Lair of Beasts [Book I in the Curse Of Blood Saga]

Chapter XV - The scent of Death

"Is there something wrong with me then, Lucian?" I knew there must be. On some subconscious level I had felt it all my life, but had not allowed myself to admit as much; I had ever shrunk back from the notion of confronting my peculiarity. "What am I, really?" I both craved the answer and dreaded it equally.

Lucian, however, did not answer immediately and so I mused on the subject a little more. I was good at denying what I wished not to see within myself. I wanted only to be accepted. To be loved. To be understood. Were not these the basic needs of any living creature and did I not deserve as much?

For so long now, I had strived to be as unexceptional and as normal as those around me, yet still I felt ever the outsider! I had never been ill a day in my life and had never broken a single bone in my entire body, although Edwin had given the endeavor his best efforts many a time; I had neither lost a tooth nor cracked my jaw on his fist even during the worst of his beatings!

I saw the world as others did not and perceived my surroundings as one removed and detached — as an old soul. It was another one of the appellations I'd earned from those that knew me best, or rather, 'twas what Mildred ascribed to me when I was but a youngling. However, neither of these things made me in any way monstrous exactly — quite the contrary in fact. Usually I was naught but staid and predictable, and had only really been reckless since Lucian's return; why this was so, I knew not.

What set me apart were the things I did not discuss openly. That which I had spoken to no one about for I had not even the courage to admit these abnormalities to my myself; they were not to be borne.

The physicality of my defects manifested themselves in very subtle ways: I was stronger than women thrice my girth, I was taller than any female of my acquaintance, I could see clearer and further than any I knew, and my sense of smell equalled that of even the hounds in Godwin's kennel. The latter I would never know for an absolute certainty, for I could not commune with animals, but the proof of my abilities lay buried in an old memory I had long ago suppressed.

When Elinore's mother had lived with us at Buttongrass Hall, during my sixth summer, I had told her what no person of any age or situation would wish to hear:

"Are you ill grandmother?"

"No, child. Why do you ask?"

"You are dying..." I had told her this quite emphatically, especially for one so young.

"How came you by this notion, Aria?" She had sounded aghast.

"You have the scent of death, granny."

I had been able to give her no better explanation than that. I knew not, in my innocence, how to define the odor, but it was distinct and strange. I knew, on atavistic level, what it represented. Death. That sweet, sickening, decomposing scent clung to her skin like mold.

She had struck me viciously then, her nails grazing my cheek. "Have you consulted with the devil, you wicked child?"

I had shaken my head negatively, horrified that she should even suggest as much, however I was too frightened to speak, and afeared that she might strike me again.

"Say nothing of this and speak of it no more, lest you wish to be burned at the stake and labeled a witch!" Her gnarled finger, arthritis ridden and crooked, she had pointed at me as if she were cursing me to that eventuality.

I had taken her warning to heart ever since, but it did not change the outcome I had predicted that day. Her cold, pale corpse had been discovered, the morning after my fateful prognosis, stiff within her bed; her ancient heart had, according to our physician, ceased its beating some time in the night. As a result of her warning, I had, ere now, never volunteered another thought until I had thoroughly recycled and analyzed it, only then could I trust my words to be normal and above suspicion. The damage had been wrought however, for I had nonetheless been viewed an oddity by my family, my peers, and the strangers or travelers that happened to pass through the area long enough to hear the gossip. I had, henceforth, been known as the little witch that had inconceivably survived her mother's violent death.