Blood Bound Shadow of the Blackthorn

The fog was always the first feature Armand Cain observed about Blackthorn. It wasn't the sort that curled ribbon-like at morning or rustled over hills like breath along a lover's skin. No, this fog strangled. It throbbed with something much older than weather. It clung to boots, slipped under clothes, crawled up the spine, and nestled behind eyes. It had mass. Greed. It wasn't mist; it was memory. Remorse. Secrets. Ideal for a town like this. His boots pounded cobblestones in rhythm, the sole sound bold enough to challenge silence. Each footfall echoed into the dark, a whisper of violence in abeyance, waiting to be summoned. His gloved fist rested on the hilt of his sword not out of fear of the dark, but because he knew what lurked within. Blackthorn was no stranger to him, even though he'd never set foot on its streets. He'd read the accounts. Vanishments. Four in thirty days. No signs, no blood, no remains. Just. gone. And when something does not leave a trace when it disappears, it's most likely because something ensured it. Something unnatural. He turned a corner, the mist for an instant recoiling like a curtain as he pushed through, disclosing empty market stalls with sagging canvas roofs, cracked crates, and shut windows sealed from within. No townsfolk ventured into the streets after dark. No longer. They had learned better. He stopped, looking into the darkness. And she emerged. She did not come as most people came with footsteps, mass, and breath. No. She emerged from the fog, as if the mist itself birthed her shape. A woman. Tall, fluid, cloaked in a velvet-black mantle that showed glimpses of an ivory-colored bodice underneath. The fabric caressed her contours with every step. Hair, raven black, fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Her eyes glimmered not from reflected light, but from the depths themselves, like the sea in a storm. She wasn't human. That much was certain. But Armand didn't pull out his sword. Not yet. Her eyes roved over him with cool curiosity, as if examining a statue in an empty museum. Her full lips parted in amusement. "Lost, hunter?" she asked, her voice silken, low, and unhurried, like someone savoring every word on her tongue. He didn't reply at once. Instead, he watched her position, her balance, and her bravery. She was either suicidally stupid or completely deadly. "I'm in search of someone," he said, at last. "Something." She c****d her head. "You've found it." A beat. Two beats. "I'm not here for you." Her smile grew, curling up like smoke. "Not yet." He shifted, moving to the side, blade still unsheathed, nerves thrumming. "You talk like you know what I'm here for." "I do." She moved towards him, step by slow, considered step, as if she had control over her body and whoever watched it. "You think you're here to finish something, close a case, or kill a monster." "And I guess you're here to tell me I'm wrong?" She stopped mere feet from him, close enough for him to smell her lavender and blood, the strange perfume of age and seduction. “I’m here to watch what happens when the hunter realizes he’s been dropped in the middle of something far beyond his reach.” Her voice carried heat. Something primal stirred between them. The fog pressed closer. “Who are you? ” he asked. But the response was lost to a burst of sound quick, wet, and incorrect. A growl. Another. They originated in the rear. He turned, sword clearing its scabbard in one smooth motion, to witness the first one step out of the darkness—eyes shining red, form too long, too distorted. A vampire, but not those described in the Order's books. No poise. No beauty. Only hunger. Then the others followed. Five. Six. Baring their teeth. Twitching their claws. They circled him like jackals. The woman did not flinch. She simply watched. Armand took the first down quick blade, splitting its throat in a burst of ichor. The second raked his ribs, flesh and leather alike. He spun, crimson trailing down his flank, teeth clenched against the burn. Another vampire charged. He dodged, plunging the blade up through its jaw. Screech. Ash. But there were too many. A third crashed into him from the rear, slamming him against a wall, teeth biting into the leather shoulder guard. He felt the pain shoot down his arm, a burning white heat. He turned, drove his elbow into the creature's temple, and stumbled forward, reeling. He wouldn't make it. And then she stirred. The woman. Celeste. Her cloak billowed like wings as she fell upon the vampires. She did not battle; she dismantled. Limbs were severed. Neckbones snapped. Steps like wind, like the whisper of death. Armand, stunned, could do nothing but stand there as one of the vampires attempted to flee. Celeste stood before it, blade-fingers plunged into its chest. It cried out once. Then silence. There was no other sound in the street. Armand stood, bloody and panting. She turned to him, scrubbing her hands against her cloak. "You're welcome," she said blankly. "I didn't nee"d "Yes, you did." He resented her sureness. Resented the fact that she was right. "You fight as if you were born for it," he spoke low. She regarded him. Something flashed within her eyes—shame? No. Something older. Regret laced with centuries. "Perhaps I was," she whispered. He did not drop his sword. "What are you?" She took another step forward. Slowly. Never taking her eyes from his. "You don't know, do you?" "I know enough to kill what does not belong." "Kill me, then." He faltered. She reached him. He felt her breath cool and perfumed with something rich and metallic. "But you won't." He didn't know why. "I am Celeste," she said. "And yes, I am a vampire, but if that were all that I was, you would be dead at this moment. Or worse." His hand shook. Slightly. "Save me," he said. The words grated like gravel. "I did." "Why?" Her hand on his chest, above his heart. Her skin was cold, but not unfriendly. "Because you're not ready yet." "For what?" She leaned close, her mouth against the edge of his ear. "For what's coming." Armand's heart pounded. His instincts yelled, but something else, something ancient, instructed him to remain still. That if he pulled out his sword at this moment, something would be irrevocably shattered. "Blackthorn is an open wound," she spoke softly. "And something old is bleeding underneath." And then she moved back, and for the first time, the mist drew back from her, curling around like it was afraid of her. He glared at her, clenching his jaw. I don't trust you," he told her. Her eyes sparkled. "Good. Trust is overrated." And she disappeared. Melted into the fog. And Armand stood by himself once more, the blood hardening on his skin, the wind changing with the odor of dry ground and abandoned burials. He knew, in his stomach, that this mission was not what he believed. He hadn't arrived here to kill something. He arrived here to start something. And she was the most important part of everything.