Archive of Our Own

Martyn had messed up. Martyn had seriously messed up. He shouldn’t have gone out at night—he knew he shouldn’t have. But he still did. 

Stupid, stupid! 

He would have cursed himself if he wasn’t running for his life. Martyn tore through the forest, legs and lungs burning with exertion, tree branches scraping his face and catching his sleeves.

The being chasing him did not tire. It wasn’t phased by the near pitch black, it wasn’t held back by meger things like air to breathe and terror. There was a scream in the back of Martyn’s throat, perpetually caught there, choking him. 

He was too young to die. Far too young! Barely a man, barely into his twenties! 

Ahead, light winced through the trees. Gasping, Martyn flung himself forward, breaking out into a clearing. Ahead, there was a cracked stone structure; another one of those crypts that were dotted around the land, filled with glittering books. 

Martyn had been so fascinated with those books. They felt inconsequential now. 

Behind him was a laugh. It echoed through the trees, carried on the wind, sending ice cold shivers down Martyn’s spine. The sound was gleeful, joyful. It was relishing in Martyn’s fear. 

Martyn’s boot landed on the first step up towards the crypt. He charged upwards, only hesitating a split second at the top, staring down into the long fall below. Branches cracked in the forest, drawing closer. 

He flung himself off the ledge. 

For a few seconds, Martyn was in freefall, plummeting into darkness—and that long restrained shriek finally broke free, bouncing back to his ears against the stone. Then water broke his fall. Gasping and coughing, the young man pulled himself to the surface, clambered dripping onto the stone floor of the underground cavern. 

He squinted, trying to make out anything in the din. Only a few flickering candles kept total darkness at bay; still, Martyn stumbled almost blindly, feeling his way with a hand on the slick, mossy wall. 

Above him came that laugh again, bouncing down and down until it seemed to fill the air. 

“No, please no,” Martyn whispered—whimpered really, not even having the nerve to feel ashamed for behavior so childish and improper. The crypt spread out before him, a twisting maze of hallways with sealed coffins tucked into alcoves. 

Back near the entrance, the sudden flapping of bat wings began. Abruptly uncaring about the dark, Martyn ran, ignoring the occasional vase or skull he tripped over and sent rolling. 

Panting, Martyn finally reached a dead end. He pressed his hands to the cold stone, searching frantically for anything more—a button, a lever. Nothing. With no other options, Martyn ducked behind the nearest coffin, pressing himself into the narrow space between the grave and the wall. It was too small for a full grown man, but Martyn made it work anyways, the need to hide controlling his every thought. 

Pretend it’s like hide and seek, he thought. Just like when you were a boy. It's a cupboard you’ve crawled into. A chest you’ve ducked behind. You’re under the bed.

Martyn’s hands shook like he was in the midst of a blizzard. Sniffling, he curled his arms around himself, pulling his cloak as tight around him as it would go. 

“Maaartyn!”

  The call of his name echoed through the crypt, carrying down the barren halls. Instinctively, Martyn gasped—then he clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling any further sound, even his own shallow breathing. 

Back in the first hallway of the crypt, an exasperated vampire looked side to side. The shadows melted away under his superior vision, leaving clear silhouettes of greyscale shapes. 

“There’s nowhere to go, Martyn,” said Scott. He cocked his head, listening. Distantly, water dripped. An insect scuttled. Cobwebs rustled. “You don’t have a way out. You put up a good effort—quite the hunt you’ve led me on.” 

The vampire lord strode forward, peeking down branching hallways as he went. Somewhere, that foolish brat was hiding. But Scott had more patience than mortal men had years of life. The thrill of the chase just made the feast all the sweeter. 

“You could make this easier on us both,” remarked Scott, holding a casual conversation with the air. “Come on out, kid. It’ll be quick—although I won’t promise painless.”

The vampire laughed. Hunger roiled in his stomach like anticipation, his clawed fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

“It’ll be just like you’ve gone to sleep. And then you’ll wake up, a whole new man.” Scott paused, trying to catch any stray noise from his prey. “Besides…don’t you want to be immortal? Don’t you want power, Martyn?”

Scott stepped up to the final hallway and began to advance down it. His cape swished behind him, his polished shoes clicking against the cobbles. 

On the floor lay several toppled vases. When Scott grinned, his fangs flashed. 

“You wouldn’t have to answer to the whims of the world anymore, you know. You wouldn’t be stuck waiting for a father who doesn’t love you, and who is never coming back.” 

The vampire rounded a corner, pausing the end of the hall. Alcoves before him and to either side contained the resting place of several dead. 

“Oh Martyn,” Scott hummed. He reached out, running his fingers across the time-worn stone of the furthest coffin. “I knew you would be easy prey.” 

In one swift moment, the vampire clasped the coffin and flung it to the side—moving the slab of stone like it was nothing more than a pebble. It crashed against the wall and splintered, showering the air with dust and debris. 

The human that had been hiding behind it finally screamed, pressing himself against the wall, hiding his head in his arms. 

“Gotcha.”

---

“You let him do what?!” Cleo snapped, storming towards the egotistical writer cowering before them. M shrunk, his shoulders raised high to his ears. 

“Well he—he wanted to go!” M protested, offering her a shaky, placating smile. “Who was I to stop him, you know?” 

“He is practically a child!” Cleo shouted, jabbing a finger into M’s chest. “We know who is out there, and you let him leave the village at night? He is going to be killed!” 

“Good riddance,” someone in the growing crowd muttered. “No one wants Rich Boy anyways.” 

“He's an adult,” a quiet voice at Cleo's side assured, before she could fully blow her top. “We aren't his keepers, Cleo. You said so yourself the night Shelby went missing—we can't risk ourselves for strangers.”

Furiously, Cleo glared at Abolish. The sudo-butler calmly gazed back. He had a point, she had to admit. Days ago, the last thing Cleo had wanted was to look after an impulsive, egotistical 20-something year old. 

That changed around the point they discovered Avid wasn't completely off his rocker, and maybe vampires were a real threat—and that Scott sure as hell seemed to be one. 

Cleo had already pitied Martyn. The kid was sheltered at best, brimming with nerves and uncertainty that warred with a clear need to act. Everything to do with his father raised alarm bells; Cleo was certain the man had left his son to die, hoping to quietly be rid of him. That was the sort of horrendous, immoral thing that the upper class did, sacrificing life for status or money. 

Clearly, Martyn still thought his father might come back. It was painful to witness. 

But around when Cleo resigned themself to taking on an effective dependent, they realized Martyn wasn't as useless as they feared. He knew how to plant and harvest crops in the way a well bred boy shouldn't. He built himself a house, putting in hours of work while others from the city refused to get their hands dirty. He ventured into the caves alone, and came back with the first silver of the lands, with tools and armour. 

Martyn was strange. He dressed and acted posh, but his accent was loose and his skills were confusing. 

Cleo suspected the neglected boy spent more time than his parents would deem ‘proper’ entertaining himself in the gardens. 

The rich boy had grown on her. More than that, there was a degree of innocence in his self absorbed naivety that the entire rest of the inhabitants of Oakhurst seemed to lack. Cleo was determined to make sure that if anyone survived this mess, it would be Martyn. 

He was here by accident, not choice. And he had a whole life that should have been ahead of him. 

“That was before vampires,” Cleo hissed, directing her fury first at Abolish, then back at M. “That was before I, as a reasonable and rational adult, realized we have a responsibility to look after the younger and more vulnerable of our little group.”

Uncomfortable silence followed her words, as many people dodged eye contact. 

“I'm going out there,” Cleo decided impulsively. They couldn't sit still—they would lose their mind, without feeling like they were doing something. “And I hope for all your sakes that Martyn is still alive.” 

She didn't stick around to hear the protests and disagreement that her threat provoked. Instead, Cleo stormed to her house, throwing equipment into a bag to sling over her shoulder. 

She emerged, sword in hand, to a figure waiting outside. 

“Are you coming with me?” Cleo asked, arching an eyebrow at the redheaded woman before her. “Are you finally fulfilling your duty as the stationed military here?”

Apo looked away, her ducked gaze answer enough. Unsurprised, Cleo rolled their eyes. 

“You aren't going to change my mind, you know.”

“I know,” Apo sighed, voice unhappy and flat. They fiddled with something gold in the palm of their hand. “...you're a good person, Cleo. But is he…is he really worth your life?”

“Well he clearly isn't worth yours,” Cleo fiercely snarked. “Or you'd be willing to help. But you're a coward.”

“I like Martyn, I do,” Apo insisted, anguish creeping into her voice. “He lives right beside me. He's…sweet, sometimes.”

“He's been abused,” Cleo deadpanned, having no interest in beating around the brush. “And knows nothing about the world. And still he's done more than most of you.” 

She had realized the truth when Martyn had fallen asleep—exhausted from sleepless nights and hard work—curled up on the cold stone of the catacombs with her, M, and Apo. That was days ago now. But he had looked so small, without his ego wrapped around him like a shield. Face lax with sleep, lips downturned with bad dreams, arms encircling himself to ward off the cold. 

It had made Cleo suddenly think about his face back around the beacon, murmuring how his father told him wasn’t to think, that he was ‘...just a smile.’

Something on their own expression must have been very telling, because Apo abruptly shut her mouth, before starting over again. 

“Alright,” the military girl conceded. She stepped back, hesitating once more. Then suddenly, Apo reached forward, catching Cleo's arm. She pressed her gold trinket into Cleo's palm, then stepped back. 

“It will point you towards the nearest sign of human life,” Apo told her. “Military issued. Just get far enough away from the village, and if Martyn is—and it will track him. It won't respond to the undead.”

Cleo turned the object over in her hand, pressing the small fob button. The lid swung open, revealing a lightly shimmering compass. 

“Thanks,” they said, unable to enthuse their voice with much warmth. Apo seemed to understand, and the soldier stepped further back. 

Cleo pushed past her, ignoring the others arguing in the background. She reached the exit to the village—clumsily fortified—and freed a torch from its mount. 

An immediate chill swept through her as she left the consecrated grounds of Oakhurst, stepping out into the darkness of the forest, lit only by the blood red moon. 

Cleo held her torch high, gritting her teeth. 

“You better be alive, kid,” she grumbled, and foraged ahead. 

It took awhile before Apo’s compass stopped pointing back towards the village. Cleo kept a watchful eye on the forest around her, peering down occasionally. It was quiet; unsettlingly quiet. Even the wildlife seemed subdued, as if they knew a hunter lived amongst them.

The gold tool in Cleo’s palm felt alien, like it was too precious for her dirt-smudged hands to be holding. It likely cost more than they had made in their entire life—although they doubted the military had paid such a price. It practically hummed with enchanted energy, the metal coated in a sheen of pale purple that flickered in the lantern light. 

A few minutes ago, the needle had abruptly swung North-East, and Cleo’s pace had increased to almost a run. 

Ahead, there was a glint between the trees, illuminating the darkness. Cleo pulled up short, catching her breath—then glanced hesitantly at her torch. A glance down showed her compass pointed dead ahead. 

They took a risk, dousing their torch by plunging it into the dirt. Replacing it with their sword, Cleo ventured carefully forward, moving quickly and purposefully. 

Before them loomed the entrance to a crypt; stone stairs curled up towards the sky into an arched altar, lit by four small towers that glittered like lanterns. As she approached, Cleo became terribly hyper aware of her own pulse, hammering in her throat and ears. 

This was dangerous. This was risky, unnecessarily so, this was—

A scream shattered the stillness. 

“Shit!” Cleo hissed, mounting the final stairs in a dead sprint. She reached the edge of the crypt, and sat down hurriedly on the ledge, letting her legs hang. 

The scream—high and desperate and terrified—cut off as sharply and as suddenly as it began. Cleo pushed off the stone and let herself fall. 

They collided with the pool of water below, all sounds momentarily obscured by the swirl of water. Cleo kicked her way to the surface, dragging herself up and into the catacombs of the crypt. 

Her dress hung in sodden ripples around her legs, and her hair flopped into her face wetly. Thoughtlessly, Cleo shoved the locks behind her ears, ignoring the water rolling down her cheeks and back in favor of lifting her silver sword. 

There was a terrible stillness in the air, as though the stone walls around them, stained with death, swallowed up all noise. 

For a moment, Cleo considered stealth. Then it occurred to her that if someone was down here, friend or foe, that they would no doubt have heard the massive splash that heralded her arrival. 

“Martyn?” she called out, her words echoing down the hall. She stepped forward, moving with purpose over the stone brick floor. “Martyn, if you can hear me, say something.” 

Movement flickered in the furthest back shadows of the crypt. Cleo pulled up short, brandishing their weapon. Their heart dropped at the silhouette that emerged, stepping closer into the candlelight. 

“Hello farmer,” Scott greeted. He looked different than the last time she had seen him with her own eyes. Where once the vampire had blue irises, now they had turned scarlet. His skin was deathly pale, even more so in the din—and his teal hair looked closer to an icy off-white. “I remember you, and your ginger hair.” 

“Scott,” said Cleo coldly, not letting an ounce of her fear slip into her voice. “Where is he?” 

“Where is who?” asked the vampire lord innocently, advancing slowly. Sauntering, really, as if he were out for a casual stroll. He cut an intimidating figure, eyes softly glowing like crimson pinpricks. Idly, Scott brushed the pad of his thumb over his lips. 

It was then that he stepped far enough into the light for Cleo to make out the blood on his chin, coating the fangs that flashed along with his smirk. 

“You bastard,” she hissed, fingers going white around the hilt of her sword. “I can’t believe you.” 

“Why, my dear farmer,” Scott mocked—the sarcastic endearment dripping like honey alongside his posh accent—”I thought he got on your nerves?” 

“Martyn didn’t do anything to you!” They exploded, hot with fury at the injustice of it all. “Oh you better hope to heaven that he’s still alive, Scott, or I’ll kill you myself.” 

“...that’s cute,” hummed the vampire, unconcerned. “I’m sure you’ll try very hard. Maybe when the time comes, I’ll let you get in a hit or two, just so you feel like you accomplished something.” 

“Get out of my way.” 

Cleo stormed forward. She needed to focus. Martyn was the priority right now; as loath as she was to admit it, she likely couldn’t face the vampire lord alone. 

Scott pouted, feigning offense. Then, instead of stepping aside, he dissolved into the form of a bat. Dark wings flapped, soaring a loop around Cleo’s head before the vampire took off back up the crypt entrance, towards the night beyond. Even so, his laugh seemed to linger. 

Cleo took off running down the hallway. 

It didn’t take them long to find Martyn—his soft, pained gasps were loud in the isolated underground. But even knowing what she would find, Cleo’s gait still momentarily stuttered as she rounded the final corner and saw him. 

The room was desecrated, the floor riddled with the remains of shattered stone coffins and spilled bones. Puddled in the middle of the mess was Martyn; his legs were curled up beneath him, his face tilted up towards the ceiling, his cloak trapped beneath his body. 

“Oh no.” Cleo couldn’t help the words from slipping out as they let their sword drop to the floor, hurrying closer. 

The clang of metal made Martyn flinch, struggling to twist his head, his breathing turning frantic and labored. 

“It’s me,” Cleo interrupted him, keeping her voice calm and cool as she sank to her knees at the young man’s side. “It’s Cleo. Can you hear me, Martyn?” 

Her eyes were locked on the kid’s throat, bleeding steadily from fang wounds. It marred the white collar of his shirt and bleached his already pale skin of life. 

“C-Cleo?” Martyn’s voice shook—from pain or fear, Cleo wasn’t sure. Maybe both. He sounded dazed, and his cheek was frigid when Cleo brushed it with the back of their hand. “He—he—Cleo, it was Scott…”

“I know,” she murmured, balling up a wad of her sodden skirts in her hands. She wrung out the fabric quickly, ignoring the water spilling onto the floor, and shifted closer until she could gently lift Martyn’s head, laying it to rest in her lap as she kneeled. Then, Cleo pressed the damp fabric to his throat, placing pressure against the wound. 

Martyn whimpered, futilely trying to turn his head away from the pain of her actions. 

They looked down at him, dread and defeat numbing their heart. They were too late. The kid was dying—turning. Cleo hadn’t been quick enough. 

Somewhere, distantly, they knew Scott was laughing in the forest above them. 

“...Cleo?” Martyn whispered. His frightened voice drew her back to the present. 

“I’m right here,” Cleo quietly assured, using her free hand to brush his damp hair away from his face. Normally, they would never think of themself as the gentle type—but they couldn’t help how their voice softened with preemptive grief. 

The injustice of it all was almost too much to swallow. 

“I-I was stupid,” Martyn hiccuped. His voice wavered, weak around the edges. As Cleo drew her hand back, she caught the tears in his eyes, leaking silently down his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have—I was so stupid, going out—he found me. H-he found me, and I-I tried to run—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Cleo quieted him. Maybe that was a lie; maybe this was all down to the kid’s recklessness. Cleo didn’t think so. They all had a part in keeping each other alive now. But no part of them could stomach the thought of thinking he in any way deserved this. “No one should have let you leave alone.” 

“I’m sorry,” Martyn sniffled. Something in Cleo’s chest shattered as the young man began to cry. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” Cleo pressed her dress tighter against the wound, ignoring the dark stain slowly overtaking the cyan fabric. “Tell me about your cows.” 

“W-what?” 

“You and Apo have cows,” Cleo insisted. “How did that come to be?” 

For a moment, Martyn seemed too confused to formulate an answer. Then, hesitantly, he admitted, “...she stole my book.” 

“Your book?” 

Between hitching gasps, Martyn told her about his first day in Oakhurst. About the book he found in the village crypt, about how Apo confiscated it on grounds of ‘military property’. About how she returned it later, and how a misunderstood joke led to her giving him a baby cow in apology. 

“We couldn’t separate them…” Martyn murmured. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow movements. “So we just…jus’ put them all in one pen. An’ shared.” 

“That’s very mature of you both.” Cleo had been offering nods and encouraging hums and comments the whole tale, but the words fell from her lips without her input. Automatic, while her mind was miles away. Trying to think of any way to save the dying boy in her lap. There was nothing. 

Silence settled over them; though it only lasted seconds, it seemed to drag on forever. 

“I want my parents.” Martyn’s voice was as fragile and delicate as glass. “I want—Cleo, I don’t want to die.” 

Cleo’s voice finally failed them. 

“...I’m sorry,” they whispered, unable to keep the defeat from drenching their tone. “I really am, Martyn.” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know,” said Cleo helplessly. They smoothed another hand down his hair, wincing at how cold his skin was to the touch. Martyn’s tears had run dry, and he was terribly still against her. Just the soft puffs of his breath and the sluggish movement of his eyes. 

He was still smudged with dirt and soot from their brief life in Oakhurst. Remnants of caves and campfires, dusted across him. 

Cleo’s dress would not save him from blood loss now. Finally, she gave up, pulling her bloodied hand away. It felt like defeat. It felt like goodbye. Instead, she slid her arms under Martyn’s prone form and drew him up into her arms, letting his head sag against her shoulder. 

He shook like a leaf, nose squished into the side of her neck. Cleo embraced him. 

They sat quietly, until Cleo couldn’t stand the silence a second more. So she began to hum—a low, rough tune her family had known. Maybe it had originated from Oakhurst, before the plague they had escaped. Maybe it was something else entirely. But the simple tune she knew by heart filled the cold stone space, warming the darkness. 

Minutely, Martyn relaxed, curling against her. The hum in Cleo’s throat no doubt reverberated between them, as close as they were. It was a lullaby, one that had soothed Cleo to sleep many times as an impatient child. 

She sang Martyn to death. 

Only when he finally went still did she stop. The silence flooded back in, terrible and oppressive, as they slowly lowered Martyn back down to the floor, a hand cradling his limp head. 

His white shirt and blonde hair looked out of place against the bloody cobbles beneath him. Briefly, Cleo let their hand rest over his heart. There was no pulse. 

“Goddamnnit,” she breathed, inhaling sharply. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing them to stop stinging, willing herself to stop shaking. 

But they couldn’t. It was like every emotion they had been fighting to keep down was regurgitating, spilling out like poison. 

“Goddammnit!” She screamed, bringing her fists down furiously on the crypt floor. “Fuck, fuck!” 

A minute dragged by. Then two. Cleo remained there, kneeling, struggling to breathe through the fury and grief choking her lungs. 

It took another few minutes before she managed to drag herself to her feet. 

Martyn lay still as Cleo fumbled at their waist belt, fighting against buckles with their numb fingers. Finally, they freed their stake—a short, sturdy stick sharpened to a dangerous point. 

Silently, Cleo gathered up her ruined skirts and carefully stepped over Martyn, kneeling down at his other side. The only ounce of color on the young man’s skin were the red dots on his throat. There was no longer a beating heart to make them bleed. 

Cleo knew what the wound meant. They might not have believed in vampires before this whole disaster, but they knew how they worked. And after Scott had revealed himself, Avid had made certain each and every one of them were prepared. 

She lifted the stake, her other hand coming to steady her grip. The weapon hung in the balance over Martyn’s unmoving chest, poised to plunge into his heart. It would kill him—or rather, it would prevent the curse Scott had bestowed on him from bringing him back as something worse than dead. 

Cleo pursed their lips into a thin line, giving themself a short countdown in their mind. Steeling their resolve. Their hands trembled. 

But they couldn’t do it. 

With more expletives, Cleo flung the stake to the side. It clattered to the floor amongst the ruined coffin, and she buried her face in her hands. 

She couldn’t. She couldn’t. 

Slowly, her hands fell. Cleo looked down at Martyn in defeat once more, her chest constricting like hot irons. 

His eyes were closed, stray hairs slipping across his face. His hands rested over his stomach, and he looked so young. 

Now, Martyn would never age. 

Cleo had already sworn to kill Scott. 

Now, they swore to make him suffer.

---

An hour passed, then two. Already, Apo had stationed herself near the front entrance to Oakhurst, scanning the tree line religiously for the sign of anyone approaching; friend or foe. 

Around the time hour three hit, she finally began to despair. 

“Are they still not back?” came a quiet voice. Apo tensed, hand darting momentarily to the sword at her hip before she forced herself to relax. 

“You startled me, Pyro.” She didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in her tone. 

“Sorry,” hastened the scholar, stepping up to her side. Pyro held himself awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He clasped his hands in front of him—then changed his mind and slipped them into his pockets, only to change his mind again and tuck them behind his back instead. 

“Cleo shouldn’t have gone out,” Apo murmured, shifting her gaze back towards the dark forest, painted crimson under the bloody moon. “Now we’ve lost two people instead of one.” The words, while objectively tactically true, tasted bitter on her tongue. 

“Don’t despair,” Pyro encouraged. Perhaps it might have helped if he sounded even remotely sure of himself. “She could return yet! And perhaps with Martyn.” 

“You know what’s out there,” Apo snapped. “If you think the kid is surviving a vampire lord alone—” She pressed her lips together tightly. 

“...right,” murmured Pyro, having the decency to sound ashamed. “Of course. I-I just wanted to be optimistic.”

They settled into a strained silence, broken only by faint wind and distant crickets. 

“Why are you still up?” Apo finally asked, when the scholar hadn’t made any effort to leave. 

“Er…just can’t sleep.” Pyro shrugged, drawing his coat tighter around himself. “I’m restless.”

“I understand that,” Apo begrudgingly murmured. The idea of going to bed seemed impossible, despite how she was running on fumes.

“It’s good of you to stand guard for them,” Pyro mentioned, offering her a tentative smile. The enthusiasm the scholar seemed to have had in the first few days of their arrival had dimmed recently to something skittish and somber. 

“...it’s my duty.” Apo crossed her arms, dodging eye contact. 

Seconds later, Pyro suddenly gasped. 

“What?!” Immediately, Apo snapped to attention, drawing her blade in a practiced flourish. 

“There!” Pyro pointed out into the darkness, just off the path that led into the treeline. “I see someone!”

“You do?” Apo squinted, trying to make out anything in the darkness. All the shadows blurred together into one dark mass, and she didn’t see any indication of a torch. 

“Er—I saw movement!” Pyro corrected. “Right at the edge of the path there, you see, just in front of the trees—”

Clouds shifted out from in front of the moon and Apo finally made out what he meant in the dim, reddish light. Barely visible against the nighttime silhouettes was a figure, paused by the trees as though unwilling to venture out into the open field that separated Oakhurst from the woods. 

“It could be the vampire.” Apo tensed, clutching their sword tighter. Pyro stopped them, a hand on their shoulder. 

“It’s Cleo.” Pyro frowned. “I think she’s carrying something. Or someone.” 

Apo cursed lightly. 

“That’s probably Martyn,” she murmured, torn between a tentative hope and a sickly sensation of dread. “Pyro, go and awake the others. Or see if anyone else is already up. I will go meet her.” 

“Be careful,” Pyro cautioned—but he turned without much protest, hurrying back into the depths of town. Apo took a deep breath, calmed herself like she had been trained to, and advanced out into the night. 

The walk to the woods was a few minutes. With each step closer, Apo could make out Cleo clearer; although she still wasn’t fully convinced that the shadow was Cleo until she finally caught a flash of their ginger hair. 

“...Apo?” Cleo cautiously called out as the soldier approached. 

“It’s me,” Apo assured, keeping an eye on her peripherals in case any monsters showed their faces. “What happened? Is he alright?” She nodded towards Martyn, seemingly unconscious in Cleo’s arms. 

Apo’s gaze flickered downwards and abruptly she froze. 

It was hard to tell in the blood moon’s light, but Apo was certain—both Martyn and Cleo were drenched in blood. 

“I was too late,” Cleo rasped. Slowly, Apo looked up, meeting her eyes in horror. “Scott hunted him down.” 

“Is he—” Apo stopped, swallowing. 

“Yeah.” Cleo’s voice choked on a strangled laugh, humorless and a bit hysterical. 

“Oh.” Apo’s stomach twisted into a knot of iron in her gut. Abruptly, she couldn’t look away from Martyn’s lifeless body. Just earlier that day, they had conversed. Martyn had finally let her inside his house—just for this one time only, okay?—to show off how he had finished decorating it. 

She had rolled her eyes, insulting his mediocre replica of noble decor. That was something impossible to replicate with some cobbles and wood. Martyn had pouted, insulted by her dismissal, and kicked her out with an upturned nose and the unhappy assertion that she had to shovel their cows’ poop that day, if she was going to have a poopy attitude. 

“Scott bit him,” said Cleo quietly. 

“Then he’ll turn.” Apo spoke automatically, her tongue like lead in her mouth. “He’s going to come back as one of them.” 

“I know.” Normally, Cleo’s voice was like a rock. Solid, firm, and unyielding, unphased by those around her. Now, the continuous cracks at the edge of her words betrayed the numerous fractures beneath her blank expression. 

“I have a stake,” said Apo numbly, tonelessly. They reached for their waist. “I can do it—”

“NO!” cried Cleo, rearing back, twisting their body as if to shield Martyn from view. 

Stunned, Apo froze, shocked back to present. 

“No,” Cleo repeated, softer. “I won’t let you kill him.” 

Apo swallowed. 

“I-isn’t he already dead?” 

“Maybe.” Cleo glanced down at the young man cradled in her arms. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Apo!” 

“It’s okay,” Apo awkwardly soothed, drawing her hand open-palmed away from her hip. Only now was she truly hit with the depth of Cleo’s fear. “But Cleo, you know he can hurt us. He will hurt us. I’m sorry, but we can’t bring him back into Oakhurst. He’s a vampire now. Unless we put him out of his misery—”

“He’s not a dog!” Cleo snapped, “And I won’t put him down. I won’t leave him in the forest to die alone either, I won’t abandon him like that, I won’t do that to him again!” 

Apo took the least desired military occupation role to escape people. People were not her strong suit. Especially not hysterical, grieving, frightened people. 

She suddenly realized she was horribly out of her depth. 

“You know he can’t come back,” she attempted to reason. “I know you know that, Cleo. If the situation was reversed, and you were in my shoes—”

“I’m not an idiot,” Cleo sniffed wetly, turning away. “Of course I know he can’t be let into the village.” 

“Okay then.” Apo relaxed slightly. 

“That’s why I’m leaving with him.” Cleo raised their chin, tone unwavering. 

“You’re…what?!”

“I’m leaving with him.” Cleo took a step back towards the trees, adjusting Martyn’s dead weight in her arms so that he leaned more heavily into her shoulder. “You all have your farms, you’ll be fine. Strength in numbers and all that.” 

“Cleo, you can’t do that!” Apo was appalled. “You’re going to get yourself killed! Even if Martyn doesn’t kill you, Scott is out there!” 

“I don’t care,” Cleo argued. “If there’s even a chance Martyn could come back from this, then I’m going to make that happen.” 

“He’s dead! He’s dead, Cleo! I’m sorry, and I wish that wasn’t the case, but you need to open your eyes.”

“He’ll come back,” said Cleo tonelessly. 

“As a vampire!” Desperation overtook Apo now. “Cleo, he’s going to wake up and sink his teeth into your neck.”

“Maybe he won’t. Maybe I can help him. Maybe he can live off animals.” 

“That isn’t Martyn anymore!’ Apo shouted. “That’s a monster, Cleo! You’ve seen Scott, that is what Martyn has become!” 

The air went frigid at the force of Cleo’s glare. 

“I’ll take my chances,” she growled. Then, with an awkward shuffle, she freed one hand long enough to toss something in Apo’s direction. 

The compass sailed through the air and landed in a patch of grass at Apo’s feet. She stared down at it in stunned silence. 

“Thanks for your help,” said the farmer darkly. “Good luck to all of you. Don’t come looking for me.” 

“Cleo, please,” Apo’s heart dropped. “Don’t do this. Come back to Oakhurst. We can figure this out as a group.” 

“I’m not leaving him out here alone,” Cleo said. “And I’m not letting you kill him.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Apo pleaded. “His death isn’t your fault, Cleo. You don’t need to blame yourself.” 

“...you’re right,” Cleo said softly, after a second. She looked up, gazing momentarily in the direction of Oakhurst, then meeting Apo’s eyes. “It isn’t my fault. It’s the fault of all of you that let him leave.” 

Apo reared back, speechless. 

“Congratulations,” Cleo intoned. “You all got a kid killed.” 

Without another word, they turned away, heedless of any pleas Apo threw helplessly at her back. Unwilling to venture into the darkness of the woods, Apo hovered at the edge of the plains, staring into the shadows until Cleo was out of sight, taking Martyn with her. 

Not for the first time, the responsibility of the civilians of Oakhurst threatened to bring Apo to her knees in defeat. 

Slowly, she turned away from the trees, trudging back to the village. Her sword hung limply at her side until she entered through the village gate, and was greeted with her watchtower. 

Only a few paces beyond that was Martyn’s quiet house, backed up against a pen of cows that Apo and him shared. 

Apo dragged a trembling finger through her snarled hair, gazing at the slumbering animals. 

“I’m sorry Martyn,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” 

The night didn’t give a reply, the moon shining its unrelenting crimson overhead. 

Distantly, a congregation of voices approached.

Apo steeled herself. It was her duty to inform them. To explain. To give the impossible news. 

Oakhurst was down to eleven.