Page 38 of How to Dump a Vampire

Anthony tilts his head, catching a scent on the crisp air. He inclines left, and I follow wordlessly, trusting him. We pick our way between massive pines, their branches laden with snow. The cold air fills my lungs, invigorating my immortal spirit.

My friend pauses, kneeling to examine indentations in the white drifts. He runs a hand over the markings then taps two fingers to his temple and points ahead. Deer tracks. I nod, and we alter course to avoid disturbing the prey.

We continue on in easy quiet, the muted forest a refuge from the chaos of court and the tensionssimmering there. Out here, it is just Anthony and I, free to be ourselves beyond the confines of status and politics.

Abruptly, Anthony stops, nose lifted to the wind once more. I watch his focused expression morph to one of eagerness. Fox. He grins and is off, a blur of muted browns and gold. With a wry huff, I hurry after him, though I know with his skills, he’ll find the creature first.

Sure enough, he stands leaning casually against a fir up ahead, holding a fine red pelt. “Too slow, my friend,” he teases, eyes glinting.

I simply shake my head and motion that he should keep the trophy.

As we resume trekking through the wilderness, a new scent teases at my awareness. I slow, trying to pinpoint its source, but the elusive fragrance dissipates on the breeze. Frustrated, I’m about to dismiss it when a flash of white darts between snow-heavy fir trees up ahead, too quick to clearly make out the source. The possibilities immediately ignite my hunter’s instincts. Could it be the rare white fox, most prized quarry of the hunt?

I glance at Anthony, but his keen senses are focused elsewhere, tracking more mundane prey. This sighting will be mine alone to pursue.

My muscles coil in anticipation. In a burst of preternatural speed, I bound after the elusive flash of white, weaving between the trees. My feet fly swift and silent over the forest floor, stirring not a single snowflake as I race onward.

The brief glimpse of white reappears closer now, bounding through a copse of birch trees. Definitely vulpine in shape and size. I push myself faster, thrilled by the prospect of such a valuable capture. The white fox pelt alone would guarantee me the winner’s cloak.

More than glory spurs my pursuit. This feels personal somehow. A connection I can’t name pulls me toward the unusual fox, as if we’re tied by some unfathomable thread. I shake off the strange fancy and refocus on the chase.

Hurtling over a frozen stream, I landing in a spray of glittering ice crystals. The white fox is just ahead, tantalizingly close. I can make out its snowy pelt flashing between the trees, always remaining barely out of reach. Almost like it’s… leading me somewhere.

Caught up in the exhilaration of the hunt, I pay little heed to my surroundings. The terrain grows increasingly rugged, but I’m too focused on my elusive quarry to notice. All my senses narrow to that beckoning flash of white always on the periphery.

The trees thin out, and I emerge into a clearing ringed by ravaged stone walls and tumbled beams. The ruins of some long abandoned village. I slow, taking in the decrepit structures worn by centuries of harsh winters.

A prickling sense of unease now tempers my earlier excitement. This place carries a somber, haunted air, like a graveyard etched by loss and tragedy. What ancient calamity befell this forgotten hamlet?

I step cautiously over the debris-strewn ground,alert for any sign of the white fox or other forest dwellers. The ruined husk of a cottage stands ahead, its roof long since collapsed. Could my unusual quarry have hidden within?

As I approach the vine-choked doorway, that nagging sense of familiarity returns, stronger now. It’s as if this place calls to some hidden part of my spirit that I can’t consciously grasp. I hesitate on the threshold, torn between apprehension and longing. What awaits me within these aged stones?

Before I can step inside, a voice rings out behind me, clear and strong. “You should not have come here, Prince.”

15

Thorn

The crumbling walls of the cottage loom before me as I approach, their weathered stones seeming to lean inward as if protecting long-held secrets. How many years has it been since I last walked this overgrown path? I’ve lost count of the decades that have passed in my self-imposed exile.

I pause at the edge of the clearing, my boots sinking into the snow. The cold bites at my cheeks, but that physical discomfort is nothing compared to the ache in my chest. This place holds so many ghosts.

With slow, hesitant steps, I make my way to the front door or what remains of it—a few rotting planks cling stubbornly to rusted hinges. I trace my fingers over the carved oak frame, remembering the day my father hung this door with such pride.

“There!” he declared, wiping his brow. “Now our Thorn will be safe and snug in her own room.”

I beamed up at him, filled with the contentment only a child can know. My world was small and perfect then. How swiftly that innocence was shattered.

Steeling myself, I duck inside the gloomy interior. The main room is just as I remember it. Modest wooden furniture sits covered in layers of dust and leaves that have blown in over the long years of abandonment. The stone hearth that once glowed warm with crackling fire now gapes cold and empty. Cobwebs shroud the corners like gossamer veils.

At the back of the room, a rickety staircase winds up to the second floor. I avoid looking at it just yet, not ready to confront those memories. Instead, I drift over to the simple wooden table, running my hand across its scarred surface.

This is where my mother would stand mixing her potions and tinctures, the shelves behind her lined with glass bottles and jars containing roots, herbs, and other mystical ingredients. I can almost see her silvery hair glinting in the firelight as she hums one of her old folk songs passed down through generations of cunning women.

Next to the table sits a rocking chair sized for a child. I picture my younger self there, curled up with a book of spells while my mother worked. I begged and begged her to teach me even the most basic magic.

“All in good time, little thorn,” she would laugh. “Once you’ve mastered your runes and charms.”

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