His bones ached, his skin stretched thin over them like burnt, ashy parchment. The flesh that should have padded his frame was either consumed by famine or so sparse it hardly counted.
His jaw worked instinctively, grinding against the grit of dirt that had settled there. It tasted of minerals and metal, coarse and bitter. His eyelids fought to move, but the oppressive weight of the earth above him rendered even the smallest motion a monumental effort.
He needed to swallow, but the act was impossible. Instead, the nagging sensation of needing to swallow but being unable to became maddeningly persistent—like the frustration of a sneeze that never comes. Infuriating in its subtle torment.
His mind lurched as he realized he'd awoken like this. If he could have screamed, he would have, but fear and immobilization pressed down on his mind like a heavy stone designed for torture. Desperately, he tried to recall the last thing he remembered.
He saw robed men chasing the others through the manor. The acrid scent of smoke wafted from some distant fire. They'd been found. That much was clear. But what had happened after that? The pursuers had been Jesuits, fanatics chasing them with zealous fury, their shouts of doctrine and dogma like the cries of beasts infected with a plague, bent on serving a lecherous, perverse master and spreading his lies.
Their iconography worked on some—perhaps there was truth in their words. But not for him. The sight of a cross, the touch of garlic, or the splash of blessed water did nothing to harm him. If anything, it only reminded him of simpler days when he could have enjoyed a plate of spaghetti, untouched by the curse he now bore.
Eventually, a grim realization settled over him: immortality was a double-edged sword. While he might be trapped here forever, he also had an infinite number of chances to be saved. A plan began to form, one born of previous moments when fear of this very situation had been on his mind. He would need to feed, but first, he needed to call out to a mortal.
Reaching out with his mind, he searched for any nearby presence that might assist him. At first, it was like casting into an endless, dark well devoid of life. But after an indeterminate span of time—seconds or centuries, he couldn't tell—a faint presence emerged.
It was a woman, though her appearance baffled the ancient immortal. She wore cream-colored pants over thick-soled shoes, a loose blue blouse-like shirt, and a peculiar hat with no top. The brim extended only to the front, elongated into an odd shape.
Pinned to her shirt was a small badge that read, Sarah.
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