I grab my two daggers from the dead bloody at my feet, sheathe my sword, and walk over while unfurling Cyprilis’ list from my tunic.
“We’re looking for these four zealots,” Vallan says, holding the page in front of the creature’s face. “Tell us where to find them, and I promise to send you to meet your Damned expeditiously.”
The creature spits on the page.
“Wrong answer,” Vallan sighs.
“Wait,” I say, holding a hand up before he can finish his grisly work. “Tell us, beast, or we will raze this overturned, vine-wrapped shithole you were trying to flee to.” I motion toward the wrecked building. Clearly, it holds some sort of importance to these three—maybe a praying grounds of sorts.
That gets the vampire sputtering. “N-No . . . do not desecrate the Tower of Lesions!”
“Then talk,” I reply.
He inspects the page with rasping breaths, his eyes fluttering. The tattoo on his forehead seems to burn, and he hisses. “I recognize this one.” He points to the picture of the master vampire Cyprilis called Origin. “Find him, find the others.”
“Where do we find him?”
“Tower of Blisters. Southern sect, past the statue of Borgoleth.”
I blink. These words mean nothing to me. For once, I’m ashamed not to know more about my own home. I assume Borgoleth is a deity these wretches pray to.
“Good enough for me,” Vallan says.
“It—”
He beheads the vampire without another word.
“—is?”
Standing, I tuck the list away and rub the back of my neck. “So swift to violence tonight, Vall.”
“I’m hungry. And there’s nothing here worth feeding on, so I’d rather get out of here as quickly as we can, cub.”
I nod slowly, heading back to the carriage.
“And besides,” Vallan adds, motioning to the corpses. “We have disguises now.”
“True. Good thing there were three,” I quip, “because you cut that first bastard in half, and his robe with him.”
Vallan chuckles darkly as we begin to disrobe the disgusting vampires of their robes.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard Vallan laugh, and it’s oddly satisfying and mortifying at the same time.
The statue of Borgoleth is not hard to find: It’s an oversized gargoyle with four wings set in the middle of a town bazaar in this gods-forsaken, abandoned district.
We ran across three other small groups of zealots around campfires while heading here, but they ignored us, so we ignored them. It seemed only the first three were “watchguards” of any sort, though they didn’t put up much of a fight.
I have to wonder if the zealots of Valenthia Yurlyth are even allowed weapons in this enclave. If not, it will surely make our mission easier.
Beyond the hunchbacked statue sits a tall tower leaning precariously against another building. It looks like one well-placed kick would topple the five-story structure to the ground.
Vallan and I share a shrug and approach, dressed in our disgusting robes. My hands itch beneath the fabric, hidden near my weapons. It’s comical looking at Vallan struggle in his ceremonial garb with how tight the damned thing is on his huge frame. Mine fits me much better.
We stand across the street from the building, not bothering to hide ourselves. No one here has posed a threat yet, and I feel infinitely more powerful and safe with Vallan Stellos by my side.Another reason it will hurt so badly if he turns out to be a turncoat. The Damned knows I don’t want him as an enemy.
We survey the scene for half an hour, our eyes moving, our arms folded. We stay hunched over with our hoods drawn, so any rare zealot passing by doesn’t get the itch to inspect us. We don’t want them noticing we don’t share the same burn-tattoo on our foreheads they all seem to.
“If it were up to me, I’d say burn this whole fucking district and start anew,” I mutter, glancing around at the sickly green tint on everything. An eerie fog rolls through the deserted streets. I’m a fucking dhampir, and evenIdon’t want to be here for long.
