A Sickening Crack

As Rosamund saw Count Ivar fight the remaining five wolves with a fierceness that sent shivers down her spine, she stood motionless, her heart thumping in her breast.

With its teeth biting savagely on Count Ivar's forearm, one wolf sprang forward. The vampire threw the beast aside, crashing it into a nearby tree with a burst of magical strength.

The horrible thud made Rosamund grimace, but to her horror, the wolf seemed unharmed and quickly scrambled back to its feet. Just then, two more wolves came charging at Count Ivar from either side, their jaws bared, aiming for his legs in an attempt to knock him down. The other two entered the battle after spotting their coordinated attack, launching a barrage of jaw snaps and claw slashes. Count Ivar battled bravely, his motions a smooth haze of strength and accuracy. Two of the wolves were thrown aside, their bodies falling through the brush, and he stabbed one of them deeply with his dagger. Count Ivar roared in pain and rage as the last wolf, unfazed, ripped its claws across the vampire's neck. He buried his teeth into the creature's shoulder in revenge. With a pathetic groan, the wolf fell to the ground, going limp almost immediately.

As the pack started to reorganize for another attack, Count Ivar, panting, dug inside his frayed cloak and pulled out a sprig of a green plant, waving it threateningly at them.

His voice echoed over the jungle as he yelled, "Be gone!" "I've already killed one of your pack members and injured two others. Even if you are more numerous than I am, I am still the strongest. I expel you from this location! Take you away!

With their growls rumbling low in their throats, the wolves paused. The plant he was holding, wolfsbane, Rosamund recognized, seemed to frighten them; the very sight of it turned them off.

"Begone!" he said once more, his voice full of a lethal threat. "If you value your miserable lives, don't come back!"

The pack turned tail and ran away, disappearing into the dark recesses of the forest with a final, poisonous stare.

Rosamund stood motionless, her head still spinning from the gruesome scene she had just seen. As the adrenaline drained, she felt numb with astonishment and a strange, vicarious fatigue.

Her eyes strayed to the dead body of the wolf that Count Ivar had killed, lying on the ground. Its wounds gushed blood that was as thick and dark as molasses, leaving the woodland floor stained. Once ferocious and aggressive, the creature's bright eyes now gazed blankly into space, their light gone. Its blood-mashed fur ceased to prickle with life; its muzzle hung loose, its teeth exposed in a last, pointless growl. The once-strong limbs were now broken and feeble. It was no longer a wolf, but rather a trembling, trembling man, dying among a carpet of fallen leaves. Rosamund took a step forward, horror and sympathy twisted in her heart. As she stared, the beast let out a last quivering breath before going still, the lethal wound having already taken its toll.

Her focus was diverted from the gory scene by a faint sound. She turned to see Count Ivar, who had won the brutal battle, now slouched on his knees. He gripped the deep, unbleeding gashes that marred his pale skin, his face twisted in misery, his breathing raspy. The sight of his once-immaculate shirt now hanging in tatters, revealing the entire depth of his injuries, made Rosamund's stomach turn. He was in too much pain to talk.

Rosamund, overcome with sympathy, hurried to his side. She gave him her strength by putting an arm around his shoulders and partially carrying and partially dragging him back toward Castle Dravenstone's protection.

Rosamund could not believe how she had assisted Count Ivar in limping back to Castle Dravenstone and into the first-floor study, sitting on the edge of the couch where he lay hours later. In the grate, a flaming fire flickered, providing enough light for her to use silver thread to stitch his wounds. Acting as though she was darning fabric instead of flesh helped her avoid squeamishness.

As she threaded the needle, she said, "You didn't tell me that nothing heals without blood in our veins."

His brow furrowed as he grumbled, "It was completely stupid of me to send you out unarmed." "I sincerely apologize."

She paused her sewing to respond, "I'm not the one covered in wounds." Which beasts did you save me from? One of them became a man.

"Werewolves," he said, his eyes hardening. "You were unfortunate enough to come across some that were especially vicious."

Rosamund shuddered. "I had assumed they were merely superstitions."

"Just you and me," he said somberly.

With the scar contrasting sharply with his pale skin, she completed suturing the lengthy cut on his forearm.

"There are some serious cuts here that need stitching too," she remarked clumsily as she lifted his ripped shirt.

He just took off the shirt so she could patch the more gory tears in his skin without saying anything. The sight of his stiffened muscles made her face flush, but she forced herself to concentrate and work with new energy and a sharp, professional demeanor.

"Is this not the first time that this has occurred?" As she saw the numerous scars crisscrossing his shoulders and chest—roughly patched, perhaps by his own hand—she ventured, her voice tinged with numb fear.

"Not precisely this circumstance," he answered. "This is the first time I've had someone to protect."

She didn't look him in the eye.

"I assumed that we undead couldn't be hurt," she responded softly.

"I apologize for accidentally misleading you," he said. "With the exception of werewolves, other vampires, and, infrequently, a mob brandishing stakes, we're immune to most things."

"That's... regrettable," she said. "How about werewolves? Are they also almost unbeatable?

He showed her the bloodstained knife he was still holding and stated, "Their vulnerability to silver weapons is mirrored in our weakness to wooden stakes." "And wolfsbane repels them, just as garlic repels us."

Rosamund chewed her lower lip and scowled. With a hint of bitterness in her voice, she said, "Creatures like us crave for blood, but what motivates them to kill? I wouldn't have given them any blood.

Darkly, he remarked, "Werewolves are a curious case." They are humans with the ability to turn into wolves whenever they want, with the exception of the full moon, when the transformation is imposed. They lose their human minds that night, driven insane by a desire for destruction and bloodshed.

Her spine tingled at what he said.

"For us, it's not that different," he thought.

"How so?"

He explained, "It's not as bad as with them, but for vampires, our powers are at their strongest and our thirst peaks at the full moon."

Startled, she said, "I never noticed."

It's not overt," he shrugged. "It took years for me to recognize it."

She closed the last scar on his torso and sewed in silence for a minute.

She whispered, "Let me take care of the one on your neck." "It appears to be serious."

She was able to reach him as he bent closer. He clinched his mouth to suppress any sound as he grimaced slightly as the needle entered his skin.

He paused, then said, "Rosamund."

"Well?"

Gently, he placed his palm over hers and whispered, "Thank you for this." She looked into his eyes, surprised by how close he was and how earnest his eyes were.

She dropped her eyes to her hands in agitation. "You're welcome."

When she realized she meant it, she blinked. She was grateful to him for saving her life, and she felt a twinge of wonder after seeing his intense battle against the lycanthropes.

She firmly reminded herself that she still didn't like him. He is the one who took my life, even though he protected me from the wolves. However, a silent voice in her head retorted, "Yes, he killed you, but he also saved you." That balances the scales, doesn't it?

Her inner struggle was unknown to Count Ivar.

"You can go again if you want to," he stated sincerely. "You are always welcome here, but you are not required to stay."

As he pushed the needle through his ripped flesh, Rosamund bit her lip. He gave a barely noticeable flinch.

Reluctantly, she responded, "I think I'll stay." I didn't know how scary the outside world is. And to be honest, I have nowhere else to go," she murmured, examining her hands.

As I mentioned, you are always welcome here, he remarked with a kind smile.

She bit off the extra thread after tying the last knot in the stitches. She slid the needle into the side of the silver thread after carefully rolling it up.

With hesitation, she ventured, "Ivar?"

The mention of his given name, which she had never used before, caused him to turn. "Yes?"

"Thank you for saving my life… and for letting me go," she said in a barely audible whisper.

He covered hers with a comforting hand that was solid but soft.

"You're welcome," he said.