Blood and Fire
The young man who had been caught in
crossfire as he attempted to throw water on flames was bleeding out, and I
thought that I could save him. That was until the bucket fell over. The bucket
filled with water that was mostly bloody… I thought that I could hold myself
together just a bit longer. But the fumes were getting to me. Not just the
smoke billowing through the city…but the stench of the blood.
In my haze, I don’t know what happened.
Was it me in my delirium from the heat, the exhaustion, the hunger brought on
by the sight and scent of the blood? Was it another one of the civilian
volunteers, who had stayed behind in the city to fight the flames and drag the
injured to safety? Whoever it was that had knocked over the bucket of water
that I had been using to clean the wounds of the wounded firefighter? The water
that was now mostly…blood? I looked at the reddish pool longingly. I was about
to dip a finger in it and lick it until…
“Noo Callie, stay with us, a cailin!”
I thought I heard the voice of my brother, felt him grasping my shoulder and
shaking me. He was the only other one present that knew…but then again,
he didn’t. He hadn’t inherited the bloodlust that I had. He didn’t have to
daily drink water from the special goblet that my grandparents had brought to
the Colonies…the only thing that could quench my family’s bloodlust…and now
that the British had attacked and burned the city, who knew if it had survived.
“Callie! He’s too far gone!” I felt my
brother drag me to my feet and pull me away. I wanted to bite him…bite him
and drink his blood, the sweet nectar of life. I at least needed to get away
from the commotion to do what I had to do, and Patrick knew that. But then
again, in all this commotion, who would notice a young woman drinking blood?
When we were just a few yards away, from
the wounded man that I had been attempting to treat, who alas, as Patrick said
was too far gone, I grabbed my knife out of my dress pocket and lunged at
Patrick. My dear wee brother yelped, but stood fast. I jammed the blade into
his shoulder and as the bright, warm liquid ran out, I ran my hand into it. I
licked my brother’s blood off of my hand greedily. He rolled his eyes as I
drank my fill, but he understood.
All was back to normal. My bloodlust had
been quenched…for now. The goblet couldn’t be burning along with the rest of
Washington, D.C., could it? No…it was forged by the hand of Dian Cecht himself.
It could survive.
Patrick chuckled ruefully at me as we
began making our way back through the hell-scape.
“The things that I do for ya, cailin.”
“I couldn’t do it without ya, A
Chuisle,” I responded. There were plenty of more injured to tend, not to
mention fires to put out and the lone British to hold off. Speaking of
which…were those flames leaping up from President Madison’s house?
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