A mockingbird nearby heralded the end of another night of screams and blood. The terror was finally over. For now, at least.
The birdsong was a welcome sign of reprieve, but it failed to lift her spirits. She knew these hours of peace were fleeting; the horrors would begin anew at sundown. Anyone caught outside after dark became an instant target for death, and she could not risk becoming one herself. If she was going to leave this damned village behind, she needed to do it now.
But she could not burn it. Not yet.
Rosine tightened her grip on the torch, but it did nothing to strengthen her resolve. The flame cast a flickering glow over the funeral pyre, such as it was. Firelogs, many of which she stole from nearby homes, and a mixture of dry leaves and hay comprised the small makeshift pyre. Rosine dropped her gaze, ashamed at its pitiful appearance. Even so, she knew it was the best she could do under the circumstances.
Her child deserved a better fate than this.
She forced herself to look up at the body resting on the pyre. A thin blanket pockmarked with holes covered it from head to toe, undisturbed in the still autumn morning. The contours of its slender frame were visible through the fabric, but the area around the face was noticeably flat and speckled with reddish-brown stains. Although it had somewhat faded, the stench of blood still clung to the body like an intangible second skin. It was no longer fresh, but regardless, Rosine knew the scent would attract those beasts.
Strange how, only days ago, she considered some of them as dear friends.
Rosine shook her head; it was essential for her to focus on the task at hand. Tradition demanded that all pyres be burned at first light, so that the souls of the departed could find their way to God and His Wheel of Fate, where all living creatures in Nosgoth were compelled to return. The time to mourn would come later. For now, she needed to carry out her role and release her child's soul.
She lowered her torch to the base of the pyre, her vision blurred by suppressed tears. "Forgive me, sweetheart," she whispered.
No sooner had she spoken than she heard the telltale crunch of dry grass underfoot. Rosine turned to find out who had come to share in her grief.
A scream lodged itself in her throat.
Large black wings pumped the air twice before dipping down in the tall grass out of sight. It was no longer a question of who had arrived, but rather what.
Rosine scurried behind the pyre, praying fervently that it had not seen her. In her more sensible mind, however, she realized she was perhaps the only human who dared to set foot outside in days, let alone still breathed. The creature would have to be blind to miss her. But if it had spotted her, why did it not strike her down? She was alone out here on the outskirts of the plains, and her back had been turned, completely unaware of any danger lurking behind her. Rosine provided the perfect opportunity for a kill, played the role of victim flawlessly, and yet she lived. Had she made it too easy for the beast's liking? Did it prefer a frenzied chase instead?
The torch slid out of her hand and splattered into the mud. She muttered a swear under her breath and snatched it up, but it was too late. Caked with soggy filth, the flame quickly sputtered and died in wisps of smoke.
Before she could curse again, Rosine heard the whisper of rustling grass. Gripping the dead torch with both hands, she peeked around the wood pile.
A large pale blue male figure eased himself out of a crouch and rose to his full height. He threw a swift glance over his shoulder, his wings twitching in agitation. Clearly he feared being followed, or perhaps an attack from his own brethren. Finding no one, he breathed a soft sigh before resting his gaze on the pyre ahead of him.
Rosine took the opportunity to study every inch of this imposing individual. He must have been almost seven feet tall, and his enormous wings, each nearly twice his size, contributed to his massive frame. In spite of his appearance, however, his tattered but immaculate white robe and black trousers revealed an attempt to preserve some measure of dignity.
As she watched, the creature squared his jaw, shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, and took a determined step forward. Rosine slipped further back, but was too captivated to completely turn away.
He carried himself with all the reverence of a priest. Each footfall was carefully placed, as if he were walking in a procession. As he drew closer, he clasped his cloven hands in front of him and bowed his head, murmuring in a language she recognized as that of the Vampires. She could not understand what he said, but his solemn tone indicated that perhaps this was some sort of prayer or blessing.
Rosine sat back astonished. There were so many names she wanted to hurl at him. Murderer. Blasphemer. Traitor. Devil. Yet now, when she had the chance, she lacked the words or the compulsion. This was not the bestial behavior his race had readily embraced. Despite his kind's recent fallen status, he still sought to retain, or perhaps reclaim, their once regal nature.
He fell silent when he reached the base of the pyre, pausing for a moment to study its shoddy assembly. His gaze then shifted to the body lying upon it. He frowned at the poor condition of the blanket, but that was his only criticism. It was not the covering that concerned him, but who lay under it. Undeterred by the flecks of blood on the facecloth, he reached his hands around the neck.
This was too much for the grieving mother.
"Don't you DARE touch her!" Rosine shrieked and raised her torch to strike him.
She suddenly found herself staring into a startled soft blue face. What rooted her to the spot was not fear, but the bright golden eyes that bore straight through her.
Predator and prey stared at each other. Neither moved. Neither spoke. A fragile stalemate had begun.
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