Chapter 3: Why Marian Listens to Walter in the First Place

“I will help you escape,” he said. “But you have to take me with you. And we have to leave France.”

There was something about the man. He looked familiar, though Marian couldn’t place why. His dress said peasant, but his accent was upper class. He looked like one of the nobles gone to pretend they were one of the huddled masses, perhaps planning or preparing for what was inevitably coming for them.

“I don’t have the strength to escape,” she told him. Marian was always so weak. She didn’t have enough to eat. Jacques always made sure that she had enough to survive, but nowhere near enough for any actual defiance.

He brought her animals, or cups of blood, but never enough to give her strength. Sometimes, she felt as if the hunger was a conscious thing, a monster gnawing at her from the inside. It was, she realized, how many of the people in her country felt.

What she wouldn’t give for some cake.

“I know,” the man said. “Take from me. Feed and get the strength you need.” He locked eyes with her, and she saw the fear. “Please do not kill me.”

She leaned toward him, her fangs already starting to slide into place. He closed his eyes, tilting his head aside to expose the veins on his neck. Marian licked her lips, about to bite down. But then she stopped. “How do I know I can trust you?”

He gave her a hard look. It lingered as he stared into her eyes, and she was struck by how much his eyes looked like Jacques. But where Jacques were cold and cruel, this man’s eyes were warm. Human, and more than just because he was still breathing. “Trust is built. But I am trusting my life into your hands; will you do the same in return?”

He winced when her fangs punctured his skin, but he didn’t pull away. Marian inhaled deeply through her nose, getting the scent of his sweat, of the acrid adrenaline, and there, deep beneath, the soft scent of soap. She tongued the wound, tasted the strength in his blood, the vitality as his heart pounded.

She began to drink.

His life flowed down her throat, and she felt her whole body awaken like it never had before. It was almost like she was alive again. At the same time, it was as though she were far more alive than she had ever been before. She felt strong. She felt invincible. With each gulp, it was like her body filled out more, muscles becoming more and more powerful every time she swallowed.

She felt like she could snap the chain around her ankle with ease.

She drank and thought about what else the blood would do for her. Enough of it, and she could do far more. Maybe even enough to kill Jacques, if she caught him by surprise. But that would mean killing the man in her arms, the man who was tense but not struggling, looking at her with trust in his eyes.

She forced herself to stop, to pull her fangs from his flesh, flickering her tongue over the holes to quickly seal the wound. She could escape; that was enough. She set him back and let him come back to himself, recover a bit, while she reached down and tore the chain around her ankle like it was made of paper.

He put his hand to his throat, then looked at it. He touched his neck again and looked once more at his hand. “There’s no wound,” he said.

“I healed you,” she said. “So that you will survive long enough for us to escape. When the sun rises, I need to be protected. We have to move quickly, and get away before he knows we’re gone.”

She reached down to help him to his feet, pulling him up quickly and easily, her body still thrumming with power.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said, bending neck a bit as if expecting the wound to burst open. Marian’s eyes traced over his neck and saw the healed marks of other bites, scars that had been left to heal naturally. She looked at the man for a few seconds, seeing the memory of pain in his eyes.

“We can,” she said. “If we choose.”

He nodded, his face tightening. Of course Jacques had not chosen to heal the wound. Healing prevented the lasting pain, and Jacques would never do anything to prevent pain. That would imply that he cared about someone other than himself.

She had to support him as they walked, but carrying him was like carrying a handkerchief; his weight didn’t even register. They made their way to the stables and stole Jacques’ carriage. It was already set up for travel during the day, to Marian’s surprise. She hadn’t left the house in what seemed like years.

Jacques left sometimes, though. She remembered being forced to catch a rat just to keep from going mad, and how awful it had tasted. The humiliation of being forced to survive on vermin was not accidental, and Marian would never forgive Jacques for putting her through that. The way he had laughed at her the last time was what made her decide to escape.

And now she was escaping in his carriage, and he would be the one trapped at the estate during the day. It felt like justice. The first time she’d tasted its sweetness since he had turned her into the vampire she was.

She spoke to one of the drivers and simply told him to drive them away, at speed, until the horses required rest. He nodded to her orders and acted almost artificially, her words pressing on his mind the same way Jacques had done to so many people - and to her.

The man, Walter, got in back with her, and they were off, putting leagues between them and Jacques, wherever he was at the time.

“We can’t fight him,” Walter said. “There is no shame in running.”