Her fear was evident, but there was something else in her tone now. Something softer. She was observing him more intently, her suspicion growing. Yet, there was gratitude there, too. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she glanced at her sons. Wilbur’s gaze briefly lingered on her arm, noticing how she winced as she adjusted the blanket. A bruise, dark and swollen, peeked from beneath her sleeve.
He didn’t ask, but Gabriella quickly pulled her sleeve down, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She looked away, ashamed. Wilbur remained silent, but his hands moved quietly to a nearby jar of salve. His touch was gentle, almost tender, as he began mixing a simple ointment of comfrey root and calendula, his movements careful as if he were handling something precious. He brought it over to Gabriella and knelt beside her, offering the jar.
“It’s for the bruises,” he said softly, his voice low, almost comforting. “It will help with the pain.”
Gabriella hesitated, her gaze flickering between the jar and Wilbur’s face. For a moment, she seemed ready to refuse, but then she accepted the salve. Her hands shook as she spread it on her arm. The coolness eased the ache almost immediately, and her suspicion wavered, giving way to another wave of gratitude.
“You’ve been kind,” she murmured, stealing a quick glance at him before looking down at the floor. “But… I can’t help but wonder… how do you know all of this? How do you know so much about healing?”
Wilbur didn’t respond right away, his dark eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth. “Years of practice,” he finally replied, his voice steady. “I’ve… seen many things. Healed many people.”
A silence settled between them. Wilbur moved back to his workbench, cleaning his tools swiftly. Gabriella didn’t push him for more, though the questions clearly weighed on her. He could see the thoughts swirling in her mind, the doubt, the fear. She suspected something, but he also noticed how exhaustion and gratitude kept her from speaking up.
As the candles burned lower, Wilbur completed his tasks, but his mind was far from at ease. He couldn’t shake the growing hunger, the pull of the blood he needed to survive. He glanced at the boys, their breathing now steady, their color slowly returning. They would make it.
But Wilbur knew he wouldn’t survive the night without food. He took one last look at Gabriella, noticing the faint bruise she had tried to conceal and how her eyes darted away from his when she thought he wasn’t watching. He suspected her silence revealed more about her pain than her fear. He would confront it eventually. For now, he needed to slip away, retreating into the shadows where his true self could roam freely.
“I need to gather more supplies,” Wilbur said softly. “Rest. Your boys will heal.” His voice, though calm, carried a sense of finality. Before Gabriella could reply, Wilbur had disappeared into the dark corridor, leaving behind only the scent of herbs and the faint glow of vials.
___
Weeks passed. The boys got better. Now that they had their energy back, they would not stop babbling. Claude and Ryne were a welcome presence for them. Wilbur watched as Gabriella and her sons passed through the monastery’s shadowed archway, her promise to keep his methods secret lingering in the chilly night air. Despite her words of gratitude, he could sense her unease. The hesitation in her eyes as she glanced back, as if she had caught a glimpse of something hidden beneath his carefully crafted exterior.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
He remained in the empty courtyard, his pale fingers brushing against the cold stone wall while he reflected on his latest act of healing. Yet, despite this success, a profound emptiness settled in his chest, pressing harder as he watched Gabriella’s family fade into the darkness.
Wilbur retreated to his quarters, where the light barely penetrated, the familiar shadowy corners offering him solace. Yet, he couldn't escape the relentless thirst building inside him.
In aiding Gabriella’s sons, he had experienced the fleeting joy of a healer’s role, the illusion of being part of this world of mortal lives. But the weight of reality pressed down on him: he would never truly belong. He was a creature of shadows, destined to hide his true nature from those he aided, unable to fully embrace the light.
With a weary sigh, Wilbur turned to the narrow window, his eyes wandering over the distant rooftops of Rothfield. There would be other families, other children with fevered brows and pale faces, and he would remain here, ready to offer his rare gifts as long as he could stay hidden in the monastery's shadows. Yet, he understood that this fragile peace could shatter at any moment, perhaps due to his own escalating need. Even the Order of the Kindflame, ever watchful against the darkness, couldn’t perceive the monster lurking among them. How long could he shield them from that truth, and himself from his own cravings?
In the twilight, Wilbur nestled further into the shadows, a bittersweet longing swelling in his chest. He would persist in this peculiar existence, bound to both life and death, as both healer and vampire. The life he had crafted in Rothfield was a fragile equilibrium, one he understood would soon be challenged. In the stillness of the monastery, he braced himself for the unavoidable, prepared to confront whatever awaited him in the dim, fractured tranquility he had forged from the night.
But then, a noise. Wilbur turned back.
Gabriella stood at the entrance of the monastery, her three sons by her side, their cheeks flushed and their eyes shining brighter than they had in days. She regarded Wilbur with a blend of gratitude and apprehension, but as their eyes met, her expression softened.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands fidgeted with a small, embroidered cloth, and she stepped closer. “I know… I know there’s something unusual about your ways, Brother Wilbur. But my sons are safe because of you, and I don’t know how to repay such a kindness.”
Wilbur looked down, feeling an unexpected warmth swell in his chest. It was rare for anyone to regard him so openly, to speak with such heartfelt kindness. “There’s no need for repayment, Gabriella. It’s… enough to know they are safe.”
Gabriella hesitated, then reached out, placing the embroidered cloth in his hand. It was small and worn from years of care, yet the intricate stitching—flowers and vines woven together—formed a modest but beautiful design. “This belonged to my mother,” she said, her voice quivering. “It’s not much, but I want you to have it. You’ve given me back my sons. I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”
For a moment, Wilbur lost himself in the weight of the cloth, feeling the warmth it held from Gabriella’s hands. He looked up to see her smiling, a tentative yet sincere expression that eased his heart. She no longer regarded him with fear, only gratitude, her gaze softening as if, for a brief moment, she saw beyond the shadows he carried.
He nodded, his voice gentle as he replied, “May your family find peace and health. I am… grateful for this gift.”
Gabriella inclined her head and urged her sons forward. Each boy offered Wilbur a shy, grateful smile, and he felt a faint warmth where their small hands brushed against his robe as they passed. As they departed, he watched them go, Gabriella casting one last glance back at him.