped, their eyes fixed on the moon-drenched window. When the orb reached its zenith, a perfect, luminous disc hanging in the velvet sky, Vincent began the recitation. Odessa joined him, her voice a counterpoint, a softer, equally potent incantation. The air crackled, the candlelight pulsed, and a faint, cold breeze, despite the sealed windows, swept through the room, raising goosebumps on their arms.

Then, the air directly before them thickened, shimmered, and tore. From the swirling darkness stepped Xandros.

His presence was overwhelmingly alien. Tall and lean, he was cloaked in shadows that seemed to cling to him. His eyes, the color of obsidian, held an ancient, chilling knowing. There was no warmth, no malice, only an immense, unfathomable power.

He surveyed them, his gaze lingering on Odessa’s swollen form, before his deep voice echoed through the room. “You have summoned me.” It was a statement, not a question. “For the protection of your children.”

Odessa, her voice a whisper, confirmed, “Yes, Lord Xandros.”

A faint tilt of Xandros’s head. “I have heard your request. But you do not seek the assistance of Xandros empty-handed.” His gaze drifted back to Odessa’s belly. “One of the children… is no ordinary child. It must be protected at all costs.” His eyes, dark as the void, locked onto theirs. “The life of the other child… is the price.”

The words hung in the air, cold and absolute, each syllable a hammer blow to their hearts. Odessa gasped, a silent, choked sound.

Xandros continued, unperturbed by their visible anguish. “I will protect the special child for as long as it is not born. Once it is born, you must keep its powers hidden, locked away, until the appointed time. Should its abilities be discovered prematurely by opposing forces, it will be swiftly destroyed.” He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle. “After its powers are locked, I, Xandros, will continue to protect the child for as long as it lives. No harm could ever come to a child under the protection of Lord Xandros.”

As soon as the last chilling word left his lips, the shadows around him deepened, compressed, and then snapped back into nothingness.

Odessa stared at the empty space, her mind reeling, unable to process the horrifying pronouncement. The world tilted beneath her feet, and she stumbled, a wave of nausea washing over her. Vincent, quick as a whisper, caught her, his arms wrapping around her before gently guiding her to the large bed. He sat beside her, pulling her close.

She gripped his hand, her fingers digging into his, her eyes wide with frantic, unshed tears. “What did he mean, dear?” she choked out, her voice raw. “The life of the other child… the sacrifice?”

Vincent held her tighter, pulling her head to rest on his shoulder. He swallowed hard, his own face a mask of profound grief. “It is… it is as we heard, my love.” His voice was a pained whisper against her hair. He wrapped his arms around her, a desperate embrace.

Immediately, a searing pain lanced through Odessa’s lower abdomen. Her breath hitched. A dark, viscous warmth spread between her legs, a sudden, gush of truly crimson. Not the bright, living red of human blood, but the deep, almost black, color of their vampire ichor. She looked down, then up at Vincent, her eyes brimming with a silent, heart-wrenching understanding. A guttural sob escaped her throat, a sound of profound loss and desolation that echoed in the hallowed silence of the room. Vincent held her, letting her weep, his own eyes tightly shut, the silent, terrible truth passing between them: the sacrificial child was gone.

A sharp, insistent rap suddenly echoed through the house, shattering the fragile bubble of their grief.

Vincent’s head snapped up, his jaw clenching. He pushed himself away from Odessa, his movements stiff with suppressed anguish. “Stay here,” he murmured, his voice strained. “Clean up.”

Odessa, still shaking, nodded numbly, her gaze fixed on the darkening stain on her nightgown. She pressed a hand to her aching belly, a phantom presence gone. Vincent was already moving towards the main door, his vampire senses already identifying the caller. The Assembly’s messenger. Now? Of all times.