8. Isolde
CHAPTER EIGHT
ISOLDE
D espite the late hour, the warm glow of a blazing fire spilled out of the forge. Isolde could hear the clanging of metal from within—Bastian pounding away at some piece of steel.
She had spent the entire day, when she was meant to be sleeping, trying to talk herself out of this.
Bastian was the last person on earth she wanted to spend another second with, especially after it had taken her the better part of an hour to untangle the mess their little tumble through the snow had made of her hair.
That was not to mention his abominable manners and general oafishness, or the fact that Selene would likely drive a stake through Isolde’s heart if she knew they were consorting.
Isolde was still angry, too, about his humans are just food to you comment, but at least he’d had the decency to apologize for that.
After the previous night’s discussion, Isolde didn’t dare mention that bloodied courtyard in the north to Selene, or the Wolf tracks in the snow.
She had no idea what to make of that horrible place, nor was she any closer to figuring anything out after all those miserable nights patrolling the village.
Bastian, detestable as he might be, at least seemed to be somewhere on the same plane of thought as her about the whole thing.
So here she was, standing in the street outside the forge, grinding her teeth at the prospect of asking a Wolf for help.
But—no. She wasn’t asking him for help, really. Just… asking if he had any theories about what the beast of Bloodhaven might be, beyond his outlandish assumption that it might have been her . Even if he didn’t have any ideas, at least she might gain a way to keep a closer eye on him.
Isolde didn’t let herself think about it a moment longer. She stalked across the road and shoved through the doors to the forge, bracing herself for Bastian’s vitriol.
She froze at the sight that greeted her.
Bastian’s back was to her as he stood over the anvil, hammering the blade of a shortsword. The white cotton of his shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to every ridge and valley of his back. As he worked, his muscles rippled, bunching and flexing with every swing of his hammer.
And Isolde, to her great misfortune, knew exactly what those muscles felt like beneath her hands.
Forcing that memory away, along with the low pulse of desire that came with it, Isolde cleared her throat. “I don’t know why it never occurred to me that Wolves might keep the same hours as Vampires,” she said airily, “considering your relationship to the moon, and all.”
Bastian’s arm faltered at the sound of her voice, just for an instant, but that was the only indication that she’d caught him unaware. “We don’t,” he replied, and carried on hammering his sword.
Isolde fought the urge to make some snarky comment about his manners and selected one of the few empty expanses of workbench to perch on while she waited.
This brought on another unwanted memory of the last time she’d felt this particular surface beneath her thighs, but she forced it down right along with the last one.
Several minutes—which Isolde spent staring determinedly at a rack of swords on the far wall—later, Bastian ceased his hammering. There was a hissing sound as he quenched the blade, and then he finally turned to look at her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to enjoy your sparkling presence, obviously,” Isolde quipped. Bastian’s expression remained flat and unamused. “Alright,” she went on, “if you insist on being entirely sullen and humorless, I’ll get to the point.”
“Please do.”
“I want to know what you think is killing people in the village.”
At that, Bastian’s brows disappeared into the tousled spill of his hair. “I was under the impression that you find me unintelligent and ill-mannered.”
“I do,” Isolde said primly. “And?”
“ And now you’re asking for my opinion on the matter?”
“Think of it as an opportunity to prove you’re not what I think.”
Bastian scoffed, clearly unimpressed, but didn’t argue further. He came over to lean against the workbench running perpendicular to Isolde’s, crossing one ankle over the other and folding his arms.
“I thought it was a Vampire,” he said eventually. “But you were right to point out that a Vampire wouldn’t leave so much blood behind. I gather your kind aren’t so… sloppy.”
“I won’t act like my kind never make a mess,” Isolde replied. “But nothing like what this thing has been doing. It’s basically considered a sacrilege among us to waste so much blood.”
Bastian nodded, though it looked like it pained him to accept this. “Alright, then. I’d be inclined to think it was a Wolf, except that the attacks haven’t been happening on full moons.”
“So that leaves us where, exactly?”
“First of all, there is no us. ”
“It was a figure of speech.”
Bastian’s nose wrinkled, but he didn’t comment. “If it’s not a Vampire, and it can’t be a Wolf, that puts me back at square one.”
“Some secret third creature that no one has ever heard of?” Isolde joked.
Again, Bastian was not amused. Isolde was beginning to wonder if he had a sense of humor at all.
“Are you in contact with your pack?” she tried instead.
“No,” Bastian said quickly. The word came out more barked than spoken, like her question had startled him. “Why?”
“I was just wondering if any of them might have some insight on the matter.”
“Couldn’t you ask your… friend? The dark haired Vampire?”
“Her name is Selene, and she’s my Sire,” Isolde told him. “And I’ve already talked to her about it. She thinks it has to be a bear or some other wild animal.”
“Your Sire?” Bastian asked. “That’s what you call the person who turned you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Wolves use the same term,” Bastian explained. He ran a hand across his jaw, gaze averted, as if he was embarrassed to have asked. “I just… never realized.”
“Haven’t met many Vampires, have you?” Isolde didn’t know why, but she found herself being careful to keep her tone light, not judgmental.
“Well, no. I lived with the Wolf pack for most of my life.”
“But now you live in Bloodhaven,” Isolde observed. “Away from your pack.”
Bastian just shrugged. “Our leader made some decisions I didn’t agree with.”
“Your leader,” Isolde repeated. “And your father, I assume? Anselm Thessarian.”
Bastian’s jaw flexed. “Yes.” He stood and crossed the forge, busying himself with some tools on the far workbench.
“Well,” Isolde said over the clinking of metal as Bastian sorted a pile of small hammers, “whatever personal issues you and your father have?—”
“He’s not my real father,” Bastian cut in, chucking a hammer into a box with considerably more vigor than was necessary. “Not by blood.”
“No?”
“I was adopted.”
Bastian seemed… agitated, somehow. More brusque and irascible than usual.
“Okay,” Isolde said slowly. “Do you think Anselm might have any idea what sort of beast it could be?”
“No, and I’m not going back to Wolf territory to question him, so don’t even ask.”
“Why not?”
Bastian pitched one final hammer into the box with enough force to splinter the wood, then turned to face her. “Do you always talk this much?”
“Do you always change the subject before the conversation has even begun to run its course?”
Isolde was surprised the sigh Bastian released didn’t travel all the way across the forge to ruffle her hair. He frowned at her, those thick brows of his drawing together.
“I answered the question you came here to ask?—”
“And gave me nothing useful,” Isolde cut in.
Bastian continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “—so what are you still doing here?”
Isolde hopped down from the workbench, flipping her cloak back to reveal the scarlet lining and keep her arms free.
She prowled over to peer at the sword he’d been working on, appraising it as if she knew a thing about smithing.
She could sense Bastian fuming a few paces away—the desired effect—but he said nothing.
“I assume you plan to continue keeping watch for the beast at night,” she said, moving on to inspect the odds and ends strewn across one workbench.
“Yes,” Bastian said. Then, as she reached for what looked like an iron bangle, he snapped, “Don’t touch that.”
Isolde picked it up anyway, inspecting the intricate designs carved into the cuff as she went on. “If our little run-in last night was any indication, we’re going to be more of a hindrance to one another than a help if we keep working separately.”
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“We might have more success if we worked together.”
Bastian’s reply came swiftly. “Not a chance.”
“Oh, please,” Isolde scoffed. “At least think about it for a moment before you refuse. We could cover a lot more ground patrolling the village if we split it up. And if we ever do come face to face with the beast, odds seem good that we’d be better off fighting it together than alone.”
Bastian stared at her. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking as he clenched and unclenched it. Isolde tried not to notice the way his hands flexed at his sides.
“Fine.” He came toward Isolde, closing the distance between them in two long strides.
She had to tilt her head back to see him, and stunned as she was by his sudden nearness and the cloud of his scent that enveloped her, she barely noticed when he plucked the bracelet right out of her hand.
“But only because I suspect you’ll make a point to hinder me on purpose if I say no. ”
Isolde rolled her eyes, but opted not to dignify that with a response. He was right, after all. “Then if it’s agreeable to you, I’ll take the southern half of the village tonight and you can take the north.”
“I don’t see much point in patrolling the north end of the village,” Bastian argued.
Isolde opened her mouth to make some jab at his inability to make anything easy, but he went on before she could speak.
“All but one of the attacks have been in the southern half of the village. Only the old blacksmith was killed in the north.”
Isolde frowned. She hadn’t considered that, though she certainly wasn’t about to admit it.
Bastian was right, unfortunately. All the livestock that had been killed were from farms on the southern edges of Bloodhaven.
Both Sam Hallin and the tavern girl, Marinta, had died near the southern reaches of the village, too.
But…
“There’s one more thing to consider,” Isolde said.
“What’s that?”
Isolde told him about the courtyard in the northern forest, with its ivory pillars and those vast stone altars. When she began to explain the blood, a shiver ran down her spine, just like it had the night before.
“It was Wolf blood, or Vampire blood—I can’t be sure. Maybe both,” she said. “But there was a lot of it.”
Bastian’s brows were furrowed, the color gone from his tanned cheeks. “That’s disturbing.”
Isolde nodded. “I wasn’t the only one who’d been there, either. There were fresh tracks—two human pairs, one of them barefoot, and one set of Wolf tracks.”
The groove between his brows deepened even further. “I can’t see any reason for a Wolf to travel that far north,” he said. “If we don’t catch the beast next time it attacks and we lose it in the woods again, maybe we ought to check there.”
Isolde had to admit that seemed like a solid enough plan.
“Alright, then,” she agreed. “We’ll patrol the south end of the village. I’ll take the western half and you can take the east. I think we ought to check the courtyard for fresh tracks anyway, even if the beast doesn’t come back in the next few nights.”
“That’s agreeable to me.”
Bastian was still standing within arms reach of Isolde, his scent washing distractingly over her and his dark gaze boring into hers. Up close, in the light from the forge, she could finally see the true color of his eyes. They were a rich brown, the pupils ringed with the thinnest strip of gold.
“Good,” she said, hating the breathy way her voice came out.
Then, finally—and abruptly—Bastian turned and walked away.
Isolde blinked at his sudden absence, the coolness of the air around her.
Wolves ran hotter than humans, she knew, which meant his body temperature was much higher than hers.
She’d never been in such close proximity to a Wolf before—hadn’t realized that standing near one was like standing beside a furnace.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” Bastian called over his shoulder, heading for a set of stairs near the back of the forge which, presumably, led to the lodgings above.
It took a moment for Isolde to register what he’d said. “Wait,” she blurted. “Why not tonight?”
“The beast was here last night. So far, it’s never come back two nights in a row.” He didn’t glance back at Isolde, or even slow his stride. “And I need to sleep.”
Then he was disappearing up the stairs, leaving Isolde standing dumbly in the center of his forge.
“Wouldn’t kill you to say a proper goodbye,” Isolde grumbled beneath her breath, and set off to patrol on her own.