Book #2 in the Chrim Chronicles series
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The second book in the Chrim Chronicles occures in three different worlds that collide in an inevitable war.
The reckoning is coming.
I...
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Leodis Fynce
Three in the morning is not the time of the stable minded. A restless mind is what keeps one up at that time, a mind that's a home for demons in many shapes.
Once more, Farren slid her fingers past the stump where her leg used to be as she lay down on the brown leather sofa. Half her face looked like patches of sliced skin sewn together, while the other half remained flawless. Next to her stood an iron mess in the shape of a leg, a poor replacement for the former flesh one. Behold, a wicked mind; Farren was fighting a constant battle between sanity and insanity. Mikohn sat next to her and stared deep into his glass of scotch, keeping it pressed against his lips but not drinking it. Between me being slayed and me being resurrected, my brother had gone from the hunter who would never step outside without carrying his bow and arrows on his back, to a gentleman with slick and combed hair. Even his name was different now; he was no longer titled Mikohn the Hunter, no, these days he was known as Cyril the Vampire. See here, a despairing mind; centuries of bad memories dragging him down little by little into that swamp of despair. Then there was Torill who had taken place on a lone chair in the corner. Ever since we had gotten at Mikohn's house, that frown of hers hadn't gone away. She just scowled at the floor, looking like she wanted to burn it. This was the martyr's mind; filled with shame and self-loathing, haunted and tormented by a tainted conscience.
As for my mind, me looking out the window while standing at a fair distance from the others, for mine it was all of the above.
A crowd of laughing, drunk youths passed by, holding shopping bags and sticks covered in cotton candy. Tourists poured inside Chrim every day and back out at night, a constant river of obliviousness streaming back and forth, never knowing they had just walked among vampires, werewolves, witches, and even demons. Some even took pictures of them. Behind me, ice cubes rang against glass, no doubt from Mikohn having another refill. The moment he turned into a vampire he not only inherited the pale shade of death and the red circles around his eyes, but also a high thirst for alcohol. It was a new era with a new Mikohn. A new me, as well.
A loud thump on the floor startled me and I stepped out of the dark kitchen corner into the lit living room. Mikohn had decorated his home with metal figures shelved upon brick walls, and white furniture that shined as if they had been dipped in wet paint. Torill had raised her glare from the floor and it was now turned towards Mikohn, who looked back at her in a hunched over, guilt-ridden stature.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" Torill's voice sounded broken, which was also the way she now looked. "You... Cyril, you broke up with me for a single lie while you have been lying to my face for years." Torill slowly shook her head in disbelief. "I... I don't understand you. How can you be like this? Why didn't you just tell me that you're a Fynce?"
Mikohn looked down in silence. To stretch time, he took a gulp of his scotch. Then another. But Torill's eyes were fixated on him and we all knew that Mikohn would not get away with silence, not this time. When his glass was empty, he looked up in surrender. "I don't know." He swallowed and moved his hand through his hair, messing it up into loose waves like my own. "You're right, Torill, it was hypocrite. I..." He swallowed, and looked up at Torill with a pleading face. "It was a rage of the moment. I acted on emotions, on anger, and I regretted all of it after, once I calmed down."
