When Fetinja found out I couldn’t read, she dropped her book, she dropped the Nightwalker teaching, and she sat me down a week to indoctrinate me into her world of letters. We stopped only to hunt. I had always been quick to learn new things, but since the Gift, my memory was twice as good, enhanced like my senses, my physique.

And she hooked me. What a world. Lifetimes of experiences, of knowledge. “A man who reads lives a thousand lives,” Fetinja recited to me eagerly, and thrust a tome into my hand detailing a monk’s travelling account down the Novgorod River. It was a heavy thing, but I swallowed it whole.

You’d think that it would be more interesting to read people’s minds. But what people thought about was often trivial … if they thought at all. Many were simply absorbed into their work, and concentrating, and most others lived by desires. Some mortals had closed minds, others almost forced their pondering unto me unless I put up a wall.

In the hours I had alone, before she woke and after she went to rest, I searched her library for books on our condition. I found a few. Only two were genuine, the rest regarded only ‘monsters in the night’, stories and legends and superstition. Perhaps it was wrong of me to hide this from her. So one morning, she found me reading ‘The Night’s Art,” but she said nothing. I smiled to her and greeted her warmly.

“Have you ever met a magician?” I wondered, laying the book down in my lap.

She shrugged, “many. None who really convinced me.”

“So it’s meaningless?” I gestured to the book.

“Amero didn’t think so,” she responded, disinterested. “But he also said lifetimes had been thrown at the Art to little more gain than lighting a candle,” she paused, “no, he said… not even that. Not even lighting a candle. The Art is useless, but it plays to men’s vanity.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I mused.

The book seemed nearly scientific in its thoroughness, however. It described spirits, rituals, witches and sorcerers, and… nightwalkers. We were mentioned by that very name. That surprised me. And it described us in such detail… the sleep in the day, the weakness to men of faith, and… the silver metal? That I had not known. Worrying. Three glaring weaknesses, already. “We are vulnerable to silver?”

Fetinja reluctantly nodded, “it is painful to touch, and… it slows our healing. Best to be careful of.”

I hummed; my interest renewed. Unfortunately, the book had no ways to reduce our vulnerabilities. But if I worried of them, then a hundred others had before me, and so I was sure that solutions existed. Someone must have found something.

I pursued this. I raided libraries throughout the city. One thing became obvious; books that mentioned magic, the occult, witchcraft, sorcery… they seemed to be fuelled by imagination, children’s stories, and speculation. But when the Art was mentioned, that’s when it became interesting. Consistent. I became convinced that I would find answers here.

Three projects occupied my attention: to combat the day and the thirst, and to secure the sleep. And fourthly, to face the priests’ threat. For how to fight them? One man alone had really pinned me, two would leave me with not a toe free. When I asked Fetinja how to defend against them, she shrugged. “Avoid them. It’s worked for twenty-nine years for me.”

Of course, but if that failed? I made it a point to practice my Mind’s Eye, but I didn’t know if my method worked at all.

Fetinja and I grew closer, but she refused to help me. She preferred to read her stories, to savour red wine, and occasionally, to hunt. This was what we really shared. Once the warm blood flowed, it switched on her hunger, her desire for me, and it made for the most magical moments. Some intimate and careful, others were passionate and ferocious. I wanted to dominate, of course, to feel strong and in control, but she hadn’t really let me yet. My impression was, she wouldn’t, not as long as I was not in truth stronger. It thrilled me, for I enjoyed the fight just as much, matching her fierceness pound for pound.

We slept together at day. She had a large, heavy coffin in the cellar, stuffed with velvet. The first couple of days together, I matched her routine and lied idle for hours next to her sleeping form. I didn’t actually mind too much. For the first time, I felt very connected with another person. She was trusting me. Her flagrance filled my nose, her hair’s wonderful scent, her proximity.

But of course, at length, it made me restless. I tried bringing a book in the coffin, but in the complete pitch-back, even I had problems discerning the small letters. And bringing fire into the coffin seemed ridiculous. Gradually, I was entrusted with sealing off the house, the cellar. It happened that she fell asleep in the armchair, and I carried her down. I loved that, since it showed she relied on and trusted me.

And, on another note, we shared long and peaceful afternoons of reading. I had procured a comfortable seat to match hers, and we sat together, sharing the same candlelight, which provide ample lighting for us. But I was more and more boring her with my projects, which she found a fruitless obsession, and one she only allowed because I was relaxed and not forcing the subject on her. Too much.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Here! A spell to protect our mind from the daylight,” I found with delight, though it was from a dubious book, and mentioned needing bat-liver, sunlight, a human skull grinded to dust, as well as a human child’s blood to be mixed in a potion. But the possibility alone had me excited.

She rolled her eyes, lowering her book for a second. “Well then, what are you waiting for? Try it. I beg of you. I want to see you do it.”

I grinned to her, “I have not seen my last sunset yet, I tell you, nor my last dawn!” That said, it really didn’t bother me too much. There were many things to be enjoyed, in life, and I had gained far outweighed what I had lost. Still, I resented the bounds. I knew when to rest my case, however, and I instead took some time to ask of her reading, which was far from a bore; It was a detailed, illustrated volume on the mythical lions of the south. I really had no problem not talking of my projects, I liked to work them, to explore the fields. I was admittingly not progressing, but I was learning so much still.

The night was rainy and pitch-black. Exactly twenty-nine days had passed since my fall to darkness, or my rise, depending on the angle. I was on a lonely hunt, for they always seemed bleak and boring, when Fetinja staying in, and I was drenched from top to toe, my brown hair plastered to my cheeks, and the green tunic and trousers were similarly drenched. It was growing colder, but I hadn’t worn much, figuring there was less to dry this way. The cold was bearable, but uncomfortable.

I stalked efficiently, focused, scanning the streets for victims. I could not really read thoughts from the distance, not like Fetinja could, but I could gather impressions. I sat on a roof, one leg dangling, when something foreign brushed the edge of my mind cautiously. Something that was reacting to my mental sweeping. It was not the burning feeling of a priest’s attention, but rather… Fetinja’s gentle push back, when I prodded her too much.

Except it was most decidedly not Fetinja. It made me freeze, aghast. What now? I could not return. Imagine if I revealed our hideout, and they wanted rid of us: they could simply tell the mortals. I could not fight them either. Fetinja had said so: I was young and weak for a nightwalker. And they seemed practiced. Older.

Now they were coming closer. A decision had to be made, to run for the Church and hope to dissuade them, or face them? Oh. It was truly them. There were two… And they were close now. I stayed on the roof, figuring I might as well appear calm and collected. Self-assured. Plus, escape seemed more possible here than in some enclosed alley below.

There. A male and a female. They climbed the roof with practiced ease, but they did it slowly. The male appeared, and he seemed relaxed and he even lifted a hand in greeting, dulling my fears, while the woman was more in retreat, looking impassive. They halted on the other side of the roof’s point.

He had dark, almost black hair, with blue eyes and pale skin. He was shorter than I, but just as broad. He exuded confidence, with arms resting at his sides and tranquil, observing eyes. She was a short woman with feminine curves and a heart-shaped face on a slender neck. The eyes seemed contemplative and almost absent in their neutrality.

“I am Michael,” the man said suavely, “and this is my wife, Caterina. We’re from Reims, and we come with peace.”

“Well-met,” I uttered with an engaging bow of my head, as the knot in my belly came undone, “I am Archibald of Epernay.”

“May we talk? We’re looking for a friend of Amero. But our news would concern you also,” Michael added as it occurred to him.

“A friend of Amero? Do you have a name?” It was always better to be cautious.

Michael raised a brow, seeing straight through my game, “it starts with F,” he said, the corners of his lips curling.

“That would be Fetinja,” I said happily, “are you friends of Amero also?” I was beginning to get excited. This was promising!

Michael nodded. “We are, which leaves us with one question: Who are you?”

“A friend of Fetinja’s,” I stuck a hand out, “pleased to meet you.”

He regarded the hand rather oddly but took it. Was this not common practice?

But as I stepped back, Michael raised a finger, “now, don’t be surprised –”

I jolted as another came to the roof, a third one, landing in a quick and precise manner, and quietly, of course. He had a sword on his side, and he had half-long auburn hair, a sharp jaw despite soft cheeks. He looked relaxed, but his hand rested on a long, straight sword which he carried sheathed in his belt. He stood in a relaxed slouch, taking my measure. He unnerved me. He was a fighter. The leader?

Michael took the word again, “that’s Raymond, he is with us. Apologies, but we had to be cautious.”

Raymond raised his hand lazily, I nodded to him. “That’s fair. Caution is never ill-advised,” I responded inattentively, trying to feel the group’s dynamic. It remained Michael who had the last word here. Both deferred to him.

“Right, so is it possible for us to meet Fetinja?” Michael asked, clasping his hands together in a non-assuming, apologetic gesture.

“I will arrange it,” I offered, “here, tomorrow. Do you have a place to sleep?” I was simply being polite. There was no way I would take them with me.

Michael waved dismissively, “we will manage.” He then offered me a cheerful smile. “I am glad to have met you, Archibald, you seem okay.”

“Likewise, and… um, do you have a message? For Fetinja, I mean.” I don’t know why I asked. I was unsettled, out of my element. Treading deep waters.

But Michael considered the question, thinking for a long moment. “I believe I prefer to tell her in person… but Amero said she was a careful one. Hear this: Amero passed Reims yesterday, and warned of an Old One in Paris who is traveling north, looking for new hunting grounds. He may pass through the area. He asked me to convey the warning to Fetinja, and perhaps join up. With the five of us, he thought we would be safe.” He drummed his chin with two fingers, “that’s more or less it, but there are details to it. Tomorrow, this time, here?”

I nodded, “yes.”

We parted ways, they left first, and then I did. But I didn’t hurry. I went close to home, close enough so that Fetinja could find me easily if she ventured outside to do so, but so far that they – had they tailed me – would not be able to figure out which house was ours. I waited as long as I dared, hoping the sun’s imminent coming had driven them off, before hurrying to Fetinja’s house and disappearing inside. She was long asleep, and she had locked the door to the basement, of course. I was always home before she went to sleep, such was the promise.

Not a minute passed before I went out like a light, right in the entry. With my last thoughts, I wondered how angry she might be this second time around. But I wasn’t worried, for I had a damn good excuse.