Chapter 3
A Harrowing Truth
FYNN
As soon as I take an interest in what Mother just said, Harlot's face turns pale as snow. She looks nauseous, and frankly, it seems an overreaction to me. She has difficulty swallowing, and I watch her as she sits down. I ignore Harlot, like the attention-seeking brat she is, and turn to my mother.
Mother is always making sure she keeps us safe. That is the life goal of this woman, and of us, to be protected, from the old Gods know what.
Harlot irritates me more and more lately, constantly nagging about everything and always affecting me to the point where I want to smash her doll-like head in. The thought of doing so makes me smile a little; her skull cracked wide open, and my hands covered in her blood.
Of course, I did not do that, and Harlot has a point, although I will never admit that to her face.
Being on the road, always looking over your shoulder, but not sure what you are looking for, is far from ideal, but complaining about it will not change our situation.
Only Mother can resolve this, but as we are on the move again, she clearly has no intention of changing our path anytime soon.
In that respect, I have no intention of fighting Mother, and even though Harlot softly protests Mother occasionally, neither does she.
Constantly whining about our everlasting trekking will not result in less traveling.
Lately, Harlot is making me uneasy; maybe ‘uneasy’ is not the right word.
She makes me feel uncomfortable and unnerved when she is around me.
She has this perverted look in her eyes as if I am some animal she wants to devour, a prey.
Harlot seems to think I do not notice it—that she is constantly eyeing me—but I do, and it creeps me out.
It triggers something inside me, a harrowing feeling like I need to always be on my toes, waiting for her, ready to bash her brains in before she gets to attack me.
But why would she even try to attack me?
I am twice her size, both in length and weight.
I can easily crush her tiny body with my bare hands if I tried.
I clench my fists unintentionally, thinking about how delicious it would feel to squash her head like a pumpkin. I sigh deeply. I need to find a way to keep those thoughts at bay, especially as I don’t feel as shocked anymore when the images linger in my head.
Still, I cannot shake off this feeling that she might be stupid enough to try something, and I will be forced to hurt her in return.
The sensation was worse in the forest, as if a damper had been removed, allowing my emotions to get the better of me. Unconsciously, I feel a smile creeping up on my face as I reflect on making her scream in agony. Why does the thought of that make me smile?
I also noticed myself staring at her in the forest, her delicate little frame, and how she fumbled with that darn knife that she keeps close by.
The display was pathetic, her small fingers clinging to that knife as she sharpened twigs.
The attempted kicks and lunges at piles of wood and stone that she built.
It took all my willpower not to burst out in laughter, even as every fiber in my body wanted to humiliate her and make her aware of how ridiculous she looked to me.
The idea of adding her body to that stinking, bleeding river made it difficult to fall asleep.
I don’t think Mother or Harlot realized that the river had actual blood flowing through it, that it wasn’t just colored water.
Thankfully, arriving at this facade of a town numbed some of my emotions. It feels as if my feelings are caged in, making navigating them less challenging.
Recently, my dreams have been haunted by the glorious imagery of murder and slaughter.
I see myself victorious, drenched in blood and guts.
But, as of late, when I look at the face of the person I have so effectively murdered, Harlot's empty, hollow, light gray eyes are always staring back at me. Her face is splattered with gore and blood drops. In the reflection of her eyes, I don’t see remorse looking back, but a face that celebrates victory, my face.
Somehow, my dreams never clarify what I am commemorating, but it cannot just be my own sister's death, at my very own hands. Right?
I should be horrified, but instead, it eases my mind. The dreams are a way to live out my frustrated fantasies. A space where I can be free, let my desires roam without any consequences, and the best part is, I can repeat them every night, over and over.
I sigh, letting go of the contemplations, filling my lungs again with the fresh, strangely scented air surrounding us, and ask my mother firmly: "What do you mean this place will keep us both safe?"
I see my mother quickly glance at Harlot, who is looking at the tips of her worn leather boots, covered in dried-up mud, as if they are the most interesting thing she has seen in a while. She quietly squats to retie her shoelaces.
I raise my eyebrows as I glare at my mother. It becomes painfully evident that I have been left out of the equation, and I cannot wait to find out what they have kept from me all this time.
"Mother," I say a little louder now, "what have you not been telling me?"
Why would I bother including Harlot in the conversation?
From the looks of it, she seems to know much more than I do.
Harlot looks agitated, then repeats my question to Mother.
Oh, she is good, a natural actress. If I had not known better and picked up on her unease, I probably would have believed this act of innocence she is portraying here, shamelessly in front of me.
The joy on Mother’s face from arriving at this place gives way to an unknown sadness I have never seen on her before.
Her smile disappears as if it had never been there.
It is gut-wrenching to see my mother like that, from a strong, independent woman, crumbling into this tiny creature standing in front of us with one mere question.
I find it distressing, I notice. From the lines of thinking on her forehead, I can tell she is looking for words to create a sentence to answer my question.
They say eyes don’t lie, but I cannot find the truth in them either.
Then, instead of answering my question, she takes a long, deep breath and just says: "Let us find a place to stay first, and when we reach Valorya, we’ll talk further, okay? Let’s not… discuss private matters in the open."
Even though it is anticlimactic and definitely not what I expected, I can only nod in agreement.
I am apprehensive about her decision, but I, too, am not too eager to discuss or fight out in the open, even though this town seems to hold no living souls.
Mother is right; particular concerns should be discussed behind closed doors, as the undead have no business meddling with mortal issues.
This seems to be one of those subjects that requires more time to explain, and I am not planning to make it easy for Mother.
She now has my full attention and curiosity; I need her to bear it all.
I see the look of disappointment on Harlot's face.
She also seems to expect a more profound response to that question.
Perhaps she did not know all that. Maybe she does not have more knowledge of that statement, contrary to what I thought.
But it is apparent that she knows something, which is still more than I know.
Impatiently, I ask my mother if she has the route to this mysterious city mapped out as well, since she clearly has extensive knowledge of how to get to this strangely beautiful town.
Without waiting for her answer, I ask her where on earth we will stay since there is no inn, at least not one with an active host. I cross my arms as I look at her, intentionally ignoring Harlot.
My mother looks at me uneasily and feebly says, "Please do not freak out, children. Each house here is inhabited, but it holds no complications for us. We can stay in whichever house we would like."
"What do you mean, each house is inhabited?" I parrot her words back to her.
She laughs awkwardly, and I squint my eyes at her, not liking where this conversation is going.
"Everything you see here, smell here," she pauses a moment, then continues, "is a veil. A magical veil, so to speak, a mirage if you want; it is only visible to humans to lure our kind in. As I mentioned earlier, it fosters a sense of safety. Something we recognize as our own, but it’s not real. Allure is what it’s called. It’s a… vampire thing."
She stops, again, that uncanny laugh.
"The supernatural—vampires inhabit this town, like I said before, and some witches, if I remember correctly. I'm not expecting any were-creatures due to that. The veil is here to bewitch us humans, drawing us to this town. Our magic is what allows us to see through it after a first glance, making us realize there’s something odd about it. Valorya will be the same, but the city is much bigger, although perhaps they don’t use allure there," she continues as if this is the most normal thing in the world to say.
We are staying in a town designed as a trap for humans, which is crowded with vampires.
And witches, do not forget about the bloody witches.
Afterward, we are on our way to Valorya, a large city inhabited primarily by vampires, and we are expected to stay there for a while.
How are we supposed to make a living and settle there?
Offer ourselves as living blood banks? I scoff at the idea of offering my wrist to a damn bloodsucker.
Harlot's face twists in a way that is new to me. It looks like anger, but with a more sorrowful tone. The words that come out of Mother's mouth are not received pleasantly on her end, either.