Chapter Five

I was on my knees, and the cold iron embrace was gone. The shadow retreated as my vision cleared. The mirror in my mind remained intact. Suddenly, I remembered how to breathe, and the warm air filled me with the rush of life despite its dryness. I began to take in my surroundings, feeling the grit of the orange-gold earth through the fabric of my jeans. I still felt the pain in my shoulder and the blood flowing there, but it was a distant sensation.

I heard a tremendous commotion coming from nearby, like the sound of a suspension bridge coming unraveled. I shifted to look, falling back into a cross-legged posture like an exhausted child. Timothy was standing over the remains of the golem and all the clamor had ceased. My assailant was no longer recognizable. He was piles of pottery fragments, glass shards, and silver filaments like strands of moonlight. I blinked at this tableau, willing it to make sense. Timothy held a heavy square of paper scrawled over with russet ink. There were many symbols on it, but they were unintelligible. My eyes slid past and around them. My mind couldn't contain their shape any more than it could fathom infinity.

A flash of pink flame took the paper from Timothy’s hand, and the arcane symbols were abruptly reduced to so much dust in the breeze. He pursed his lips as the million black specks swam toward the horizon, and then he turned to me.

His skin was faintly luminous but his gaze seemed to absorb light rather than emit it. I had the vague impression of being drawn to him as if his eyes were the sky and I was falling up. Then it passed. The glow left him and he was himself again. Sadness was written everywhere on his expression, and regret.

"You are hurt."

It was a simple statement that brought me back to myself. I tried to move my right arm, but it stung too much to be of any use.

"What happened?" I was in utter disarray, my thoughts in shambles. In the next moment, Timothy was behind me, whispering words that refused to settle in my ears and instead fluttered about my head like a cloud of insects. I flinched as he applied pressure to the wound, but I was no longer pained. My whole body had gone numb.

He helped me to stand. My limbs were unresponsive equipment, and I was carried the rest of the distance to the house. Timothy was much stronger than his lankiness implied. I was set down on my usual stool in the kitchen and handed a glass of Soma. My numb fingers fumbled with the glass, but I managed to grasp it with a bit of effort and gulped it down. Its warmth rose in me like a forgotten joy and eased my nerves. While I drank, Timothy tugged my collar aside to examine the wound.

I felt a furious burst of heat on my neck. It was such a shock that I dropped my glass to shatter on the tiled floor. Timothy held me still as the agony pulsed once, twice, and then faded. I gasped as he released me; my hand shooting up to clasp the hurt, only to find it healed. There was dried blood but no laceration to account for it. My skin was smooth and perfect as if new; not even a scratch or a welt remained to mark what had transpired. Timothy handed me a brace of paper towels, eyes apologetic.

I went to the sink and began to wash mechanically. By the time I had finished, Timothy was setting a clean shirt on the counter for me. He took the soiled paper towels out of my hands and disposed of them, then made a show of turning about so I could change. I was glad to switch out of my bloodied T, and in another few breaths I felt recovered enough to speak.

"How did you do that?"

He was unable to resist giving me the half-quirked grin. "Magic, if you recall…" he raised both hands and wiggled his fingers, trying to joke with me. I did give one short involuntary “hah” before breaking into a sob. I sat at the table, and he gave me a moment to cry. When I looked up again, wiping my eyes, all the jollity had fled his features. He was even paler than me. I felt anger, and then it faded.

“You lied to me. The golems are not harmless.” A part of me had known they weren't from first sight. I should have trusted my own instincts more. Maybe Timothy had believed they were safe. I didn't think for a moment that he intended for this to happen, and already the knowledge that I could have been killed was being overmatched by the fact that Timothy was the one who had saved me.

"What was that?" It wasn't the most intelligent question, but it would get him started. The blue-eyed boy sat across from me and explained.

“You know the golems are not really alive. They run on a script that gives them a few basic instincts and the ability to follow orders given to them in one of the languages of magic. Yes,” Timothy said, “there is more than one such language. They remember simple instructions and routines, which is how they take care of all the chores on the ranch, but they are devoid of critical thinking. They have the instinct of self-preservation and will defend themselves if attacked, but they don’t actually care about living. However…enchantments have a way of decaying over time. The non-magical world erodes them as the river does the stone." Timothy took a deep, slow breath.

"This next may be hard to accept," he said. “Golems drink blood. Don't cringe, they don't require much, and we harvest it from the cows. That is why they are here. We would never hurt anyone just to keep our golems in operation. They have never tasted human blood, only animal. I am sure that still seems savage to you, but it is an integral part of the ancient order and ritual of their creation."

"Okay," I allowed, “but he attacked me. He…" I didn't want to say it. "He bit me."

So Timothy explained about vampires.

Apparently, the magic that regulated a golem's mind could degenerate at a quicker pace than that which maintained its body. Once it began to break down, its instincts would become jumbled and the more complex instructions forgotten. It would seek out blood for itself rather than wait on its master, for in most cases, it would not remember it had one. When wizards were more common and their creatures with them, golems would only be sent on errands during the evening or night when their odd features and behavior were less likely to be noticed and questioned. A sick golem out on a mission could suddenly lose its higher functions and be abandoned to its basest desire. People and animals both would be attacked for their blood, and the golem would either drink its fill and disappear, or be overwhelmed by the townsfolk.

“They can only be killed by the destruction of the enchanted parchment hidden roughly under the left breast. In other words, a stake through the heart. A golem destroyed in this fashion is reduced to lifeless clay and dust; but while active, its form was possessed of both superhuman strength and celerity, as you saw. From those attributes rose the mortal myth of the vampire.”

"So, it was sick?"

"Yes, and I am at fault for not reading the signs." Timothy grimaced. "I understand if you have lost whatever trust you had in me. I am truly sorry, Abigail."

“Well, it was your fault, but you also saved me. ”I didn't really want to think about it anymore, but a piece seemed to be missing from his exposition. I had to ask.

"Why do you keep them, if you know this could happen? How can they be worth the risk?"

He looked appropriately abashed. "It has not ever happened to one of mine before. I know that is no excuse, and I will speak to Milton about it soon. We may have to change the way this place is ordered about them." He looked thoughtful and held his hand over the still scattered fragments of my glass. I had been so flustered, I forgot it even broke. Now, the pieces reassembled in his hand like a time-lapsed video. The glass was flawless in a matter of seconds.

He smiled at me then, in a manner I couldn't read, like he was seeing something I didn't. He set the glass on the table between us. “What is done can yet be undone, if magic wills it so."

Something was wrong about that statement. Some things you can't take back, but I was more glad to be alive than I was upset. I think the Soma had made me a little drunk, alcoholic or not, and his blue-glaze eyes were impossible to ignore. I liked Timothy. I didn't want to hate him.

“Will you think about forgiving me, Abigail?”

"Do I have a choice?" I asked.

"Not really. But life is sweeter if you pretend as if you do."

He helped me find my room, not that I needed his help for that anymore. Yet in my distracted state, I appreciated having a guide. The rooms didn't always connect the way logic said they should. Directions weren't enough sometimes.

Upstairs--past the pure white door I wasn't supposed to open and now definitely wouldn't because magic was not harmless --I grabbed clothes and headed for the shower.

In the bathroom, I did my best to ignore the un-mirror mirror. Throttling the water up next door to scalding, I stood under it for a long time, rubbing the spot on my skin that no longer gave any sign of having been ripped open by a golem's teeth.

I felt as if it should matter to me more, that I should have been traumatized. From what Timothy had said about ‘vampire’ feeding habits, I really could have died if he hadn't arrived when he did. Now it was over and I was okay. The glass shards had leapt to his hand, obedient and eager to be whole again.

I stood and showered like it was any other day. The heat suited me. I have always loved heat, so I dressed feeling almost as contented as I had walking up to the house before the attack. Timothy was waiting in my room with a bowl full of chips and a plate of sandwiches, along with two glasses of Soma. I was surprised that he came into my room when I wasn’t there, but I was starving, so I let that little twinge of annoyance go.

"Thanks," I said as I sat on the foot of the bed, almost choking in my haste to get the peanut butter down.

"I thought you might need it. Healing takes its toll."

I nodded absently. That sounded right, and I had been hungry before . When I was finished with the first sandwich, I grabbed a Soma, drinking it greedily. It made me flush and lightheaded almost as soon as it touched my tongue. It was incredibly saccharine but not syrupy at all. I started on the second sandwich.

Timothy watched me from the computer desk, but he did not eat or drink. He seemed content in the silence. It was embarrassing gorging in front of him, just not embarrassing enough to stop. When I was full enough to start on the chips, I asked him something that had been on my mind during my ride with Bolton.

"Timothy, can you take me to see my dad? It's been two weeks already and he still isn't here. I thought Milton would bring him sooner than this…" I trailed off, seeing strangeness in his eyes.

"I am sorry. I cannot take you."

I stopped eating. "Why not?"

He smiled automatically, then seemed to think better of it and put it away for later, replacing it with stoicism. "There is too much to do here. We don't have the time."

"Couldn't you just magic us there? We wouldn't have to drive."

He sighed, leaning back against the desk. "This is something we have not talked about. Magic is not as simple as you believe. There is only so much power available to us. We cannot spend it frivolously."

My face tightened. "That's not frivolous."

He looked sad, sadder than he should have looked. "I didn't mean it that way, but the fact is that we cannot afford it right now. There is not enough to go around."

"But you showed me that illusion. You have golems running the ranch. Isn't that wasteful?"

"Illusions are nothing compared to Traveling, and the golems have more purpose than you know."

"But…"

His expression became stern as he cut me off. "Would it help you to see him? Would he know?"

I wanted to say ‘yes’ but couldn't. I shook my head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We are doing the best we can to help him, but we are also dealing with troubles of which you know nothing. A cross-country journey to bring him back here would cost us more than we can pay. It might tip the balance in the wrong direction. You will have to be patient with us."

I didn't argue, but I also didn't answer. I was no longer hungry. Sensing my mood, Timothy handed me the other glass of Soma and left me to myself, casting another sad glance as he left, as if to say I was the one hurting him .

The Soma did make me feel better, which was upsetting in its own fashion. The golem had made me powerless. I was powerless in too many ways in this place.

Moving to the window, I fussed with the latch for the thousandth time. I could tell from the way it was made that it should have opened, but it wouldn't budge even when I made myself red from trying. I thought of calling the hospital to check on my dad, only to remember that I had thought of this before, but there were no phones on the ranch. My cell was still in my purse, but it couldn't connect to the network. The computers also had no access to the Internet. I could try the nearest town, but Timothy would have some excuse not to take me, wouldn't he? Forty miles was much too far for a walk, even if the sun didn't press down on your back like a hot iron. Sometimes, the things Timothy told me reminded me of my nightmares. Like in the mirror there was something wrong, only it was too deep for me to see. The things he told me about magic were like shells without a core; constructs, word golems.

A sense of wrongness stirred in my chest.

Was I a prisoner?