Journey to Berthium (3)

Hmm... looks like this is the place.

Rachel stood across from a tavern with a large hanging sign — "Cherry Garden."

— Well then, let's see how much Bertyum's alcohol has changed!

In anticipation, her eyes sparkled — and she stepped inside.

She was quite the connoisseur of alcohol — so holding back her curiosity was impossible.

Elegantly walking to the bar, heels clicking — she glanced at the young bartender.

— What would you recommend, sir?

— I can offer you a Lagoon cocktail or a Daiquiri, it's popular now... blah-blah, blah...

(Hmm… who would've thought... so many names changed and appeared in just a century.)

— Make it to your taste.

Caught off guard — the dark-haired bartender froze and asked again:

— Are you sure?

Batting her lashes — Rachel nodded.

(What a charming cutie...!)

And so… some time passed.

(I think… I messed up. Everything's spinning.) — propping her chin with her hand, Rachel winced and licked her lips.

(Can't tell if the alcohol's that light — or if my body suddenly became... weightless.)

(Strange — I've only had a few glasses. So what's the catch?)

Sitting at the bar, sipping her drink — she began to watch the people in the room with a bored look. There were a lot of people. Men and women laughing and drinking — many were already drunk, so their voices sounded loud and slurred — making Rachel grimace.

As she looked over the guests — a broad-shouldered man silently sat down beside her and ordered a drink.

Looking at the stranger's handsome face — Rachel froze for a couple of moments.

His sharp, yet not repulsive features — golden eyes — silver hair. There was no doubt his beauty was unquestionable.

(Hmm, he looks drunk...) — she concluded, seeing his flushed cheeks.

(He doesn't seem as noisy as the others — so why not strike up a conversation?)

Throwing a glance — Rachel smirked, stirring the liquid in her next glass of alcohol.

Well — if she hadn't been dead drunk — perhaps our Witch, the owner of the Black Guild, would've remembered that in front of her was the hero of the Empire — Ezekiel Flaillméry, General of the Paladins.

Rachel tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

A second. Just a second — and it was like someone had poured a bucket of ice water on her.

Ezekiel Flaillméry.

General of the Paladins of Planta.

She may have been a drunkard — but she wasn't a fool. She recognized him immediately. The sworn enemy of all vampires — a merciless hunter.

She turned her head slightly — as if examining the interior — but inside everything spun in a chaotic whirl of thoughts.

(When Annelise was blabbing about a stranger with platinum hair... I didn't give it much thought. Big mistake.)

The gears in her head turned — and only when she tasted blood did she realize she had bitten her lip.

(No. He couldn't have come for me. Just a stupid coincidence.)

She glanced again.

(To hell...)

Creak.

She suddenly stood up from the stool. Her movement caught Ezekiel's attention.

She had to act. Fast.

Before the bartender's last drop hit the bottom of the glass — Rachel had already leaned toward the man next to her and sank her fangs into his neck.

From the side — it could've looked like a drunken kiss — passionate, almost inappropriate.

A few seconds later she pulled away. The man remained seated — dazed — while she, lightly wiping her lips, slowly melted into the crowd.

Ezekiel's gaze lingered for a moment — but then turned away, noticing nothing unusual.

Only when Rachel slipped out the door — did he sharply turn at the sound.

Panic erupted in the tavern.

The newly turned — having lost his mind — lunged at people.

And no one thought again about the mysterious woman — who had left just a second before the chaos began...