It was dark when Estella woke up on the forest floor, grass cushioning her cheek. Breathing heavily, she attempted to stand.

“Putain,” she cursed. “Mother of God.” It hurt. Everything hurt, exploding from her torso out she was on fire. What happened? Where is she?

She pressed her hands to her body, searching, searching for a source. Her right hand ached from being crushed under her weight for so long but she could still feel well with her left. Poking and prodding along her abdomen, she felt the sticky caking of blood, the coagulation coating her finger. Then she hole the wound.

And then she remembered. The fruit. The policeman. The attack. The gun.

Dear God, he shot her. A police officer shot her. A police officer who she bit shot her.

It was like a vacuum seal had trapped her lungs. She couldn’t breath, she couldn’t breath, she couldn’t breath. Estella didn’t hunt. They saved blood from their livestock or bought it from a butcher for her. She could barely follow a scent trail. And she certainly didn’t bite people.

Estella clawed at her throat, begging it to work again, for her lungs to fill with air. She had to get out of here. How long was she unconscious? How long until he comes back?

Rolling onto her stomach, she forced herself up on her knees, grunting and moaning all the way.

“Merde,” she hissed. “Putain. Zut de Dieu.” She managed to stand partially, on knee on the ground before collapsing again.

After another round of cursing her way to her feet, she managed to put one foot in front of the other. And again. And again. And again until the agains ran together into one long shuffle of movement. How long did she scrape her feet across the forest floor? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days?

No, not days. Surely she would have noticed the rise of the sun bleeding out the night.

Hours then.

And hours more she wandered until the sun crested the horizon.

“Can I help you?” asked someone to her left. Through deep fog, she slowly turned her head towards the voice but her eyes saw nothing, could see nothing as lost as they were to the rhythmic motion of her feet.

Some part of her, some deep part of her chided, no better than a human now, but the throbbing pain held together by her hands reminded her that maybe she still was, just a little bit. One then the other, one then the other, one then the other, one then the—

Loud movement to the left and slightly behind her tripped up her pattern, sending her tripping onto the ground. Rolling over, she watched a silhouette—really, her vision was not clearing up—move into the dawn light. At best, she could tell it was a tall person with dark features and light skin.

Closer now, his appearance poked through her mind’s fog and Estella’s body went rigid.

His eyes widened at the sight of her, then narrowed as his eyebrows stitched together and his mouth fell open. “What happened to you? I’ve never seen such a messy eater.”

She couldn’t form words. Couldn’t think to respond even if she was well enough. Her tongue was like a cinder block sitting in her mouth. At the hollowed look in her eyes, he stepped back, but when her hands went slack on her torso he jumped forward again, leaning next to her on the ground.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Dear God,” he whispered, “were you shot?” His hands on her were like a balm, sinking her into the comfort of having a friend nearby. “Is there anyone I can take you to? A—a—doctor? Maybe?”

She tried to speak, but the cement in her mouth wouldn’t budge, the words coming out mangled and misshapen.

Knitted eyebrows took in her labored breathing, her attempted pleas, and his open mouth twisted into a grimace.

Estella shook her head vehemently but the motion rocked her already rattled mind further, black closed in on the edges of her vision. Her head tilted unnaturally to the side.

“Okay. Alright.” He soothed, patting her gently. “I’m here. I’ve—uh—I’ve got you. I’m going to—uh—I’m going to carry you now. You hear me?”

He waited for her acknowledgement before picking her up. He didn’t know how much her weak ascent cost her, the black creeping further into her sight and then she was gone. Away from that place and from her own mind.

____

Something cool and damp laid on her forehead. Lifting her hand to inspect it, she found a worn, stained cloth had rested on her brow. It was old and well-used, but where did it come from? She tried to remember but traces of fog still clung to her, hiding her memories.

“Glad to see you awake,” said a familiar voice.

She turned her head to look at him. Light filtered through a window into the room, illuminating dust and dirt and the threads that ran through his otherwise dark hair.

“Oliver,” she croaked.

He tilted his head curiously at her and pressed his lips together before telling her, “You need to drink. Water or blood?”

Frowning at his question, she answered, “Both.” Why would he now start asking her about these things?

“You’re the strangest vampire I’ve ever met.”

“I’m a witch too, don’t forget.” She tried to be cheeky but she just couldn’t produce the same effect through the wincing.

He almost dropped the water jug he was pouring out of, “what?” He shook his head, “No. Drink first. Maybe eat?” When she nodded her head in confirmation he continued, “Okay. Eat too. Then we can talk.”

Leaning over her anxiously, he quickly filled her water glass as soon as she finished drinking from it. “Will you be alright here by yourself? I went into town once already to get medical supplies. I didn’t realize you’d need food. I need to go back to get you some. I’ll be quick.”

“I’ll be okay. Get yourself something while you’re out. You’ve taken care of me too much recently, Oliver, don’t forget about yourself.”

Estella could have sworn that Oliver’s face changed at that moment. That his eyes got a little wider, his mouth a little rounder, and eyebrows relaxed, as if experiencing a pleasant surprise. But it passed quickly, his face taking on a tighter, more concentrated appearance.

“I’ll be right back.” And just like that, he slipped away.

In his absence, Estella tried to move around but she could barely manage to prop herself up on the blanket bed Oliver had made for her. Giving up with a groan of pain, she laid back down and surveyed the room instead. The window on the wall above her was damaged but it let in enough light to illuminate the room. There was hardly any furniture. A cracked stool sat next to her with a rolled up newspaper tucked underneath and there was a small, splintered and faded chest of drawers across the room. Dust covered everything, but it looked like someone—Oliver, probably—had tried to wipe it away. And right next to her, within reach, was a jug of water and a glass.

It was a rather abysmal situation. Her torso burned, but less than she would’ve thought, and she was dying for more to drink, the water just teasing her. She reached for it, of course, but all Estella managed to do was nudge it right out of reach. Exhausted and thirsty, she grunted and groaned for the liquid until she collapsed, twisted, half on half off her blanket bed.

How long did she lay there? Crumpled on the floor? She didn’t know but relief washed over her when Oliver’s sharp voice cut the air, “What are you doing?” Footsteps approached and there he was, crouched in front of her, gently maneuvering her into a more comfortable position onto the nest he made her.

“I was thirsty,” she mumbled.

“Don’t move,” he said gruffly, “We’ll have to get on the road soon enough. Stay still while you can.”

“We will?”

“There’s talk in town about the sheriff and a search party. I thought I moved us far enough away but small town talk has legs. We have a day, at most, before we should extend the distance between us and that sheriff you attacked.”

Estella heard his words, she swore she did, but her mind got stuck on ‘sheriff.’

The hunger. The thievery. The policeman. The—the—feralness. The gun.

“Mon Dieu, what did I do?”