The Vampire & Her Witch

For a few heartbeats, Ashlynn let the sea take her.

That was what it felt like as the people of Blackwell surged forward to answer her open arms. A wave, warm and overwhelming, that pulled her under before she could brace herself against it. Hands reached for her from every direction, some tentative and trembling, others gripping with the fierce desperation of people who had been drowning for months and had finally found something solid to hold on to.

She moved through the sudden press of bodies the way a swimmer moves through a strong current, not fighting it but letting it carry her where it needed to while she reached out to touch each person she passed. A hand on a shoulder. A palm pressed against a weathered cheek. Fingers interlaced with fingers that were rough from lye soap or calloused from years of handling reins and harnesses.

She knew most of their names. The old maid who had tried to embrace Isabell at the door was Brigid, who had served in the Blackwell kitchens for longer than Ashlynn had been alive and once snuck her an extra pastry after Countess Maela declared that her eldest daughter had eaten quite enough sweets for one evening. The young stable boy hovering at the edge of the group, too nervous to push forward, was Tadgh, who had been assigned to care for the horses Jocelynn brought from Blackwell and who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

She spoke to each of them, calling them by name when she could, and asking after them when she couldn’t, giving freely of the kind of warmth and attention that the Ashlynn who had left Blackwell County to marry Owain Lothian could never have allowed herself.

That Ashlynn had been trained to keep a distance between herself and almost everyone else, lest her secret be discovered. Only a few trusted retainers, like Sir Elgon, were allowed to become close enough to her to become truly familiar.

But that Ashlynn was long dead. She had died in a shallow grave in the Vale of Mists, and the woman who had crawled out of that grave had thrown away her fears of discovery in order to embrace the powers she’d been born to. She might hold back a bit until people were ready to learn the truth, but she would never make herself smaller in order to hide it again.

When she finally emerged from the tide of embraces, her eyes were wet and her cheeks were flushed, and there was a warmth in her chest that she hadn’t felt since her last night with Nyrielle.

It wasn’t the same, of course. The love she shared with Nyrielle was a fire that burned at her center, fierce and constant, but this was something different. This was the feeling of roots sinking into familiar earth after being torn up and replanted in foreign soil, and for a moment, it was enough to make her forget why she was here.

But only for a moment.

Sir Beathan hadn’t joined the embraces. The young Templar stood with his three brothers-in-arms in a line between the Blackwell contingent and the table where Diarmuid and Ignatious sat, his sword still unsheathed and resting point-down on the floor with both hands folded over the crossguard. His cheeks were still slightly red from the cold outside while his jaw was set in a hard line, and even though his eyes had been bright with unshed tears when Ashlynn descended the stairs, they were dry now and watchful.

”My lady,” Beathan said, a bit more stiffly than he intended to. ”It’s good to see you alive and well. I’m certain your mother and father will be overjoyed when they hear the news,” he said in a slightly softer tone.

”But I need to know about them,” he said, tipping his chin toward the two men in crimson robes. ”We all saw what happened to your cousin Eleanor at the Inquisition’s hands. We were there to send her off to the Heavenly Shores when Lady Jocelynn carried her out of the Lothian’s dungeons.”

”We all heard what the Inquisition did to your sister, Lady Jocelynn,” he added with a darkening scowl as his hands tightened on the hilt of his sword. ”So seeing those men here.... We need to know who’s really in charge here, my Lady. And if they’re pulling strings on you like a puppet,” he added, glaring at the pair of men in red robes. ”Say the word and we’ll show them how easily strings are cut.”

Across the room, Diarmuid’s eyes went wide in disbelief at how brazen the young Templar was, even as he admired the man for adhering to his convictions. After learning what Percivus had done to Lady Ashlynn’s family, he couldn’t blame anyone here for their hostility toward the inquisition, but the notion that they were somehow pulling strings to use Lady Ashlynn like a puppet...

Clearly, Diarmuid wasn’t the only one who found the notion absurd, and Ignatious laughed openly, a rich, warm chuckle that left Beathan feeling a little sheepish for his defiant stance.

”I promise you, no one is pulling my strings tonight,” Ashlynn said, meeting the Templar’s gaze without flinching. ”I know that it’s hard to trust members of the Inquisition after what happened,” she added as her voice grew hard.

”I would have destroyed the Abbey of Maeril if doing so wouldn’t have put everything else in jeopardy,” she admitted, eliciting startled gasps from around the room. ”Someone has to pay for what was done to Jocey and Eleanor, and I’ve seen enough proof with my own eyes to know that Percivus isn’t the only monster to emerge from the abbey draped in the crimson of their order.”

”The rest of them will reap the fates they’ve earned,” Ashlynn said in a voice that was cold enough to make the winter winds outside feel warm. ”I promise you that justice, and if you wish it, when the time comes to read out their crimes for all the world to hear, then your hand can swing the sword,” she offered.

There might still be good people within the local branch of the Inquisition. Men like Diarmuid who had become genuine seekers of truth. There might also be others like Cian, who had been twisted into monsters in an imitation of the monsters who went before them... Some of those people might even be able to recover from the stain of darkness and hatred they’d nurtured in their hearts.

But the rest... The ones who had grown drunk on their own power, preyed on the innocent and believed themselves righteous... Those men couldn’t be allowed to live, and one way or another, Ashlynn would ensure that none of them escaped to threaten the innocent once she’d claimed the throne of the march for herself.

She owed Eleanor that much at least, and her sister even more.