The Blood Harem-Three Fates

THE LOCKET

Beads of sweat appeared on Alistair's forehead.

" a writer has no use for that" The voice spat with venom " hand it over" she added, her voice tight

Alistair awoke, his breath ragged as he struggled to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, his body stinging with unease.

The dream again. The woman …the locket. He sighed loudly.

He stood up and stumbled towards the balcony, the city was still bustling as torch lights flickered. The scent of rancid grease and soured pork filled the air making his stomach growl with displeasure.

He reached out to his pocket slowly bringing out the gold cladded locket. A mix of Scotland's ancient treasure and England's finest metallic mastery.

Sleep had abandoned him ever since he got his hands on this useless piece. Not entirely useless but enough to drag his lazy writing self out into the world he wished to hide from.

He sighed, looking down at the city with cold disgust. Only a stupid man wouldn't notice the shady deals that ran the night!

He glanced at the locket one more time, his pupils contracting as the gold flickered with the city's touch.

He had received this gift on a busy day when he was engrossed in his new art. To craft an ancient story enough to win a medal and feed his scorched appearance but instead, the locket appeared on his desk, covered in an envelope with a letter accompanying it.

" Your mother's gift to you. I haven't had the chance to give it to you since her death. Keep it save- mountain of regards, your uncle"

He would have tossed the damn thing into the trash can if he had known it was from an uncle but …his mother ? The woman he never got to meet? She.. kept a gift for him ?

He sighed softly as he slid the locket into his pocket whilst going through his works. He had just wanted to keep it safe as it was his mother's only gift to him …but things took a darker turn when a hooded lady approached him asking for a certain gold brimming locket.

" I have no such thing" he had answered as he walked away, carrying his only piece of survival- his laptop and an old book featuring thousands of plots yet to be told.

her heels echoed along the cobbled streets, the crunching of the gravel beneath her feet reminding him that he belonged under her shoes where the city would walk on him like an insignificant piece of rubbish, " a writer has no use for that !" Her voice echoed throughout the night, scaring the night owls into exile.

He paused his movement, the words reverberating through him. Who was she ? And …how did she know ? No one had seen him with the locket at noon so how…did she know?

He felt a cold metallic object pressed to the crook of his