Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (11 page)

A
sense of awe grips me, the likes of which I have never known before.
He is tall and broad shouldered, a warrior by the looks of his
stance. He is cunning as well. I breathe deep, searching for his
scent. I frown, realizing I cannot pinpoint him.

His
lips peel back into a knowing smile and a flush burns in my cheeks.
He
knows I’m trying to discover his true identity.

I
am unsure of what it is about him that speaks so loudly to me.
Perhaps is the fact that his gaze is not glazed with lust and his
actions are mysterious rather than blundersome. I clutch my hands
against my maroon corset, no longer pondering about the way the
boning digs deep into my ribs, rather on how revealing it is. My
bosom is pushed so high I fear a single breath would have me popping
straight out of this infernal costume.

My
skirts are long and tastefully drawn to give them fullness, my shoes
hardly seen as I step forward. My hair has dried and is coiffed
elegantly, clipped up with a fine pearl comb that Vladimir presented
to me earlier in the week as a gift. My bronze hair falls in one full
spiral over my shoulder, leaving the other side, the one the stranger
spoke to me on, completely bare to the elements.

When
he stares at me, I feel as if he can see right through my mask. It is
a fine cover, made of shiny gold, lace, and a towering single crimson
feather adorned by a row of smaller white feathers that look as if
they have been plucked straight from a snow-white dove.

The
wind rustles my skirts and droops my feather into my eye. I frown,
batting it away. When I look up, the man is gone. I step forward once
more, my heart thundering in my chest.
Surely
he is a ghost,
I
think as I scan the faces of the townspeople

Vladimir
glances up from his seat, perched upon a stack of crates across the
square. He has a woman under either arm and one knelt before him, her
hands splayed across his upper thigh as she works. His grin is broad,
his gaze intense as he searches for me.

I
step back into the shadows, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. I
do not care what vile things he does with those women, only that he
enjoys it enough to leave me be when this night is over.

A
whisper of breath against my neck alerts to a presence. I inhale,
steadying myself, and realize his scent is still lost to me. “I
cannot place you, sir.”

“I
am downwind from you,” he murmurs against my ear. His voice is
deep, soft yet demanding.

I
swallow as the lively song ends and shifts into something slower, the
beat melodic and beautiful. The whirlwind of silk softens as men and
women couple together. The symphony of heartbeats grows to maddening
heights as they press up against each other. The scent of their
combined desire makes me feel a bit hazy.

“You
should not watch,” the man whispers, this time on my right.

How
does he move so silently?
I
wonder as I turn to follow his movement. “My husband will know
if I do not,” I say.

“I
think not. He seems to be rather preoccupied. Look there.” An
immaculate white-gloved hand rises beside me. I resist the urge to
turn and face the stranger as I follow his gaze.

Vladimir
now has his face buried in the neck of the buxom beauty on his right.
Her cheeks are flushed and her skirts hiked high. Vladimir snakes his
hand up her leg and I turn away, sickened by his actions.

“Is
it is not wise to speak to me so openly,” I whisper and lean
back into the shadows, only to find myself pressed against a solid
chest. The buttons of his coat are cold against my upper back. I can
feel the others pressing through the lace cinches of my corset. He
does not draw back, nor does he attempt to step aside.

“I
do many things that are not good for me,” he mutters.

His
words intrigue me further. Is he some sort of rebel? Was he even
invited to this party? He seems to show no desire to join in with the
dancing. A small smile tugs at my lips, despite knowing that I should
no doubt fear this man. I have yet to meet a kind immortal. “Am
I to guess who you are, then?”

“You
could try,” he muses. I can hear the smirk in the lilt of his
voice. “Though you will fail.”

My
fingers flutter imperceptibly against the ribbons that dangle along
the front of my dress. The purr of his voice against my ear makes me
forget that I loathe all immortals. I turn my face to the side and
feel the plume of scarlet feathers rising from my temple brush
against him. “You are not from this place.”

“An obvious
guess.” He responds without moving away.

“I
was not finished, sir. Your accent speaks of distant lands. Perhaps
you are a refuge from the Austrian Empire.”

He
is silent for a moment and the urge to turn around swells within my
chest. Who is this mystery man? Why has he singled me out when he has
his choice of maidens to drink from on this night?

“I
am impressed.” The admiration is his voice both is both
enthralling and frustrating. Does he take me for a simpleminded
ninny?

“So I am
correct?” I press.

I
feel the rumble of his laughter against my back before he steps away.
“I did not say that.”

“You
speak in riddles.”

“Perhaps
I do.” He sounds distant now, though I know there is little
space to move behind me. This section of the town comes to an abrupt
end, unlike the other streets that all lead away into the dark of the
forest. A wooden fence wall rises less than five feet behind me.
Could he be perched upon it? I long to turn and look, yet I do not. I
cannot or risk admitting that he has captured my full attention.
“Perhaps you are simply asking the wrong questions.”

The
scuff of his boot directly behind me betrays his location, yet I
cannot help but wonder if he did this on purpose. He knows how to be
silent when he wants to be. Heat kisses my neck as I realize he
intended for me to know.

My
nostrils flare as a new scent rides the air. I turn unconsciously
toward it as the spicy bouquet makes my stomach growl. Vladimir’s
harsh gaze rises to meet mine as I step forward, drawn instinctively
closer. His black leather mask, its sleek design fiercely portraying
a stag with great horns, drips with blood. His thirst-blackened eyes
demand me to join him.

The
white ruffles of his shirt are a sheet of crimson as he shoves aside
the wench he so eagerly accosted only moments before. Her stiff body
tumbles over the other two that cower at his feet. The screams begin
near the end of the town center and crash through the crowd like a
wave against rocks. My vision blurs with red as splatters of blood
dapple the courtyard.

Vladimir
closes his eyes and lifts his hands overhead, his head tilting back
as he snarls at the moon. My heart clenches with fear as I realize
how purely animalistic he looks in this moment. Never before have I
seen him feed. Not like this. Not in the open, where smoke and dim
lighting shade him from sight as they did after our wedding.

His
bellow falls away as he lowers his gaze. I shrink back, my hands
trembling against my waist, as he smiles and grabs the two girls
before him, digging his nails into their necks so a fountain of blood
spills over his hands.

“You
must go to him,” the man whispers behind me. A chorus of
shrieks rises and falls as the music continues to play. Laughter
turns to snarls, dancing turns to spasms and writhing upon the ground
as the immortals begin to feast.

“I
cannot.” The tremor in my voice leaves little doubt as to the
extent of my fear. I am paralyzed. I know these men and women are
monsters. I could hear the screams of the blood slaves as they
performed their nightly bloodletting from other parts of the castle,
yet I was always safe within the walls of my room. Now I have nothing
to save me from this moment. Nothing to cling to or hide within.

“You
must.” His tone has changed, become more insistent. “You
will be punished if you do not.”

A
bitter laugh slips between my lips. “That will happen either
way.”

I
nearly cry out as a hand clasps around my elbow, firm and demanding.
“If you want to survive, you must learn to play their games.”

His
words sicken me and I try to pull away. He holds firm. “I am
not like them.”

“No.”
The silence in this small hideaway feels palpable as I listen to his
heart beat in time with my own rampaging pulse. He is unaffected by
the scene before us. Neither drawn to the blood nor disgusted by it.
He appears to be maddeningly indifferent. “You will soon learn
that you must draw your friends near and your enemies nearer.”

My
lip curls into a disgusted sneer as I watch Vladimir tear out the
throat of a shapely beauty. Her blood squirts nearly five feet,
splattering Cassius in the back of the head. He turns as Vladimir
tosses the girl aside and then leaps upon her, accepting his lord’s
discarded offering.

“And
which are you?” I ask, feeling him shift behind me.

I
wait for him to answer on baited breath. The silence seems to stretch
on for an eternity and I begin to fear he will not answer me at all.
“I will be watching.”

I
turn on my heel and stare into darkness. He has vanished.

The
new moon has come and gone since I arrived at Castle Bran, though it
feels as if a lifetime has passed. Vladimir has proven to possess an
insatiable need that I have yet to fill. He comes to me each night
when the moon is high and leaves me long after I have fallen
unconscious.

The
masquerade is nothing more than a distant memory now, wrapped within
a haze of pain and torment. The mysterious stranger a ghost, a
figment of my tortured mind. A falsehood that I cannot bring myself
to think upon during my waking moments.

I
stare at myself in the mirror perched atop my small vanity. Its frame
is slightly warped and its glossy finish fading with age. My silver
mirror has vanished and I have reason to suspect Cyra pinched it
before leaving after the party. She did seem to have a keen eye for
pretty things.

My
fingers tremble as I gingerly touch the bruised skin encircling my
right eye. It is tinted with a mixture of blue and purple and is
deeply painful. The swelling and discoloration extends over to my
nose. My upper lip is split and seeping blood. My jaw feels as if it
has been lodged within a vice. The back of my head is split and
bleeding, matting my hair. My vision is blurred, though I have grown
accustomed to this.

I
sit back, no longer able to stomach my image in the mirror, and
absently brush my finger over the new flesh that replaced the deep
gashes I carved into my wrists the week before. Whatever God my
mother believed in has refused to hear my prayers.

My
mother would turn over in the grave, if she had been buried, at the
thought of me attempting to take my own life. She would not
understand the depths to which I have sunk. One beating melds with
the next. I fear the day and cower from the night. Vladimir always
comes for me.

He
flew into a rage when he entered my room to find me collapsed in a
pool of my own blood after my first attempt to kill myself. I vaguely
remember staring up at him as I felt my lifeblood draining away,
watching as he frantically bit into his own wrist and tore a gash in
his wrist, forcing me to drink.

The
beating I received after I had healed was by far the worst I have
endured to this point. My brethren would have been mortified to see
Vladimir in such a state. Even I was shocked by the fear I saw in his
eyes.

Why does he fear
losing me when he so obviously despises having me near?

I
am nothing more to him than a body to warm his bed each night. I lie
as still as possible until he is finished, praying that I can
withhold my screams. They only make him more ravenous.

I
wake each morning with the light of the sun to inspect my wounds,
ever ignoring the cup of blood left on the side table for me to
drink. I refuse. If he finds me ugly, then so be it. I will not give
him the satisfaction.

A
monster lives in the room beside mine, not a figment of my
imagination nor devils playing in the shadows of a child’s
room. Flesh and blood, just as my mother always feared. Vladimir
Enescue is a demon clothed in beauty. My brethren are no better. I
shudder as the memory of his brutality traipses across my mind, for I
know all too well what wickedness lies within the depths of my
husband’s eyes.

I
stare blankly across the length of my room toward the far wall, its
uneven stone surface draped with a beautiful woven tapestry that
reminds me far too much of the ones that were lost in my wedding
pyre. A tear slips from the corner of my eye and trails down the
curve of my cheek. When it splatters against the pale flesh of my
upper chest, I don’t bother to wipe it away.

I
can hear the drop with perfect clarity. It is no more impossible to
hear than the sound of laughter on the far side of the castle or the
horses prancing in the rising muck in the barn beyond the high walls
that surround my new home, an impenetrable prison of rock and mortar.

Vladimir
told me once that the wall was built to keep people from the villages
out, yet I know better. It was built to keep his victims in.

I
keep to my room now, fearful of emerging. I have not seen Atticus,
Amadeus, or Emeline since the ball, though I hear their taunting from
below. They mock me from afar, knowing I can hear each of their
words. Their cruelty seems to have no limits.

Verity
worries me. I now fully understand why Vladimir warned against her
involvement with me. The dark-haired beauty has a rebellious heart of
stone and a passion for decapitation. Even my own brethren avoid her
except to bed her, when she is so willing.