Curse of Blood and Midnight

by Emily Inskip

  “I will make the deposit tomorrow—”

  “I want it now,” she cut him off, bracing her arms on her hips as she began to pace across the room.

  “You must understand, I don’t just have that sort of money lying around,” he stuttered, watching in panic as she prowled, running a single index finger along the bookcase on the far wall.

  “Bullshit,” was all she said, pulling her finger away and inspecting the dust beneath her nails. Filed to sharp points, he noted. “I want the money now, and if you don’t have it, I’m sure there will be another person just as willing to take the item off my hands,” she lied.

  No one else in the city wanted anything to do with her. They chose to ignore the mysterious woman who showed up every so often from the shadows, leaving nothing but a dark reckoning of death in her wake.

  “Fine!” he said quickly, “Fine, I will get you your money.” His lips quivered in a thin line as he slowly arose from the desk chair. He moved swiftly, turning on his heels until he was facing the large oil-stained painting that hung above. Striking enough to draw attention, but not worth enough to ever bother stealing. Clever.

  Demetri shifted the canvas to the side as Amara stopped her pacing to watch as the old man revealed a small iron safe built into the wall. She had been to visit him multiple times before but never had she known about the existence of what was behind that painting. Interesting. Not much got past her, she could usually tell when a mortal was lying or withholding anything from her. But this was a first.

  Amara cocked her head to the side as he turned the metal bolt. She made note of the combination, even as he tried to shield what he was doing with his back turned. But she already knew how many clicks to the right and left it took to unlock it.

  “Here.” He shuffled around and dumped a sack of gold perhaps the size of her head on the desk before him. The loud clink of coin was enough to make her eyes widen. And trust he wasn’t lying with what he was giving her. “That’s all of it. Now take it and go, before I change my mind.”

  Amara tried to ignore the fact that he thought he intimidated her, and the fact that he believed she would leave empty-handed if he didn’t decide to give her the money. She shook her head subtly as she advanced forward. If he hadn’t complied, she would have torn out his throat before he even had a chance to scream.

  Arrogant humans, she huffed.

  Without uttering a word of thanks, Amara reached for the bag of money on the desk, swatting away his swollen pink fingers as they tried to intervene. Oh, I don’t think so, she thought as she swiped the coins clean from the table. She didn’t even apologise as she ‘accidentally’ knocked over his mug of tea. It clattered to the floor, the delicate china shattering as it landed atop of the ornate rug stretched across the room. Oops.

  Amara swiftly turned her back on the man, hips swaying to the side as she swaggered towards the door. She felt Demetri still watching her with furious, raging eyes while she strode out. And she only smiled as she heard the long string of curses escape his mouth. But Amara had already slipped out of the open window and dropped down onto the cobbles below before he had time to reach her, nothing more than a wisp of smoke on the wind.

  3

  It was already midnight as Amara stormed through the city, silently sweeping through the shadows. Gazing up at the sky, she cursed, noticing that the moon had already reached its peak. Damn.

  The guards had been a minor inconvenience, nothing she couldn’t handle, but problematic, and rather dull to say the least. Though the rewarding weight of the coins she now carried made up for it. Just.

  The streets were lively, especially as she made her way towards the outskirts of Valmont. Amara tried to conceal her grimace as she hurried past the revolting taverns packed with drunken men who had just arrived back from the war at the northern border. Somehow, Amara lost all respect for their bravery in battle as she watched them slosh their pints and stumble down the street, no doubt finding somewhere to vomit up their guts. Meanwhile, courtesans lingered outside on the cobbles as carriages dropped off more and more people eager to enjoy the night.

  Amara frowned, shooting a sidelong glance at one of the intoxicated soldiers as she passed by. A glance that made his face pale and shoulders stiffen and surely shook him back to sobriety in a flash.

  In this world, people didn’t believe in the creatures of the night. They refused to. The only mention of vampires were those in holy books found in the cathedral libraries. They were said to be monsters spawned from hell itself. But of course, that was all just fiction to the people of Valmont. Any victims found on the streets were excused as animal attacks. The royal council explained desiccated corpses as those who had died from blood loss, a supposed fatal wound that was never actually located. In fact, people didn’t believe in any supernatural forces other than those of the witches. Women praised and worshipped, sent off to noble families who could afford their services. Some journeyed to the northern war, to help and to heal . . . or to destroy and conquer. There was said to be no limit to their power, a magic gifted to them by the gods. Which explained why people prayed to them like saints, whole churches dedicated to their cause.

  Personally, Amara couldn’t care less. As long as they stayed out of her way.

  The city seemed to deteriorate the further away from the castle she got. Beggars lurked down the small branching alleys, houses lay derelict, windows either shattered or bricked up. No one had lived in this area of the slums for decades. Of course, there were the taverns, which were hugely popular, mainly due to the fact that the guards who patrolled the sector turned a blind eye to any of the illegal activity that went on. For a price, of course.

  Amara shoved her hands deep into her pockets as she moved, tilting her head down to the ground. The faster she could get out of here, the better.

  She was almost invisible, save for the glint of her silver dagger as it caught the moonlight. Swerving down the next street, Amara finally broke out of the labyrinth of buildings and into a darkened meadow. The noise from the city was merely a muffled drone as she lost herself amongst the grasses and trees along the outskirts of Valmont. Finally, peace. Then—

  Amara bristled as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She knew by the shift in air that she wasn’t alone. And hadn’t been for a very long time.

  “So, are you going to say hello or are you just going to keep following me for the rest of the night?” she asked without turning around. Amara kept walking, her gait not faltering for a second.

  A noise, something between a laugh and a ragged growl came from behind her, making her stop in her tracks.

  “I was wondering when you were going to notice.”

  She grinned, “Hello, Brother.”

  He was already by her side as she turned to angle her face up at him. And sure enough, her younger brother, Fenn, was stood beside her.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulder. Amara melted into the hug, an unfamiliar contact she hadn’t had with someone in a very long time. Too long.

  Although he was two years her junior, Fenn was a good half-a-foot taller than her. He was massive, with broad shoulders and muscles that strained beneath his dark tunic. He’d grown since last time she’d seen him. Quite a lot, it seems. Amara had to step back just to take all of him in. God, his time in the war must have really had an impact. But the soldiers she had seen in the tavern were nothing but boys compared to the strength of her brother. Amara blinked.

  “What are you doing here? Your leave isn’t for another week,” she mused, completely unimpressed, folding her arms across her chest as a gush of cool air hit them. He laughed again.

  “Can’t you just be happy to see me?”

  “No,” she said distantly; too busy studying his face, his eyes, the scarred hands that braced his hips and the gargantuan sword at his waist.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said, “What.” Not a question, but a demand.

  Her brother’s slim face su
ddenly stiffened, a muscle feathered in his jaw. Silence.

  Maybe she had been too harsh on him. Or maybe, he should stop being so secretive.

  Fenn opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Like a hawk, he flicked his gaze over the meadow, into the dark hedgerows and beyond, towards the silver ribbon of the Jarsli River.

  “Not here,” he simply said, bringing his attention back to her.

  Amara narrowed her eyes. She was in two minds as to whether she should listen to her brother’s dramatics or . . . strike him very hard in the gut until he tells her what’s going on. But something was wrong. She could scent it from a mile away. If not for the weariness of her brother’s pale face or the silver she could have sworn lined his eyes.

  “Okay,” she found herself saying. Because after all, he was her brother. And she had missed him, no matter how little of that let on.

  Amara watched him sag with relief and almost smiled despite herself but quickly chose to deny emotion. For now, at least.

  She led him down towards the sandy riverside where they walked in silence, only the chorus of crickets hiding amongst the bulrushes filled the air. Moonlight danced off the shimmering surface of the Jarsli as small paddleboats floated by along the wide meanders like pieces of delicate driftwood. Across the water, on the other bank were more of those beautiful stately homes, with towering stone walls and ivy that snaked along the brickwork, curling around the lattice windows that glowed from the candlelight within. The Northside. The district of the city that was exclusive only to the nobles who could afford it.

  Amara had been there once in all her years in Valmont. And she had loved it. The petite but extravagant restaurants there seemed to spool out onto the cobbled streets, with tables swathed in linen and waiters bearing glazed breads and the sweetest smelling tea in the continent. She had never forgotten the scents that flooded her nostrils when she had waltzed down the avenues: lavender, honeysuckle, verbena. Flowers of all kinds, gathered from every corner of the kingdom, were strung up into hanging baskets, lining the pale-stone houses and painting them with blends of colours and life.

  Of course, she had known that the Northside was never where she would be able to stay. Too many eyes, too many royal guards positioned in every corner of the district, just waiting for trouble to stir. And although it never did, Amara knew her…needs would never have gone unnoticed. The bloodlust would have had her thrown into the city dungeons within a week. So alas, she remained in the slums. Unheard. Unnoticed. Nothing but a mere shadow.

  Amara found her eyes lingering on the striking silhouette of the Northside as she guided her brother through the darkened meadows on the other side of the riverbank. And she knew by the weight of Fenn’s stare that he noticed. He had always noted every one of her movements, predicted her actions before she even had the time to make them. He was quick, posing competition, even for her.

  “You could live there, you know?” he said as they walked side-by-side, so fluid, as though they were a whisper caught on the wind. She felt his eyes fall to the bag of coin at her waist and sighed.

  Amara nudged him slightly, steering them towards a long-abandoned farm mill nestled amongst the overgrown shrubs beside the riverbank. She snorted, shaking her head before skipping silently up the steps towards the entrance of the mill.

  “It’s far too clean and proper for my liking,” she lied, “I find it lacks character.”

  “Well, this certainly does not,” her brother said as he looked up the rickety windmill.

  Its once-white wooden panelling was now splintered and chipped. Mould darkened the oak planks and the dormant sails swayed and creaked in the breeze, as though remembering their past life somehow. But it had lain derelict for at least thirty years now. A perfect home for a girl who didn’t want to be noticed. A perfect home for someone who didn’t want any neighbours to observe the goings-on within.

  Or hear the screams of those unfortunate enough to visit.

  Amara ignored her brother’s gaping mouth. Clearly, the battlefields in the north offered a far more luxurious stay. She had never been there herself, but from what Fenn had told her, the tents they slept in put even the nobles to shame. Especially for Fenn himself, one of the most valued soldiers in all of the continent, which he never failed to boast about when he had the chance.

  Without warning, Amara swiftly bent into a crouch before pouncing upwards towards the small balcony braceleting the upper section of the building. She landed effortlessly, not waiting for her brother to follow her before going inside.

  It wasn’t much, nothing compared to the luxury apartments you could find on the Northside, but it was enough. Amara’s narrow cot was pushed back against the wall, the small gas lamp she’d lit earlier was still flickering quietly beside it.

  She didn’t so much as flinch when her brother landed silently behind her, his black cloak drifting in a phantom breeze.

  “It’s nice,” he muttered as Amara set about lighting the small hearth in the corner of the room.

  She knew by the weight of his glare that be believed the place she’d come to call home was far from nice. But she didn’t let on, instead, channelling her annoyance into sparking the kindling before her. The room suddenly flooded with warm firelight, embers dancing lazily upwards.

  As the wash of gold light gleamed through the place, Amara took the moment to look around at her room. She felt her cheeks flush as she glared at the remnants of hay poking through the damp floorboards. Cobwebs draped down from the rafters. The vaulted ceiling itself seemed to stretch endlessly up into the dark void above. Well, it was a unique place, and one she had come to love.

  People thought she was a monster. Hell, some days so did she . . . but she also favoured having a safe place to rest, especially as she had to spend the long summer days cooped up inside . . . or risk being burnt to ash.

  That was another thing she was jealous of her brother for. His suncharm. A small amber stone tucked safely away inside the iron pendant that hung around his neck. Gifted to him by the witch that stole his heart many years ago. As he did hers.

  They had met on the battlefields when the war was at its worst. She’d healed him back to health after being caught up in the midst an explosion. She and Fenn alike still thanked the gods, if there were such things, that none the wooden splinters had found their way inside his heart. But the witch was indeed talented, and Fenn returned to the battlefield the following month. That opal suncharm with him.

  Amara took one look at her brother before she knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

  “What is it?” she demanded. But he didn’t reply, only began walking towards her bed silently, his face pale and grave.

  The mattress sighed beneath his weight as he perched at the end of her cot, Amara immediately following suit.

  “So . . .” she nudged him gently. Although his silence was infuriating, she knew not to push too hard. Fenn almost never took anything seriously, even as he sliced men’s heads off on the battlefield. So the out-of-character quiet was unsettling, to say the least. And it made something deep within her twist horribly.

  Slowly, he cleared his throat. “They’re back.”

  No.

  Who would have thought two simple words would have the power to make her insides writhe as though they were clawing, ravaging her skin, desperately trying to escape the body they were kept in.

  “No,” she almost gasped, desperately trying to maintain her breathing. It was a fool’s task.

  “No,” she said again, almost shaking now whilst her brother just sat silently beside her, staring into the kernel of flames with a preternatural stillness. Damn this. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be a whimpering mess. Not again. Never again. So she bit down the cry that was threatening to escape, the calmness spilling over her body once more.

  “You’re lying,” Amara said flatly, even as she clenched her fists in her lap. The ooze of blood warmed her palm as her nails dug deep into flesh. Fenn let out a growl.
/>   “Do you think this is something I would lie about?” he spat, the firelight glinting off his canines.

  “I don’t know? Is it?” she snapped back, twisting towards him, rage burning in her eyes. It was a stare that would have sent lesser men running. But he didn’t balk from her gaze, only met it with one equally as terrifying.

  “Stop it,” he said, “Stop this. You don’t have to pretend around me, Amara, you’re allowed to be afraid.”

  The anger banked in his eyes but she just growled through gritted teeth,

  “I’m. not. afraid.”

  She knew it was a lie. He did too. But Fenn just sighed, his shoulders curving as his gaze fell towards his lap.

  “Tanya’s dead. They . . . they killed her,” he said quietly, not daring to look up. “The Valkrane are back and they’re coming for us.”

  Too much. This was too much. Amara didn’t know what to say, the words were knocked from her chest. It didn’t matter though, nothing she could say would ease his pain. Not even a fraction.

  So she silently placed her hand on his knee. Tanya. His wife. The witch who had healed him . . . she was dead. Amara’s throat went dry.

  “How did it happen?” she asked, it was more of a whisper as she tightened her grip on his leg. Fenn let out a small strangled sound at the back of his throat, so quiet, no one else would have heard it.

  “They were hunting for me in the north, god knows how long for, I made sure to cover my tracks, never leave too much of a scent—” His throat seemed to close up. Amara felt the hair on the back of her neck go on end but she willed the words into her mouth.

  “What happened, Fenn?”

  Agony. Pure, undiluted agony filled his eyes. They were lined with silver as he placed his hand atop her own and squeezed.

  “The Valkrane, they found our tent on the field . . . it should have been me . . .” he gasped. “They were looking for me that night but I was held back on the frontline . . . by the time I reached her, it was too late. They slaughtered her, Amara. Slaughtered her in cold blood.”