Corben's Thirst: The Thirst Within Part 1.5 by Johi Jenkins

realized I wasn’t in my bedroom, but in the attic of my house. I rarely went up there, but I recognized it. Except… it felt different. It looked different; it even smelled different. I had just begun to figure out that it was me who was altered, as I studied the room before me, when I noticed the body on a cot next to mine.
    It was covered in a white sheet from head to toe. And I knew right away. The sheet was tucked underneath his motionless form, giving me an outline of his body. My own body felt heavy, tired; it took me a while to get out of my cot, and when I finally did I approached him slowly. Perhaps I hoped that in the time it would take me to reach him, that maybe his fate would change. That it wouldn’t be him. But before my hand even reached the sheet that covered his face my eyelashes had already moistened with unshed tears.
    A dry sob escaped my throat as I pulled the sheet back. And my brother’s peaceful face filled my vision. He was dead. No question about it. Except I wanted to question it. I didn’t want to believe he was gone. I laid a hand on his cheek; it was already cold and felt a little stiff. And in a sudden rage I removed the rest of the sheet off him and threw it away angrily. At his neck was a wad of clean bandages; someone had cleaned and dressed his wound. I laid my head on his chest, hoping to hear even the faintest of heartbeats. But I heard nothing.
    Then I looked down at myself, remembering my own wounds, and saw that I was still wearing the same shirt I wore to the funeral, but it was torn and bloody. I lifted it and saw I had a similar dressing over the wound in my midsection. I tore the bandages aside—it didn’t hurt—and gasped when I found my skin was perfectly smooth; there was no visible sign of injury. She had healed me—but she hadn’t healed Thierry, or had not been able to.
    A scream broke through my self-examination.
    Charlotte —
    I stumbled to the window closest to the sound, noting as I did that my legs didn’t quite work, and also that it was almost dark—outside, the sun was about to set—and that it had been dark since I had opened my eyes; yet I had managed to see and distinguish my surroundings in the low light coming from the window. But I only registered these facts briefly in the back of my mind while my attention was drawn to the scene on the grounds below.
    A group of four people stood in front of my house, arguing heatedly. Two men carried swords and two women carried torches. The women were the ones that were arguing over the scream. And at their feet was Charlotte, on her knees. Her hands were at her temples, her face twisted in evident pain.
    As I watched in horror looking for the source of her agony, I noticed the woman closest to her, a few feet away, had an arm raised and pointed towards her. As I focused on the woman I was surprised to distinguish her every feature in the light of their fires, even from the distance that separated us. And to my dismay I recognized the hag who had attacked Thierry and me.
    I was just about to turn around and head downstairs to save Charlotte, no matter how slow or weak I was at the moment, when I realized I could distinguish the woman’s raised voice below, as clearly as if she was next to me.
    “No—she must pay for what she did,” she spat. “The demon!”
    Again I looked at her and saw her eyes were blazing, her face twisted in a mask of hate. Her raised hand shook and Charlotte’s screams doubled, writhing on the floor like a possessed marionette.
    “Azra, please,” a voice I recognized said next to the first woman, over Charlotte’s cries. “She is my child.”
    The other woman—she was Deborah! What was Charlotte’s birth mother doing there?
    “She is nothing!” the first woman yelled. “Your daughter is dead. As is mine, killed by this… fiend ! Kill her!”
    “No!” Deborah cried.
    Deborah advanced a step but was held back by the other woman, Azra. The two men approached Charlotte’s