I step into view, bloody face and body, and try to greet them. A mob has gathered in front of me; roughly threescore was the number. All had faces contorted, brows furrowed in distress as if they had seen a monster in me. Torches and bludgeons brought a feeling of fear in me. They were mad, I at once thought.
"Outsider!" a voice exclaimed. It was the same voice that spoke a while ago: rough and strident. An ugly man came forth from the horde of lunatics, teeth as yellowish as the flames of the torch. He gripped a mace, a wooden shaft which that stretched on to a spindly head made of bronze. "Outsiders are not welcome in Yarim!"
I raised my palms to show I am not hostile. "Sir, I am—"
Jeers. They were not listening to me. At once, I saw it. The frenetic looks on their gazes that I saw on people that were determined to rid the house of pests; whether it was the ghouls or a human outsider, they did not care. Their grips tightened on the shafts of their weapons, knuckles whitening and veins bulging. The ugly man spoke again; this time I had to run. Shouts of joy and assent burst from the crowd of lunatics and I snatched the flintlock and blade, remembering their names so that they would disappear. Shit. The wounds in my body begin to reopen as I retreat, the searing just as bad as the previous curse of my abdomen. I remember. Deses. Orkos. The flintlock and blade disappear, and my hands are free. I am not.
The mob's screams grow closer each pause of pain I make. Left. Right. I do not lose them; my pace is slower compared to before. My legs are weary. Straight ahead. Right. My chest screams in pain. A figure appears before me. I lean on it. The lunatics are close but they do not know where I am. I let my eyes close.
***
I awoke to a rhythmic tapping of metal. I try to sit upright; my muscles ache and my joints immobilized. The iron bed, a bedside table and a door are the only features of the room. Its walls were a rough dirty white, mildewed and cobwebbed; the floors were dreary grey wooden planks that formed rectangular shapes. I look at my body, clusters of bandages slung like mummy's clothing.
"Do not move too much," a voice says. A woman. "You are hurt—badly so—and the only cure will be rest," a pause; "You are a hunter…It is best for you to leave immediately after you are healed." The woman did not show herself but hid behind the door, an intricately-designed ebony door, her voice muffled as she spoke.
"How do you know of it?" I ask.
"It does not matter," she replies. A pause again. "You may come here when you are in need of shelter; but please, leave the house as soon as you are fully healed. The citizens of Yarim see outsiders as depraved parasites of the city's glory—though it is past, they do not listen to reason. Heed my pleas, hunter: Continue the hunt and slay the ghouls that continue to plague the city of Yarim." Another ray of hope placed on me. I do not answer immediately; I struggled against a werewolf and I do not know if the other ghouls will be just as strong or perhaps stronger than it. I am afraid.
"I will, good citizen," I manage. "I will succeed." Succeed. The words sound foreign in my mouth, a perplexing concept for an inept boy.
"I thank you, hunter." The woman replies in earnest. Her voice is brittle, and it was none more than a mere croak which she uttered. Perhaps she has suffered much from the state of Yarim now.
I do not know how long I lay on the bed, sinking into the squeaking mattress, remembering the fangs of the werewolf, its acidic drool and its glinting claws. It was hideous and, I daresay, was the most horrible thing I have encountered as of yet. I remembered the movement of our dance, forward, backward, lumbering across the streets with blood trickling from our skin. I remember the burnt fur and its death. I remember the mob of lunatics that wielded maces, clubs and torches, their frothing mouths, hungry for the blood of outsiders. Horrifying, I thought. However, I was sure that it was not the last of the sprawling city's terrible secrets. More lay await in its dank streets. There was no light from a window here; moonlight did not reach. The city was plunged into an eternal night, the woman said when I had asked her. It was, at the least, comforting to know that I had not gone mad.
I tossed and turned in the bed, the pain from my wounds gone but the weariness set in like a blade. I plunged into a sleep, where I dreamed of the family manor under siege, my father and the servants caught by a man whose face was hidden in a cloak. The scene is consumed by darkness. Another comes; it is of my dance against the werewolf but I watched from the eyes of a wall or perhaps a person who hid in the shadows. My dance was serene and enchanting but my swordsmanship was horrible, the blade missing a chunk of its attempted slices. Consumed by darkness once more. It is of a woman whose skin was the color of almond, eyes a beetle's black as was her smooth hair. She transfused Ms. Alice's blood to mine, the latter standing, her face creased (one of hope, perhaps) while Alfred stood near. I did not see Vigil anywhere. Rosalia, her name was.
I wake. My wounds are gone; no scars remained, only hairless skin that roused from the cold of the darkness. I call out to Rosalia not mentioning her name. Your equipment is in the table. My toilette was done immediately. After wearing my boots, I called out to her, to the woman that saved me.
"Rosalia," I said.
"Y-yes," she staggered. Did I tell him my name? I could her whisper in the hairbreadth of a pause she made. "What is it?"
"Thank you. I will take my leave now."
"There is a garret above the bed. Take it and leave through the window. People are searching for you, and I am sure that they suspect me."
"You have thought this through," I remarked, impressed.
"No-No; that is not quite true," she says. "I am merely doing my job to help Yarim." A kind woman. If the minx of a woman that was Alice was anything like Rosalia, I would have fallen and fainted for her immediately. But I digress.
The outline of the garret came when I stared and a small copper handle had been placed there. I pulled and the must came, smelly and dusty. I sneeze. Rosalia snickers. I snicker too.
"Rosalia," I start. "If there comes a time where I may thank you for allowing me to live once more; where I may thank you to your face, I would love to."
"Yes, perhaps I would like that too."
I climbed inside, the abyss swallowing me but I saw the faintest glimmer of moonlight that came from the dormer, which had been left open. A roof was near. I jumped.