Bargaining

By the time Erin and Remy reached the edge of the wood, the Nurse Homestead lay in view, gray and still beneath the paling sky. Dawn bled slowly across the horizon. Erin’s steps dragged — she had been awake since the previous morning, a full day of drudgery at the homestead followed by a night of terror and fire. Now every muscle felt heavy, her thoughts clouded by smoke and sleeplessness.

“You may go no farther,” she said, voice hoarse. “The talisman will keep you, I know, but daylight makes men suspicious. You’d be seen.”

Remy tilted his head, faint amusement curling his mouth. “Wise, witch. After a night in your company, I fear I have grown too at ease among mortals.”

Before she could retort, he was gone, swallowed by the forest with no rustle of branches or leaves. The pressure in her veins slackened but did not vanish. The echo of his presence thudded faintly in her chest like a lingering bruise.

Alone, she drew the talisman from her pocket. It gleamed even in the dim dawn, a sapphire set in dull silver, its surface flawless to the eye. Yet the stone felt…empty. Not dead, but waiting. Erin searched herself for some difference: the subtle thrum she had felt from Remy and Rodrigo, absent from Lucien and Isabeau, but no clarity came. Exhaustion blurred the edges of her thoughts.

Mireille will know, she decided. And if Remy lingered near, she could compare his emerald charm against this sapphire, and perhaps learn more.

She stumbled through the day’s work like one half-possessed. Fortune, if it could be called that, made it laundry day — low risk of damage or injury for hands that trembled. Twice she passed Mireille in the yard, but neither spoke. Each time, Mireille’s lips pressed thin, her nostrils flared, as though catching the scent of something spoiled. Erin flushed with unease. Smoke still clung to her clothes, yes, but Mireille bore that same odor often enough. This was something else.

By twilight, the homestead settled into its restless hush. Servants retired to their corners, shadows stretched long, and Erin carried her secret across the yard to the slaves’ cabin. She rapped twice.

The door opened quickly. An older woman seized her sleeve and pulled her inside. At once the air thickened around her: incense coiled like ghostly fingers, and the drone of chanting voices filled the close space. Three women formed a circle, their low song rising as Mireille sat between them, bent over a stained book whose pages fluttered as though stirred by an unseen wind.

The chanting broke when Erin entered. Mireille’s head snapped up, eyes hot as embers.

“Child, why do you reek of parasites?”

The word cracked like a curse. Erin’s mouth went dry. “I…met them,” she said. “A coven of four, I bargained for my life.”

The older women gasped. One crossed herself; another muttered a prayer for mercy. Mireille’s face stiffened as if the muscles themselves resisted belief.

“You bargained?” she whispered. Then, louder: “You bargained with thirst made flesh?”

Erin lowered her gaze. Shame prickled her throat. She opened her palm, revealing the sapphire. Its blue light caught on the incense smoke.

“I bargained for my life,” she said quietly. “This is their token. To re-enchant this talisman, they stayed my execution.”

Mireille snatched it up as though it burned. Her fingers closed around the stone, knuckles white. “You love me like a sister, Erin,” she said, voice trembling with rage, “but this—this brings ruin on us all. The parasites cannot be trusted. Every bargain with them is a curse bound in silver.”

Her words struck, but Erin’s exhaustion boiled over into anger. “What was I to do?” she snapped, louder than she intended. “Die, and leave no word that they walk among us? They would have taken the town unawares!”

Mireille’s gaze narrowed, cold and unyielding. “Better you had slain one or two than sworn yourself to all.”

The chanting resumed, harsher now, as though to ward off the stain of Erin’s confession.

Breath shaking, Erin pressed on. “Then let us use it. Let me rebind this talisman. I will hold their trust long enough for us to strike.”

The circle faltered. The chanting hushed again. The elders stared. Mireille’s expression shifted; suspicion, calculation, something darker.

“You think they may be killed?” she asked softly.

Erin forced steadiness she did not feel. “I nearly slew one, perhaps two if I were lucky last night. With your strength, your craft, we could end them all.”

Mireille studied her, eyes like knives. In a panic, Erin blurted the thought that had festered in her: “Would it not be easier, Mireille, to let them devour the masters instead? Free yourselves by their hunger?”

The older women hissed. Mireille’s hand cracked across Erin’s cheek, sharp and sudden.

“Do not confuse struggles, child. Bondage and blood-feast are not the same. We do not pay our liberty with human lives.”

Shame stung her worse than the blow. She bowed her head.

At last Mireille spoke again, voice like iron. “Tonight you will lead me to him. The one who lingers near. I smell him on you still. We will bind the charm under daylight, and at twilight, we will summon them to take it back. Then, Erin, we shall end their line.”

The cabin filled again with incense and low song. Erin nodded, though her heart quaked. She no longer knew whether she was to be hunter, bait, or sacrifice. But she knew she had no choice.