Chapter 120

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  The healer licked her lips, ready to press the issue—but my companion slowly raised a hand, fingers brushing her dress, and the air between them went taut like a drawn bowstring.

  I sat frozen on the couch, my heart pounding as if I were no longer a patient, but a prize in an impending battle.

  The healer threw up her hands in mock surrender, chuckling.

  "Don't be mad, sister," she cooed with feigned affection. "I was just joking. I won't touch your toy."

  I flinched. Toy. That's what she'd reduced me to.

  My companion didn't budge, her eyes remaining glacial. The healer's grin widened, reveling in testing her limits.

  I glanced between them.

  Of course... sisters. It was glaringly obvious now.

  The same doll-like features, the same chilling gaze designed to shatter wills. But closer inspection revealed differences.

  The healer was shorter, her form softer, movements lazier and more sensually feminine. My companion stood taller, more sharply defined, her stare direct and razor-edged, like cut glass. Similar, yes—uncannily so. But not twins. More like distorted reflections in a warped mirror: one drowsy and deceptively unkempt, the other rigid, icy, composed.

  I exhaled heavily.

  *Sisters. How did I miss that?*

  But the revelation brought no relief.

  My companion stepped toward me silently. I tried to stand, but my leg buckled with a sharp twinge. She didn't wait—scooping me up effortlessly, like a child.

  I gritted my teeth against the humiliation.

  *Small, weak... can't even walk on my own...*

  She pulled me close, her strides confident. We neared the door, and for a fleeting second, I thought this surreal visit was over.

  But the healer's voice sliced through, no longer playful but keen as a dagger:

  "How long will you keep playing at justice?"

  My companion halted. In her arms, I felt her body tense—like she was on the verge of unleashing destruction, barely restrained.

  "Aren't you tired of killing 'bad people' and draining their blood?" the healer pressed. "You think that makes you better?"

  My mouth went dry, heart slamming against my ribs. Blood?

  The healer advanced a step, her hair catching the lamplight, eyes blazing with cold fire.

  "Humans will figure it out eventually. They'll band together. They'll stop fearing you. And then your curse won't save you."

  I went still in her grasp. The pieces clicked: Vampire. She was a vampire.

  It all made sense now. The frigid stare. The eerie silence. The aura of otherworldly power enveloping her.

  The healer crossed her arms, her tone softening to something almost maternal, though laced with steel:

  "You need to get along with humans, sister. If you want to survive. Not perish in another 'righteous' slaughter."

  My fingers clenched into her clothing. Fear gripped me—not just of her sister, but of the one holding me.

  She uttered nothing.

  No defense, no retort, not even a veiled threat. She simply turned.

  Her grip on me tightened, muscles coiling as if battling an inner storm. But her step remained firm.

  The floorboards creaked softly as we headed out.

  Pressed to her chest, I stole a glance over my shoulder. The healer leaned against a post, smirking without a smile. She said nothing, letting us go, but her silence carried more menace than any words.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A gust slammed the door shut behind us, making me jump.

  We walked the street in silence. I heard only her steady breathing and my own frantic heartbeat. The healer's accusations echoed in my mind: "killing bad people"... "draining their blood"...

  I looked up at her serene, doll-like face.

  And terror gripped me deeper than ever before.

  We walked in silence. I could feel her arms holding me securely, her heartbeat steady beneath her chest, almost syncing with mine. But inside me, a knot twisted tighter—her sister's words refused to let go, echoing like a persistent whisper in the back of my mind.

  I gathered my courage.

  "Tell me..." I whispered, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Is it true? Everything she said?"

  She didn't respond. Her face remained as serene and doll-like as ever. But a shadow flickered in her eyes, brief and telling.

  "Do you drink blood?" I asked louder now. "Do you kill people?"

  She froze.

  It was only for a split second, but I felt her step falter. A sharp pang stabbed my chest. Deep down, I knew it was true. Yet I craved her words—denial, explanation, anything to shatter the dread building inside me.

  The silence stretched like a noose tightening around my throat.

  She pondered for what felt like an eternity. Her gaze fixed ahead, but her eyes... they seemed to pierce right through me, delving into my deepest thoughts, my fears, my vulnerabilities. It was unnerving, as if she were reading my soul like an open book.

  And then, abruptly, she halted.

  I barely had time to draw a breath before her face was inches from mine. Too close. Her lips brushed my neck—softly at first, almost tenderly. Confusion clouded my mind until I felt the sharp prick.

  Her fangs sank into me like two searing, icy blades.

  I cried out, but the sound choked in my throat. Strength ebbed from my limbs. Warmth drained from my body, spilling away like water from a shattered vessel.

  The world spun into chaos.

  Each breath grew heavier, my eyelids drooping against my will. I fought to resist, but my blood fled along with my vitality, carrying my consciousness into the void.

  In that final moment, I heard her breathing against my neck—steady, ravenous. She drank slowly, savoring every drop.

  Only as darkness nearly engulfed me did I feel her arms tighten around me, preventing my collapse.

  I slipped into oblivion.

  Not the restful kind, but the one where control slips away entirely, leaving you adrift in nothingness.

  – – –

  I opened my eyes. Above me, tall tree canopies swayed gently, pale morning sunlight filtering through the dense foliage like scattered diamonds. The forest hummed softly, a lullaby of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, and for a fleeting instant, I wondered if everything before this—the horror, the pain, that enigmatic healer—had been nothing more than a feverish nightmare.

  With effort, I propped myself up on an elbow, scanning my body in bewilderment.

  My leg... the one that had throbbed with agony at the slightest twitch yesterday, now felt utterly painless. My side, which had burned like fire with every inhale, was calm, remarkably light and responsive, as if I'd spent not a tormented night in delirium, but a luxurious week in the softest bed imaginable.

  "Was it really just a dream?" The thought bloomed with desperate hope. Everything around me felt so peaceful, so tangible, so... normal. Too much like waking from a bad dream into a gentle reality.

  I turned my head cautiously. Nearby, draped in one of our blankets, she slept soundly and serenely. The morning light caressed her face, highlighting those perfect, doll-like features. Her expression was tranquil, her breathing even and quiet. No trace of the chilling detachment or terrifying strength I remembered. No hint of menace.

  Almost unconsciously, still half-doubting my own fears, I raised a hand and touched my neck with trembling fingers. Where my memory burned with the image of sharp teeth piercing skin, there was no wound, no blood. Just a faint, subtle line, like a whisper of heat drawn across my flesh—reminiscent of a fresh plaster removed or a nettle's sting. It was detectable only by the tips of my fingers, and it radiated a peculiar warmth.

  I yanked my hand away sharply, my heart suddenly pounding in erratic bursts.

  "No..." I whispered to myself, the word a rejection of that fragile hope. "Better not to risk it. Better not to know."

  I lay back down slowly, staring up at the drifting canopy overhead, desperately trying to convince myself it had all been a hallucination. But deep within, beyond the barriers of my rational mind, my heart already grasped the truth: there had been no dream.

  She stirred first. Her lashes fluttered, her breathing deepened, and soon her eyes opened. In her gaze, there was no remnant of last night's events—no icy malice, no predatory gleam—just that familiar calm and doll-like emptiness.

  I played along, pretending everything was fine. I stretched, yawned, and forced a smile, as if I'd awakened from an ordinary slumber.

  "Good morning," I said, striving for an even tone.

  "Good morning, sir," she replied softly, her voice unchanged from all the times before.

  I sat up, careful not to brush my neck, and began fiddling with my frying pan and bag in a habitual routine. Everything seemed... mundane. Almost suspiciously so.

  She rose after me, smoothing her dress as if emerging from a world untouched by strangeness.

  "Fine," I told myself inwardly. "So we're both agreeing: it didn't happen. Let's keep it that way."

  I stole a quick glance at her. She stared calmly into the forest, as if plotting our path.

  But I caught it—a subtle twitch at the corners of her lips, a barely-there smile, as if she knew exactly what was racing through my head.

  I looked away, busying myself with my bag.

  Yes, we were both choosing to pretend.

  As if it had all been nothing but a nightmare.