Chapter 27

A blood fiend?

Baron frowned—what in the world was that?

Judging by the others' faces, whatever it was, it definitely wasn't good.

Zod and several veteran hunters crouched beside the girls' corpses, activating Hunter's Eye. Sure enough, they found a pair of pin-prick punctures so small they were nearly invisible unless you knew where to look.

"They really do look like the bite marks a blood fiend leaves when it feeds," Zod said. "According to L's calculations and the creature's habits, it should still be hiding somewhere near Mondra."

At that, every hunter—including Andre—turned grim.

Yalilan immediately dispatched a squad to Ford City with orders to post a fresh bounty and bring back as many hunters as possible, plus crates of holy-water–blessed crosses and garlic from the cathedral.

Crosses... garlic... blood-sucking...

Baron finally put it together. A blood fiend was just a vampire.

Macquire nudged him. "L, how do you know so much? Were you really an alchemist before?"

Not an alchemist—just a miserable junior scriptwriter at a film studio, expected to know a little about everything and blamed for everything.

Baron shrugged. "Not an alchemist. Just a hack writer. Whatever genre you're scripting, you pick up a bit of trivia along the way."

"I get it now. Your old job was—was—" Macquire scratched his head, the word on the tip of his tongue.

"Playwright," Zod supplied. "You were Ferdinand's playwright... let me guess. After writing an opera that mocked the king, you were exiled from Ferdinand and ended up in Prol."

He looked the young man up and down, eyes lingering on the dragon-gall ring. "No wonder you dress like a noble and know so much."

Thanks for the backstory—my cover in Prol is now airtight.

Baron nodded, neither confirming nor denying.

A commotion came from the edge of the forest. Mondra's pot-bellied village chief arrived with a troop of young men carrying shovels. After Andre explained the situation, the chief waved an arm and the digging began.

Then, wringing his hands, the chief greeted Yalilan and introduced Sister Theresa of the Crimson Cathedral—freshly returned from advanced studies in Iron City, the finest blood-nun in Mondra.

Sister Theresa looked about twenty-five, swathed in a long habit. Beneath the veil was a pure, oval face.

She bowed solemnly to Yalilan and the hunters. The hunters crossed themselves, and a few of Andre's thugs whistled at the alluring outline beneath her robe.

She ignored them. Holding a crucifix in both hands like a child offering flowers in a meadow, she prayed with simple devotion—before a pile of blood-soaked, maggot-ridden corpses.

Moonlight bathed her profile, soft and graceful, the glint of tears at the corners of her eyes faintly visible.

"She truly loves the people in God's stead," the village chief murmured.

Everyone, Baron included, agreed. Prol was a land of many gods. He had no idea whether the god of the Crimson Cathedral was good or evil, but the doctrine couldn't be that bad.

In Baron's view, the worth of a god is judged not by what the deity does, but by what His followers do.

He asked Macquire quietly which god the Crimson Cathedral served.

"Blood God Aesli, ancient god of the First Law of Blood, progenitor of the vampire race," Zod said, producing yet another bottle from nowhere. "Also the Crimson Incarnation of the Great Lord."

The Great Lord?

Baron's heart skipped. That name sounded... painfully generic.

A whistle sounded the assembly. Yalilan announced a new bounty quest to uncover the truth of the blood fiend. Those willing to stay could rest in Mondra; the rest were free to leave.

Every hunter stayed—except Baron.

"L?"

Yalilan looked surprised; so did Zod and Macquire.

Baron said, "As Mr. Andre so rightly observed, I'm no proper demon-hunter—just a shiftless exile from Ferdinand. Besides, that hay cart left my already frail bones in sorry shape..."

Andre, who'd been privately pleased at the thought of Baron leaving, froze. When had I ever said that?

But a glance at Yalilan—and Baron's next words—made it clear: the upstart was forcing him to apologize.

How dare he! Who does he think I am? Even the noble pure-blood tigress Lady Yalilan would never humiliate me like this.

Andre smiled rigidly. "My apologies, Mr. L. There appears to be a misunderstanding..."

"Then please clear it up in front of Lady Yalilan," Baron answered pleasantly. "I'd hate to be stabbed in the back during the mission."

Andre looked to Yalilan; the viscountess inclined her head.

Silence stretched long and thin under the moonlight. Betrayal, it seemed, was a lonely business.

"I'm terribly sorry for my earlier conduct, Mr. L," Andre said through clenched teeth.

"And as for my companions in the hay cart—Zod and Mr. Macquire—they're so sore from the journey they can barely move. Good heavens, Zod has even fainted from the memory of those jolting wheels! Poor man—he's flushed from motion sickness. I believe he'll need a little something for medical expenses."

Veins throbbed at Andre's temples. The first part he could swallow, but the rest was too much. That scarred old drunkard had been swigging liquor since the moment they set out!

"Very well. I'm sure the medical bill won't be necessary. Zod, Macquire, and I will need comfortable, uncrowded rooms..."

Seeing that even Yalilan was fighting back a smile, Baron decided to quit while he was ahead.

...

The guest dormitory of the Crimson Cathedral held three wooden beds spaced well apart. Baron's was by the window; lifting his eyes, he could see the twin moons.

At Yalilan's request, the cathedral had set aside these quarters—normally reserved for clergy conferences—for Baron's trio alone. Every other hunter, Andre included, was crammed into Mondra's army hostel: twenty men to a room.

Macquire and Zod were already snoring like thunder.

Baron lay awake, mind sifting the night's events. It all felt like a dream.

No—compared to the surreal days he'd spent on Britannia's Reverse Side, this felt like waking life. Yet... was it real?

He pulled the blanket over his head. Golden eyes flared in the darkness; fingertips found the cross-shaped scar on his right cheek. The brand burned like hot iron, convincing him—gently, slowly—that he was alive in the real world, playing the part of a nameless hunter to unravel the mysteries of this land.

As sleep crept in, he closed his eyes and, half in spirit sight, glimpsed a field of ghost-blue flowers. At its center rode a plain-faced girl with a shepherd's crook, astride a black goat.

When she noticed Baron, her lips curved in something that was almost a smile. Rose-red mouth moved, but the voice that emerged was an old man's:

"Remember this number: 15:30, 20 November 1987... that is the moment you will embrace death."

Timed Death Sentence—the phrase jolted him upright. He turned to the window. The twin moons had set; pale grey light hinted at dawn.

Damn it! Since arriving, apart from a rough grasp of the world's background, he'd forgotten to ask the single most important question.

What day—what year, month, date, hour, and minute—was it?

...

"Today is 1 May, Black Moon Calendar 2007, Mr. L. Is there anything else you wish to know?"

In the great hall of the Crimson Cathedral, Sister Theresa, fresh from morning prayers, regarded Baron with gentle eyes, as tender as the Madonna's.

The stone in his heart rolled away.

Baron considered a moment, then asked, "Sister, have you ever heard of Timebloom?"