The man… no, the creature resembling Aldarik Cathmore spread its hands, as if to indicate that it intended no deceit. "I told you: you're dreaming. Not a very pleasant dream, I'll grant you, but then you're in so much torment these days, aren't you, my sweet? No wonder that even your dreams are filled with darkness and fear."
The creature stepped forward as it spoke. Makala reached for her short sword, intending to defend herself, but when she drew the weapon, she saw that the blade was covered with reddish-brown rust. It was the only weapon she had, though, so she brandished it before her as if it were newly forged and held a razor's edge.
"Stay back!" she commanded.
The creature grinned wider. "Or what? You'll shake flakes of rust on me?" The creature pursed its lips and blew a stream of air toward Makala. A strong breeze kicked up out of nowhere, and her sword trembled in the sudden wind. Bits of reddish-brown sheared away from the blade, only a few at first, but then dozens more joined them. Within seconds, the corroded sword had completely disintegrated, and Makala was left holding the hilt.
The creature with Cathmore's face continued its approach. "I told you that you're dreaming, but I neglected to say that even though it's your dream, you're not the one in control here: I am."
Makala hurled the useless sword hilt at the creature's smiling face. Not because she thought it would do any real damage, but because it was the only thing she could do. The Cathmore-thing batted the improvised projectile aside with a casual flick of its hand, and the hilt flew over the railing, hit the surface of the blood-sea, and sank beneath its thick crimson waters.
The creature pursed its lips in annoyance. "Every dusk it's the same thing: you draw your rusty sword, I blow it away, then you throw the hilt at me. It's all getting rather tiresome, my sweet."
The air grew colder the closer the creature came, and Makala began to shiver as much from the temperature as from fright. But she continued to put up a brave front. She recalled something Emon Gorsedd had once taught her. The moment you surrender to fear is the moment you're lost.
"It's not dusk. It's…" She glanced up at the featureless black sky once more. "I don't know what it is. But it surely isn't dusk."
The Cathmore-thing had closed to within ten feet of her now. "Not here it isn't, but it's dusk in the waking world."
Makala had no idea what the creature was talking about, but the cold continued to intensify, and that's when she realized the frigid sensation emanated from within her body, not without. The creature was only five feet away now, and despite her intention to keep up a brave front, Makala couldn't help stepping backward.
"If this place isn't real, then neither are you," she said. She'd meant for the statement to come out as a bold accusation, but her words were little more than terrified gasps of air.
"Untrue," the creature said. "You and I are the only real things here." He glanced upward. "Not counting our Dark Queen, of course. From far away among the ice-covered peaks of the Fingerbone Mountains, seated upon her throne of bone and sinew in Illmarrow Castle, she watches."
The Cathmore-thing continued its slow approach, and though Makala wanted to hold her ground, she couldn't stop backing away from the creature.
"What do you want?" This time her words came out as little more than a whispered plea, like a scared child hoping to find some way, any way, of placating an angry, dangerous adult.
"Nothing dire, I assure you. I simply want to help you wake up. Think of me as your own personal alarm. You're sleeping right now, Makala. In that." The creature nodded toward something behind Makala. She turned just in time to keep from bumping into an obsidian sarcophagus with strange runes carved into the sides. Makala frowned. The sarcophagus looked familiar, but she couldn't remember where she'd seen it before.
The creature laughed at the expression of puzzlement on her face. "The undead slumber during the day and wake come nightfall. But though they appear to lay in a mindless stupor during the daylight hours, the truth is that vampires are very much active during the day-within their own minds. It's an aspect of the curse, you see, and a most delightfully cruel one at that. During the day, what remains of your mortal soul is allowed to dream… to recall what it was like to be human. This day-as on numerous others-you relived your first time Diran and you made love. Then at dusk, the hunger that has claimed your soul takes over and the vampire Makala awakens."
"If that's true, then what are you?" Makala asked.
"I'm the dark spirit you received from Aldarik Cathmore when you attempted to drain his blood. A parting gift from one of your former teachers." The creature glanced skyward, and though there had been no obvious change in the darkness above, the Cathmore-thing said, "The sun has fallen, and it's time for you to rise."
The creature dashed forward and before Makala could react, it grabbed her by the arms and lifted her into the air. She looked over her shoulder and saw the lid of the sarcophagus had opened of its own accord and hovered in the air next to the obsidian coffin. Inside was nothing but darkness, just like that which filled the sky above. The Cathmore-thing shoved Makala into the sarcophagus, and she found herself falling downward into endless darkness. As she fell, she wailed in despair, knowing once again what she had become and what she had lost.
And from the sky above came the sound of cold, dark laughter.
Makala opened her eyes to darkness. She started to take a breath-a habit from her days as a living woman-but then stopped. Since her rebirth, she only needed air to speak.
Deep within what remained of her mortal soul, Makala screamed in frustration and sorrow as the woman she had been was once more consumed by darkness, leaving only a vampire's animalistic desire to rise from its resting place and feed. She reached up and rapped knuckles cold as ice on the inside lid of the obsidian sarcophagus. A moment later the lid was removed and laid aside, and she found herself looking up at the face of a goblin framed by a starlit night sky.
"Good evening, Makala," Skarm said. "Sleep well?"
Makala hissed like a cat and lunged for the barghest, intending to slake her thirst. She grabbed hold of the barghest's tunic and pulled him toward her, the scent of his blood pumping just beneath his orange skin sending her into a near-frenzy.
"Hold!"
Makala froze, her teeth mere inches from Skarm's jugular.
Nathifa glided out of the Zephyr's cabin and across the deck toward the sarcophagus. The lich was living darkness, her undead eyes burning with crimson anger. "I'll admit Skarm's not much use, but until I have no further need of him, you will not drain him dry."
"I'll just take a little," Makala said, chafing from the way the sorceress had asserted control over her with a single word. As much as she wanted to sink her teeth into the barghest's throat, she was unable to do so. She could not move her mouth a single fraction of an inch closer to Skarm's neck. "His blood tastes like sour milk, but it will do until we reach our destination, and I can hunt for a finer vintage."
"You've fed recently enough that you will lose little strength by fasting this night," Nathifa said. "And Skarm would be weakened by the loss of blood. You will have to suffer your hunger."
Makala glared at Nathifa for a long moment, fighting to break free from the lich's mystical control. At first nothing happened, but then she began to feel Nathifa's hold slipping. But the sorceress's red eyes blazed like twin flames as she redoubled her efforts, and Makala knew that this was a battle she could not win… yet.
"Fine," Makala growled, and tossed Skarm aside. The barghest landed rear-first onto the deck and yelped in pain. Makala ignored both Skarm and Nathifa as she climbed out of her resting place, picked up the heavy stone lid as if it weighed no more than a thin sheet of vellum, and replaced it atop the sarcophagus.