Chapter Twenty-Three
Azizi
It has been ages since my last true hunt. So long that the excitement sparks through my veins like lightning, singing between my fingers and buzzing all around me at the mere idea of it.
With a family such as mine, there is no need to hunt so often.
We have our resources, places we are able to get blood easily without needing to get our hands dirty.
Even when searching for a new body for Kolfina, it is hardly a hunt when the women come so easily, lured in with a flattering smile and a few whispered promises.
But a true hunt—prowling through the shadows of the night, following the trail of sweat and blood, listening for the frantic thump-thump-thump of a frightened heart… There is nothing else like it.
And oh, it is so easy when the prey are stupid. When they skitter around through the streets, constantly glancing over their shoulder like little rats. Aware that something isn’t right, but unable to determine what exactly is causing their distress.
I had never planned on hunting in Sainte-Falaise. There are rules to hunting so close to home, and with a village as small as this one, I mostly resort to finding my quarries in the city instead. It is safer that way, keeping the attention away from me should certain people go missing.
But this one… this one might prove to be an exception.
He is an ugly thing, with his curly hair pulled back into a pig’s tail at the base of his skull and bruising stained across his crooked nose and cheeks like splattered ink.
His evening jacket was nice enough, his hat well-maintained and his shoes shined, but there was a darkness in him that soured his scent.
A thick layer of pride and cruelty that nearly swallowed the lingering scent of blood hidden beneath the bandages on his hand.
Kolfina had called him ‘Fitzwilliam’ when telling me what had happened at the end of the festival, a name that meant nothing to me in her shaky handwriting, and yet seemed to mean so much to Theodore judging by Kolfina’s account of events.
It has been nearly four days since that night, and we’ve yet to see Theodore again. Had it not been for the letter we received from his father informing us that Theodore was ill, I’d have stormed the village long before this.
It is… worrying, to say the least. Over the past few months, I have grown used to Kolfina and Theodore’s joint presence in my life.
And while Kolfina’s borrowed feet still pace nervously down the halls, and Mr. Allard’s near-silent steps still shift from room to room as he cleans, there is a noticeable absence that lingers where Theodore’s heavy boots once trod.
The quiet agitates me, and I can tell Kolfina’s nerves are eating away at her the longer he stays away.
Her borrowed body has already begun to decay, though at a slower rate than I have ever seen.
The skin has grown ashen and grey, her lips a violet blue.
Her eyes become more sightless with every day, and Mr. Allard has taken to keeping any precious displays behind locked doors in fear of her knocking them over by accident.
Still, she refuses to leave the vessel, worried she would not be able to go to the village without it.
Worried she could not go to him without it.
And all because this little rat decided to grow teeth.
How often does he torture our Theodore, I wonder? Is he the one who has sewn fear into my lover’s heart? Are any of the scars on Theodore’s body from his hands?
I wish to tear out his tongue for what he said that night.
Wish to dig his unworthy eyeballs from his skull for so much as looking at Theodore with such disgust. He would fight me, surely, but where would he go when I have him pinned to the ground, my teeth in his throat as I slowly and painfully draw the life out of him?
What use would his size be against me? What use are his hands when I have cut them off?
An owl hoots in the distance and the boy jumps at the sound, whipping around to search the darkness with wide eyes.
He finds no one. The streets are all but empty at this time of night, and I have means of going unseen when needed, but it does not stop him from trying.
From calling out to ask if there is anyone there, only to receive silence in return.
His heartbeat stutters in his chest. I can smell the sweat dripping down his back.
How long could he go before the paranoia drives him insane?
Days? Weeks? If not for Theodore, I might have drawn it out more.
Might have haunted him for years, if only to give him a taste of the distress he’s caused my lover.
A quick death is too kind for prey like this, and if my suspicions are true of the pain he’s caused, he deserves far more than a mere frightening.
Yet still, even as my fingers twitch to tear the heart from his chest, something in me hesitates.
Not out of mercy for the terrified rat, but out of consideration for my dear wolf.
Theodore is such a soft little thing, despite the vicious beast that hides within him, and I cannot help imagining the guilt and despair on his face should Fitzwilliam turn up missing—or worse.
Could he accept that the blood is on my hands instead of his? Would he let me carry that guilt for him, or would it weigh him down even further? Would his god punish him for a crime that he did not commit?
I do not believe in Theodore’s god, but his faith is a powerful thing, and something in me does not want to risk the fear of damnation Fitzwilliam’s death might hoist upon him.
So I stay in my shadows, and I watch. I follow him through the streets and around corners as he rushes home from the tavern, draw in close as he stops at his door and fumbles with the key.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise, his breath stuttering in his throat.
By the time he whips around to search for me, I am already gone, observing him from the dark alleyway across the cobbled street.
A pity, I think when the door finally shuts him inside the house. Fear always makes the blood taste sweeter, and I hate to see such opportunity go to waste.
Perhaps Theodore would approve, if I could tell him my plan. Perhaps I could convince him to let me give him this gift, this offering. I do so hate to see him suffer, and if killing one little nuisance can finally give him some peace, then is it not worth it?
The question still rattles around in my head when I find my horse again, tied up just outside the Villin’s shop where I’d left her hours ago. She nuzzles into my palm in greeting, her fur warm against the chill of the evening.
“Oh, Calliope, I would take him away from here if he would let me,” I tell her, resting my forehead against her snout with a sigh. “What a fool am I for falling in love with a sentimental pup.”
“Ah, pardon me, my lady. Could I help you find something?”
The voice itself is not a surprise—I could hear his footsteps coming before he’d even turned the corner—and I raise my gaze to the young man standing just a few feet away.
He’s much prettier than the rat I’ve been following all evening, with a sharp face and a head of flaxen curls.
He gives me a boyish smile, the kind young men give to women when trying to be charming. Pity for him I have no interest.
“Mr. Villin has closed for the evening,” the boy continues, gesturing at the shop. “He won’t open again until the morning.”
“Yes, it seems I’ve arrived a tad later than planned,” I lie easily, giving him an apologetic smile. “I don’t suppose you know where he lives? It’s rather a matter of urgency, I’m afraid.”
The smile on his face grows strained and somewhat unsure. “Yes, I do, but—well, apologies, but I’m not sure they’d welcome any company right now. His daughter has taken to bed, you see, and it’s been a rough recovery.”
So Theodore is ill, then. The fact worries me as much as it reassures.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The boy shifts beneath my gaze, his brow crinkling above his curious eyes.
I keep one hand on my horse, the other loose at my side as if to reassure him I am no threat.
“I wasn’t aware the Villins had a daughter.
Their son works for me at my manor on the peak, and I’ve been quite worried since he’s not shown up the past few days for work. ”
Shock. Worry. A brief moment of fear.
The boy's heart beats faster, and his face flushes. His smile is no longer charming or strained, now tapering into an awkward, hesitant thing. The kind you give someone who has caught you in a lie.
“Right, of course. Well, he is um—indisposed at the moment. There was an incident a few days ago,” he hesitates to say, tugging anxiously at his sleeves.
“If you'd like, I can show you where to go, but—well, I'm not sure they'll welcome you.
They haven't taken any visitors since Do—ah, since Theo had his accident.”
Accident.
The word echoes in my mind as he leads me down a few of the side streets to a small residential area behind the markets.
Had something else happened after Mr. Allard rescued Theodore and Kolfina from behind the schoolhouse?
Was that why Fitzwilliam’s face was bruised and his hand bandaged? Was Theodore in similar condition?
I nearly turn around to hunt the man down again at the mere thought.
To know he harasses my Theodore is one thing, but to know he has laid hands on him?
Enough so to keep him home from work, from us?
It is almost enough for me to ignore Theodore’s faith and guilt entirely.
Surely it would be worth keeping him safe, wouldn’t it?
“Here we are,” my guide says as we pause at a neat little house with a wind chime made of thimbles hanging from the porch. “Mr. Villin should still be awake if you want to knock. I cannot guarantee he will let you inside, however.”
“That is perfectly fine,” I answer with a nod. “Thank you for your help.”
The young man frowns, shuffling on his feet as he glances at the door again.
I wait patiently for whatever he wants to say, a bit shocked when he finally does speak up.
"If you do manage to speak with Theo, will you—that is.
.. I know it is none of your business of course, but would you tell him Louis is worried about him? And that I'm sorry?"
He doesn't wait around for my answer, instead ducking into the house next door and shutting himself away, shame and fear leaving a rank scent in the back of my nose. Perhaps Theodore could explain who the boy is—if I manage to speak with him, that is.
I hadn’t planned on visiting his home so soon.
When I donned my culottes and mounted my horse, I’d only thought to stop by the shop and leave Mr. Villin with something for Theodore to drink while he is away.
Then I’d seen the rat, smelt the lingering scent of Theodore’s fear following him through the streets, and found another way to spend my evening.
“Oh well,” I mutter, patting Calliope on the nose. “I am here now and there is nothing for it. If we are lucky, Theodore will be willing to see us. Stay here, girl. I’ll only be a moment.”
Aside from the flickering light inside and the occasional clink of dishware, there is not much in the way of life that I can hear or see. Worry rages against the wall of my stomach when I knock, the entire house falling silent for just a moment before footsteps begin to hurry my way.
I almost do not recognize the man who opens the door. Though I only just saw Mr. Villin mere days ago, he looks older and more ragged now, his hair tangled atop his head and the wrinkles of his eyes miles deeper than I remember. His beard is unkempt, his clothes wrinkled.
The pit in my stomach grows ever larger.
“Ah! L-Lady Alilovi?! W-we weren't expecting you,” he stutters, all but jumping at my appearance, though he keeps his voice low and quiet. “I-I'm afraid Theodore isn't here.”
This is a lie. After so long of knowing him, of loving him, I can practically feel Theodore in my chest when he is near. I can smell him at the other end of the house—the stench of old blood, the rot of sickness. I can hear his fluttering heartbeat—too quick and unsteady.
“Please do not insult me, Monsieur Villin,” I implore him in a gentle tone. He still flinches from it, and I offer him a small smile. “I only wish to inquire about his health. He has not shown up for work in a few days, and we are rather worried about him.”
Clearly something has happened, though I can tell by the look on the man's face that I won't be learning it from him. His own worry and fear are palatable, but his loyalty to his son is stronger.
"I'm sorry, my lady, but Theo isn't seeing anyone right now," he finally says.
I consider this, tapping my fingers on my opposite wrist behind my back. “Can you tell me when I can expect his return? Shall I call for a doctor from the city? I assure you, I can afford it—”
“No! No—” Mr. Villin swallows, the fear only growing in his big eyes. I feel the sudden need to shake the man, desperate for answers. “We’ve spoken to a doctor already, but I cannot say, ma’am, when to expect him. He’s not doing well, and I cannot say when—if—he’ll be coming back.”
If.
The idea is absurd, really. Only a few months since he started working for me, lesser still that we have been lovers, and yet the thought of his absence is a gaping wound in my chest. It pours rotten blood across the steps, exposing my insides for the world to see.
I cannot imagine my home without him in it.
Cannot imagine the devastation this will wrought on Kolfina and myself.
“I see.” The words come out choked and strained, but he does not call me on them. “Well, if you would give him my regards and hopes for a quick recovery. I have also brought him a gift, if you'll give me just a moment.”
The old man nods, though he anxiously twists at his wrinkled fingers as I step away and call Calliope closer.
I pluck a thin case from the bag on the saddle and hold it out for him to take.
“I know he is ill, but it's a bottle of a special red wine from my family's vineyard in Italy.
He's rather fond of it, and I just recently got some more in. If you'll see to it that he gets it?”
I feel no guilt about lying to the man, and I have the feeling that when he pulls the bottle out and looks at it, Mr. Villin knows that it is not wine within the bottle. Once again, he does not call me on it, but to my surprise, something eases in his shoulders as he hugs the bottle close and nods.
“I'll do so. Thank you kindly, Lady Alilovi?.”
“And please,” I say once more, “let him know we are worried about him. Both of us.”
Mr. Villin nods before closing the door.
I cannot help but think I have been shut out completely, and I desperately hope that it isn't so.