INTERLUDE
L
et me tell you of the day that blessed girl—that chosen bride of the sun, that
savior of the dawn, that missionary of the divine destiny—died.
As she promised her god, she made the journey to the land of the damned.
Her sister and her friend came with her, even though she told them over and over again that they shouldn’t risk their eternal souls for hers. They were perfect acolytes —devoted, obedient, in perfect standing with their god. Only she stood on the razor- thin wire between blessedness and damnation, and they should not have to walk it with her.
But they refused to let her go alone. Her friend insisted this with a dimpled smile, easy and clear as the sunrise. Of course he did. He had been in love with her for years, though she pretended not to know it. She was grateful for his companionship, but with every lingering stare he gave her, guilt speared her. His was the blind loyalty of teenage infatuation, sweet in its naiveté. It simply never occurred to him that she would fail.
It was not that way for her sister. She sat there and listened to it all, hands folded in her lap. When the story was done, she just stood, resolve steady. “I’ll begin preparations,” she said, and she wouldn’t hear anything else of it.
No, her sister’s loyalty was not that of a lover ready to follow their sun to a promised land.
It was that of a mother using her final moments to fling her body in front of her child.
They arrived in the land of vampires late midday, the sun still offering them scant protection from the teeth of their would-be sheep. They were received by the confused but curious occupants of the human districts, given lodging and food by people who shook their heads at them.
“Hell of a last meal,” the innkeeper grumbled as he handed them their watery soup. It was not the first final meal he had served to acolytes like these, nor would it be his last.
The girl was anxious. The air smelled like change here. She was fascinated by the dark beauty of this world. Surely a place so stunning could not be all bad.
“You shouldn’t go out,” her sister told her, as the sun lowered. “Not tonight. It’s not safe.”
The girl nodded. It wasn’t a lie then. She had meant to obey—she always did, in the moment. But when her sister and her friend both retired, exhausted by their travel, she lingered awake, staring out the window at the sunset-streaked horizon.
It’s not safe, her sister had told her, and that had been right. But would there ever be a safe time to do what she came here to do? She cast a glance back at her sister and her friend, their faces soft and peaceful in sleep.
The girl had been called reckless many times in her short life. And that word would be hurled at her countless times in the years to come, too—most often by people who loved her.
Her recklessness was not borne of foolishness or stupidity. Always, it was borne of love.
She was careful not to wake those precious souls as she slipped out into the dusk, alone.
T
“Thank you. It’s a gorgeous view.”
“It has been a while since I’ve seen one of your kind around here.”
“Humans?” she asked, confused. The first thing that came to mind, even though she knew that he surely saw humans often. It was difficult to think. Her mind felt as if it had been coated in syrup, like a honey cake left out in the sun.
A smirk curled his mouth as he glanced pointedly down at her robes. “No, lovely. Your kind.” He brushed a stray strand of curly hair behind her ear. His touch skittered across the delicate skin of her cheek, brief before she pulled away.
“You are very brave.”
You might ask: why did she not run?
Didn’t she know what he was? Didn’t she know she was staring into the face of her own demise?
Later, the girl would not remember most of this night. But she would, too, ask herself this question. She would remember the thrill, low in her stomach, of standing upon the line between light and darkness. She would remember just how good its touch felt. So good she forgot about the claws.
“Why would I be scared?” she said, more carefree than she felt. “I only came to talk.”
He laughed, charming and disarming. “Then we will talk. How I’ve longed for good conversation.” He stood and extended a hand to her. “Come with me, and you can tell me all the ways I have sinned.”
Why did she not run?
Was it her faith, so bright it blinded her? Was it her desperation, pushing her ever closer to the cliff? Was it his magic, drenching her in that honeyed haze?
Or perhaps the truth is simpler. Perhaps mortals, like gods, are mesmerized by
their own damnation.
She took his hand.
