None of the stories unfolded around a small group of friends in a lonely, decrepit castle.
“Tell me…” His attention returns to the armor as he leans away, tension evaporating. “What have your hunters done with our fallen following the Blood Moon years past?”
Now is my chance to learn about them. “We’ve left them to burn away in the sun.”
“Ah, of course, not a proper burial.” He grimaces.
“We do not bury monsters.”
“Do I look a monster to you?” The question is quiet, filled with sorrow, longing—yearning, even. But for what?What does he keep wanting from me?
I study his face, the high swell of his cheekbones, his thin but firm lips. The sharp hook of his nose and the square of his chin. He’s almost…tooperfect. Uncomfortably so. Unbearable to look at and for it…I can’t look away. I can hardly fight the urge to touch him.
“I have seen your true form. I know how monstrous you are,” I whisper.
“My true form? That—that—” He seems at a loss for words and shakes his head. “How are you so dense?Thatis not my true form. This is. Were it not for the curse, sapping my strength, my power, my body itself, this is how I would look.” He runs his hand down his front, his long fingers catching on the open lacings of his shirt, pulling them open slightly more. Never have I been more focused on the length of a man’s body. Never have I beenalonewith a man at all for this long. The second I realize it my insides are squirming. “It is the curseyour kindplaced upon us that turned us into monsters.”
“We don’t have that kind of power,” I manage to say.
“Humans did once. And it seems your ilk has stolen some of our blood lore to preserve it.”
“I didn’t even know I had magic in my blood,” I counter. The fallacies in his logic are adding up to be too much to stay silent on—even if I know I likely should. “How do you think all of Hunter’s Hamlet is sustaining some kind of secret curse? And if we did have that power, why wouldn’t we use it to fight back against you monsters?”
“Ah,monsters, there’s that word again.” He takes a step closer, into my personal space. It’s a small movement, but enough to make my senses alight. “Those who have Succumbed to the curse might seem that way as they have sunken below the threshold of cognizance and have resorted to base instinct. Yes,theyare monsters, as you say. But they are also victims. Your hands are just as bloody as mine. And we were both born into cages not of our making.” His brow softens slightly and his lips part, just barely giving me a glimpse of his wicked-sharp fangs. He would look almost human in this moment of emotion, were it not for that reminder of his wickedness. Ruvan continues to search my face. What does he want? My sympathy? My forgiveness for all he’s done? “But we can fix it. You and I. We can find our freedom from this unyielding nightmare. If you can just put your blind hatred aside long enough to see the truth before you.”
Freedom.
That almost forbidden word of yearning. Of want. The thing that I craved so desperately from birth that I had to teach myself not to so I wouldn’t go mad. Could such a thing really exist for me?
No.No. He’s lying. There is no freedom for any of us. Only death. To think there could be would be ripping open a new wound.
Nothing cuts deeper than hope.
“You have nothing to say?” He shakes his head in disappointment. I am adrift, washed away into an ocean of sorrow originating from him. “Why did I expect anything more from you?” He motions to a table of silver sickles, daggers, and swords. “Take what you need to defend yourself. Anything you want is yours. Prepare for the battle of your life so we may be done with each other as quickly as possible.”
His words of battle should make me afraid, but my focus is solely on the weaponry.Swords… My family hasn’t forged swords in centuries. The sickles are lighter and require less material. And what the hunters sacrificed in range with sickles, they gained, and more, in speed.
But I do wonder what I might make if given the choice…if I had all the resources in the world. If I didn’t have a town to protect. What wouldImake? I’ve never asked myself that before.
“These are old,” I whisper.
“Old weapons are still good weapons.” He rolls his eyes.
“Not always true.” I lift a sword, eying down the fuller and inspecting the edge. “Age alone can dull a blade. And if you took these off the battlefield, they were already nicked and damaged to begin with.” I show him the subtle dents in the weapon. “See, here.”
Ruvan seems mildly impressed, but the emotion is fleeting. “A dull silver sword is still a silver sword. All it needs to do is break a vampir’s flesh.”
“It’s far more effective when sharp. The blade does more of the work so the fighter isn’t slowed down. Plus, old, dented blades will get stuck in bones rather than slice clean, which creates opening for attacks. Do you have a smithy?”
“A smithy?” He blinks, clearly startled. “What could you possibly need a smithy for?”
You are pretending to be a hunter right now, Floriane, not a smith. Keep the illusion. “I…I could make an attempt at honing them,” I murmur. Figuring out how to dance with my words is more difficult by the moment. “I’ve seen it done enough times. Sometimes I worked on my own sickles.” Which a hunter would never do. But I can’t resist. I can’t leave these weapons in the state they’re in. Doing so would be a dishonor to all the forge maidens who came before me.
Ruvan considers this for a long moment and I worry my ruse has been destroyed. He starts back for the main doors. I begin trying to find which is the sharpest weapon, quickly hoisting sickles that I think will be my best bet.
“Leave them. Ventos will bring them to you.”
“Pardon?”
