A Place to Belong: Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter XXV

The Spirit World

I stood in the vast endless whiteness of an empty landscape. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t… anything. The best part about it all was probably the fact that I wasn’t feeling the pain of an arm-sized piece of stone lodged through my guts anymore. Looking around, there really wasn’t anywhere to go. Walking alone into a void didn’t sound like the best plan, but it was the only plan I had. 

Picking a direction at random, I just started walking, hoping that this wasn’t what my afterlife looked like. Had it been, I think hell would have been preferable. Granted, there was a distinct chance that this was in fact what hell was like. Alone, surrounded by a void of white nothingness, left to just go insane. 

Then the crying started. 

Not my crying. I felt I probably had a good few days before I broke that way, though who could measure a day in this place… less than a day perhaps with that knowledge. No, the crying I was hearing sounded like a child’s whimper, the kind of crying a young child would do when they were overwhelmed with fear or sadness, but couldn’t allow themselves to be found. The kind of crying that would be met with retribution rather than comfort. 

I followed the sound, because what else was there to do, and came across a small girl curled into a ball. She buried her head in her knees, wrapped her arms around herself. She was sobbing, shaking, and trying to hide it. A mop of tangled black hair cascaded over her white shirt and bright orange shorts, obscuring her face. Her feet were bare and dirty, like a child used to playing outside. 

“Hey, kiddo,” I said, putting my old teacher-voice on. It felt like a shirt I hadn’t worn in a long time, technically still fit, but not in a way that was comfortable. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at me, her hazel eyes bloodshot red, and if I still breathed I would have felt it catch in my chest. The face was younger and rounder than I remembered, but there was no doubt that this was Isadora. 

“Grey?” she asked me, her voice higher than I was used to and much more pained. I felt something sharp in my chest when she spoke, like a stake being driven through my heart. It was the kind of voice that expected pain, but still had hope. She looked like she wanted to reach for me, but was holding back. 

“Isadora? Is that you?” I asked, kneeling down beside her and gently brushing the hair from her face. She flinched slightly at my touch, then relaxed. Her skin was warm under my fingers, though that may have just been because I was so cold. 

“Yes…” she said, sniffling slightly. “But I don’t know where I am. Do you know?”

“I don’t,” I admitted to her. “Last thing I remember we were in that cave, you had the mask on… Veil of… something. And I tried to take it off you. Then I found myself here.” 

“Veil of Veii,” Isadora corrected me, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “My daddy made me read a book about it.” 

No sooner had the words left her lips that her eyes went wide and she began looking around wildly. Suddenly, she clutched my arm as if she had heard a Garou howl nearby. 

“I’m not supposed to talk about daddy,” she whispered to me, her voice low and filled with fear. “He told me not to ever talk about him. I’m supposed to be quiet, read my books, and do what I’m told.”

Something cold hit the pit of my stomach and the beast began rattling at its cage. I bit it back, sunk into the cold logic, and started stroking her hair gently. 

“And what are you usually told to do,” I asked her, trying to keep my tone soft and my questions focused on her instead of her dad. 

“Chores, mostly,” she answered, rubbing her face on my sleeve. “I’m supposed to sweep up. Clean. Not talk to anyone. If I talk to anyone, daddy gets mad.”

“What happens then?” I asked, prodding her a bit more. She shivered slightly, clutching my arm a little tighter. 

“Then he puts me where I can learn to be quiet,” she said, her voice getting low and fearful. She didn’t want to say more, but I could tell that the secret was becoming too big for her to handle on her own. 

“You grew up at a funeral home, right?” I asked, shifting so I was sitting next to her instead of kneeling. She leaned into me more, and I felt her nodding her head. “Was the place you learned quiet from in the funeral home?”

She nodded again, and I bit my tongue to keep from swearing. Near the end of my life I’d worked at a funeral home too. I always found it to be a peaceful place despite what most people experienced. The cemetery was beautiful and the home itself had once been an estate owned by one of the wealthy families of Charlotte. I had loved it there, though there were some growing pains in learning the business, and quite a few individuals that the industry would have probably been better without. One thing I learned was that there was a dark past within the funeral industry that had changed greatly over the past few decades. More laws were put in place, and the people who caused such negative reputations were removed. I didn’t know exactly when Isadora had been embraced, but her father could easily have been in the business when the oversight was weaker and the problems were still in the dark. 

“Did he leave you in the morgue?” I asked, taking a stab in the dark based on her earlier words, and was rewarded with a confirmation in the form of her sobbing began anew. Rage flared, hot in the pit of my stomach, and I felt my grip tighten around her. My protective instinct kicked in along with my desire for vengeance. I didn’t know where he was, but I wanted to make her father hurt. 

Then a calm came over me, and I realized something profound that part of me had always known, but never really understood until I was holding her here. Hurting him would make me feel better, but it wouldn’t do anything to fix her hurt. That was what I wanted more than anything else, for her hurt to stop. Causing more wouldn’t fix anything. That didn’t let her father off the hook, but right now Isadora mattered more than anything else in the world. 

My grip loosened, not releasing her, but releasing the anger I thought I had been holding on her behalf. I scooped up her small frame and pulled her onto my lap, pressing her against me as I rocked her. Her little arms wrapped around my neck as she sobbed. I did nothing. I just let her cry. And when she was out of tears, I kept rocking her and finally spoke. 

“Your voice is important,” I told her. “Your thoughts are important. And it was wrong of your father to make you think that only the dead would ever listen to you. But there was something that he’d never understand.” 

I pulled her back and looked her in the eyes. They were puffy and red, and wide with curiosity. I smiled at her warmly. 

“Even the dead listen,” I said, brushing a lock of hair from her tear-stained face. “We listen, and we value you. Your father didn’t silence you. And he never could.”

A small, bright smile began to break on her face, then suddenly in a flash of white, the world changed again. Instead of a void, I found myself in a prep room, the body of a small child, maybe eight or nine years old, laying on the table. Whatever had killed him must have been brutal, but quick, based on the wounds. 

Before him, Isadora stood, taller than I last saw her, maybe in her teens. Her hair was pulled back in a tail, and she wore protective clothing and rubber gloves. Her hands shook as she looked at the child. She turned and looked at me, and I could see the tears gathering at the rims of her eyes, but not yet falling. 

“He told me to take care of it,” she said, her throat clearly tight. “It. My father called him an ‘it.’ How… how can he think…” 

Isadora stopped talking, her voice thick and suddenly breaking off. She tried to swallow a few times, then clenched her jaw, forcing the tears back. Tightening her hands into fists, she looked at the boy and shook her head. 

“Maybe that’s easier,” she said aloud to me. “Easier to think of them as things or objects. Just something I need to work on and then move on. What will happen to me if I carry every single one? Every single death? It would destroy me… maybe it’s better…” 

“To come in destroyed?” I asked gently, and she jumped slightly, as if not expecting me to speak. I walked over and placed my hand on her shoulder. “I’ve met a lot of people who thought that if they broke themselves before someone else could break them, then at least they could control where the cracks were. Hell, I bet you I’ve done that to myself more than once.”

Isadora looked at me again, this time the tears, real tears, not vitae, flowed down her cheeks. She looked back at the boy and sobbed. 

“But I’m still going to break,” she whispered, her voice tight. “I can’t do this. I can’t look this in the face every day without breaking. So why not break myself? Why not let myself become…” 

“Him?” I asked, and Isadora froze. I walked over to the boy, his body broken and his face purple and swollen. “Because you’re not him. You don’t see this boy as a thing to be dressed up and paraded around. You see him as the youthful, exuberant boy he was, lost too soon, and put into your care. And that means something to you.” 

Holding out my hand to her over the young boy’s body, I waited. Slowly, Isadora’s eyes rose from the floor, still wide and terrified, wet with tears, but met mine with a spark of something else in them. She reached out, took my hand, and I felt it shaking slightly. With care, I led her hand to rest on the mangled mess of the boy’s chest. She shuddered slightly, but held firm. 

“Speak to him,” I told her, slowly retracting my hand. “Speak to him like you speak to the spirits. Who knows? Maybe his spirit was in the room with you the first time you did this. Maybe he saw you crying over him, tears he hadn’t gotten to cry himself.” 

Isadora sobbed again, but this time she held firm, squaring her shoulders. She sniffed, then looked up at me. 

“Will you stay with me? While I work?” she asked, her voice small, but growing stronger. I nodded at her. 

“Yeah,” I said to her, smiling supportively. “I’ll stay while you care for him.” 

There was another flash of white and I wasn’t in the prep room anymore. I stood next to an older Isadora, one I recognized more, probably in her early thirties. She was in all black, standing in front of an open casket alone. There was a dark haired man laying in it, his moustache pristine, his suit pressed, and the chapel around him was empty. Isadora stared at him, her eyes completely dry. 

“Is it wrong of me not to mourn him?” she asked me, seeming to feel my presence beside her. 

“Your father, I’m assuming?” I asked, turning my head to look at her. Her face was stern, still seemed younger than I was used to, but definitely the face I recognized. 

“Biologically,” she said, her voice harsh, face contorting with anger. She closed her eyes, as if centering herself, took a deep breath, and then returned to her neutral expression. “This place is mine now, because he didn’t have anyone else to leave it to. I’m sure he would have given it to a passing stranger so long as they had a pecker between their legs and an Italian name.” 

A few things about her upbringing suddenly made sense. 

“Are you burying him next to your mother?” I asked, and she looked over at me, surprised. Then her face returned to her patented neutral expression. “Of course you’d figure it out. May I ask how?”

“Mysogynistic father who emotionally abused his daughter,” I said shrugging “Clearly wanted a son, but never had one? I assume that your mother died in childbirth, or due to complications, and so he blamed you. Never getting a son, being saddled with a daughter who reminds him of his lost wife, surrounded by death every single day… Wasn’t a far leap to figure out what made him turn into what he was.”

“A monster?” Isadora asked, then scoffed. “As if I’m one to talk. Part of me wants to just dump him in an unmarked grave as far away from her as I can send him. Let him wander the earth looking for the woman he said he loved while treating me with so much hatred…” 

“Did you?” I asked, no judgement in my voice, just genuine curiosity. She shook her head, and laughed bitterly. 

“No, I was the dutiful daughter, clamoring for his approval even in death.” Isadora looked at her father with a burning hatred in her eyes. “He wasn’t ever going to approve of me. I murdered his wife. Stole his sons from him. And then hijacked his business that certainly a woman would drive into the ground.”

Her tone was bitter and mocking. The sarcasm turned to venom from the hatred I heard pouring from her. She stepped up to the casket and began screaming at his corpse. 

“You were never a father! Your gravestone should read hateful goat! But you had it say ‘Loving husband, devoted father! Devoted to what!” she screamed, grabbing the flowers off the lid of the casket and beating him repeatedly with them. “Devoted to my suffering? Devoted to my torment? Devoted to making your only daughter, your only child, carry the guilt of her own mothers death, as if it was something I chose to do?” 

Her hands flew wide, sending white rose petals and bits of lilies flying in the air like bitter snow. She gestured wildly at the pews, the dark room, and the atmosphere that reflected quiet loneliness rather than any form of somber mourning. 

“And here is your reward!” She continued, laughing and crying at the same time. “Nothing! No one! You died alone, unloved, and forgotten! And thanks to you, I got to as well!” 

She threw the remaining stems at the casket and sobbed violently, falling to her knees. The tears were not for him, and I knew it. A sudden, cold realization washed over me as I turned to the back doors of the chapel. A tall, dark figure stood there, like a lurking shadow, and a chill ran up my spine. 

“It happened tonight, didn’t it?” I asked her. 

“Of course it did,” Isadora spat bitterly. “How dare I even think I could have a life without him. He wasn’t even cold in the ground when my sire came and claimed me. I never got to live, Grey. Not one day of my life was mine. And then I was taken by another, claimed as part of a clan or as a tool for the Camarilla.” 

Isadora slammed her fists into the ground, anger and frustration taking her completely. Her body was wracked with sobs, and all I could think to do was wrap my arms around her as she cried. Instead, I sat down in the pew closest to her and waited. Once the tears were spent, and her body was still, she looked up at me, curiously. 

“Why did you just sit there while I cried?” she asked, and I heard a note of hurt in her voice. 

“You deserved your chance to mourn,” I told her simply. 

“I never mourned that asshole…” she started to say, venom dripping from her voice, but I shook my head, holding up a hand to cut her off. 

“No, not him,” I said, nodding at her. “You needed a chance to mourn for yourself. For the life you never got to have, but deserved. No one cried for you when you died, but that wasn’t for the same reasons that no one cried for him. Your father died unloved because he did nothing to deserve love. You died without love. There’s a difference.”

“Oh?” Isadora asked, her face taking on the expression of playful interest I was beginning to get used to from her. “And what’s that difference?” 

“I hadn’t met you yet,” I said, simply. She laughed a little, but she reached up and put her hand in mine. It was still warm with life, and I felt sadness for her, knowing that this was the last moment she had to be human. An experience stolen from her not once, but twice. 

“You were isolated, and so love was kept from you,” I continued, gripping her hand in mine. “He isolated himself, walling himself off from love. Given the chance, I bet this place would have been filled with people who would have mourned you. And I’d be willing to go even further than that. I’d be willing to bet that there were more spirits watching over you in your moment of death than any other person who ever lived.” 

She laughed again, perhaps at the hyperbole of it all, but it was a quieter laugh, not one of disbelief, but embarrassment. 

“Why would the spirits be at my funeral?” she asked, then paused. I looked up and saw her staring at the form of a little boy. One that had looked so brutal when I’d first set eyes on him. He stood before her, shimmering and whole, smiling as he handed her a ghostly flower. Isadora’s hand shook as she reached up and gently accepted it, mouth agape in wonder. 

Another form stepped from the shadows, an elderly woman, a young girl, two men clearly brothers, and dozens more. Each bore the mark of what killed them: a wound, a bruise shaped like a rope around their neck, the tired weary eyes of someone pushed too far over what a human could take. And each one held a ghostly, shimmering flower. As the shadowy figure approached, Isadora didn’t take her eyes off the spirits surrounding her. 

“Were you there?” she asked, as the shadow of her sire knelt down, fangs practically glowing against his pitch black visage. “Were you all there when it really happened?”

The spirits nodded, their flowers held out to her, and even as the fangs sunk into her skin and the pain of the Hecata bite flooded her body, Isadora smiled, her grip on my hand stronger than ever. 

“I didn’t die alone…” she whispered to me, tears on her cheeks and a smile on her lips despite the pain. “I didn’t die alone…” 

There was another flash, and we were no longer in the chapel. We were back in the prep room, a corpse on the table and Isadora dressed in her protective gear once again, looked down, her eyes boring into the body. Beside them was a machine with plastic tubes and ancient dials. 

“You’ve never seen me feed,” Isadora said, looking up and meeting my eyes. Her usual hazel seemed darker, hungrier. “And before this moment, I’d never fed before. Not on a human.” 

“You understand what’s going on here now?” I asked, finding her more and more lucid every time we met in this strange, dream world.

“I started picking up on it in the last vision,” Isadora said, nodding at me. “Do you understand what’s going on?” 

I shook my head. 

“Not really,” I admitted. Isadora laughed slightly, shaking her head. 

“And yet, you’ve been helping me along this whole way,” she said, grinning at me. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said shrugging. “I don’t know why.” 

“The Veil of Veii is a tool to judge the dead. If a mortal used it, they could force judgement on the dead and send them to the afterlife,” she explained. “I did that to all the spirits that Sorrow-of-Ages was using to empower himself. I’m not sure how happy they are with me for that, but it managed to save us from the Garou.” 

“You said mortals who used it could judge the dead,” I said, nervously. “We’re not mortal. In fact, we’re dead.” 

“Correct,” she said, nodding at me. “Since I’m dead, the mask wanted me to be judged as well. My humanity stood in the way of my judgement because it was the beast that needed to face the judgement. It is what takes the place of our souls when we become kindred. That is what we are judged on.” 

“If we’re judged on the morality of our beasts I don’t think I ever want to face that kind of judgement,” I said, feeling a sense of discomfort overwhelm me. Then, realization struck. “You knew that was going to happen to you.” 

“I did,” she nodded. “But it was the only way. I managed to hold onto my humanity long enough to win the battle, and impart the needed information about what I did in the vault to you. After that, the mask ate away at my humanity. Then, a stupid, stubborn, arrogant man decided not to listen to me, and tried to pry the mask off my face.” 

Had I still had any blood in my body, I’m sure my face would have turned red. Instead, I just shrugged at her and grinned. 

“What was I supposed to do? Lose you?” I asked. 

“Yes,” she said flatly, then smiled. “But I’m glad you didn’t accept that. Of course, now I get to relive many of the most terrible moments of my existence in order to rebuild my humanity. I think, once I’ve secured it enough, the mask will release me. The problem is, I need to make the right choices or it will damage my humanity again, giving the mask the foothold it needs to tear me down completely… and you with me.” 

“Oh,” I said, realizing my own humanity was apparently at stake now too. “Now I see why you told me not to.” 

“Just like a man to not understand why he was told not to do something until after he does it anyway,” she said, though her tone was more playful than reproaching. Then her voice got serious again. “You’re about to see the moment I first fed. This body belonged to the first person I had to care for after I was embraced. I could see her spirit, see her horror as she witnessed what I did.” 

There was a pain on Isadora’s face I’d never seen before, but it was mixed with something else. Disgust. At her own actions, at what she’d become, and at the blasphemy she needed to commit to continue the cursed existence we didn’t ask for but couldn’t ever be free from. 

“She was praying,” Isadora looked up, looking past me. I turned to see the ghostly image of the woman that lay before us on the table, crossing herself and muttering prayers. “Each prayer she made was going to go unanswered. She died, and then she had to watch a monster drain her blood, feeding on it, an abomination to her God and her religion.” 

The spirit stared back at us, anger flaring in her eyes. I’d never experienced a vengeful ghost before, but this was definitely one in the making. 

“Did she become vengeful?” I asked, and Isadora shook her head. 

“I pretended I couldn’t see her.” Isadora’s voice carried a note of regret now mixed with the disgust. “Probably the most shameful thing I’d ever done, but I was so hungry, so desperate… and so afraid.” 

“Afraid of what?” I pressed, my eyes still locked onto those of the spirit. Now she was looking back at me, hatred in her eyes. 

“Afraid of what would happen if I fed on the living,” Isadora continued, her eyes still locked onto the body in front of her. “You felt the Hecata bite. You felt how painful it was. And I couldn’t wipe a mortal’s memory like you or Callie can. They’d remember that pain their whole life, carry it with them. To put that kind of scar on someone… the scar that was so fresh in my mind… I couldn’t bear the idea of causing that kind of hurt to another.” 

I watched the spirit’s expression soften slightly, her eyes drifting over to Isadora, hatred and disgust gone. Now her expression was that of curiosity. 

“The only other option was to kill someone, which was even worse. I didn’t want to become a murderer as well as a monster,” Isadora continued, bitterness in her voice. “I needed the blood, and there were bodies full of it coming into my home every single day. The blood needed to be drained anyway, so I figured… what was the harm?” 

Isadora made a disgusted sound. 

“It was shameful, really, trying to justify it,” she laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I was pathetic, according to others in the Camarilla who found out how I fed. Not like other Hecata didn’t do the same thing, but they would go to graveyards, dig up bodies of those who didn’t get embalmed, and drain them like that. Some even took blood rich organs and ate them.” 

She shuddered and made a gagging noise at the very thought. 

“To desecrate the dead like that?” Her expression twisted with revulsion. “It was unthinkable. Instead, I could just make the incision as normal, let the blood drain and consume it myself rather than letting it go into municipal waste. Then, I could continue the embalming process as normal. It was my business, I could make sure I was the only person doing the embalming, hire others to manage the funerals, and survive just fine as I rotated out staff. It worked for a long time. And I was able to survive without hurting a single living person.” 

“You did the best you could in a bad situation,” the spirit said, her voice soft, and maternal. Isadora’s eyes shot up, looking at the woman. 

“I… thank you for thinking that,” she said, casting her eyes down. “But you’re only saying that because my mind is once again trying to justify my actions.” 

“No, child,” the woman spoke again, stepping forward. “That’s not how this mask works. It is an artifact that bound and judged spirits, yes?”

Isadora looked up, surprised. 

“How did you know…” 

“I was in the other visions as well, you just couldn’t see me,” she said, nodding tenderly. “Each of the spirits you’re seeing are real. They are being drawn from their rest to judge your soul. You can’t just logic your way through something like this. Your mind can’t just justify your way out of the judgement of your spirit. We were brought here to watch, to see what you have chosen to do with the life that you lost and the death you experienced.

“The day I died, I was terrified. I was alone, and when my soul saw you preparing my body, I thought well at least someone is going to care for me today. Then I watched as you grew fangs, and drank from the tube that drained my life’s blood from me. All I saw was a monster,” the woman’s spirit shook her head. “To hear your shame, and your curse, the suffering you’ve carried, and the pain you spared others by feeding your beast with my blood rather than taking from an innocent who would suffer from your hunger… Well, I cannot say that I’m pleased with the action, but I can say that I understand it better now. I can see that you weren’t just taking to harm or hurt. You took what you needed to reduce suffering. For that, I can forgive you.” 

Isadora’s lip quivered slightly, and her arms moved, as if to hug the woman, then paused. 

“May I… may I hug you?” she asked, and the woman’s spirit smiled, nodding at her. Isadora wrapped her arms around the spirit, hugging her as the woman hugged back. “I think this is the first maternal hug I’ve ever gotten. Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve given me.” 

“You’re welcome, child,” the woman said, her voice beginning to grow distant as the world around us grew into a brighter white. “Just keep that respect and care in your heart. You won’t go wrong if you hold to those beliefs.” 

The white light engulfed us both, and as it cleared, Isadora stood beside me as I had met her, dressed in her gothic victorian apparel, her dark hair slightly curled as it cascaded over her shoulders, but now there was a bright fiery determination in her eyes. We stood together in the white void, staring at the mask that in the material world was pressed to her face, trying to syphon away everything that made her who she was. 

“YOUR TRIALS ARE ALMOST AT AN END, VAMPIRO,” a booming cacophony of voices came pouring from the mask. I staggered a step, but Isadora stood firm against it. 

“What trial remains, Veii?” she asked, her voice unshaken, unbroken, but also unlike the monotone she normally used. As if her voice had a new life in it. 

“A FUTURE,” it responded. “YOUR PAST SHOWS HUMANITY BEYOND THAT OF MOST OF YOUR KIND, BUT ALL KINDRED DEVOLVE OVER TIME. THE DEAD CANNOT LONG EXIST AMONG THE LIVING. YOU WILL FALTER. YOU WILL FAIL. YOU WILL BECOME THE BEAST YOU SEEK TO CAGE. WHY FIGHT AGAINST THE ENTROPY OF YOUR EXISTENCE?”

Isadora stood her ground, staring back into the empty eyes of the mask. This time there was no quake in her voice, her body stood tall and proud. A strength radiated out of her that had nothing to do with her Kindred nature. This was a strength all her own.

“Do you ask mortals the same question?” she asked as a retort. “Have you asked humans why they continue to live despite the fact that one day they will die? Why do they continue to fight for something that can be taken away? Why do they continue to strive for more or for better when they won’t live long enough to see it?”

The mask remained silent. It floated ominously in the white void around it as if waiting. Isadora didn’t disappoint. 

“Well, I will continue for the same reason,” she said, her words biting more than her fangs ever could. “I never got the chance to live, but I refuse to let anyone take the only opportunity I have to experience it away. I’m going to experience all of it. As best as a Kindred can. I will suffer grief and pain, I’m sure. But I will also experience laughter, camaraderie…” 

She paused for a moment, breathing deep out of habit to calm her nerves before continuing. 

“And I will experience love,” she said, chin held high. “Perhaps I have already, and perhaps I will experience heartbreak after, but whether it's joy or pain, I will fight against that entropy as best I can for as long as I can in order to experience everything that I missed. And I refuse to let anyone take that opportunity away from me again.” 

The mask continued to float, apathetic in its blank stare. I looked at Isadora and found that she was actively avoiding looking at me. Her eyes were burning into the mask, but her head tilted towards me, then away, as if wanting to see my reaction to her proclamation, but afraid to at the same time. 

I stepped up beside her, mimicking her own posture and stance, and stared directly into the mask’s empty eyes. 

“Well?” I shouted at it. “Has she passed your trial?”

“YOU HAVE NOT RESPONDED, WARLOCK.” The words boomed at me directly now, nearly sending me flying back, but I held my ground. 

“Responded to what? Her sentiment?” I asked, not looking at Isadora. “I will, but not here. Not now.” 

“WHY NOT?” The mask inquired. 

“Yeah,” Isadora said, her voice smaller and sounded both a bit frightened and annoyed. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said, loudly answering the mask, but also for her benefit. “This isn’t about me. It’s about her humanity, and that isn’t tied to me. Her soul was human before she met me. It would remain human without me. She may trust me with her heart, but her soul will always be hers, and your judgement of that should be based on her and her alone.” 

I heard a small laugh from beside me, soft and disbelieving. 

“Did you just Bechdel Test check the Veil of Veii?” Isadora said, mirth in her voice. “Ballsy move, but I appreciate it.”

“I guess I did, in a way,” I responded, turning to look at her. “But it’s true. I helped you on the test in the beginning, but once you started to see for yourself that you were a good person at heart, you didn’t need my reassurances anymore. You can rely on me, but like you told me before, you’re not some damsel in need of saving.”

Isadora’s hazel eyes met mine, and something new shined through them, something I’d never seen before. The smile on her face reflected in them. 

“Thank you, Grey.” 

The void around us began to rumble, and both of us turned back to look at the Veil of Veii as it boomed with power and authority. 

“JUDGEMENT HAS BEEN REACHED!” 

Isadora’s hand gripped my arm as we stood staring at the mask. Cracks began to form in the bronze as it appeared to break apart before our very eyes, pieces falling away into the void as blackness began to encroach on the empty white that surrounded us. 

“WE WILL ALLOW YOU TO GO FREE,” the mask boomed, and both Isadora and I breathed a sigh of relief. “BOTH OF YOU.”

“Both?” I asked, curiously. 

“Your soul was on the line too,” Isadora said, incredulously at me. “Did you seriously forget that?”

“I was a bit preoccupied,” I responded, watching as the blackness crept ever closer. I stepped in towards her, pulling her tight against me. “Uh, if we’re free, why does it look like hell is coming to get us?”

“RISK NOT OUR USE AGAIN, VAMPIRO!” The mask’s warning came booming in around us as the darkness rose up and swallowed us, my vision going completely dark as the final words hit me. “ATONEMENT IS NOT OFFERED TWICE.” 

I woke up, pain radiating from the wound in my torso. Licking my lips, I tasted Isadora’s blood still wet and fresh on them. All the time spent in the mask must not have reflected the time outside of it. Looking down, I saw Isadora lying in my lap, the Veil of Veii on the ground next to her. For a moment her face looked peaceful, but as her eyes fluttered, the fading necromantic light reflected against them, and I could see how distant and out of focus her gaze was. 

“Shit, how much blood did I take?” I asked aloud, angry at myself for allowing such a thing to happen. I could feed her some of mine, but then we’d be in an eternal tug of war with our vitae, feeding it to each other until there wasn’t enough left for either of us to move, let alone us both. 

I stuffed the mask into her bag and went to move her, then paused. Gently, I set her down again and went over to the pile of bones. Quite a few were snapped, the marrow sucked out of them, but the skulls were still pristine. I tossed a few aside and found the one misshapen one I was looking for. I was no anthropologist, but the unique way it twisted and the jagged teeth couldn’t belong to anyone other than Ledger. I put that in her bag too before a memory came bubbling up to the surface. 

Looking over at the skulls, I remembered a conversation that came up with my oldest friend. I couldn’t remember what we had been discussing that triggered the question, but we grew curious if there was bone marrow in skulls. Neither of us thought there would be, the skull was too thin, too fragile… but when we looked it up, we discovered there was. 

Sorrow-of-Ages must not have known about it either, as each of the skulls were pristine. I started digging through the skulls, cracking them open and began hunting, digging out as much marrow as I could from each. Some were too old, and the marrow was old and dried, but there were a few fresher ones. I managed to get about a palmful of what I hoped was usable marrow. 

Running over to Isadora, I forced her mouth open. 

“Okay, I know how disgusted you sounded when you talked about other Hecata that survived on eating the blood rich organs of their food source,” I said, by way of apology, smearing the marrow onto her tongue. “But this is all I can think of right now, and if I get us back to the surface and you wake up starving, you’d probably feel worse about biting someone.” 

Her fangs appeared immediately, snapping down at me, but I pulled my hand away before she could take a bite. I forced her mouth open again, smearing the rest onto her tongue. The beast, because her conscious mind wouldn’t allow her to behave so feral, fought me, trying to take more, take my vitae, but I managed to hold her still. Her mouth moved and worked, and I tried not to compare her to a dog with peanut butter in my mind. 

Unsuccessfully. 

Focus returned to her eyes, and slowly, the savage, feral nature of the beast began to calm. Her eyes blinked rapidly up at me, and I could see that she was still lacking strength. Regardless, she still reached up to me, her hand barely able to touch my face. I took her hand in mine and held it against my cheek. 

“You… haven’t… responded,” she said, her voice weak. I smiled down at her. 

“We’re trapped at the bottom of a pit, you’re half starved, and I’m still recovering from a stab wound through the gut,” I say to her, laughing slightly at the absurdity of the moment. “And that’s what you’re worried about?”

“I refuse… to die… ignorant…” she said, a tired smile on her face. I saw her eyes beginning to slide out of focus again. I leaned down before torpor took her. 

“My heart’s blood is yours,” I whispered to Isadora, pressing my lips against hers. She kissed back, her fervor tempered by her weakened state. We held the kiss until her lips relaxed and her head slumped to one side. 

I stood, lifting her limp body the best I could, wishing that Diego was here. Or at the very least, that I had been as strong as him. She wasn’t dead, but she was in torpor. She needed blood, or vitae, preferably of a corpse for her sake, though at this point beggars couldn’t be choosers. I wouldn’t force an innocent on her. She’d not fed from a living being, and I needed to remind myself that feeding from me most definitely didn’t count. She’d also not killed anyone from feeding. I wouldn’t take that from her either. Not if I could help it at the very least. 

I began walking through the tunnels blind, alone, and dragging Isadora’s ragdoll body behind me hoping that my wound wouldn’t open up on its own again, as I did not have the means to fix it. Listing off everything that had gone wrong since Sorrow had collapsed the bridge under me, I couldn’t imagine my night getting any worse. 

Hopefully things were going smoother for Diego and Callie.