“Monsters and Men,” I read.
Slowly I slid into the chair in a daze and felt the rough pages beneath my fingers. The book breathed open as the heavy cover weighted the first part of the book to the left. Pages flicked over one another, leaving a blur of disturbing images burnt into my eyelids. When I blinked I saw pictures of spirits, witches, disfigured children and contorted men; the kind from the horror stories Roan would tell me at night when I was younger. The pages were scripted carefully by hand, and I found myself drawn to the sketch of a man being consumed by fur and claws under the light of a full moon. Beneath, the text read: Lycaenthrope.
I shivered.
There had been an incident, or so I’d heard, in Wetherdon once. Father was only a young boy at the time, but he told me vivid tales of when fear burrowed under the skin of simple folk in the neighbouring villages. The fear had moved from place to place, infecting the minds of gullible, mindless people until it finally reached town. Tales of men changing into wolves under the light of the moon and devouring women and children gripped even the most intelligent of people. After the intelligent came the nobles and those in positions of power, and with power came the mass slaughters and burnings of humans and animals alike. Even my father’s father had been beheaded from the accusations the townsfolk made. He was burned on the farm that night, right in front of his family.
Fear made people stupid. Fear made people corruptible. I caught my breath as I turned the page. My eyes fell upon a woman sprawled on top of a bed, her clothing was ripped, exposing parts of her body that I could only imagine a husband, or lover, would ever see. But what caught my attention was the creature that leered above her. I’d seen it before in the woods a week ago. Its mouth was agape at her neck, its sharp canines were long and bared and the patchy, bloated skin that encased its body was illuminated by the moonlight and though the picture wasn’t coloured I knew its eyes were red. I read the passage below it and grew cold.
Though not much is known about the physical appearance of a Vampyr, it is said that there are several distinctive features recounted by a large majority of eye-witnesses and survivors. Its skin is bruised and bloated like that of a drowned corpse, and its eyes glow red in the night. The nocturnal beast will feed on the blood of Gnathians to survive and often becomes a plague to the village of loved ones from their past life-
I shoved the book aside and slammed its cover shut atop the discarded pile on the desk. A shred of panic shot through me and I laughed. For a moment I’d actually believed that thing from the other night had been one of those beings – a Vampyr. Gehn, for all I know I could’ve been running away from a bear, banged my head when I fell and dreamt the whole thing up. My imagination was vivid enough that it was entirely feasible. But the smouldering arrow; the screams of that creature; the touch of Ethan’s skin; it all felt so incredibly real. I took a sideways glance at the book and sighed, burying it beneath a few others, and set to work scouring the shelves for less heavy reading.
I lost myself in the story of a new book as I stretched out on the window seat. It was a little slow to begin with but there was adventure and the promise of romance-
“I’ve read that one,” Lavender said as she appeared over my shoulder and I failed to supress a shriek. “It’s good, but a little outdated.”
“In what way?” I asked. Daeus help me; my poor, poor heart.
“In terms of passion,” she said flopping onto the window seat beside me. “The main characters barely hold hands in it.”
“Perhaps it isn’t that kind of book.” I poked her in the leg and sat up. “Just what kind were you hoping to read?” I chuckled.
Lavender threw her hands up, her cheeks red with mortification. “I didn’t mean that kind of romance,” she babbled. “I meant stories where two people fall in love under difficult circumstances. They draw strength from each other. Then when that moment comes where they finally embrace in the firelight – he lifts her chin and presses his lips against hers after pages and pages of agonising tension.” She smiled and fell backwards into my lap. “Love; those are the best stories.”
I brushed a piece of her golden hair away. “I suppose I’ve never read any good love stories. Back home most of the reading I did was about my work or the land around us. Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever had any real-life encounters to ever compare them to.”
“You’ve never had suitors? Even with your bizarre traditions?” she asked, staring up at me quizzically.
“No, I’ve always done things for myself or for my family. Most men don’t like that in a wife.”
“Then they’re fools,” Lavender spat.
I smiled. “Ric said the same thing the night we met-”
I faded off. Though I’d decided to believe him I still hated to think of it. Maybe a little part of me still hadn’t quite forgiven him, but it would come with time. Lavender cleared her throat and changed the subject quickly. We spoke of books we’d read and the libraries Lavender had visited. She’d even met three writers, and despite the fact she spoke of them favourably, she still called them ‘odd individuals’. I expected in a way they’d have to be. We laughed together as we left the small library for dinner and I considered what to make of this wonderfully strange person I dared to call ‘friend’.
IT WAS LATE by the time I set the completed book down, and I saw what Lavender had meant. There was supposed to be a romance between the two main characters. The way they interacted and spoke with each other made it abundantly clear, yet nothing ever came of it. Not a touch of skin or word of promise for their future; just an end, and no other beginning.
Feeling empty, I returned to the library and grabbed another book. My lamp flickered as I lifted it in front of me after shadows moved in the corner of my eye but there was nothing, only the wind that stirred the spindly branches. I hurried back along the corridor, ignoring the biting chill that whispered through the cracks beneath my feet and I shut the stiff, old door. I was tempted to push the wardrobe in front of it but for what? A whistle of wind? A dance of branches?
I leapt into bed and pulled the covers up, taking a look at the book in my hand I’d grabbed on a whim. “The Waters of Aourandell,” I muttered. Thunder rumbled outside the window and I tucked myself further into bed, dimming the oil lamp until its flame was all but extinguished. “Chapter one,” I started, suddenly eager for any noise. “The presence of evil had always been known in the Valley of Time-”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN