Prologue: No Bodies

Previously: Redwater 

 

She'd been walking for days. She would walk from sunset until morning, until she could bear the sun no more. Then she'd find a cave or crumbling shack or deep forest to hide. She drank whatever she could find -- rabbit, fox, wolf, stag -- it didn't matter. She longed to drain the blood of a human, but every time she spied a lone traveler on the roads, a face flashed before her eyes. She saw the tall, brown-skinned Thalmor woman glaring at her, her posh accent ringing venomously in her ears.

 

I don't know how news travels among the undead, but you're going to leave Hjaalmarch, today, now, and tell every rotten little bloodsucker you come across that Morthal is under the protection of the Aldmeri Dominion. Tell them the Thalmor are here, and we are watching you.

 

Alva's whole body chilled further at the memory of the hulking elf stepping towards her, hissing a final warning.

 

And tell them what happened when your coven crossed paths with Indrathel, the Demon of Northwatch Keep.

 

Alva shuddered.

 

Indrathel. The very name evoked dread. It was a name worthy of a dragon. Every time she felt weak or tired or wanted to linger, simply thinking the hunter's name got her feet moving again.

 

So she walked. She hunted. She drank in the shadows. And she waited for the sun to go down.

 

***

 

Skooma was the closest thing to Oblivion.

 

It was warm, fuzzy, numbing. Leila sank her fangs into the addict, letting their tainted blood fill her mouth and run down her throat. She closed her eyes, savoring a few more deep drinks before stopping and pulling away. The addict rolled over on the straw mattress while Leila lay back against the cushions, waiting for the darkness to take her away.

 

In the distance, she could hear moaning. Some of it came from the high, from the warmth of the skooma. The rest came from the dull, transactional thud of flesh. Not everyone had coin and, often times, had to pay in other ways.

 

The walls and floors were wooden down here. They were rarely cleaned. The whole room smelled of skooma, smoke, blood, sweat, and sex. There were hardly any proper chairs or tables, but there were countless ragged mattresses and worn cushions strewn about the floor. There were several rooms, but none of them had doors, not anymore. The only light came from oil lamps and candles, not that Leila needed light.

 

The owner told Leila it was a brothel once, and a popular one at that. Legend had it the floors were covered in rugs back then, and the doorways were draped in velvet. It was once patronized by nobles and wealthy commoners alike. They'd arrive in carriages by moonlight, sometimes from as far as Windhelm. The building was bigger back then, with stories above in addition to the underground floor. Patrons could rent rooms for days, indulging their wildest fantasies with complete discretion.

 

The brothel, now fallen nameless to history, was favored for its secret location. It appeared on no maps and patrons were forbidden to speak of it publicly. Great pains were taken to shield it from the authorities who would charge exorbitant taxes, or simply close it down.

 

And yet, it wasn't the law that it laid it all low in the end. It was skooma. The law didn't have to lift a finger.

 

Leila moaned as the skooma took her deeper into herself, to the parts she still liked, and to the only time in her life she cared to remember.

 

When she woke, it was dark and cold. The candles were out, the addict beside her had risen and gone. Even with her heightened hearing, the whole floor seemed quiet.

 

How long was I out? Leila rose to her feet, leaving the small room and drifting through the halls like a ghost.

 

Most of the rooms were empty at this hour and almost all the patrons were gone. The owner was mopping the front room; apparently, some newcomer who couldn't handle their skooma had gotten sick all over her floor.

 

The Bosmer owner was mortal, and she'd been running the den for years. She had an understanding with the undead; they could have all the blood they wanted as long as they left no bodies. As such, hunters almost never found their way to the den. And those who did, never lived to speak of it.

 

"Look who's awake," Maereth said, snorting. She dipped her mop into her bucket of cold water, and then plopped it on the floor again. "That one really did a number on you."

 

"How long was I out?" Leila yawned. Despite being a vampire of Redguard origin, she spoke with an irreverent Dunmeri accent that baffled everyone she met.

 

"Half the day," Maereth told her, putting her back into the mopping. "I thought you were trying to set a new record."

 

"What the fuck was in that dose, Maereth?" Leila demanded, scowling. "And how did the human even survive?"

 

"He didn't," Maereth said simply. "Your friends are burying him up above."

 

Leila was alarmed. "We have an agreement. No bodies, Maereth. That includes you and your brother as well. If we can't kill anyone on purpose, you two can't kill anyone by accident."

 

"I've already told my brother to recalibrate his formulas again," Maereth assured her, wringing out her mop.

 

"You should double-check his work," Leila snapped. "That's the second one this month." She headed up the creaky old stairs, through the trap door that led into a rundown cottage. Every time Leila came through this way, she wondered if this place was ever really an exclusive brothel, or if Maereth was just making it all up.

 

Her friends were by the trees, standing over a freshly covered grave. Colette was the small one, a blond Breton from the Reach. Aurelian was the tall one, an imposing Imperial and former Vigilant of Stendarr. He was speaking, while Colette's head was bowed in prayer, hands primly clasped in front of her.

 

Leila rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Instead, she continued to watch the display before her, mildly amused. Aurelian had a deep, somber voice, and he intoned every syllable sincerely.

 

"Blessed be the name of Stendarr, the God of Mercy. 

He strengthens and unifies his Resolutes through his wisdom and blessings.

He calls us by day to train with sword and shield to strengthen our might; and by night to pray in his name to strengthen our souls.
He takes pity upon us, his humble servants, and grants unto us mercy.
His holy light of truth will cast out the forces of darkness and rain justice upon Daedric abominations.
Glory shall be his, forever."

Leila yawned. There wasn't a corpse Aurelian didn't like to pray over. She'd heard the "Prayer of the Resolute" so many times now she wondered if he actually knew any others.

 

"Forever," Colette echoed, before opening her eyes. Leila couldn't begrudge the young vampire; she was barely a decade old and Aurelian was like a safe big brother to her. After her own ordeals in the Reach, she probably found solace in his religiosity.

 

Leila approached the unlikely pair. Before she could speak, Aurelian greeted her. "You're finally awake."

 

"I'm not touching another addict until the Bosmers fix the formula," Leila said scowling. "Honestly, why are they even tampering with it in the first place?"

 

"To keep the addicts addicted, I'd surmise," Aurelian replied, his tone calm and neutral as always. In death, he maintained a similar detachment to the one he strove for in life. Even so, his wit and sarcasm often snuck in.

 

"It's Redwater skooma," Leila scoffed. "They're never gonna run out of customers."

 

"I hear they have competition," Colette piped up.

 

"Not anymore they don't," Leila snickered. "I'm bored. We've been out here for days straight. Let's go to the city."

 

***

 

Riften was the furthest Alva could get away from Morthal before reaching Cyrodiil. She figured it was a good enough place to stay; the Rift wasn't known for its sunny skies. She also heard rumors that it was something of a haven for vampires, but then again... she used to think that about Morthal.

 

They probably have their own hunters. Best to remain vigilant.

 

Unconsciously, she touched the ring around her finger and pulled her hood over her dark brown hair. Her cloak was beyond tattered now, but it concealed her all the same.

 

For a small fee, the city guards let her through the gates into the city. She gasped; Alva had never been to a city this big before. The wooden buildings towered above her as throngs of people filled the streets. The sounds and smells were innumerable, almost to the point of overwhelming.

 

Keeping her head down, she walked about until she finally found a tavern. She was good with taverns, or she thought.

 

This tavern wasn't like the Moorside Inn at all. Its walls and floors were polished wood, and it was packed with patrons. The place was run by an Argonian couple; Alva couldn't recall ever meeting Argonians in Morthal or back in her home village of Heljarchen. She feared they might see through her and touched her ring again.

 

She chose a seat in the corner, back against the wall, eyes darting about the room. She was waiting, but didn't know what she was waiting for. She wasn't even sure what to do here, other than rent a room for the night.

 

"You really need to relax," a stranger said coyly.

 

Alva looked up to see a tall Redguard woman in a ragged dress. She had long, grimy silver-gray hair, dark brown skin that looked dry, and much to Alva's shock, dark red eyes.

 

The tall vampire took a long drink from her tankard and casually asked, "What's wrong? Never met one of your own kind before?"

 

Next: Leila