Chapter 1
The wretched cesspit of despair known as Black Hollow, how Violet detested the very deplorable scent of this place. As her boots clicked against the muddy cobbles, her stomach tightened and her mind reeled with the memory that her slimy eel of a target had once again slipped through her fingers. A black cloak billowed around her calves as the cold air bit the shadows where her face should be, her hood veiling all her mysteries bar one free lock of raven hair that bade free of its grasp. Her thoughts, alone, were her only company.
“ There is only one good thing about small towns.
You get what you want. Knowledge is currency here… “
This was not her first time in a town such as this, and nor, she bet, would it be her last. Between the gusts of winds that buffeted her from the gathering storm, the noise from the tavern could be heard a half a mile away, and she honed in on it like a bloodhound. Laughing, shouting and the occasional burst of gunfire through the night coaxed her onwards, down the winding cobbled streets until - at last - she came upon its source. The grumbling sign of The Mystic Grimoire was about two loose screws away from falling on some unsuspecting patron’s head. Catcalls blossomed inside it’s walls, as unseen drinkers took up rounds of hearty lewd chanteys. Yes, this was a place of charlatans and vagabonds, and no doubt Violet would learn something of worth between the drunken slurs of dimwits and fools.
A gloved fist rasped two determined knocks against the battered door and it swung open, bathing her in the golden glow of firelight and misspent evenings. Tankards were clashed against each other in brotherly toasts, slammed against stained tables for refills, and occasionally thrown expertly at someone’s head. It was crowded that night, every last shoddy chair filled in that candle-lit tavern.
Violet sighed. What a horrific place her contact had requested to meet, but still there were valuable things to be learnt tonight. With a warrior’s stride she crossed the threshold, knowing full well under other circumstances she would happily kill half the undead bastards lurking under its roof. But her contact had requested a peaceful evening, and the town of Black Hollow had released many a good lead in the past. Her blood boiled - or perhaps froze? - to be in the presence of so many creatures of the night, but she bit her tongue, fixating on the fact that her endless hunt might well soon be drawing to a close.
The gossip did not make tolerating this hellhole any easier, however.
“Did ya hear? They say the Shadow Huntress took another victim in Edinburgh last week…”
“Is it true no soul has seen that she-devil’s face and lived?”
“They say the last thing you see is them eyes like piercing ice, soul-reaching crystals.”
“Damn bitch can’t possibly be mortal…”
Her lip curled in a silent snarl as she passed their table, resisting the urge to slam a knife between their fingers or perhaps between their ribs. As it was she approached the corner of the bar near the stairwell to a small hushed, empty table, the meeting place they had agreed upon. Violet slipped into the precariously placed chair as it’s three legs tottered with a groan. Evidently, this part of the tavern was not used as much, nor cared for.
Her delicate fingers danced across the beeswax from the candle as it’s flame spluttered and drowned in it’s casing. A sweeping gaze across the room told stories of werewolves and shifters, though her little spy was nowhere in sight. Instead her vision was assaulted with reminders of the scourge of undead that plagued this world, sharing her air as they sat drinking their cares away.
With that she was living a nightmare. Less than a breath away were memories undaunted by the sweet release of time, encapsulated and perfectly preserved. Her own little slice of hell. The blood. Her brother. The pain… Twisted thoughts and bent fingertips, exhaustion, uncertainty, and a guilt that threatened to swallow her whole. It claimed her, wore her body like a suit, bled into every last action and plagued each moment with only the wanton quest for revenge.
If only she could breathe easy, speak pleasantly, bathe in a mind as gentle as a calm ocean and rest in a heart that knew only kindness. But alas, these things were more foreign to Violet than distant shores bathed in antiquity. For a life of violence bred only it’s brothers vengeance and regret, and Violet had the first in ample amounts. The second, she could barely afford the time of day, for the dice had long been cast and the metal around her heart set.
What could it mean, to say farewell to kindness and gratitude? In truth, these things had died a gory and cruel death in her long ago. Perhaps, instead, Violet had wrenched the God of vengeance down from the very heavens itself to yield his place to her, and grant her his blessing to punish the wicked with a dark and merciless heart.
It was at that very moment the screeching gale force winds threw open the door.
A crash of blinding white and a man stood illuminated in the doorway where before there was none. Droplets cascaded from his hood, dripping off his crooked nose and blurring his sight. Even with his vision obscured by the weight of the storm he missed nothing, his eyes nervously darting left and right like a hungry crow. He hesitated there on the stoop for a moment, fidgeting from one foot to the other as a puddle formed around his feet, obviously looking for something or, perhaps... someone?
For a single beat there was silence… and then, the patrons shrugged it off and turned back to their drinks with tones of mirth and revelry. Not even a drunk or barmaid looked his way, none donned a glance of worry or wondered at his presence, but simply returned to their goings-on as if nothing had changed. For in a town such as this it was better to ask no question and receive no quarter, lest you learn something you would rather forget. But there was one who paid him close attention like no other, and that was Violet, her awareness pinned on him like a hawk on prey.
Her chin tilted upwards a slither as she watched him slide across the hardwood floors, leaving only muddy footprints in his wake. She observed him weave and shift through crowds of drunken barbarians, she witnessed each moment his fingers would stray into some unsuspecting pocket and return with prizes of coin and metal. He took a long route round the tavern for sure, but soon enough he planted himself across the table from Violet’s watchful gaze.
“I apologise for being late.” his scratching husky voice spoke of one too many cigars and perhaps one too many nightcaps, and in this case hopes higher than a man of his calibre could achieve in his lifetime. For as his calloused hands snaked across the table towards her, it became clear to Violet he hadn’t just taken this dangerous mission for the gold alone. Oh no, it could never be simple, could it?
Violet clicked her tongue and leaned back, trying to keep herself in check. “I don’t do this for entertainment purposes.” she hissed curtly, her voice barely above a sigh. It mattered little to speak softly for safety’s sake, the room was abuzz with chatter and laughter, that it seemed unlikely any would overhear their precious conversation. But Violet knew better than to take any chances, for risks had a nasty habit of taking lives.
“How was the journey?” she offered reluctantly, trying not to scare off her only lead.He rasped his fat knuckles on the table, battle scarred and stained with coal dust, stealing one more hesitant look around the room. Ugh. Violet was impatient. She had waited far too long for this information, travelled too far, and these last moments stood like gatekeepers between her and her brother’s killer.
Patience, it’s a shame there’s no time for that.
It was agonising, watching this pig of a man ponder over his own safety. What was worse was when he turned back to her with a hungry gaze as some werewolf down the other side of the bar howled and whooped with laughter. The man leaned in, sweeping an uncomfortably intimate gaze over Violet up and down, licking his fish-lips as he did so, eyes bulging.
“I always pack for the weather, but things could have fared.... Better.~” he purred in the voice of a strangled dying cat, which perhaps he thought was sensual. Violet winced, preventing herself from immediately slitting open his bulbous throat. It would be undoubtedly pleasant to see his blood cascading to the floor, and watching the slow realisation in his eyes as it dawned on him that he had picked the wrong huntress to flirt with. But Violet was no murderer of innocent human folk, though she would muse he could do without a hand or foot if necessary.
Information… he has information. She reminded herself, drawing her feet back under her chair as she noted his correct response to her coded question. He had what she needed, there were complications getting it but his cover had not been blown. Finally… after all this time…
Violet only dimly registered the heated conversations of the patrons growing in volume as insults were thrown across the length of the building. To her they seemed to fade away, her focus now squarely honed on the words to spill from her informant’s lips. Near any trial, distasteful flirting or otherwise, would be worth the end of her journey.
“And?”
Her own voice seemed to echo to Violet, filling the space between them, reverberating off stained walls and curling around wasted candles. She felt tense, each moment dragging on longer than the last, prickling across her skin like needles. It was only an annoyance at first, then an infuriation, a rising cacophony of unpleasantness that slowly boiled into agony. Like a frog in slowly heated water, at first she barely noticed how her breath had caught in her chest and how her muscles stiffened, or that she leaned in, hanging on every last letter.
Somewhere a glass smashed.
“Filthy moondog, the maid should kick you out into the street and feed you a bowl of that slop. Tankards are wasted on animals.”
Shocked gasps as a table was upturned.
“Fine words for a fucking bloodsucker. We should have eradicated your kind long ago. At least us wolves aren’t dusty, decrepit husks that belong buried six feet under.”
The venomous words spat across the tavern spun around Violet in a dizzying dance, an unnecessary distraction, a sickening reminder of just how close the damned beasts were. She gritted her teeth, pressed her fingernails into her palms until they left a mark, painfully aware her patience had run so thin that she may just be moments away from taking her frustrations out on the nearest wasteful pile of flesh. No doubt this tavern would be burnt down by the end of the night at the rate the drunks were going, and Violet could no longer afford pleasantries. She was going to get her information, and she was going to get it now.“Where is Lumiere?”
