Blood Cure 5

Part 5

The Craze







He didn’t care. He didn’t care what was going on. Why was Papa holding on to him like that? Why was Papa yelling at everyone else, waving his hands, Emil pushed tightly against his body? Was Papa protecting him from someone?


Mama was lying, so white, so cold…the room was a hell of medicines and tubes and beeping machines…and outside it was hell too, Papa screaming at everyone, holding him close…

Don’t scream at them, Papa. I’m the villain.

Emil heard repeatedly about black blood and the Holy Knife.




He didn’t know when or how he fell asleep. He just did, his face pressed against his father’s chest, the warmth seeping into him, into his confused mind…

Running. Running across a field. The moon is shining. There’s a silvery glow to everything. In the grey and silver world, he can clearly see the prey. He was the predator, the most definite predator, and there was warm blood somewhere, waiting for his lips to taste it…

Running. His breath coming in gasps now, eyes streaming from the bite of the cold…

The silver flash comes from nowhere, a hiss of malice sounds in the cool night air, and a ruby-hilted knife finds his heart.

He sinks to the ground, and the blood the wound spills is not tantalizingly rich crimson. It is not salty and sour and buttery like the carmine elixir…it is dark, dark, dark. Darker than black.

Black. Black as night. Black as black can be. BLACK.

And tasteless upon the mouth.


Numbing the mouth.

 Corroding the tissues.

 He knows that. He does not lick it, but watches it pool, pool in a thick layer in front of him.

He begins to laugh, because the pain this wound was giving him could not be real, could only be a hallucination, could not be…could not be real…

The laughter becomes screams. And now he is no longer the predator but the hapless victim. The helpless prey, pleading for mercy to a deaf entity. Wishing to die. Wishing to die and end the pain.

He screams and writhes and no one helps and the night turns black and the silence comes and ———-

‘Emil! Emil, what’s wrong? Emil, wake up, wake up, child… come on!…open your eyes, it’s a nightmare, it’s just a nightmare…’

He didn’t know what he was doing.

There was a mad frenzy in his mind and he held on to Papa’s shirt, which was blurring, blurring into a blackness so deep…help…a darkness so impenetrable…



The boy’s silent screams terrified me.

‘Emil! Emil, what’s wrong? Emil, wake up, wake up, child… come on!…open your eyes, it’s a nightmare, it’s just a nightmare…’

His blue eyes flew open, terror burning bright in them, and I sucked in a deep breath, because those eyes were barely sane.

Like lightning, his eyes turned dark, then white as they rolled up into his head and he went limp in my hands, clutching my shirt.

‘Emil!’  I shouted, shaking him. He merely moaned a weak, feeble sound.

I lay his head on my shoulder and shook uncontrollably.

His breaths were quick and ragged. I considered the dim chances of a vampire disease. A fever, maybe? Could it be possible?

The other slayers had all gone home to research on the blade, the properties of the Holy Knife.

It was just pointless. I was never going to hurt Emil. But of course, of course…it was so easy to picture him dead, broken, torn mentally, exsanguinated physically…his black blood giving Mythri her own life…

I tightened my hold on Emil.


Even the thoughts deserved purgatory.

Did I even believe in that place anymore? Where I was right now was hell. Yama’s Hell and maybe two times Hades’ underworld.

‘Mr. Bharadwaj?’

I looked up at the tall, young man. He wore dark clothes and a black cap pulled low over his head.

His eyes were midnight blue.

I jumped up, my hand flying to my holster –

‘No need for that’ said the young man, in a pleasant voice, sitting down near where Emil lay slumped over the chairs and fixing his eyes on the boy. ‘, I’m Jonah. Jonah D’Souza, and this kid here’s my little bro’


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