Reverse moon chord
1028 Words
The snow fell thicker now, like shards of glass pouring from the sky. Andreas dragged Lisa by the hand, sprinting through the pine forest beyond the castle's northern wall. Their boots sank into fresh snow with a crunching sound, each step like wrenching bone from ice. Blood still dripped—from his severed finger, from her collarbone—leaving not footprints behind them, but a broken red thread.
A pine branch suddenly jutted across their path. Andreas yanked Lisa back, shielding her with his body. Snow cascaded from the disturbed bough, dusting them white. He held his breath. In the distance, hounds bayed, each bark closer than the last, like a file scraping against eardrums.
"Graypaws," Lisa whispered, trembling. "They can smell me."
Andreas pressed his back against a thick fir, released her hand, and swiftly opened the violin case. The double bass's wooden body gleamed obsidian under the moonlight, polished like black glass. Cradling the neck in his left hand, his right fingers poised over the strings, he took a deep breath—
"Mi—re—do—la—"
Four notes, so low they seemed to skim the ground, yet they carved visible ripples through the snowy night. Snowflakes shook loose from pine needles, raining down in a miniature avalanche. The hounds' baying faltered, then dissolved into whimpers, as if lashed by an invisible whip.
Lisa's eyes widened. She watched the silver strings vibrate beneath Andreas' fingers, each tremor shedding faint blue phosphorescence. The light skittered across the snow like fireflies, extinguishing ten paces away. The barking faded.
"Countermoon chord," he murmured. "Disrupts a wolf pack's rhythm. But it only lasts three minutes."
"Where can we get in three minutes?"
Andreas slung the bass onto his back and seized her wrist. "To the river."
The Silva River never froze in winter, fed by hidden hot springs beneath. They slid down a snowy slope, their boot heels burning from friction. Mist coiled over the water like a great silver serpent curled in darkness. A battered rowboat lay half-buried in snow along the bank, its hull frosted over.
"Can you row?" Lisa panted.
"No," Andreas admitted, laying the violin case across the bow. "But I can make it move itself."
He bit his fingertip, smearing blood along the bow's silver wire. The strings hummed to life, as if roused from sleep. Pressing the bow against the gunwale, he drew it lightly—
*Hmmmm—*
The boat lurched forward as if shoved by unseen hands beneath the water, gliding into the mist. Oars lifted of their own accord, dipping into the current in time with their heartbeats. Lisa knelt at the stern, watching the castle. Torches flared along the walls, a fiery serpent slithering toward the river.
"They'll shoot," she said.
"Let them." Andreas laid the bass across his knees, fingers flying across the strings. No longer single notes, but a rapid triplet rhythm—hoofbeats, war drums. Ripples fanned across the river, and the boat surged forward, cleaving through the fog.
The first arrow struck the gunwale, its fletching quivering. The second grazed Lisa's ear, severing a lock of hair. Andreas looked up. At the forefront of the torchlight stood Cassian, his silver hair liquid mercury in the firelight. The Count held a black crossbow carved in the shape of a wolf.
"Andreas," Cassian's voice drifted across the mist, laced with aristocratic languor, "leave the girl, and I'll grant you eternity."
The musician laughed, his reply drowned in the music. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the strings shrieked—
*c***k!*
The arrow snapped midair, plunging into the river in two pieces.
Cassian narrowed his eyes and raised a hand. The archers stilled. Only the lapping of water against the bank remained. The boat had drifted beyond range, the fog thickening like a wall between castle and fugitives.
Lisa collapsed onto the deck, forehead pressed to her knees. Her breath came in white puffs, blood on her collarbone frozen into beads. Andreas set the bass aside and moved to her, gently brushing hair stuck to her wound.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes," she rasped. "But better than the chains."
From his coat, he produced a small tin flask. The scent of alcohol and wormwood wafted out. "Bear it." He poured the liquor over the wound. Lisa gasped but didn't flinch. The blood washed away, revealing raw pink flesh beneath. Using the bow's tip, Andreas ripped a strip from his shirt lining and pressed it to her collarbone.
"Why did you save me?" she asked suddenly.
His hands stilled. River mist flowed between them, sheer as gauze.
"Ten years ago," he said quietly, "my mother was brought to the city by Cassian. She was kept in the same cell as yours. After that... she never came out."
Lisa's lashes trembled.
"Before she died," she whispered, "my mother hummed a tune. The one you just played."
Silence fell. The river murmured beneath the boat, like countless tiny teeth gnawing at wood.
The mist thinned, revealing a white expanse of ice fields ahead. The forest's silhouette lay like cut paper against the gray horizon. Andreas lifted his gaze. The moon emerged from the clouds, cold as a polished silver coin.
"The Countermoon chord only suppresses the transformation for three hours," he said. "When it starts again, I'll play once more."
"And after the third time?"
"After the third," he paused, "you either turn completely... or we find the Saint's Rib."
Lisa buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. "I've dreamed of it. A blackened bone, pierced with silver nails, singing underground."
Andreas didn't answer. He stared at the moon, a flicker of emerald in his pupils—a wolf's hue, glowing in a vampire's eyes.
He looked down. His fingertips trembled uncontrollably.
*—The mixing has begun.*
The boat drifted on, oars moving as if guided by invisible hands. The music had ceased. Only wind and heartbeats remained.
Somewhere unseen, the castle bell tolled again, each strike more urgent than the last, like a death knell.
And on the river, the little boat carried its fugitives deeper into the dark, pushed by mist and moonlight.
- Writer
