Fingers touch the soft, white skin, they tease about, fluttering over veins. Lips descend on the skin and bestow a kiss. A soft kiss, just as soft as the skin they touch. There’s a moan and a smile. A breath and then…death.
England was not home, never would be, but it was her new hunting ground, and it was ready for her with all it’s glory.
There was no purity in her blood, she did not belong to a proper family. Oh, she wasn’t even supposed to be magical, dirt born and dirt loving. A farmer’s daughter to the core. Unusually fair for someone who worked under the harsh Indian sun, there were calluses on her hands where there were quills in others.
Her lovely mother killed by those calling themselves the rulers of the country. Those who thought they were better than her and her like.
She worked the fields and she burned inside.
Her father once told her to hide her ‘powers’, to not let the villagers know about it. She tried very hard and succeeded. He instilled in her the need to hide herself from the world, her true self. To the world, she was just Sharmila, Atul’s daughter who worked the field and was pretty to look at. Hardly anyone ever saw the fire within, the hunger and the hatred.
She is hungry. No. She is thirsty and there isn’t enough blood in the world to satiate her. She fears there might never be.
She remembers him, him with his lovely voice and the impeccable manners. The worst thing about him…he really was too nice. He was lonely and so, he chose her. She could be his daughter.
She had been a daughter.
Her father was dead.
She’d drained him.
There was no coming back from this, no horror greater than this.
He soothed her, ran fingers through her hair, hummed while she lay there convulsing. Reliving every moment of the night she drank her father’s blood and rejoiced.
He took her away from her village, from the husk that was her father. He buried her father, she wanted him cremated. That was their way. He should have been cremated.He took her to Bombay, where her mother’s killers roamed free. Where he showed her how she could avenge her mother’s death. She did that and more. There were so many unsuspecting officers, so many people who didn’t know what happened to them.
They were dead, just as her mother.
She was avenged.
Sharmila Deo died on a sunny day but that wasn’t the end of her story.
There were many years to go before that.
So many things to do and for once, there was so much time.
Reality came to her on a winter’s day, she was in a different country, he was still with her. Guiding, helping, loving. Caring. She loved him, she hated him.
She’d killed so many by then, she felt she should be sad, horrified about it all. She wasn’t. She had survived.
Her parents’ legacy carried on.
He taught her a different language every two years. There was such joy in learning new things and he was ever so patient with her.
Only with her.
She’d seen his other side, with others. He was merciless and mindless. He scared her with his apathy but then, she was learning the benefits of that as well.
She mingled with royalty and she mingled with the poor. There was no difference when it came to blood. Blood was blood.
She did try to be the kind of girl her parents had raised her to be.
A kind one, a just one.
Sometimes the call of blood was too much but sometimes…sometimes she chose those who’d make her blood boil.
She really enjoyed their horror and screams, their blood and their death.
He once asked her if she wanted to be particular about her kills, she’d said no. What was the point? Choosing just the criminals wasn’t fun and choosing just the annoying ones was tiresome.
Random worked best, she told him and he’d smiled at that.
She wondered about that smile. She hoped she’d understand why he’d smiled the way he had.
She never got the chance.
Till he was gone, she had never realised how much she truly depended on him. They killed him on a starry night. Torn him to pieces and burned him. Her loss was deep and quiet and burning slowly.
She went home.
Found her father’s grave, she was almost ready to put some flowers on it but then, it was as if she was driven mad. She dug out the grave, found her father (he wasn’t, not anymore, he didn’t even look human) and cremated his remains.
A lone figure near a pyre, the next day, villagers had wondered about it but forgotten by the coming week.
Another chapter ended and she sought a new beginning.
So, she traveled. His love for languages paid off, and she could communicate with the locals most times.
She hadn’t realised she was inching towards the one country she’d never thought of. Her journey through Asia and Europe left her speechless but when she finally came to England, she lost her breath for a good minute.
She didn’t know what made her go there, there were still bitter memories, her mother’s and her’s, sharp and almost violent feelings but she was on the shores of the country which had almost destroyed hers.
She wasn’t ready to forgive and she wasn’t ready to forget.
It was going to be interesting.