Witch Hunt

I am not at home.

My skin shivers in the freezing night air. I dart my eyes in a panic. I'm in an alley, garbage litters the stonework around me. My hands are stained red. As is the floor. And-

No, no no Gods no please.

A young woman, no older than 20, with a bob of honey-blonde hair, wearing a fuzzy yellow jacket and a long skirt, lays coated in her own blood beside me. Instantly I feel faint. Nausea triples over, and what little contents were within my stomach are now without, as I retch liquid vomit onto the floor. The bile is damningly colored in crimson.

I begin to hyperventilate. My fingertips start to sting as oxygen struggles to reach them, and a general numbness takes me. My hands shake so hard I can't grasp a thing. It's hard to tell if the blur in my eyes is born of tears or my lack of spectacles. And my fangs, that I work so hard to keep retracted, jut sharply into my lower lip. I feel I may vomit again.

Where am I? How could this happen... what is wrong with me?! The panic, the loathing, and the sickness all start to mix, and soon I feel I may pass out again. Perhaps that would be best. Someone will eventually find me like this, and put me down like the monster I am. My just deserts.

I hear a ratty breath that I did not feel through my own throat. It's... light, airy. I almost dare not look, but... I have to know. I tender a second glance at the girl. Her midsection is coated in blood. Two rounded pinpoints of perfect parallel wounds glisten on her neck. And... her chest heaves with air. I scramble forward, placing my fingers along the unwounded side of her neck. For a moment, nothing... and then the telltale thump-thump of a weak but defiant pulse.

A gasp of mixed relief and terror escapes me. I have to act.

I maneuver my hands beneath her prone form, attempting to hoist the dying woman. My underused muscles scream in protest, but I manage to lift her. On wobbly legs, I step around the alley's corner and observe my surroundings. To my surprise, I am close to home. Just across the street, and down a block, I spy my abode, window ajar and spilling light into the night sky. There is deathly silence on the streets, not one soul milling about. I stagger hurriedly across the road, the woman in my arms unbalancing my steps. Would that I could skip straight to the open window...

Bursting through my front door, my arms feeling like they may give out quite soon, I bolster myself with the last drop of strength I can manage, and march upstairs. At the ascent, I stumble toward the ratty pea green futon in the living space. I set the woman down as gingerly as I can manage, and collapse. I have only a moment to catch my breath, but a necessary moment it is.

My legs kick out, and I hear a clinking sound as the soles of my boots collide with something. I sit up, pulling forward to see the broken shards of glass pane at the foot of the ajar window, broken by some force. Amidst the glass, my spectacles lay face down. I pick them up, cringing at the spiderweb fracture up the right lens, and put them back on. My vision once more sharpens, defines, and becomes cast in shaded red.

Brushing myself off, I stand and move to assess the woman. She's still breathing, ragged and weak. The wounds on her abdomen, four parallel lines of stark ruby, aren't bleeding her out, but if she's lost enough blood already, that won't matter. It's impossible to tell from a glance how deep the wounds go. She needs both immediate healing, and long-term aid. I am no nurse or carer, but I think I can ensure she lives to dawn. To start, if I administer her a quick healing potion-

I stop, remembering. I sold all of my healing potions. To Alabastra. Dammit. Gods damn it. Her stolen cash may as well be coated in blood.

Fine. I merely need to make more. I rush to my office, taking stock of what is left from my experiments. The healing ingredients... are they why she was injured at all...? My damned attempt to cut a corner... No, focus. Hypothesize later, right now her life is at stake. There are still enough ingredients to brew a potion or two. Not nearly enough... And she'll need something far more concentrated than what's on offer up here. I take out my notepad and furiously jot down the rough equations of what I'll need.

I take a moment to catch the time. Just past midnight. In the absolute worst case scenario, my potion had no effect at all, and she's been injured for... five hours. How close to reality that scenario is, is anyone's guess.

I dash downstairs, scooping the ingredients I need by the armful. An entire white lotus, half my stock of wormwood and lifeleaf. A pinch of arsenic dust for concentration. Up to the office again, fast as I ever have, I set my furnaces to burn, and begin mixing, grinding, and stirring. Whenever I have a moment or a lull in work I crane my head around to the woman, ensure she's still breathing, and then return to my efforts.

With the ingredients poured into the pot, all that is left is the slow grind of heat.

I dust off my hands, and turn with purpose into my washroom. Kneeling to one knee, I begin fishing under the cabinet between various bits of detritus, combs and brushes and dried sponges, collected since before my own residence here, until I've procured my quarry: a small metal box, it's lid emblazoned with a white cross over chipped green paint. I slide open the first aid kit and pull out a roll of gauze. Tucking it under one arm, I march downstairs, turn behind the counter, and dart into the basement. The less eye-catching ingredients and necessary components sit tucked in well-labeled drawers that line the south and east walls. A smaller set of alchemical equipment sits atop the wooden countertops, a basic furnace in the corner, a lonely cauldron.

The main craft station used to sit here, in the basement, out of the way of any living spaces to prevent any musk or noise disturbance. After I assumed the apothecary's running, I had the station moved into the office. It's less of a walk, and it hardly matters, living alone, after all.

From the drawers, I grab a solution of isopropyl alcohol, and a small brown jar containing pellets of iodine. Mixing quickly in a beaker, eyeballing to 95% alcohol, I pour the solution into a flask and shake. I dash upstairs, not bothering to clean after myself.

The woman's skin is beginning to turn pale and clammy. I set the medical supplies beside me, and bend down. Revealing her midsection to better inspect the wound, I take the bottle and pour the solution over the open cuts. The potion should take care of the majority of the healing, but these practical solutions ensure the lowest risk of infection.

I return to my work station, turning the burner off with a click. The potion should be ready. Typically there's a cooling period, but, its healing properties aren't diminished by heat, and the woman hardly has the time. I ladle the elixir into a flask, flitting back to the woman. Mirroring my previous motions, I start by pouring the potion out directly over her wound. Immediately, the cherry red liquid makes contact with the skin, starts to bubble, and kicks up a cloud of steam. Were she conscious, this would sting tremendously. A sizzling sound fills the air as I repeat the motion again and again, carefully dripping the elixir over each line of the wound, my thumb a stopper controlling its flow.

The magic of the potion works its way through the splits of her skin. Muscle and veins, sinew and organs all begin to knit themselves together, closing the wound behind a curtain of rejuvenating tissue. On my knees, I tilt the woman's head forward with one hand, and feed the remainder of the potion down her throat. Her body coughs and revolts slightly, spitting the drink back up into my face, but some distant specter of consciousness kick in, and she drinks. I take the gauze, and begin to wrap around and around her midsection, until the various liquids no longer stain through.

Looking over my labor, it's only now the exhaustion begins to take. Perhaps I could close my eyes, for just a moment...

I slap myself across my own cheek. Rest is hardly something either of us can afford. Instead, I stand, and make myself some coffee.

* * *

These scenes repeat as dawn breaks, and well after. I continue to feed her healing mixture, checking her health, her pulse, the wounds across her midriff. Her breathing and heartbeat begin to reach more typical levels, but the girl does not awake.

I can't pretend that doesn't relieve me. Seeing the very same monster that hurt her now doting over her would likely prove... difficult. I would not lose a patient to shock after all of this.

Patient. I scoff at myself. As if I've any right to play doctor, when I nearly killed her. Gods. I nearly killed this woman. The thought finally breaks through the layers of necessary compartmentalization. My heart begins to seize with guilt. Disgust wells within me, I can hardly stand. For a moment, I wish to throw myself through the shattered window.

A morbid thought occurs, wondering if I would burn up in the sun's light before I hit the ground.

Whatever dwells within my heart, the insatiable hunger within, it struck again, despite my best efforts. The hunger, the urge for violence, is quiet now. Slumbering. Did last night's attempt to curtail it have any effect at all? Is this cycle doomed to continue?

I look down at my hands, coated in viscera, as if I am seeing them for the first time. My shirt is likewise stained in red. As I look down, I notice a torn spot over my gut. I pull open my shirt along the buttons to inspect the skin beneath. A long scar, new to me, lies just above my hipbone. I trace along the line, flinching slightly at the cold-sensitive skin. The tear in my shirt matches its trajectory.

Evidently, I was wounded. Not that it seemed to stop me, if I've healed it off so quickly. Yet... something pulled me from the brink of killing her. I shake my head, a frustrated malaise cast over me like a cowl. I look back at her. Who is she? Did I pick her deliberately? Or was she just a random target?

I have no right to her private matters, especially after what I did... but perhaps I might still return her home. Or, at least chart a course for her to do so. Though it feels ignoble, I begin to turn out her coat pockets, searching for some sign of identification. A small booklet catches at my fingertips. I pull it out and turn it over in my hands, reading the front page: Black Gates Passage Papers. Inside is all the information I need: Grace Forsyth, twenty years old. A long string of numbers and letters is printed along the bottom, on pages full of stamps... she's from Firvus Heights? A runaway socialite, slumming it here in The Reds? What reason could she have for coming to the outer city?

This makes getting her home an all but impossible proposition. The Sable Guard are picky about who they let onto the hilltop. It's possible this girl is lost... and returning her might even win me undeserved favor. More likely, however, is that she isn't welcome back home, or... they'd assume (correctly...) that I'd harmed her, and would put me to the sword immediately. That is one option, but if she's an outcast, that helps no one.

Better to leave her at a local temple. They can look after her, and once she's conscious, assist her in either returning home, or settling into a life without it. I return the document to her pocket, and consider the complications with this plan.

Most notably, it would mean testing the sunlight on my skin.

I put a hand to the girl-... to Grace's forehead, and check her pulse once more. I've done all I can for her, and I cannot guarantee she'll survive. Even if I could, if she wakes, she'd be well within her rights to refuse my help. She can't stay here, for both our sakes. The next step is a forgone conclusion.

The blackout curtains of the broken window rustle in the wind before me. If I've been made an enemy of the sun, at least I can say I did not hide forever. Gingerly, I begin to pull the curtain aside, peeling it slowly back like a fruit skin. Sunlight creeps into my flat, dust particles lit up and dancing in the fluorescence. Slowly, shakily, I reach a hand toward the light, closing my eyes as I outstretch, expecting at any moment to burn.

Nothing. I open my eyes. The sun caresses my fingertips; its light scattered across my palm, not a burn, but a gentle warmth. In for a copper... I throw open the curtain entirely, letting the light shine on me. Ah, too bright! Even with my shades, I have to shield my eyes. Right... I may not be melting, but a creature of night I remain. Still, despite the flash blinding, it seems that most damning of curses has yet to affect me. I can't help but feel foolish for my abundance of caution, but at least now I know.

I look down at Grace, still unconsciously fighting for her life. I'll need to carry the girl around if I wish to take her anywhere from here...

Well, perhaps a stamina elixir might assist. I turn back towards my office.

* * *

In addition to a stamina booster, I change out of my bloodied clothes. Not for my own comfort, but to limit any uncomfortable questions. Empowered, and caffeinated, I lift the girl with ease, feeling the strength of the potion bolster my might. Walking backwards out the front door to lock it behind, I heard the expected bedlam of shocked and surprised gasps. Pedestrians look on with curious trepidation.

I'm used to it. I move to the edge of the sidewalk and hail a taxi coach.

An open-topped horse-drawn carriage pulls to a stop beside me, the driver a human man with a bushy mustache, dumbstruck at the sight before him. I place Grace carefully into the backseat, and slip the driver a hefty tip as I climb into the passenger seat beside him. "The Dawnlord's temple, this woman needs healing."

For a moment, he asses me, then Grace,  like he's trying to decide if I'm in jest, or perhaps setting up an elaborate robbery. Then, he sighs and shrugs, pockets the payment, and hyahs his horses forward.

As we move through the streets of The Reds, my thoughts turn back to my work. The sedative... did it truly have no effect? Or, perhaps, did it simply kick in late? Something stopped the monster within from drinking this girl down to the last drop. Not conscience, surely. And not satiation; I know from experience how easy it is to forget myself, lost in bloodthirst, and lose all self-control; and that's when I've not been afflicted by hungers of an otherworldly nature. Obviously, she had no third party savior, either. If anyone else had been there, they almost certainly would have helped the girl... or at least finished me off.

My sedative is the only solution that makes sense. It would have worked... it did work. But the healing ingredients... I purposefully neutered its effectiveness, for my own comfort. I ignored the potential consequences of my little trial run, and her life was nearly the cost. I cannot be so careless again. I will not. I pull out my notepad, and begin readjusting the formula. The bumpy brick road makes writing difficult, and buttressed by the strength of the potion, one particular bump causes me to snap my pencil clean in two. "Dammit", I mutter under my breath. The driver chuckles, and for a moment I imagine clawing his face off.

I shake my head until the thought is gone. My hand fishes around the bottom of the carriage for the usable half of my pencil, and I finish my adjustments.

The carriage slows, and ahead I see the Dawnlord's temple approaching. A tall, white cathedral with yellow and orange stained glass up the side of its steeples. Were Alabastra here, and aware of my nature, I'm sure she'd have some all too clever quip about a vampire walking into the Place of the Sun.

Picking Grace up once more, I thank the driver and hurry inside. The interior is built of marbles and linoleums, lined with pews and lit by kaleidoscopic color, sunlight tinged in brilliant hues. A half dozen or so robed or lightly armored figures mill about, tending to a small congregation of everymen absorbed in prayer. Immediately I am uncomfortable. A temple is not my favored locale, and for the expected reasons. Any one of these clerics need only grow curious enough to recognize the blood-starved thing trespassing in their midst to turn me to ash.

Ahead, standing in silence and reading lightly from a book of scripture at the altar, I try desperately to catch the eye of the only man here I trust. Father Kansis is a dwarf of ashy blond hair, stout and stocky, a beard pulled into neat knots, warm brown eyes framed by the heavy wrinkles on his face. His white and gold robes carry the stains of an age of humble work.

Finally he notices me, and the shock on his face must be for both my visit at all, and the collapsed woman in my arms. "Oscar? Oscar Bromley! What's th' meaning of this?"

I shift uncomfortably. "Her name is Grace. I... found her injured. I've done all I can to ensure she lives, but..." I can only hope he doesn't further interrogate any of my half-truths.

He only nods sagely, and motions me toward a backroom. It is a small dormitory, unadorned of decoration and sparse in furniture, and bathed in purple and orange from the small, lonely window atop its eastern wall.

I set Grace down on the bed, and turn to Father Kansis with a sigh. "I'm sorry to disrupt you with this, Father."

He doesn't look back. Instead, he inspects the girl. "What happened ta her?"

That is an excellent question... "I'm not entirely sure, but... I think she was attacked."

His eyes grow wide, curious and fearful, and he turns the girl's head to see the other side of her neck, exposing the now scabbed-over tooth marks. His shoulders startle. "Dawnlord preserve us... the vampire..."

"That... looks to be the case..." I try not to cringe too visibly.

Father Kansis reaches underneath his robes, and produces the holy symbol slung around his neck with a beaded chain. He clutches the emblem shaped in the suggestion of a sunrise, and his voice booms with magic, "CURO". Golden light spills between his fingers. He guides that light with his other hand like a potter with clay, waving it over the girl. The light dims from his hands, and he turns back to me. "It seems there's not much more ta be done as far as th' magical side of things go, save fer a much more powerful spell."

I nod. "I did what I could at my shop."

"Ah, that makes sense!" The Father smiles up at me, and it twists my chest in guilty tangles. He wouldn't be smiling if he knew. This wasn't noble. Just undoing a mistake. "Ya did good, Oscar."

Compliments are difficult when they're not wholly undeserved. Now, I have to control myself just to not laugh in his face. "Yea..."

He asks, still looking her over, "Is there anything else ya can tell me?"

"She's from the heights. I think, anyways. I don't know why she was down here."

He raises a brow. "The heights? That is a strange one..." Kansis nods, catching on to the same conclusions I drew. "We'll look after her, then. Should she need it."

"And her wounds?" I cross my arms, still uncomfortable.

"Right. She's lost a lotta blood... She'll need a transfusion. A transfusion, and rest. Th' hospital can provide th' former, we can provide th' later." He pats me on the bicep. "We'll do what we can."

A sigh of relief escapes me. I knew my trust in the good Father wouldn't be misplaced. "Thank you, Father. I..."

...I what? Apologize? Am grateful that he is in a position to clean up my mistake? Saying that would bring me dangerously close to divulging my sins. Damning myself with my own words. To reveal that the boy he's known for a decade was a filthy sinner, a bloodsucking fiend the entire time... it would break his heart. Earn his ire, and for good reason. Honesty would destroy him. What he doesn't know can't hurt him. Perhaps that makes me a coward.

But I have no intention of forcing the good Father to bury another Bromley today.

"Inform me, if and when she's home safe, Father."

Kansis looks up at me, a stern but agreeable smirk across his face. "I can do that. And...", he begins, leading me out of the bedchamber, "I know ya run that shop on a tight margin. If ya need any compensation fer whatever materials ya expended-"

"No." I wince at my own rudeness. "No, it's. Fine. I don't want anything. I can make do."

He chuckles once. "I understand." Does he? I look down at him, searching for any indication that he means more than he lets on. He's a better liar than I thought if he does... "Just, don't forget. Ye'r always welcome in the Palace of the Sun, Oscar, even if ya don't share our faith. Whatever ya need."

I appreciate the sentiment, but I have trouble believing that's true. Even the kindest soul can only be expected to extend their generosity so far. If he could see the totality of what I am, what I've done... he'd be right to draw the line. "Good luck, Kansis."

"Take care of yourself, Oscar. Walk in the Dawnlord's light."

Ha. My stomach curdles.

I leave the temple, ignoring the gossip growing at my back from the other believers and clergymen. Best to walk home, not least as my carriage driver has already moved along. The stamina elixir will last another hour or so; might as well not let it go to waste.

Defiantly un-banished by the sun, I let my feet and memory carry me through the streets of my home borough.

* * *

Motions mechanical, like the automatons of the hilltop, I collect the ingredients I need from the downstairs. I've cut deep into my supply, trying to fix the mess I've found myself in, or clean up after the mistakes of those attempts. Were I more capable of worrying about the future, I might fret over the long-term financial cost of the past weeks... But even the banality of the thought makes me laugh. I can hardly conceive of tomorrow. Much less agonize over the coming months. My life has become so consumed by the present, I imagine it eating away the past and future like a monster devouring time.

What new horrors await me at the other end of the night? That would be madness to speculate.

I begin to mix the sedative.

I've often imagined myself as unfortunate. Unfortunate to be born afflicted as I am, unfortunate in body, and spirit. Now, I know. I am nothing less than cursed.  Cursed by some higher power, to suffer outrageous fortunes. Cursed to degrade, ragged voice unheard as my life spirals out of my control. Cursed to know that I can only bring ruin if I try to reverse course, cursed to try anyways. Cursed to destroy, and cursed to care. Cursed to be stuck in this body, this name, craving blood, filled with unattainable want.

Take care of yourself, the Father had said. But would taking care of myself mean letting the darkness out? Is the only kindness I can muster for myself cruelty upon others?

I look down at the brew, stirred to near completion. Again my own reflection breaks upon the bubbling liquid. Perhaps this was all I ever deserved.

I take a flask from my work station, dip it into the cauldron, and fill it to brim with the gray-blue liquid. And I drink. And then I dip the flask back inside, and I drink. And I dip it once more.

And I drink.

I collapse on the floor of my office, drowning away the monster within.