Writing Prompt

The night was quiet, the kind of silence that speaks louder than any siren. Connor leaned against his patrol car, his eyelids heavy from the weight of a long shift. The badge on his chest glinted under the streetlights.

A call came through the radio: a drunk driver, a minor crash, no major injuries. Routine, yet every call was a roll of the dice, and upon his arrival at the scene, he realized that this call was anything but.

The car was pretty much smashed beyond repair, and the scent of burnt rubber filled his nostrils as he stepped out of the cruiser. But as he walked towards the driver sitting on the curb with his head cradled in his hands, he noticed the man looked incredibly familiar. even with his face obscured. He noticed the shaggy blonde hair first. Then the ripped up jeans and the cut off shirt— not much different from what every other gangbanger wore these days, but the tattoos all over this guy‘s arms… Connor knew those tattoos. suddenly, the man looked up, and a mix of dread and recognition painted Connor’s weary features.

"Dodge?" Connor asked, his voice stained with disbelief.

Dodge looked up, and Connor found himself almost taken a back at how much different he looked since the last time they had spoken. His eyes, adorned with dark circles, reflected the chaos that raged within. His face, sunken in from years of drug abuse and drunken nights, looked like it hadn’t been shaved in months. Connor barely recognize the man sitting before him.

Fancy meeting you here, huh?’’ Dodge said, flatly, running a calloused hand through his thick blonde curls and shifting his weight on the curb. His words were slurred, and it looked as if he might teeter over at any moment.

Connor's mind raced, the law and friendship colliding. "What are you doing, Dodge? Drunk driving? You're better than this."

Dodge scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Better? Since when? You've been Mr. Perfect since we were kids. I was always the one left behind." He stopped to spit blood onto the concrete and wipe the sweat from his brow, wincing as his shirt sleeve brushed a cut above his eye. "But I’m sure you don’t remember any of that. Do you, Officer Golden boy?"

Connor knelt beside him, the past flooding back. He thought back to the last time that he and Dodge had spoken, when he had begged him to seek some help. He could still see the look of disgust he had received in return, as if he had been insinuating that he was better than Dodge. "We used to dream of being heroes, remember? Racing down the streets, pretending to save the day."

"Yeah, and who ended up the hero?" Dodge's words were sharp, but his voice broke. "Not me. I took a different path, and you know it."

Connor's hand hovered over his handcuffs, feeling the weight of his duty heavy on his shoulders. "I tried to help you, man. I tried to pull you back. You know I never gave up on you, bro. You’re the one who stopped talking to me, remember?’’

"Yeah, I remember. Clear as day, actually. I pushed you away. Because that's what I do, right? Push away the ones who care." Dodge's defiance was crumbling, revealing the vulnerability beneath.

Connor's fingers grazed the cold metal of the handcuffs, each click in his mind echoing the finality of the law. But as he looked down at Dodge, something within him fractured. The man before him was more than a drug-dealing criminal. He was the living memory of a friendship that had once been unbreakable.

He recounted the years of their childhood. All those days they spent after school, hanging out in the treehouse Connor‘s dad had built for them when they were only about 12 years old. They had begged him for it for months, till finally, he caved and even let them help him build it. He remembered riding their bikes through the woods, out to the creek and sitting there till the stars came out. Sometimes they would stay too late, and Connor‘s mom would lose her shit. His parents had basically had two sons, since Dodge’s dad had bailed, and his mom had turned to drugs and alcohol. . They had grown up on the exact same street, shared the same dreams. But somewhere along the way, Dodge had veered off path. He had gotten lost— Severely lost. And it seemed like the harder they tried to reel him back to shore, the further adrift he would float.

Connor jolted back to reality as Dodge’s pitiful blue eyes met his. Suddenly, all he could see was the shrapnel of a broken man remnants of what was once his very best friend.

"I don't want this life anymore, Connor,’’ Dodge cried, his words slicing through the night. "I'm tired of running, tired of hiding in the shadows."

Connor's heart clenched. His duty as a cop screamed at him to act, to do what he was trained for. But his soul, intertwined with the memories of their shared past, held him back.

Tears now streamed from Dodge’s eyes as his voice cracked under the weight of his inner turmoil. ‘’I don’t wanna do this anymore. I can’t keep living like this,,’’ he pleaded, almost desperately, burying his face in his hands to stifle his sobs.

As Dodge spoke to Connor, his body language revealed the depth of his despair. His shoulders slumped, burdened by the weight of his words. His trembling hands fidgeted nervously, while anguish filled his once defiant gaze. With each word, he seemed to shrink, as if the weight of his past sins was physically crushing him. This man— who so many viewed as a hardened criminal – had melted into a scared little boy right before Connor’s eyes.

As he crumbled, so did Connor‘s resolve. He knew the system, knew that once Dodge was in it, the chances of him finding his way out were slim. He could arrest him, but would that save him?

"Dodge," he started, dusting off the curb to take a seat next to his long lost friend. He placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. . ‘’You don’t have to keep living like this, man. Let me take you somewhere. Let’s get you some help, dude. There is so much more to life than this shit.’’

Dodge's gaze met Connor's, a storm of emotions playing across his face. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of decisions and consequences.

Finally, he nodded, his tears tracing their paths down his blotchy cheeks. "Fine," he breathed out, the word a testament to their shared history and the flicker of hope in the darkness. ‘’Fuck it. Let’s do it,’’ he said, wiping the tears away as his jaw tightened with determination.

Connor helped him up, leaving the handcuffs at his side. Together, they walked to the cruiser, not as cop and criminal, but as two friends facing a new dawn. And in that moment, Connor realized that the line between right and wrong isn’t always a straight one. But in his heart, he knew that he had made the right decision.

How was work? Same old thing. Boss a jerk? Not too mean.

I love my job. Doing hair is fun. No dressing like a slob. Salon fashion is one.

Being a doctor, though.. Sounds sorta stressful. You’re rolling in dough. While I’m very unrestful.

Why are we friends? We get along great. We’ve always fought then mend Been friends since we were 8!

Watching each other As we’ve taken life’s journey Friends and now mothers Never in too much a hurry.

“I was hoping you’d be here tonight,” Greg said with a tired smile. He waved away the unneeded menu the waitress only half-heartedly offered.

“I’m always here, you know that.” She cleared away the extra table setting she knew he wouldn’t need. “The usual then?”

“With a whiskey and Coke,” he agreed.

With a smile she was off, hair swinging behind her to get back to the half full bar. He watched her go, reminding himself again that he shouldn’t ask her out. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

The drink arrived quickly, as he knew it would. “I needed this,” he said in thanks, taking a long pull of the drink.

“Long day?” She asked, glancing over her shoulder but apparently deciding she had time to stay and chat.

“You’ve seen it out there. 95 degrees in the shade and if there was a gust of wind it made sure to not come near me.”

“Sounds like you should be hydrating with, you know, water,” she gently scolded him, rolling her eyes when he waved her off.

“So what are you building today?”

“Same parking garage we’ve been at for weeks. Finally starting to come together, though.” When she didn’t rush away, he explained some of the more interesting bits, grinning at her impressed exclamations and offering simple answers to any of her questions.

And when she had to leave in the middle of a sentence he turned back to his drink, making sure to not watch her walk away this time.

A man could get awfully lonely at times, especially with his long hours and back breaking work. Looking at his fingers clamped around the glass, he grimaced at the callouses bulging around the edges of his fingers and the small bits of black and brown dirt that never came out no matter how he scrubbed. He liked his job, he really did. But the fact of the matter was that his life was not very appealing to the opposite sex.

Lynn didn’t seem to mind his dirty clothes or windswept hair when he came in to eat. She’d been kind to him from her first day, and after she served his dinner for the third night in a row they’d gotten to chatting when she had the time. But he shook the thought away, physically and mentally.

The poor girl was just here to serve him dinner, and he didn’t have the right to take any piece of kindness she gave him and turn it into something more.

Lynn soon slid his standard dinner - an open-face meatloaf sandwich served over potatoes with a side of green beans - in front of him.

“You need anything else with that, Greg? Another drink?”

“Nah this is fine, thanks.”

“Do you have a second?” She asked after a moment, with her typical glance over her shoulder. And was he glad that it was a slow night.

“Anything for my favorite waitress,” he said easily, running his suddenly sweaty palms off on his jeans.

Her smile demanded one in return. And luckily he was able to keep that smile in place when she started asking him if he knew anything about roofs and gutters. A leak had sprung up in her attic and she didn’t know whether the gutters were backed up or if she had to actually call professionals to fix the place.

And her assumption was right - of course he knew what she meant and who to contact.

On the one hand it irked - her assuming that he knew about a roof problem because he worked in construction, that that was all he was good for.

On the other hand, maybe this was the fair trade off. He got to see a friendly face every night and she got some pieces of advice that might make her life just a little easier.

Yes, that was fair. Not fun or fancy, but a fair trade for a simple man.

One says goodbye. While the others says hello.

Billie was the gate keeper of life, while Willie was the gate keeper of death.

It was somewhat like a trade, Billie makes sure internally, the body was good to go. While, Willie dressed the body in rich, silky smooth clothes

Together, they held their hands and departure would begin.

Billie always wondered why Willie didn’t fear death, or why he was obsessed with it

While Willie always wondered what the true value of life was.

They had seen thousands of strangers, yet a tinge of regret could be seen in all.

The Funeral Doctor(s) always wondered what true meaning of life was.

This very question that plagued their minds was the one that sowed the seeds of friendships within the soils of their heart

“He’s a criminal, I’m a-“

“A lady of the law?” Selander offered.

“A decorated Lieutenant,” Nahara growled. “And we would very much like to access your vault.”

The balding clerk nodded quickly, a visible sheen of sweat prickling his forehead. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he mumbled, “a moment, if you please.”

He hopped down from his stool at the counter and waddled towards the back.

Selander ran his fingers idly along one of the nearby shelves, carving a crater of dust.

“Well,” he muttered, “isn’t this quaint?”

“Whatever you’re trying to say,” Nahara said levelly, “don’t.”

Selander clutched his chest in mock surprise. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Lieutenant.”

Nahara’s steely expression didn’t waver.

“Fine,” Selander sighed, “I’ll keep quiet.”

“Good.” Nahara replied.

With Nahara waiting patiently by the counter, Selander decided to explore the curiosity shop. And curious it was.

The ancient wooden shelves buckled with the strain of their artefacts. Music boxes with plumes of peacock feathers elbowed for space with gaudy pantomime masks. The air was thick with dust, it coated the back of Selander’s throat, making him hack and cough.

“Struggling?” Nahara’s voice was sweet as a sickly syrup.

“Just peachy,” Selander croaked.

“Uh-huh,” Nahara replied.

When Selander had recovered from his coughing fit, he sauntered back round to Nahara not quite daring to meet her eyes.

“You know what I think?” Selander mused.

“Do tell!” Nahara said flatly.

“It’s dreadfully quiet in here.”

As soon as he said it, Selander felt Nahara tense as if she expected something to leap out at them from between the shelves. Somewhere, in the depths of the shop, a lonesome clock chimed the hour.

“And you know what else I think?”

“What?” Nahara arched an eyebrow.

“That clerk is taking an awfully long time.”

Nahara’s face split with a blinding grin as she reached for her pistol.

“Then perhaps he needs some encouragement.”

My best friend is the Grim Reaper. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks. He’s got white hair, and his scythe is used to protect the lives of those who have passed. It’s really sweet when you think about it.

I, on the other hand, well, I’m a midwife. I help mothers bring life into the world. That’s actually how Grim and I met, I was helping a mother through a very traumatic birth and he was waiting to guide her soul.

Apparently I wasn’t supposed to be able to see him, but for some reason, I could. We kinda shouted at each other through the process, both super confused about what was happening. After that, I tended to see him quite often. Sometimes he would come for mothers, other times for the babies. That made him sad too, having to take the life of someone who hadn’t yet gotten to experience having one.

Eventually, Grim and I started hanging out together. I’m sure I got some weird looks since no one else could see him, but that was fine with me. He was my secret to keep.

I’ve gotten mad at him a few times, sure. There have been a few too many mothers and babies who passed from my arms to his. What really saddened me is when the mother and child left the father alone in the world. Grim didn’t like it either, but it was his job, and he did it efficiently and effectively.

He still gets freaked out watching me work, it’s not normal to him to see souls be born instead of die. I try to help him through it, but he just gets too weirded out. Oh well. I get freaked out by his job too.

Today he gave me a strange offer. If I wanted to become immortal like him and continue being his counterpart, bringing life to the world. The only condition would be that people wouldn’t be able to see me, I would just assist at the bedsides of mothers, helping them along. I don’t know what to do? Should I say yes, and continue this miracle? Or should I say no and live out my time before he has to take me away too? I don’t know what to do. Do you have any sort of advice for me?

“Oh! Did you hear?” Lexi leaned forward, the light from the coffee shop window glinting on her forehead. “Kathy’s pregnant!”

“No way! Kathy from freshman dorm?” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I haven’t talked to her in forever.”

“I saw her posting about it, so I reached out. She’s due in February.”

“Well tell her I said mazel tov.”

“Absolutely.” Lexi took the last bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a gulp of iced chai. “God, it’s so weird. Everyone’s growing up.”

“I know, right? Do you still get college dreams? Like, the ‘oh no, it’s the final exam and I didn’t study’ dreams?”

“All the time! It’s been four years since I had to take a test. What the heck?”

I laughed. “I was talking to my mom. She said they never go away.”

“Ah, jeez. You’d think our brain would give us a break eventually. Just to be fair.”

“Like you care about things being fair,” I teased.

Lexi’s watch beeped, and she checked it. “Oh, is that the time? Why is lunch so short? We hardly talked about anything.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “We can meet again next week. Do you need to change for work?”

“I can do it in the bathroom, if you give me a moment.”

“Right-o.”

She grabbed her bag and dashed away, grabbing the key to the coffee shop bathroom from the counter. I slowly finished my coffee and headed out onto the street, checking my reflection in the big glass window, waiting.

Suddenly there was an explosion at the bank across the street. People screamed, fleeing the building, coughing in the smoke. I looked up - and there she was, in her dark green supervillain attire, hovering over the bank via jetpack. Her whole technology shtick was pretty cool, I had to admit, even though my own powers were completely different from hers.

It was time for me to get to work, too. I took my wand out of my pocket and whispered the incantation, triggering my magical-girl transformation. As the sparkles cleared from my vision, I clicked my golden heels and flew up over the bank.

“Not so fast, TechnoGoblin!” I called out to my best friend and rival.

Lexi cackled maniacally. “Princess Starshine! Long time no see, huh?”

A little bell attached to the entrance door chimed and into the bakery walked a man in a very nice black suit with a black tie, polished black shoes and black aviator shades. He immediately walked past all the baguettes, croissants, and bagels to approach the counter. He stood for a small second at the empty counter and then yelled “Hey Herman, you in the back!?”

“Just one moment!” A gravelly voice called back. As promised a moment later a short balding man with a black mustache came walking out from the kitchen in a flour covered apron. His face lit up and he said: “Dallas! My god how’ve ya been!?”

“Oh, not too bad. You know the stock game keeps me busy.” The suited man named Dallas replied.

“Bah, stocks!” Herman waved his hand dismissing the career choice. “I could never work a job like that. Numbers numbers numbers… blech!”

“Oh Herman its not all bad. There’s lots of money involved.” Dallas explained. “You should drop this little bakery shop and join the rat race. Think about the future Herman.”

“I am quite happy in the bread world thank you.” Herman said while dusting flower off his hands. “Now what can I get ya?”

“Ah I need a fresh loaf of your finest french bread for dinner. Ive got a woman coming over. Cooking her a nice meal.” Dallas grinned.

“Ah Dallas you sly devil! Ill fix you right up.” Herman turned around to a shelf that held some loaves of bread and dug through them for the best one.

Meanwhile, Dallas’s cellphone started ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out and studied the number for two rings before answering it. “Hello. . . Compromised!? WHERE!?”

The phone conversation turned drastic quite suddenly. Herman took notice and turned. Dallas was motioning to him for a pen and paper. A set was provided on the counter and Dallas quickly scribbled something down.

“Alright. Ill be there in 20! I want them alive!” And then Dallas hung up the phone and pulled Herman by his collar over the counter. “Listen, buddy. I need to borrow your car.”

“My Car!?” Herman struggled against the surprising firm grip of Dallas. “What do you need my car for!?”

“Work emergency! Now come on!” Dallas was ordering. He let go of Herman and hopped over the counter and took off through the back of the bakery.

Herman threw up his hands in utter confusion. “Work emergency!? What kind of stock emergency requires my car!? Hey wait up!”

Within moments Herman was scrambling to buckle the seatbelt in the driver’s seat. “Dallas what the hell is going on!? Why am I driving?”

“We need to go to La Grunta Airport fast! Step on it Herman!”

Herman obeyed and pulled out of the bakery, and taking a sharp right onto the street. “I didn’t even lock up my store! You mind telling me what this is - OH MY GOD DALLAS!”

Herman nearly slammed on the breaks in shock. In the passenger seat, Dallas had two black pistols out, loading them with bullets. The car lunging forward sent loose bullets all over the dashboard.

“Dammit Herman, keep driving!” Dallas barked. “You know how to use one of these?”

“Dallas I don’t want to be a murderer!” Herman announced with a frightened stutter.

Dallas took a large breath, held it in for a moment and then let it out slowly. “Okay Herm. I have to let you in on a little secret.”

“What!?”

“I’m a spy. A CIA operative. I don’t know the first thing about stocks.”

“What!? No way…” Herman cast him aside not believing a single word.

“Herman its all true. My department was holding a very dangerous man and he escaped and we believe he means harm. We have to get to the airport and stop him!”

“We’re chasing after a madman!? I am no cop Dallas, I am a baker!”

“This is a matter of life and death! Time is ticking! I need your help to bring this guy down!” Dallas pleaded. He then shoved a pistol into one of Herman’s hands. “Trust me on this one buddy. You are doing your country a great service.”

“This is insane!” Herman protested. “You have lost your mind!”

A few moments later, Herman came weaving in and out of taxies and skidded to a halt right outside the airport entrance. Both of them drew their pistols and Herman followed Dallas inside.

Immediately they were bombarded with security. Dallas cleared a path with his badge and Herman followed. Soon they were off in a mad dash through the airport. Dallas pulled out his phone as they ran and dialed a number.

“Yes. . . We’re here. Which one? 14? Got it!”

Herman’s heart raced as he watched the numbers on the terminals rise. 8… 9… 10… His heart imagined a mad bomber blowing the place to bits. He imagined a crazed gunman opening fire at them. 11… 12… 13…

Dallas rounded the corner first with his pistol extended far. Herman, hesitantly stuck his face around the corner. Rather anti-climatically, the entire terminal was quiet. A few random passengers sat, awaiting a plane. They both stood there frozen for a moment, unsure of what to think. Then Dallas began to slowly pace towards the passengers, eyeballing each one of them. He stopped at a young woman in olive green clothes, reading a book. He put the pistol to her forehead. “Up!”

The woman’s eyes glanced upward at Dallas. Very calmly she asked “What took you so long?”

“Careful, Herman. She’s very dangerous.”

“Don’t flatter me.” The woman said. Suddenly she pushed up and knocked Dallas off balance by surprise. With a high kick she sent Dallas and his pistol flying.

Herman, too nervous and excited squeezed the trigger on his pistol and narrowly missed the woman. The entire airport all dived to the ground in pure chaos and screams.

The woman took off through one of the employee doors.

“After her! Don’t let her get away!” Dallas shouted.

Herman began the chase. First he went down a long narrow hallway filled with airport employees. Some were already knocked over. Then he entered a very large kitchen. He followed the trail of destruction and stepped over broken dishes and spilled pots. This led into a stairway. Herman looked down and could see the woman entering a doorway two floors down. Nearly tripping over his feet, he took the steps two or three in one stride. Soon he burst through the door and into a concrete garage. The woman was in an all out sprint now.

“Oh you gotta be kidding me!” Herman gasped through heavy breathing. He huffed in two more breaths before taking off after the woman once more.

Herman rounded a corner and found himself running out onto the tarmac where planes were being readied for take off. The woman was sprinting towards a plane that was already beginning to roll down the runway.

“Stop!” Herman yelled.

“Shoot her!” Came a voice behind Herman. It was Dallas, at the edge of the tunnel they had just ran out of.

Herman began unloading the pistol in rapid succession. In the distance by the moving plane the woman clutched her leg and fell down. But rather suddenly she was back up and limping up to one of the wheels. She scrambled up onto the tire and then up into the plane as it rolled away faster and faster.

Disappointed, Herman took a few more steps towards the runway. By his feet in the grass he noticed something small and shiny. It was a cellphone. He picked it up curiously. It had a cracked screen but still worked.

Herman met back up with Dallas at the edge of the tunnel. “I wounded her I am sure of it!” Herman said, still feeling the adrenaline rush of the chase.

“Not just a baker anymore are ya Herm?” Dallas laughed.

“What happens now?” Herman asked.

“Well I reckon we have a flight to catch and a girl to capture in Paris.”

“We!?”

(Part 2 of Bent On Clement)

A consumer’s fate lies in the skill of the preparer. Be it hatred or puffer fish, much training is required. I’ve worked to master both. Such exquisite delicacies are well worth the investment.

“Timing is everything,” Luca would always say. “Mind the clock before you spout your judgments, most especially when they’re true.”

“They’re always true,” came my consistent response. “I am a light in an endless darkness. I’m Aristotle on an Earth that some deem flat.”

When I gave the famed restaurant, Au Gratin, two stars, it surprised even me. I published my review knowing it would be controversial, but I refused to dilute the truth. My words were as honest as they were pugnacious. I likened the restaurant’s owner to a dead man and his staff to reluctant grave diggers. “RIP Clement Donadieu” was the title to my review. The next morning monsieur Donadieu was pronounced dead. Apparently he was found face down in his own restaurant’s walk-in freezer. When the news broke, so too did the public’s peace.

“That man is dead because of you,” read one comment on my blog. “A good man’s blood is on your hands!”

“You must answer for your hatefulness,” wrote another.

“You gave a beloved public figure a pitiful two stars,” said Luca. “Your article pronounces him dead three times. Surely, you must know what that looks like. The people want you punished.”

I scoffed. “The people want entertainment, Luca, plain and simple. But what does that matter? It’s not like my words killed that man.” An annoying silence hung between us. I swatted it away. “Incroyant!” I said. “Not you too! I will not have you and your flimsy doubts fogging up my clear conscience! You’re a lawyer, no? Hear my story and then end this nightmare at once!”

“No need to stomp about like some irascible child,” Luca said. He pulled out a small recording device and laid it face up on the coffee table between us. He hovered a finger over a scarlet button. “Yes?” he asked, looking up at me.

I shrugged.

“For legal reasons I-”

“Yes, oui, whatever.” I said. “Do what you must to keep those pests off my front lawn.”

He pressed the button. I began.

“Listen,” I said. “When I go to review a restaurant, I want only a skeleton crew. And that’s what they gave me. The food was to be prepared by their head chef. The meal was to be served by the restaurant owner.”

“Do you have the names of all the individuals that were present that day?” Luca asked.

“Aside from Donadieu?” I said. “Non. What purpose would such knowledge serve? I paid attention to my job. I took note of the garish décor. Suppressed my frequent yawns. Monsieur Donadieu greeted me at the door and sat me at a cramped table uncomfortably illuminated by budget lighting.”

“What did he say to you? And you to him?”

“He handed me a menu and told me he’d be serving me that afternoon. I requested his best dish paired with a wine of his choosing.”

“And so he brought it to you.”

“Non.” I said. “I waited alone for what felt like ages before getting up and pacing the floor. Longer and longer I waited. Donadieu did not return. So I walked to the kitchen to investigate. I was incensed. The kitchen was empty. The freezer door was left ajar. I closed it and called out for the monsieur, sure I had been abandoned.”

“And then Donadieu found you?”

“Non.” I said, much louder this time. “I was accosted by some sous chef, no doubt returning from her smoke break. I demanded she bring me my meal. To my surprise, she did as told. When I asked to speak with Donadieu, she claimed she had no idea where he’d gone. After that, I left. I’m a busy man. I have important things to do.”

“And then you went home and wrote your review?”

“Oui.”

“And you just happened to write about ‘the death of Clement Donadieu.’”

“In metaphor you imbécile.”

“As your friend, I must warn you,” said Luca. “The police will eventually find out about your feud with Donadieu. You’ve never been able to hide your hatred.”

“Hide my hatred?” I laughed. “And rob the public of pure truth? I am a consummate critic. Don’t insult my upright morals.”

“I hope all this loathing doesn’t prove to be your poison, Armand. Darkness is not for the faint of heart.”

I allowed myself a wolfish grin and leaned forward in my seat. “Luca,” I said, “you can trust a professional.”

Was picking a wix seriously the smartest thing to do when the whole freaking point of this entire endeavour was to kill vampires? Did Eleanor want me to be used as some kind of tool for a vampire to curse people?

And, again, healer’s son here. Not a hunter. Like, the exact opposite of a hunter. I’m learning the art of healing, not hurting.

I voice a bit of this to her — “Look, I want to be a doctor when I’m older, why am I the kid you chose for this?” — as we walk through Lamstoke Woods, on the tail of a vampire she claims is named Julian.

It’s hardly the most vampiric name I’ve ever heard, but then the Greyson twins had a mother named Saskia so…

Eleanor laughed, slinging the heavy backpack off her shoulders and onto the forest floor. “Come on, Kester, we’ve got a vampire to kill.”

“You picked like the worst person to do this with,” I muttered, giving the bag a wary look. “Ellie —“

“How come you didn’t bring it up when I first chose you?” she shrugged. “Like, back when I was trying to beat those bloody twins?”

“Is that a dhampir joke or a ‘Alex is haemophobic’ joke?”

“Shut up.”

We continued walking for a while, until the very vampire we were hunting found us first.

“You ally yourself with the dhampir twins?" Julian hissed, a foreign haziness around his words. Eleanor frowned as he spoke, signalling that she had no clue what he was saying. It was a good job, too, because while she already knew about the Greyson twins, this didn't seem too good. "The traitors! Making friends with the spawn of their mother's murderer!"

And that was how I realised we were screwed.