C3 Sea Hawk

Scowling, Beryn twisted his nails into the hole, tearing deeper into the absent lady, yanking the tapestry from its hanging. A tapestry his wife had worked upon. It crumpled to the ground, revealing the dark corridor beyond. Turning to face the two men watching him, he narrowed his eyes… "Do you plan on trading before or after the sun rises?"

There was no answer. Silas scuttled into the darkness, his torch throwing light upon the cracks. In a short moment, his thin silhouette sprinted down the corridor and with the same chain of keys, opened the door at its end, revealing a stone staircase. Without pause, he scarpered down its steps, leaving them behind. A hint of shivering light was the only suggestion that he waited below.

Interesting, thought Beryn, a trace of bitter humour tugging at his lips. Somehow vampires always assumed there was a threat involved whenever anyone mentioned the sun. He glanced back at his personal bodyguard, silently commanding him to stay, at times weary of his subordinate's penchant for guarding his back. The scent of caution rose by a margin, but nodding once, the dark werewolf turned away. The horses would need checking, particularly with the rain. Even before the door had closed, Beryn was heading down the corridor, his eyes continuing to shine silver as he eyed the footsteps ahead of him. The floor was covered in a thick layer of grime…completely untouched save for Silas' footprints going backwards and forwards. Either this seer was a ruse or she had not left the tombs in a very, very long time.

Smelling something rank, he began to descend, relaxed in his stance, stalking as if he had all the time in the world. He knew the abbey layout. The original tombs were a simple affair forming a cross facing north. Nowhere for Silas to run. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the air turned frigid, and the tasteless smell of death touched his nostrils. The stone walls were covered in mildew and slime. Skulls beneath his feet, skeletons lying in slots, bones fallen to the ground.

He looked to the right. In the distance, the torch flickered, the silhouette of Silas ambling ahead, the stones getting more jagged, the smell growing more prominent. On his guard, he followed the vampire, his ears pricked for sounds, his eyes and instinct looking for tracks in the dirt. Again, there was only one pair of footprints moving back and forth. Tiny bones along the edges of the passageway. Every twelve paces, there was a square hole in the wall, the dark tunnel-offshoots providing enough height for a werewolf to gallop on all fours. Familiar with these escape routes, he glanced into every one as he passed. All the exits had been blockaded, but they could very well harbour an ambush. Almost tranquil, his nails began to grow. He was starting to doubt the existence of this woman. As if Silas could hear him, the vampire stopped in front of one the square holes. Bones littered the entrance, the skeleton of a fallen monk lying against the side.

"There…"

His voice was a feverish whine, his hand pointing into the tunnel, beyond the skull and bones. Relieving him of the torch, Beryn stepped forward and crouched by the hole. His eyes, cold and harsh, taking in every detail as he brought the torch closer. Every surface and texture twisted into the light, the unforgiving pallor of grave desperation.

He felt no pity…

…yet he could only guess at how long she'd been there.

Pale and gaunt, she sat at the end of the tunnel crossing, arms curled around her knees, the skin scratched and bruised. Though she was shivering, every trace of warmth had been shoved back. A grey shawl scrunched on the ground, flea-infested mantles piled by the entrance. Only a thin shift hung from her shoulders, the grimy material torn along the edges. Except for the shivering, he would have wagered she was dead.

She had become a flesh-eating creature mingling with the forgotten bones of an abbey. Gaunt bones in her neck, the cheeks hollow and strained. Dirt scrubbed across her withered skin. All the hair fallen out, so it was not hard to make out the shape of her face. Anaemia had prematurely aged her. For all he knew, she could be no more than twenty and four; yet starved, she had forced herself into a false form of aging hibernation. A defence-mechanism which held more peril for the fact that its tormentor was half-awake…

Unexpectedly, she looked up.

A pair of icy blue eyes glowing in the darkness before him. Violent and lethal, the shade of the ocean caught in each iris. Jaws widening slowly, almost painfully, she found strength enough to bare her teeth at him. The sharp hiss of an ancient sea hawk rising against the wind. Revulsion in her gaze…the hostility crumbling beneath a silent scream. She could not speak even if she wanted to. She could not hear. The blue eyes were gone, closed, her breathing strained. She was conserving her energy.

"How long has she been like this?" Keeping his eyes on the seer, Beryn directed his words to Silas. The historian had backed away as if frightened of being thrashed. There was no need to fear…he was not angry. Merely curious.

"Only a few weeks," the man said, traces of a lie heavy on his tongue.

"How long," Beryn enquired yet again, his quiet tone glacial. The seer had been starved here longer than weeks. Longer than years. He studied the damage. Bite marks along both her wrists, the wounds showing where Silas procured some of his meals these days. Several decaying rats revealed the source of hers…the same stench emanating from beneath the blankets. Her toenails were black and swollen. Her body healing at the rate of a human by this point.

For the second time this night, Silas had tried to sell him flawed goods. They could still fix this as long as she could be woken from the slumber.

"I…I tried to care for her, but…she was…sometimes she…" Silas had taken a step back, but by some foolish resolve, tried to regain his footing… "Only a month, I swear…"

A wolf uncurling itself, Beryn dragged the historian forward and into his face. The words gritting from his tongue, silver slits for eyes as he made himself perfectly clear… "Believe me, Silas…" he growled softly, tightening his grip before the man could bolt. "…I do not care if you have maltreated a fellow leech. All I am asking for is the duration. Can you comprehend that?"

At the verge of yelping, the scrawny historian nodded fervently. "Yes," he added for good measure.

"Excellent…" He did not release his grip. "…now… how long?"

"I…I don't always…keep track of the exact date or time…but it was…she was…in the town square. Raving lunatic. Calling for me by name. If I was thought to have left the monastery, I could have been…" The torch shifted closer into the vampire's face and immediately, he skipped forward in his story. "…and then, Karl found her before any of the hunters caught wind. Some foreign coven already banished her, burned the mark in her side. He said he was doing me a favor. He brought her here, but by the gods she wouldn't stop screaming. I…I can't work unless there is complete…"

"What year?"

"1848."

"The devil you did." The curse fell without thought, a remnant of his past self still disgusted by the concept. Eighteen years spent starving in this tomb…but at least the woman had not passed the mark. The damage might even be reversible. He glanced back into the dark hole. Her eyes had opened again. The tilted blue of a sea hawk watching him from the darkness.

A vampire.

"I expect you don't know this," he murmured, not even realising why he spoke to her. "…but you are very lucky." He released the historian's robes and shoved him back towards the hole, the flames from the torch causing the vampire to flinch. Turning away, he let his words echo behind him…"Bring her upstairs. There is work to be done."