CHAPTER 20 #2
The woman lifted a gnarled finger and pointed toward the far end of the market square, where a weathered oak coffer sat beneath a faded awning, its iron slot just wide enough for slips of folded parchment.
“Drop your name if you wish, along with your mark of abode.”
My eyes lingered there longer than they should have.
The instructions were simple enough, but I had no fixed threshold to write down. I wasn’t from Mythcrest or any of these towns.
The blacksmith let out a short laugh. “She’s a hunter, Mathilda.” He looked at me then. “Hunters aren’t meant to be on those lists.”
It was nothing I didn’t already know. Every day for over a month, I returned after my hunts, finding shelter in Redmoore’s outposts along the outskirts.
And each day, I tried to piece together some pattern: the villagers said the coffer was emptied at odd hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes after midnight.
Some slips were taken immediately, others left for weeks.
There was no real routine nor known requirements.
No one knew what earned you an invitation.
Age, skill, beauty—none of it seemed to matter.
The scant stories and whispered rumors weren’t substantial enough to actually find the one who emptied it. Frustration gnawed at me, and I felt it in my chest every time I crouched behind a stall, heart pounding as the market emptied.
Then, finally, at dusk on some unremarkable evening, a figure in a dark hood and mask approached. They knelt, unlocked the coffer, and began emptying the folded slips into a leather satchel.
Finally.
I followed, keeping to the edges of the street, shadow to shadow.
But when they turned the last corner toward the outer road, they were gone, as if the night itself had swallowed them whole.
An absolute waste of my time.
I splash icy water over my face, snapping me back from the edges of my spiraling thoughts, but the relief is fleeting. The cold bites, breaking through the tight knot of anxiety gripping me.
My hands find the basin, the stone cool beneath my fingers.
Breathe.
I wipe my face with a rough cloth, but the unease lingers.
Tonight will demand more than I’m ready to give.
A loud knock at the door signals the redhead’s return. She sweeps in carrying a small vanity case and a pair of heeled shoes that match the dress. “It’s time,” she announces, setting down her burdens. “Let’s get you ready.”
I walk out of the bathroom reluctantly, allowing her to help me into the dress. The fabric is soft against my skin.
She works quickly, her fingers deft as she fastens clasps and adjusts the fall of the material. “I’m Irene, by the way.” She smiles as she circles me, checking the fit. “I forgot to introduce myself earlier.”
“Seraph,” I say, but she already knew that.
I watch her reflection in the mirror as she opens the vanity case, an array of cosmetics within.
With graceful movements, she applies powder to my face, color to my lips and cheeks, shadow to my eyelids. The transformation is subtle but effective, enhancing without disguising.
“How long have the Ravens been in Mythcrest?” I venture, trying to keep my tone conversational, as if I’m merely making small talk.
“Long enough to become part of its fabric.” She works on my hair next, twisting strands into an elegant half-up. “The pin, please.”
I hand her the black, filigreed hairpin she’s gesturing toward. “And Revenant? Has he always been your leader?”
She meets my eyes in the mirror. “We don’t use that term around here.”
There’s no answer to my question.
“Well, I don’t know his real name.”
Her hands slow momentarily before resuming their work. “I’m sure you’ll have a chance to get acquainted more properly tonight.”
I try a different angle. “Why does he hate me so much?”
Me hating him makes perfect sense. The other way around? Not so much.
“Hate is a strong word.” Irene smiles, fingers never pausing. “He’s cautious with outsiders. Always has been.”
Finally, she secures the mask over my eyes, tying the satin ribbons behind my head. The world narrows, my peripheral vision limited by the curved edges of the leather.
“There,” she says, stepping back to assess her work. “Perfect.”
When I look in the mirror, a few wispy strands framing my face, a stately version of me stares back.
I turn to face her directly then, abandoning any pretense of casual interest. “What is his relation to my mother?” For a moment, I think I’ve pierced through her composed exterior.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with you.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s a new firmness to it that signals the end of that line of questioning. “Our leader will, when he deems it appropriate.” She offers her arm. “Shall we?”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Not like I have a choice.”
There’s no disagreement.
She guides me through corridors I haven’t seen before, each more elaborately decorated than the last. Classical music drifts through the air, a haunting melody played on strings and wind instruments.
The redolent scent of incense grows stronger, drifting in hazy tendrils and mingling with something sweeter—blood, freshly drawn and waiting.
We descend a spiral staircase into what must once have been a ballroom, now transformed by hanging silks that partition the space into smaller, intimate enclaves. Candles float in glass bowls, casting a warm glow that softens everything it touches.
A long banquet table stands off to one side, draped in velvet and set with big platters of fruits glazed in honey, warm bread, smoked meats, and delicate pastries arranged like offerings.
Those are likely meant for the bloodmaids, though a few masked figures drift by and pick at the delicacies as if sampling them out of sheer curiosity.
At the center of the room, a raised dais holds several high-backed chairs, where more masked figures watch the proceedings with regal detachment, occasionally raising a goblet in silent acknowledgment of some unseen motion or word.
One mask is a more elaborate version of the others, with intricate silver scrollwork tracing the edges.
It must be Revenant’s.
“You don’t happen to serve blodas here, do you?” I ask, eyeing the drinks being carried on silver trays.
Irene gives me a perplexed look. “That processed rubbish Penn City sells?”
I had a feeling she would say that.
She takes me a few steps farther, then pauses at the edge of the room and gently squeezes my arm. “Partake,” she says. “For the night is long and the hour fleeting.” With a graceful pivot, she disappears through a gap in the silk drapes.
For a moment, I stand alone, noting each cushioned alcove where a Raven and a bloodmaid sit together, engaged in what looks more like courtship than anything else.
A blond Raven whose name I recall to be Reece, though it’s hard to tell with the mask, sits with a young woman whose dark hair falls in waves down her back.
He speaks to her softly, his hand brushing her arm in a gesture that seems both reassuring and possessive.
She laughs at something he says, then tilts her head, offering her neck.
Reece leans in slowly, his lips tracing the line of her throat before his fangs sink in.
The woman’s eyes close, her expression one of rapture rather than pain.
His hand cradles the back of her head, supporting her as he drinks.
The intimacy isn’t what bothers me. After all, I’ve seen this sort of interaction before in Penn City. With my friends, even. What bothers me is that, despite getting paid for it, these people simply don’t know a better existence.
The Ravens are preying on those who are scared, hungry, and live where no soldiers come.
It may look like consent, but having to choose safety and money over fear and death is no choice at all.
It’s a desperate surrender masked as agreement.
A desperation so deep it smothers real choice.
They take the Ravens’ offer because they have no other.
I look away, suddenly uncomfortable with the scene.
But everywhere I turn, similar tableaus unfold. A Raven with her mouth pressed to a woman’s wrist. A man straddling another Raven’s lap as he offers her his throat. Each feeding seems choreographed to maximize pleasure and minimize pain.
“Obscene, isn’t it?”
I startle at the low, sarcastic whisper brushing against my ear.
Revenant moves to stand beside me, his white hair falling in tousled strands around his face, some grazing the upper edge of his mask, drawing the eye down to the stark, strong line of his jaw.
He’s clad in black over white, taut lines clinging to his form just enough to suggest the strength beneath.
The first few buttons of his shirt rest open—not quite styled like Cain, simply undone—as if he never thought to fasten them in the first place.
Every fold and seam looks like it were composed for some grand symphony, as though the night itself has tailored him for the stage.
It’s a plain ensemble, really, only made powerful by being on him.
Even here, in this pristine setting, he carries a coldness that none of the fine clothes can soften.
Something untamed beneath all the refinement.
It emanates from his gaze, his body language, betraying a seasoned brutality that’s ready to slip into something far darker when the need arises.
This outward perfection is merely the guise he’s chosen to wear for tonight.
“At least you’ve mastered the art of pretension,” I say. “Too bad you can’t hide what you really are. A bloodsucker.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if trying to decide whether my words are worth taking seriously. A faint, almost amused smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.
Before he can respond, a young man approaches us. He’s short and slender, with clear blue eyes that seem to hold an innocent curiosity. He bows to Revenant, then turns to me.
“My lady,” he addresses me, his voice carrying a slight accent I can’t place. “Would you honor me with your company?”