Chapter 13
An Uncanny Meet
FYNN
I want to break something, someone: my sister.
Listening to Caria being taken by that asshole, her lusty moans, my stomach is still in a raging knot.
I clench and unclench my fists unwillingly.
I’m sure that freak of nature couldn’t wait to let me know he is the one who has access to her body.
Eager to fuck her in public, ensuring everyone will hear her delicious whines, especially me.
It feels as if the sound is amplified just for my hearing.
Jealous fucker, he has no idea of the connection between her and me, how she and I have a kinship.
I massage the bridge of my nose and sigh; who am I kidding?
If Caria is happy with that bastard, I should leave her alone, yet she seeks me out as well; perhaps they just fuck?
Like some strange form of camaraderie, one that is only physical.
The instant the sound starts, Jodelle eyes me suspiciously, searching for any reaction on my face.
I manage to keep my face neutral as the assault on my eardrums begins and continues.
My sole focus is on Jodelle, convincing her I am not startled or touched by the whines and moans out of Caria’s mouth.
When she is satisfied with my non-responsiveness, her glower disappears.
As Jodelle starts to chatter again, my mind wanders off; I hadn’t seen the attack those fair folks unleashed, but I have heard about that Death Witch, Caria, and that white-haired guy taking care of it.How their magic worked together in unison, a sight to behold, cruel and effective.
I’ll see if I can catch Caria tonight. I want to hear from her whether she actually killed those humans as cold-blooded as the other creatures described.
Their stories are victorious despite the losses on their side, triumphant because of the interference of those two witches—the only two who dared.
I feel a sense of pride for my kin and their courage in reclaiming what once belonged to them.
They somehow managed to become a notion these night dwellers fear.
Humans who stand up for themselves and what they believe in—they fight.
I’m convinced that humans showed great valor in that battle everyone speaks about.
More so than these beasts surrounding us.
I focus my attention on Mother and Jodelle, who appear to be having a heated argument about the old Gods know what.
Lately, it has become the norm for them to bicker over the slightest inconveniences.
A brush is not put back in the same spot, an empty mug not properly discarded.
Each day, it’s the same nonsense, complaining about whatever comes to mind, their little dance of insults repeated.
The bed is not made correctly; the soap is in the wrong place.
All of it is utter bullshit just to frustrate one another.
It’s driving me insane, on top of the part where my mind seems to be spiraling out of control more and more.
It is as if seeing less of Harlot worsens the murderous thoughts I have about her.
Slicing her throat occupies my mind almost constantly now.
I want to paint these walls with her warm blood.
Serve her body parts in the square or let her rot in a place no one will ever visit.
In my mind, everything has been revolving around my sister lately.
Her whereabouts, the fact that it’s impossible for me to even get near her, and when I do see her, that motherfucker is permanently attached to her, as if she’s an infant incapable of walking by herself.
It makes me incensed. It’s he who keeps me apart from Harlot; I haven’t forgotten his ability to push through the magical barrier coating us when it comes to her.
A shiver runs down my spine as the memory of his infuriated glare returns to me, a sight burned on my retinas.
Even the Death Witch is afraid of his powers and abilities.
Caria begged me not to entice either of them further, Harlot and that monster of hers, and I promised her I wouldn’t, like the love-struck idiot I am, unable to dismiss her pleading.
My promise to Caria is the only thing that, luckily, stands in the way of making irrational decisions.
Without it, I would have launched myself already at Harlot, reaching for her throat, killing myself in the process, as that monster of hers would have slaughtered me with ease. Happily, too, I assume.
The whole situation is far from ideal. I pace the room up and down.
I feel muddled about my feelings toward Caria, and then there’s Mother, who tries to convince Jodelle to abandon me and return to her former home.
In response, Jodelle scolds and screams at Mother, unwilling to forsake me.
I can’t pick either side; both are losing choices.
As a result, I serve as an arbitrator in their screaming contests, doing my best to calm them down repeatedly.
“It’s not safe for you here, sweetheart. Why don’t you travel to one of the human towns down South? Fynn can follow you later when we have sorted our business here.”
Mother gives Jodelle a feigned saccharine smile as she speaks to the woman, incapable of having an everyday conversation with her, another lousy attempt to motivate Jodelle to leave my side and not return.
Since the beginning, Mother tried to get Jodelle to leave our room at the inn, knowing damn well she wouldn’t survive for a second the moment she’d step outside by herself.
Without any form of protection, any vampire would jump Jodelle without hesitation and suck her dry.
I sigh deeply. I run a hand over my face, trying to steady my turbulent thoughts.
“Oh yeah? What business? We are together, so how about you start acting like that, you old bitch!” she screams back.
“JODELLE!” I shout, agitated, my booming voice startling her.
“Language, that’s my mother you speak to. Damnit, how many times do I have to tell you?! Can you behave for once? Act like you had some upbringing. Fuck. Why do you always have to act like a bitch to everyone in my life? Every woman? Even my mother?”
I massage my temples to restrain my bubbling anger.
My mother squints her eyes at me, tilting her head in response to my outburst. She doesn’t say a word; she just studies Jodelle and me.
It is as if we are a conundrum she desperately needs to solve.
I lift my eyebrows at my mother, a question in itself as to what she’s getting at, but she keeps her lips sealed tightly while she observes us. Her eyes darting between the two of us.
“You always do this,” Jodelle pouts, demanding my attention, “You always choose others over me—your sister, that dumb hag, your mother. I am your soulmate; your stupid sister said so, but somehow, you have difficulty grasping that reality and acting like it. You’ve barely touched me lately.”
She folds her arms, challenging me with her statement.
Daring me to argue with her, to tell her she’s wrong.
It’s almost as if she’s finding enjoyment in our quarreling, an intimate dance in itself, one of defying me, provoking me.
Her deliberate choice of words is a song of passion, smoke to draw me out, to engage in the fight.
It is a way to persuade me to pick her, to provide me the opportunity to show her that, in the end, I do choose her over everyone else.
My jaw clenches as I feel the tension inside me rise.
Initially, I, too, found entertainment and pleasure in her behavior, particularly in the way she would rouse me and test my boundaries.
Now, I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads, a bleak tiredness casting over me. A tinge of doubt is taking root in my mind: If she truly is my soulmate, shouldn’t it be…
more effortless? Particularly in the beginning, yet as of late, I feel slightly less drawn to her.
I nitpick at the things she says or does.
Our relationship feels like a whirlwind; when all goes well, I revel in it, take in her beauty and singsong voice, and savor every inch of her, but when it goes wrong, it’s maddening.
Each argument leaves a lingering confusion, a hesitation that eats away at my soul.
I sigh, and without saying another word, I leave the room, this tiny world I have trouble recognizing as mine.
A tirade of swearing haunts me as I descend the stairs, none of it bothering me, as I have this peculiar feeling that Jodelle will not be able to abandon me despite her anger.
Mother brushes past me, not wanting to stay a moment longer in the room with Jodelle either, and I can’t blame her.
She barely looks at me, but her outrage is palpable.
Wonder takes hold of me when understanding dawns on me that I have no clue where that woman disappears to every day.
I halt at the end of the stairs as I decide I want to pursue Mother, unravel some of her secrets, and look into the books she always takes with her like prized possessions.
Harlot knows Mother is keeping information from us, information that could possibly determine our future.
Harlot. Her name alone awakens an instinct inside me.
Will she be at that bloodsucker’s keep? That damn fortress I'm never able to set sight on because of that obnoxious forest around it. The little whore must be. I should lure her out somehow, get her alone. When I have her all by myself, even for a moment, I won’t need long; a sharp blade will do the trick, slashing her skin, bleeding her to death.
I stare at the floor, imagining it colored a dark red, the scent of her blood filling my nostrils.
Her wails of agony as I slash and slash, mutilating her body, her pleading for mercy, not to kill her.
That abomination of hers is nowhere to be found in my fantasy.