CHAPTER FOUR
the humans hunt

"anxiety's grip is always waiting to take me"
November 9th 1658
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The reverend and his son left in the early morning before the sun had even begun to appear on the horizon. The sky took on a bluish hue and the moon's glare was lighter, more forgiving as she stared after them, wrapped up in the doorway of the vicarage, Carlisle's book hidden beneath the old blanket. Simran had not parted with it since it had been placed in her hands.

The specifics of what the two were doing were not known by Simran. It had something to do with the Reverend's search for both information and the vampires that had pursued her. They would be long gone now, dissuaded by her magical obstacles, but Enoch did not know that, nor did he know the true extent of a vampire's abilities. If he had, he would not have been searching for them so extensively.

She wondered what had made him so crazed to be so infatuated with the monsters. They were creatures of the devil, in his mind, and so he should have feared his Lord's enemies enough to stay away, to lock himself and his son away at the very mention of them. But the Reverend did not back away from the monsters. Simran did not warn them of it either.

The church felt even emptier than usual, without their presence. The halls were quiet, the air brisk with ice thanks to the cooling of the months. The only respite was the study. Deep within the alcove, a fire roared beneath the hearth, filling the room with heat, seeping into the stone but not escaping.

She sat in Carlisle's seat this time, instead of her own, bringing her feet to curl beneath her legs. The proximity to the flames made her brown skin burn before she could cover herself with a blanket again. In her hands, she unfolded the old book and found scribbles of old, messy handwriting.

The Reverend's writing? Simran wondered, but would not find the answer. No authored names graced the pages, and Carlisle had not specified whether Enoch simply owned the book or had written in it himself.

There were drawings too, done simply in charcoal and without the hint of colour, but somehow,  still, the diagrams looked more life-like. With the decaying skin and ashen tones, she knew it was a vampire he was depicting. The teeth were long, protruding from its upper lip, reaching toward its chin. Eyes were dark, like black pits and Simran wondered if the Reverend knew they were blood red in colour- the colour of fire and hell.

Sharp and pointed, something stuck out from the vampire's chest. The other edge was in the shape of a cross and small sticks broke from the outline- splinters. A stake through the heart. A stake made from a cross. She'd never heard such a thing and yet the Reverend seemed to believe it may work. A fool he was, then.

The next pages bled with colour. Dark, chalky reds and stark, oranges, drained from poppies. A black shadow encased in fire. Was this his last solution? To burn the creatures until they were nought but ash? Hopeless laughter bubbled in her throat. How could the devil's own magic kill one of his own creations? Had she not compared the vampires' eyes to such endless flames? And yet something within her stirred. A creature so cold should be able to melt.

With the moving of the pages, the draught in the room seemed to shiver and despite the iciness that gripped her veins, the fire persisted. A fire that wrapped around great pines of wood, licking at purple skirts.

'Witches are evil creatures. Perhaps even the creators of vampires.'

Of course, the Reverend would think such a thing. That burning the witches would ward the vampires away. She wondered how many innocent women he'd put on the pyre.

The book shut with a snap. Simran discarded it on Carlisle's seat in the study and left the room, hands snaked around herself. The contents of it had rattled her- both in thought and fear. But the Reverend could not touch her, could not even begin to try and harm her. Yet it was Carlisle she now thought of. How much of the contents of the book did he believe in, or agree with?

But Simran remembered the ton of his voice, the grimace on his face as he'd spoken about the hanging of women who did not conform to the chruch's beliefs and were persecuted on the accusation of beings. His desire of learning medicine and becoming an doctor told her otherwise. Carlisle was not his father.

In the glasshouse, she found herself wandering around the rows of plants, fingers brushing at the leaves. She could smell the lavender, sweet and calming. Lavender for protection. Simran wondered what Carlisle used it for.

Simran woke with a startle. She could not remember sitting down on the small bench in the glasshouse, could not remember closing her eyes. But the sky has darkened, the temperature had dropped impossibly low and the air threatened rain. They would be back by now, she knew. The Reverend feared the dark for all it could hold. He was right to.

The halls seemed to be aware of their returned presence. Simran ran through them, disrupting the silence with her footsteps, until she ran into a tall figure.

"My apologies, Father Enoch, I should not have been rushing," she said, pulling herself backwards until she was flush against the wall.

"No need for apologies. You'll find Carlisle in the library." The man seemed distracted, face flushed with what could only be anger rotting behind his skin, but after the words left his lips, he turned, eyeing her shamelessly. The Reverend called out to her before she could leave. "You've become close with my son."

"He is a kind boy. Kinder than most."

"Indeed." His head incline forward, eyes glimmering dangerously. "He has enjoyed your lasting company."

Simran's lips thinned. The true meaning bled from his lips.

"I do not mean to overstep, father. I will be moving on soon, I am sure."

"That is good to hear. Very well."

His words were a dismissal. The Reverend turned, dark coat gathering by his legs, the silver cross glittering at his throat as he passed by the light of the window and disappeared into the darkness once again. Simran waited another moment, before she hurried along, finding Carlisle in the room the Reverend had just left.

The boy stood by the fire, cheeks flushed purple from the heat. Carlisle's face was a picture of reluctance. Simran could read him like a book: the way his light eyebrows curved slightly downwards like a bow; the crease that blemished his otherwise smooth skin, just under his forehead; and the slowed blinking of his eyes that showed he was too deep in thought to see things in front of him clearly. It was a wonder the Reverend missed such openness on his son's face. Those expressions revealed so much, about his character most of all. Things that Simran could have no doubt would anger the man.

"I didn't know you had returned."

His head snapped up as if he had not heard her enter. "I'm sorry. I meant to find you but I was lost in my thoughts."

"I can tell," she moved to stand beside him, feeling the calling of the fire once again. "What troubles you, Carlisle?"

"It is nothing."

The expression on his face said otherwise.

"If that is what you wish to say then I will take it. But I know it is not the truth."

He let out a hard, forced sigh. He did not want to say the words, but they came anyway. "I fear my father will not stop until he finds the monsters that stalked you. I fear he will not stop until it kills him."

She could not disagree for it would be lying, and Carlisle could see through her like a window.

"The book you gave me, the Reverend wrote it?"

He nodded. "His life's research. All of his theories in one place," Carlisle sucked in a shark breath and finally, his eyes met hers. "I could not repeat the things he has done to obtain those notes. In God's name as well."

"I think I know," Simran said, picturing the fire. "The women..."

"I fear for his soul if he continues down this path of obsession. The closer he gets to the vampires, the closer he gets to the devil."

Carlisle was God-fearing in ways that the Reverend was not. While he saw the danger, Enoch only saw the glory.

"Then we can only pray that it does not happen." Her hand fell on top of his, feeling the touch of his skin for the first time in such a way.

Praying. What good would that do? The word felt foreign on her tongue. Praying would not stop the Reverend's steep, slippery path. He was heading in a dark direction and Simran could only hope that Carlisle would not be dragged along.

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