Even in the strangest of environments, time has a way of peeling back the numinous sheen to reveal normalcy.
A week passed. I found comfort in the trappings of routine. I woke up in the morning, showered and dressed, grumbled at the pervasive mists outside the parlor window, then set out with a firm goal in my mind. I never knew what my day would entail, but these elements never wavered and I built my new world upon their support. Wake, dress. Continue.
I ate breakfast with Vytians and wolves. I learned to duck my head and cover my oatmeal when the verbal jousting began between the two groups. The one time I hadn't, a gnawed bone thrown by Thomas had landed in the bowl and had splattered hot oats everywhere. Gavin had apologized profusely for his son's disrespect while I scooped glop off my face. Anzel had been beside himself. His tirade had kept slipping in and out of Vytian, but from what I had gathered he had snarled something about finding a furrier for all the pelts he'd have.
Every morning either Anzel or Elias would set a vial about the size of an aspirin bottle by my coffee cup. I would quickly take the infusion before the wolves noticed, muttering thanks under my breath.
Some afternoons I chatted with Aos Sí in the lounge located off the main foyer. I quickly learned rooms with higher occupancy, like the lounge or the dining room, were less likely to roam. Peroth's office was fixed in place; everything else rotated and moved about it. The Aos Sí knew various tricks to navigating the manor and—for the most part—were happy to share what they knew.
The Aos Sí were a vapid people. I learned that, in generations passed, they had been Valians. When the Dreaming Isle fell, the barriers separating the Vale and Terrestria had been weakened. Fleeing the cataclysmic wars being fought in their home realm, a large number of Valians had immigrated to Terrestria.
When the barriers between this realm and the other solidified, those Valians had been trapped here.
Trapped in a realm torn between the Sins below and the Absolians above.
Those trapped Valians who had managed to survive had passed on their genes with humans. Over the years, their children had continued to do so, crossing the different species of the Vale as they intermarried and joined. The end result had been the Aos Sí—a haughty, superficial people who believed themselves better than humans, when they actually had more human in their blood than I did.
I had to wonder where their myth had arisen. The Aos Sí hadn't been my main area of study, but I had reviewed samples of their mythos. I could remember a particular afternoon I had spent idle upon my living room sofa, flipping through some of my accrued texts. I remember reading about fairy rings and how stepping into one would land a trespasser with a wicked curse—or madness. The book had recounted old tales of how the fairies would entrap mortals in dance and those mortals would dance until they forgot their lives entirely. You were not supposed to thank them as that would create an unintended debt, and when offended they could be riled into all sorts of mischievous.
I had tossed the book aside with a snort. Even now, I thought the stories utterly ridiculous—aside from the last one. The Aos Sí were haughty enough to be offended by even the most meaningless of things, and they did so enjoy their small revenges.
Haughty or not, the Aos Sí loved to hear themselves talk, and if I paid attention they occasionally said something worthwhile.
I would sit in the lounge with the flighty creatures, and occasionally my eyes would wander on their own accord and land upon the Sin of Pride. He would be standing in a darkened alcove or doorway, his arms crossed before himself as he kept to the shadows to hide his presence. I knew he was watching to ensure I didn't get into more trouble. His attention made me feel like an errant child.
I would frown or stick out my tongue. The Sin would level a final warning glance in my direction before departing.
Today, though, I wasn't in the lounge scrounging for information in the unending tales of the fairy people. I was in the wordless library scrounging for information in an unending trove of blank pages and empty volumes. I had long since forsaken protocol and began dropping the books upon the floor after opening them.
Each one hit the wood floor with an exhalation of dust, the echoing sound like a hammer striking a nail upon the coffin of my frustration. Every book was empty.
Well, not every book.
As the afternoon passed, I would occasionally find myself hovering at the mouth of the aisle that had once held the Poetic Edda and the Old Norse legend of Ragnarök. The book was sitting on Darius's table upstairs, though I couldn't be sure how it had gotten there when I couldn't even remember returning to the room myself after falling into the vision.
I tore my eyes from the blank spot marring the perfect line of leather spines. Batting away the whispers clinging to my ears, I stomped away.
The purring feline followed me.
The cat had been in the library when I arrived this morning, licking its white paws as it lounged on one of the shelves. The feline had caught sight of me and had been content to follow me for the rest of the day. It didn't point out any other books. It just watched with its large, clever eyes.
"I don't understand," I complained as we strolled. I kept my gaze upon the creepy statuettes, convinced they were tracking our every move. "Darius and I search for a weapon. He's dead set on finding it. Isn't that what I'm after? Isn't that what I'm to find? If this weapon, whatever it is, is real, is it not the solution to our dilemma? Balthier will be dead. Darius will live. I will—."
The words turned to ash upon my tongue, choking me. The cat tilted it furry head as if quizzical.
Sighing, I kept pacing with one hand covering my sore wound. Red seeped into the fibers of my gray blouse though I had changed the bandages this morning. "That is assuming the weapon is real. Am I wrong in disparaging its existence? Am I wrong to think Darius is only chasing ghosts?"
The cat meowed.
Why was I asking questions of a cat? Growing frustrated, I whipped aside my ponytail and tucked the stray hair behind my ears. "And if the stupid thing isn't real, then what do I search for? What does Crow's End wish for me to discover?"
I came to a halt at the Poetic Edda's row again, not realizing I had circled the aisles right back to it. I threw out a hand to it, and demanded of no one in particular, "What does it mean?!"
My words echoed. I chewed on my lip, knowing no answer would be forthcoming, though I willed for one to be given to me. I willed myself to simply understand, to simply know. What did it mean?
I tilted upon my feet with a slow exhalation, gazing upward toward the distant ceiling. The casement windows were shut to the iron grey covering of clouds above. Not a single ray of sunlight could pierce the accumulated prison of thunderheads.
There was some element, some detail I hadn't deciphered. Perhaps I was asking the wrong questions. Again and again I wondered aloud what the weapon was, if it was real, and why all these books were blank. I asked why I had been given a vision of the Sins hunted by the Dreaming. What if these questions weren't the right ones?
I had been considering the vision as a whole, from start to beginning—but what if the entirety of the vision wasn't important? I had been shown the Isle, the Dreaming, and seven Sins. The Sins had been run aground by the Dreaming. I could visualize every moment of the scene with vivid, ethereal accuracy. What was I missing?
My mind raced and my eyes bounced from side to side, seeing nothing as I paced fierce, tight circles into the rug. The cat chased me.
"What is Ragnarök?" I mused. "A legend, yes. A story about gods, about the end of the world. But what does it symbolize? The apocalypse? The coming end? Certain doom?" I bit the inside of my cheek until I could taste copper. "But that wasn't all, was it? The myth tells of the doom of the gods—but, in the end, the world was born anew. Death and...re-birth?"
A patter of footsteps and murmuring lips drew me out of my thoughts. The cat butted against my ankle, purring incessantly as I slowly turned to view the shadows flanking the towering bookshelves.
In my fervor, I'd forgotten that the library was a public space. Someone else was here now.
I had no way knowing how long they had been there, and how much of my mindless ranting they had heard. I didn't call out to the hidden person. I heard the uneven patter of their feet upon the rugs, then the subtle click of their throat closing in upon half sputtered words. "No—! I mustn't—!"
I approached the voice, careful to not make a sound as I inched nearer the end of the bookcase. I peeked around the corner with one eye, my nose pressed to the cold wood of the shelf. The aisle was empty. There wasn't anyone there.
"I'm hearing voices now," I muttered, giving up my attempt at espionage. I stood with my arms loosely crossed as I peered up and down the aisle's lonely stretch. The cat pawed at my shoe, claws scratching the worn fabric as its fur bristled and it hissed. "What? What's with you?"
I bent to shoo the little creature along—but in doing so, I caught sight of the row behind me. A man stood hunched in my shadow.
"Jesus—!" I threw myself away from him, tripping into the aisle between the innumerable rows. "What are you d—?!"
The man was a gangly, stooped fellow wearing a cheap black suit. He was doubled over as if in pain, his face hidden by his position. He had long, spider-like hands of pure white dug into the thick tufts of his black hair. His breaths escaped in tired, wet sobs.
"He's hunting for the way to you," he whispered as he careened into the shelf. His shoulder struck the texts with surprising strength. I kept backing away, fumbling from the next line of bookcases.
"What?" I demanded as my fingers found purchase upon another shelf. I held on to hold myself steady.
"He does not hunt for you, but for the way to you. It's important, important—!"
The man coughed and ratcheted upright. Canines honed like rounded daggers glittered in the subdued lighting and pushed upon the scarred surface of his bottom lip. His face was ghastly pale, his temples and brow littered with purple veins and yellowed bruises. Eyes like tremulous midnight oceans met mine as spit dripped from the vampire's fangs and he wrapped his wasted arms around himself.
I scrambled for the nearest weapon—which was a preciously ancient tome about the size of an English dictionary.
"Father, oh Father—my Father calls to me—!" the vampire cried, shivering violently.
Since the vampire wasn't attacking, I didn't run. I remained where I was, albeit with a distance of three or four yards separating the two of us and the incredibly heavy book lofted in my grip. "What do you mean? Who is your father?"
He sucked on his lip, allowing his white fangs to scratch the taut flesh. "I can't, I can't—!"
"Okay!" I assuaged when the monster's trembling grew more violent. "Okay, don't tell me. Can you—leave? Go?"
He bent double once more, gagging. "No! No!"
I hadn't the haziest idea of what to do. I began searching for any visible exit, willing the damn house to pop a trapdoor open under my feet.
The vampire lurched forward, his head rotating until it lay upon his shoulder. The whites of his eyes had been dyed in ugly crimson, leaving the darkness of his irises untouched. "Father searches for the way. Can't you see? He hunts. He finds. Can't you see? He Calls to me."
He lunged and his motions were blurred by his enhanced speed. Shouting, I threw the book with all my might. It struck in the vampire's head and he toppled. He didn't rise again.
I froze, panting with surprise as I stared at the vampire laying spread-eagle on the library's Venetian rug. The cat growled and swiped at the frayed cuff of the vampire's pants. "Stop that, you idiot—!" I hissed, shoving the feline away with my foot before it could get itself hurt. The vampire didn't move.
Holy hell, had I killed him? With a dictionary?!
The vampire groaned as he stirred, rising from under the open dictionary. Blank pages tore free of the binding and fluttered over the vampire and the dirty rug. I held my breath as the creature dabbed at a large gash on his forehead, bringing his hand before his face to squint at his own red fingers.
"Bloody hell," he grumbled, the anxious, pleading note gone from his voice. "You've got some aim."
He bundled his sleeve into his fist and held it against his bleeding head. His sunken eyes fell first upon the agitated cat, then upon me. The light was still weak, but I could see that the sclera had returned to normal. I reached for another book—but he held up a hand. "Please, for the love of all that is, don't hit me again. I'm fine now."
I disregarded his assurances and grabbed an even larger book. I could scarcely lift it.
The vampire pursed his lips, hiding his distorted teeth from view as he regarded me with dejected wariness. "I deserve that, I guess. Judging by your expression, I assume you've had some dealings with my less...friendly brethren in the past?"
I nodded as I nudged the cat behind me for its own protection.
"You must forgive me, I am not myself. I'm not typically like that. I've been ill." He dabbed at his head wound. It had already stopped bleeding, congealing into the first signs of a scab. I hadn't known the vampires could heal so quickly. I was suddenly glad I had shot the one in Verweald so many times, just to be sure.
"Ill?"
"Ill," he reiterated. The vampire began to rise and I chucked the second book. It took him by surprise and the creature had barely enough time to deflect it with an out thrown hand. "Ow! By the Seven, woman!"
I snatched hold of a third volume, unflinching at the vampire's scandalized expression. I had been hunted by his kind before. The Verwealdian den had chased Darius and me through the city's gritty alleyways, had corralled us in their intricately woven net as their bird-like shrieks filled the evening air. One of his kind had held me steady while Balthier had driven a dagger into my side.
I knew if the vampire somehow got a hold of me, there would be nothing I could do to get free.
"Okay," he said, plopping onto the floor once more in placation. "Okay, I'll just sit here. But, if you would indulge me, would you do me a favor?"
"What?" I demanded, wincing at the effort it took to hold the third book above my head. My side ached and I nearly brained myself when my arm faltered.
"Please find Master Sloth. Please tell him Roman Barnaby is ill again. Please, I can't—."
The vampire choked and convulsed, his hands clutching the loose fabric of his shirt over his skinny chest.
When he spoke again, the need had returned to his rough voice. "Father Calls. He Calls. Please—go!"
The creature—Roman—lashed out. His clawed hand came within inches of my ankle before he regained some semblance of control and slammed himself onto the floor. I stumbled, dropping the third book.
What was wrong with the vampire? Where was this inexplicable craze that gripped his mind coming from?
Father Calls to me.
Who was his father? What did he mean by 'call'? Why did he place such emphasis upon that word?
"Please," Roman begged as he crawled into a hunched ball, holding himself steady. "Find Sloth."
I distrusted the vampire immensely, but I understood he was suffering. I wasn't cruel enough to leave him like this, a danger to himself and those around him as he lost his mind. The very least I could do was find Peroth.
I gathered the cat into my arms, worried it might become a kitty juice box for the blubbering vampire. With a final glance at the withered creature slumped upon the floor in a pile of torn pages, I picked up my feet and hurried from the library.