Opal and Brass • Jasper Whitlock Hale

Chapter 1.

   I was living in Houston when it happened.  My family and I had been there for as long as I could remember.  I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, though I wasn't particularly special. 

My father pastored the tiny church that stood in the center of the town.  We were a godly sort of family, and were expected to act as such.  I had no problem smiling at everyone and showing courtesies, holding babies and helping elderly.  It was my life, and I lived it well.

That is, until a charming, sandy-haired, Jasper Whitlock entered my life and introduced me to change.

It was early in the spring of 1861, around March I think, when we met for the first time. His mother was fussing over his nicest dress-shirt as she brushed off as much dust as she could.  It was a valiant effort considering the drought we'd been having.  His father had just dragged the two of them in, sitting his son down in the only available seat left in the small church: next to my mother and I.

Soon enough, father called for us all to stand and shake our neighbor's hand.  This was how he began all Sunday mornings in the hope that it would help prevent conflict if we all were friendly toward one another.

I turned to the young man as his mother shook my own mother's hand, exchanging bright smiles as they began chatting.  I picked up that they had just settled here from another town not too far away. 

My attention was distracted by their conversation as a sun-tanned hand was offered to me.

"Hello, ma'am.  I'm Jasper Whitlock," mumbled the boy, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

Immediately, I donned my brightest smile, squeezing his hand gently, "Sarah Bell."

"Miss Bell." He acknowledged with a nod.

I shook my head, chuckling a bit, "Sarah, please."

His eyes finally met mine, and I discovered that they were not blue, as was my original guess, but a dark shade of green.

"Only if you'll call me Jasper." he said with a slight smile.

"Deal." I replied, happy to know someone new.

I glanced around the overcrowded church and found my father still making his way through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with his congregation. Absentmindedly smoothing down my dress, I turned back to Jasper.

"How old are you, Jasper?" My voice questioned somewhat distractedly.

Father was currently making a point to greet Jasper's father, though it seemed like it would take a while to break through the wall of familiar faces all wishing to bid a good-morning to their pastor.

"Sixteen, ma'am." He replied, his mouth quirking up into a crooked smile.

I teasingly rose an eyebrow at him, "I believe I told you to call me Sarah, Mr. Whitlock."

He chuckled in response, eyes flicking down momentarily to his shoes, "My apologies, Sarah."

A blush crept onto my already rosey cheeks as my name left his lips. Butterflies filled my stomach, and I dismissed them as I placed a hand on my hip.

"I suppose I'll forgive you just this once. It's Sunday after all."

"Well, I'm much obliged." He said gratefully. Pausing for a moment, something seemed to cross his mind. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen as well. I turn seventeen this May. When's your birthday?" I questioned.

"July." He responded immediately, a grin still on his face.

He looked as though he were going to say something else, when my father spoke from the pulpit and began his sermon.

We became fast friends, and very quickly grew close. Jasper taught me how to have fun, and the value of freedom.

I was about to turn 17 when the Civil-War broke out. Jasper told me he just had to enlist, though he wasn't old enough to do so. I persuaded him to at least wait until the end of the month.  I needed time to say goodbye.

He agreed, and for my birthday, he took all of the money he had saved up and bought me a beautiful opal ring. He admitted it wasn't new, that he had bought it from one of the elder ladies in the town. I didn't care. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given me.

In return, I bought him his very first pocket watch. It was small and plain, and made only of brass, but he promised me he loved it, saying that now he wouldn't have to ask his father for the time.

When he ran away to enlist, I was devastated. I knew of course that there was no convincing him otherwise, and I was fortunate enough to see him sometimes when he would ride through town on patrol. He would tell me how he was already rising through the ranks.

The very last time I ever heard from him was through a letter apologizing profusely for not being able to see me on my eighteenth birthday.

Nearly two months later, at the end of the summer of 1862, my life ended.

I was sitting in a field of tall grass, enjoying the peace and quiet, and embroidering a hand-kerchief for my father, when I suddenly felt a flash of searing pain attack the inside of my right forearm. Inspecting my arm, my eyes widened when they landed upon a crescent shaped wound, teeth marks visible on my freckled skin. As the pain spread, I fell to the ground, writhing uncontrollably as I began to cry out.

Then, I was flying.

Or, that's what it felt like. I was lifted into someone's alarmingly cold arms as they ran faster than my eyes could keep up with and eventually dropped carelessly onto the dusty ground inside of what I assumed was an old barn. I didn't really care. I was in too much pain to care. When I say, "Death would have been a blessing," I am not exaggerating. Death would have been welcome, and I was waiting for it. What else could come from such immense pain? Finally, after an agonizingly long time, the pain slowly began to fade away, and I felt my heart cease its frantic drumming.

However, death did not greet me.

Instead, I opened my eyes to a very pale man with alarming crimson eyes.

"Hello, dear." He said mockingly, "Did you sleep well?"

My brow furrowed at the cruel remark. I inhaled sharply to retort, but was cut off when I was met by even more pain in the back of my throat.

The man chuckled, "Don't worry my dear. You will feed soon enough."

"W-what did you do to me." I managed to stammer out.

"I changed you. I gave you immortality. You are like me." He explained, an air of superiority in his tone.

"What are we?" I asked, unsure of wether or not I wanted to know the answer.

"The most common name for us is 'vampire.' And I have created you, my child. In return for my gift, you will help me gain control. We will not feed in fear of others any longer." He stared at me, unblinking, as though he were seeing something instead of someone.

"I don't understand..." I trailed off, "Why me? Why couldn't you just leave me alone? I didn't want this!" My voice rose in pitch as I continued.

"Doesn't matter, dear." He interrupted callously.

The man began walking away, towards the door when he turned back to look at me.

"Welcome to the army."