Chapter Text
The first creep of deep orange on the horizon signals quitting time for most folks here. The barking farm dogs herd the sheep home, the stable doors get locked up, and the tavern lanterns start burning oil. A quiet town grows even quieter, save for the few gaggles of drunks causing a harmless ruckus with their howling laughter. The streets smell of supper being cooked, houses with open windows wafting out scents of fresh baked rolls and smoked meat.
When Imogen was little, she loved the sunset. It always meant helping Daddy secure the fences at the farm and then being hoisted up on his shoulders for the walk back home. She felt like she could see the world up there, past the fields of tall grass, past the skies and clouds and all the stars. Daddy’s hair smelled like hay when she’d rest her head on his, and she swore she could reach out and touch the moon from up there if she wanted to.
She hasn’t felt that free since.
Daddy’s been dead for two years now. Imogen secures the fences by herself, and there is no one to carry her home. Sunset no longer means what it used to. These days, it means Imogen goes to work.
She takes the night shift more often than not, since some of the others on rotation have families they’d like to be home for, to tuck their kids in or kiss their partners or some reason or another. Nighttime’s more dangerous, greater risk, but she doesn’t mind. She used to, in the beginning, when the threat was fresh and the adrenaline of carrying around a wooden stake in the holster on her thigh was still new. Her palms would sweat, and she’d be afraid she couldn’t grip her weapon tight enough to neutralize a rabbit, let alone a demon.
That’s worn off, for the most part. She’s grown around her fear, accommodated it, made room for it. But then, it’s not like she has much of a choice.
Back when Daddy first passed, Master Faramore, the town bigwig, had arranged a meeting to talk about the matter of the property. Imogen had always assumed their land was their own and was startled to find out that Faramore owns it all. She didn’t have much money, certainly not enough to afford to continue living so close to the stables and the Faramore Estate. The location couldn’t be better, really, and she’d been reluctant to let it go. So, Master Faramore had twisted one of the big, ugly rings on his finger, gold glinting in the light of his study, and had pulled a scroll out of his desk, unfurling it to slide it across to Imogen.
“Now, we can make a deal,” he’d said. “Same deal I made with your father. Far as I’m concerned, you’ll be the primary resident and rightful owner of that land at the bottom of the hill down there. You’ll get to keep that roof over your head and food on your table. So long as you agree to carry out the respective duties.”
Imogen had nodded, eager to be anything but homeless. Had said “of course.” Had figured Faramore was referring to mending fences or branding cattle or cutting down a tree or two here and there—the same odd jobs she’d seen Daddy do a few times before. And Faramore had smiled in what Imogen had thought was a kind fashion, had watched her sign the document, had stamped the deed with his seal.
Little did she know she wasn’t just inheriting the house; she was inheriting her daddy’s title too.
She remembers it now, in bits and pieces. The way Daddy would be so torn up every time news spread of someone from town going missing, how he’d almost take it personally. The way he’d mourn the occasional limp sheep on the morning rounds, all mangled and bloodied, always cursing under his breath about “parasites.”
Imogen was young. She’d thought he meant coyotes. He never got around to telling her the truth, which is that Gelvaan is plagued by bloodsuckers. Undead things that look like people and talk like people but act like monsters. Daddy’s job was to keep them out of town, to keep the townsfolk from being prey, because quiet farmlands like these are easy targets for demons like them. No guards on every corner like they have in big cities like Bassuras or Jrusar. No heavily fortified structures. Just decent people too stupid to be suspicious, who keep their doors unlocked and go to bed too early.
Imogen’s only ever seen one of them once, about a year ago. She’d been feeling particularly alone on her birthday, with Mama long gone and then Daddy, the only family she’s ever known, now gone just the same. The tavern lights were dim and comforting, and she’d set her Cattleman hat on the bar to keep anyone from sitting next to her and striking up a conversation. That didn’t stop this demon, though.
Short, gray hair. Face all slashed up with scars. The cloak she wore was long and black and made of leather. Imogen had spotted it straight away; these vampires all carry themselves with the weight of the gods, like they have to actively stop themselves from sneering in the presence of mortals.
But bars are neutral ground, just like shops and inns, so Imogen hadn’t let her hand fall to the stake at her hip. Instead, she’d sipped the dark liquor from her glass and pretended not to notice the leech looming beside her.
“So,” the stranger had said, and Imogen had glanced over, had seen a raised eyebrow and a smirk directed at her, “it is true. You are his successor.”
Imogen had frowned, eyes narrowed.
“Who’s askin’?” she’d said, and the person had continued to size her up as if preparing for a fight. As if looking for her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities. A snake pausing before the strike.
“Have a nice birthday.”
Then they left the same way they came. Heavy footfalls across the wooden floorboards, right back to the door and out the tavern.
She’d followed them out, of course. Had made round after round despite being off duty, searching for the figure just to ask her who she thought she was and what the hell she was talking about. But they’d seemingly vanished into the night.
Imogen remembers being highly unsettled by the interaction—how strange it was, how it made the fine hairs on the back of her neck and arms stand. But, shit, these things slit the throats of innocent people and drink their blood like it’s lemonade on a scorcher. They’re not exactly normal by nature. She hadn’t thought much of it, really. Just hadn’t slept too soundly that night, that’s all.
She hasn’t seen the stranger since. Hasn’t seen any vampires since, actually, which makes her job pretty easy but also gives her far too much time for thinking. She almost wishes for a whole pack of them to tear through the town, just to give her something to do. Just to keep her busy for a couple of hours.
It’s been an impossible few years. From funeral arrangements and the burial to the brutal hours spent training—sparring and weapons handling and strength conditioning—she can’t remember the last time she had a proper rest.
She hates her daddy sometimes for cornering her into this way of life. For keeping secrets. For being so fucking private. He should’ve been preparing her for this shit instead of letting her stumble into it half blind and ignorant while he takes a permanent dirt nap in the backyard.
But it’s not all bad. The other hunters have been kind enough. Orym, especially; he’d lost his husband and his father-in-law about six years back to the bloodsuckers, same as Imogen lost her own father, so they’ve found common ground in their grief. He relocated here from a continent or two away, couldn’t stand the constant reminders of the family he wasn’t able to protect. He came to Marquet looking for a fresh start and brought two friends with him that Imogen likes well enough. They’re not hunters, not that Imogen knows of anyway, but they’re good company, Fearne and Dorian. They love Orym to death, and Imogen’s never heard them talk bad about this town or anybody in it.
Orym’s helped her, shown her the ropes of what they do, and she’s still fairly wet behind the ears, but they’re letting her do night patrols by herself now, so she can’t be too awfully bad. She’s rolled enough hay bales from the barn and back and been knocked on her ass by Orym more times than she can count, has learned to utilize her center of gravity and exercise her reflexes like any other muscle until they’re nice and strong. If she can’t fight at this point, she’s a lost cause.
She’d never tell a soul this, especially not with the way these other hunters have devoted their whole livelihoods to it, but she does daydream of a distant future where she doesn’t have to fight. Where she can surrender her stake in the ground at Daddy’s grave and walk away from Gelvaan to live her own life somewhere. There’s a whole world she hasn’t seen, not since she’s been up on Daddy’s shoulders all those decades ago.
Imogen leans against one of the rickety buildings, wooden slats pressing into her back as she surveys the street, looks left and right and even up on the rooftops, before letting her gaze wander up to the stars.
The drunkards guffaw, muffled notes from nearby lutes and lyres fill the evening, and Imogen finds herself hoping that the hand she’s been dealt somehow has more to offer.