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CONTENT WARNING CLARIFICATION: Tapas's Mature Content feature does not list Self-Harm separately from Suicide. So I wish to specify that there is no depiction of suicide or suicidal ideation in this episode. I marked it with the "Suicide and self-harm" tag because two vampiric characters do harm themselves by gouging/cutting themselves with their own claws, and I wanted to forewarn any readers who may be adversely affected by this scenario.

Chapter 2

Introducing Edgar Blair

7:30 p.m.

Ezekiel stood shirtless before the mirror in his ensuite bathroom, leaning over the sink and digging a claw into his side to extract the bullet. He groaned in agony as he pushed his claw deeper, trying to reach the slug.

“Stop breathing, and it’ll hurt less,” the memory of Baldur’s voice instructed.

Ezekiel paused and held his breath for several moments, then gritted his teeth and stabbed his talon in further. His fingertip curled around the bullet, and with a tortured cry, he dug it free from his flesh. Ezekiel nearly collapsed but gripped the sink countertop to keep himself upright. “There, easy as pie,” he said in a sardonic tone. He checked his side, and the wound closed, leaving no trace of a scar.

Ezekiel examined the bloody projectile in his furry hand. Striking his rib had warped the bullet a little, but it had mostly kept its shape. He had on occasion taken souvenirs from his past victims—rings, watches, brooches—but this was the first bullet. He rinsed the used slug in the sink, then set it on the counter, a meager trophy to honor his good deed for the evening.

His thoughts turned to the woman he’d helped. Who was she, and how on earth did she do what she did? He could tell by her scent that she was human, and yet she summoned fire similar to how he conjured ice. Should he look for her and find out what she is?

Baldur’s words echoed in his memories. “Every unanointed one who sees your true face must die!”

“No!” Ezekiel snarled out loud. Curious though he may be of the woman’s powers, he would not seek her out. If he ever encountered Baldur again, unlikely as that may be, Ezekiel knew his former lover would consider the woman a threat to their kind. Perhaps she was. Fire was a vampire’s greatest weakness.

But she was innocent. Ezekiel could tell by the pure scent of her blood. She didn’t deserve to die. So Ezekiel would hide her existence from Baldur. He would forget her, just as he’d planned to do before he witnessed her powers.

Ezekiel looked at his reflection in the mirror. Had it been a silver mirror, it would’ve shown him no reflection. He touched the scar Baldur had left on his cheek the night they first met—the night Ezekiel’s human life ended.

*****

From the memoir of Ezekiel Blake:

My human life ended on the night of July 20, 1620. I was alone in bed, succumbing to consumption. I could hear my family in the next room. My brother, Enoch, insisted that my wife and daughter keep away from me so that I would not pass the wasting disease to them as well. Though nestled in warm sheets, the illness left me freezing cold. Unable to sleep, I looked at the human skull that rested on my nightstand. Whom it had belonged to in life, I do not know. My mother had given it to me when I was a child to remind me of the imminence of death and the punishments awaiting those who fell from the grace of God. The skull was the first thing I saw when I awoke and the last thing I saw when I went to sleep.

I didn’t hear him enter the room, but there he stood at the foot of my bed. He wore a billowing black cloak, face shadowed beneath a large hood. For a moment, I believed this figure was Death coming to collect my soul. He drifted around the bed on silent steps, his deathly white countenance becoming more visible the closer he came. He looked like a vicious troll with a prominent brow ridge, a thick nose, and a long beard. His eyes glowed red like two beacons of hellfire, and his lips spread into a ravenous grin with sharp fangs.

The intruder said nothing, merely leering that evil smile. He laid his clawed fur-covered hand on the skull sitting on my nightstand and turned the skull’s face away from me.

I opened my mouth to scream, but terror struck me mute. He presented his right hand to me and drew a talon across his palm, blood gushing black from the wound. Then he pressed his bleeding hand against my lips. I struggled as the metallic liquid flooded my mouth, but his icy fingers remained clamped over my face, the claw of his thumb slicing my right cheek open. I still bear the scar, a final token of my lost humanity. As the revolting blood trickled down my throat, I settled in exhaustion, and he released me. My pillow was soaked red and felt sticky against my cheek. My tormentor licked his bloodied hand.

I regained my voice but could speak no louder than a whisper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

He lowered himself over me, his inhuman smile inches from my face. His thick beard dragged across my chest as he moved in to press his cold lips against my neck.

“Stop, please,” I wept.

Then his fangs sank into my throat.

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