Sisters of the Night

Quietness, deafening silence. The world had fallen silent for one man. All he could hear as he stood in the plain, cold, dark, clinical hospital waiting room was his heart pounding against his chest, so hard he was sure his ribs would break, his pulse beating across his ears. The unlikely pair of a doctor clad in blue-ish green scrubs and a police officer dressed in dark blue stood before him, their words still ringing through his mind.

At some point, a strangled cry ripped from the man’s throat, the life he knew gone in an instant. An accident was all he heard; his wife, gone, passed away before help could arrive. Still reaching for their toddler princess. His daughter fought for as long as she could, despite the injuries racking her little body. Still, despite the efforts of the doctors attending to the injured from the vicious accident, his little princess was gone now, too. Another strangled cry escaped his lips, rumbled from deep at the back of his throat, and tears stung his pale eyes now; his vision blurred instantly, the golden band representing his marriage to his true love all that was clear.

The man fell to the floor and crumbled as his weakened knees gave out. As his chest tightened until he felt as if the very air he needed to breathe was being stolen from him. How could his sweet lady wife, Arya, be gone? How could his little princess, Viserra, be? He’d seen them both that morning. Arya was preparing pancakes in the newly renovated kitchen. From her spot, she could see Viserra playing with her toys in the dining room, surrounded by crayons and coloring books that had yet to be scribbled in. He could vividly remember Viserra’s laughter, seeing Arya smiling sweetly as she wobbled around the bright kitchen.

A sense of being watched hung over him, as if by an unseen figure, but the man didn’t care. His world had just come crashing down around him, the two people he loved most in the world, ripped from him in a heartbeat, before he could tell either of them he loved them one last time or selfishly beg them to stay with him. Still, the sense of being watched grew; his glassy, pale eyes darted around the clinical room, blurred vision, hoping to find the culprit. Nothing was out of the ordinary; people still waited to hear news of their loved ones. Some shifted uncomfortably in plastic chairs; others tried to distract themselves by scrolling through their phones, arguing with vending machines, quietly muttering with others, or reading magazines spread across the room, all in little bubbles of their own.

The voices were muffled, as if being drowned out by something unseen. The doctor in scrubs was gone now, having returned to their duties, and was attending to other patients and their families. The officer was gone too, maybe for coffee as he came to terms with the devastating news that shattered someone’s reality, or returned to their station to fill out the paperwork and deal with the aftereffects of such a horrifying scene. The man was alone now, his thoughts loud, his eyes scanning everywhere, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as goosebumps ran the length of his arms and neck.

“What’s your name?” a calm voice echoed as if he were in a bubble—a male voice, powerful and commanding but also comforting. The heartbroken man looked around once more. The voice was loud, close, yet no one else in the waiting room appeared to hear it. Nor was the owner of the voice to be seen.

“Ubbe,” the man replied, tears breaking through the barriers and spilling down his cheeks, tears of pain, unspoken tragedy, and suffering like nothing else he felt before. “My name is Ubbe,” he added, his words whispered, mixing with tears and barely audible over the strangled cries and hiccups. Ubbe soon held a hand to his chest, the feeling of his heart breaking into two prevalent. How was he to continue now? He had lost what mattered most; the grief was soul-crushing, and he had no one there for comfort. There was no way he could see to move on, to continue living without his sweet wife, Arya, and his precious daughter, Viserra. “They’re gone now,” he cried, the words falling from his lips before he had a chance to stop them.

Once again, Ubbe scanned the room. Those waiting in the clinical room didn’t seem to notice him; nothing was out of the ordinary now, except for a tall, hooded figure standing before him, his face bathed in the shadows cast by a thick, gold-embroidered hood. The cape attached to it draped over his frame like water cascading over the rocks of a waterfall, puddling on the floor around him. A stranger for sure, but something was different; he wasn’t ordinary. His glowing crimson eyes shone in the shadows of the hood—eyes of a demon.

“Your child,” spoke the mysterious hooded figure, his voice softer now, quieter as if his words were a secret. “Viserra Devitt?” he asked, as if to confirm he was in the right place and had approached the right grief-stricken person. Still, the figure didn’t move, neither to leave nor offer comfort. He had an assignment to complete. The man of mystery saw the recognition shimmer in Ubbe’s soulless eyes, the name familiar to him, the name of a loved one, a daughter. With that, the mysterious man muttered something in an old language, one unknown to Ubbe and likely to anyone else who heard it.

Ubbe didn’t care, though; he just knelt on the cold hardwood floor of the waiting room, the last photo of his wife and child clutched tightly in his hands, the reminder of how ordinary and perfect his little world had been that morning, the reminder of what had been snatched from him so suddenly and cruelly. Ubbe didn’t notice when three other figures appeared. All clad in robes reminiscent of the medieval era, all looking upon him, observing him. One of them with a kingly crown of gold resting upon his mane of coal hair. Another with identical crimson demon eyes as the hooded figure from before looked upon him with sorrow of his own, recognition of a familiar pain, the same pain the woman he’d visited not a day before felt. The third man, with wild curly hair, a beard, and a friendly face, nodded. This was who they were looking for, the father of their last heir.

“I know your pain,” spoke a commanding voice of a king. The man with the kingly crown perched on his head knelt to Ubbe’s level, as if paying respect to a beloved monarch, his cobalt eyes softening. Ubbe looked up to him; this kingly man was familiar to him, yet his grief-stricken mind couldn’t place why. The kingly man waited patiently; he had to be patient, the situation as delicate not only for the man struck by undeserved grief, but for his own world, Draeglith, that hung so desperately in the balance.

Still, his mind wandered to the past, to his wife taken from him by the hatred of another, she was forced suffer the same fate as his mother long before, to the friends lost in a pointless war, to all those who suffered in the years since the war had come to its cold, bitter end and even to his own children, parted by difference and days’ worth of travel. So different were his children: some were wise, others brave, all still learning.

“I can bring her back,” whispered the mysterious man from before, his voice still powerful despite his quiet words. He never said who he could retrieve from death. Nor would he dare force a grieving father to choose between two he loved. “Viserra,” he added, ensuring there were no secrets. “I can not erase your pain nor change what stole her from you,” he voiced once more. “But I can give you a second chance with your daughter.”

All four medieval men saw the way Ubbe’s eyes snapped to them, hope alight once more, for a brief moment. Before confusion took over, then fear, nothing could bring someone back from the dead, not without a terrible cost and unimaginable consequences. Still, Ubbe couldn’t stop his heart from pounding in hope, nor his hands from trembling at the thought of Viserra growing up, at the thought of holding her again and whispering he loved her every day.

“What do I have to do?” muttered Ubbe, his words drowned in grieving tears. He was no fool; he knew there was a catch, even his broken mind could see it. His body quivered, his heart questioned if this was a cruel joke or his mind playing tricks on him to cope with the sudden loss. He was a husband and father before, now he was a widower and a father who’d outlived his child. His world shattered, his hopes and dreams for the future lost, his thoughts scrambled, his mind fragile as it tried to understand and cope with everything.

Then it hit him, why the kingly man was so familiar to him. Ayra’s books. She had a love for spiritual things, for magic and things others would find difficult to believe, let alone take seriously. The kingly man was in those books. He was Kane, the son of Lucifer, the Devil. He was Kane, the formidable Vampire King. A man steeped in myth and legend, he could grant anything the heart desired, legend said, for a certain price and only once.

“If you agree,” began Kane, his voice soft, fatherly, as if he spoke to one of his own sons or a friend who had been through hell and back several times. Still, he exhaled deeply, composing himself once more. The child, Viserra, was important; Draeglith depended on her as much as it did the other six, perhaps even more. One of his sons would come to as well one day, years from now. “You will have Viserra back as if the accident never claimed her. History will be rewritten, only you and I will know of it; everyone else, including Viserra, will be oblivious to the change,” he added as if to ensure knowledge was properly shared, the burden of knowing that would also be upon Ubbe’s shoulders. “But when she reaches her twenty-first nameday, she will go to Draeglith, to my world, to fulfill what is asked of her.”

“I ... I can’t ... can’t lose her ... not ... not again!” cried Ubbe, breaking down once more as he felt the hope die again. He drew into himself and closed himself off from the group of men. Ubbe shuffled to the plastered pillar behind him, pulled his knees to his chest as if a scared child, once more, trying to make themselves invisible from the monsters hiding under beds and inside darkened closets. Vigorously, Ubbe shook his head; the gravity of what was being asked of him struck him like a ton of bricks, as heavy as the grief that crushed him from the inside out.

If he agreed, he would have his daughter, Viserra, back, but he’d live with the burdening curse of knowledge; he’d one day lose her again. He’d have to live with knowing her life would never be normal, knowing one day she would be taken from him and the life she’d built would be turned upside down. It was a debt: a child’s life in exchange for a destiny impossible to imagine. Something would be asked of Viserra also, something she’d have to do or something she’d be asked to give.

“I will not part a parent from a child if I can help it,” voiced Kane, his words soothing and meant to comfort. “You will see her again. Once she has completed what is asked of her, you will see her again,” he added, ensuring Ubbe knew Kane nor his council of three were the monsters history and time painted them as. Kane was a father of eight offspring; his heart would shatter beyond repair if one of them were taken from him. A king he was, but his duties as a father were far more important. “The bond between parent and child is a precious thing, powerful without equal. I will not be the reason it is torn apart.”

Silence returned, although this time without Ubbe’s heartbeat tumbing against his chest, instead his mind was echoing with Kane’s latests words, if he’d agreed, Viserra would be given back to him, only for her to be taken years down the line for an unspecified amount of time, he’d have to rely on hope he’d see her again after that, the same he hoped, but different also from her adventures in Draeglith, whatever and wherever that was.

While Ubbe contended with his thoughts, Kane summoned a tightly wound parchment scroll, bound by a silky black ribbon and sealed with a crimson wax seal, stamped with an insignia. At first, the parchment was empty when unwound, then slowly, before Ubbe’s eyes, and with the vampire king and his council present, words began to appear, written in a fiery glow before settling in black ink. Two languages were written: one Ubbe didn’t recognize, the other the mundane common tongue. Slowly, the words began to resemble a contract, bound in fire and mystery.

With Kane’s wordless encouragement, Ubbe read over the words he understood. Kane’s gesture was clear: he would not coerce a grieving parent into getting what he wanted; he wouldn’t manipulate anyone into something they didn’t want. Even if that meant his world suffered devastating consequences. The terms of the contract of fire and mystery were clearly written, simple, with no hidden strings attached or clauses. If Ubbe signed it, Viserra would be returned to him, but she would go to Draeglith upon turning twenty-one, the exact day of her birthday. She’d be one of seven.

Only when Ubbe sighed deeply and meekly nodded did Kane summon an angelic white feather that glowed. Gently, the Vampire King held it out for the grieving father to take. The quiet words of the man with wild curls and a friendly face reached Ubbe’s ears not seconds later. The contract was a blood contract; Ubbe would be bound to it for eternity, as would others involved. Once he sighed, there was no going back or changing what was agreed upon. Viserra’s fate and Ubbe’s would be sealed the moment the contract was signed.

“Forgive me, Arya,” whispered Ubbe, his voice still raspy and raw, unshed tears still glimmered in his pale eyes, and his cheeks still shimmered from salty tears leaving their unbroken tracks. Slowly, Ubbe signed on the dotted line, his own thick crimson blood used as a replacement for ink. At first, his signature glowed brightly as magic burned it to the parchment, then it began to dim until the blood resembled ordinary black ink.

Before Ubbe could contend with what he’d done, what he’d committed Viserra to, or damned himself to. A searing pain akin to a crippling migraine struck him, the pain so severe his vision began to fail him; no longer blurred with tears, instead, fuzzy lights of black and white flashed behind his pale eyes. The pain began to travel when his vision became nothing but bright white then endless darkness, first smouldering down the back of his neck, feeling as if it broke every bone and dislocated every joint on the way down, then it slithered across his stiffened shoulders before journeying down his right arm before finally coming to a stop over his forearm, causing a tingling sensation through his hand.

There, on the right forearm, the pain intensified, bubbling, burning, getting hotter with every second that passed. To Ubbe, it felt as if someone had forced his arm into a vat of boiling water spiked with corrosive acid, as if an enslaver had taken a branding iron and pressed it forcibly into his forearm, eating away at flesh and muscle to mark him as his own before rubbing salt and bleach into the open, raw wound.

Just seconds later, a soothing feeling began to ignite, flooding every sense, beginning in his chest, from his heart. It encased him like the warm, fuzzy blankets that Arya insisted on hiding beneath on cold winter days when the snow was deep, and the freezing mist was settling in. The feeling numbed the searing pain, the loss, and the grief he felt. It was as if Arya’s spirit was there, comforting him, hugging him now when he needed her the most. Hope followed the warm feeling, the love, it bloomed like a garden in spring, vibrant and full of life and color. Hope and Love were powerful, he could remember Ayra saying once, the magic all people had, even if they didn’t realize it.

Only when Ubbe opened his pale eyes once more did things truly seem different. The once dark and cold clinical room filled with hopelessness and depression was brighter now, as if hope had been lighting the way to something better, to love he wanted to hold on to. The people waiting to hear news of loved ones seemed different, more attentive and alert, as if they knew something had changed but couldn’t say what. The hospital staff running the length of the cold halls beyond the clinical waiting room seemed to have slowed down, more relaxed, as if they were no longer stressed or rushing to meet a deadline that hung in the distance.

Ubbe, however, noticed the four men had vanished, as if they’d never been there in the first place, just a figment of his imagination, his grieving and broken mind had conjured to protect his fragile heart. If it weren’t for the Mark of Kane burned and branded into his right forearm, he would have told himself it wasn’t real. The thick, tan, padded envelope told Ubbe that what had occurred was real, his name written on the front, both in the ancient Viking lettering and in the common language, easily understood. Upon grabbing the envelope, Ubbe noticed the Mark of Kane; now it resembled an old tattoo no one would think twice about if they saw it, rather than a fresh brand pressed into his forearm.

“Mr Devitt,” called the doctor clad in greenish-blue scrubs from before, the doctor Ubbe couldn’t remember the name of. He sounded more optimistic now, maybe a little confused. His eyes scanned Ubbe over, as if trying to understand something. “Why are you back in here? Your daughter is waiting to see you,” said the doctor. Now Ubbe was taking more notice: the man was of average height, with styled dark blond hair, sea-green eyes that shone with compassion, and a friendly smile anyone could trust. He held a clipboard in his arm, tightly pushed against his chest, as if protecting it. His name badge was slightly hidden, but still readable. Dr Hicks.

Ubbe shook his head, hope filling his heart again. A smile that could light a thousand suns painted his lips. Viserra was waiting for him. It had worked; he had her back, and she was alive. Dr Hicks nodded as if understanding the unspoken before leading the father from the waiting room down the long corridor, lit with bright lights; the floor shone just as brightly, reflecting light from above. Both men ignored the calls of another, a man’s voice calling Ubbe’s name. Instead, the walk was silent until they reached a pine-effect varnished door, the window covered by closed blinds.

Ubbe smiled brightly upon walking through the unassuming door that Dr. Hicks held open. Viserra sat propped up in a hospital bed too large for her. Nurses had padded out the sides with extra pillows. On the small tv in the corner, Scooby-Doo played on a kid-centered channel. A nurse sat at Viserra’s side, one who adored children, her smile bright when Ubbe entered. She wasted little time drawing the toddler’s attention away from the TV to her father, who stood at the door. Viserra instantly reacted, reaching her little bruised and scraped arms out for her papa, wanting nothing more than to be held by him. Her mind was too young to understand what had happened, the devastation that took her and her mother away, and the things he’d done to get her back.

Ubbe wasted no time, rushing to her bedside and hugging her gently. His princess was back, but Arya was gone, taken from them both. He had no doubt they’d meet again down the line; he chose to hope it would be so, as she had been reunited with her lost parents now in the peaceful afterlife.

“I love you, my little princess,” uttered Ubbe, holding Viserra as tight as he could without hurting her further. Still, he felt her tears against his chest, despite her young age, just two. She somehow knew her mother was gone, never to return. “To the ends of the galaxy and beyond, in this life and every one to come after.”