Free Eternal Dawn by Rebecca Maizel

that’s all. What’s your first class?’ he asked.
    ‘French,’ I replied allowing him to change the subject.
    ‘Isn’t that something? Me too. What happened to your finger?’ he asked, and pointed at my shoddy Band Aid job.
    ‘Not sure. Caught it on something.’
Or hurt it in a fight with a murderous lunatic.
    ‘Guess I’ll have to watch out for you.’
    My cheeks warmed and I prayed he wouldn’t see me blush. I couldn’t be so obvious.
    ‘So if you know so much about archery, do you shoot?’ He kept pace with me, stride for stride.
    ‘No. Not at all,’ I said. ‘Never shot an arrow in my life.’
    ‘Want me to teach you? Tomorrow. On the archery field.’
    Hathersage, England, at target practice.
    Rhode’s hands on mine, my back presses against his stomach as the sunset bleeds over the rolling hills. He holds my hands steady, the bow vibrates, and we’re about to let the
arrow go
. . .
    ‘Definitely,’ I said.
    We reached French class, but Rhode hesitated at the door.
    ‘
Après vous
,’ he said.

C HAPTER 7
    When a vampire is made, the countdown begins. A countdown to madness. The mind is all that remains active in the vampire body. The senses go, the ability to feel happiness and
joy – those go too. No one knows if the soul remains, deep down and hidden.
    The mind wanes slowly.
    Like polished silver tarnishing.
    Even the most brilliant shine will blacken over time.
    12 January, 1725, Hathersage, England – the years of the Vampire Queen
    The hour was early – just past sunset. As a vampire queen I spent my nights lying in bed, ruminating over the moments in my life when I had been most happy. Meeting Rhode,
falling in love, moments with my family, dancing with Rhode at countless balls. I sat up in bed. Outside the window, flecks of snow whipped past. The house was utterly silent. It was a house of the
dead. I listened to this melancholy silence as I tiptoed barefoot down the long darkened hallway.
    I stepped out of the back door, immune to the icy stones of the terrace, past the tiny cemetery where a coating of snow lined the tops of the tombstones. I descended the steep hill that abutted
my home. I had a very clear destination. The land veered to the right and I followed it. My white sleeping gown skirted over the frozen grass.
    I walked until I reached a small river at the foot of another hill. The water swirled and curled though the darkened valleys of Hathersage. The river crept by and the evening cast snowy light on
to the rocks and branches. I stepped down the embankment, my feet squished into the mud. The gooey consistency made me sink lower into the ground. I stepped into the running water.
    I must remember this date
. I wiggled my toes in the current. As I crossed to the middle of the water, it deepened to my ankles, and then to my knees. I stepped through from one side of
the river to the other. Back and forth, back and forth. The pebbles and rocks dug at the bottom of my feet, but no, it was most definite:
    My sense of touch was gone.
    I dropped my gown so the water soaked through the hem. The icicles on the trees hung in sharp, dewy spears. I stopped pacing the river and lay down in that shallow stream. There wasn’t
really enough water to float, but I arched my back, trying anyway. I submerged myself to the tip of my nose. Flat discs of ice floated past my eyes. Hours . . .
    Passed.
    The current would never bite at my skin again. The churning of the silt would never circle over my toes, nor would the rushing, splashing or bubbling water.
    It was over.
    Through the spaces between the branches, the stars dimmed – sunrise approached. I waded out of the water and headed back home up the hill.
    The sky had turned a lighter shade of purple. Atop the hill in the distance, my great house came into view. I stopped. Next to me, at the end of the long lane leading to the house, Rhode’s
longbows sat in a pile.
    I’d never shot an arrow before, but now I picked up a bow and