Chapter Three | Whispers of the Blood
Gehrman, it seemed, was an old man bound to a stunted wheelchair. The clothes he wore were frayed, hanging off his shoulders as if a poncho fashioned from a potato sack. Greasy hair seemed to fall out from beneath his drooping cap, wide brimmed and covered in patched leather.
He chuckled as Catherine entered the Workshop, his head just barely tilting in her direction. "You must be the new hunter. The Doll has spoken to you, I presume?"
"Yeah, she uh- gave me the rundown."
"Strange, the manner in which you speak…" he turned his chair, the wheels squealing quietly. "So improper… well, it matters not. I am Gehrman, a friend to you hunters." The wizened man leaned forward, squinting at her. Catherine couldn't help but notice the stump of a peg-leg in the place of his right food, wood chipped and scarred. "Sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard of all this. Just go out and kill a few beasts." He waved his hand towards the door. "It's for your own good."
"What? That's it?" Catherine looked about the room, at the half-made blades hanging off the wall, a table packed to the brim with the strangest tools she'd ever set eyes on. "Just go out and kill a few beasts? That's all you'll tell me?"
Scowling, Gehrman rapped his cane against the floor. "It's all that must be done. Simple as that." He turned away from her, but not before casting one sly glance over his shoulder. "We don't have as many tools as we once did, in this old workshop, but… you're welcome to use whatever you find." The man's voice took on a salacious tone, sending a shiver down Catherine's spine. "Even the doll, should it please you."
Wheels scraping at the floorboards, he pushed himself out the door and towards the garden, ignoring Catherine's hurried stuttering.
"I… what?"
Where was that courage just yesterday, in the Great Hall? She paused. Yesterday, maybe?
She didn't know. Time probably worked strangely here, judging how she was currently dead and yet not.
A lot of rules seemed to be broken in this place.
Confused, irritated, and just a slight bit mad, Catherine left through the door she had entered, shoulders rising at the Dolls plaintive expression.
"He's a prick, isn't he?"
Gasping, the Doll shook her head. "Oh dear. I wouldn't speak such things, good hunter."
"Please, I- you don't need to call me good hunter. It's… I don't know, it's strange."
"What would you rather go by?"
"I'm Catherine. Cat, to my friends." She slid the hood of her shrug back, ruffling her hair. "Shit."
She may never see them again.
Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Luna, Ginny, Dumbledore.
Even the D.A., they'd never speak to her, never attend another one of her lessons.
Yes, she wasn't too pleased when Hermione came to her about an - admittedly - absolutely insane idea. But she'd grown accustomed to them, to their company. Even Zachariah Smith, the toff that he was, could manage to hold a good conversation.
Christ. Hermione. She'd never…
No. Catherine shook her head. She wouldn't tempt such thoughts, refused to. There had to be a way back. Maybe hunting was the answer. Just go out and kill a few beasts, Gehrman had said.
If that was what it took, that was what she would do.
"Good- ah, Catherine." The Doll hummed. "Are you royalty?"
She spluttered. "What?"
"Royalty? Your name, it is that of a Lady, no?"
"No, no." Catherine waved her hand. "There's not really royalty where I come from. Not anymore."
Smiling, the Doll inclined her head. "No royalty you say? How interesting. If you would be so kind as to humour me, I would like to hear of your home someday. If you wish to, of course."
"Yeah, I… I'll think about it." Scratching the back of her neck, she looked over the island. "How am I supposed to leave this place? I can, right?"
"Yes, of course." Hurried, the Doll motioned towards the tombstones flanking her path, the only ones save a few opposite that seemed to stand up straight, not crooked and shorn at the corners. "All you must do is will it, and you shall appear. Though, one must have visited- "
"It's like apparition?"
"Apparition?"
"It's a… nevermind. I got it, thank you. Sorry for, well, interrupting, I just- "
The Doll simply smiled and raised her shoulders. "I understand, Catherine."
A small murmur sounded from below her, and she looked down to see the Messengers having reappeared, waving a little leather coin-purse about.
She stooped down, picking it up with a quiet 'thank you,' the bag giving a small rattle as she opened it up.
Bullets.
The Messengers waved goodbye as she strapped the coin-purse to her belt. "So…" she trailed off, wetting her lips nervously as she turned back to the Doll. "If I die? Down there?"
"It will be as if nothing had ever happened." Bowing, the Doll smoothed out her skirt. "I will await you, Catherine, do take care."
"Okay. Uh- see you soon, I guess." Offering an awkward wave, Catherine kneeled in front of the tombstone, idly tracing her fingers across the etchings upon its surface.
It bore not a person's name, but instead a diagram - that of a very familiar clinic.
"Strange." She tapped her finger against the crude carving, the location suddenly appearing in her mind's eye.
Willing it, she allowed the magic of the tombstone to wash over her, the world shimmering in a light haze before she found herself kneeling in front of a small lantern in the midst of Iosefka's Clinic.
Messengers moaned and cried from below her, cast in the pastel blue light of the lantern's odd, immaterial flame.
"Not dead, eh?" She stood up, wiping the dust from her knees. Not that it mattered much, as she was sure she'd be spattered in blood soon.
Her heart clenched at the thought, terror licking at her mind as she thought of the wolf one room over - if it was still there, that was.
Catherine flinched at the sound of clattering to her right, up the staircase.
Curious, she followed the noise, coming to the top to find the door locked and shuttered. "Hello?" Catherine hesitated. "Is… Iosefka, are you there?"
"Who is it?"
"One of your patients. Catherine, but, I guess you didn't get my name." She chuckled quietly. "You… you saved me, I don't know how long ago. Shot- I don't know how to describe it. A man, covered in fur."
"Oh. My apologies," Iosefka rambled, the steady clinking of glass leaking through the door. "I can smell the blood about you, and I know that you hunt for us - for our town - but I cannot open this door."
"The blood?"
"Are you not a hunter?"
Am I?
"I… I think I am. That's what I've been told, at least."
"Then I am truly sorry. The patients here in my clinic must not be exposed to infection."
"Oh. Yeah, uh." Catherine looked to the ceiling, letting out a slow sigh. "Sure. I just wanted to say thanks for helping me, and I'm sorry about what happened to the other man, in the wheelchair."
"What other man?"
"The other… the guy who gave me a transfusion? Old, got a beard, bandages round his eyes?"
"I know of no such man. You said he gave you a transfusion?"
Christine froze. "I… then he didn't work for you? But he was in the room with you, when you brought me in."
"I thought you were dead. Forgive me, but I can recollect no such thing. You were given a transfusion, but by me, not by any… strange man. I have no one by that description working alongside me."
"But, the contract- "
"Contract?"
She cursed. "Dammit. I'm sorry, I- forget everything I just said. I must have been confused. I'd lost a lot of blood."
Iosefka huffed from behind the door. "You are strange… Lady Catherine, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, lest you change within these halls. I cannot allow a blood-drunk hunter to remain here."
"Blood drunk?"
A laugh. "You must truly be new to Yharnam. How is it that you came to be a hunter?"
Catherine felt close to tears. "I don't know."
"Well, nevermind the details. Go out, please, and do not return unless it is strictly necessary. My patients, you see, they're- "
"Frail, I know." Catherine ran her fingers through her hair. "I'll leave you alone. Er- thank you, again."
"No need to thank me, please. I wish you the best of luck, hunter."
"Thanks," she muttered, walking back down the stairs.
Her hands trembled as she looked around the corner of the bottom level, the wolf that killed her - killed her - gone.
Breath caught in her throat, Catherine slowly made her way past the now unrecognizable corpse of the Blood Minister, nothing left of him but a puddle of blood and bone.
Don't look at it, she told herself, bile rising in her throat.
There were a few vials left near the open door, faintly glimmering in the moonlight.
She stooped down to pick them up, flicking her finger at the glass and wincing at the small ping it made. Fiddling with the many straps and belts attached to her clothing (who needed so many belts?) she found a series of short loops that ended in latches. Taking the vials, she tucked them into the loops, cinching the leather shut around the casing.
How terribly convenient. Again.
Rolling her jaw, Catherine hefted the cleaver, testing its weight and balance.
Didn't want to fall over herself swinging the damned thing.
Tentatively, she pressed her hand to the door frame, looking around the corner to see the wolf resting near the gate. That same gate she tried to climb, to escape certain death.
The ground surrounding it was suffused in red, the creatures maw caked in blood and claws bearing dried chunks of flesh. Her flesh, she knew, though no corpse remained.
Did she just disappear? Did it eat her whole, flesh, bone and all?
Shaking her head, she gripped the haft of the cleaver tightly, dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet.
Just do it. Go. Do it!
Her teeth were sore, jaw clenched so tight she thought they may crumble in her mouth. Catherine's heart thundered, loud and terrible as she tried to wrest up some level of murderous intent.
She'd never killed, at least - not tried to kill something.
Quirrel… he was a mistake. Catherine didn't mean for him to die, she just wanted him gone. Away from her, where he couldn't hurt her. Kill her.
This was different.
This was preemptive.
"Alright," she whispered, shoulders flexing. "Here goes nothing."
Dashing forward, she dragged the cleaver through the wolf's tough hide before it could so much as stand, the creature howling in pain, blood splashing against the dirt.
Catherine grit her teeth, ignoring how the blood clung to her pant legs, seeping through the cloth and staining her ankles red.
The wolf slashed at her, Catherine shrieking as its claws tore through her flank.
"Fuck!" she shouted, flicking the switch on her cleaver and driving the smooth end of the blade into the creature's back. Its bones creaked as the steel was buried deep in its spine, a fountain of blood spraying from the wound.
Whole body shuddering, the wolf collapsed, scrabbling feebly at the mossy stone.
Disgusted, Catherine planted her foot against its back as she wrenched the blade from its body, covering herself in yet more blood.
Raising the cleaver high above her head, she slammed it into the creature's skull, right between the eyes..
Again, again, again.
Bone and pulped flesh flew across the graveyard as she turned its upper body into a fine mulch, screaming all the while.
"Die, dammit! Die!" she roared, giving one last final swing and leaving her blade buried in the twitching pile of gore.
Exhausted, she collapsed, falling onto her back. Her tailbone stung horribly, and she could feel the blood running down her side in smooth waves.
Her body shook with adrenaline as she fiddled dumbly with her bloodied clothes, staring at the corpse of the wolf.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit." Catherine moved to wipe her face, grimacing when she just served to spread the blood further. "What the hell."
She turned over, vomiting onto the stone. The bile stung, mouth tingling as she retched. Catherine didn't bother with her hair, soaked in blood as it was, instead letting it flutter over the pool of sick.
"Oh, good god," she hacked, spitting on the ground. "What the- how am I supposed to keep doing this?"
The wolf's head had been reduced to a pulp, brain matter scattered across the dirt and flecked with slivers of bone.
She did that.
She did.
How was she supposed to do more, to hunt like that?
That wasn't hunting. That was slaughter.
It was not clean, it was not planned - methodical. It was murderous hedonism, a blind fervor that she thought only Voldemort capable of.
Lord, how it sickened her.
Her side ached as she slowly drew herself up. Hissing, she pressed her hand to the wound, fresh blood mingling with the now cooling wet that stained her fingers.
Fumbling, she snatched up a vial, staring at the offending substance.
This heals? Catherine wondered, the tip of the needle glinting dangerously. Well, only one way to find out.
She jabbed it into her thigh, a mechanism within the vial snapping into place and forcing the blood through her veins, laying wet against coiled muscle.
The wound on her side began to tingle, slowly shutting of its own volition.
Laughing at the sight, she could feel a part of herself jump forward - something hidden and nightmarish. "Look at that. I'm a vampire."
Catherine could feel the power of it, that blood rushing through her body as if magic itself. It burned so hotly, so brightly, she thought she may cry.
It was wonderful.
Mind buzzing, she wrenched the blade out of the corpse and lumbered toward the open gate, looking out at that same first sight of Yharnam she had caught but a few days ago.
"Beautiful," she murmured, something different about the view.
The moon hung low in the sky, so vibrant it seemed as if it were the sun - cooled into a gem so fine as to be coveted by any king, any lord who wished to take it.
"Alright."
Catherine followed the path, past the decaying horse, even more bone revealed and its flesh turned into a soup of gangrene and rot. She could hear people - smell people - just round the corner, a stench of dog about them.
Maddened whispers and the scraping of metal against stone grew closer and closer as she slowly tread forward, looking to see another man even more beastly than the one who lay dead not a few paces behind her, his brains scattered across the pavement.
His teeth were hooked, gnarled into thick spines that jutted from between his lips. Fur covered him in patches. Mange, it looked like, and he held a pitchfork tightly in clawed hands.
The wolf, she realized. It's human.
It was unmistakable. The lengthening of his teeth, how his face was beginning to draw down into a point. A muzzle, it looked like. Wrong.
Another wave of nausea ran through her like a spear, throat bobbing as she fought back her revulsion.
I killed someone. A person. It… Lupin. Just like Lupin. Horrified, she stumbled back, mind swimming as she thought over the beast - its eyes alight with some terrible fury. A hunger, so deep and unsettling that its very soul was torn to shreds.
"Fuck."
She'd never sworn so much in her life.
The man spun around, ears perking up as though a wolf.
That really was a person.
He swung at her with the pitchfork, the prongs whistling through the air. Catherine leapt back on reflex, hurrying out of the way of his attack. The beast pursued, shouting, "Gone! Begone!" as he thrust and flung about the tool aimlessly, eyes wide and unseeing.
Catherine scrabbled at the pistol at her waist, fingers scraping against the wooden stock as she drew it up to chest height and pulled the trigger.
The shot went wide, tearing up bits of stone from the building that loomed up behind the man.
That only served to make him more erratic, more angry and terrified as he rushed towards her.
Shouting in fright, Catherine batted his spear aside with the flat of her blade, pulling it back up to bash him in the face as he looked down at his weapon - stunned.
He stumbled backwards, pressing one hand to his cheek and howling.
She pushed on, mind alight as she ran the cleaver through his chest - the steel ripping through his clothes and laying a deep bloodied line through knotted muscle.
Blood spattered the ground as Catherine swiped the blade again, hooks catching on flesh and bone and tearing him apart. Wails the likes of which she'd never heard spilled from his lips just as red spilled from his chest, the beast clutching feebly at the muscle and serving only to spread it apart, claws embedded in his own skin.
She panted, finger and thumb poking into the coin-purse and drawing out another bullet, just now noticing how it seemed much too bright. Popping it into the end of the surprisingly modern flintlock, she once more pulled the trigger.
The back of the man's head exploded as the bullet shot through the bottom of his chin and out his skull - spraying a fine pink mist across the footpath.
"I guess it doesn't need more powder," Catherine gasped, staring at the gun in some small amount of awe.
It seemed normal, looked normal, and it was anything but.
And then she remembered the man - two men - she had just killed.
"How did I…"
The blood was strong in her mind. She could still feel it in her veins, coiled tight. It whispered sweet words, a thrumming song that spoke of bloodshed and terror.
Catherine rested against the wall, unable to tear her eyes away from the corpse at her feet.
It makes it easier, the blood, she thought - studying the way his own pooled between grooves in the stone, trickling downhill in some macabre dance. Too easy.
"Is that what turned you into what you are?" Catherine asked the corpse, brokering no answer.
Iosefka's words still rung in her mind. 'Blood-drunk' she had said, a hint of fear in her words. Was that what it meant? To be debased? Turned into… this? A mindless animal?
She ignored the nausea that threatened to resurface as she looked about, noticing a strange contraption - a lever - resting next to the wall.
Of course, the only thing she could do was see what happened when she pulled it.
Following her curiosity, she wrapped her hands around the lever and yanked back, the heavy click of iron resounding across the barren street.
A ladder from far above clattered to the ground, sliding down like clockwork.
"What?" she looked it up and down, following its path towards another layer of the city overhead.
Why a ladder? Why not stairs?
Ignoring the insanity of it all, Catherine started up the ladder. She'd never really climbed a ladder before, she realized. Not like this. One in a library didn't quite count, Catherine imagined, not when you could simply levitate a book off the shelf.
This one though, it went up and up and up, almost unreasonably so.
If not for whatever magic the Doll had worked on her, she may have been slightly winded upon reaching the top, hoisting herself up onto another layer of dense stonework, more houses scattered about and another (she assumed) locked gate.
But, the lantern poking out of the ground before her was what caught her interest, unlit yet still somehow basked in that same immaterial glow.
She kneeled, curious as to why the Messengers weren't yet there, dancing around the magical object. Waving at it seemed to do nothing, so she flicked the lantern itself - watching it bob to and fro.
Annoyed, she snapped at it as if it were a misbehaving dog.
For some odd reason, that seemed to be what had worked, the lantern brightening considerably and that familiar silver smoke curling up around its base.
Stepping back, she nodded at it, as if she'd somehow solved some mind bending puzzle.
So that's how I get around this place? She looked out over the city, taking in the flickering lights and the smell of sharp incense.
"Why the incense?" she wondered aloud.
"To ward off the beasts, ma'am."
Catherine jumped, turning to the voice only to see a shadow of a man illuminated through the window nearest her.
"It keeps them away?"
"Aye." He coughed horribly, a thick retch so powerful she thought his ribs may crack. "Wards them off. You an outsider as well?"
"You too?"
The man hummed an affirmative. "Came here for blood healing, talk even reached my little village. Though, I haven't heard much of outsiders becoming hunters. How did that come to pass?"
Laughing, Catherine found herself offering the man a shrug, although she doubted he could see her through the curtains. "Honestly, I have no idea. I just… woke up here, I guess. It was the only path given to me."
"Well, Yharnam has a special way of treating guests. You won't find many who are willing to give you the time. Not a life I would wish but it keeps me whole." Another coughing fit overtook him, and Catherine could hear the man gasping for breath. "Whole town is cursed. So, whatever your path, change it. The only thing to do is plan a swift exit."
"I don't exactly have much of a choice," she mused, guts twisting. "I just… have you heard of undead here? Those who can't die?"
"Can't say I have, though, that seems an even worse fate than that of a hunter. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. It's just part of why I'm here, I guess." Catherine paused, suddenly remembering the words of the voice - that creature, that god that spoke to her. "Paleblood. Do you know anything about it?"
"Paleblood?" The man tasted the word, voice curious. "Haven't a clue, but, the Healing Church should have your answers. They control all knowledge of blood ministration."
She leaned forward. "Where? Where can I find them?"
"Across the valley to the east." His shadow pointed towards the bridge. "Cathedral Ward. Some say it's the birthplace of the church, but that's all guesswork on my part." He laughed. "Outsiders aren't told much, and it's not a pleasant place… though you don't have much choice, do you?"
"No, I don't." Catherine sighed, eyeing the bridge disdainfully. She could see silhouettes moving across it in the distance. Beasts, she imagined. "Thank you… and, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Gilbert. Gilbert is my name."
"Well, thanks for the help Gilbert. I hope you feel better soon."
He laughed again, shaking his head through the window. "If only. Take care of yourself, hunter. Don't let those of the church lead you astray."
Offering a wave to him, Catherine turned and pushed at the gate.
Nothing.
Not knowing why she expected any different, she turned round the corner and followed the next path. The bridge was almost level with her, at least, she thought it was at a distance. This seemed the only way to reach it.
Just gotta' get to Cathedral Ward… whatever that is. Get this over with. Get home. That's it.
Catherine took a deep breath, following the path down to a short platform overlooking singed wagons and a small group of beastmen slowly walking towards the flickering of a bonfire, its light cast off the stone walls and reflecting eerily down the street.
Please tell me that's not the way.
She crossed the overpass, shrieking in fright as a man leapt over a stack of crates, wildly flailing a kitchen knife as he rushed at her.
Lashing out, she took his arm off at the elbow, the man screaming as the bloodied limb fell to the ground.
Working quickly, she flicked the cleaver open and drove the blade into his shoulder, hacking once - twice - and leaving his corpse on the ground, chest torn open from neck to navel.
Don't look, she told herself, blood thundering in her ears as she hopped down the steps and rushed the three men walking towards the fire.
Fight, fight, fight, fight-
Catherine killed the first before he could even so much as grunt in pain, legs falling out from under him as he struck the ground - nose snapping loudly.
If there was anything she knew how to do, it was fight.
She'd fought her whole life. Against the Dursleys, Voldemort, Snape. Even Draco counted, as obnoxious as he was.
Fighting was practically bred into her, born snatching scraps of food off a hot pan and squirreling it away within her cupboard so that she would see another day. Thrown into a world that idolized her. Hated her. Yet somehow, still expected her to fight.
And so she did.
Catherine tore towards them like a whirlwind, blade flashing left and right so quickly it left her stunned. Her speed frightened her, the way she could feel the blood buzzing in her mind as she leapt away from an attack she couldn't see - only the sound of wind on iron tickling at her ear.
She hardly noticed the way in which she could now throw around a cleaver the size of a small dog as if it were nothing but a toy sword, hooks catching on flesh and ripping through bone with but a tug of her arm.
Oh, she was tired, yes, unbearably so.
Fighting was always exhausting. She thought too quickly, moved too frantically. Every step, every flex of the muscle was a blind push, adrenaline forcing one above and beyond anything they would ever be capable of otherwise.
Another man fell beneath her blade, crying out in agony as his pelvis was crushed, guts spilling out onto the dirtied street.
The third waved a torch at her, a makeshift shield fashioned of wood and rusted nails raised in front of his chest.
"Go! Begone foul beast!"
Catherine ignored him, smashing through the shield as if it were paper and burying her cleaver in his chest, the wicked blade poking out of his back and dripping with blood.
WIth a grunt, she ripped it out of his body, splashing herself in red.
She cried out as a bullet passed through her gut, falling to one knee. Panting, she turned to see a woman, trembling as she pointed a crooked rifle at her. The trigger clicked again, but nothing happened, the woman moaning as she fiddled with the hammer, smacking the barrel with an open palm.
Catherine glared at the woman, but found herself rearing back at the sheer fright in her eyes.
She was almost petrified. Whatever affliction that affected the inhabitants of Yharnam barely visible upon her, only a few patches of hair creeping up her neck, just the slightest point to her teeth.
"You're different," Catherine gasped, sickened.
Glancing down at the man whose chest lay bared to the world, she found herself looking away immediately.
She did this.
She did.
How did she suddenly go from feeling absolute horror, nothing but disgust for the city she had found herself in, to- to... this?
Six men dead and her body drenched in blood. Their blood. She could feel it, taste it. How thick it was as it clung to the gaps between her fingers, sweet as it pooled in her mouth like spit.
The blood? Is it all the blood? She thought, remembering the way her body positively shivered as it ran through her veins, how it seemed to warm everything it touched.
It's the blood. The blood did this. Not me.
"Outsider!" The woman's voice shivered as her body did, thumb flicking at the trigger and trying to pry it unstuck. "You killed them! Killed them!"
"I thought… I thought they were beasts."
Weren't they?
Catherine stared into the woman's eyes, unable to pull herself off the ground.
She deserved to die, didn't she? It wouldn't stick, of course, she wouldn't stay dead - not the way those men in the street would, mouths agape and bodies broken.
Closing her eyes and bowing her head, Catherine pressed her face to the stone, unable to bear the sight of those men's bodies. Their eyes, full of blame and fear, an image of her bloodied visage seared upon them.
I did this.
Swallowing heavily, she ground her forehead against sharp rock. "Do it."
The woman obliged, a joyful whoop leaving her throat as the trigger clicked into place.
Catherine didn't even hear the rifle go off, but she felt the bullet that scattered her brains across the ground.