THE MAN THAT once had been the shadow, carefully laid the unconscious woman down upon his narrow bed, that occupied one corner of his small, secluded shelter.
He sat on the edge of the mattress studying her face in silence.
Long strands of raven black hair framed her features, falling in soft curls that reached below her shoulders.
Her full cheeks were streaked with mud, evidence of the ordeal she had endured.
A bruise was already beginning to darken upon her neck.
A terrible mark suggesting that someone had gripped her tightly by the throat before dragging her from the safety of her cottage, and into the chill autumn night.
The man's gaze lingered upon the injury. He had seen suffering before.
More than most could ever imagine.
But seeing it upon her stirred something within him that he did not understand.
Her rust colored dress was torn exposing the top of one breast and slicked with mud. The once straight hem was sodden with filthy water from the storms that had ripped through the valley in the preceding days. Her bare feet were caked in muck.
He leaned closer, searching her face for any further signs of violence beyond the bruise at her throat.
Then he saw it.
A small trickle of blood lingered at the corner of her mouth.
The scent reached his nostrils, and for a brief moment his silver-blue eyes flashed crimson.
He recoiled instantly.
Retreating to the far corner of the small room.
The blood that stained her mouth reminding him that he had not fed, and he felt the bloodlust rising, the need becoming all-consuming.
He cursed himself for answering the woman's pleas for help. Cursed himself for bringing her here.
Cursed himself most of all for not feeding upon her. After all was that not what a vampire did?
They fed upon the vulnerable. Upon the weak.
Upon the helpless.
They were monsters that lurked in the shadows, creeping ever closer to their prey, taking whatever they desired and leaving behind nothing but a lifeless husk for the worms to claim.
That was what he was supposed to be. That was what he had been.
But alas, he lamented, he was no longer that creature. He had not been that creature for many years.
He fought the rising hunger gnawing at his guts, striving to quell the bloodlust that had tried to take control of him.
For the moment anyway.
He would hunt after he had cleaned the woman's face using water from the barrel in the corner near the crude table, that he had fashioned from a fallen tree trunk.
He looked around the small space for a piece of cloth to wet in the water, seeing only his few items of ruined clothing lying on a wooden table sitting by the open doorway.
Moving to them he picked up a shirt, holding its once fine fabric in his hand. It had once been elegant, hand stitched by the finest tailor in London more than a hundred years ago.
With a low growl he savagely tore one sleeve from the shirt, before plunging it into the fresh water in the barrel, then walked to the bedside and bent low over the still unconscious woman, breathing steadily on the mattress.
He tenderly cleaned the mud from her cheeks. Then he carefully removed the small trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth, while averting his face so that the smell of her blood would not reignite the hunger that had coursed through his body only moment ago.
Once he was satisfied that the woman's face was free of mud he left her to sleep, once more becoming the shadow, moving through the darkened forest to feed.
* * *
As he moved through the blackness of the forest, he found himself asking the same questions over and over.
Why?
Why had he felt compelled to save the woman? Why had he acted without hesitation?
And finally the most puzzling question of all.
Why this woman, and not the hundreds of other mortals he had witnessed in peril throughout all the long years he had made his home within this ancient forest?
There was only one question he could answer with any certainty. He had saved her because she was about to be burned.
By men he knew would laugh after she had perished, clapping one another on the backs at a job well done.
Cowardly men who would believe they had rid their village of a threat.
Eliminated a danger they had imagined threatened their pitifully short and insignificant lives.
A witch, they would call her, not a creature of flesh and bone, no different from themselves, and yet condemned because their fear demanded a scapegoat to blame for the deaths of a few unfortunate children.
A helpless woman they could lash to a wooden post and burn to ash.
Then, for decades hence, they would recount their bloated tales of courage, and righteousness to their children, gathered around their blazing hearth fires during the long, bitter winter nights.
They would speak of the day they had defeated a monster, never once acknowledging the truth of what they had truly done.
They had not slain a monster. They had become the monsters.
As for himself, he could not allow any being mortal or immortal to perish in such a horrific and barbaric manner.
So he had done what he had to do. He had intervened.
He had defied the very nature that had defined him for centuries, and in doing so, had saved the woman who now lay upon the bed within his sanctuary.
A refuge hidden among the snow-covered mountains of this cruel and lonely land, far from the world he had long ago abandoned.
But now came the question he had avoided.
What in Hades was he going to do with her when she awoke?
The thought weighed upon him more heavily than he cared to admit.
She would have questions, and he did not know how he would answer them without revealing his true nature.
* * *
Vincent, for that was the shadows given name, returned to his dwelling after catching, and draining a rabbit that he had torn savagely, in the all-consuming hunger for its life's blood, that he could no longer ignore.
He had spotted the rabbit not far from his shelter, hidden within the tall grass beneath a faded blackberry bush.
He gazed down at his blood covered hands holding the ruin that had once been a living creature, and Vincent felt a small measure of regret as he tossed what remained of the rabbit under the bush where he had discovered it.
Now that he had fed, however meagerly it might have been, he felt more himself, ready to face whatever awaited him.
As he slipped back into the dimly lit room, the woman began to stir.
Her eyes fluttered open, scanning the cluttered room frantically, alert for any sign of movement in the deep shadows surrounding her.
Vincent recognized the look of panic that flashed through her emerald green eyes, as she wedged herself into the corner at the head of the bed, like a cornered animal.
"Where... where am I?" She stuttered, realizing that her dress was torn at her breast, she grabbed the wolf's fur from where it lay on the bed, clutching it tightly beneath her chin.
"What happened? Why am I here?" she pleaded, not understanding what had become of the mob of men, or Johnas? How had she escaped the stake she had been lashed to?
Vincent stood in the opening of the doorway afraid to move any closer to the panicking woman in case he should frighten her more than she already was.
He breathed in deeply, sliding down the door frame to a crouched position, looking at her from under his thick dark lashes.
"You're safe," he said gently. "The men are gone, run back to their homes. Probably hiding under their beds praying to their god, like the cowards they are." He scoffed.
Vincent recalled seeing the men who did not flee dropping to their knees in the mud of the field, their hands clasped to their lips in prayer when he had glance back over his shoulder to make sure they were not being pursued, while he soared, like a phantom, over the darkened forest floor. His passenger lying unconscious from the force of his speed on her mortal body.
Vincent raised his gaze fully, studying her comely face for a moment longer, before she dared to speak again.
"Who are you?" She almost whispered, still not able to think straight from the fear, and panic that had raced through her veins as she was being lashed to the stake, but was now starting to ebb away like a wave receding from the shore.
"My name is Vincent," he said simply.
The words felt unfamiliar upon his tongue.
It had been so many years since he had spoken his own name aloud that it sounded almost as though it belonged to someone else.
A man he had once been, before solitude and the passing centuries had reduced him to nothing more than a shadow among the trees.
For the briefest of moments, the sound of it stirred memories he had long believed dead.
"You're safe here." he repeated gazing into her eyes, seeing them clearly for the first time.
He noticed small flecks of gold near the irises of her emerald green eyes before he looked away.
"And what do they call you?" he asked in a soothing voice. Eldra studied the strange man crouched in the doorway.
His unruly dark hair framed a face that was both rugged and striking, while the stillness of his posture reminded her of a predator poised to spring at the slightest provocation.
Yet there was no menace in his expression. Only watchfulness.
Her gaze drifted to the doorway behind him.
Was he blocking her path to prevent her escape? Or was he guarding the entrance to ensure that no one could enter?
She found, to her surprise, that she could not decide which possibility unsettled her more.
Why did this strange man alone save her from Johnas, and his men?
And for that mater, how had he saved her from the bloodthirsty mob that had surrounded her?
She studied his clothing and skin. Neither held any evidence of violence.
She shook her head sharply trying to gather her thoughts.
"How did you rescue me from the fire?" she asked. "You have no signs of a struggle on you?"
Vincent lifted himself slowly from where he was crouched by the door, moving with caution to a chair next to the table, mindful of keeping a deliberate distance between himself and the woman on the bed, lest he alarm her.
He lowered himself gracefully into the chair as it wobbled beneath his weight. He clasped his hands together, resting them in his lap before gazing at the woman whose name he still did not know.
"Tell me your name, and then I will tell you what you wish to know," Vincent said in a low, measured voice.
The woman studied the stranger for a moment longer.
She searched his face, looking for some hidden intent, some indication that his kindness was merely a mask.
Yet she found only patience and a quiet expectation in his unusual silver-blue eyes.
At last, she lowered her guard just enough to answer.
"Eldra," she answered.
The name lingered between them in the silence of the small shelter. Vincent repeated it silently to himself, committing it to memory.
Vincent shifted slightly in the chair, studying the woman's face for any sign of untruthfulness in the name she had given, and seeing no evidence of deceit in her eyes, Vincent weighed his words carefully, before deciding how much of the truth of what had transpired he should tell her, and how much he should keep to himself in order to conceal his true nature from her.
He finally decided to tell her a half truth.
"I saved you from the men by using a simple diversion," he explained. "I tossed some stones into the darkness behind them. When they turned to investigate the sound, I seized the opportunity to free you from your bindings. Then I carried you into the cover of the forest, moving as swiftly, and as quietly as I could."
He knew the explanation sounded like a lie, but hoped she would believe him in her confused state.
He had to be lying she thought.
"No!" Eldra exclaimed, disbelief filling her voice.
She would not... could not... believe that a single man could have distracted a frenzied mob of villagers, Johnas among them, with so simple a ruse.
"No," she repeated, though her voice was quieter now.
Confusion clouded her face as she searched Vincent's countenance for some hint of deception.
"How could that be?" she asked. "I saw those men. They were baying for my blood. They wanted to see me burn."
Her brow furrowed.
Surely no simple trick would have distracted them from their deadly course? She puzzled, shaking her head slightly as she recalled the terror she had experienced when the men had surrounded her, cutting off all means of escape. Her head still felt muzzy.
While the strong, angular jaw, broad shoulders, and well-muscled frame of the man before her belayed a life of hard labor or long years of hardship, he possessed a quiet strength about him, one that inspired confidence rather than fear.
But she could not be certain. Then her gaze reached his eyes.
For one fleeting moment she found herself transfixed by their unnaturally striking silver-blue color.
So clear and unusual that they seemed almost to catch the light.
Heat rose to her cheeks before she lowered her gaze, suddenly aware that he had noticed her staring at him.
Could this man, strong though he may appear, really have carried her away from a baying mob with such astonishing speed through the dense undergrowth of the forest in the darkness?
The more she considered his explanation, the less certain she became. Something about Vincent did not quite fit the story he had told.
Vincent shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with her intense scrutiny, averting his eyes to the logs burning in the hearth.
He drew in a slow steady breath, and released it before meeting her gaze once more.
For a long moment, he searched her face, looking for an answer to the question he lacked the courage to ask.
Was she truly a murderous witch? He studied every subtle expression.
The lingering uncertainty in her eyes.
The lingering fear etched across her features, and the quiet exhaustion that seemed to weigh on her.
There was no malice there, no madness, no hint of the evil the villagers had so confidently condemned.
And yet appearances could deceive. He knew that far better than most.
For centuries, the world had looked upon his own face and seen only a monster.
Though he had never met a witch before, and certainly not one as comely as Eldra. As a child, his wet nurse had filled his head with tales of witches and the dreadful fates they reserved for naughty little boys who refused to do as they were instructed.
He had dismissed her stories as nothing more than bedtime fairy stories, meant to frighten him into obedience.
But then again, he had once dismissed the existence of vampires with equal certainty.
Until he had become one.
Pushing such thoughts aside, he turned his full attention to the woman before him.
"Eldra," he said softly, tasting her name on his tongue as though it were a fine wine, and for reasons he could not quite explain, the flavor of it lingered pleasantly upon his palate.
"After I freed you from your bindings, you fainted from fear. I carried you here, to my home."
He paused, holding her with his gaze.
"You are safe here. For now, and that is all you need to know." El-dra's breath caught in her throat.
"What do you mean by, for now?" she asked.
"I mean, those men will not abandon their hunt so easily," Vincent replied.
"Especially the one you called Johnas. He will never give up." His expression darkened as the memory returned.
"I saw the look in his eyes as he and the others dragged you across the muddy field toward the pyre."
He fell silent for a moment, choosing his words with care.
"He..." Vincent hesitated. "He struck me as a man who should never be underestimated. Men like him do not surrender their convictions simply because they have failed once. They become more determined. More...dangerous. If Johnas believes you escaped the flames by human hands, he will search until he finds you, and also me," he explained.
Vincent asked the question that he had held back moments before, suddenly needing to know the answer before he decided what he should do with her.
"Was what he said true? Did you kill those children? Are you a witch?" Fury flashed across Eldra's face at his question.
"NO!" she shouted. Standing up from the bed for the first time since awaking from her faint.
"How...how could you even think I would do something as evil as that?!" she exclaimed. "Those children were precious to me. I could never hurt a child! I am not a murderer! Sadly it was discovered far too late that the children had eaten poisonous berries from a bush in woods believing them to be cowberries. Though by that time Johnas had already accused me of being a witch, and turned the villagers against me!" she answered, anger rising in her voice.
She walked with purpose to stand over Vincent, hell blazing in her emerald eyes.
Vincent looked into her eyes, then looked away in shame.
"I am sorry," he replied seeing the flame of truth on her face."I just had to make sure I did not risk my life to save a murderous witch," he said.
Eldra's shoulders sagged, her fury spent, and she moved the few paces across the room to sit on the edge of the mattress.
"I am not a witch. I am not a murderer, though I am bone weary," she said quietly.
Her face turned down, examining her tattered dress, but she was too tired to care any longer about the ripped fabric partially exposing her breast.
She slid back onto the bed pressing her head onto the cool surface of the straw filled mattress, utterly exhausted from the night's tribulations.
Her eyes were already growing heavy, pulling her towards sleep, and as she lost the battle to keep them open she surrendered fully, allowing them to slip closed.
Vincent rose from the chair moving to slip the wolf's fur over her buxom figure, then retreated a short distance away once more.
"Sleep now Eldra," he murmured softly, as her body began to relax, slipping into a deep slumber.
"There will be ample time to discuss what we will do about your predicament in the morning."
Vincent retreated to the seat by the table, feeling his eyes strangely drawn to the figure of the woman he had saved from a terrible fate earlier that night, now slumbering under the wolf's pelt on his bed.
He listened to the soft murmur of her breathing as it steadied.
He asked himself again, what in the hell he had been thinking by recklessly rushing to her aid?
And whats more, he realized, he must decide what in the hell he going to do with her on the morrow?