W
e galloped hard through the morning. My horse, the one Vale had given me, was strong and fast. Farrow’s, however, was not used to running for so long and over such uneven terrain.
“Don’t slow for me,” Farrow called after me, and I let out a rough, wild laugh that I was grateful he didn’t hear. I never planned on slowing for him. I’d ride as fast as I could.
I felt like a fool.
A fool because I had spent all this time worried about the dangers my relationship with Vale would pose to me, my sister, my town. But it had never occurred to me that I would be dangerous to him.
Thomassen had gone after Vale with several dozen men, Farrow had told me as we ran—young and strong ones. They’d brought weapons and explosives and fire. And they’d brought the most dangerous things of all: desperation and rage.
The acolytes believed that Vale was the reason for the curse. They’d convinced themselves that slaughtering him, offering his tainted blood to Vitarus, could end the plague. They convinced themselves that they could only save themselves, save their families, through this murder.
It didn’t matter that Vale had lived here far longer than the plague had. It didn’t matter that we had sacrificed to Vitarus many times before, with no success. It didn’t matter that there was no evidence Vitarus even remembered us—or that he had damned us.
No, logic doesn’t stand a chance against fear and emotion. Logic is powerless against hatred, and hatred thrives on fear—and my people were
terrified.
I was terrified, too.
I knew Vale’s blood so well now. I knew what it would look like spilled over the steps of his home, splattered on the faces of those who came to kill him. I had dissected many animals and cadavers. I knew what Vale would look like with his insides pulled apart.
I looked up at the sky. The sun was high, beating down on my back and forehead through the leaves.
That, I didn’t know. What would happen to a vampire in daylight. I thought that after all I had seen, known things were the most terrifying. But this—this unknown—made me sick to my stomach.
I smelled the fire before I saw it. Burning flesh—in a plague, one recognizes that scent innately.
Finally, I saw the gates of Vale’s estate glint through the tree branches, open and gently-swaying in the breeze.
I kicked my horse and tore through it.
Behind me, Farrow shouted my name, and I ignored him. Because before me, there was only blood.
