The Hooded Girl

I

It was a rainy night in the countryside, cool and soggy. Mud caked Marcan's boots, freezing his toes to the bone. The moon hid behind a cloak of clouds, a foggy disc in the blackened night sky.

Smoke filled his nose, the crackling of the flames music to his ears. The old farmhouse was nothing short of an inferno, casting an unwavering orange glow upon his sweating face.

She was here. Celene, after all these years, was finally in his grasp. He hadn't laid eyes on his wife in nearly twenty years, and although he'd long dreamed of this moment, he was lost. All this time, he'd thought of a thousand things he'd do to her. Kill her, break her, whittle her away until she was nothing but a husk. But in another, the rarest fantasy, he would simply forgive her. In that crazy dream, he'd be the one apologizing. He'd tell her he still loved her, and that nothing, not even her betrayal, had changed that. He'd tell her that he'd missed her, that their sons, grandchildren, great grand children had missed her. He wouldn't even ask why she ran; he wouldn't have cared. He would only have wanted her back, so that they could be whole again. And he had very much loved her. Even now, as they smoked her out, he knew he'd never love another like he loved Celene.

But the thought of forgiveness, of mercy, made his heart darken. 

A body burst through the front door of the house. He saw her then, pale hair glistening in the moonlight.

Their son, Warrick, stood a dark figure against the flames. The glowing carnage lit his pale face hellishly; a look of joy twisted his navy eyes. He leapt from the crumbling doorway, over the smouldering steps.

Warrick hurled his mother at his father's feet. She was battered, bloody, and burnt. Soot caked her cheeks, blackened her clothes. Her hair, once silver as the moon, was now a filthy bottle blonde, half-singed.

A gash creeped from her neck to sternum. Blood stained the blush cotton of her tattered shirt, stained her jeans. But as human as she may have dressed, the truth of her nature was plain. The teal of her eyes, her snowy visage, her willowy height – a pureblood artem, with beauty unmatched by any mundane. Marcan felt his heart stop, like it had when they'd first met.

The fire cast a black shadow upon him.

"Hello, Celene," he began softly, expression empty. "It's been far too long."

His wife said nothing. There was no look of surprise, nor of fear. She'd known this would happen, long ago. She was nothing if not pragmatic.

"You knew you couldn't hide from me forever."

"No," she admitted. Her voice was cool, mellifluous as a summer evening. Even with blood pooling in her lungs, she did not lose her composure. He had always admired that about her. "Not forever."

He pursed his lips. "Then why did you do it, Celene?" he asked, placing a gentle hand upon her cheek. His eyes filled with tears, tears of decades' rage and hurt. "Why betray me so?"

She looked up to him, her eyes brimming. She bore no hatred for him; her gaze made it plain. There was, behind their steeliness, love, somewhere. Distant, near dead. But even then, there was no mistaking her agony. "I had no choice," she whispered, voice thickening, clogging with blood.

He slapped her then, across her cheek. Maric stepped back , feet squelching in the mud. His mother coughed, but made no other sound than a small whine. "You had every choice imaginable. You had everything. You had everything with me. You had my love. You had our sons. Their children. What didn't you have? Did you give no thought to them? No. No, because all you cared about was the pathetic human. You are a disgrace. I am lesser for even speaking your name. My own wife, the woman I love... you could've came to me. I would've taken care of it. I'd have dealt with him, looked the other way. But you thought to run with him..."

"Marcan..." she coughed, spittle tainted red. "I had no choice."

He hit her again, socking her in the stomach. She could do nothing but gag. He could hear the blood pooling in her lungs, creeping up her throat with each breath.

"Father, please –" Maric began.

Warrick shot a vicious glare at his brother. That was enough.

"I knew you all would've been safe. You were grown men. Capable. Strong. All of you. I love you... all of you. Warrick... Maric, Ingram... Brandon... I never meant to hurt you. Nor you, Marcan. All I wanted was to keep you all safe..." she broke out into another coughing fit, the muddy grass by her face thick with globs of red.

"Safe?" Warrick's eyes were alight. "Safe? You wanted us to be safe? What, while you ran away to play whore with a human?"

"No..." her voice cracked. "No, sweetheart, you don't understand..."

"Then make me understand!" Warrick roared. Ingram could only watch, steeled and silent. Brandon had turned away. Maric himself was shedding silent tears, but couldn't find the will to speak.

She tried to shake her head, but she was much too exhausted. Her eyes were sinking to a close, one final time. "I can't do that," she whispered.

"Where is he?" Marcan growled.

"As if I will tell you anything..." her voice was barely a whisper, barely audible against the raging fire.

Marcan trembled. "Why?"

Celene released her final breath. In the seconds that followed, all five artem, her sons and husband alike, simply stared at her body, waiting for another rise and fall of her chest. Listening for the steady, cloudy beat of her heart to resume. But it had faded to nothing. She was silent, still. Dead.

After twenty years of searching, of preparation, of grandeur fantasies, it was all over. In under thirty minutes, she was caught, captured, gone. How many hours had he spent mulling over this? Marcan de Veren felt emptiness take over, sucking away his fears, his worries, the terror he had felt in his anticipation. He felt nothing. It was over.