Nazreen

Chapter Three

After knocking the tracker out, Emilio cursed and shook out his wrists. Delicate skin my arse. Emilio could've cut his hand on the little shit's stubble. But that done with, he ducked down in front of the knocked-out tracker and tried to think.

So Evette knew he was going to be here. There were no surprises there. She did see the future, after all. But if she knew he was going to be here, then why was nothing being done to stop him? Why had everything been so easy? He had an hour, the tracker said. So Evette knew he wouldn't be able to make it out of the castle tonight. He had an hour to find somewhere to hide. For fuck's sake. So far, the extraction had been pretty damned easy. Was something happening he should know about? This tracker had known he was about to get punched—so what had Evette told him? What was Emilio supposed to know?

This whole thing had to be one big trick. A game of cat and mouse. They were letting him think he was winning, biding their time on the side lines. Only then would they put him in his place.

I hate witches.

It was decided. Or maybe he just hated the future.

Whatever. The details weren't important.

Quick on his feet, he turned the witch on his back and slid a hand into his pocket, tapping around for anything of use. Out came a letter. On the envelope, in curvy, loopy handwriting, he read the name 'Nazreen'. Emilio didn't so much as think things through before pocketing it.

At this point, he'd probably hand his life over for a slice of knowledge on that silent snowflake. His curiosity was both a gift and a curse.

To a bounty hunter, information was everything.

Grabbing the scythe once more, he shot up from the ground and allowed his gut to lead him.

🩸 🩸 🩸

Nazreen didn't mind the word under. Nor did she mind the word achiever. But slam those bad boys together and the tables were quick to turn. Nazreen didn't like that at all.

Underachiever.

And yet it was a word she was familiar with.

Maybe that was why she didn't like it. Suppose, when you hear the same word in every context every day for years, a word tends to lose any appeal it might have previously had.

Nazreen, incidentally, was an underachiever. That word had a way of haunting her.

There were other words she didn't like too. Most of them were synonyms of disappointment. Had Nazreen been known to wear belts, she might have said they were a little below the belt. Alas, had Nazreen been known to speak loud enough for people to hear her, she might have asked for a belt.

Above all, Nazreen's least favourite word of all time was useless. Sadly, it was the word she used more than any other word in her vocabulary.

Nazreen was utterly useless.

Born a vampire, she had the potential for greatness. Her teeth were weapons of mass destruction. Hell! She could drink blood (in theory) for sustenance. And Nazreen knew vampires alright. One vampire, Azrael, had told her that his body grew stronger after every feed. According to him, the taste of blood sharpened his mind, wits and senses. To him, blood was life.

So Nazreen had tried blood.

Only...she didn't like the taste.

Nazreen was a weak vampire that didn't like the taste of blood. It's not for me, I'm afraid. Oh! And it made her queasy. I've got a bit of an upset stomach, Doc. Can I just have some pasta instead?