A Restless Fate (Aurum duet #1)

Chapter 1

A Dead Promise

HARLOT

“Grab your stuff, Harlot. For once, could you please not stall? I am begging you.”

Mother chases me as she stuffs whatever she can in a duffel bag—meaningless things.

I don’t understand why she rushes me. It’s not like we have much anyway.

We never stay somewhere long enough to build a life or collect anything important.

For as long as I can remember, Mother has been moving us around.

It wasn’t as often when we were younger, but now that we are maturing, there is more urgency to it. She’s developed a restlessness.

I slowly pack my few items and watch my brother, Fynn, do the same in silence. He’s always been the silent type.

My Mother is frantically pushing one of the old books she always carries and scribbles in into her bag.

They are the only things she always brings with her wherever we go—those damn books.

Fynn and I are never allowed to look into them, and her secretive behavior bothers me more with each passing day.

Of course, I’ve asked her. I asked nicely, sweetly, and demandingly, but the perplexed look on her face, followed by a scowl, always led to the same response: those books were not for our eyes.

She always came up with the same excuses: we were too young, too pure.

I glare out of the stained window, irritated, my arms folded. I watch a young girl being dragged, kicking and screaming like a feral animal, by her long golden hair and tied to a tree in the middle of the town—a sacrifice to the old Gods. I scoff at the idea.

The foul man who is handling her is rough, ignoring her piercing cries.

He brutally takes hold of her face, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin, holding her stare.

He takes a small hunting knife from his belt, and with one swift movement, her throat is slit, and blood spurts from the gaping wound.

The man doesn’t bat an eye as his face is colored crimson, and her mouth opens and closes like a fish on dry land, gasping for air.

The man who tied her to the tree continues to butcher her.

He cuts her arms, legs, and stomach, separating her flesh from her bone almost expertly; pieces of flesh dangle from her frail body.

Blood collects around her feet, running in a stream of red.

His cutting her throat is a mercy, something the old Gods no longer give to humankind.

I frown as I watch the scene unfolding before me; even after witnessing it a thousand times, it always baffles me.

Other townsfolk scurry out of their homes and lay down flowers and food in the pool of fresh blood, not fazed by the dying girl.

They ignore her pleas, as if that will please any Gods, as they arrange their offerings.

They spare no kindness to the dying, innocent soul; a child from the Gods, which humans are supposed to be—children of the old Gods.

The only thing for certain is that once more, a young life has been taken without repercussions.

She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen or seventeen. I’m sure the old Gods are thrilled with the violence that is enacted in their name. I shake my head at the whole ordeal.

This was a merciful kill compared to many sadistic murders I’ve seen in other towns.

Once, a handler had claimed that adrenaline made the child more enlightened.

The adrenaline is only created by brutal torture and rape.

An excuse to perform their perverted fantasies as an act of awakening, holding no repercussions. A crime disguised as a hecatomb.

No one intervened; all delusional fools, as they stand by and witness it all. For some reason, we women are always deemed the better offerings, easy prey. Preferably teens.

These assholes pretend to work as so-called acolytes of the old Gods, while in reality, all they do is protect their own asses from the vampires and Blood Witches that roam these grounds, commonly referred to as darkling, or night creatures.

The darklings leave my family alone, unable to come near us, but the vampires still eye us like hungry wolves. They have a strong desire to taste our blood—a forbidden fruit.

One time, a vampire compelled a human to take me away from my family to sacrifice me.

I was barely thirteen years old when the human stirred up a conversation with me.

He tried to drag me off the streets, fortunately, he, too, was unable to steal me away due to the compulsion.

My mother heard me scream in panic, and she ran to me, her face contorted by anger.

A wild woman filled with rage, ready to protect her offspring.

Her fury was unmatched, as she tore the man apart, stabbing him to death with her dagger.

While the man begged my mother to be spared, the compulsion waned with each stab, making it clear that a vampire had compelled him.

Hearing the description of the vampire, I knew exactly who he was talking about, and I was able to point him out to Mother.

Without mercy, she hunted the vampire down.

It took dedication on her part, but eventually, she reached him and burned him to ashes. A violent message to every being in that village: my brother and I were not to be taken unless you had a death wish.

No one even dared to look at me after that encounter—humans and dark creatures alike.

The dark beings don’t care if we murder each other.

None of them will interfere if we fight.

Ever since the Light was destroyed centuries ago during the Witch Wars, the value of human life has been diminished.

We are nothing more than a source of food or energy to them, to use and abuse as they please.

I turn away from the dead girl. It’s one of many encounters I have seen from a young age, and I know there’s no saving this girl.

It no longer affects me as it used to—the killing, the blood, the unnecessary torture.

It’s a vicious circle that seems to repeat itself in every town we temporarily settle in.

Everywhere, humans are acting like they have lost their minds, no longer sure how to defend themselves against the dark creatures.

The tables turned when the Light was taken out, and Darkness took over control.

We became prey once more, no longer the hunters, or so I’ve been told.

Mother looks at me, annoyance written all over her face. I can tell from her body language that this horrid, useless sacrifice makes her uneasy. I know these murders are not the reason for our sudden departure, though.

I rarely question my mother’s motives anymore, but the older I get, and the more secretive she acts, the more suspicious I become. I have this gut feeling that the books are the reason we are always on the move, fleeing and hiding.

Yet, we are always lying low in towns plagued with these night creatures.

The towns we stay in are constantly crawling with vampires and Blood Witches.

Sometimes, there is the occasional werewolf or shifter, but they prefer to stay in their own territories in the West, where vampires and witches would not set foot unless required.

It's mostly the vampires and Blood Witches that seem to have some sort of mutual understanding. So what is it we’re actually hiding from?

Even though we share our world with the darklings, Mother rarely speaks of them, as if she can’t see them.

They stay away from us because of the peculiar magic we hold; it makes it unbearable for them to be too near to us.

We can even kill them if we touch them, or if they somehow manage to touch us.

When I was fifteen, I asked my mother if we could please stay in one place for longer than a few months, especially now that we were older. There was a flare of emotion in her eyes before she grimaced and told me she couldn’t give me that yet, but she promised me it would be soon.

But soon never came.

I asked because I wanted to settle and finally build a life of my own.

Find a partner. It was the only time I asked, and I resented her for not allowing it, for refusing to comply with such a simple request. The resentment built over the years, and I was left in the dark about why we moved so often.

It’s been almost three years. My brother and I are turning eighteen soon, but she doesn’t seem to care about our time, only her own.

She always says the same thing when we ask why we have to move, and despite the pain I see in her eyes—the hurt she hides behind her smile—her promises mean less each time, her excuses becoming weaker.

And perhaps some things are better left unsaid, to move on in silence, but she owes us an explanation as to why she is stealing our lives away.

Every person is born into this world with the same guarantee. It is a beautiful yet delicate vow from parent to child—if you believe in it. I used to believe in it, but now I find it a sickening, delusional promise.

When you are born into this world, you receive the guarantee that you can become extraordinary if you wish hard enough and are willing to work toward becoming all that you can be.

It is an assurance that every parent, caretaker, or guardian lays ahead for their children as they enter this world.

Or perhaps it is a vow they make only for themselves, something to hold onto in this rotten, infested world we live in nowadays.

No matter which part of society you are born into, every being is guaranteed to be told the same ideal.

Both humanity and those representing it.

That fragile promise lingers around us, like profanity almost; it gives us aspiration, often in an unfair manner—a curse, cloaked as hope, a forsaken dream.

We grab at that promise, yet it steadily slips away from us, a little further every day, while the clock keeps ticking.

We know it’s a lie, yet our minds play tricks on us, desire keeps us going, chasing after that elusive dream—nothing more than a mere illusion for most of us.