Murderer. That was me, now. But it grew worse. Amelia knew my name, and that I was son of a carpenter from this town. How long before they found my family? There were fifteen carpenters in the town. It wouldn’t take many visits, before one of them started pointing to my family. Or visited them directly.

But to visit them now… it was better to keep my distance, so they could tell the truth as it was: they hadn’t seen me for a week. It would absolve them of any culpability. But I would keep an eye on them.

I found a victim for the night to satiate the thirst and clear my mind. This night’s objective was to find a safe place to sleep. So I rummaged the town. It was not evident. The few abandoned buildings were occupied by street urchins, and the taverns hardly seemed safe now that they were looking for me, so I kept coming back to the graveyard, but it was close to the Church, which unnerved me. Plus… it seemed distasteful, sleeping in the earth amongst insects and animals.

The town wasn’t large. I hadn’t lied when I told Amelia that I had grown up here, but I had travelled many times, especially in my teen years, when my father had still been trading. Now he had settled down firmly as a carpenter, with enough saved up to allow himself relaxed workdays where he cared tenderly for his prize projects, mostly canes and chairs.

I digress. The town. Epernay was the name. It had some low and thin walls, not large enough to be manned, except for the round towers at even distances and the gates. It housed a few thousand and thrived on the champagne business and the trade along the Marne River. A fairly wealthy, French town.

But not large enough to disappear in. I had made the tour of the place thrice already and was still very indecisive. The night was not late yet but I was getting nervous.

I was rounding a corner, hands absentmindedly brushing the cold stone, when the hairs rose on my neck as a heavy, prodding presence made itself felt. I swivelled around, but the paved street behind was empty, the cool air of the night flowed from the river and pushed the scent away from me. A predator, one who knew to approach from downwind. One of my kind? My heart skipped a beat. Richard? Fuck. Damnation!

Or hopefully, it was only my paranoia taking shape.

Nevertheless, after a few tranquil strides, I suddenly broke into a sprint around the next corner and flattened to the wall. And waited. Nothing. Until there were steps, light, like a small woman’s, or a child’s. But at this hour… They approached leisurely, unevenly, like they were dancing closer and suddenly, as my heart did its very best to pound its way out, she appeared, her white face cool and dignified, with long golden hair that ended in small curls spreading over her shoulders and covering her chest and upper back. She wore nothing but a black robe, with a belt tightly wound around her waist.

My heart skipped another beat. This was getting unhealthy. She was… otherworldly. Mesmerizing. I took a step back. Her scent started bells of danger in my head. She stilled, and eyed me slowly from top to toe, gauging. I could not discern her thoughts, her impression, which I was used to be able to do already, and it was unnerving me, I wanted to jump out of my skin to still my mind and see her properly, to escape the distracting self-consciousness.

She smirked, sweeping my mind of lucid thoughts with that simple expression, and I saw her fangs, and my eyes widened. My first instinct was to run, but I was tetanized.

Then she turned around, flicking her golden locks with a couple of delicate, graceful fingers, and left from where she had come, walking, her hips swaying hypnotically. I stammered, as my mind raced for a solution, “excuse me!” to my satisfaction, my voice rang smooth and natural. I had feared it would break.

She halted, raised a golden brow, and stared with deep blue eyes.

I bowed and licked my lips, before I began. “miss, milady, I am Archibald, and forgive me, but I sensed something between us. Perhaps it was only me… but I would like to meet you again, if it pleases you,” perhaps it was something in my new condition, but my voice did not flutter at all, I had absolute control. It was true to my thought. Only, my thoughts were a mess.

“You’re bold,” she said, flashing her sharp corner teeth again, they were white and perfect, “I smell Richard on you.”

“Richard?” I repeated, “you know Richard?”

She laughed. It was a pristine thing, her laugh. If a butterfly’s wings made a sound, then this was it. “how old are you?”

“Well, twenty-five,” I answered, and hesitated, feeling I knew too little to properly navigate this encounter. She snorted, and I reeled internally.

“D’accord, that young. Did Richard tell you nothing at all?” She tilted her head.

What did I have to lose? I sense no love for him in her manner. I told her how I had woken up and what Richard had wanted, and how he had simply disappeared. I omitted how I had escaped, ashamed of it.

Her eyes lit up with understanding. “I see. No more than six days since the Devil’s Kiss, then, and Richard deserved his death. Come, I shall do what he did not.” Her hand took mine. Her fingers carried an effortless, preternatural strength. “Where do you sleep?” She asked, as we walked, she leading me by the hand.

“In a tavern, but I was ambushed this morning by a healer and a priest, brought there by a servant,” I had no interest in talking too much about Amelia, “but I escaped. I’ve tried to find a place during the night, but with little luck.”

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She shook her head, “careless, sleeping in a tavern. I’ve seen the uproar, you killed the priest yes?” The edge in her tone put me on the defensive.

“He was attacking me. I didn’t mean to, I simply… I reacted.”

She nodded. “Anyone else?” Her tone was flat, unemotional.

“Not one. I have fed, but not killed.”

“Except for the priest.”

“No, I didn’t feed on the priest.”

She eyed me strangely. “Really?” I nodded firmly, and she believed me. She was reading my mind, but not in an intrusive way. I didn’t know how to fight her, I could barely even feel it. But it made me uncomfortable. “You are interesting, Archibald. I think you’re strong, stronger than Richard.” She saw the peeved look on my face and threw her head back to laugh. “Don’t worry, his scent will disappear on you. It is there because he gave you the Night’s Gift, but by a week’s time, your blood will be your own, you will mature as a Nightwalker.”

“A Nightwalker,” I repeated, tasting the word. There was pride in it, the way she said it. I liked that. “And the Night’s Gift?”

“Not now, my devil, not now,” she sang melodiously, and then she hummed and gestured gracefully to a house of stone with timber beams, with small, shuttered windows. It was at the edge of town, tucked against the wall, it seemed fairly dead in this area, and poor, but the house stood solidly, and there were breathing mortals sleeping in the houses surrounding it.

She unlocked the door and after they had crossed the threshold, she locked it after them. The room was large and neat, and without dust. A kitchen in order, a dinner table with perfectly arrayed chairs, and a fireplace that hadn’t seen fire in ages. I noticed there were shutters both inside and outside, and they were locked with iron bars. The door too, had an iron bar.

She went upstairs and I followed, trying to imitate her light and precise footing while shamelessly admiring her waist and derrière, which seemed soft and firm at the same time. Upstairs, there were three rooms. A bedroom, neat and untouched, the bed was perfectly made, and the closet was full, and there were two heavy chests. I only caught a glimpse as we passed it because she led me straight into the study, which had shelves upon shelves of books, a soft armchair of velvet, which had a high, round table next to it on which was a candle. Opposite, there was a chair with a cushion, which seemed placed for supporting the feet. “Have the chair,” she suggested as she hopped into the armchair and crossed her legs.

“My name is Fetinja,” her voice said melodiously, “Fetinja of Novgorod.”

“Fetinja,” I breathed, “a beautiful name for a beautiful person.”

It pleased her, that I spoke of my admiration out loud. “I was turned for my beauty… many of us are. You were, too.”

“I was?”

“Of course. Richard turned only beautiful, young men… but I understand now he killed them with his ‘experiments’. I would have helped you, had I known. I am sorry,” she seemed genuine, her eyes were light and open, they exuded grace and kindness. It warmed and fluttered my heart.

I sat on the edge of the seat. “You’re helping me now,” I pointed out, smiling gratefully, “and I am really in a pinch. Half the city is looking for me, hunting me. Your timing is irreproachable, I needed you now more than ever,” I bowed my head exaggeratingly, as I liked to do for illustrating deference and respect. People liked it, few young men showed such engagement and deference. She was no different, and I was delighted to see her smile widen. Of course, people also liked to have their actions properly recognized.

“I could have been there earlier…” she vaguely said, gesturing a loose hand, dancing her fingers around her hair, “I have much to teach you.”

“I would think so, with a private collection such as this,” I surmised, looking over the volumes carefully arranged in colours and heights, the shelves reached a good bit higher than I was tall, and she was on the shorter side, the highest books seemed beyond her reach. Had she been human.

She hummed, but was not distracted, her eyes remained on me. “Have you no questions?” She wondered with intrigue.

“So many that I do not know where to start…” I said, but then I looked at her, and I knew exactly where to start. “I want to learn more about you, Fetinja. You’re from Novgorod, but how long have you been in Épernay? Your French is perfect, but it must have been a long journey.”

She stared at me, and I smiled, non-plussed by her surprise. I wanted to surprise her. She huffed, “really? This is what you wish to know of?”

“There’s so much I wish to know. But this, first, yes,” her bafflement merited a wry smile, so that’s what I gave her.

“Very well,” she said, leaning back in the chair, “you shall have it then. From the very beginning?”

I smiled encouragingly.

She nodded, and her blue eyes sparkled. “We’ll see how far we get before sunrise…

Mine is not a painful story. Not compared to the truly tragic ones I have heard throughout the years. But it is not all roses either. I think…” she took a moment to think, “I think, I would like to talk about Novgorod. Where I grew up. My family.

I grew up in prosperous household, but there was a distance in it, one that made it cold. Poor households are cramped, so my parents greatly valued individual room-of-living. I was lonely, my brother was older and trading, always traveling. I was guarded. My mother was hunting noblemen for me, to increase my status…” she smiled ironically, “her way of getting me ahead in the world.”

I listened to her intently. She was lovely, in the way she told her story. The details she remembered were astonishingly beautiful in their simplicity, it was the sway of a flower as her mother picked it up, the tone of her father’s voice when he explained calmly that naturally, he loved her, as if it was the most self-evident thing in the world though she could not remember his touch, ever. There was the music that came from the corner building’s second floor, where a young man practiced his lute and a woman practiced her voice. She had wanted to sing like her.

The sun vexed me when it began lighting the horizon. Not a shiver of it entered the room, but we both felt it. Fetinja took to her head, and the skin around her eyes tightened, “we should talk tomorrow…” she suddenly said, “I am way beyond bedtime.”

I was surprised, for I was feeling fine still. She didn’t notice. “No light enters here, and everything is locked. You may sleep where you wish,” she told, but she hesitated as she walked past me, and her fingers brushed my shoulder, “I hope to see you tomorrow.” Of course she would see me tomorrow. My heart was stolen.

“You will,” I promised her with genuine cheer, and then she disappeared down a heavy, thick door which led to a cellar. Did Nightwalkers simply must sleep in cellars, I wondered? Or was it simply most comfortable, being far from light, and in addition, perhaps more secure?

She was gone for now, but I was still awake. I shifted seat and settled carefully in the armchair. Her scent was strong here, I inhaled it deeply with closed eyes. My imagination ran wild.

It took more than an hour before the sun rose. Pressure on mind rose accordingly, but I was not yet ready to sleep, so I looked at her books. Poems, legends, recordings, stories, songs, travelling accounts. I liked her all the more for it.

It seemed wrong to sleep in her seat, so I laid on the floor. It was not uncomfortable. I wondered if my back would ache tomorrow, or if I had simply become that tough.

One problem I had always suffered, was falling asleep. Now, my mind turned off naturally as the sun showed itself. Perhaps it was not so bad, in the end, living as a Nightwalker.