#araura

Chapter 9: Delivering a severed head

 "A vampire may walk among men, may speak in their tongue and wear their shape. But do not forget—when fear grips the heart, when the dark presses close, it is their name that is whispered first, their kind that is cursed last."

— From the Collected Superstitions of Wallachia

The bell above the shop door jangled as they stepped inside, dust motes swirling in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. The shopkeeper hunched behind his counter, rifling through a pile of clutter until the bell pulled his attention up. His bloodshot eyes slid to them—first to Alucard, then to the grotesque severed head slung over his shoulder. His face contorted, somewhere between disbelief and barely masked horror.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Alucard let the silence stretch, then dropped the head onto the counter with a sickening thud. Wood bowed under its weight, dark ichor spilling in slow, viscous rivulets onto the floor.

Araura crossed her arms, the movement tugging at the sore spot beneath her cloak. She masked a wince, already tallying the ingredients she’d need for a balm later.

“I believe this makes us eligible for the map, horse, and wagon deal,” she said coolly. “And it would be lovely if you could throw in some wormwood and myrrh as well.”

The shopkeeper’s face drained of color. His fingers twitched toward the counter, as if debating whether to reach for something beneath it.

“You—You actually went into that cave?” His voice wavered on the edge of something close to fear. “There’s nothing but death in there.”

Alucard didn’t bother to answer right away. He simply brushed his gloves clean of the beast’s blood, the movement sending dark droplets spattering to the floor and merging with the gore already pooling there.

His gold eyes remained impassive.

“Not for us,” he said flatly, as if the outcome had never been in question.

The shopkeeper swallowed hard, his beady eyes darting between Alucard, the head, Araura, and then back to Alucard. Something shifted in his expression, the fear rotting into something crueler.

Hatred.

His lip curled over stained teeth, fists clenching at his side. One finger looped around an object at his hip. Not a weapon—not exactly. A cross.

In a voice just above a whisper, he hissed, “Vampire.”

The word cut through the stale air like a knife. Quiet. Venomous. Old as the stones beneath their feet.

Araura’s patience—thin, frayed, held together by sheer willpower after what she and that vampire had just endured—snapped. She leaned in, ready to cut into the wretched little man with words like glass.

"Are you really that stu—"

Beside her, Alucard simply exhaled.

And the room felt it.

The shadows lengthened, Araura was sure of it this time, crawling just a bit too far across the shelves. The candlelight shuddered in the draftless air. Somewhere beyond the windows, the village quieted like it knew better than to interfere.

The floorboard creaked beneath his boot as he took one single, measured step forward.

The shopkeeper recoiled.

“Give my companion what she asked for,” Alucard said, smooth as silk, with a slight tilt of his head in Araura’s direction. “Unless you'd prefer to negotiate with me.”

He spoke like he was offering the man the courtesy of survival, and even that was generous.

The shopkeeper was shaking now, his eyes searching wildly before he pawed at the wall behind him, snatching down the map and rolling it with clammy hands.

“Take it,” he grunted. “And the wagon’s out back. Hitched and ready.”

With a jerky motion, he gestured toward the shelves behind him—a wordless, half-hearted wave of surrender. 

Take what you want.

Araura didn’t hesitate. She moved past the counter, plucking a bundle of wormwood and a small vial of myrrh from the clutter. She spotted an old lantern hanging from a nail, its glass smudged but intact. She raised an eyebrow, glancing toward Alucard.

He gave the barest nod.

Yeah. Why not?

She grabbed the lantern, tucking it under her arm.

She eyed the shelves one last time—rusted tools, weathered scrolls, chipped vials half-filled with unmarked tinctures. Most of it was junk. Some of it… wasn’t. A satchel of powdered resin. A compass missing its needle. Dried roots strung with old prayer knots.

She could take them. Gods knew the man wouldn’t stop her. Wouldn’t even look at her.

But she hadn’t come here to scavenge.

Araura stepped back toward the door, pausing just before the threshold. He didn’t deserve kindness, no—but she knew how fear could warp a person.

“Give that to your town’s guard,” she said, nodding toward the monster’s remains. “It might not seem like it now, but it’s protection. Those teeth are weapons. Its death is a warning.”

The shopkeeper didn’t respond, but his throat bobbed once, eyes still fixed on the floor.

Her voice gentled, just a fraction before she turned to leave.

“Be well.”

The wagon waited just behind the shop—a sturdy, weather-worn thing with a horse tethered nearby. The animal, apparently known to the locals as Seamus, was larger than she expected.

Massive, really. A hulking draft breed with a thick neck and shaggy, feathered legs, its coat the color of deep, wet mahogany—so dark it almost looked black in the fading light. Its mane fell in loose, unbrushed waves over its eyes, and yet there was something unmistakably gentle in its expression. As if it had seen far worse than them and decided not to care.

Araura approached slowly, one hand out, fingers splayed.

The horse sniffed once, then leaned into her palm with an exhale that ruffled the edge of her sleeve. Solid warmth. A soft muzzle. The kind of touch that grounded a person.

"You’re a brave one, aren’t you?" she hummed.

The horse blinked its long lashes at her, entirely unbothered.

She scratched absentmindedly just behind its ear as Alucard climbed into the driver’s seat with effortless grace. When she turned to join him, it looked like he might offer her his hand—fingers bent as if caught between habit and hesitation—but he thought better of it. 

If she noticed, she didn’t say. She only hoisted herself up next to him and asked, “You really had to drop the beast’s head right on his counter, didn’t you?”

Alucard arched a brow, the faintest gleam of amusement in his features.

“Made the point, didn’t it?”

She let out a laugh despite herself, shaking her head.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Smart choice.”

He clicked the reins once, and the wagon groaned as it lurched forward, the old wood complaining beneath their weight as it pulled away from the village and toward the open road.

For a while, the only sound was the rhythmic clop of hooves and the rattle of wooden wheels. No one followed. No one waved. Briarstone simply faded behind them—wary, watchful, and eager to forget.

It was just beyond the final fence post that the smell hit her.

Smoke—denser than a campfire, more bitter than a hearth, and laced with something sour amid the scent of herbs.

Up ahead, on a patch of sloping ground near the tree line, a small cluster of villagers stood in tight formation. There were no prayers, no sobs. Just silence and the slow furl of flame licking up the side of a fresh pyre.

Two bodies laid atop the kindling: one larger, one too small.

Araura’s stomach turned.

She watched the flash of fire pass beside them, the way the villagers kept their eyes low, their hands clasped, their grief silent.

Alucard didn’t slow. But he dipped his chin as they went by—a small, wordless offering of respect. He sat straighter, hands stiff around the reins as if grief demanded posture. As if bearing it with enough discipline might shoulder a piece of theirs, too.

They rode on, the pyre slipping behind them, smoke bleeding upward into a sky that refused to mourn.

“They existed before the war, you know,” he said after a while. “The creatures. Feral things—ancient, hidden, bound by instinct more than purpose. Some said they could be awakened but never summoned.”

His voice was distant, his mind somewhere else, reciting a story he wished he didn’t remember. Araura tucked her hair behind one ear, glancing at his profile. The wind had swept strands loose across her face, but she barely noticed. 

He wouldn’t face her.

“It was my father’s Devil Forgemasters who changed them,” he went on, jaw tightening. “Twisted what was already there. And when that wasn’t enough, they made new ones. Shaped them from flesh and dark magic.”

“Forgemasters,” she said. “Necromancers, you mean?”

He shook his head once. “Not quite. Necromancers raise the dead. Forgemasters,” his lips pursed as he searched for the right word. “Create.”

She turned to him more fully now, watching him carefully. But he kept his gaze forward, his expression unreadable.

“They called to them—the night creatures—and drew them out of hiding. Gave them purpose. Made them tools of war.”

His voice held no pride. Only memory. 

“It wasn’t resurrection,” he said. “It was invention.”

She frowned as the thought formed. “So the ones in the cave—”

“—were not there naturally,” he finished. “No. I don’t believe so.”

He finally looked at her out of the corner of his eye, watching the words take root.

Araura could still feel the cracked stone beneath her hands, the beast’s grip around her waist, that wicked stare piercing the marrow of her bones, the mage’s voice slipping into her mind like oil. 

Behind them, the smoke continued to rise. An accusation at their backs.

There was no more room for delay.

She reached into her satchel, the Book of Shadows meeting her hands like an old wound. Her hand trembled once—just slightly—before she stilled it. She set out a blank parchment, gripped freshly sharpened charcoal between her fingers, and began to decipher what the cave had revealed.

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If you want to read more, the full story's up on ao3!

What Haunts the Veil is my longform Castlevania-inspired fic, following Araura, a cursed Seer with knowledge of her own death, and Alucard, a dhampir haunted by betrayal, as they confront ancient magic, eldritch horrors, and the slow burn of trust.