In Blood We Trust
Fantasy / 3500 words
PREFACE: Who’s up for a new dose of Varushka? The good Count is back and this time he is investigating an unsettling murder… Why unsettling? Because it is a bit too similar to his own ‘work,’ if you would. Check it out!
Crouched over the body, I study the slash on the man’s neck. It is rough, deep... Nothing like my work, yet just as thorough and effective. The victim has been drained of his blood. Not fully, however. I taste the leftover and grimace—it has begun to sour.
As I stand and look around, I wonder who may have done this. It feels much too familiar and I do not like the thought of ones such as myself roaming the realm of men.
There is a road here that leads to a nearby village. Perhaps I can find answers there.
It rests in a hollow valley next to a snaking river, with animals grazing nearby. The only sounds to be heard are the chirping of birds and the buzzing of flies. The place looks peaceful, but experience has proven how looks can be deceiving.
Leaving the body behind, I make my way down the path.
When I reach the outskirts of the village, a couple of boys playing in the field spot me. They yelp and run off like they’ve seen a ghost. It pains me when people have such strong reactions upon seeing me, but it cannot be helped.
People stare at me as I walk through the streets. They radiate fear, resentment, anger... My appearance can be disquieting, so I am used to this—though not to such an extent.
I pause and turn to face a couple. Smiling and speaking amiably has proven a good way to alleviate apprehension, so I once again employ those tactics.
“Good day, friends. May I enquire about the location of an inn?”
The man—a tall fellow with short black hair and a small scar under his lip—seems taken aback by my tone and friendly disposition. His scowling companion, however, is not impressed.
“They won’t take your sort there, stranger. Best you turn and leave the way you came.”
Her fine clothes and well-kempt hair hint at a wealthy upbringing.
“My sort?”
The man clears his throat, cutting off the woman’s response. “He’s clearly not one of them, dear. We know who they are, after all.”
“Doesn’t mean he ain’t one of them. Look at him! Might have called out for help, bet you that’s what this is!”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
I must look and sound as confused as I feel, for the man sighs and shakes his head.
“There have been murders, you see. Grisly ones.”
“And you know who committed them?” He nods. “So why have the authorities not arrested them?”
His expression sours. “Lack of evidence.”
“I see. Well, while this is distressing news, I am not one of them. And I still need to find a place to rest before I head off again. It has been a long road.”
The woman grumbles.
“You look just like them. I still think they called out for you.”
“How do I look like them?”
“They wear black clothes.” The man points at the pommel of my cane. “Like skulls, too. Wear them as necklaces or as earrings for the girls. Miniature ones, that is.”
His wife snorts. “They use spells to shrink them, I tell you. Black magic, I’ll bet.” She narrows her eyes. “You look like the sort to cast sacramant spells.”
“Not even the more basic kind,” I tell her truthfully, though from her expression I doubt she believes me.
The man points up the street. “You’ll find an inn if you keep going that way. Only one in town. The Gnarled Knee, they call it. Can’t miss it if you keep your eyes open.”
I thank them both, turn, and head in the given direction.
***
The village is not as small as I had initially thought, but it is not so difficult to find the suspects. Their outfits make them stand out as much as mine do, and I now understand why I draw so much mistrust. Though aside from the color of our clothes and the skulls that adorn them, there is nothing we have in common.
These are children. Outcast youth who dispel boredom by taunting passers-by and spooking the elderly. I watch them from a distance and wonder. Could people be mistaken about them? These kids seem harmless. Obnoxious, certainly, but that does not a killer make.
I must speak with them. There is no other way.
Stepping out of the shadows—for hours I had stood motionless in a nearby alley—I walk up to a group. There are five of them—three men and two women. They are laughing at the expense of a woman and her child when they spot me and suddenly go quiet. The lady grabs her kid and leaves in a hurry while I approach.
I stop a few feet from them, rest both hands on my cane, and lean forward as I look them in the eye, one after the other.
The women shift uncomfortably under my gaze.
“What do you want?” asks one of the men.
My eyes settle on him—a tall blonde with long hair, who wears a skull as a necklace. There is no anger or fear in his voice, though perhaps a touch of resentment.
“I was wondering what you know about the murders?”
The man’s jaw clenches at the question.
“What’s it to you?”
“Mere curiosity.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about curiosity.”
“You just don’t look like killers to me,” I say matter-of-factly.
There is a moment of silence as they stare at me in disbelief. I understand. It is one of those precious moments when one does not know how to respond to a statement. To me, it is also revealing. A murderer would have been defensive, or fearful, or perhaps even aggressive. There is none of that here.
“That’s because we’re not,” says one of the girls.
I nod in agreement. “What I don’t understand is why everyone thinks you guilty?”
The one who seems to be their leader snorts. “They don’t like the way we look, that’s why. Stay long enough in town and they’ll likely think you did it.”
“Do you have any thoughts on who might be behind these crimes?”
“How should we know? Could be anyone.”
The youngest girl in the group has remained quiet. She stares at the ground and has not once met my eyes.
I thank them for their time and walk away—though I do not go far. It is not difficult. When their attention returns to the passers-by, I slip back into the same alley as before. And I wait.
The girl knows something. I must speak to her alone.
It does not take long for her to break from the group. I follow her down a few streets before I catch up to her.
“Hello.”
She jumps. Blinks when she recognizes me.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“I realize I never properly introduced myself. Apologies. I am Count Varushka.”
“You’re a Count?”
“Not any longer, I suppose, but I’ve earned the title and am attached to it. What is your name?”
She looks away and starts walking again.
“Amalia,” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Amalia. Now, how about you tell me what you couldn’t in front of the others?”
She throws me a sideway glance.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know something about the murders, don’t you?”
“No! I mean... I...” She falls quiet for a moment. “It’s not that I know anything, not really, it’s just...”
“Yes?”
Amalia sighs. “There are some within the group who might not be so innocent.” She suddenly spins to face me. “But you can’t tell anyone! They’d use it as an excuse to kick us all out.”
“I promise I won’t. But we can’t let these murders go on—you know this, right?”
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “But there’s nothing we can do! Besides, it’s not like I know anything for sure.”
“Who do you suspect?”
“There is a more aggressive faction within our group. Extremists. They like to hurt people.”
“And this is why you suspect them?”
“Not just that. I once caught Sindra going back home soaked in blood. It wasn’t just her clothes, either. There was some on her chin and lips, too. And you should have seen the expression on her face! I’d never seen her so gleeful. Ecstatic, even. It creeped me out.”
“And you don’t consider that evidence enough?”
“She and her friends have been known to sacrifice animals, so I don’t know.”
“I see.”
“But I’d never seen so much blood before...”
“Alright. Thank you for telling me, Amalia. And leave it to me. I will take care of this.”
“How?”
I smile. “The usual way.”
***
Humans are odd creatures. Despite my fondness for them, I am not so blind as to not see their flaws. And they have many. Some among them, however, are not fully human. Of course, technically, they are, but there is something inside them that is broken. I do not know what has broken them, but the evidence is indisputable.
I expected to find one such as I and, in a sense, I have. A monster in human form. Perhaps more than one.
Amalia gave me the woman’s address and I now stand watch across from her home. It is a small house with black walls, curtained windows, and a smoking chimney. Night has fallen, but it does not bother me. I am a patient creature. Also, it helps that I do not need to sleep.
I sit on a stone bench across the street, hidden by shadows, where I dwell on my thoughts—thoughts of blood and murder, I’m ashamed to say. Such matters are trivial to my kind, but my soul has been cleansed by the time I’ve spent in the realm of men. At least, to some extent. I cannot fully alter my nature—perhaps someday. And so, when I think of what these people have done, I feel like ripping throats open. The irony does not elude me, but I never care about such things when the fury takes me.
A moment passes, and so does the rage. A sense of peace spreads within me as I consider how much I have changed, and how much better these humans are than my people. My kin would scoff at such a notion, but it is true. We are shackled to our beliefs and to our essence. Men have shackles too, of course, but there is a difference. Their shackles are in their minds. And if they make them, they can break them as well. It is not so easy for us.
My thoughts are interrupted when the door of the house creaks open and a woman steps out. Her chestnut hair flows down to her waist as she locks the door and heads off. From the description the young girl gave me, I know this is my target.
I jump to my feet and quietly follow her.
Others wait for her at the square. They do not speak. As soon as she arrives, they head down another street. Most people have gone home by now, and those few who have not are in other parts of the town. We do not meet anyone.
It is clear to me that they have a purpose, a specific destination in mind, and I grow restless as I follow, sticking to the shadows.
They stop when they reach a small house. Sindra turns to look at the others. Nods. Another woman sits on the ground and closes her eyes as she holds out her hands. A knot forms in my stomach.
The air grows deathly quiet—no more sounds of buzzing bugs or whistling winds.
The spellcaster stands and they all head into the house. They do not bother with stealth. And yet, I hear nothing, not even when they kick in the door.
I wait.
When they step back out, they are carrying a half-naked woman who seems fast asleep. With resolve, they head down a road that will take them out of town and into the forest.
There is no longer any doubt in my mind that these are the killers. And I know I need to act soon if I am to save their intended victim.
They reach a clearing in the forest and throw the body down—they do not even try to be gentle. The woman is just a vessel to them, a tool. At least she is knocked out and remains asleep. She must not feel any pain—a small mercy.
It’s only when Sindra speaks I realize we have walked out of the spell’s range.
“Blood is life, life is time.”
The words are repeated by all those assembled—like a chant, a mantra.
Sindra kneels next to the woman and pulls a dagger from her belt.
“Enough!” I shout.
This startles them, and they turn toward me.
“Who are you?” asks one of the cultists.
“This does not concern you,” says another. “Go away!”
I point to their sleeping prisoner.
“It concerns her, but she is in no state to speak; so I shall be her voice.”
Sindra snorts. “You should leave while you still can, stranger, or you won’t like what happens to you.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the spellcaster waving her hands and mumbling words. I can guess who her target is, and I do not like it. With a swift gesture, I pull a needle from my cape and throw it at her. It lodges into her throat, sending her gurgling to the ground.
“I don’t think she liked what happened to her,” I say coolly. “Now, how about you tell me why you have killed all those people? And why do you drain them of their blood?”
She scowls when her friend drops, but is drawn back to me by my words.
“We do not drain it, we drink it!”
I stare at her. Is she mad?
“As to why,” she goes on, “it is quite simple. Blood is life—”
“—and life is time,” I finish for her. “I heard you, but I don’t know what it means.”
Sindra hisses at me. “It means, you ignorant fool, that drinking blood makes us immortal!”
Her statement startles me.
While it is true that there is power in blood, can it truly confer immortality? I do not know. My people need to drink it to survive, it is what sustains us; so in that sense, it is a vessel of creation. But living forever is not something we are obsessed with. Life and death mean nothing to us.
“Leave eternity to the gods; it is not for humans.”
She sneers. “That is not for you to decide. What you can decide is whether you leave and live or stay and die. Choose wisely.”
I point at the sleeping woman again.
“Give her to me and I shall happily leave.”
It is a lie, of course, as I have no intention of letting these people live.
She laughs and looks at her companions. “Kill him.”
Even as the words come out of her mouth, the knife in her hand slashes down, cutting a deep gash in the victim’s neck.
I can do nothing for the dying woman as four cultists leap at me from four different directions. Enraged by what I just witnessed, I grab one by the throat while I run another through with my cane as the blade pops out. The one I hold kicks me as I lift him, trying to free himself. I crush his windpipe and throw him to the ground as I swing to face the other two.
They have been slashing my back with their swords as I was taking care of the others. The pain means nothing to me, and the wounds will heal. But these men will pay for the crimes they have committed. I can read the dread in their eyes as they wonder what type of creature I am that I have not died from their blows.
I show my fangs in a wicked smile before I pounce on them.
The taste of their blood reinvigorates me.
When I turn, I see the other cultists have all fled. Wise move.
The woman, Sindra, however, is still there, oblivious to all that just happened. Her lips are sealed to the wound on the victim’s neck as she sucks in the precious nectar.
I stare at her for a moment and the fury I felt recedes. However twisted this human is, there is a bond between us. A bond of blood. She knows what it tastes like, what it feels like, what power it carries...
Then she lifts her head, and our eyes meet. There is no understanding there, only greed and madness. She knows nothing, nothing at all.
“What are you still doing here?” she hisses. “Why—”
Her eyes go wide as she notices the dead bodies around me.
“How—”
Before she can finish her sentence, I rip out her throat and drink her blood.
***
It is not over yet. There are some who escaped. I cannot let them live. They would only start again, so obsessed are they with this notion of immortality. But they cannot hide from me. I know their faces, if not their names. I will hunt them down, one by one, until none is left.
Every day and every night, I roam the streets. The townsfolk are still unsettled when they see me, so I stick to the shadows as often as I can. When I find one of my prey, I dive upon them and feed upon their lifeblood.
Sometimes I wonder. Am I not a hypocrite to call out these killers for their crimes when I do the same thing? Oh, there is a difference, of course. I do it to feed—or to punish the guilty, as I do now—while they act out of delusion. But is it not an impulse as well, just as much as it is for me? Are we not all driven by a similar need, one we cannot restrain?
Perhaps it is even worse with my people, for we take pleasure in these moments. Even I, despite my scruples, cannot help but feel elated when I drink blood. What does that say about us?
Monsters. That is what we are.
What I am.
It does not stop me from completing my task. A few days later, they are all dead.
Now I must leave this place, let the people live their lives in peace.
But first, I seek out the girl.
I find Amalia alone, sitting on the steps in front of her house.
She pales when she sees me. Before I can say anything, she speaks up.
“You killed them, didn’t you?”
“I have.”
“They had their throats ripped out...”
“You’ve seen the bodies?”
“No. The others have, and they told me.”
“Well, they will no longer be any trouble.”
She is in tears now. I do not understand.
“You’re a monster!” she cries out.
Though it pains me to do so, I must admit that I am, and so I do.
“But there will be no more murders,” I add. “That is all that matters.”
As I turn to leave, she calls out.
“Wait!”
I glance back at her. “Yes?”
“Why did you do it?” She wipes the tears off her cheeks. “Help us, I mean. You didn’t have to. Monsters don’t usually help people, do they?”
I stare into the darkening sky as I ponder her question.
“I have been long among men and it has changed me. For the better, I think. I have grown fond of your kind. I do not like to see you used, abused, or hurt. It is my burden to carry.”
“Burden?”
I sigh as I look back at her. “Aye. I was not made for this life. I am forever torn between opposites.”
“Would you rather be like you were before?”
“No.” I am surprised by my own answer and how quickly it came. It makes me smile. “I am now how I was meant to be.”
She looks down. “I’m sorry,” she mutters.
“What about, child?”
“That I called you a monster. That was unfair.”
“No, Amalia, it was not. It is what I remain, regardless of anything else. It is my true nature, and I cannot change that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t control my impulses. Sometimes. That, at least, is something I can work on.”
She nods, her expression serious. “I believe in you.”
Those words touch me more profoundly than I would have expected, though I can not say why.
I stay there a moment, staring at her, then nod back.
“Farewell, Amalia. Have a good life.”
I turn and head off, lost in my thoughts.
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Enjoy my writing and want more Varushka? Who wouldn’t, right? Ha! Well, I got you covered. Check these out for a quick fix:
Mazes Burnt and Ageless Gods (where the Count is trapped in a strange maze)
Lost Rhymes for a Silent King (where Varushka is forced to steal a book of rhymes)
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Text (c) 2025 by Alex S. Garcia.
Header: my brother as Count Varushka + royalty-free stock images, all edited by me.
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