“I’m fine.” I look away from him.
He snorts. “You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine!” I snap, clenching my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. The last person I will let console me is him.
“Very well.” Ruvan’s upright once more, looming over me. I don’t look up at him. It’s his fault my father is dead. It’s his fault… “I’ll let you suffer in silence, then.”
I stay on the settee long after he leaves, thoughts of my father leaving aftershocks in their wake. “Get yourself together, Floriane.” I grip my head and try to force myself to stop shaking. It takes a while, but I manage.
Shaking my head, I reorient myself and head to the washroom, settle my morning ablutions, and check the status of my armor. Only a few straps need to be tightened. I pull on the straps as far as they will go, leaving no room for any fears or trembling.
Inspecting the clasps gives my mind something to do. There’s a few that got dented in my initial scuffle with the vampire lord. If I can find a chance to fix them before I see any combat, it’d be a good idea.
Finally emerging into the main hall, I immediately pick out Callos’s soft voice.
“I think I have it entirely covered.”
“Good, I don’t want a repeat of last time.” That’s Ruvan. I pause, waiting to see if I hear anyone else. There’s a long moment of silence. “Good morning, Riane.” Ruvan’s voice fills the cavernous space. He speaks as though our previous interaction hadn’t happened at all. I doubt it’s a kindness, more like he doesn’t want his other vampire friends to know that I put him on his rear first thing. But I’m content letting the matter be forgotten.
“Isn’t it dusk?” I ask as I descend. I expected they would wake at sunset. All I saw was light bleeding through the curtains.
“Not quite,” Ruvan answers, straightening away from the table to look at me. I pointedly keep my eyes on his face when I notice that the ties on his shirt are mostly undone. I’ve seen a man’s bare chest before—in the fields, or sometimes even in the forge, when it got too hot and the young men Mother and I would hire as strikers to take some of the physical toll off our bodies would strip their shirts. But none of the men in Hunter’s Hamlet can hold a candle to Ruvan’s physique. The man is practically carved marble. My throat is dry. “Afternoon.”
“And you’re awake?” I try and sound casual. “Don’t vampires sleep all day?”
“Vampires might. Can’t say I know much about them. But vampir do not,” Callos answers. “Though our group does tend to keep odd hours, given our circumstances.”
I can’t figure out how to ask if sunlight burns a living vampire’s skin or not so I give up trying for now. Instead I assess the journals and maps that are laid out across the table. Rooms are carefully sketched out in ink on the yellowed parchment. On fresher looking paper are similar sketches, with accompanying notes.
“What’s all this?”
“The most likely path to get us to the anchor of the curse,” Ruvan says.
“A relief to hear you finally agree with me,” Callos murmurs. Ruvan ignores him.
There are lines and Xs drawn all over the papers, red ink marring the black outlines of rooms and hallways. Individual places mean nothing to me. But on the whole…it’s massive. Far in one corner is a room marked “workshop” and circled in red ink—at least I hope that red is ink and not some kind of vampire blood magic.
“In the workshop there?”
Ruvan nods. “That’s our destination.” It’s clear why we couldn’t just walk there when he first brought up my helping him. The castle looks larger than all of Hunter’s Hamlet.
“With any luck you’ll make it,” Callos says. I wish he sounded more confident.
Ruvan clasps him on the shoulder, almost causing the man to lose his eyeglasses from startling. “If anyone can get us the best path there, it’s you.”
“No one has gone that deep for centuries…” Callos removes his spectacles and cleans them on his shirt. “I’m working with old information pieced together from Jontun’s records with a prayer.”
“Jontun?” I ask.
“He was the royal archivist during the time of the first king—when this workshop was built and the blood lore began. Lord Jontun was the one to preserve our history of the time. Our first king wasn’t much of a writer,” Callos explains.
“Why would a curse anchor be in a workshop in the oldest part of the vampire’s castle behind a door that only a human can open?” None of it makes sense. Surely they have to see that, too.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Ruvan folds his arms and I notice his biceps straining against the cotton of his simple coat. He would have to be strong to move in all that plate, even with vampiric powers. “Maybe some hunter’s secret passed down?”
“Don’t look at me for answers. I’m just here to open a door.” I shrug and turn back to Callos. I’ll give Ruvan nothing more than I must, lest I say something that might be able to be used against Hunter’s Hamlet. “What type of workshop is it?”
“One of the original blood lore studies,” Callos answers. “There were two, originally, but one was destroyed shortly after the Fade was made. By all records we can find, this is the only one left.”
