A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,75
hill that leads down to the ravine, above the pond. Small, camouflaged frogs chirp at me as I pass, resting on trunks, dapples of sunlight hitting them between bright, yellowing leaves. Rounding a big oak tree while clipping the edge of the dirt path, my makeshift marker of stones comes into view and my feet slow to a gradual stop. About ten kilometers, I think. Not too bad.
I sit at the edge of the large, smooth oak tree to the left of the center pond. Wedged in between its curving roots is a wooden knife. Its handle is wrapped in a small leather cord with a piece of scrap metal hanging off the middle—what was previously my anklet. After my very first run at Zein’s castle, I had hidden it, hoping to use the pointed, solar panel fragment to carve out a weapon—or weapons—of sorts. So, I did. It’s nearly complete, with a few more polishing touches. Not that it would do any good against a vampire, anyway. Their skin is so tough that only diamonds and vampire keratin can cut through. But having it gives me some sort of solace, and I guess that’s all that matters.
The world around me is quiet, save the chirping frogs and light breeze. No supply units or vampire soldiers loom in the shadows or along the trail. I unravel the leather cord and finish up the knife, now at a loss for when I will need to use it.
But I keep scraping and scraping to sharpen the fine edge, because it’s the only thing making me feel like I’m still trying to get out of here.
✽✽✽
“Hello Wavorly.” Seriesa greets me happily from behind the counter.
“Good evening, Madam Seriesa,” I reply with a half-smile as usual.
Since the first night when the vampire attendant asked me about the mishap at the distribution, she’s been extra nice to me—like giving me more food than rationed or insisting that I call her by her given name or standing up for me against the other attendants. I have grown accustomed to her smiling face.
“Did you have a good run?”
“Yes, it was needed,” I say. “Can I get a full portion please? More fruit or bread again if you can spare.”
“Yes, of course,” she chuckles, slinking away to the back of the kitchen. “After all, the official favorite of our lord must always keep up her strength.” My heart threatens to stop. Her voice is loud… louder than usual. “It is my understanding that the Laisse has been gifted to you. Congratulations!”
I throw my gaze down in sudden panic. Daring a glance back at the dining tables, most of the supply units are mid-bite, pausing to eye me with wide orbs of incredulity—utter disbelief. One of the first ones in my sights is Anaya. And if looks could kill…
Glera appears from behind me. How long has she been there?
“Is that true? But he hasn’t summoned you in weeks?” Glera manages to interject through her shock. I don’t answer, instead I fumble with the tray that Seriesa places before me. She tilts her head out of concern. She can’t possibly know what she just did to me—what letting every other supply unit know about the Laisse means for someone like me.
Glera throws her arm around my shoulder. “The rest of them are jealous. You are fulfilling your purpose to Lord Zein while they wash laundry all day. Take their anger as a compliment.”
Purpose?
The desire to run away returns along with other, darker, thoughts.
How can this, any of this be a purpose? To obtain the Laisse chain? To be the best at nourishing the murderers of our own kind? How does that have the possibility to be anyone’s purpose?
I catch myself returning Anaya’s expression of disgust, but for a different reason. While she is disgusted by my ability to become the most favored unit with an exceptionally poor blood quality, an average figure, and a freckled face, I am disgusted by her brittle and degrading, half-assed purpose.
It’s hard at times for me to remember that all of these girls were born and raised in Cain. None of these girls have seen the true horrors outside of their sheltered worlds. None of them have seen their families attacked, screaming and writhing in ways that people shouldn’t, nor have they experienced the trauma of nearly dying by the hand of a ravenous beast; one that takes pleasure in every tear and every plea of its prey.