by Arial Burnz
“Where were you when Davina died of consumption? You claimed she was the key to this damned prophecy and, when I needed answers, you were nowhere to be found.” He cursed under his breath. “How is it I did not sense you approach me? Why I could not find you?”
Malloren shifted in her chair and avoided his glare. “My talents for remaining unseen were magnified when I crossed over.” She narrowed her eyes. “You will not find me if I do not wish to be found.” Glanced at his cup, then the cask, she sighed and sadness shrouded her face. “I truly regret the sorrow you have endured over Davina’s passing, but I have—”
Broderick jumped to his feet and snatched her throat in his hand. “Lies!” he hissed. “The prophecy. Her part in it. Don’t pretend to show compassion toward either of us. If you had a care, you would have let me kill Angus and I could have made amends with the Council. She would be with me now.”
In spite of the hold Rick had on her, she only encircled his wrist with her fingers and shook her head. “You must never transform her, Broderick,” she whispered. “And if you had killed Angus, Davina’s soul would have been destroyed and you would have lost her forever.”
“I did lose her!”
“Take your hands off the maiden, son.”
Broderick glanced to his left and spied a half-dozen glowering men, ready to pounce, various sharp and blunt objects in their fists.
Malloren put her palm out to stay the crowd. “I am not in danger, kind sirs,” she rasped in German. “But you will be, if you take another step closer. I know this man and, in his present disposition, he will tear your beating hearts from your chests.”
Broderick shoved Malloren back into her chair and snarled. “You know nothing about me, woman.” He waved a dismissive hand at the intimidated men. “You have nothing to fear from me.” He crossed his arms and scowled at the prophetess.
The innkeeper narrowed his eyes. “Acht! Damned gentry and your sick games.” He pointed his axe at Broderick. “I’ve had enough of you and your lady friend. Get out of my tavern.”
As much as Broderick wanted to release his pent up anger and grief on everyone around him, rational thought won over his emotions. These men didn’t deserve his wrath. He’d save that for Malloren. He leveled his gaze on her. “Aye, let us take this outside, shall we?”
She rubbed her throat and nodded. Rick collected his cloak and satchel, then pivoted on his heel and stalked from the tavern.
The damp, chilled August night haunted his form, surrounding him with heavy foreboding. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, nestling it against his right hip. Out of instinct, he checked to ensure his sword cleared his scabbard at his left hip. Malloren scampered to catch up as he stomped down the road to the coastline. He donned his cloak and hugged it tight against his throat. The North Sea lay quietly hidden on his left behind an oppressive fog bank. The stillness of the late night sucked the life out of his argument. He grumbled.
“We are far enough from the town. Let us speak.”
He continued down the road at a determined pace. “So you can feed me more of your lies? I think not.”
“You dreamt of her today, didn’t you?”
He stopped and held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the dream and Davina’s haunting presence.
“Davina lives.”
He whirled to face the prophetess and she staggered back. “Why are you here! To torment me? Is my grief not enough to satisfy you?”
“I’m here to help you. She has been regenerated.”
“Regenerated?” A cold lump formed in his stomach and snaked over his heart. “You mean from the grave?”
“No, as in reborn.”
Broderick choked on his words. “Are you mad?”
“Have you not had a yearning to come here? Are you not drawn to this place by an unknown force?”
“Stop speaking to me in riddles! She is dead!” Broderick paced, doing his best to push down the rising tide of hope the prophetess could bring back his wife. He couldn’t believe…because to believe was insane!
“Davina’s soul resides in another body and is calling out to you now.”
“What are you…? So she is a wee bairn? A child I am to…what, raise?” Broderick resisted the urge to slap the woman, who had obviously lost all her faculties.
“No, of course not. She is a woman grown.”
He stood with his mouth agape. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I know this may sound—”
“Preposterous? Absolutely absurd? That it does! And you contradict your teachings. The soul lives once and is destined for heaven or hell. You must take me for an idiot! Is it not why Vamsyrians were created—to trap the soul and condemn it to an eternity in hell? A choice, I might add, you have also made.”
“Yes, as is my understanding of this arrangement with Satan, and yes…I am a part of those souls now. But if we can fulfill the prophecy, we will be saved. Davina is the key.”
“If we can fulfill the prophecy?” Broderick placed his fists on his hips. “You speak as though we have a say in the matter.”
Color mottled Malloren’s cheeks. “If the prophecy can be fulfilled,” she amended. “As for the soul’s journey into death, there are some who are given the choice to return to earth. Thus is the purpose of Davina’s soul, to return and fulfill the prophecy.”
Broderick’s mind twirled with confusion and he shook his head to clear it. “I have had enough of this.” He stalked away from Malloren, the sea on his left once again, his figure bent forward to his destination.
“And yet you still walk toward her instead of your ship,” Malloren confirmed. “She has long, dark-brown hair, does she not?”
Broderick slowed his steps. He was walking away from Vollstadt instead of toward his ship.
“But she still has the dark-blue eyes of Davina, no?”
He stopped and, again, closed his eyes to resist becoming lost in the dream of her. “How do you know this?”
“I have seen her in visions and this is why I am here. Tell me the dream.”
He breathed deep. “She’s in the woods. We have a tearful reunion and speak of our love.” Broderick turned to Malloren. “When I pull back from our embrace, I see the dark-haired woman of whom you speak, yet she has the eyes of Davina.”
The prophetess treaded carefully to Broderick’s side. “In my visions, she holds a wooden tome in her arms, a large tree with intertwining branches and roots. Within the roots is hidden a pentacle.”
“A pentacle?”
She nodded and knelt, drawing in the dirt with her finger a five-pointed star inside a circle with a continuous stroke of her hand, ending where she began.
Broderick’s brows rose. “Aye, I saw this book on the ground by her feet. A thick volume, bound with leather laces crisscrossed along the spine?”
“Yes, the very one.”
“The pentacle. I haven’t seen it often, but hasn’t it been used against the accused, which are facing the endless inquisitions that rape these lands? I saw many such trials on my journey here.”
She frowned. “Yes but, unfortunately, the Church has taken this symbol of life and protection against evil and turned it into a tool of hatred. Hypocrites.” She tapped on each point of the star. “Water, fire, earth, air and spirit enclosed within the circle. All of the elements in a never-ending knot. Harmony and unity of life.” Malloren snatched Broderick’s hand, using him to help her rise, and she gasped, holding tight. He tried to free from her grasp, but she refused to release him until she opened her eyes and grinned. “I see you have made a nuisance of yourself to the Inquisitors.”
Broderick crossed his arms and stepped away from her. “I couldn’t just let those innocent people burn. I heard their thoughts. The church is wrong…as usual.” He glared down his nose at her. “What does all this have to do with Davina?”
“This book holds the next sign in the prophecy. And she seeks a cure for Satan’s weapon against the Vamsyrians.”
“
Now you’re talking in circles, Prophetess. If Satan created the Vamsyrians, why would he need a weapon against them?” He cocked his eyebrow, skeptical of the forthcoming explanation.
“That is the deception of the Prince of Darkness. He lures God’s children to willingly turn their back against their Father, and then slays them with the venom of another creature to ensure their souls belong to him. Satan’s sure way to bypass the redemption of the prophecy.”
“You speak of werewolves.” Broderick rubbed his left shoulder, scarred over thirty years ago during his first encounter with the claws of Satan’s weapon.
“Yes, and you are treading into their territory. There are many sightings and encounters in Germania. Some of those burned at the stake are afflicted with the curse of the werewolf, so the frenzy of witch trials in Germany are not without cause. If you are bitten by one of these creatures, your death will be long and torturous. You cannot let that happen.”
He pursed his lips. “You have a talent for stating the obvious. I assure you, that is not my chosen path to the grave.”
“Werewolves are not harmed by the sun. I suggest you find aconite to guard your ship during the day. And have your crew carry it in sachets.”
He frowned. “Aconite? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is also known as monkshood, wolfsbane.” She jerked her head in the direction of the road. “You will find Davina in the Village of Kostbar ahead. You are here to reunite with her and protect her.”
Broderick turned his back on the prophetess for fear he might strangle her again. As usual, her ability to know so much about him made him uneasy. In fact… “Tell me prophetess, do your abilities as a Vamsyrian extend to giving me dreams of my dead wife to serve your purpose?”
The gentle waves lapping against the beach was his answer. Rick whirled to find the prophetess gone. “Curse you, woman!”
He wiped his face and paced a few steps before sighing and studying the empty road to the village. The fog from the North Sea crept onto the land and wove through the trees bordering the path, obscuring his view.
His wandering had led him here. He would see this through. If Davina wasn’t there and if these were more lies, then he would put this damned prophecy and his grief behind him and head back to Scotland. But if the prophetess was right…
Broderick’s heart hammered in his chest with a hope he’d not felt in almost a century. Could it be? Will she know me? Will she remember our love? He shook his head. “I am mad.”
Nothing, not even death, will keep me from loving you…my spirit will pursue you until the end of time. Together forever.
“Eternally yours,” he responded to his heart’s desire, and stomped down the path toward Kostbar.
Not a mile down the road, Broderick winced at the howling and staggering man on the road before him. The fumes from the libations in which he’d indulged drifted on the wind and soured the air as badly as his slurred singing, but did not disguise the unmistakable and sweet scent of blood. Though The Hunger surged through Broderick, it no longer lorded over him as it once had decades ago. He was now the master of his immortal urges and continued at his leisurely pace, eventually catching up to the stranger.
“Guten Abend!” The man swept his floppy hat from his head and executed an unstable bow toward Broderick, who grasped the man’s shoulders before he fell face-first into the dirt.
“Good evening,” Broderick repeated in German with a chuckle and righted the man.
“Oh, thank ye, kind sir.” He hiccupped and nodded. His face was smeared with crusted blood and his fat lip protruded as he tried to smile. A few missing teeth, the ones he had yellow and brown with stains, and the lines framing his eyes allowed Broderick to estimate this man around his mid-fifties. His scraped jaw was covered with gray stubble from the day.
“‘Tis a rough night you’ve had, eh?” Broderick pointed to his own face as reference to where his drunken friend was marred. “Brawl at the tavern?”
The man licked his bloodied lip self-consciously and waved Broderick’s comment away with a sloppy gesture. “Bah! Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. I suppose I deserved it. I became somewhat belligerent.” He shrugged and chuckled before continuing down the road.
“You live close by?” Broderick strolled casually alongside him.
“Just over that hill there.”
“Well, I’m headed in the same direction. I’ll be sure you make it home safe to your woman.”
The man barked a mirthless laugh. “No woman in my life, boy.” He sobered, his eyes softening with deep sadness mixed with regret. No, God took her from me. Too soon. Much too soon. His emotions and thoughts swirled around Broderick, as thick as the fog coming off the sea.
Broderick fought the sting of tears, empathizing with the man. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought I might have to help you fight off an angry pot-wielding handful when you crossed the threshold.”
Their laughter mingled across the field as they turned up the road toward a modest dairy farm, judging by the smell and the stalls. “I thank ye kindly for keepin’ me company on the road. A good night to ye, sir.”
“Night.” He waved and stared after the man as he trudged to the small cottage at the edge of the farm. Rick called forth The Hunger and the familiar pain sliced over his gums as his fangs extended. Just as the man opened the door, Broderick rushed forward at the unnatural speed of immortality and spirited the man inside. “I wish I could rob the grief from you as easily as your blood,” he whispered, then bit his victim’s throat and drank deep.
Chapter Two
The dairy farmer slumped in Broderick’s arms as he fed from him. Josef was his name and his wife Annika was killed by a wild animal in the woods ten years ago. Or rather a wild animal was Josef’s conviction, for he didn’t believe in werewolves. They’d had one child—a grown man now with a wife and a child of their own on the way. Josef lived alone at the dairy farm, but his son and daughter-in-law visited often, filling the void of losing Annika.
Once The Hunger was satisfied, Broderick wiped the experience of the feeding from Josef’s mind. The only thing he would remember would be saying good night to Broderick before walking into his house. Broderick laid him in his bed, took off his boots and tossed a woolen blanket over his peaceful form. Piercing his thumb with his fang, Broderick smeared his immortal blood over the neck wounds, which healed without scar or blemish, then wiped Josef’s neck clean of the blood. The man would awaken thinking he’d passed out as soon as he hit the bed.
“Good night, Josef.” Broderick righted the chair he’d apparently knocked over in the initial scuffle and let himself out. He stomped down the path, back to the road and continued toward Kostbar. Though Josef grieved for his wife, his life was good and his memories much more pleasant than those Broderick had seen those many years feeding on the slugs of society. Initially, he had kept to preying on criminals—rapists, molesters, thieves and murderers. Doing a good deed, he’d believed, by giving them nightmares and hoping to scare them into changing their ways. When he learned such a method only drove them mad, he settled for wiping their minds clean of the encounter, just like he’d done with Josef. But afterward, Broderick was the one plagued with the memories of their unfortunate lives. Eventually, he fed more and more from good-natured people, who at least seemed responsible for themselves and their actions. Though not many lived today without some struggle to survive, at least their life experiences were less tumultuous…easier to stomach.
Sometimes, though, Broderick still dined on those black souls who relished in victimizing others. He would sacrifice some peace of mind on occasion to rid the world of their evil intensions and he had no regrets.
He ran southeast along the cost for less than a mile before he stumbled upon the sleeping village of Kostbar. It was smaller and poorer than Vollstadt, but held a country charm that reminded him of Stewart Glen, Davina’s home village back in Scotland. The tiny thatched-roof cottages of wattle and daub at the edge of town were fenced wit
h narrow, rugged planks no higher than his knee. White and yellow flowers spilled over the worn wood, their petals tucked and closed for the evening in the misty air. As he ventured farther down the dirt path curving toward the center of the village, the structures heightened to contain second floors, white façades crisscrossed with dark-brown and red beams, typical of the more public structures he’d encountered on his explorations through the Kingdom of Germany. A river-stone well with a peaked roof and a bucket sat in the middle of the cobbled platz. A modest wooden bench, leaning against the well, provided the perfect place for someone hauling water to and from their home to sit and rest. It was surrounded by the baker, blacksmith and, what Broderick guessed, were the other shops of necessity for the villagers. Some of the signs were too aged and worn to read. He smiled at the subtle snores and sighs his immortal hearing perceived, flittering through the various windows of the cozy dwellings nestled around the village center.
The tiny settlement was surrounded by dense trees in many directions. He surveyed the platz and spied a warm glow flickering through the half-shuttered window of a corner cottage. Ambling forward, he spotted a hunched figure of an old woman shuffling around the modest abode. Her mannerisms were so much like his dear Gypsy friend Amice, his throat closed with grief. Broderick blinked away the tears stinging his eyes. Finding Davina needed to be his main focus, not grieving for loved ones lost so long ago. But it seemed he had come to Kostbar too late in the evening. He would have to return on the morrow when the villagers were awake. While here, he headed out of the south path from the platz and into the forest to explore the surrounding area.
Scanning the trees and flat terrain, he fumed about his recent encounter with Malloren Rune. “I should have driven my sword through her heart,” he grumbled and gripped the said weapon nestled securely at his hip. But what if she’s right about Davina? He clenched his jaw. He wanted to hope. Ached for the prophetess’ insane words to be true. But how could it be possible? “The woman is full of contradictions and—”
