Chapter 4 – Megara
Twenty minutes later
Meg felt the solidness under her fist, the solid bag under her curled fingers, again and again, imagining it to be the unknown vampire that had attacked her years ago. How could she have been so stupid?! Constant vigilance, is what Sir Vormir had taught her – and here she was being caught unawares. The girl had been attacked! How could Meg not have known about this?! She took out her rage and frustration on the bag, hitting it and hitting it, her swings becoming wilder and wilder as her hot anger pumped through her, pushing her harder and harder. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! she thought to herself, each punch ringing the word in her ears. Stupid, lazy, clumsy.. .people were being hurt, people could be DYING, and she was loafing about, worrying about tests and homework and whether or not her classmates LIKED her. She was going to be a Defender – eventually, anyway. She didn’t have time to worry about all this.
A Defender… yes, when she developed her faith enough to qualify. Her lack of divine power was worrying, and not just to her teachers but to her as well. Vormir always told her her faith was her weakness, and she agreed, though she’d never admit it. Why on earth should she put her trust in blind faith, in providence, in a god she could not see or feel, a god who had never directly spoken to her, a god who had abandoned her in her time of need? The gods do great things, yes, and all glory goes to them in the end, yes, but it was through the hands of Man that the work got done. Meg preferred to put her faith in the hands of mortal men (and women), inspired by the gods and led by the gods, but wielded in the hands of mortals such as herself. How else could she protect others? Why else should she work so hard to become strong? The gods themselves, she thought to herself in her private moments, were no better than rich lords; they sat back and let their servants do the real work and take the real risks while they received all the praise and glory and fruits of man’s labor. Pathetic. Certainly nothing to be exonerated, even if they must, in fact, be worshiped.
Unfaithful. She was unfaithful. That was the worst brand of the names she thought of herself as she punched the bag; in fact, Unfaithful was the one that caused her to miss entirely, her fist colliding with the strong wooden wall behind her. Cursing under her breath, she sat, sucking on her wounds a little to remove splinters. How could she be so stupid, so clumsy.. how could she… the hot tears sprang to her eyes against her bidding, and she bowed her head, rocking a little.
“Miss? Are you alright?”
She looked up, wiping away the blurry tears with her uninjured left hand, to reveal the face of a boy, leaning over her, a concerned look on his face. His hair was black and tousled, and he had a look about him that indicated that he had grown up in the country – a sort of laid-back atmosphere, a slight but gentle drawl to the words, a kind look in his eyes that showed pure concern without the scarcely-masked scorn or arrogance that many of the city-bred men showed towards her. It was almost like he was entirely unaware of who she was and what her reputation was – the good reputation for being Sir Vormir’s ward, and the bad one she’d gotten for being so aloof, so… different. She hesitated a moment, startled by the sheer goodness in his face – he was very similar to Vormir, but less intense, less concentrated, and also, scruffier, less organized and immaculate. Sir Vormir’s hair was always perfect – this boy’s hair was a mess, but it was a casual, scruffy mess, the kind that made him all the more endearing for it. His face was a kind one, however, so she gave him an honest answer.
“…not really. But I’ll live.”
The boy gave a chuckle, offering her a hand up – his hands were almost as calloused as hers, a sign he was used to hard work. That was good – he’d not go far in this line of work if he was afraid of manual labor. “Cornstalker. P’dhon Cornstalker.” It took her a moment to realize that he was giving her his name as she rose to her feet, accepting his aid before shaking his hand with her injured one.
“Megara Brown.” She gave him a smile, but his eyes rapidly dropped to the hand he held, turning it as though to kiss it.
“Well, miss Brown, you’ve done a number on your knuckles. Why don’t you let me walk you to the nurse’s station and get some salve put on that?” His voice contained just as much concern as his eyes, though she knew the injury to be far from serious – he must be a kind man, or else a flirtatious one, to be so concerned for the hand of an absolute stranger. She blushed faintly, embarrassed at her clumsiness, especially now that she knew he’d been watching. What sort of a vampire hunter would she make? She couldn’t even keep her punches on a punching bag – she had to go and hurt herself with a mild workout to let out steam!
“please, call me Meg…” She gave him a self-depreciating grin, a wisp of stray hair falling into her face. “I’d say my friends do, but I don’t really have any.”
“Shame.” The boy – Cornstalker – smiled again, and shifted his shoulders slightly. That was when she saw them: two feathered wings hung from his shoulders, quietly folded against his back, brown feathers rustling a little as he adjusts their position. Meg was startled – usually those winged students had angelic blood in them, but feathers of brown, like a hawk’s? What sort of being was he, anyway? It was rare that they got halfbreeds here of the non-angelic variety, not with Planar School for Halfbreeds so close by – but then, she heard they admitted demons and devils and all sorts of other evil creatures into their midsts, so any of them’d be better off in the loving embrace of Pelor at His own school. Still, the wings were unusual, appearing soft and fluffy – she almost reached out to touch them, then hesitated, looking away.
“It’s alright. They’re rather soft.” One wing extended from the boy’s shoulder towards her uninjured hand, and hesitantly, she stroked the feathers with the back of her fingers. She was surprised to find that the feathers were, in fact, rather soft; as the wing extended a little more, she took it gently in her hand, feeling the bone along the top, before gently shaking the wing. “How do you do?” she asked, smiling despite herself as he laughed, rolling his eyes a little.
“Yeah, yeah, old joke. Come on, let’s get you to the nurse’s office before you start pulling out even worse groaners.” He offered her his arm, and she took it, smiling despite herself. Maybe there was some brightness to this bleak day after all, she thought to herself, as they walked the corridor. She turned to look him over again, and this time the telltale shimmer caught her eye – though it wasn’t a shining sunburst that the man wore around his neck, but a moon instead. A holy symbol, or it wouldn’t shine in her vision, but… a moon?
Cornstalker caught her eye, raising an eyebrow. “I’m elven, or half at least.” he mentioned, fiddling with his ear. “It comes with the territory.”
“I’m sorry…” she mentioned, softly, thinking about the trials he must have gone through on behalf of that symbol and those ears. In a world like this, anything elven would be feared and despised.
“What for?” He shrugs. “Seems to me you’ve got more troubles than I do.” She blinked for a moment, and he continued. “Busted hand and all, I mean.” Something about his tone indicated, however, that that wasn’t what he meant at all, and with a flush of embarrassment she remembered her tears.
“It’s.. just been a long day.” she said, shaking her head a little and fixing her hair a bit.
“Must be some day, since it’s hardly even noon yet. Want to talk about it?”
“Well… I saw something this morning that disturbed me, that’s all.” She hesitates. “Mostly it’s my own incompetence that bothers me.”
He gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “I’m sure the wall would think you very competent indeed. A formidable opponent.”
Despite herself, Meg laughed again, pulling away from him as they reached the nurse’s station. “Thanks for the walk, and the conversation… I needed that.”
“Sure thing.” he said, with a smile. “It’s not every day I get to talk to a pretty girl like you.”
Pretty? He thought her pretty? She blushed hotly then, stammering like a girl of sixteen. “Ah, I, er, that is, um…”
Cornstalker chuckled at her reaction, but it wasn’t the mean laughter she’d been used to. “Too blatant, huh? Sorry, I’m out of practice. My last girlfriend was sort of… difficult to deal with.”
Not knowing what to say, Meg merely nodded. “Mm, I see, that must have been… difficult…” What on earth did you say to that? She’d never really spoken to a man, not like this, not as anything but a fellow student. “Er, I ought to go inside… get my hand looked at…”
Cornstalker nodded a little, his face getting a bit more serious. “Indeed. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” As he turned to go, Meg felt a little confused. Was she supposed to have said something else? What did one SAY when being flirted with?
And wait… they had class together?!
Chapter 3 – Mirella
The first time she saw him, she fell in love. Well, perhaps not, but that was how she preferred to speak of her strange attraction to the man. His long dark hair, tangled slightly, fell to his shoulders, but was still oh-so-very-manly, never soft and feminine; his jaw was stern, his skin pale, his eyes flaring with danger. He sported horns, but that was alright, she wasn’t prejudiced; all she had to do was look into those dark, dreamy eyes of his and she began to melt into his arms like so much pudding left in the sun. He made her forget the feel of the sun, when he was with her; made her forget the warm arms of Pelor in favor of his strong, cool body. Who needed stiff, stuffy religion with its uncertainties and promises when here was someone so alive, so comfortable, so undeniably REAL before her, and he wanted her. He wanted something from her that only she could give; something precious and intimate. She wanted to say no. She knew she should say no. But looking into his pleading, puppy-dog eyes, how could she say no?
Still, she wasn’t the kind of girl to give in easily to a man. She had let him court her, being a perfect gentleman; if he wanted what she had to give, after all, he had to respect her. But those eyes hadn’t let her delay too long – every time she looked into them she fell a little more in love. It wasn’t long before she gave it up to him, one night around midsummer, and she had been surprised to find how pleasurable it was for her. She’d always been taught that it would only please him; after all, he needed it in a way that she didn’t, and never would. But still, she had expected it to hurt her more than it did – after all, he entered her body, and there was bleeding – shouldn’t it be more painful? She figured she’d never know what it felt like for him, only that he murmured in her ear that she was delicious, that it had never been like that for him before, that she was sweet and good and he’d never leave her again, not as long as she lived, not as long as she kept coming back to him. He had moaned slightly in her ear, which sent her into a swoon; then the darkness had claimed her gently, caressing her, and she had known no more.
When she had awakened some time later, he was guarding her sleeping form with concern. He had asked her if she was alright, expressing concern that he had harmed her, but she had waved off his suspicions, greedy for more. With a laugh, he had bared his fangs, moving to take another drink of her life’s blood, and she had willingly given it. And it felt good. She still felt somewhat betrayed by her teachers and the clergy – they had sworn that the undead were merely a menace, that no good could ever come of dealing with them, that Pelor would smite one down for even thinking of speaking to an undead being, let alone cooperating with one, let alone feeding it and allowing its existence to continue – but the pleasure, the rush, was better than anything she’d ever had before. She knew then that she would never become a priestess – she just didn’t have what it took to enforce such blatant hypocrisy as to preach to the next generation the dangers and evils of what she herself found wondrous – and addictive.
Mirella had become what the humans called an addict – and what the vampires, including her beloved Zanfalcon, call a feeder.
She began accompanying him to all the vampire parties, held after sunset, for vampires and feeders – after a few short months, she allowed others to feed off her, though she preferred Zanfalcon. She acquired multiple bites on her neck, and soon, bites on other, more intimate parts of the body – she learned to disregard roaming hands and prying fingers, and the order to strip brought her gleeful anticipation of the bite to come rather than the ordinary feeling of exposure. By October, she knew she would do anything, absolutely anything to ensure that she could continue her habits – and the knowledge that that didn’t bother her scared her slightly when she realized it. Still, she had no choice – she couldn’t imagine life without the feeding, the parties, and Zanfalcon. She wouldn’t have asked for help if she knew how. And that worried her; however, it wasn’t enough to make her stop. Oh, she tried, from time to time; she refused invitations, tried to go without his presence for days on end, but each time she ended up hungering for his touch, craving his eyes, begging on her knees for the bliss of his bite, and soon she was hooked harder than ever before. She didn’t want to stop, not really; eventually she stopped trying altogether.
She became fixated on the idea that if it was that good for her, it must be ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times better for him. After all, he wanted it as much, even more than she did. When she discovered one day that any vampire could turn her with ease, she became obsessed with the idea of joining the ranks of the living dead. She began to beg her sweet Zanfalcon to take more and more of her blood, pressing him to take all of it, to take her very life from her body – wouldn’t it be sweet, wouldn’t it be good, wouldn’t it be a hundred times better if he drained that very last drop? Then all he had to do was feed her corpse but a tiny droplet of his own blood and she would rise again, truly one of his, his servant forever more… here was where she was always stopped. She could see in his eyes that the idea of being with her for eternity repulsed him; she could tell that he no more desired an eternal servant than she desired his departure from her, and she pulled back, afraid to push the issue. She’d seen what happened when feeders got too pushy about it – they’d be abandoned, blacklisted from the community, often driven half insane by the abandonment. So she waited, biding her time. Surely he’d find her useful enough some day to love her with even a fraction of the intensity with which she loved him – and he’d value her enough to turn her.
And if not him, someone else. After all, he wasn’t the only vampire in town, not even the strongest. There were no less than half a dozen – the two colleges in the area provided a constant stream of fresh food for them, and there were always girls like Mirella. She began to cozy up to a stronger vampire, one who had several hundred years experience on Zanfalcon – Horvar was his name, and in addition to having beautiful eyes, he played violin beautifully, having studied it in life and perfected it in living death. His skin was paler – he didn’t have the same semblance of life as Zanfalcon, and even after feeding his cheeks were no longer rosy, but Mirella no longer cared, as long as she got her fix. He liked to drink deeply, and from time to time had trouble stopping himself before the crucial point of no return – especially when she fondled him and made soft swooning noises in the back of her throat. Zanfalcon almost never went so far – he preferred several drinks from several people to cheer him, rather than one long drink from one person. And after all, he didn’t mind sharing. Much.
When she returned to her dorm one morning after a night out, having once again missed the mid-morning workout, she hesitated, seeing her new neighbor looking at her. What was the girl’s name? Some freaky chick, judging by the intensity of her stare. Mirella almost lifted her hand to her neck to see if her bites were exposed, but no, she’d slathered them with about half a pound of makeup before leaving the party that morning, there was no way she could see them. Uneasily, she ran her tongue over her teeth, wondering if perhaps some bit of Zanfalcon had rubbed off on her – but her canines were only human-sized, her body covered. And besides, if the other girl was looking at her breasts or inner thigh, she had enough problems anyway without worrying about vampires. “…whatever.” mumbled Mirella, unlocking her door and heading inside. Perhaps a brief nap before class – she was feeling so very lightheaded, and the encounter with the other girl had left her skittish.
Chapter 2 – Tess
Monument to the Fallen, October
As the month waned, they gathered in circles, the circles rotating widdershins around the monument, sentries posted, security as heavy as refugees could make it. There’d not been a huge massacre of their kind in years, and some of the younger ones couldn’t remember one in their lifetime, but their lives were so long that many recalled the original Twofold War, the fear and desperation that drove them from their homes through the strange holes in the fabric of reality and into the arms of another war and near-annihilation. They had only wanted to survive; women and children, instead, were killed for being too different, not human enough. They gathered here to worship and pray to Corellen Larenthein, their private worship while publicly many of them paid homage to the Human god Pelor. Today, the center of their ritual was their Daughter, Tessla, who was attending Pelor School for yet another year; she waited for the Full Moon before having yet another Blessing ritual, designed to protect her from human influences.
Skirts twirled, though many were shabby and torn; voices raised in prayer, though many were weak or ill. So many, too many, had died in the past year alone: died of sickness, lacking knowledge of the region’s plants; died of burning for the crimes of practicing their magical gifts where others could see; died of stoning for the crime of loving a human man or woman. Protection, then, would be given to any child of Corellen who left the Fold and entered the society of the humans; protection against not only their violent crimes against the Elven people, but also against their violent and hateful mindset. It was sad when one of their number was killed; sadder still was when one of the gentle, earthly, fragile creatures took up human weapons for the sake of destroying the rest of their people. It happened, though; most often with half-elves, but it happened.
The recanting began – the eldest among them remembered clearly that day, five hundred years prior, when they realized that the war against the Drow was lost, that there was no hope of survival. The Drow had risen against the prevailing society, destroying much of the elven architecture and intent on destroying their way of life as well. The fear with which they had huddled inside their ornate houses, the feeling that they could not trust their own generals to protect them, had given way when a few scouts, thought lost to Drow raids, had returned bearing remarkable news: Corellen had given them a way out! A hole had opened up, and through that hole was another world – a world in which there were no Elves, only a funny, tall, squat creature called Humans. Of course, they had since learned of the existence of other races, and in some of the Fey they had found what seemed to be distant kin, but at the time there were high hopes – certainly nothing could be as bad as facing the imminent invasion of the bloodthirsty Drow?
They were wrong. The humans, fearful of their lives, had deemed the masses of families a threat, and declared war upon them, slaughtering most of them and scattering those who remained. There was hope that in surrounding countries some of their kin had found solace and peaceful lives, but there was rarely if ever any word, and many had chosen to stay put. Like their distant kin the Fey, they had taken to an existence in the woods, living mostly in and around large trees, hiding from the humans and their settled villages. The elves had one thing going for them – almost infinite adaptability. Entire civilizations had been formed underwater as elves by the seashore developed the ability to breathe water – within a generation, they had mutated into a totally different subspecies. In these chaotic times, there existed elves who had gone through multiple changes, even developed whole new subspecies, as the humans called it. The high Elves, the Grey Elves, the Wild Elves, the Wood Elves, even the Dark Elves, or Drow, though they hesitated to admit it and did all they could to avoid that particular mutation. It was too painful a reminder after the Twofold War.
The Elves never did understand the savagery of the humans. After all, not only did they torture the foreigners to death for the “blasphemy” of possessing their magical gifts, they also burned their own people alive for the same crime – or even for suspicion of the crime, even when there was no proof. Magic was a force of Nature – why on earth would they reject it so utterly as to kill those who had been blessed by it? Their priests were the only ones allowed to perform miracles – was their god really so jealous as to punish his own followers for their natural talents? Many of the elves who lacked talent could pass for human if they were careful, and with the assistance of magical items, this became easier; still others, however, refused to try at all, refusing to associate with the barbaric humans and their primitive, backwards customs.
Tessla, however, was the pride and joy of her tribe, the Grey Elves. She was clever and nimble, and made good marks in her classes, yet hadn’t incurred the wrath of flaming mobs yet – she stood a good chance of passing in human society, and perhaps could be an inspiration for the younger girls of the tribe. She was studying to develop her natural Talents, which came to her through Corellen’s will; furthermore, she didn’t take nonsense from anyone, holding fast to the doctrines her tribe had taught her. She was, in a sense, the perfect specimen, bringing credit and favor to her tribe.
After the ceremony, she mounted up on her horse, riding out under the moonlight. She enjoyed the nighttime, the feel of moonlight on her delicate skin, the warmth of the horse beneath her thighs, as she rode, bareback and man style, towards the school. With any luck she’d be back before they missed her – and in time for the morning’s exercises, in which she could get a better view of the cute female butts that teased her. Not that she’d ever admit it, or let it throw her off; no, it was merely that human men were far, far beneath her, and the women were, in any event, better formed, with the curves being smoother and the lines more pleasing to the eye. She’d never understand what they saw in human men, with their thick hair in unsightly places and their overdeveloped muscles. Not to mention their unsightly genitals – no elven male would be so large and aggressively shaped. It didn’t suit them.
Still, it’d be nice to get some action. Mortals were not made to be celibate, any more than wolves or felines were. Eventually, the need to procreate arose. It was nothing to be ashamed of, not like the humans painted it, but it would be nice to have someone with whom to alleviate the urges. Perhaps it was time to do some research into the human courtship rituals and mating patterns. Perhaps one of the smaller, thinner human females, the ones who more closely resembled her people, would not disgrace her too much if she attempted to court. After all, she would not taint the bloodline of her people by procreating with a human male; she merely wished to alleviate her passions and loneliness for a time, that was all. Surely her people would understand.
By dawn, she had arrived at the temple, returning the borrowed horse to the stables, pausing to groom, feed, and water the animal, whispering thanks to it for giving its body to her for her use for the evening. She patted the horse’s neck and fed it a little sugar before moving inside, bypassing the cafeteria – they had never understood her religious dietary restrictions, and she had tired of fighting them about it. She would be alright on little sleep – her classes were not so demanding that she could not easily catch up within a few days, and on that Pelorsday she knew her classes would be especially light, given that they were expected to gather in the temple. She refused to attend, as she always had, and they gave her leeway – she was one of the best students in the academic classes, after all, and that granted her a number of favors above and beyond what other students were allowed. Still, she wasn’t protected from the stares and whispers that followed her as she passed in the hallway, headed for the library; she ignored them by sheer force of will. She knew who and what she was, which was more than she could say for any of them. What did it matter that they stared? Let them stare. Some day they’d stare at her with envy instead of hatred in their eyes.
Chapter 1 – Megara
Pelor School, October
“AGAIN!”
“KI!”
The class moved in unison, fifty-two left feet sliding backwards, fifty-two right palms jutting forward, five hundred and twenty fingers curled back like cobras ready to strike, fifty-two voices shouting in unison. fifty two left legs curved in fifty-two crescents towards fifty-two invisible targets; one teacher walked among them, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting their form closely, here and there correcting them with a tap of his stick on an errant leg, an adjusting with his hands of a tilted head.
Megara Brown, not that she used that surname any longer, was a member of that fifty-two, struggling hard to lose her identity in the force of the workout. Pelor cared for those who helped themselves; the morning workout was required for all who came to the school to study the divine arts. Pelor Academy for Young Persons catered to those who had finished their secondary schooling – no simple farmers here, they were all rich folk who could afford to attend schooling for the entire 12 years and then some, rather than dropping out after 5th or 6th form to work their family’s land. None of them had grown up as Meg had; none of them had worked their bodies hard, and now it came back to haunt them. Scholars all, until they entered the academy; some would become priests and once more become soft, but for all freshmen and sophomores, the morning workout was mandatory.
Meg was not destined for a life in the clergy; of that she was certain, even as a second-year. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only – to learn how to fight. She had not attended school as the others had, and so was struggling to keep up with her academics, but she excelled in the fighting arts due to her difficult life, and if she scorned the scholars for their soft bodies, well, that was between her and Pelor. She would be a Protector – she would have to keep those people safe from supernatural beings who they could not fight themselves. As soon as she mastered this focusing thing, anyway.
“BROWN! Where’s your focus?!”
Meg snapped out of her reverie, cursing under her breath as she slipped back into step – the pace had increased and left her behind. She returned to the exercise, keeping up with her hand-to-hand class easily. This wasn’t, after all, what she wanted to learn – her mentor had taught her hand-to-hand combat. She needed to learn how to wield a sword. Very few supernatural beings would be stopped by a stunning blow to the chest – she had already discarded martial arts as a major. She would not be a monk; she needed to be deadly.
Toweling off, she spoke to nobody. Her first year she’d spent living with her mentor, Sir Vormir, but he’d had to move on to fight the good fight, leaving her here in the dorms. She had a private chamber, thanks to his bountiful donations to this and similar institutions; she mainly avoided associating with her students. She needed to be free of distractions now more than ever as she strove to become strong. If only she had been born a man! She needed to be able to wield a large sword, silver and enchanted against evil, able to behead a dragon in a few strokes; furthermore, she needed to seem capable enough to quell a panicking populace, as fear was the number one risk factor in her line of work. Sir Vormir had taken her, a simple country girl, and taught her proper protocol for speech as well as the proper ways to worship the gods, particularly his patron god Pelor. He and his companion, the Lady Angela, had felt the calling years before to become sacred warriors; well, rather, he had, and she had been called to take temple vows. They made a good pair – his natural righteous anger was tempered by her gentle pacifistic nature, and the two had vows to match, the one destroying demon-kind where it could be found, the other bringing peace and refusing to harm living creatures.
Crossing campus in the crisp fall air, she didn’t seem to see anything in the courtyard – she ignored the cries of greeting from other students, the leaves slowly turning colors, the smell of baked apples from the cafeteria. She was looking for something else – and that something else she saw. Here and there, using her altered senses, she spotted points of light – a lot more than in town, certainly, but still not on everyone, and more disturbingly, not on everyone leaving the campus through the main gates. The fools. How could they expect to be safe without Pelor’s protection? She touched her own glowing point comfortingly, letting her alternate sight fade back into the background as she examined the necklace for signs of wear. The sunburst was done in silver, Pelor’s kind eyes in the center looking out for danger. Most such sunbursts were gold, a color pleasing to Pelor, but hers was silver, the better to ward off those that should not exist. In a pinch, it could even be a weapon – she’d sharpened the points on the main rays to allow it to be used as a dagger. She preferred her own weapon, of course – a well-balanced knife with a sunburst carved into it – but she knew how easily one could be disarmed if one was slower and weaker than one’s enemy.
She herself rarely left the campus. Why should she? She was safe here, almost as safe as if her mentor had been present. She knew the location of every holy symbol, vial of holy water, silver item, even clove of garlic in the school – everything that could ward off her prey. There wasn’t a chance the school would be molested – she could study in peace.
She’d thought she’d had peace once before, in her girlhood. She’d been familiar with everything around her – the fields and their various crops, the ebb and flow of seasons, the smell of spring rains, the feel of a thunderstorm. She’d been a farmer’s daughter, adept with a scythe as the grim reaper himself – an only child, and thus put to work, not like the other girls in the village. Her arms had been strong, her hands calloused, and she went barefoot without fear. And then, in the span of a single night, it had all been taken from her – ripped from her breast almost literally.
For a long time she’d rather have died than be the sole survivor – the village girls already treated her like an outcast for her strength and determination, and when they visited her in her sickbed she heard that awful word being passed around on their lips – “witch”. These were dark times; with accusation like that being passed around, the survivor count could easily drop to zero. Worst, though, was the look in their eyes – not only the hatred, but the fear as well, blaming her as though she had been the one to slaughter her parents like a pair of corn-fed hogs. She knew when they looked at her that she’d do anything to escape that gaze; she’d do anything to become, to them, a hero, rather than a thing to be feared.
Sir Vormir had been the one to rescue her; without him, she’d not only have died but have risen again, a foul and bloodthirsty beast. What had saved her life was her father’s sacrifice and the overconfident arrogance of the beast; what had saved her soul was Sir Vormir’s diligence. She had begged him to take her on as an apprentice and, when he saw that she had no other family to take her in, he had reluctantly agreed. She did her best every day to ensure that he did not regret his decision.
As she put it to the back of her mind once more, firmly, she almost missed the discovery altogether. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. As she moved to enter her dorm room, she caught sight of it, almost as though her eyes were locked to the sight: two small keen puncture holes on the side of her next-door neighbor’s neck.
Prologue
Hollow’s End, late Summer
The sun beat down on the girl’s browned skin as she handled the scythe, swishing it along the rows of wheat her family owned, her father working a row over. The harvest had to be brought in, rain or shine, heat or chill, never mind the comfort of the workers; still, she’d have loved to go topless as her father did. She compromised by wearing her thinnest blouse and a pair of trousers – another reason the girls snickered as they passed, or looked fearful. What was it about cross-dressing that made people want to scream and throw things, anyway? She made no effort to disguise her breasts, which were beginning to develop at the tender age of 9, nor did she ACT particularly masculine, other than doing the chores, exploring the world around her, not being grossed out by the facts of life (and why on EARTH did they think things like mud were intolerable? She loved the feel of a good squish between her toes)… well, alright, so she didn’t act like the other girls either. But that didn’t make her any less of a girl, did it?
She paused to wipe the sweat from her brow, glancing up at the sun and habitually making the Sign of Pelor. Pelor’s Light protected these fields as it did most of the human world – it kept the darkness away. Though, she rather liked the cool feel of the night air on her skin.. still, she was aware of the dangers darkness presented to a young woman. After all, women did get raped and mugged in bigger cities – one reason among many that people had hesitated to rebuild them when most of them were destroyed in the Great War. Elves lurked in the darkness too, now, and a number of demonic… things. None of THEM would ever have interest in a little girl like herself, muscled and tanned as she was.
The school-bell rang from town a short ways away – must be three o’clock already. The other girls’d be walking home along this path in a few moments, them that didn’t linger in the general store at the soda fountain. They’d see her and snigger, figuring their oh-so-impressive knowledge of the backs of boys’ heads and the feel of their soft hair was more important than her practical knowledge of the feel of the wooden handle beneath her. They’d probably chop those pretty braids off if they held the instrument in her hands for but a moment. But then, she had no idea what to say to a boy. When she’d been able to attend, she’d actually bothered to pay attention to the lesson at hand, learning maths and language; she’d known she had very little time in school before her parents’d need her for one thing or another, so she spent it learning as much as she could. That, too, set her apart.
Ah well. One day some younger son would want the farm, and her parents would handle the negotiations, and she’d be a Mrs. It didn’t matter. She still had the warm sun and the cool night, the strong handle and the pliant wheat. She had to get back to work. Her future didn’t matter.
Bastian’s Keep, Spring
She waited in the darkness for the pain to come again – the pain and torment fed the machine, you see, they had explained it to her a few times as though she were a child. The pain fed the machine, and the machine fed Man’s addictions. The liquid Agony extracted kept a more potent feel when it was distilled, just as her blood kept a strange shine to it when it was extracted, and her feathers could hone blades to the sharpest point, or be used as talismans when the right spell was applied. She knew, though, that it was the pain that kept her alive. They could have taken her heart by now, for whatever nefarious deed they wanted, or killed her to gain power from their dark god, but they needed the Agony. It sold for exorbitant sums on the streets – “Angel-Agony”, they called it. Nevermind that her mother had been the angel, her pain was still potent enough to fetch a price. Even her tears were potent. She waited for them to start taking fingers, toes, teeth, but they seemed content to farm her for pain and blood and feathers.
She didn’t know how long she’d been in the dark. Some months, probably, knowing the rate her feathers grew in. The men came and the men went, and she wished they’d kill her and be done with it. The pain wasn’t so bad after this long, but the indignity.. if she was to be treated as so much cattle, she wished she could be butchered like it as well, rather than made to feel how very inhuman she was. She had long since given up hope of rescue.
The door opened. A man entered, spilling light into the darkness, his blond hair gleaming in the light. He was beautiful; she’d have said angelic, but she’d seen real angels before. No, he WAS angelic, mortal or not. His eyes were deep blue pools; his weapon was keen and polished, and drenched in the blood of her tormentors. His armor, soaked in blood, was of leather; blood dripped from a slash down his arm, pooling on the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. He blinked as though he had been the one in darkness, dazzled by the light, and she felt the warm, expensive, highly sought-after tears sliding down her face, falling, wasted, to the ground. She knew it wasn’t her beauty that stunned him so. She hoped he was here to kill her.
Hollow’s End, Summer
The night surrounded her with its cool air full of secrets and whispers – she could feel the energy, alive, in the air, wrapping around her, caressing her skin. She stood a little apart from her mother, not holding her hand as a younger girl might; she was too enraptured by the air, charged with a coming thunderstorm, smelling of fresh rainwater all the way from the clouds, calling to the moist earth and drawing the smells up to her nose. She loved the rain, and the moon, and the night air; she loved the wheat and the chaff, and all was right with the world. In the morning, Pelor’s light would shine upon the fields and bless them, but like a stern father, his hand could be harsh, his judgment cruel – the night, like a mother, loved her children, and wished them well; how could anyone fear the dark? How could they feel this energy, this life caressing her as a lover would?
Her mother had fallen back; she turned to see why. Her mother was dead. The night had betrayed her like Medea, killing her children, and worse, handing them over to the monsters, for here was the murderer, and in a brief flash of lighting she could see it: he was not human.
And he hungered.
She ran for the barn.
Bastian’s Keep, Spring
She was beautiful.
Hollow’s End, Summer
His weight pressed upon her, forcing her back into the haystack she’d made for the horses, who were going mad now, screaming and stomping and struggling to be free of their pens. He pressed upon her, and his flesh was warm, not cold like it should be – warm with the blood of her mother, warm with her life he’d so casually take from her. His cloak draped around them and she wondered for a moment if he would drop his pants before he penetrated her, more intimately than even rape would be, his fangs into her veins, into her life, drinking her in. She was falling, falling forever into blackness, the world around her fading away, and all she was aware of was the steady beating of her heart, that traitor, feeding his lust, offering herself, her life, her blood, to him as though it were a mug of ale or a cup of tea, not something sacred, something to be held and cherished. His weight pressed on her, but she no longer felt it, lost in the struggle, the sensation that whether she willed it or not, her traitor heart would give herself to him, pumping and pumping until not a drop was left in her broken body, and then he would live on and never even know her name, never know who she was, rob her of everything she was and never once value it any more than she valued the rabbit she’d eaten for dinner. She was nothing to him but a meal, and he held her heart in his hands, and she FELT him, and he wasn’t even hungry, but he had been so sloppy. His heart beat, and it was her mother’s heart, her mother’s hands that held her, her mother’s voice that called to her – but her mother would never give her to the monsters, and so she resisted, struggling to be free, all the while knowing there would be no salvation, no escape from this trap. She didn’t even have it in her to regret never finding true love, or any of the clichéd thoughts people had while dying – all she was aware of was the struggle for life, and all it brought. Life, despite the pain and loss. Life, which she would be denied, for he would not let go, and she was dying, and she was dying…
The light blinded her, but a moment too late. She saw her father, pipe in hand, thrown against the wall, his life sacrificed for hers, and the blond stranger in the doorway came bearing the sign of Pelor, but then the fever claimed her, and she fell into the blackness.
