CHAPTER TWO
𝐻𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝐻𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠

"ɪꜰ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɪs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʟɪᴠᴇs ɪɴ ꜰᴇᴀʀ."
𝑂𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 20𝑡ℎ 1658
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Buried so deep within the rooms of the church, no sound could reach her ears. The rooms were often void of light, with the winter days growing shorter by the week and the constant cover of clouds leaving any glimpse of brightness a gloomy grey. A thick fog hung in the air too, blackened by the candles that constantly burned through each day and each night, failing to warm the dark chill that clung to the stone walls.

The church was not a place Simran could imagine ever wanting to visit. She'd remained beneath its roof for a night and a day and had yet to see another face. Even Reverend Enoch and his son had been notably absent from the halls, though she did not have to speculate why. Her inspection would come later when the darkness of day eventually lead into the impossible gloom of night and all those she had to fear would be asleep.

But for what time she had to herself, Simran found herself roaming through the church, fingers still clutching the leather binding of a bible. She wondered why it didn't burn her like many threatened it would. Reverend Enoch had been pleased when she'd taken the book from him easily and Simran had suspected it to be a test of some sort. She'd held onto it for the remainder of the day, reminding herself that the test had been passed.

There were spirits in these halls, their presence bound by the relics that hid on stone pillars and old, rotten bookcases. She wondered too if these ghosts may protect her better than the humans could. The vampires would reach her soon enough. It would not be long before their temporary hoards would overrun the church, seeking her blood. But by then she hoped her knowledge of the cruel creatures would be proven wrong. Perhaps within these holy walls, there would be an answer to the never-ending hunt. A solution on how to kill the vampires that lusted for her blood.

For if anyone was going to figure it out, it would be one who held the sweetest blood of them all. A witch. She didn't much like that name though. It didn't feel right. There were many such titles that were falsely given to her from all different cultures. But it was witch, that the Reverend might've feared her to be, there in the outskirts of London. 

"I hope you're well and rested."

For the first time in years, Simran startled, her fingers slipping from the bible, letting it topple to the ground. The Reverend only smiled and leaned down to retrieve it, handing it over once more.

"I've never slept so well," she said after a moment. The moment of quietness didn't seem to bother Enoch.

"The soul can rest peacefully within these walls," the Reverend said and Simran nodded in understanding. "I'm sure you can imagine what it is I've come to speak with you about."

"Yes," she said simply. Reverend Enoch waited for her to continue. "I've been thinking about what I could say. In truth, there isn't much of use that I can remember about that night."

The man hummed and began to walk at her side, leading them down the corridor to a room she had not dared to enter. As they reached the door, though she had thought it impossible, the air seemed to warm and when the Reverend pushed it open, he allowed her to enter first. In that smaller room, coming from hallways of such iciness, the air felt as if it was on fire. Simran had never much liked the warmth, but the sight of flames high enough in the hearth to lick the stone cover was welcoming.

The Reverend's son was sitting in the chair by the fire, his legs crossed with a book resting in his lap. For a moment he appeared at peace but then his father's footsteps broke the silence and Carlisle's head lifted smoothly, eyes finding the figures of a girl and the Reverend in the doorway. He nodded, perhaps in greeting, and moved to gather a roll of paper and an old, feather-tipped pen, his role in the conversation already predetermined.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Reverend Enoch said.

He placed himself into the largest chair by the fire, his hands automatically moving to fall upon the armrests, bearing the decadent rings that graced his fingers, the only bit of luxury she'd found within the church. That left her to sit in the space beside the vicar's son. She turned to watch him as she did so. He was awfully quiet for a boy.

"Don't mind Carlisle. I ask him to take notes on conversations like these only because I grow forgetful in my old age," the Reverend said, though he didn't seem very old at all. Perhaps just past forty, at the most. "Start at the beginning, as they say. When did you first notice them? Surely they would have attacked you before you had a chance to run? These creatures are devilish. There is truly no end to their viciousness."

Simran was again lost to her thoughts. Did the man think her naive enough to fall for this pitiful, timid act- playing the part of a sweet, old vicar, only concerned with her wellbeing? There was something about his quiet eagerness, the searching flutter of his observant eyes, that made her uneasy- that told her the Reverend would use her as bait the minute the vampires were near. He seemed suspicious too. So much so that she might've feared her ability to lie, had she not been so well practised.

Carlise was different though. She could sense it. Even his face was of kinder structure than his father's. His skin was pale, not even slightly withered by the sun as it had many others. Even in that cool country, the weather could warm, and Simran imagined a private library hidden away in the vicarage, windows covered in fabric to protect old pages from stinging rays. She wondered if Carlisle poured over those books out of genuine belief, or if his father had instilled that same fear in him from a young age.

From his seat by the fire, his face was illuminated a dark shade of orange, the colour of a sunset, and his encouraging smile- so small that it was almost missable- only seemed to heat the warmth further. How such a boy could've been born from the seed of a man such as the Reverend who sat across from them, she didn't know. But appearances could be deceiving, she reminded herself. Simran was a perfect example of that fact.

"That's the thing. The more I think about it, the more I begin to think that they weren't really after me at all. Maybe I was just in their way."

That made Enoch lean forward. "Why do you think that?"

Simran took a moment to second guess herself. To tease him with these details would only make him lust after the hunt even more. But at least in a way, they had something in common: they both wanted rid of the creatures that craved human and witch blood, yet Enoch would burn her the moment he figured out exactly what she was.

She hid her lips behind a hand, eyes flickering away from the two men to instead watch the fire. "There was a tale in the village where I grew up. About witches and their magics. They would harvest plants from the devil's gardens, deep within forests, leaving behind a wake of dead plants," she said, twisting the story in a way she knew would hit deep.

The Reverend's eyes flickered to the bible that still lay in her lap and then met her gaze again. To her side, Carlisle scribbled and held his breath.

"When I walked through the woods, everything was cold and dead." She forced a shiver down her arms. "Just like the stories. I fear it was not just vampires lurking through the trees that night, but witches too."

"You are right to fear those creatures, child," Reverend Enoch hissed, letting his emotions catch him for the first time. "Witches are evil creatures. Perhaps even the creators of those vampires they hate, if some are to believed."

Under the watch of his son, he caught himself and straightened his back against the chair. "Forgive me but I must take a moment to pray. Feel free to warm yourself by the fire to your heart's content," the Reverend said as he rose and bowed his head. "Good night."

She was left with only the sound of crackling fire to keep her company. Even that hollow sound gave more comfort than the Reverend's son, who remained quiet for a moment, the pen in his hands scribbling invisible words in the air. The boy seemed to be lost in thought, blue eyes watching the flames as if he was scared they would jump at any moment. In his hand, the parchment was beginning to crumple before he eventually placed it on the side table and shook from his stupor. 

"You don't have to worry here. The vampires won't cross the church's threshold," Carlisle said softly, almost sounding as if he was trying to convince himself also. His voice was rough at first- as if it was the first time in a while that he'd spoken aloud.

Simran wished she could tell him he was right, that the vampires physically could not come into contact with grounds protected so closely by the Christian God. But she could not. They would be here soon.

"I know. But sometimes fear is easier than bravery," she said, and he turned to her then, eyes falling upon her face, eyebrows pulled inquisitively together.

What did he see? His gaze was piercing but the softness of his eyes, of the pursing of his lips, meant that Simran didn't care. If he saw something deeper within her words, the Reverend's son didn't act upon it. Only nodded as if he understood the difficulty of forcing bravery.

"My father will hunt them down until there's no need for fear," Carlisle said in a tone that suggested those words were mimicking those of another, for there was no relief in his tone, no quiet confidence in the abilities of his father. There remained only fatigue hiding behind his voice. 

"How does the Reverend know so much about these creatures? All I know is from stories used to frighten children."

A smile ghosted his lips, an expression appearing so natural on the boy's face that it would seem it was the only expression he was built to make.

"He's had a long time to study them. To study the stories and the legends too. Truth isn't so far from story," Carlisle said, eyes matching hers. He blinked and looked away, the heat of the fire burning his cheeks.

"Can you tell me about them? The stories?" Simran found herself asking. "I think it might help ease the fear, to hear them from you."

"It would?"

After a moment, she nodded and brought her knees to her chest, enveloping her fingers together until she was wrapped in one. Carlisle glanced to the door his father had left out of and then mimicked her movements, pulling his legs up onto the seat.

Carlisle was a good story teller. He paid attention to details, sweeping through scenes as if he was reading from a book when in fact his hands were empty, his eyes shifting from looking at the fire to watching her reactions. The Reverend's son told her of vampires in Eastern Europe, of tall castles that cast such large shadows that even God could not look through its darkness. With flowered words, he spoke of brave townsmen fending these creatures off with their silver crosses and great torches of fire.

A laugh left his lips when he told her of a woman who insisted garlic be planted around the village. He laughed as if the thought was absurd- because it was- but Simran had witnessed many a people believe in such foolery. The fact that the men under this church's roof were not so easily lead might scare her in a few days, but there by the fire with Carlisle Cullen, Simran was distracted.

Distracted frightfully by the grimace that pained the boy's face as he spoke of how that same woman had been accused of witchcraft and hung for that same crime. His voice became so small that she almost couldn't hear him. She wondered if this was a test too- her reaction to such compassion in the face of blasphemous creatures- and Simran remained quiet, eyes never moving from the boy who'd become so emboldened by the tales, only to be silenced again.

If this was a test, then Carlisle Cullen was a good actor. Simran swallowed her anxiety until it disappeared again. Such compassion in a position such as his almost seemed impossible. As if it would be false. But perhaps such devilish trickery would be revealed in the house of God soon enough and Simran would be able to see the spider's web before it was too late to free herself from it.

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