The morning market was in full swing by the time Azerin made his way through town to open the bookshop. He had taken to arriving early, before the streets filled with the day's commerce, but Marcus had specifically requested he pick up fresh bread from the bakery this morning. "The shop smells better when there's something baking nearby," the old man had insisted with a wink
The bakery was warm and fragrant, filled with the yeasty scent of rising dough and the sweet perfume of fruit pastries. Thomas, the baker's apprentice who had greeted him that first week, was manning the counter with the harried efficiency of someone trying to keep up with morning rush.
"Azer! Two loaves for Marcus?" Thomas called out, already reaching for the order he'd apparently set aside.
"You remembered," Azerin said, oddly touched by the small gesture.
"Course I did. Marcus has been ordering the same thing every Tuesday for five years." Thomas wrapped the bread in cloth with practiced hands. "You settling in alright? Town treating you well?"
*When did I become someone the baker's apprentice checks on? When did my well-being become something strangers concerned themselves with?*
"Better than I expected," Azerin admitted, counting out coins. As he did, he caught movement in his peripheral vision—a figure standing across the street, partially obscured by the morning crowd but unmistakably watching him.
Lyra Blake. The hunter.
She was dressed differently today, less obviously martial, but her eyes—those steel-gray eyes—tracked his every movement with the focused intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. When their gazes met across the bustling street, she didn't look away. Instead, she raised a cup of what appeared to be tea in a mock salute, her expression unreadable.
*She wants me to know she's watching. This is psychological warfare—keep me nervous, wait for me to slip up, push me into making a mistake.*
"You alright?" Thomas asked, noticing his distraction. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just someone I met yesterday," Azerin replied, forcing his attention back to the transaction. "New to town, like me."
"Oh, the hunter lady! Yeah, she was in here earlier. Bought half a dozen meat pies and asked a lot of questions about recent arrivals." Thomas leaned in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think she's a bit paranoid. Vampires in our valley? Like we're important enough for that kind of excitement."
*If only you knew. If only any of them knew what was standing in their bakery making small talk about bread.*
Azerin left with his purchase, very deliberately not looking toward where Lyra was stationed. He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked, could almost sense her mental notes: *Subject moves slowly, appears uncomfortable with direct sunlight, handles basic commerce adequately but seems unfamiliar with casual social interaction.
The bookshop was a relief a sanctuary of paper and ink where he could lose himself in work and pretend he wasn't being actively hunted. But even there, the sense of being watched persisted. When he glanced out the front window while arranging a display, he caught glimpses of dark hair and leather coat moving past with calculated casualness.
"She's certainly persistent," Marcus observed, appearing at his elbow with the stealth that elderly booksellers apparently cultivated. "That hunter woman has walked past the shop four times this morning. Starting to wonder if she's looking for reading material or casing us for some nefarious purpose."
"Probably just getting her bearings," Azerin suggested, trying to keep his voice neutral. "New town, unfamiliar streets."
"Mmm. Or she's watching you."
Azerin's hands froze on the book he was shelving. "Why would she be watching me?"
Marcus shrugged with the philosophical acceptance of someone who had seen much in his sixty years. "You're new, you're mysterious, and you have that look about you the one that suggests there's more to your story than you're telling. Plus, you're exactly the kind of person a hunter would be interested in."
*He knows. Somehow, without powers or training or supernatural senses, this ordinary human man has figured out that I'm not what I claim to be.*
"What kind of person is that?" Azerin managed, his throat tight.
"Someone who's been through something terrible and is trying very hard to be better than they were." Marcus's voice was gentle, devoid of judgment. "In my experience, those are exactly the people hunters should leave alone they're already punishing themselves more effectively than any external justice could manage."
The understanding in the old man's tone was almost more than Azerin could bear. He wanted to confess everything, to lay out the full scope of his crimes and let Marcus decide whether he deserved the kindness he'd been shown. But before he could formulate words, the shop door chimed.
Lyra Blake stepped inside.
She moved with the controlled grace of a fighter, her eyes sweeping the space with practiced efficiency before settling on Azerin with laser focus. In the morning light streaming through the shop windows, he could see details he'd missed the day before a thin scar along her jawline, the calluses on her hands that spoke of weapons work, the subtle bulge under her coat that suggested she was armed even now.
"Good morning," she said, her voice pleasant but her eyes never leaving Azerin's face. "I was hoping you might have books on local history. Folklore, legends, that sort of thing."
She's fishing. Looking for information about vampire activity in the region, trying to establish patterns.
"History section is in the back," Marcus replied cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. "Azer, would you mind showing the young lady? I need to attend to some correspondence."
Thank you, Marcus. Leave me alone with the person trained to kill creatures exactly like me. Perfect.
"Of course," Azerin said, because refusing would be suspicious.
"This way."
He led Lyra through the narrow aisles toward the back of the shop, acutely aware of her presence behind him close enough to strike if she chose, far enough to avoid him if he lunged. Every instinct screamed that she was dangerous, but his human body could do nothing but continue walking at a normal pace, pretending his heart wasn't racing with fear.
The history section occupied a cozy corner illuminated by a small window. Azerin gestured toward the shelves.
Local histories are here. Folklore and legends on the bottom shelf. The binding on the red volume is fragile, so handle it carefully.
"You care about books," Lyra observed, pulling down a volume on regional vampire legends with deliberate provocation.
That's unexpected.
Why unexpected?
He couldn't help asking, even though engaging with her was probably unwise.
"Most people see books as objects things to be used and discarded. You handle them like they're alive." She opened the book, flipping through pages describing ancient vampiric bloodlines with images that would have featured his face if they'd been more recent. Almost like you understand what it means for knowledge to survive when everything else is destroyed.
She's testing me. Every word is calculated to provoke a response, to see if I react like a vampire would.
"Marcus taught me," Azerin replied carefully. "He says every book represents someone's attempt to leave something meaningful behind. Seems worth respecting."
Lyra looked up from the book, and for a moment, something flickered in her eyes—not suspicion, but curiosity. "You've only been here a few weeks. That's fast to develop that kind of philosophy."
"How do you know how long I've been here?"
"I'm a hunter. Asking questions is my profession." She returned her attention to the book, but her voice dropped slightly. "This section mentions the Sacred Blood vampires. Ever heard of them?"
The name sent ice through his veins, but he forced himself to remain still. "Only in stories. Ancient bloodline, supposedly extinct."
"
Not extinct. Diminished.
Lyra's finger traced a passage. "The last known Sacred Blood King disappeared about six weeks ago. Vanished after a confrontation with a witch, according to my sources. Some say he was destroyed. Others think he survived and is hiding somewhere, pretending to be human."
Six weeks. She has my timeline. She knows exactly when Elara cursed me, and she's tracking my movements since then.
"That must make your job difficult," Azerin said, proud that his voice remained steady.
If they can pass for human, how would you even know?
"Oh, there are tells."
She closed the book with decisive snap. "They move too gracefully. They avoid direct sunlight even when they claim it's just sensitivity. They know things they shouldn't
historical details, languages, customs from centuries past." Her eyes met his. "And they're always watching doors and windows, calculating escape routes even in safe spaces."
Azerin forced himself not to look toward the exit he'd been unconsciously monitoring. "Sounds like you're describing soldiers too. Or anyone who's been through trauma."
True.
Lyra stepped closer, and he caught her scent leather and steel, herbs that might be wards against supernatural creatures, and underneath it all, simple human warmth. But soldiers' trauma has a cause that can be explained. What do you think makes someone watch the world like it's full of threats they can't name?
She's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. She can't prove what I am, so she's trying to make me prove it myself.
Maybe they're just cautious,
he replied. Maybe they've learned that the world isn't as safe as it appears.
Maybe.
She selected three books the folklore volume, a regional history, and somewhat surprisingly, a collection of redemption narratives from various religions.
I'll take these. Do you get a commission on sales, or does everything go to the owner?
I'm just an employee.
"Pity. You're good at this reading people, giving them what they need even if it's not what they asked for." She paused. "That's a skill that comes from either great empathy or extensive practice manipulating people. I wonder which it is for you."
Before he could formulate a response that wouldn't damn him either way, Emma burst through the shop door with her characteristic enthusiasm, Henrietta the chicken tucked under one arm.
"Azer! Azer! Look what Henrietta did!" The little girl was entirely unbothered by the fact that she was interrupting, as children universally were. "She laid an egg! Right in the middle of the town square! Papa says it's a miracle!"
The absurdity of the moment was so complete that Azerin felt something in his chest loosen. Here he was, being interrogated by a vampire hunter, and a six-year-old had just interrupted to announce her chicken's reproductive achievements.
Lyra's expression shifted from intense scrutiny to something approaching amusement. "That's... quite an accomplishment," she said to Emma.
Emma finally noticed the stranger and studied her with the frank curiosity of childhood. "You're the hunter lady. Thomas says you're looking for monsters. Have you found any?"
"Not yet," Lyra replied, and there was something almost rueful in her tone. "Sometimes monsters are good at hiding."
"Maybe they're not hiding," Emma suggested with the wisdom of innocence. "Maybe they're trying to be good and people just don't notice."
The words hung in the air between them, loaded with unintentional meaning. Azerin watched Lyra's face, saw something complicated pass across her features—doubt, perhaps, or recognition that her black-and-white worldview might not account for every possibility.
"That's... an interesting thought," Lyra said finally. She gathered her books and moved toward the counter to pay, but not before giving Azerin one last, searching look. "I'll be around for a while. I'm sure we'll talk again."
*Is that a threat or a promise? Or somehow both?*
After she left, Emma plopped herself down in the reading chair by the window, Henrietta settling in her lap with the resigned patience of a chicken accustomed to being carried everywhere.
"She's sad," Emma announced with the confident assessment of someone who hadn't yet learned to doubt her instincts. "The hunter lady. She has sad eyes."
"She's probably seen difficult things," Azerin said, joining her by the window. Outside, he could see Lyra walking slowly down the street, her purchased books under her arm, looking somehow smaller than she had in the shop.
"You have sad eyes too," Emma continued matter-of-factly. "But you're getting less sad. I can tell."
*Am I? Is this child right? Have I been so focused on survival and guilt that I haven't noticed incremental healing?*
"Maybe," he admitted. "Sometimes being around good people makes sadness lighter."
"Then you should stay here," Emma declared with the absolute certainty that children brought to their pronouncements. "Because we're good people and you're getting better at smiling."
Marcus appeared from the back room, having apparently finished his correspondence. "Emma, your mother is going to have my hide if that chicken makes a mess in my shop."
"Henrietta is very well-behaved," Emma protested. "Aren't you, Henrietta?"
The chicken chose that moment to peck aggressively at a tome on agricultural practices, which seemed to Azerin like either perfect comedy timing or a fundamental misunderstanding of irony.
The rest of the day proceeded with blessed normalcy. Customers came and went—Mrs. Patterson for her weekly poetry browsing, a young scholar seeking texts on ancient languages, the town physician looking for medical references. Each interaction was a small lesson in being human: the patience required for Mrs. Patterson's indecision, the intellectual engagement of discussing etymology with the scholar, the practical problem-solving of helping the physician find alternatives when his first choice was unavailable.
And through it all, Azerin was aware of Lyra's presence in the town. She appeared and disappeared in his peripheral vision—sitting at the tavern across the street, talking to merchants in the square, standing in doorways with the patient watchfulness of someone conducting surveillance.
As evening approached and the shop began to empty, Marcus joined him at the front window where he'd been unconsciously monitoring the street.
"She reminds me of a cat," Marcus observed. "Patient, focused, convinced that if she watches the mouse hole long enough, something will emerge."
"And if something does?"
"Well, that depends on whether she's actually watching a mouse hole or just a knot in the wood that happens to be mouse-hole-shaped." Marcus's voice was thoughtful. "Sometimes hunters spend so long looking for monsters that they start seeing them everywhere—even where there are just people trying to live quiet lives."
*But what if the quiet life is itself the disguise? What if the person stocking your shelves and discussing poetry with your customers is exactly the monster she thinks he is?*
"What if she's right?" Azerin heard himself ask. "What if there really is something dangerous here?"
"Then I imagine that dangerous thing is working very hard not to be dangerous anymore," Marcus replied with the quiet confidence of someone who had made his assessment and stood by it. "And I imagine it deserves the chance to prove that change is possible."
That night, alone in his small apartment above the shop, Azerin sat by the window and watched the town settle into sleep. Across the way, in a room above the Brass Bell Inn, he could see a light burning—Lyra's room, almost certainly, where she was probably compiling her observations and planning her next move.
Two people watching each other across the darkness, each trying to understand the other's intentions. Hunter and hunted. Woman and monster. Two individuals trying to reconcile what they'd been taught with what they were experiencing.
And somewhere between the watching and the being watched, Azerin realized something that would have seemed impossible mere weeks ago: he was rooting for her to be wrong. Not because he wanted to deceive her, but because he genuinely hoped he was becoming someone who didn't fit her categories, someone who could be both formerly monstrous and currently attempting goodness.
Watch all you want, Lyra Blake. You might just witness something neither of us expected not a monster's disguise being stripped away, but a monster's transformation into something that defies your training.
He extinguished his lamp and lay down, knowing that tomorrow would bring more surveillance, more careful questions, more moments of walking the razor's edge between truth and survival.
But tonight, he would rest in the space Marcus and Emma and Anna and all the others had created for him a space where maybe, just maybe, change was possible.
Even if the hunter's eyes never stopped watching.
Even if he never stopped being afraid of what she might see.