Page 33 of How to Dump a Vampire

A loud thump makes me jump, but the archives remain still and dusty. Probably some book settling on the weary shelves. Still, an uneasy tingle creeps up my neck. I’m certain I’m not as alone as I thought.

The candle nearest me flares brighter, throwing twisting shadows against the walls. I swallow hard and turn cautiously, seeking the source of a sudden, unexplained chill.

“Hello?” My voice echoes eerily in the gloomy vastness, and I scold myself for indulging fancy. Just some draft from the upper passages most likely.

But I can’t shake the uncanny feeling of prying eyes tracking me. When muffled scraping sounds from the aisle’s end, it’s too much.

“Show yourself!” My shout sounds feeble against the shadows.

Only silence greets my bravado. The archives remain unchanged, gently swirling dust. Just jumpy nerves from reliving grim tales best left buried.

Shaking off my skittishness, I return to the records. There’s still more history to unravel about Thorn’s past. When I lean toward the scroll again, icy tinglingdances across my scalp. I freeze, listening beyond my hammering heart. Was that faint… laughter?

Before I can react, a resounding crack shatters the hush. Around the archive, creaks sound as if invisible hands push open leather spines in unison, unleashing a chorus of ghostly cackles and whispers. Panicked, I stumble back into the shelves as the table begins to violently shake.

“Enough, I beg you!” I manage to cry out through chattering teeth, but my pleas go unheeded in the gathering spectral cacophony. This foreboding place clearly keeps its secrets well-guarded.

The whispered laughter and violent rattling start up again as I hastily gather the scrolls strewn across the table. I abandon the rest of the useless tomes and make a break for the stairs, taking them two at a time in my rush to escape.

The ghostly whispers and scraping sounds intensify again. Clearly my presence here is unwanted.

After bursting through the heavy oak door, I stop to catch my breath, leaning one hand against the weathered wood. Well, that scholarly quest was a total bust. Unfortunately, those chilling details I uncovered refuse to leave my mind.

If Thorn really lived through that vicious purge as an innocent child, it makes sense why she seemed wary of me. As a prince, I represent the royal line responsible for slaughtering her people and razing her village. I need more of the full story if I’m ever going to make things right somehow. There must be more answers out there.

I push off the rough door, determination sparking within me. There has to be someone else still living who remembers this scarred history firsthand, someone nearly as ancient as the kingdom itself… Of course, the castle mage! He’s old enough to possess a deeper understanding of this painful past.

I stride swiftly through the torch-lit halls, leaving the archive’s oppressive air behind. The insights I seek now lie up in the mage’s isolated tower stronghold and, hopefully, also a chance at redemption for my father’s bloody sins.

My determined steps echo on the stones as I climb the winding staircase leading up past empty floors to the very top of the mage’s lonely tower. Strange scents waft down—odd herbs and acrid potion ingredients. I’ve only braved visiting up here a handful of times over the centuries. The mageis friendly in his own eccentric way, but he prefers solitude for his mystical studies. I can only hope he will oblige my probing questions.

Once I reach the heavy iron-bound door etched with arcane symbols, I rap sharply. “Master Eodan? I come seeking your counsel.”

Silence within.

I frown and consider simply entering, but I’m wary of interrupting volatile spellcraft. As I raise my hand to knock again, scraping sounds from behind the barrier followed by shuffling steps reach my enhanced senses.

The door creaks open, revealing the stooped, shrouded form of the ancient magus, leaning heavily on a gnarled oak staff. Though he’s clearly weary from the exertion of answering my call, keen intelligence yet glimmers in Eodan’s rheumy gray eyes beneath tufts of wiry white brows. Those eyes pierce me with a look far too shrewd and assessing for one supposedly half out of his wits with age.

“Prince Draven,” he rasps in his reedy, papery voice. “You seem… changed, since last you stood at my threshold.” The mage studies me cryptically. “Well? Speak. What questions trouble you so to scale my tower this eve?”

I meet his gaze steadily, unfazed by the intensity of his stare. “I seek your knowledge of the past, Master, of events from some two centuries ago.”

Eodan’s bushy brows rise higher. “The past, you say? Come then.”

He shuffles back inside, beckoning with one knotted, claw-like hand.

Ducking beneath the low beam, I step cautiously into his cluttered sanctum. Every surface overflows with ancient tomes, curious instruments of glass and bronze, and jars of pungent preserved specimens. I pick my way carefully over to a rickety wooden chair opposite his work table as Eodan eases himself down with creaking joints.

“Now then.” He steeples his fingers, eyes gleaming. “What matter pulls your thoughts so far back through the mists of time?”

I hesitate, uncertain how much detail to reveal. Something in the old man’s piercing yet not unkind gaze decides me. Taking a breath, I confess everything—finding the damning royal account describing the massacre of the witch child’s village and my suspicions that Thorn herself may be this last survivor. Eodan listens silently to my fervent tale, craggy features unreadable in the room’s gloomy candlelight.

At last, I finish with a desperate appeal, “So you see, I have to learn more. Can you shed any light on this part of our history and those affected?”

The ancient mage leans back, stroking his long white beard contemplatively as he gazes at me sidelong. “Perhaps. Much has faded, but some few details linger.” He taps his gnarled fingers on the scarred table. “There was talk even then amongst the commoners of an unusually gifted child born in the outer provinces. Fear drove the king’s command, fear that the child was powerful enough to take the throne by force if they desired.”

Cold truth settles like a stone in my gut. To think petty insecurities led to such tragedy and bloodshed. That my own father had given that order…

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