Black Blood

-B2- Chapter 2

We are now more than half a year on from that event. I don't know if I should hate to say it, but tracking and killing has become easier with time. I would almost call myself a shyster killer, although that reminds me more of my father than of myself. My father, that is a separate story. The man does everything to track me down and find me. He almost succeeded twice in the past year.

We made the stupid mistake of walking into a human village in our search for number 15, Floor Noali. Although the people and the royal family are not the best of friends, they support my father more than all the other peoples combined. We were betrayed, the army was called in and it took a couple of weeks for them to get off our heels.

The second situation was a bit more complicated. Number 23, Tom Vermeil, had a tavern. We visited that tavern regularly before his death. Nice tavern by the way, definitely worth a visit but that aside. After a few weeks, the man realised that we were following him and became suspicious. Slowly he began to realise that his life was at stake.

One evening, we tried to lure him out of the tavern with an excuse. His gut instinct apparently told him to call in the guards. We were captured, spent two days in the dungeons before a man helped us. One guard clearly did not agree with the decision to deliver us to my father. He opened the door, let us go and Tom is now lying in the ground somewhere.

Except for these situations, it is quiet around my father. The hunt is and remains in full swing. I never thought that the general hatred for my family would work in my favour. People recognise me, know my name and origin, but most carry such hatred for my father that they ignore it. I often get indignant looks as soon as I walk into a new village, town or area. You see people smooching with each other, sometimes laughing and getting on with their lives.

The search and hunt has become more intense with time. The army moves fast and is present in greater numbers. We have to be careful where we go, but we are almost always on the move. We don't stay more than a week in most places. It's a crazy life, a new life.

'Dumburt is in Runcast,' I whisper as I stand next to Novak at the bar. The bar is long, wooden and full of empty and half-empty glasses. A woman walks behind the bar. I guess she's about fifty. Her grey hair is sticking out in all directions, sweat is shining on her forehead. She doesn't look very healthy. Her weight is mildly high, her skin is grey and her hair seems not to have been washed for weeks. The brown apron hanging around her hips is covered with wet stains. Despite this, the woman looks cheerful. She has a broad smile on her lips and stands talking at length to each customer.

'If we leave tomorrow, we'll be there in a day,' Novak says. I nod and sigh. Sometimes travelling is exhausting. Sometimes the list seems endless. The woman comes walking towards us. The smell she brings with her is as unpleasant as her appearance. Sweat, smoke and liquor waft around her.

'What can I do for you?' she asks with a smile. When I take a good look at the woman's brown eyes, I see that she likes a drink herself. They are anything but bright.

'Two beers,' Novak answers and takes some coins out of his pocket.

'Make that one beer a double whiskey, straight up, no ice,' I interrupt the order. The woman grins, gives me a wink and starts on our drinks. I feel Novak's judgmental gaze at my back, but he says nothing. I put my forearms on the bar and lean on it. My gaze glides over the rich array of bottles of liquor behind the bar. From vodka to all kinds of rum, they have it all.

'Where are you from?' the woman asks as soon as she comes walking back and sets the drinks down on the wood. The golden liquid bounces against the glass. I take my glass from the bar, take a sip that throws half the glass down my gullet and look at the woman from under my eyelashes. My throat burns, my stomach heats up.