Chapter 14
Showdown
HARLOT
We’re strolling leisurely through the garden; Emrys has his arm loosely around my waist, the lush greens surround us, and birds are singing.
It’s… peaceful. A welcome change after the commotion of the last few days, the attack on the city, the revelation of the Dhampir, Elijah…
and the devastation my rejections keep bringing to him.
My mind spins with conflicting emotions when it comes to Elijah.
I feel both drawn to and repelled by him.
I have this urge inside me to ensure he is alright, while another part of me fervently prays he did not make it through the night.
But I would have felt it; I would have known if he had died.
Elijah is very much alive, and I am torn on how I feel.
I refocus myself on the present, on Emrys, and look at the landscape and the massive building that I now call home, too.
The walls on this side of the fortress are covered with lilac wisteria, in full bloom, thorny deep red roses, and almost black ivy with dark green nerves.
The odd-colored plant moves along with us, creeping over the stones almost as if it’s following us.
I eye it cautiously, apprehensive about its nature.
Crawling ivy, Emrys tells me, is a strong-willed species of ivy that only grows in certain places, such as places of residence.
Here, it does the bidding of whoever owns the castle, another layer of protection, as its vines will capture those not welcome.
If you are caught, its roots will trap you, wrap around you like a cocoon, and with no escape, you’ll die of strangulation or starvation, your remains feeding the earth.
The plant used to be a rich, deep green color reminiscent of emerald.
However, after the war, the color withered to a state of near black, adapting itself to its new surroundings, with only its nerves serving as a vague reminder of that striking green.
I envision the castle walls as they looked back then, covered in vibrant green, coral, and lavender. It must have been a beautiful sight.
I learned that before the war, the place was inhabited by White Witches, all of them belonging to the same coven.
Hence, the ample references throughout the building represent the Light and its previous owners.
Emrys taught me that the Blood Witches are spread across eight covens, each representing a moon phase, a beacon of the night, the dark.
In contrast, the White Witches stand for light; their forces conjoined, burning bright as the sun.
This makes them more powerful, the Light prevailing over the Dark for centuries.
Just like the White Witches, the Blood Witches draw their magic from nature.
Each coven has its own magical powers, and the poisonous flowers imprinted on their skin are reminiscent of their deadliness, but also serve as a distinction.
A recognition of the sort of powers they wield.
He mentions that before the war, they wore different flowers, as the blood they drew was voluntarily given through the likes of bargains, unlike now, where it’s taken by force, another twist caused by the imbalance.
My brows knit together when he shares that piece of information.
I never gave much thought to the origin of magic for the Blood Witches, but it never occurred to me that, in the past, blood was donated voluntarily.
It makes me wonder what the humans have done to the Light to be punished alongside the darklings.
All these changes forced upon this world not only affected the Dark but also impacted the humans living on this planet, the ones they cohabited with for such a long time.
The more I unravel about the war between Light and Dark, the consequences that sprang to life after the defeat of the Light, the more blurred it all becomes.
Humans doted on the Light and told stories about the good old times and how wonderful life used to be.
I am unfamiliar with much of the world, and my mother doesn’t share any knowledge, though I wonder if she knows this much. When Emrys shares stories of this world, I hang on to his every word, eager to digest it all.
We haven’t returned to the city since the attack; instead, we have remained in the castle, trying to keep away from the violence, my brother Fynn, and Elijah.
There is no news of additional attempts, and word has spread that a dhampir is part of the human group, the Hunters.
The Blood Witch encountered him after putting up magical wards around the city to keep humans out.
I’m sure the witches and vampires residing in Valorya have also taken other precautions, but the element of surprise is now lost. Elijah is a hunter.
All I feel is loathing as it crosses my mind; my core coils at the idea of sharing a life with him, giving my body to him—a man who willingly kills and destroys, following a dhampir, a supernatural creature. The irony is not lost on me.
Emrys shows no bother when it comes to this Dhampir, a child of a human, usually a woman, and a vampire, despite its strength, its instinct to kill what is part of itself.
Intelligent creatures, Emrys has called them, not one to test its powers against a being that could wipe its existence with one blow if it desired to do so, such as himself.
I am still not entirely familiar with Emrys’s powers.
But he speaks of the Dhampir as if he can make him vanish like a mere pest, which is reassuring.
All I know is that Emrys is either avoided like the plague or worshipped like an ancient God, regardless of his age, often younger than most vampires or even Blood Witches.
Even the First Quarter witch does not dare to challenge him; seeing the male witch work with the Death Witch, it is evident that Emrys outranks them all.
It's the first time we've taken the time to roam outside; the weather is damp instead of the constant rain we've had lately. Emrys insisted we’d go outside and breathe in some fresh air.
As we traverse the lush landscape, the flowers and trees flourish after the constant downpour, and a statue catches my attention.
The gray stone is weathered, with a rough surface and moss covering part of its face.
Its lower part is overgrown with regular ivy, which is overtaking it.
A red fluid flows from the eyes of the stone sculpture, dripping on the leaves and falling to the ground, where I see a crimson spot. Astonished, I turn to Emrys.
“Why is that figure… for lack of better wording, crying, Emrys?” I ask inquisitively.
He grins, his razor-sharp canines gleaming. Where my mother would constantly criticize me for my inquiring nature, Emrys embraces it and delights in my numerous questions. With patience, he tells me everything and explains it. In return, I soak in all the information he is willing to offer.
“Because this place used to bask in light magic, darling. Now, it’s overthrown by darkness, inhabited by a dark being; despite my creation to counter the imbalance, I am by no means enlightened.
I, too, am a cursed creature, a monster.
The statues here weep the blood that is spilled from the Light.
The blood of the White Witches. All of them do it, shedding tears.
It’s a fascinating sight, I must admit.”
He gestures to other sculptures in the garden.
I notice that little streams of blood flow from their eyes on each of them.
A statue of a woman holding a baby is dramatically positioned as if it’s about to fall from her arms; both her and the baby's eyes are bleeding.
I see copious amounts of statues now, each one more grand than the last. Some are overgrown, with plants and moss, while others are more visible.
All of them have faces that remain in sight, no matter how much plant growth covers every other aspect of their surface, as if the tears must have a passage.
I walk toward the one holding her baby. The image is morbid.
“Can I touch it?” I ask, already moving my fingers toward the red liquid.
Emrys shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “It appears to be just blood,” he says, “with no unique taste either.”
I grin; of course, he has tasted it; I probably would, too, if blood were part of my diet.
Unconsciously, I touch my breast where, only minutes ago, Emrys fed himself.
The vision of his blood-covered canines flushes my cheeks a bright pink, hardening my nipples, and I instantly clench my thighs as heat simmers between my legs.
The idea that Emrys can smell my arousal does not help; I need to focus on something else.
Distracting myself, I press my finger against the stone's worn exterior, interrupting the flow of tears, the blood now creating a trail on my pale skin.
I stare at it, fascinated, as the trail finds its way back to the statue.
My finger is an obstacle, a trespass that will not interfere with the cycle.
Emrys stands behind me; he pulls me into his chest, his large hands cupping my breasts. Softly, he starts kneading them.
“No need to guess where your mind wandered off to,” he growls in my ear.