A Dead Promise
HARLOT
Chapter 1
“Grab your stuff, Harlot. For once, could you please not stall? I am begging you.”
Mother chases me as she stuffs whatever she can in a duffel bag—meaningless things.
I don’t understand why she rushes me. It’s not like we have much anyway. We never stay somewhere long enough to build a life or collect anything important. For as long as I can remember, Mother has been moving us around. It wasn’t as often when we were younger, but now that we are maturing, there is more urgency to it. She’s developed a restlessness.
I slowly pack my few items and watch my brother, Fynn, do the same in silence. He’s always been the silent type.
My Mother is frantically pushing one of the old books she always carries and scribbles in into her bag. They are the only things she always brings with her wherever we go—those damn books. Fynn and I are never allowed to look into them, and her secretive behavior bothers me more with each passing day. Of course, I’ve asked her. I asked nicely, sweetly, and demandingly, but the perplexed look on her face, followed by a scowl, alwaysled to the same response: those books were not for our eyes. She always came up with the same excuses: we were too young, too pure.
I glare out of the stained window, irritated, my arms folded. I watch a young girl being dragged, kicking and screaming like a feral animal, by her long golden hair and tied to a tree in the middle of the town—a sacrifice to the old Gods. I scoff at the idea.
The foul man who is handling her is rough, ignoring her piercing cries. He brutally takes hold of her face, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin, holding her stare. He takes a small hunting knife from his belt, and with one swift movement, her throat is slit, and blood spurts from the gaping wound. The man doesn’t bat an eye as his face is colored crimson, and her mouth opens and closes like a fish on dry land, gasping for air. The man who tied her to the tree continues to butcher her. He cuts her arms, legs, and stomach, separating her flesh from her bone almost expertly; pieces of flesh dangle from her frail body. Blood collects around her feet, running in a stream of red.
His cutting her throat is a mercy, something the old Gods no longer give to humankind.
I frown as I watch the scene unfolding before me; even after witnessing it a thousand times, it always baffles me.
Other townsfolk scurry out of their homes and lay down flowers and food in the pool of fresh blood, not fazed by the dying girl. They ignore her pleas, as if that will please any Gods, as they arrange their offerings. They spare no kindness to the dying, innocent soul; a child from the Gods, which humans are supposed to be—children of the old Gods.
The only thing for certain is that once more, a young life has been taken without repercussions.
She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen or seventeen. I’m sure the old Gods are thrilled with the violence that is enacted in their name. I shake my head at the whole ordeal.
This was a merciful kill compared to many sadistic murders I’ve seen in other towns. Once, a handler had claimed that adrenaline made the child more enlightened. The adrenaline is only created by brutal torture and rape. An excuse to perform their perverted fantasies as an act of awakening, holding no repercussions. A crime disguised as a hecatomb.
No one intervened; all delusional fools, as they stand by and witness it all. For some reason, we women are always deemed the better offerings, easy prey. Preferably teens.
These assholes pretend to work as so-called acolytes of the old Gods, while in reality, all they do is protect their own asses from the vampires and Blood Witches that roam these grounds, commonly referred to as darkling, or night creatures.
The darklings leave my family alone, unable to come near us, but the vampires still eye us like hungry wolves. They have a strong desire to taste our blood—a forbidden fruit.
One time, a vampire compelled a human to take me away from my family to sacrifice me.
I was barely thirteen years old when the human stirred up a conversation with me. He tried to drag me off the streets, fortunately, he, too, was unable to steal me away due to the compulsion. My mother heard me scream in panic, and she ran to me, her face contorted by anger. A wild woman filled with rage, ready to protect her offspring. Her fury was unmatched, as she tore the man apart, stabbing him to death with her dagger.
While the man begged my mother to be spared, the compulsion waned with each stab, making it clear that a vampire had compelled him.
Hearing the description of the vampire, I knew exactly who he was talking about, and I was able to point him out to Mother.
Without mercy, she hunted the vampire down.
It took dedication on her part, but eventually, she reached him and burned him to ashes. A violent message to every being in that village: my brother and I were not to be taken unless you had a death wish.
No one even dared to look at me after that encounter—humans and dark creatures alike.
The dark beings don’t care if we murder each other. None of them will interfere if we fight. Ever since the Light was destroyed centuries ago during theWitch Wars, thevalue of human life has been diminished. We are nothing more than a source of food or energy to them, to use and abuse as they please.
I turn away from the dead girl. It’s one of many encounters I have seen from a young age, and I know there’s no saving this girl. It no longer affects me as it used to—the killing, the blood, the unnecessary torture. It’s a vicious circle that seems to repeat itself in every town we temporarily settle in. Everywhere, humans are acting like they have lost their minds, no longer sure how to defend themselves against the dark creatures. The tables turned when the Light was taken out, and Darkness took over control. We became prey once more, no longer the hunters, or so I’ve been told.
Mother looks at me, annoyance written all over her face. I can tell from her body language that this horrid, useless sacrifice makes her uneasy. I know these murders are not the reason for our sudden departure, though.
I rarely question my mother’s motives anymore, but the older I get, and the more secretive she acts, the more suspicious I become. I have this gut feeling that the books are the reason we are always on the move, fleeing and hiding.
