The Outsiders

The Outsiders: Chapter Twenty-Four [M]

Warming — somewhat explicit depictions of gore, sexual assault, and violence.

Khristopher De Caldwick

Busting with bemused teachers and exhilarated children, the fields of the playground blossomed with childhood.

Spareaux and I placed our hoods over our heads, blending in with the Vampires outdoors. Sliding past the children, Spareaux and I spotted the entrance with a knowing eye. Though I had grown up around the gates of Caldwick, I only ever memorized the exists as The Cauldron Leader's "children" were to be able to escape the castle if there was an attack. Even if I was adored and feared, being royalty among Vampires was something out of a grim fairytale.

            Though some children recognized me, I simply shushed them like I was taught: placing my index finger to my lips as I pointed towards their teacher. Running away from Spareaux and me, the children of Caldwick were an unforeseen threat that we had overcome.

             We made it to the door, a deep coal tone like the rest of Caldwick's Castle. Sharp and keen, Spareaux and I snuck between the back hallways of the castle: used by servants and workers. With a shaken breath, I kept my head down as I walked up the stairs, calculating my every breath to the sound of bustling workers and mottled murmurs of Allard De Vertime.

             Uncle Allard was dead, broken into shards of his cold, desolate body. I made sure of it. Why would the workers' mutter and banter among themselves of the dead brother to their Cauldron Leader? Why were there workers fumbling with iron plates and silver sheets of metal? Why were the servants racing for velvet and linen when there wasn't reaping for another fifty-five years?

             Lost in thought, I bumped into a particular servant holding a crate of crimson linen. Gulping, I kept my gaze down.

             "Are you with the fitting group?" The servant asked.

              Without hesitation, I murmured, "yes."

             "Well, hurry, The Guards will need the robes before sundown."

             Running off into the hallways, the servant left me more perplexed than I began. Powered with conflict and confusion, I took Spareaux's hand in mine, rushing up the stairs. Ascending into the fifth floor, my gaze fell over the sewing machines with servants attached to the ends. Rows and rows of people sewing cloaks and linen gloves filled my vision, sweating and sighing as they raced to finish.

             "Father, what are you doing?" I murdered to myself, pondering every detail of the grousing picture.

            "Let's go," said Spareaux, pulling me towards the stairs.

            Darting up the stairs, Spareaux and I made it to the thirteenth — and final — floor. Though there were only thirteenth floors, the towers and their spiraling stairs brought at least two more stories of height to the castle. Taking a breath, I gulped back the ache in my legs as I rushed for the spiraling stairs of the towers, the towers where Father's private lounge resided.

             Through the hollow hallways of heathens, Spareaux and I faced the grim facade of Father's private lounge. Father was much too secretive to keep his true secrets in his study, let alone his room. The door, large and heavy, was most likely locked from the inside. Father wasn't the most obscure man, yet I couldn't describe the man at all. He was a figure I wouldn't call a parent if it wasn't for show. He'd be a great-uncle twice removed at best.