5 - Crescent Valley

Voices haul me right back to awareness. I sit up, my bleary gaze scanning the room for threats.

There are none. The voices are outside, laughing about running late for their flight, and the motel has incredibly thin walls. Sunlight streams in through the curtains — these, too, are thin — and casts the room in a blinding glow. It illuminates the cracks growing like vines up the corners of the walls.

With a sigh, I melt back into bed and rub at my eyes. The night has been a restful one, and with a silver knife tucked safely beneath my pillow, I could close my eyes and let myself be vulnerable enough to sleep.

My stay at the motel, I muse as I come awake properly and will my racing heart to slow down, however pleasant, is short-lived. It's a temporary solution to the problem of no sleep, and now that has been remedied, I can shift my focus towards the future.

I long to settle, to find a place and stick to it. I don't want to spend my life running and looking over my shoulder and constantly worrying about anyone following my tracks. I want a home— a real, true home.

Running has never been my forte, but if there's one thing I can do, it's defend like my life depends on it. It is, after all, what I have been trained to do since I was old enough to clasp my hands around the hilt of a silver knife.

I think of leaving and it doesn't seem right. A part of me longs to stay, to settle, to belong. My heart has grabbed hold of this little town and won't let go.

I can sleep in the car, that eager part of me says, fitting fragmented plans together and hoping something will stick. It'll save money and I can find a job that pays cash and work for someone who doesn't ask questions and I'll save up and pay off the police to hide me if my family comes searching. They are going to expect me to run as far away as possible— they won't expect me to hide just yet.

It would, I muse grudgingly, throw them off my scent. I can fight better when I'm not on the run, when I know the area better than them.

Thus resolved, I get up and trudge into the bathroom, eager to make use of the facilities whilst I can.

As I shed my battle attire and let it drop in a heap on the tiled floor, I realise I'll have to find some discreet clothes to replace them. All the belts specifically made to hold throwing knives and holsters for guns I don't have and stubborn blood stains will raise too many uncomfortable questions. If I want to call Crescent Valley my home, I need to blend in.

Blood and dirt swirl in a vortex down the drain at my feet as I dump the entire bottle of courtesy soap into my hands. I scrub and scrub at my arms and chest until my skin is raw and agitated, until the lichtenberg figures and symbols and runes scarring me are stark and more noticeable than before. They won't come off. They're a stain burrowed too deep. They are chains to my legacy, and ones I'll have to endure.

When at last the water runs clear, and the shower pressure has gone from a steady stream to an insubstantial trickle, I step out and dry myself, feeling refreshed if not entirely eager to put on the uniform again.

It'll have to do, for now.

My opinion of Crescent Valley, as I drive around soon after looking for a place to park up and explore, is only strengthened. There's little squares of market stalls and people wandering beneath colourful bunting stretching from quaint cottage to cottage. Cafés offer house specials and welcome dogs (on a leash) on blackboards propped up outside windows decorated with an assortment of cakes and sandwiches and fruit. There's bookstores and libraries seemingly on every road, and little flower boxes on every window, blushing with corals and lilacs and sky blues. People laugh and grin at one another as they stroll to and fro, calling greetings across the street. Woodland seeps through the cracks, creeping as close to the bustling town as it can. It's a picturesque haven, and I wonder if I've somehow stumbled into some form of paradise.

It feels a little strange, seeing so many people happy and laughing, in their own little worlds, when I'm in such a dire situation. The silver knife pressed against my ankle feels too far away, and the joy of the townsfolk outside my little fog of grief and panic and hunger seems unreachable.

Perhaps, in time, I'll learn to feel like that. Perhaps I deserve to be happy, too.

After so long living in the shadow of the Ferreus Clan and its incessant training and fights and raids, it's strange to breathe in fresh air not tainted with aconite or silver. It's strange to step out into the light.

I find a quiet spot before long. A stretch of road heading into the woods with a little car park behind a warehouse. It'll do for now, so I park up and head back into town.

After my hasty recon in the car, I know vaguely where I'm going, having spotted a clothing store not too far away. Even still, the walk is invigorating. A hint of sweet flowers in the air mixes with the warm smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the open doors of a bakery I pass by, all swirling in a cool breeze that tousles my hair and gently caresses my skin. Overhead, the day is shaping up to be a bright, warm one, with only a few clouds dotting the cerulean sky.

It's so picturesque, I almost feel bad when I reach the clothing store and realise I've got to ruin the peace.

But there's nothing for it. I'd rather spend my dwindling funds on food.

Having been raised to walk on silent feet and disappear in my surroundings, shoplifting comes as easily as grand theft auto. It's rather busy inside, so I'm able to blend in and snag a grey hoodie and some dark jeans and even some high-top trainers that look far too pristine to be left unsupervised. It's almost too easy, as though the whole town has collectively decided to look the other way.

Of course, they haven't. It's a stroke of luck I cannot waste.

I retreat to my car as quickly and inconspicuously as possible to change and hide my hunting gear out of sight before heading back into town.

The rest of my day is spent going from store to store, checking for vacancies. I pull up a helpless, eager mask over my features, channelling the innocent story of a man just moving into town and looking for a job to keep afloat, pouring honey all over my tone.

One of the bookstores I spotted on the drive by is a gold mine. The girl behind the desk peers over her glasses at me as I approach, sizing me up as either a customer or a thief. Mercifully, she deems me the former and offers me a bright smile.

"Hello," she greets, her voice soft and welcoming. "How can I help you?"

"Um," I begin haltingly, glancing around. The store is rather empty, and it smells of vanilla and old books with a pleasant yet heavy coating of incense. There are shelves overflowing with books and piles stacked up wherever they can fit on the floor, so the aisles are cramped and haphazard. Overall, it looks like a decent place to spend a few hours. "This is a weird question, but I just moved here and I need to pay for a motel room. Do you have any vacancies?"

"You're in luck," she says, her features lighting up. "Seb was supposed to be here for his shift at nine but it looks like he won't show up again. You can fill in for him. Maybe it'll teach him to take this place a little more seriously. Have you worked in retail before?"

I have not. "A little. I'm out of practice, though."

"No problem. I'll walk you through it. I'm Laura, by the way."

Laura shows me into the store room, chatting all the while about Seb's lack of time management and how it would get him fired if this was a regular job. It turns out Seb is her brother and the bookstore is a family-run business, so Laura must suffer with Seb until further notice, though she claims it isn't long before he moves out for good to live with his partner.

I think it's rather sweet, working in such a quaint town with a proper family and proper sibling arguments. Whenever Esme and I fought, it involved knives and bruises.

The thought of my sister summons a bleak cloud over my peace, and I fall quiet and subdued as I consider how much she would've loved it here. Fighting was her nature, her passion, but being prone to sneaking into her room after particularly gruesome battles, I know she longed to study literature. I caught her with her nose in a novel too many times to count, and to distract us both from the nightmares tugging at our fraying nerves, she would read aloud and make little comments and analyse everything.

Fuck, how I miss those quiet nights. How I miss her.

"We don't get many visitors from out of town, these days," Laura tells me, striking up conversation as she shows me how to wrap up a few orders. "Where are you from?"

"Oh, miles away. You wouldn't know it," I hedge, idly studying a collector's edition. "Have you lived here long?"

"All my life," she says eagerly before launching into her desire to go to university out of town. "It's beautiful here, but all I've ever known is my family. I want something more, you know?"

As the hours melt away, Laura lets me help her out with orders and serving customers and reorganising the mess of the shelves as best we can. All the while, she asks question after question— either eager to learn more about me or keen for me to switch the topic of conversation back to her, as I constantly do.

The lies come easily. It's second nature for a person like me— who relies on staying hidden to survive.

She tells me all about Crescent Valley, from the cheap motel close by where I can stay until I find my feet (I tell her I have, in fact, found the motel already) to the best bars to visit to meet new people. It seems as though she knows what's happening on every street corner, and she gladly tells me about the florist next door and his difficulty to rekindle his marriage. She talks about the town with such reverence and joy that I cannot help but feel more and more excited by the second about living here. She almost makes it sound too pleasant, and a suspicious part of me wonders what she's brushing under the rug.

I think, as I leave the store hours later right as the sun is setting beneath the distant mountains and casting the town in shadows, that things are starting to look up. I've made some money to afford food, I've got a car, some clothes, and this town could become my new home. The sky is a blanket of amber and grey as eager, thick clouds come rolling over the horizon. Rain is due. There's a hint of ozone laced into the breeze stirring around me.

The quaint little café I found earlier is still open, and I head inside to make my first official purchase of the day— a sandwich. Comfort food at its finest. I eat it on the go, wondering about Ada and if she's alright, and once I finish it (in record time), I throw away the wrapper, tuck my hands into my pockets, and head back to the car.

Running away might have been the best decision I've ever made.

At least, that's what I convince myself until I cut down an alleyway and find my path at once obstructed. Alarm sets those pleasant thoughts up in flames. The cobbled ground and walls are splattered with blood still dripping, and in the midst of the chaos, lying sprawled on the floor, is a man.

Everything inside me stutters to a stop and rewires as instinct carries me forwards. I look around for witnesses but the streets are quiet and empty— mercifully.

The man lies crumpled and limp, his limbs splayed at awkward angles and blood leaking down his temple. His shirt has been ripped open at the seams, buttons scattered across the ground, and carved into his chest is a crude rendition of a Norse symbol— Othala, if the many hours Esme and I spent poring over old books in the library of the den give any indication.

The fond memory shatters and leaves fragmented shards of grief in its wake, and I'm quick to stamp out the smouldering embers of dread lurking in my soul. I need to focus.

This isn't a typical murder scene. It's sloppy, for one. Whoever killed this man means for him to be found, and quickly. The blood isn't even cold yet — let alone dry — I find as I swipe my finger along the wall. The man's eyes shimmer a vague golden hue and the symbol on his chest screams vengeance or dark promises.

It's a crude statement, exactly like the one I left on Myles.

All of the evidence adds up to a damning theory— one that has dread seeping like tar through my veins, and one that shreds my nerves to jagged edges as instinct settles on my shoulders.

A solitary howl echoes on the whistling wind. A shiver scuttles down my spine; mingling frustration and eagerness to deal with the threat.

It seems Crescent Valley has something of a wild dog problem.