Fungal Halo

The castle should be darker than it is. Without so much as torchlight illuminating the passageways, we would ordinarily need to rely on our lamps as we make our way to the beating heart of Dracula’s lair.

If the hand on my shoulder belonged to a lookout I missed, someone come for revenge on the hunter who slew their kin, right now I’d let them have it. I find myself unable to muster relief that the hand belongs to Carmen instead.

Carmen seems more withdrawn than before after sharing that story, as though even she was caught by surprise that those memories still have some power over her. A little fun in bed helps distract her for a moment, but I get the feeling she also uses it to distract me from the topic.

Carmen spoils me. She treats me like a princess, taking me out to eat at fine restaurants, lavishing gifts of beautiful clothes and shoes and bags and jewelry on me. It’s almost too much. Too fancy, too elegant, too high femme.

As the two of us wait outside the restaurant for the valet to bring her car around, Carmen produces a small case from inside her jacket. She removes a cigarette, hand-rolled by the looks of it, and extends her arm to offer me the option of taking one.

Tears. I wondered if there would be tears. A bloodbag, a human girl—a vampire hunter by blood—dies. What does that mean to the vampires who called her sister?

I guess it means tears. That’s something.

The way Carmen looks deep into my eyes, it’s like she sees all the way down to the depths of my soul, like she already knows all there is to know about me, and it’s just a matter of being willing to confess the truth and thereby earn her trust.

Four people dead in one night. One person missing, along with her clothes and valuables, making her the obvious suspect.

The man shouting at me imagines himself to be someone important. Though I barely pay attention to his ranting and raving, I gather that my error has not only inconvenienced him, it is but the first domino in a chain reaction that will end with his company collapsing, people losing their jobs, and the entire United States economy falling into ruin, all because I neglected the extra shot of espresso in his extra large caramel turtle mocha.

A man kneels on a stone floor, coughing blood. His face is a battleground of despair versus anger, and he clenches his fists in a futile gesture of resistance.

“If it helps, I’m sorry in my own way. I’d hoped to let you live, but I cannot do that if you will not play your role in this story.” A figure, cloaked in darkness, circles the dying man like a vulture.

When I was 15 years old, my father killed the first girl I ever loved.

My thoughts heave and surge like the tide, flooding, claiming, reshaping the world around me. However, so little of this is my design. The world is clay in my hands, but my hands are not alone, and my hands are not even entirely my own. I recognize Velle’s fingerprints here and there, nudging reality in delicate and subtle ways that contrast with my own wild flailing. Something within me lashes out even at those I love, possibly because I love them. My mind has become a kitchen with too many cooks, all of whom hate me.

Not what I would call ideal timing for You to indulge Your hunger, Goddess, I have to say. Did You really have so much faith in the three of us, or have You been lying even to me about how in control of Your urges You are?

Stalking Nina and Velle as they descend through the palace, it’s immediately clear that Velle has regained some of her former self. How much, I wonder? I want to believe that her brusque attitude with the princess is a matter of urgency, and that her heart has not entirely discarded the woman she loved just this morning.

The king’s palace leaves much to be desired. The moment I step foot inside, the first thing I notice is how poorly lit it is compared to mine. Dim and drab and dull, this is what passes for opulence, I guess, anywhere that lacks the benefit of Goddess’s touch. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We will fix this world.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I wake up pain-free.

I also seem to be completely naked in an unfamiliar bed with someone else’s arms around me. I feel and smell filthy. With a groan of disgust, I try to regain my bearings. Memories of what happened yesterday slowly drift back to me as though from a great distance away.

The princess makes a fine show of roleplaying as a maid, perusing her own wine collection and presenting several bottles for me to choose from. I play my own part, acting as though I have strongly held opinions on which vintage is most ideal for the occasion. She fetches us glasses and pours for the both of us. We lounge on the couch together directly opposite Canina’s favorite mirror, clinking glasses and toasting to each other.

In truth, I feel nothing toward Princess Canina, despite the effort I put into obtaining a position of service within the palace and the long years I labored to earn this position as her personal attendant.

I have a Plan, and that Plan requires me to earn the confidence of the princess.

Collared. Chained. Dressed in finery, given the finest meals, housed in opulence. Even these chains are gold. That girl keeps me like a pet. No, not even like a dog, which can be trained for some valued purpose, but something lower: a pitiful, pampered, useless bauble of a prisoner.