Bloody Tear of the Vampire

No one notices my white knuckles; they’re too busy cheering. The wedding of the forge maiden is a huge affair in Hunter’s Hamlet. We have precious little to celebrate, so when there is an excuse, the hamlet indulges deeply.

I keep my panic, my worry, within. I won’t be the one to squelch their joy. Not due to childish notions of getting to choose my husband for love, or desire, or attraction, or any of the other reasons someone is drawn to a partner. I have my duty. I have an obligation, and all of it is far more important than anything I would want.

“Into the night,” Davros says, turning.

“Good hunting,” the rest of us respond as the master hunter leaves with his loyal soldiers.

“The bellows, Flora,” Mother says, gentle but firm. “And since you have a hammer in hand, help me with a few sickles; the fortress can never have enough.” Her eyes dart from the tool to my face. Her expression softens into a sad smile. She knows what my future holds all too well. It had been hers too.

And she had fallen in love with Father, in time.

I can see them together in the forge. Sweat shines on their cheeks. They share a smile reserved only for the two of them. Father is nimble and light. Mother is strong and sturdy. He was her shield, her his sword. They were two parts to one being, one entity.

The image is briefly replaced by the shell of my father stumbling unnaturally toward the smithy without his sickle—that was how we knew he was dead.

I shake my head, scattering the thoughts, and set to work.

Before I know it, the last reveler has wandered away. It’s just Mother and me left, as it always is at the end of a long day. The coals are turning orange-red and the shadows are lengthening.

“That’s enough for tonight.” Mother pats the horn of the anvil, returns her hammer to its peg, rolls her shoulders, and then stretches her wrists. No matter how long we do this job, there are still aches and pains that come with it. Every strike reverberates up through the elbow and into the shoulders. The core is worn ragged. Knees ache. The smithy demands every part of the body.

“I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you.” Mother rests a hand on my shoulder. “What Davros said earlier about your marriage…”

“I thought nothing of it.”

She smiles. She knows I’m lying. “I wanted you to know that I had no prior knowledge he would bring it up. If I had, I would’ve told you.”

“I know,” I say softly. For years it’s felt like it’s just her and me—ever since Father died and Driun left for the fortress. We work together every day. Share dinner every night. She’s the only one who really understands my circumstances.

“After we survive tomorrow, if the vampire lord is not slain, then we’ll talk more about your nuptials. I won’t send you in blind. And I’ll do what I can to find you a smart match.”

“Thank you,” I say earnestly.

“Of course.” She leans forward and kisses me on my forehead, even though I know it’s coated in metal dust and soot. “Now, take your time. We’ll be cooped up tomorrow night and have preparations come dawn, so enjoy this time for yourself.”

Mother knows me too well.

I run my hand along the smooth top of the anvil after she leaves. My nails stick on the grooves of the softer metal of the horn. It’s still warm from her work.

Home.

Every month the vampires come to try and take it all from us. But, according to the old stories, the infiltrations month after month are just glancing blows. The real fight is tomorrow. Driun has been telling me not to dwell on my possible demise for the past few months, but how could I not? Just like the old stories warn, the moon grows ever more ominous, a faint pink darkening with each night. It can’t be ignored.

I set to cleaning. First, I sweep up the scale, then rake the coals, piling them toward the back. It’s odd to think we won’t be stoking them in a few hours come dawn. Then I head to the back.

In the back of the forge is a vault built into the thick walls. I check and count the silver within, making sure all the bars are stacked in the particular way that Mother likes them. Then, I lock the door with the spinning dials smelted onto its front. The numerical lock is a strange contraption designed by my great-great-grandmother. She kept its workings a secret to the grave. Every forge maiden has left their mark—a great work left behind. Mine still remains a mystery.

Perhaps I’ll figure out how to make my own unique lock and replace this one. No one alive knows how to fix the one smelted into the door. But the benefit is that no one but our family has any idea how it works and how to open it. Fear marries desperation to breed poor decisions, Mother always says. We must protect the silver, for it is our only defense against the vampires. A defense that grows more finite by the day.

Those who enter Hunter’s Hamlet by way of the fortress gate and join our community are never allowed to leave thereafter. That is part of our sacrifice to keep the world safe from the vampires. No one goes in or out, vampires included. Space for humans to slip through means spaces for vampires to pass. The single path through the fortress is the only, tightly guarded, connection to the outside world.

The only exception to sequestering is for the master hunter. He is permitted to leave through the outer gate to engage with the traders the other hunters call from the walls. There are some things we cannot produce on our own, namely iron and silver.

According to Driun, the Apelius Trading Company that transports rare, raw silver from the distant north has not come to the port town near us for almost a year now. Mother and I have begun to worry that they might not ever return. There have been many dinners spent discussing what we will do if the veins of silver in those faraway mines have run out. She has already begun consulting the old family records for ideas on how to more efficiently smelt down the existing, but broken, weapons and recast them into the crescent moon sickles that the hunters wield without losing the silver’s potency.