new strength.
“‘My wife was no demon,’ I said. I made no attempt to hide the thunder in my voice.
“‘But you are,’ she said. She spit her words in my face. ‘You’re bloodstained and white as a specter and cold as the dead. You are the work of the Devil. Be gone, Demon! Even God cannot help you now, son of Satan!’
“‘I may be a demon,’ I said, ‘and God may not be able to help me now, but He cannot help you either.’
“I bent to tear her throat but I heard voices outside the jail and I didn’t want to be seen. I knew I couldn’t let others know what I was. I let the old woman go and left at a flash, hiding until a man arrived to relieve her from her duties. Once she was outside she glanced around and shivered as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders though it was August and hot even at that late hour. I don’t know if she saw me jump out from the shadows as she passed me. She never screamed. I grabbed her, dragged her away, and fed from her until she was dry inside. I was more brutal than I needed to be. Even after she lay dead I broke her bones and tore her flesh and took my frenzy out on her corpse. I didn’t know how else to handle my heartbreak then. To this day I wonder if I could have saved my wife. Perhaps if I had arrived at the jail sooner I could have escaped with her somewhere and helped her get the medical treatment she needed.”
“Medical treatment was pretty primitive in the seventeenth century,” Timothy said.
“Then maybe I could have turned her and she would still be here with me today.”
“Did you know how to turn someone then? You were new to this life yourself.”
“No.”
“Then how could you have turned her?”
“I don’t know. There must have been something I could have done.”
“I don’t think you should blame yourself, James. I don’t see how you could have helped.” Timothy thought a moment. “It must have been hell for you in those days.”
“Even worse than the hell of being turned against my will was the hell of losing my wife. It’s terrifying to know you’re telling the truth and no one believes you. How do you convince people when they won’t be convinced?”
“But didn’t the accused victims have trials? Didn’t they get a chance to prove their innocence?”
James laughed another wicked laugh. “The trials were a mockery of justice. Elizabeth never had her day in court, but if she had I would have tried to convince her to plead guilty. Those who were charged and still living were the ones who would plead guilty to witchcraft, while those who were executed wouldn’t plead guilty to a crime they didn’t commit. By the autumn of 1692, more than one hundred people were charged with witchcraft and imprisoned.”
“I never knew so many people were victims of the witch trials.”
“Twenty-seven people died. Some were executed, and some died in jail like Elizabeth. Our friend was crushed to death for two days under the weight of man-sized stones.”
James stopped pacing. He looked at Timothy, saw the boy’s folded hands, his bowed head, and thought he had shared too much. But Timothy needed to know the danger a new hunt could bring.
“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t know.”
“Of course, those who were hung as witches weren’t witches at all while the real demons ran around turning unsuspecting victims. People were so busy pointing fingers at each other they missed what they were looking for when it was right in front of them.”
“Do you think we’re demons?”
James considered his answer. If he said no, we’re not demons at all, he would have been lying. He didn’t know how else to explain how they stayed the same despite the passing years, how they were alive when their bodies were dead, why they craved blood. Yet if James said yes, of course we’re demons, Timothy would have stopped listening. So he compromised.
“I think some are
“‘My wife was no demon,’ I said. I made no attempt to hide the thunder in my voice.
“‘But you are,’ she said. She spit her words in my face. ‘You’re bloodstained and white as a specter and cold as the dead. You are the work of the Devil. Be gone, Demon! Even God cannot help you now, son of Satan!’
“‘I may be a demon,’ I said, ‘and God may not be able to help me now, but He cannot help you either.’
“I bent to tear her throat but I heard voices outside the jail and I didn’t want to be seen. I knew I couldn’t let others know what I was. I let the old woman go and left at a flash, hiding until a man arrived to relieve her from her duties. Once she was outside she glanced around and shivered as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders though it was August and hot even at that late hour. I don’t know if she saw me jump out from the shadows as she passed me. She never screamed. I grabbed her, dragged her away, and fed from her until she was dry inside. I was more brutal than I needed to be. Even after she lay dead I broke her bones and tore her flesh and took my frenzy out on her corpse. I didn’t know how else to handle my heartbreak then. To this day I wonder if I could have saved my wife. Perhaps if I had arrived at the jail sooner I could have escaped with her somewhere and helped her get the medical treatment she needed.”
“Medical treatment was pretty primitive in the seventeenth century,” Timothy said.
“Then maybe I could have turned her and she would still be here with me today.”
“Did you know how to turn someone then? You were new to this life yourself.”
“No.”
“Then how could you have turned her?”
“I don’t know. There must have been something I could have done.”
“I don’t think you should blame yourself, James. I don’t see how you could have helped.” Timothy thought a moment. “It must have been hell for you in those days.”
“Even worse than the hell of being turned against my will was the hell of losing my wife. It’s terrifying to know you’re telling the truth and no one believes you. How do you convince people when they won’t be convinced?”
“But didn’t the accused victims have trials? Didn’t they get a chance to prove their innocence?”
James laughed another wicked laugh. “The trials were a mockery of justice. Elizabeth never had her day in court, but if she had I would have tried to convince her to plead guilty. Those who were charged and still living were the ones who would plead guilty to witchcraft, while those who were executed wouldn’t plead guilty to a crime they didn’t commit. By the autumn of 1692, more than one hundred people were charged with witchcraft and imprisoned.”
“I never knew so many people were victims of the witch trials.”
“Twenty-seven people died. Some were executed, and some died in jail like Elizabeth. Our friend was crushed to death for two days under the weight of man-sized stones.”
James stopped pacing. He looked at Timothy, saw the boy’s folded hands, his bowed head, and thought he had shared too much. But Timothy needed to know the danger a new hunt could bring.
“I’m sorry, James. I didn’t know.”
“Of course, those who were hung as witches weren’t witches at all while the real demons ran around turning unsuspecting victims. People were so busy pointing fingers at each other they missed what they were looking for when it was right in front of them.”
“Do you think we’re demons?”
James considered his answer. If he said no, we’re not demons at all, he would have been lying. He didn’t know how else to explain how they stayed the same despite the passing years, how they were alive when their bodies were dead, why they craved blood. Yet if James said yes, of course we’re demons, Timothy would have stopped listening. So he compromised.
“I think some are
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