With blood-red lips,
My eyes ascend toward the Heavens.
I am consumed.

Of the Blood: Identifying an individual as a vampyre.

(Taken from the Religious Tolerance Glossary of Terms about Vampyrism.)

South Harbor, Connecticut — October 1886

Even from the doorway, the room smells of death. I'd recognize it anywhere. A sickly-sweet odor, like rotting fruit, with the hint of something more.

Candles burn in every corner, flames twitching above half-melted columns of wax, but it's too benign to mask the scent. I breathe through my mouth to escape the stench but it clings to the back of my throat like mold.

I step inside the bedroom. Honor is next to me, fastened to my hand, his grip so tight my fingers pinch between his. At eight-years-old, he's half my age, and has already seen his share of grief. If cutting off my circulation brings him comfort it's a small price to pay.

There's a window across from us with a bed underneath, wide enough to fit two children if they were lying close enough. An uneven lump juts out from the center of the mattress, the rise and fall of breath stirring the quilt.

Honor shifts, the lock of his hand growing tighter. When he looks up, his brows knit in confusion.

"Sissy?" His voice is low; his amber eyes, so similar to mine, too big for his face. He's gnawing at his bottom lip, a habit he picked up last spring. Some days his teeth peel away so much skin he bleeds. I do as Papa says and ignore the anxious tic. "Is Andrew going to get better?"

An ache invades my throat. For a moment I think about lying, but I can't. I won't. "No."

I could sugar coat the truth the way Papa does, but my brother deserves better than that. He won't be a child forever and there are things he must learn. Knowing when a person is between life and death is one of them.

"The Lord is calling Andrew home," I tell him. "Do you know what that means?"

Honor blinks up at me. "Like he did with Mama and Grace?"

I swallow, pushing down the emotions I never allow to spill over. "Yes, just like Mama and Grace. That's why we're here—to say goodbye. Do you understand?"

"I understand." He continues to chew his lip and turns back to his friend.

Only days ago, Andrew Milton scurried about town, his eyes the same vibrant blue as the ocean. He was healthy, happy, as every ten-year-old should be. Today, he's confined to his bed, too weak to eat, too fragile to speak. Too exhausted to notice we're here. No telling why. The doctor, who lives two towns away, hasn't been here in over a month.

In the kitchen behind us, burning timbers hiss around the stove vent. I glance over my shoulder at the people gathered near its warmth. Andrew's father, his mother, and younger sister Agnes. Papa's there too, still holding the pot of venison stew we brought with us so Mrs. Milton wouldn't have to cook. She's sniffling again, her cheeks raw from tears, lips chapped over and crusted with blood. Her husband tries to coax her with a steaming mug of tea but she pushes it away, her mouth a stubborn line of noncompliance.

A rustle from the bed draws me back, a rasping wheeze that claws its way out from beneath the covers. And then stillness. Silence. The quiet swallows me like a fog.

Honor curls into me. "Sissy, is he...?"

My lips part, but whatever I'm about to say is wedged between my brain and my mouth. We step further inside the bedroom, our boots whispering against the wooden floor. Waiting for a sigh of breath, for the slightest hint of movement. A trace of something, anything, to confirm Andrew's still here.

Finally, an exhale of air. Yet my feet won't budge.

"You can go in," a small voice says from behind us.
When I turn around, Agnes Milton stares up at me with vacant eyes. "Andrew hasn't woken up in two days. You won't bother him."

I want to tell her I'm sorry. That life pulses with unpredictability, and situations we can't always control. But then the moment slips away, the unspoken words scattering like fragments of a dream.

Agnes pivots on her heel and returns to her parents' side, her steps weighted with fatigue.

I take a slow breath to ground myself. "Are you ready?" I murmur to Honor, propelling us toward the bed.

We drop to our knees, hands pressed together, fingers like church steeples atop the quilt. Curiosity gets the best of me. I lean closer and peek inside the covers. Andrew's eyes recede, sunken and closed, his dark hair slick with perspiration. A tang of kerosene wafts up from beneath his nightshirt, the oil slathered across his chest to ease the rattle in his lungs. It's not helping.

Honor scoots closer, closer, until his elbow touches mine, his chin hovering mere inches above the bed. "What should we do now?"

I bow my head, clench and unclench my jaw. "We pray."

I reach for Andrew's hand and search for words of peace. His skin is clammy, his breaths rasping and shallow. "I'll watch out for Agnes," I tell him. "Whenever she's sad, I'll remind her of happier times. Like when the two of you would swing from the willow trees, or collect seashells along the shore—"

"I collected seashells with them, too!" Honor interrupts with a jab.

"Yes, Honor. You collected shells, too." I take a breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth, and start again. "I won't let your sister remember you this way—I promise."

I wait for Andrew to squeeze my hand, for the slightest twitch of understanding. It doesn't come.

A sudden draft squeals around the window. It rattles the glass and agitates the black veil covering the mirror, a precaution meant to keep Andrew's soul from getting trapped in the reflection.

"Faith, Honor?" Floorboards moan behind us like a ghost. I close my eyes before giving into the sound. It's Papa, his face weathered from years working in the sun, his broad shoulders shrinking the room. "We should leave now. I'm sure the Milton's would like more time as a family."

"Of course, Papa."

I wait for him to retreat and turn back to Andrew, say a few more words in silence. But when I go to stand, Honor stops me. "Sissy—he's awake!"

Andrew's eyelids flicker open. He rolls to his back and sits up, slowly, so slowly, his nightshirt falling from his shoulders.

"Andrew..." I begin.

His gaze is glossy and staring, like milky white marbles, his hair adhered to his face. I'm not sure if he sees me, if he even knows we're here. But then his mouth unfurls, chest heaving, his lungs begging for breath.

Something's not right.

I try to calm him, my hands grasping his leg above the blanket. "Don't move. I'll get your parents."

When I again attempt to stand, Andrew's fingers grip my wrist, his nails biting into my flesh. He tries to speak, but his voice is too hoarse to make out above the pounding in my chest. I lean forward, study his lips, and try to understand.

His mouth opens wider, wider; a gaping black hole surrounded by teeth. A metallic smell singes my nostrils. When I try to pull away, a deafening wail explodes from his mouth, a sticky warmth spraying over me.

It happens so fast I'm too stunned to call for help, yet somehow Papa is at my side anyway, grasping my shoulders, pulling me to my feet. But the more he pries me from Andrew's hold, the deeper his desperate fingers drill into my skin. With one final yank, my arm is free. A blinding flash of pain knocks me back. I cradle my arm to my chest, the flesh along my inner wrist burning like fire.

My lips tremble as I back away from the bed. "Papa, why? This isn't supposed to happen—is it?"

He doesn't answer.

Andrew's head jerks first, and then his body, a series of fragmented movements too painful to watch. He lets out another howl and twists in his father's arms, his eyes rolling back in his head. Blood dribbles down his chin as his mother brings him to her lap, her cries filling the room.

Agnes and Honor cling to each other in the corner, their eyes giant orbs of fear.

I need to get them out of here.

I stumble toward them, my chest growing tight, but the closer I get, the more horrified their expressions. Prickles crawl up my arms, the tiny hairs standing at attention.

That's when I see it. In the commotion, the black veil has fallen from the mirror. My reflection glares back at me. Splattered across my face, clinging to my dress. Dripping from the ends of my sandy-brown braids. Blood. So much blood.

It reminds me of my mother.

Darkness creeps along the fringe of my vision as I fight to clear my head. Regain control. Will my body not to shake. But the room spirals like the weather vane atop our barn.

All I do is scream.

*thank you to the PrettyInPunkBC for the helpful feedback! #PIPBK