Troubled Blood

It was astonishing how in a week and a half the measured and quiet life that had been going on in the palazzo had been replaced by a clutch of feverishly shifting events. This huge clod had caught up with the inhabitants unexpectedly and made everyone lose calm. Aro Volturi was in his chambers. For the past week he had spent an unnaturally long time in seclusion and had only left the confines of his chamber to eat and hold meetings. Everything came crashing down at once: the coming war, the mortal who posed the bigger problem, and Marcus who had agitated him with his action. The unrest going on in another continent would sooner or later escalate into a massive conflict called war. One way or another, the Volturi knew the initiator of this endeavor. For the moment it was a question of structuring the defense, of where to put more effort and resources. Several Volturi witnesses were in the United States and Canada looking for Arthur Fate's allies. The situation was such that there was plenty of time to prepare. In the meantime, the lord was balancing the skepticism of the entire clan toward Estela with his own conviction that she was safe under his protection. Such protection would not last long, eventually he would need to provide proof that her stay here was not in vain and was justified. But how to do that, he had no idea. In the meantime, Aro had cleverly arranged confidentially closed meetings with the best doctors of Italy to find out how the girl's illness had developed. But it turned out that there was no need for further observation: the physicians were divorced and said that Estela suffered from a common type of leukemia, no different from the others. Aro clenched his fists. Then why exactly was she such a detrimental influence on them immortals? Perhaps if she were a vampire and possessed a gift that resembled something like her specialty, she would no doubt be able to establish herself in the top ranks among those who didn't put themselves on equal footing with her. Perhaps her ability in the predatory hypostasis would have been just about the detrimental effect on immortals. But Estela never became one of them, even after two bites, and that was a major obstacle. Someone knocked timidly on the door. Aro smelled a familiar odor. — Come in, — he ordered relaxedly. Chelsea Volturi arrived in person. A mound of silky light brown hair was gathered into a high updo that emphasized her long, snow-white neck. She was dressed, as always, luxuriously and not flashy, as any resident of the main clan should be. Restraint and coldness is its main attribute. — Master, in regards to what happened to Marcus last week, — she said excitedly, starting at the heart of the matter. Aro narrowed his eyes. Once again his brother was the subject of unpleasant accidents, though nothing of the sort had happened recently. — It is becoming difficult to hold him with my power. The Overlord rose from his chair and walked around the table. Chelsea Volturi, formerly Charmion, has served the clan faithfully since time immemorial. Her power lies in both creating and destroying emotional bonds. Aro acted strategically, asking the girl to bind him tightly to Caius and Marcus for the sake of the clan to strengthen its position in the world and subsequently become the ruling clan. Especially her gift did not go unnoticed by Marcus after a tragedy happened long ago that left a deep mark on his soul. — What are you trying to say, Chelsea? — He asked deliberately softly. The fake politeness didn't put her at ease, because she knew it was just a mask. A mask of outward contentment, of curiosity, behind which lay a growing anxiety and a desire not to leave things the way he didn't want them to be. Aro glanced at his ward and casually noted that she looked much more striking in profile: the delicate curve of her chin and neat nose made her pretty and memorable. — He'd had a chance to end his life, but it hadn't worked out. But this incident had made him rethink his priorities from a different angle. Particularly his being here, — she said bluntly, not moving. A prickling chill ran down Chelsea's spine as she felt her lord's hands on her shoulders. The whispering in her left ear was bone-chilling: — But you won't let that happen, will you? — he emphasized the last word firmly. It seemed his fingers would soon form cracks even through the fabric of the black dress. The girl shrank back. She knew her power was Aro's greatest hope. That gift had been a golden chain between him and Marcus for centuries, and now, in the midst of the impending war, to lose touch with her brother was to weaken his position, to show discord in the clan, to lose. — I can hold him. But that mortal, — Chelsea snorted unhappily, — she did affect the bond between you two. As if she hadn't accidentally… — she finished the last sentence uncertainly, seeing Aro return to his seat. She was not his wife, mother, or close friend. But in her long tenure in the clan, she had learned to identify and label her master's every emotion. His eyes burned like hot coals, betraying tension and doubt. He was tightly embraced by fear mixed with rage. Chelsea, like everyone else, felt that Estela's presence was only adding to his problems: it was impossible to concentrate on planning the war, to say the least, especially after she had provoked Marcus to commit suicide, thus causing unrest in the Volturi circle. Aro, noticing Chelsea's confusion, grinned and said: — You did the right thing by showing up here, dear. Go. If there are any changes concerning my brother, let me know. She nodded meekly and left the room. Another confirmation that Estela was a problem for the rest of the Volturi. Not every mortal was able to induce a savage fear of losing her life, but she had succeeded. It was deeply surprising. But not everyone could realize that the fault was not Estela's at all. It would be sacrilege to use the concept of guilt here. Marcus' attempt to end his life was his decision alone. But is it reasonable to blame his brother for such an act, when Aro has had the opportunity to delve into his thought impulses more than once, and to see for himself once again that all his steps were linked to the name of only one man? — You have no idea what it's like for me without her, — the memories rushed out of that night. Aro closed his eyes. A vivid illustration of how eternity could change drastically after losing the meaning of life. His brother still hadn't come to terms with the death of his only beloved spouse. Several millennia had passed, but the black longing inside him was still with him. — Dydime… — The name of the one who was still deeply imprinted in the hearts of both of them. The first one — who sincerely and irrevocably loved this woman with all his life, with all his already meaningless existence, and the second one — who endlessly nourished hope for her and could not bear to have his expectations shattered by her betrayal. — My sister. You manage to lure our Marcus even today, — the Volturi whispered into the void. He whispered as if he was praying that no one would hear him. No one had ever seen a lord give himself over to sentimental reflection before. And no one would ever see it again. He turned to her again, for his sister had let the reminiscence come to her. Marcus had held that heavy stone within him for all eternity, and he had nearly shed it that week, smashing them into the abyss for a new life with Dydime. But he had only shattered his last hopes and dreams, for Estela's blood did not take life. But the stone Aro carried was heavier. The consequences of his vice made him often reflect on the past and obliged him to mend the cracks still. With this murder for power, for primacy, he was paying for an eternity. War, Estela, Marcus. Marcus, Estela, war. Dydime, Marcus, him — the thoughts rushed chaotically into his head without freeing his mind. The timing was too bad. Or was this going to happen sooner or later? Aro would never have thought his own sister could have been an obstacle to the establishment of the clan. Too much sacrifice, effort, and resources had gone into building an entrenched power. Dydime's departure from the clan would mark the loosening of its world domination. Her desire to separate from the clan with Marcus carried only a bright and lofty goal: to live a tightly bound family with only husband and wife. No politics, no clan, no brother — none of that fit Aro's plans at all. Into his poisoned illusions. The Volturi rubbed his forehead. Paying homage to the good and horrifying to the conclusion of their shared history with his sister, the lord spoke thoughtfully: — But you know it's not my habit to give back what I've taken.

***

The day was coming — Heidi was going to show up at the palazzo with the next catch. As cynical as it sounded, it was the one time when all the vampires were in one place and nothing could distract them. «Staying inside for too long won't do any good, it'll only rob my sanity,» Estela reckoned as she gathered herself for a sneaky sortie. She was aware that such an act would not go unpunished, but that did not mean that it would be punishable by death. So she couldn't help but take advantage of her special position. Pulling in a breath of air, Estela carefully closed the door and headed down the corridor in an unknown direction. Once down the empty hallway, she felt a slight breeze coming from the left wing. Turning that way, she heard sounds coming from the street: rustling wind, footsteps of passersby, clattering. Clamoring, Estela ran with quiet steps toward the massive and old door. Unexpected happiness caught up with her: she had not had such an opportunity to take a walk, to breathe fresh air, to watch the scene going on outside for a relatively long time. The girl opened the heavy door with diligent effort, trying to do it as quietly as possible. She stepped over the threshold, giving the action a sacred meaning, as if she were entering a place unknown, but at the same time warmly awaiting her. Instinctively, Estela looked around and walked quickly away from the city hall, afraid that Alec or Demetri might suddenly catch her at the wrong moment and turn her back. As far as she could tell, vampires were unfamiliar with sleep, and they weren't afraid of sunlight — Heidi conducted her excursions regardless of daytime conditions, though she dressed closed. Estela often heard the faint footsteps of ghouls at night — she was sure she wasn't dreaming: she'd had worse sleep since Marcus Volturi's attack, and getting to sleep was worth the long hours and effort. Once she was sure she was far enough away, Estela slowed her pace. The sun was not as merciless today as it was in the summer. Soon the road brought her to one of the narrow streets filled with restaurants and souvenir shops. Passersby and tourists strolled leisurely through the city, taking pictures. Estela greedily inhaled the smell of freedom and street life, immersing herself in the crowd of the town. It seemed she hadn't seen the people, the ordinary life that had been going on here in reality for years. With that feeling, she caught herself becoming one of the immortals herself, hiding in an ancient shelter, waiting to be served a meal. The thought made her pull out the fact that Volterra was primarily a tourist town, so part of its population consisted of those who had come to see and explore the Etruscan location. Somewhere in her heart, she felt a twinge: by now, the tourists were quite possibly approaching the doors of the throne room, and hungry predators in human form awaited them there. Even despite Aro's objections on the matter, it gave Estela no conviction that all immortals were any different from ruthless predators. But she didn't think herself any better either. All these days, she tried not to occupy herself with thoughts of feeding her current masters. But nevertheless, she felt like a traitor, an indirect accomplice in what was happening there. Suddenly Estela's gaze was drawn to a young couple strolling along the center street. The young man was holding a booklet with a local cultural program that read in bold Italian, «Tours at the Palazzo dei Priori» and on the cover was a photograph of the fateful building. After hesitating for a second, she forced herself to catch up with the passing couple and block the passage, causing the two to give her a slightly perplexed look. Counting on the fact that they understood the local language, Estela spoke in a polite tone: — I don't advise you to go on this tour, — she pointed her finger at the cover of the booklet. She felt she should have chosen neutral language so that the foreigners would not be frightened by her emotional outburst, which would have made her seem mad rather than convincing. — Why? — The girl asked with a touch of interest, giving her an appraising look; it was obvious that she wasn't from around here, but she seemed to be experienced. Estela was stunned for a second. She couldn't talk about vampires, because she risked getting into trouble on both fronts: if she found out about it, the Volturi would surely take her life without any further questioning, and the tourists themselves would only look at her with mocking glances. Making as casual a face as possible, Estela whispered: — The tour guide is a rude and arrogant woman. She just walked us down two corridors of this building. Totally poorly furnished and, I'd say, tasteless. And that's where they collect your money and live… - she faltered, and then, realizing it, she said like a schoolgirl, - I think there are other ways to spend your time here. — Thank you for your recommendation, miss, - he nodded encouragingly, crumpling the brochure. — Excuse me, where did you get this? — Estela asked with a smile, pointing at it. — Go straight to the second crossroads and turn right and you'll see a store. Thanking her, she strode off in the right direction. She hadn't hoped that the couple would listen to her words, but the crumpled piece of paper said otherwise, and she was relieved. Perhaps the two would prefer not to waste time on this unwanted excursion after all… Soon she reached her desired location, an ordinary supermarket of small size, like any European sparsely populated town. At the entrance was a stand with flyers and attached booklets advertising cultural programs and places in Volterra, as well as in other nearby towns. In the middle of this waste paper in a stack lay a dozen invitations for the very same tour of the palazzo. Estela didn't hesitate to take the entire stack, put it in her bag, turned around and walked on. The customer's path began at the stationery department. Startled by this, she walked over to a rack of notepads. Memories surfaced from her mind of how, before her illness, she had enjoyed not only studying art but also creating on her own. Three years had passed since then, and Estela had never dared to paint again. Closing herself off, she gave up much of what built her own self: her appearance, acquaintances, friends, activities that brought her pleasure. It had been partly amusing to admit that it had been boredom that had driven her back to it. But now she had something to portray. Her hands weightlessly reached for one of the standard-sized sketchbooks, but it seemed as heavy as a heavy stone. After making the purchase, Estela decided it was time to head back. Bidding farewell to the street and the feeling that she was living a normal life as a Volterra resident, she walked on, enjoying her last moments of freedom. She felt pleased that for a short time she had become part of a vibrant and spunky city where a measured life with routine and everyday life was simmering. She remembered that she still had those damn booklets in her bag. She pulled them out and, tearing each one, thereby causing bewilderment and exclamations from the Italians, threw them in the trash. It was the most she could do for others. It made her feel better. Soon Estela reached a huge square, in the center of which a fountain stood majestically. Behind it flaunted the building of the Palazzo dei Priori, which she had amusingly warned the young couple away from. It would be enough for them to admire the exterior of this beautiful place, but to look at what was inside was clearly not worth their lives. Though as someone who knew enough about art, she couldn't help but recognize that this landmark was beautiful in its architectural construction and interior. Even now, looking at it, her heart beat in admiration. Estela stepped quietly into the dark corridor, which smelled cold and damp, like ancient cathedrals. She walked in weightlessness and headed back to her room, but she heard a faint rustling sound. A couple of seconds later, a diminutive and fragile figure grew out of nowhere. The girl instantly remembered that it was Jane Volturi: the first day she had made her show genuine concern for her nearly dead brother Alec in front of everyone. — You're not allowed to roam the building, let alone the streets, mortal, — Jane sneered contemptuously, giving Estela a searing glare. Her eyes, as always, were bloodshot and startling in their size, which seemed about to explode. Estela remained guiltily silent, hoping this verbal lynching would end soon. But Jane couldn't help but take the opportunity to shed the restrained negativity of the day and continued to bore the poor girl with a glare: — It's a waste of Aro's zeal to protect you, for you are of no use at all, — her voice was like boiling water pouring from her throat and burning Estela. She could barely contain the last of her strength not to test her gift on the captured girl. — My stay here will not be so long relative to your monotonous eternal life. Jane held back a vicious growl, but regretted very much that this mortal had been granted so many privileges. Too many. If she were like the others, she would surely tear her to pieces. — I hope it will soon become clear that you are a mistake of nature, and that you will be disposed of as expendable,» she said, and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Estela looked around confused, wandering around for the perpetually disgruntled vampire, but only to find that this time there was no one else in the corridor. Without wasting a second, she ran to her room without much caution, but with a distinctive haste. When she entered her room, she exhaled with relief. She headed to the bathroom and washed her face with ice-cold water. Her head was boiling, whether from the heat or from the confrontation. Estela lifted her head over the sink and looked at her reflection, a ghost again. The thin face framed by dark hair created a contrast that, for lack of weight, drew attention to the angular features. So she rarely allowed herself to be gawked at, because doing so would reveal new flaws in her with each passing second. And that caused frustration and tears. Estela fell back on the bed in complete relaxation. Perhaps in part she had told Jane the true words. She didn't know how long she was going to spend in the palazzo in the company of soulless immortals, but it would probably be a year, if not a year, then certainly not several years. It would be physically impossible. She tried not to think about the future, because no one knows what to expect from tomorrow. The end could catch the girl at any minute, and there would be no one close to her. She turned her head and saw a bag thrown nearby. When Estela pulled it to her by the long handle, the sketchbook she had bought slipped to the floor. Her gaze lingered on the cover — thick and smooth, painted in an intricate pattern. A pleasant and relaxing feeling overtook her as she dissolved the front cover, and the sound of the folded cardboard page creasing touched her ears. Estela picked up a pencil and applied the first stroke…