Dawit's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

The crown had accepted the cure. Now Dawit had to carry it home. His clan waited in the deserts of the south, still hunting humans while he stalled in Walachia. He stood before his blood altar in the Library, gold fittings glowing, tanks full of the refined store. He filled a travel flask and watched the color turn wrong within an hour. The refined blood curdled outside his machines. Every vessel he owned failed the same way. He had a cure no one could move. He went to the Mother. She was the only witch who understood how moonlight held blood together. He found her at the head of the council chamber, her white veil pooling across the floor for what looked like miles. Dawit had spoken to her only once, years ago, and left feeling weighed and found small. She did not look up when he knelt. "My blood will not travel," Dawit said. "It falls apart outside the altar. I need it to reach my clan." The Mother studied him. "The moonlight in it wants to scatter. Bind it to something that holds moonlight." She said nothing more. She never gave more than the point. Dawit understood. The Crimson Prințesă's ruby headdress had powered the whole store. Sealed stone, moon-charged, could keep the blood folded on the road. But she was hollowed out, her reserves nearly gone. He would not drain her further. Before he could rise, the chamber doors opened. Dracula entered, his gold dragon at his chest, his red and black cape trailing. Behind him walked a human woman in leather, auburn hair tied back, a crossbow slung across her body. Iliana Van Helsing, the hunter who had bargained a truce inside these walls. A royal guard stood at the door, spear ready, red eye burning in a black helm. Dracula stopped at the altar. He looked at the failing flask, then at Dawit. "The keeper of the south," he said. "My wife tells me you have ended the hunt." "If I can move it, my lord. It spoils outside my machines." Dracula lifted the flask. The blood inside had gone brown. He set it down. "Then you will not carry blood," he said. "You will carry the machine." He turned to Iliana. "She builds vessels that hold what should not be held." Iliana crossed to the altar. She ran her fingers over the gold valves, unafraid. "Sealed, moon-lined, pressure locked," she said. "I can build a crate that keeps this stable for a month on the road. I have done harder work than this." Dawit looked between the king, the hunter, and the Mother. A vessel, built by the hands of a monster hunter, blessed by a witch's moonlight. He nodded. "Build it," Dawit said. By the next night the crate was done. The cure sealed inside held clean. Dawit could go home. But the truce that gave him his vessel now bound his clan's future to a Van Helsing's word.