“I already said too much. Let it go, Fynn. Please, promise me you will.”
Her pleading, deep, golden eyes make me submit to her. Unwillingly, I promise her I will. I don’t owe the witch any allegiance, but she seems to think we have some sort of mutual understanding, and who am I to ruin such a fragile thing? I don’t question her actions before she speaks to me, and I decide to attack Harlot first. Caria can wait.
I stomp after Harlot and slam the door to the room wide open. She barely acknowledges me; her eyes settle into a calm expression, but the color still appears dark and off.
“Harlot,” I snap my fingers in front of her to get her attention.
Tauntingly slow, she turns her face toward me as if I have disturbed something important. She doesn’t say a word; she just looks at me with those dark, haunting, cold eyes of hers.
“I…c-can you… What happened, Harlot? W-where were you? For three days?!” I stutter as the hairs on my neck prick up from her uncomfortable stare.
I’ve never felt this uneasy with her before. It’s as if her energy shifted, awakening my instincts, but I am uncertain of what.
“None of your business, Fynn. Did you hear anything from Mother?”
I feel irritation at her attitude as it ripples through my sense of unease.
“You think you can disappear for three days and expect me to be pleasant with you? Inform you of Mother's whereabouts. Are we having a little tea party?” I mock.
Harlot shrugs and lies on her bed, as I am useless to her. The silent motion dismisses me. She pulls up the blankets, and a peculiar thin layer of shadow falls over her, barely visible. Cloaking her. Within minutes, I hear her softly snore. I have always envied her ability to sleep anywhere, regardless of the circumstances. I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath. So steady. How easy would it be to cut her throat and let her blood turn the sheets a dark crimson? I wonder if human blood is sticky, like the vampire’s. Will it be thicker? I creep closer to my sister. Her neck is long and fragile; her skin porcelain, and her blue veins spread like marble. Will it break as easily as a cup or a plate? Would I need much force?
I hover over her. I know I promised the witch not to do anything stupid, but here she is. Laid out in front of me, as if she’s already dead. All I need to do is let the life drain from her, break her windpipe, or cut her open. Let the blade slice through all her arteries for a quick death, or stab her and avoid them so it takes longer. I can imagine the metallic scent filling the air. I wonder what the witch smelled when she inhaled my sister's scent. I sniff her long black hair, and Harlot's eyes fly open. I stumble back from the scare, fall on my ass, and hit my head hard on the edge of the bed. I groan loudly.
“What the fuck are you doing, Fynn? You fucking creep,” she sneers as she throws the sheet off her.
“I’m not staying here a minute longer, you psychopath. Why were you watching me like that?!”
She tells me she’ll return in a few days, collects her few belongings, and marches out the door. I stalk after her. Harlot tries to ditch me, attempting to throw me off by heading into the maze of alleys, but I am faster. Suddenly, she stops, tilts her head as if she’s thinking, then continues walking with purpose. She heads across the city square, and I see creatures turning their heads in terror and distress as she passes. I make a mental noteto confront the witch about it later. I trail after Harlot, leaving the city’s compounds, onto the road I crossed earlier. She stops at the forest's edge and looks up at the sky; it’s still daylight. Out of nowhere, she speeds up and starts to run, the trees parting for her as if they remember her and are welcoming her back, with branches moving aside.
I start my pursuit and begin to run as well. A thick oak moves in front of me, stopping me mid-stride, and bushes close the gap between my sister and me. I scream after her, but she doesn’t even turn her head as she disappears into the dense greenery, dissolving from sight. I cry out her name once more to no avail. The wench is gone. I punch the tree trunk that stopped me with all my might. I repeat the motion until my knuckles are a bloody mess, and some of the tension and frustration are released.
Fucking forest, stupid trees, I mutter. Thicker greenery appears each time I try to hack through the bushes, making it impossible to chase after Harlot as if the forest wills it to stop me in my tracks. Rustling on my left alerts me. A figure gets up from behind the branches. Memories from a few days ago flood in. Is it the same creature?
“Please… don’t be scared. I won’t harm you,” I say, raising my hands, clearly showing I’m not holding any weapons of any sort.
I don’t want to scare it away. I talk to it, softening my voice, telling it I won’t hurt it. I see the figure cautiously move away from the bush. It tilts its head and slowly shuffles toward me. When it steps out of the shadows, I see it—I see her. Her blonde hair, which reminds me of golden honey, is tangled, her face is covered in dirt and blood, and all she wears are rags. She’s trailing on bare, bloodied feet.
“Hello,” I say softly.
A tug in my chest pulls me closer, urging me to hold and protect her. Her large eyes are the deepest blue I've ever seen, framed by wet blonde lashes. She’s crying, and I step forward, unable to contain myself. Within two steps, I reach her and scoop her into my arms. Her cold, fragile body feels familiar against my chest, as if she belongs there. She melts into me, tears starting to fall freely. I try to soothe her, telling her she’s safe with me. Gently, I wipe away her tears, a deep rage boiling inside me to destroy whoever did this to her. I pull her in tighter.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
She looks up at me, her ocean-like eyes capturing me and holding my gaze.
“I’m Jodelle,” she says softly.
“Jodelle,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue as it easily rolls off it.
“Nice to meet you, Jodelle. My name is Fynnigan, Fynn for short. Where did you come from? Are you from the fortress that hides within these woods?”
The one my sister disappeared to, and the sour thought pops up in my head and fades when her angelic voice reaches me again. Her voice is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard—a singsong I’ll never grow tired of.
“No, these woods somehow kept me safe, as if they knew I needed their protection.”
Her eyes soften as she speaks appreciatively of the forest, and I am no longer able to hate it. How can I hate these trees, these bushes, if they kept her safe, protected her from whatever she escaped? Jodelle tells me her story as I cradle her in my arms.
“I escaped the blood banks, the ones where we humans are kept as cattle to farm blood from, in Eldririn. Have you heard of them?”
