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"anxiety's grip is always waiting to take me" November 9th 1658 ☾
The reverend and his son left in the early morning before the sun had even begun to appear on the horizon. The sky took on a bluish hue and the moon's glare was lighter, more forgiving as she stared after them, wrapped up in the doorway of the vicarage, Carlisle's book hidden beneath the old blanket. Simran had not parted with it since it had been placed in her hands.
The specifics of what the two were doing were not known by Simran. It had something to do with the Reverend's search for both information and the vampires that had pursued her. They would be long gone now, dissuaded by her magical obstacles, but Enoch did not know that, nor did he know the true extent of a vampire's abilities. If he had, he would not have been searching for them so extensively.
She wondered what had made him so crazed to be so infatuated with the monsters. They were creatures of the devil, in his mind, and so he should have feared his Lord's enemies enough to stay away, to lock himself and his son away at the very mention of them. But the Reverend did not back away from the monsters. Simran did not warn them of it either.
The church felt even emptier than usual, without their presence. The halls were quiet, the air brisk with ice thanks to the cooling of the months. The only respite was the study. Deep within the alcove, a fire roared beneath the hearth, filling the room with heat, seeping into the stone but not escaping.
She sat in Carlisle's seat this time, instead of her own, bringing her feet to curl beneath her legs. The proximity to the flames made her brown skin burn before she could cover herself with a blanket again. In her hands, she unfolded the old book and found scribbles of old, messy handwriting.
The Reverend's writing? Simran wondered, but would not find the answer. No authored names graced the pages, and Carlisle had not specified whether Enoch simply owned the book or had written in it himself.
There were drawings too, done simply in charcoal and without the hint of colour, but somehow, still, the diagrams looked more life-like. With the decaying skin and ashen tones, she knew it was a vampire he was depicting. The teeth were long, protruding from its upper lip, reaching toward its chin. Eyes were dark, like black pits and Simran wondered if the Reverend knew they were blood red in colour- the colour of fire and hell.
Sharp and pointed, something stuck out from the vampire's chest. The other edge was in the shape of a cross and small sticks broke from the outline- splinters. A stake through the heart. A stake made from a cross. She'd never heard such a thing and yet the Reverend seemed to believe it may work. A fool he was, then.
The next pages bled with colour. Dark, chalky reds and stark, oranges, drained from poppies. A black shadow encased in fire. Was this his last solution? To burn the creatures until they were nought but ash? Hopeless laughter bubbled in her throat. How could the devil's own magic kill one of his own creations? Had she not compared the vampires' eyes to such endless flames? And yet something within her stirred. A creature so cold should be able to melt.
