Faith Deamonne
13.5.5.20.9.14.7. 25.15.21.
A day hence, as I stood at the kitchen table—a table that, in the tender years of my youth, had seemed an unreachable monolith—I found my mind adrift in reflections upon my mother's pronouncement. She would come bearing a name—or perhaps a list—a list of suitors for me to consider. Prospects, candidates, potential husbands.
I felt a mounting sense of dread, a growing unease that gnawed at my insides with every tick of the clock.
My fingers traced the aged grain of the wood, the soft rays of the setting sun spilling through the window like liquid gold, bathing my hands in its glow. It was an odd sensation, disturbingly so, to witness this juxtaposition. Just yesterday, I had seen my breath fogging in the bitter chill of the air, an icy specter rising from my lips with every exhalation. And now—now, the warmth was stifling, oppressive, as if the very essence of summer had seized the world in its unrelenting embrace.
Something was unfolding, something so profoundly, disturbingly wrong, that it seemed to writhe and twist in the very air I breathed and the very walls seemed to close in upon me, pulsating with a heat that was both suffocating and terrifying.
The screams echoed ceaselessly within the labyrinth of my mind, a shriek of despair that gnawed at the fringes of my sanity. They were not of flesh and blood but of some tormenting specter, a dark echo of anguish that reverberated through my thoughts with a maddening intensity.
My heart began to race, to beat faster, faster still, a wild and frenzied rhythm that thudded violently against my ribcage as I made my way to the window. My steps were frantic, driven by an urgency I scarcely understood. I had been so absorbed in the whirl of my thoughts, so lost in the maelstrom of my inner torment, that the sun had slipped away, leaving only the darkness of night to envelop me.
I flung open the window, my eyes darting left and right, searching desperately for my mother. The void of her presence was palpable. She was an adult, true enough, and her rudeness cut deep, like the jagged edge of a blade. But she was my mother, my progenitor, and most crucially, she was the leader of the coven—the leader, the one who held the threads of our fate in her grasp.
Turning abruptly, the weight of my urgency pressed heavily upon me. I seized my cloak with desperate hands and then strapped my sword to my hip. With my hood drawn low over my face, I opened the door, only to be brought to an abrupt halt.
Three towering, shadowed figures loomed before our house, standing just beyond the threshold of light that spilled from the doorway.
Eyes so intense, so otherworldly, that they seemed to pierce through the very fabric of reality.
Blue, red and green.
They did not stir, but their stillness was anything but passive. It was as if their mere existence was a force of nature, an overwhelming, almost tangible weight that pressed against the walls of our home. So powerful was their presence that even the shrieks of terror—those desperate cries that had been my constant torment—had fallen into a harrowing silence. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, caught in the grip of a suffocating calm.
My hand moved instinctively to draw my sword, the steel singing a low, mournful note as it met the air. My other hand, meanwhile, grasped the tendrils of magic that simmered just beneath my skin, a pulsing force that thrummed through my veins like the echo of a heartbeat.
Yet, in a single, bewildering blink, they vanished. The tall shadows—gone. And then, as though conjured from the very fabric of night itself, my mother emerged through the trees, precisely from the place where the figures had stood mere moments before.
I clenched my jaw tightly, the muscles in my face taut with a mingled rage and disbelief.
"What in the devil's name are you doing with your sword drawn?" She spat, her voice a sibilant hiss as she walked towards me.
I shook my head, the gesture more a reflex than a conscious act. "I thought I saw something." There was no chance—no chance at all—that I would divulge the truth of what I had witnessed. To speak of such things would brand me a madwoman in her eyes and she would have no hesitation in casting me out, to send me away.
She rolled her eyes, pale and glacial, their dismissive flicker as cold and piercing as the void.
"Stop with that foolery. You know as well as I that there is nothing—nothing at all—in these damned Hillslow Woods."
-
A persistent, hollow knock reverberated through the house, slicing through my mother's litany of suitors as she recounted their names with an air of cold satisfaction.
Boteiras Liu.
Elio Conto.
Vayne Hunt.
The list droned on, a litany of names and titles, each one more extravagant than the last. Titles, titles, for that was what mother desired—titles and prestige, a parade of names to fulfill her insatiable hunger for status. Yet, amidst her cataloging, the knocking grew more insistent, more fervent. My mother shot me a sharp, commanding glance, a silent order to remain seated and I obeyed, fingers drumming an anxious and erratic rhythm upon the paper she had compiled.
I could not help but muse, in the quiet corners of my mind, how many of these names had been proffered under duress, how many had agreed to this charade unwillingly, their consent a mere façade.
The minutes stretched languorously, elongating into what felt like an eternity—one minute, then two, then five, and when the clock ticked past seven minutes, I could bear it no longer. I rose, my movements deliberate and heavy with unease, and made my way to the entrance.
Voices could be heard in the hall, the timbre of my mother's voice mingling with another—a man's voice, low and measured, yet unmistakably commanding. I gripped the gold dagger hidden beneath my sleeve, my heart pounding with a frantic urgency as I peered around the corner.
The sight that met my eyes was enough to freeze my very blood, turning it to ice in my veins. There, in the dim, flickering light, stood the very shadows I had glimpsed before—those haunting, otherworldly forms that had haunted my thoughts for the past hours.
And the most horrifying realization of all was that they were utterly and inescapably beautiful. But it was the one with the crimson eyes, the one who engaged in conversation with my mother, who seized my attention. His presence was both captivating and dreadfully disquieting.
I felt the need to throw my dagger at his head for making me even think such thoughts.
Dark hair fell in artful disarray about his face, fiery red eyes, cheekbones sharp and lips a pale pink that curved into a smile that could lure even the most resolute soul to ruin.
And then there were the fangs. Sharp, glistening, undeniable fangs that peered out from beneath his lips.
I stood there, my heart pounding a wild, frantic rhythm against my ribs. Everyone knew—the bitter truth whispered through the annals of history—that vampires and witches were destined to be enemies, locked in a ceaseless conflict since the dawn of time. The enmity between our kind and theirs was as ancient as the stars, written into the very bones of existence.
Then, with a disquieting slowness, my mother's eyes fell upon me, and she smiled—a macabre curve of lips that seemed to mock the very essence of my being. Her gaze beckoned me, an invitation that set the very air around me ablaze with a dreadful warmth. The screaming in my head fell abruptly silent, an eerie quiet descending upon my thoughts as though some insidious force had conjured a vacuum of sound. The presence, once so palpably menacing, evaporated into the ether, leaving only my footsteps as they echoed with hollow finality through the hall.
The man—the vampire—regarded me with a dispassionate, yet piercing gaze, his red eyes flickering with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and disdain. My gaze skimmed over him momentarily, a black button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that spoke of lean strength, dark slacks and polished boots that completed the ensemble, while his fingers, adorned with a profusion of gold rings, whispered of wealth.
His companions, whom I had failed to properly observe, now drew their attention to me, gazes appraising and inscrutable.
One of them, with a wicked glint in his eyes, even dared to wink.
When I finally arrived by her side she radiated an unsettling joy, as though she were a harbinger of fate rather than my own mother. "Faith, my darling, I have found you the perfect future husband." She declared with a clap of her hands. "Meet Prince Zachaeus von Hal of the Raewe Kingdom and head of The Unalined."
A raised brow, a curious tilt of my head, was all I could manage as his—Zachaeus's—hand, so smoothly and with such unearned assurance, reached for mine. His lips brushed my knuckles, and I had to stifle a hiss of revulsion.
"Hello, Faith. It appears we have much to discuss."