Strawberry Wine

No-one could possibly have noticed me crouched in that pitch-dark back alley in Dublin, my arms cradling the still form of a beautiful young woman. She stared up through sky-blue eyes that would never see me again; the blood on her neck was slowly being washed away by the rainwater dripping down from the gutter above me.

The girl was young – a lovely golden-haired lass barely past her teens, and a few years my junior. She’d be twenty forever now… just like I’d been twenty-three for the past eighteen years. I would have wept for her, the poor sweet thing, if only I’d had the tears. But the walking undead are all rather lacking in bodily fluids of any sort.

Grief seized my heart in its fist and squeezed it without pity. My body shook as my mind reeled with pictures, splintered memories of what I’d had and lost…

…a veiled virgin, brown of hair and eye, clutching a bouquet of deep red roses and milk-white lilies…

My Marian… we had been in love for more than seven years before our wedding, nearly twenty years ago. Mr. and Mrs. Skye and Marian Callum, wedded beside the River Liffey in April of 1989, for better or for worse, until death did us part.

…a patch of bare black soil in a green summer garden…

That memory stung right to the heart. In June after our wedding, Marian and I had tried to sow a strawberry plant in our garden – they were her favorite – but it never took root. We were left with one empty spot in a flourishing field of greenery. I told her we’d try again next year, maybe in a different place, and that cheered her a bit. But we’d never get to try again. Winter took the life of more than just our garden.

…a pitiless face, lips pulled back in a bloody, fanged grin…

I had met a stranger outside a pub one cold night in Tralee, and walked with him awhile, as he had claimed to be heading the same way as I. We had talked of our lives and times, and then the fellow had asked a queer question: what would I give to be young forever? Never to age, never to want happiness.

It’d seemed a fair idea, but more than a little out of the ordinary. So I asked where he was coming from, and suddenly an awful light came into his eyes. Next second he’d grabbed me, his face barely an inch from mine. The man’s breath was foul, like something that’d been killed in the street and left in the sun.

“I can help you live forever,” he’d said, and went for my throat with his teeth. The pain of it was awful, and the sound of the man sucking and gulping right under my ear made it all the more frightening. Then the pain had started to ebb, and the man pulled his face away and looked at me. I saw that my own red blood was dribbling from his chin as he gave me a terrible smile.

“That’s done it,” he’d told me, wiping his lips on his sleeve. “Get back to your lady-love before morning. Don’t eat garlic… and stay away from church.” Then he was gone.

I couldn’t get out of Tralee before sunup, and I didn’t know how I was going to face my wife, given the state I was in. I’d spent the day in hiding, then left for Dublin after sunset. Marian took me in gladly when I returned, but one touch of my cold skin and my missing heartbeat broke her in heart and mind. She was admitted to the mental hospital only days later.

…a dripping-wet girl skirting the streets of Dublin, ducking under the eaves to dodge the rain…

It had been a night much like this one, not too long ago, when I’d met Maeve Borrail. She was just coming into her own, all golden locks and sunny outlooks. Even the pouring rain couldn’t check her spirits. Maeve was a lively lass with a fairy’s heart, or so she claimed. She adored the wild woods and open plains in summer, and the taste of fruit fresh from tree, bush or vine was sweet as a love song… especially strawberries.

We became fast friends, Maeve and I, and we met as often as we could: mostly on rainy or overcast days, when the sun was no threat to me. When Maeve asked me once to come horseback-riding with her on the next sunny day, I’d had to ask for postponement.

Then one evening she came forward and asked me why I always avoided the sun. I finally told her exactly what I was, but she didn’t take it at all the way I’d expected (or perhaps hoped). Her first words after my explanation were, “Are you thirsty?”

That had taken me right aback – she was offering her own blood for my sake. Of course I asked if she was sincere, and she replied that yes she was, she wanted to help me if she could. After surviving off of cows and sheep for the past two decades or so, I was more than a little edgy about drinking from a human. But she was willing, and it would’ve been boorish to refuse.

So I took a drink – not a long one, just a sip or two to wet my throat. My first thought was What has this girl been eating? Her blood tasted so strongly of strawberries that I nearly choked out of surprise. Images of Marian had flooded my sight, and I must have said her name out loud, for Maeve said, “My name’s not Marian, Skye, it’s Maeve… remember?”

I could hear the terror on her tongue, but I didn’t answer her. One tiny taste of her blood had left me with an irresistible lust. Her blood was so intoxicating, like sweet strawberry wine… I wanted more. I wanted it all.

Not much came back to me after the memory of that night, save for dim flashes of color, sound and taste. I saw splashes of red, heard savage growls and tasted a whole strawberry field. Then it all faded back to reality, and I was left looking into a dead girl’s eyes… the eyes of Maeve Borrail.

A heavy sigh hissed from my lips as I stared at the girl I’d killed. Her neck was washed clean and exposed to the night, and around it I saw a small silver crucifix suspended on a fine chain. The sight of it made me shiver; on a sudden whim I wrapped my hand around the sacred symbol. I closed my fingers tight, and didn’t let go as my palm began to sizzle and smoke.

I waited until I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, and then finally pulled away. The cross glinted dimly as I looked at it; milky light was flooding the alleyway. Dawn was coming fast.

I picked up Maeve’s body as I stood up, pressing myself against the cool brick wall to my left. Slipping through the dwindling gloom, I stepped onto a wide bridge that crossed the slow-moving Liffey. For a moment I held my victim over the edge of the overpass, as the approaching dawn glinted upon the cross around her neck; then I gently let her go. She hit the surface with a splash and vanished. I stood there quietly, my duty done.

A breeze caught my reddish hair and blew it into my face; I raised a hand to push it back, and found myself shielding my face from a blaze of light. The sun was rising. Quietly I smiled to myself, whispering a farewell to Maeve and Marian, even though I knew they’d never hear.

Lowering my hand to my side, I stood firm and let the dawn consume me, with the taste of strawberry wine lingering bittersweet on my lips.

Fin

Tags: vampires

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