Free Sybrina by Amy Rachiele Page A

consciousness during his vigil. Alas, I believe it is time.
    “You may go,” I order. Mouse slips off the trunk and walks the short steps to the door.
    “ She never moved.” His words are heavy with anxiety.
    “ I think you will find by the end of today she will be much better. Go about your duties, boy. She is in good hands.”
    At the exact moment that the door is closed fully, I raise my finger to my mouth and sink my left incisor into my deathless flesh. I tip my finger and let one lonely drop of my dark crimson blood fall into a cup of water by the bed.
    Sybrina:
    I am gagging on liquid that is running down my throat and an odd coppery taste lines my mouth. I cough and sputter. A sharp pain is pounding in my head making it difficult to open my eyes.
    “ Drink more. It will help,” a deep, disembodied voice orders. Eyes closed, I sip some more but a potent wave of nausea hits my stomach. I cover my eyes with my hands, willing away the discomfort accompanied by the need to expel the nothing of my stomach.
    I choke out, “Please, no more. I may be sick.” A cool hand wraps around my neck and I sense a presence close to my face.
    “ Look at me,” a deeply refined masculine voice commands. I shake my head no as the pain is too much. “Look at me,” the presence demands, and his hold on my neck tightens.
    With difficulty, my eyes flutter open. A large man with wide shoulders looks down upon me. His eyes are emerald gems that would put any fancy jewelry to shame. I stare into them.
    Slowly, the queasiness of my stomach eases and the pounding in my head dissipates. A smooth comforting calm takes over my body. I inspect his eyes more closely and notice they have turned luminous. They remind me of the chandeliers in my family’s home covered in hanging crystals. When the sun would hit them at their core, a prism shone, casting a faint glow of colors.
    A mane of dark hair, long enough to slip forward , is caressing his handsome face. I am bewildered by his beauty, and the eyes I had trouble opening don’t want to close and lose his image.
    “ Better?” he asks.
    My lids grow heavier by the second and I no longer can keep them open. “Yes,” I manage to say before I slip into oblivion.
    *****
    A melodic cadence wakes me. I am on my side, my eyes open, and I am facing a wooden wall. The light in the room is dim. I can see a faint golden light dancing off the windowpanes above me. It is nighttime.
    I shift to look at myself. I am dressed in a white nightgown on a soft bed with a tattered old quilt on top of me.  I feel much better, but I am weak. I rise up on my elbows and slowly absorb my surroundings. A candle burns in the corner of the small room. A large, tall man with dark hair stands at the end of the bed looking out of the window.
    He is immense and is consuming the room space not only in size but in demeanor. His hands are in the pockets of his dark suit and his profile resonates power and conviction. He turns toward me and I am taken back by his white collar —the minister!
    “ I never tire of listening to the crew’s sea songs,” he muses. With a deep, genuine smile that awakens butterflies in my empty stomach, he asks, “How are you feeling now?”
    “ I am feeling more myself, although weak.”  Awkwardness finds its way into my processes and my cheeks pink.
    “ Your friend will be bringing the evening meal soon. Would you care for some water?”
    His large hand grasps a cup by the bed and hands it to me. I take it with two hands, afraid that I would not be able to support it with one. I take a trying sip, concerned that I might feel the queasiness again. A coppery flavor coats my mouth. I cringe at the taste and hand the glass back to the minister.  I recline my head, having used all my energy, and sink into the pillow.
    “ How long have I been ill?”
    “ A few days,” he discloses.
    “ How are you feeling? You have been ill,” I question.
    An odd expression crosses his face.  I may have