VII

All Elijah had done since Caff put him in a cell was stare at the blood staining his hands. One at a time, he would hold one up before him with fingers splayed and watch the light play off the dry, dark brown viscera. He seemed fascinated by it, how it would flake and stretch with the flex of the tendons beneath his skin. He would also run his fingertips across his palms, dragging his blunt nails through dried clumps of old blood. The flakes would fall to the Jail floor like awful snowflakes. Elijah would watch that journey before returning his unblinking eyes to his hands. Inside the Jail, where the light was softer and less direct, those eyes and their strange reflection were all the more haunting. Pale, almost white; like the moon or the mausoleum walls. Like bone. As if all of that weren't enough, there was an air about him. A feeling created in Caff's heart by merely being near him. That feeling wanted him to run, to fight, to hide and pray those eyes never looked his way.

It was fear. Elijah frightened him, and badly. He hated it. How it made him feel like he had to struggle for each and every breath. He hated how his heart thundered in his breast, how it echoed in his ears. It made him feel sick to his stomach, and his hands shake. His throat worked as he swallowed dryly. It was so quiet, here in the Jail. So little sound besides the ticking wall clock and his own short, shallow breathing. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Elijah's fingers. The way they moved was wrong, in some strange way. Too fast, too slow, too sure. He imagined them wrapping around Ruby's throat, pressing in and cutting off her air. How she would have struggled as the world went dim around her. He imagined them tearing through silk, through muscle and skin with ease, grasping hold of her liver while she still breathed and ripping it out of her.

For a moment, just long enough, he imagined it happening to himself. A shudder traveled up his spine. He remembered his thoughts those few hours ago, about how once people put it together they'd come for Elijah, guilty or not. He was a lot more sympathetic to that school of thought now, wanting nothing more than for this vampire to be gone, to be away. Where didn't matter, why didn't matter, he just wanted Elijah to not be in his Jail anymore. He had a notion to bridge the distance: get a rag and bucket so the vampire could clean himself up. Maybe it would help with the fear. Trouble was, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was taking most of his grit just to remain. Shame burned alongside the fear that paralyzed him. A failure of a Sheriff, now a coward of a man.

No.

The refusal came from a place deep within. He flexed his bite, teeth clenched. Breathe deep. Gut up. A long, slow breath in. He held it until his chest ached. A long, slow breath out. In an act of stubborn will he forced himself to stand. He felt unsteady, as if his legs would give out at any moment. It reminded him of the way Ruby's corpse had staggered and stumbled. Frustration bubbled up, adding itself to the mix of emotion inside him. He bore down on it, on himself, until he felt steady. Elijah's attention remained on his own bloodied hands. Caff wondered what it was that had so completely enraptured the vampire. His voice, when he tried to speak, came out as a dry croak. He cleared his throat, swallowed past a dry mouth, and tried again. It came out higher, thinner than usual but he made himself heard, asking, “Why is it you keep staring at your hands?”

Elijah took a long moment to pull his unblinking eyes from his stained hands. His bone-white gaze landed on Caff. The side of Elijah's mouth quirked up. On any other face, it'd be called rueful. “A sanguine reminder,” Elijah answered. His voice was even and smooth. To hear such an ordinary voice from such a strange being was worse than if it had been a haunting, ghostly thing.

“Of what?” Caff asked. He couldn't bring himself to approach the cell, but he took a small amount of pride in being able to step away from his chair and lean against his desk. Little victories. They'd see him through.

Elijah looked down at his clasped hands before saying, “That however I might wish and dream of it, I am not a man.”

“No,” Caff agreed, “you ain't. Men don't – they ain't like you.” Silence fell between them once more. Outside, the dim sound of a horse's hooves could be heard, accompanied by the rolling creak of a wagon's wheels. He suspected that he was becoming numb to the fear that Elijah had created in him. It was certainly not newfound courage that led him to ask, “Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill that girl?”

It was a long moment before Elijah answered, “I can't...I can't remember.”

Anger spiked in Caff's heart. He didn't remember. He didn't remember. The man – the vampire – had maybe strangled Ruby half to death and torn her liver out and he didn't remember. She hadn't even mattered to her killer. “Can't remember?” he spat through gritted teeth, “You that old, now? Can't remember what you had for breakfast, let alone her name?”

Elijah gave no reaction to the anger thrown upon him. “I remember the horse. Its cries, its struggles. Its taste. But when I think of before...” he trailed off, shaking his head helplessly. “there's nothing.” He turned his bone-white eyes to Caff's own. The look in them, he could only call haunted. “Why can't I remember?”

- - -

Elijah was sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. He had draped his arms over bent knees and was watching them hang listlessly, still flecked and dotted with horse's blood. His hair had joined his beard in its disheveled, unkempt nature. Nothing remained of the calm, almost serene nature he'd displayed. It was as if he had been made undone by the realization of his lost memory. It was pitiful to look at, especially compared to the creature that had so terrified Caff just moments before. It was a jarring shift, and made him wonder which one had been real.

He breathed in sharp, trying again to marshal himself. This time, he had a greater measure of success. Not wholly unafraid, but a step in that direction. It let him relax himself enough to prop his legs on his desk, boots crossed at the ankle. One of his hands he draped over his stomach, all casual like, but the other he had resting on the butt of his pistol. “So.” he said, and Elijah's pale gaze snapped to him. It sent a little shiver of fear down Caff's spine. “What do you remember?”

Elijah blinked once, twice. His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before saying, “I...what?”

Caff cleared his throat. “You tell me you don't remember Ruby, and maybe – maybe you don't. Maybe you do. Do you remember waking up?”

The vampire was quiet for a long moment. His eyes were unfocused, turned inward. Caff waited, and eventually Elijah said, “I think so. Yes, just a moment of it. Just after I awoke, I heard the gate opening.” He shook his head. “Strange. It was locked when I began my slumber.”

“Maybe someone picked it,” Caff offered.

Elijah shook his head. Stronger this time, more sure. “It locks from within.” His mouth quirked wryly. “It's more to keep others out than me in, Sheriff.”

Caff grunted. He remembered the mausoleum gate. It'd take a person with mighty thin hands to sneak a lockpick through the gap. That thin-handed someone might exist. They could just as easily not as well. He kept his quiet, content to let the vampire talk. Which, after another moment, he did.

“I was about to open my eyes. I am rather...lethargic...when first waking. It's – I am quite vulnerable in those early moments. Another reason for the lock. Then I heard a man's heart beating. He was alone. Then...” he trailed off and shrugged helplessly. “then the horse.”

“That's it?” Caff doubted.

Elijah nodded. “That's it. I have a suspicion, Sheriff, though I doubt you'll believe me.”

“Try me.”

He locked eyes with Caff, pale gaze on his own. Another ripple of fear up his spine, his grip tightening on the worn ash grip of his pistol. Elijah said, “I think someone has tampered with my mind.” he shuddered, bunching his shoulders up around his ears, “The...shape of my inability to recall...is defined. A clear point of ending and beginning. I think the one who did this to me is the one whose heart I heard beating. Whoever they are, Sheriff, they know where I was. And they aren't saying.”

“Well,” Caff said, at a loss. “ain't that something.”

Elijah looked rueful and said, “I said you wouldn't believe me. I hardly do, and I am experiencing it. It is the truth, whatever my word is worth to you.”

Caff needed to think. To clear his head and a place to do it. Where he was, with Elijah's pale eyes on him, wouldn't do at all. He was better than he was, back when he could barely pull a thought from the terror, but it wasn't good enough. He needed to be away from the vampire, at least for a time. Elijah was also why Caff couldn't go too far. He had already shown the ability to crush solid iron in his bare hands and the speed to move between blinks of an eye. Caff may be a failure of a Sheriff and a coward besides, but he would not make it easier for Elijah to effect an escape. That meant the front of the Jail, on the stairs leading up to the stoop. He fished his tobacco pouch and papers from his coat pocket and rolled up a cigarette, placing it unlit between his lips.

- - -

Caff sure had quite the conundrum dropped on his lap. He struck a match from the split rail bannister running along the sides of the steps, bracketing them in. The rough wood caused the match to lit easily, and he guided the flame to the cigarette before shaking out the match and tossing it away. The cherry glowed as he pulled smoke into his lungs. He was truly inclined to believe Elijah responsible for Ruby's death. As he had said to Jennie, Elijah looked good for it. He was fast enough, more than fast enough, to get from where he'd left her body out to Talmadge's ranch. Strong enough to bring down a horse with his bare hands, made him more than strong enough to tear her liver out. Why the liver, though? He wondered which was more fulfilling to consume; a horse's or a woman's. Was there room enough in his gut for both? Could be. The why of it, though, that continued to escape him.

On top of that was the nature of the lost memories. The taken memories, if Elijah was to be believed, and here Caff was not sure what to feel. It sounded like a lie. It was, surely. Yet he could not escape the feeling that it wasn't. There were better lies to tell, in his estimation, more believable ones. Children told that lie. If Elijah was lying, it didn't make sense that he'd pick that one. Or maybe it was the sight of how haunted, how undone he'd looked that led Caff to think that way. He groaned in frustration and pushed out a lungful of smoke. If only there was someone else he could talk to about this. Someone who knew when a vampire was lying, or just knew more than he did. He sat with that wish for a while, as the setting sun pushed the Jail's shadow out over the stoop and into the road. If he could do that, find that someone, he could make decent headway on this.

A moment later he cursed himself for a damned fool. He did know someone like that. Someone who had forgotten more about the strange and mysterious than most people, like himself, ever learned. Widow Booke. Maybe she wouldn't know exactly what he wanted to know. He'd bet good money she did, and even if she didn't, she'd probably – hopefully – be able to point him in the right direction. I'll go and see her. He felt a little giddy, all light in his chest like he ought to have a smile on his face. The cherry bounced as his lips curved into that very thing. It was small and dry, but it was there. This decision, this choice; it felt right. This was the right call. He surely looked like a damn fool right now, and maybe he was, but he was a resolved fool. He had a path, a way forward, and that was worth looking foolish.

It wasn't like there was anyone around to see him being this way. Gus Swanson had either gone out on a job or home to his family for the evening. Down the road, more towards the middle of town, O'Neils Hotel and Bar was in the beginnings of its nightly revels; people headed two or three at a time in to drink, dice, and sing off the stress of a day's hard work. It'd be a warm and lively place in there, full of light and smoke and laughter. Wouldn't be long now before laughter, music, and bad singing would be drifting out onto the cool night air. It was a tempting thing to imagine. To put it all down, just for the moment, long enough to have a drink. He knew what he was going to do now, surely he'd earned a moment to or for himself.

He could do it. Maybe he ought to. Thing was, just thinking about it put anxiety in his gut, all hot and twisted. The quicker he got this done, the quicker he'd bring justice to Ruby's soul. That was more important than his comfort. He would give himself this cigarette, this quiet moment. When it was ended, when the cherry was about to kiss his lips with its ember, he would flick it out into the road and let it smolder in the dust. He would wait for his deputy to return from wherever she was, so as to keep a watch over their new prisoner. She would be warned, of course, so she would not be blindsided as he was. These were the things would happen and until they did, this was where he would be.