By the time they stepped outside, the streets were packed with people heading toward the town square.
Elise wore a wide-brimmed hat adorned with black lace, shading her pallid face from the blistering noon sun. She pulled the collar of her midnight blue cloak higher, ensuring it covered the fresh bandages on her neck, the fabric fluttering gently in the autumn breeze. Daisy clung tightly to Elise's arm, her grip anxious, ensuring they wouldn't be separated by the churning crowd.
The square itself was a scene of macabre festivity. Vendors had materialized at the edges, their makeshift stalls hawking roasted chestnuts, candied apples, and cups of spiced cider. Children weaved through the legs of adults, laughing as they filled baskets with rotten vegetables meant for the condemned. The air was a thick mix of the smell of frying dough and the electric, ugly tang of bloodlust.
When they found a place to stand, a rough wooden stage stood at the center of the chaos. A line of city guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding back the restless crowd. On the stage, a large, black-draped figure was being forced into position, his chains rattling with every weak struggle.
Elise's sharp eyes immediately caught the name scrawled on a crude wooden placard nailed to the stage:
THOMAS WAINWRIGHT – TRAITOR, MONSTER, ABOMINATION.
Daisy gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh... oh, no. That's Mister Wainwright..."
Elise glanced down at her. "You knew him?"
"He was a teacher," Daisy whispered, her voice thick with disbelief and horror. "The only proper teacher in Fenwick for years. He taught reading and sums to any child who could sneak away from the fields for an hour. He was... kind. All the kids absolutely loved him."
The numerous rowdy children in the crowd anticipating his demise seemed to contradict her statement.
"To think I'd see him again like this..." She bit her lip, hard. "He must've been captured. Turned into one of them."
Or perhaps he was a monster all along.
Elise didn't say that thought out loud.
The jeering of the crowd swelled as two guards yanked the black shroud away. The man revealed was gaunt, his skin a pale, sickly grey, stretched taut over sharp bones. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, thinning dark hair—all the signs of a common vampire wasting away, long past any semblance of vitality. His eyes—a dull, human brown—squinted blindly, painfully, into the harsh sunlight.
No golden gleam of a noble.
No terrifying crimson fire like the creature in the alley.
Just a common, dying vampire. No power. No terrifying presence. Just decay in a mortal frame.
This wasn't him.
A quiet, cold certainty settled in Elise's stomach. She slowly raised her collar again, the wound beneath her bandage throbbing in sympathetic memory.
Thomas Wainwright was a monster, but he was not that monster.
A choked, muffled scream erupted from the stage as the full force of the sun poured down on the bound vampire. His face—which Daisy remembered as gentle and worn—contorted in unimaginable agony. His skin began to blister and blacken, sizzling audibly. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his shoulders and scalp, and the nauseating smell of burning flesh curled into the festive air.
These executions always took place during noon, when the sun was at its most cruel.
Let the monster cook before the blade falls.
The crowd roared its approval in a wave of triumphant cheers and cruel laughter. A hail of rotten fruit and vegetables sailed through the air, pelting the writhing figure as children and adults alike competed to land a hit.
"Quite the spectacle," a voice murmured beside her. It was a deep, smooth baritone, so cultured and calm it seemed to carve a pocket of silence out of the surrounding chaos.
Elise turned her head toward the sound.
Beside her stood a man who seemed woven from a different fabric than the rest of the crowd. A tall—remarkably tall, young aristocrat dressed in an impeccably tailored suit of deepest black. He had a striking profile, defined by sharp angles and elegant lines. On his other side, a notably shorter attendant—little more than a youth with long black hair tied neatly back—held a black silk umbrella with silent efficiency, casting a pool of shade that enveloped both master and servant in a perfect, isolated silhouette.
The nobleman's dark eyes were fixed on the stage, but he seemed to sense the weight of her gaze. He turned to her, and a handsome, enigmatic smile touched his lips—a expression that was both inviting and utterly opaque.
"But I confess, I wouldn't have expected a lady of such evident refinement to be drawn to so grim a sight," he remarked, his voice rich with a warmth that felt both genuine and practiced.
Elise met his gaze with glacial impassivity. "One follows the crowd out of curiosity," she replied, her tone cool and dismissive.
He arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, faintly amused by her rebuff, but offered no retort. He simply turned his attention back to the stage, granting her the silence she seemed to prefer.
An old clergyman stepped forward, raising a liver-spotted hand for silence. Adorned in heavy robes, a silver-lined cross hung from his neck. The crowd's noise reluctantly died down as he cleared his throat with theatrical gravitas.
"Thomas Wainwright. Once a man of learning, of trust—now a bloodthirsty creature of the night!" he began, his voice projecting over the square. "For too long, this abomination cloaked himself in false kindness, deceiving our children, our neighbors, our very faith, with a mask of humanity he did not possess!"
Elise tuned out the dreadfully familiar rhetoric. She could recite this self-righteous homily by heart. Same lines every time.
Her gaze drifted, disinterested, searching for a distraction from the grotesque farce.
A group of aristocrats stood in a cordoned-off section, their expressions a mix of detached amusement and bored anticipation. Nearby, two noblewomen whispered behind painted fans, their eyes fixed on the burning vampire with idle curiosity, as though watching a caged animal rather than a dying soul. On the other side, a commoner couple listened intently to the clergyman's speech, ignoring their child's repeated pleas for more pastries from a street vendor.
All walks of life, gathered to revel in the spectacle of a creature's death.
"He corrupted the innocent, preyed upon the meek, and feasted upon the very hands that fed him!"
Elise's eyes, almost against her will, were drawn back to the enigmatic figure beside her.
His hair was the color of dark mahogany, tied back in a low ponytail that emphasized the crisp, severe elegance of his attire. A white ruffled undershirt peeked from beneath his coat, pristine and untouched by the dust and press of the common crowd. Composed, refined, he stood as an island of calm in a sea of vulgarity. He didn't belong here at all.
As if feeling the weight of her study, he turned his head slightly, his dark eyes catching hers.
Their gazes locked—his a deep, umber brown that seemed to hold a knowing warmth against the icy stillness of hers.
A subtle, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.
"Something the matter?" he whispered, the words meant for her alone, amusement curling gently around each syllable.
She realized, with a rare flush of self-consciousness, that her impolite scrutiny had not gone unnoticed.
Her lips parted, but she found no ready reply. She quickly averted her gaze back to the stage, a faint heat prickling the back of her neck.
The weight of his lingering attention, however, remained like a phantom touch.
On stage, the vampire writhed, his gag muffling his dying screams. His face had begun to char, deep fissures of burned flesh splitting under the relentless noon sun.
"For his sins against humanity, against the Almighty, and against the natural order, he shall be granted no mercy!"
"Get on with it already!" a young boy called out, grinning wide. "Before the thing's overcooked!"
A wave of coarse laughter rolled through the crowd.
The executioner, a hulking, bearded man clad in a thick leather apron, stepped forward. He hefted a massive axe, its blade gleaming in the harsh daylight. The crowd stilled, a collective breath held.
The priest glanced down at the smoldering creature, his expression flat with cold contempt.
Then, in a quieter, almost bored tone, he delivered the final line:
"May he rest without peace."
A swift, brutal swing. The sickening, wet thunk of steel severing bone followed.
Elise heard Daisy's sharp gasp and saw her cover her mouth in horror.
Thomas Wainwright's head cleanly fell from his shoulders, rolling to an unceremonious stop at the executioner's feet.
A single, terrible moment of dead silence stretched.
Then, a child in the front row laughed as he flung an overripe tomato, splattering pulp across the lifeless eyes.
The crowd erupted into cheers, applause, wild whistles—a deafening wave of sound.
The sudden roar sent a sharp, nauseating pang through Elise's skull. The blood loss from her injury left her vulnerable, unsteady. A jostling body shoved hard into her side, the unexpected force making her stumble. The world tilted; her vision swam with black spots. Her wide-brimmed hat slipped from her head and tumbled to the dusty ground.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!" Daisy snapped, immediately rounding on the retreating stranger, but he was already swallowed by the celebrating mob.
Elise sighed faintly, bringing a gloved hand to her throbbing temple. She glanced down at her hat in the dirt.
Sloppy. Undisciplined.
Father would not approve.
Before she could bend to retrieve it, the man beside her moved first. With effortless, liquid grace, he stooped and picked up her hat. His long, gloved fingers brushed away a speck of dust with a fastidious care that felt intimate. Then he turned and offered it to her with a slight, gentlemanly bow.
"Your hat, my lady," he said. His calm voice anchored her in the receding chaos.
Their eyes met—his gaze steady, his expression gentille. In that fleeting moment of close proximity, Elise noted the immaculate symmetry of his features and the way his long, dark lashes framed phoenix eyes that held an almost unnatural depth. His presence was unnervingly composed, refined, standing apart from the disorder around them.
Elise hesitated for a beat before accepting her hat from his hand. "Thank you," she said evenly, though her gaze lingered on him a second longer than necessary.
He smiled—a small, knowing curve of his lips—before turning away. His young attendant fell into step beside him, and the two men melted into the dispersing crowd, disappearing beneath the shade of their umbrella.
Elise adjusted her hat as the man vanished into the crowd, but unease pricked the edge of her thoughts. There was something about him that felt familiar, like a ghost brushing past her skin. She pushed the thought aside, but the feeling lingered, sharp and persistent as a thorn.
Daisy turned back, her anger replaced by concern. "My lady, are you alright?"
Elise didn't answer right away.
"You're still so pale. And you're sweating. Look at you." Daisy dabbed at Elise's temple with a handkerchief. "I shouldn't have brought you out here. You just got out of bed yesterday. It was foolish of me."
Elise barely registered Daisy's fussing. Her focus remained on the spot where the two figures had vanished.
"God, these barbarians!" Daisy huffed, straightening Elise's cloak. "No manners at all."
As Daisy muttered about inconsiderate brutes, Elise finally spoke with a quiet voice.
"Daisy... who was that man?"
The maid paused, following Elise's gaze. "I'm not sure, my lady. I haven't seen him before. Some visiting lordling, perhaps?"
Elise frowned, watching the empty space where he had stood.
"Is that so..."
Around them, the last of the crowd began to thin, leaving behind the remains of the condemned—burned, headless, and utterly discarded.
Blackened and crumpled like forgotten refuse beneath the clear, indifferent autumn sky.