Sanctifying Grace: Resurrection, #3

By Elizabeth Davies

Grace is at the end of her life, Roman by her side. He has failed in his quest to discover how to resurrect those humans who can be enthralled and now Grace is facing certain death. How can Roman live without her - she has be a part of his life for millennia, but all he can do now is to be there for her. 

This is the third novel in the Resurrection series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Davies
• Release date: Oct 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301593170

Elizabeth Davies

Elizabeth Davies is a paranormal author, whose books have a romantic flavour with more than a hint of suspense.

Book preview

Chapter 1

My death edged ever closer. I felt it in the way my mind lost words deep within itself, and I likened this slow erosion to the unrelenting movement of a fog bank, creeping over the landscape of my mind, turning vibrant colour to white and deadening sound.

I didn’t want to leave my home, but put forward the suggestion anyway. Looking after me wasn’t fair to my family.

‘You are not going into any hospice,’ my mother declared, folding sheets and piling them into the washing basket.

‘You can’t cope much longer, Mum.’

‘Nonsense! As long as I’ve got breath in my body I’m going to take care of you.’ She wrestled with the ironing board. It was as tall as her. ‘Anyway, we sorted the dining room out for you.’

I had trouble climbing the stairs and even more difficulty descending, so the dining table had been dismantled and thrown carelessly into one of the sheds. My own bed was brought down, as was everything else from my bedroom, apart from the curtains because they didn’t fit.

Dad, gruff as ever and not one to display his emotions, showed he cared in his usual understated way; he arranged for Sky to be set up in my room and fixed the window so it opened, even though it was only March. I enjoyed having the window ajar to listen to the dawn chorus. More often than not, I woke at five when the singing started. The bleat of the newborns in the lambing sheds and the low voices of my father and Ianto as they kept vigil among the sheep, working shifts to ensure there was always one of them on hand if a ewe got into difficulties, travelled across the yard reminding me that life went on, even if I couldn’t partake of much of it. The one voice missing was my mother’s. This was the first year she didn’t do her share of lambing; all her energy and focus was on me.

I had to say my piece and I thought carefully about how to say it. My speech had faltered soon after that episode at Grandma’s and sometimes I had trouble getting my mouth to form the words.

‘Caring for a sick child is part of being a parent, but watching that child slowly dying isn’t, and never should be,’ I said.

‘It is what it is. You’re my daughter. Mine! My responsibility, no one else’s.’

‘I don’t want to be a responsibility.’

She slammed the iron on the board, grabbed a shirt and plonked it down. ‘You’ve always been a responsibility. That’s what being a parent is all about. Stop twisting my words. You know what I mean.’

‘You never go out anymore, not since that episode at Grandma’s.’

‘I don’t want to leave you on your own.’

‘I’ll be okay, and if you’re that worried about getting me a babysitter, ask Grandma to visit.’

‘Huh. You frightened her so badly she’s scared to be alone with you, in case it happens again. I had to talk her through giving you the painkillers and then fetch you home.’

‘You’re worried it’ll happen again too, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t go out.’

She concentrated on the shirt, but I could tell I’d hit home because she frowned and her lips narrowed. ‘There’ll be years when I can go out. I’m not going to waste any of the time we’ve got left by doing stupid, meaningless things I’ll be able to spend the rest of my life doing.’

When she put it that way…

She placed the iron on its end and stared me in the eye. ‘This is your home. This is where I want you to be, where you belong. Not with strangers looking after you, however well-meaning or good at their job. I want you here, with me. I want to spend every minute, every second with you. Please let me.’

I looked away, blinking rapidly, tears gathering, hot and stinging. My mother made no move to hide hers and they trickled down her face like rain down a window.

‘The hard part isn’t going to be feeding you or washing you. The hard part will be watching you die, and no hospice will change that. I’ve looked after you since you were born, and I’m not going to stop now.’

She was right. Watching me wither and fade would take more out of her than any amount of physical care. It hurt me to watch her world shrink to fit mine, until I was the only thing left in it, but I didn’t think my hurt could ever compare to hers, and mine would soon be over. I stopped badgering her. This dying business wasn’t about me – it was going to happen regardless of what I wanted or how much I fought against it – this dying was now about my family and what was best for them. I had to make it as easy as possible; after all, my suffering would soon be over. My parent’s grief would last a lifetime.

So I stayed at home and made the best of it, for my mother’s sake. I could still move around with the aid of a stick, though standing in the shower was an interesting test of my balance, until Ianto rooted out a white plastic garden chair and wedged it into the downstairs cubicle. It took time and effort to move from one room to another, but I had nothing else with which to fill my days, so I wandered slowly from kitchen to conservatory and back again. If I was upright and walking, I felt as though I was keeping death at arm’s length.

Eating tended to be a challenging experience, for a couple of reasons, one being that the fine-motor skills in my hands were starting to break down and I often ended up wearing more food than I ate, and the other was that my mouth was slack. My lips and tongue were reluctant to do what I wanted them to and this was evident in my speech. It annoyed me that the words (when I could find the right ones) came out slurred and sloppy, and I became more and more reluctant to talk. It wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, I didn’t have much left to say; my family knew I loved them, and those were the only words I really needed.

I came to dread the headaches. The overly vicious ones always occurred after I returned from that other reality of mine, and they were the ones which caused the most damage. After one of those monsters was eventually quelled by the blue pills, it invariably left me a little present: a deadness in my fingers, perhaps, or a blind spot in one eye, or maybe whole blocks of words which slipped out of my mind before I grasped them.

In between those mother-of-all-headaches were the insidious aches behind my eyes, which never really went away, and with each consecutive day the pain slowly increased. I could bear it for now, but I was well aware that at some point in the not-too-distant future I’d need to take those painkillers on a daily basis. And when they didn’t help… I pushed the thought from my mind; there was little point in dwelling on it. I knew full well morphine would be my only solace, and I dreaded it. Morphine deadened the pain, but it deadened the soul, too.

For now, I was compos mentis, though I’d been grateful for my mother speaking up for me when I met with Mr Khan, my new consultant. I was still capable of making my opinions known, but it took greater effort and a little more time than previously. I tended to become cross with my inability to express myself with the ease which I once had, and being cross meant I had even more trouble finding the words and forcing them past my wooden lips. And so it goes on.

Mr Khan wanted me to go into a hospice, and sooner rather than later. This surprised me, considering the cost to the NHS would be considerably less if I remained at home. Mr Cunningham had relinquished his care of me into the hands of one of the cancer consultants at the Heath Hospital in Cardiff, and I didn’t like Mr Khan one little bit. I didn’t blame Mr Cunningham. South Wales was outside his scope of influence and he could hardly organise the necessities my failing health demanded if he had to deal with a different Health Board, so my notes and everything else were transferred to Wales’ principal hospital and landed on Mr Khan’s desk. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t pleased with the arrangement either.

At first, he wanted to admit me in order to run some tests and I vehemently shook my head. I’d had enough of tests and tried to tell him so. He only listened when my mother insisted on calling him Doctor Khan.

‘It is Mister, if you please,’ he said huffily. ‘I am a Mister, not a doctor.’

‘Oh, so you’re not a doctor,’ my mother retorted, and I knew she was being deliberately obtuse. Perfectly aware consultants were referred to as Mr (or Mrs), she was winding him up and I sat back to enjoy the show.

‘Could we please see a qualified doctor, then?’ she asked sweetly.

Mr Khan had been busy writing in my notes and hunting for an admission form, but he stopped and frowned at the insult. ‘I am a doctor, Mrs…?’

‘Llewellyn,’ my mother replied. ‘I am Grace’s mother and if you are a doctor you will realise my daughter has been prodded and poked enough. She doesn’t need any more tests.’

‘Yes, but let me explain, Mrs Llewellyn,’ Mr Khan argued, rather unwisely I thought, as I saw the set of my mother’s shoulders. ‘I can arrange for an MRI scan to check the progress of her tumour and—’

‘Why?’ my mother interrupted.

‘Pardon?’

‘Will it make any difference? Will you be able to operate?’

Flustered, Mr Khan skimmed through all the accumulated evidence of my cancer. ‘Well, no…’ he admitted.

‘Will you be able to treat it? More chemotherapy, perhaps? Something we haven’t heard of yet?’

‘Er, no, but—’

‘So, what’s the point?’ my mother demanded and I saw her anger building. She rarely lost her temper, but when she did it was spectacular and now all her pent-up irritations and niggles joined forces with the current reason for her ire, and she let fly. I was just glad it wasn’t aimed at me.

‘Mrs Llewellyn,’ Mr Khan said, sitting up straighter in his chair as he prepared to do battle head-on. Good luck, I thought; my mother has faced down a one-ton fiery-tempered chestnut bull and not flinched – she will eat this little doctor for breakfast.

My mother cocked her head to one side and smiled winningly at her opponent. ‘Yes, Mr Khan?’

‘I can assure you we all have your daughter’s best interest at heart and—’

She didn’t let him finish, interrupting with a loud, ‘Good! So you agree that considering there is no further treatment you can offer my daughter, apart from pain management and palliative care, then her best interest,’ she put enough stress on those two words to only just avoid outright sarcasm, ‘is to let her die in peace and in the place of her own choosing. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by admitting her and running more tests. You can’t cure her; you can’t even treat her!’ She was almost shouting at this point.

‘I understand your frustration, Mrs Llewellyn,’ the consultant said, ‘but you must understand that the medical profession has done all it possibly can to help your daughter.’

‘That is where I shall stop you,’ my warrior mother interjected. ‘You have done all you can,’ she quoted his words back at him, ‘so why do you want to admit her to the hospital and subject her to a battery of tests, when there’s nothing to gain?’

It was a small victory, but a significant one. We came away with the name and telephone number of the Macmillan nurse who would be assigned to me, plus a promise that he or she would visit within the week. God my mum was good!

As we walked out of the door (I shuffled using my sticks and she matched her pace to mine) I pretended not to notice the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. She was trying so hard to be strong for me and I had to let her think she was successful. She had given me life and a good set of values for living it, but the only thing she was able to give me now was her love and her support, and she was determined not to stint on either.

I slept for most of the journey home. I couldn’t help it; I was forever tired. I wasn’t sure if it was my body’s way of withdrawing gradually from life or whether the internal war was taking up so much of my physical resources, but either way I slept a lot. I guessed that when I was finally forced to accept morphine as the ultimate source of pain relief, my periods of sleeping would become longer and longer until eventually I’d fail to wake up and would slip away.

I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen then; would I simply cease to be, the flame of my existence extinguished like a snuffed-out candle, here one minute, gone the next? Or would my soul, or spirit, or whatever it was called, linger a while after I drew my last breath, my brain continuing to work until oxygen starvation shut it down for good? Or was there an existence after death? Was there something else? I hoped so – it seemed such a waste if all the thoughts, emotions, and memories that made us who we were dissipated and disappeared like mist on a summer morning.

I contemplated those kinds of things often, the time I spent dwelling on them growing exponentially as the decline of my body heralded my death. In some ways, I was lucky – I had time to say my goodbyes and to make peace with myself, and on good days this was how I viewed my world. On the bad days, I cursed everyone and everything, from my mother for giving birth to me only for me to die young, to God for letting this happen, to the medical profession for not being advanced enough in their treatments to deal with my cancer.

And I cursed Roman for not being in this time, in these last few months, weeks; for having to leave him when my life eventually snuffed out; for giving me something to live for when I so clearly wasn’t able to. For loving him. For wanting to be with him, more than I wanted to be with my family. For not being able to live a long life with him. For not being able to make me a vampire.

Chapter 2

I’d say the good days and the bad ones were of equal measure. Today was a good day. I’d had a visit from Hilary, my Macmillan nurse: late thirties, no-nonsense yet full of unspoken compassion. I had no idea how she had the emotional strength to do the job she did and still be full of life.

After she assessed my walking, she organised a Zimmer frame to be delivered, and for a wheelchair to arrive shortly afterwards, for when the Zimmer became obsolete. She arranged for a hospital bed (‘you’ll be much more comfortable in that and it will be easier for your mother to care for you later on’) and a raft of other little necessities I didn’t know I needed. I also got to meet her sidekick, Alison.

‘I do have time off, you know,’ Hilary declared, ‘and Alison will be there for you when I can’t be.’

I didn’t begrudge her time off; I was grateful for her being there at all and not just for me. She would support my whole family in the difficult times ahead, before, during, and after my death. She left me in the living room watching the flames of the fire my mother had lit because she knew how much I liked it, but it was at least half an hour before I heard Hilary’s car start up.

My mother, when she came to ask if I wanted any tea, was red-eyed, but composed. I was glad she felt she could grieve, even if it wasn't in front of me. I shook my head and she went into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. The clatter of pans and bang of cupboard doors was familiar and ordinary, keeping thoughts of the grave at bay.

The room began to darken, slowly and surely, and I debated whether to turn on the TV for the news; not that it mattered anymore, because it was strange to think that life was carrying on just fine without me, and the world would turn just as well without me in it.

There was no gentle tugging at my mind this time, no warning at all. I was sitting in my chair, still and quiet, alone with my thoughts, then I jumped out of my skin as some kind of large insect whizzed past my ear with enough speed to ruffle my hair, followed by a loud bang. I wasn't a farmer’s daughter for nothing – I knew gunfire when I heard it and it only took a microsecond to realise someone was shooting at me.

I leapt around madly, trying to make my body as difficult a target as possible, ignoring the sharp stones under my feet as I zigzagged around an enclosed garden like a rabbit being chased by a fox.

‘Fucking hell, Grace! I nearly shot you!’

Roman. Of course it was, though I’d never heard him swear before.

I ground to a halt, quivering with shock and indignation.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I called sarcastically as I spotted him up near the house, a long-barrelled rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. I walked towards him, gingerly avoiding the worst of the stones. When I got closer, I saw that his usual vampire composure had left him; he looked shaken and disconcerted.

‘You materialised right in front of the target,’ he complained. ‘It was a miracle I missed you.’

‘Did you miss me on purpose or are you just a bad shot?’

The composure swiftly returned, especially when I accused him of being less than perfect. The Roman I was used to, the arrogant, aristocratic, overbearing, implacable, immovable one, took charge

‘It was my skill and the swiftness of my reactions which caused me to miss. If you had appeared in front of anyone else, you’d be dead.’ He lifted his nose and looked down it. I loved making him jump to the bait. Not that he did it often.

I smiled to show him I was teasing and took a deep breath of satisfaction. I was with him once more and not only that, I was well, and healthy, and everything worked. I couldn’t contain myself and took off for a lap around the walled garden to celebrate, not caring if I was totally nude. It was wonderful to feel the strength in my legs as they scissored forward, eating up the ground. I wanted to do handstands and back-flips, but guessed this might be taking things a step too far. I might feel I could leap tall buildings, but I hadn’t been able to do back-flips in my normal life when I was well, so why should I expect to do them now? I satisfied myself by hopping and skipping like a newborn lamb let out to grass for the first time.

Roman stood quietly and impassively, not taking his eyes off me, and I began to feel a different sort of joy as I cavorted in front of him, one that started deep down in my belly and spread rapidly throughout my body until even my fingertips tingled.

I stopped in front of him.

‘I’m very glad to see you, Grace,’ he began. ‘There’s so much I want to tell you.’

I frowned. Talking was definitely not on my immediate agenda.

‘Look,’ he continued, holding out the rifle for me to inspect. ‘It’s a Winchester 94. I got it in America last time I was there.’ He caressed the length of the barrel. I glanced at it briefly, not liking the look of the sleek, dark metal. I had no interest in guns and wasn’t motivated to start now.

‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he cooed and I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye, unable to believe that Roman, the unemotional, impassive vampire, was getting all warm and fuzzy over a piece of metal. I admit I’d been known to go all weak-kneed and gooey-eyed over aircraft, but I was human, it was allowed.

‘Do you want to see me shoot?’ he asked. ‘I have yet to miss.’

He pointed to the far end of the garden and I could barely make out a target pinned to a board. A shot rang out and the acrid stink of burnt chemicals stung my nose. I peered at the target, but in the rapidly darkening evening I had no chance of telling whether he’d actually hit the damn thing.

‘See,’ he insisted, forgetting that my eyesight was far weaker and less sharp than his. ‘There is only one hole, dead centre, and I’ve fired this seven times.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said. ‘Got a cloak handy?’ Roman always had a cloak and I was starting to chill as it was still only March.

‘No cloak. No one wears them anymore. There are some clothes for you somewhere in the house, but don’t expect them to be in fashion,’ he warned.

Pity. I’d become quite fond of cloaks.

‘Aren’t you coming inside with me?’ I’d never been very good at flirting, but I gave him one of my best come-hither looks.

‘I wish to stay and practice some more,’ he replied, his attention all on the gun, so I huffed noisily and stomped to the house; difficult with bare feet, but I tried anyway.

The house was a grey stone, slate-topped, square, solid chunk of a building, with floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto the garden. I glanced around the room, the sound of rifle fire following me inside. A staircase rose beyond the open door to the hall and I stamped my way up the stairs hard enough to rattle the pictures which lined the walls.

I didn’t care. I was sulking. I wasn’t used to Roman more or less ignoring me, and I certainly wasn't used to playing second fiddle to a lump of metal. A meal maybe, but not a boys’ toy. He was as deadly, probably more so, than the gun he played with and I wondered why he bothered with it.

As I brooded, I rooted around in the first bedroom I came to and found some women’s clothes stuffed into a cupboard. Grimacing, I pulled on a