Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (13 page)

Cassius
is the better looking of the two. His black hair is curled in popular
style about his face; his clothes fit his lean figure to perfection.
His poise and manners are far more fitting of a lord than the
commoner that Verity betrays herself to be.

It
is difficult for me to tell by her speech pattern from where she
came. Perhaps she is a native of a province bordering Transylvania.
Her accent is far more clipped than my own, though different still
than Vladimir’s.

“You
think I hold you in low esteem?” She tsks as she spins the head
of her axe against the ground. It glints red and black in the
moonlight. The hilt is inlaid with a blackened wood and bone, the
wood flesh stained with blood. A skull perches between the twin
blades. I realize as the axe slows in its revolution that the skull
must have belonged to a small child, perhaps a baby, at one time.

Large
silver spikes rise from around the skull. A single spike, the width
of two fingers, protrudes from the top, digging its way into the
earthen floor. It would not take much to sever an appendage with a
well-aimed lunge.

This
weapon was crafted for one thing: death.

Verity
casts her gaze down upon me and I see nothing, save pity, on her
beautiful face. “I do not detest you. I feel nothing for you at
all.”

“Then
why capture me? Why stake me to the ground?”

Her
shoulders rise and fall with an indifferent shrug. The skirts at her
feet rise to reveal bare feet, soiled from the filthy floor.
That
is how she moves without a sound
,
I think.

“A
girl enjoys a bit of fun… from time to time.” She draws
out her emphasis on the word fun with a hiss that makes my skin
crawl.

“And
you intend to part my neck from my head, is that it?” I twist
ever so slightly to peer up through the window. The moon is on the
rise, though it has not yet reached its full peak. My brethren will
be feasting by now. With Vladimir gone, the blood will flow long into
the night. No one will leave the festivities to take a midnight
stroll. I am on my own.

Verity
tilts her head to the side and appears to contemplate my inquiry. She
surprises me by lifting her skirts and sinking down beside me. “Do
you know what it is like to be ignored, replaced by a simpering
little girl who does not know what great fortune has been given her?”

I
blink. “You were with Vladimir?”

A
cold smile stretches along her face. She reaches out and grabs my
chin with enough force to snap a human’s jaw. “He was
with me. I had everything I ever wanted. A bed to warm and a castle
to rule. He took me in ways that would curl your toes and whiten your
hair. It was a thing of beauty.”

Her
voice fades as she slowly draws back from her memories. A deep scowl
settles into the hard lines of her face. Her eyes darken and her grip
tightens on the hilt of her axe. “Then Lucien sent him to find
you and I lost everything.”

“Lucien?”
I struggle to understand. “I never met him before the day
Vladimir came to my home.”

Verity’s
laugh is low and guttural. Stray hairs fall about her face, giving
her the look of a mad woman. “You foolish girl. Do you really
think you were chosen by chance or for your beauty? No. You were
chosen for sport, and I was cast aside like a common wench by a girl
as plain and timid as a mouse.”

She
leans back and beats her breast as she barks out a laugh. Despite
myself, I cannot help feeling wounded by her cruel taunting. Verity
breaks off suddenly and thrusts her face over mine. Her hair tickles
my nose. All hint of humor has vanished from her gaze, replaced by
blackened rage. “Lucien took something that was mine, so now I
will take something of his.”

“I
am not his,” I stammer as she rises fluidly to her feet. Her
grip tightens on the hilt of her axe. A terrified whimper rises in my
throat. I cannot move, cannot defend myself.
At
least this death will be swift… just as I longed for.

She
raises the axe overhead, staring down at me with unrepentant hatred.
As I watch her prepare to end my life, I realize in the back of my
mind that she does not hate me. No, hatred is not a strong enough
word. Verity releases an almighty howl as she brings the axe down. I
stare as the blade swings toward me, too shocked to close my eyes.

A
clash of steel startles me from my shock. I blink and find the blade
of a sword hovering scant inches above my nose. I follow the silver
line up the hilt and blanch.

Lucien
stands beside me like a malevolent demon rising from the shadows. His
gaze is blackened, filled with cold fury. I am grateful it is not me
that he looks at with such open contemp.

Verity
screams as she is thrown backward, tumbling end over end until she
vanishes in shadow. Her shriek rises as tools pelt down upon her,
unsettled from the wall above. They slice at her skin before
clattering to the ground. The scent of her blood calls to me as a
black cloak sweeps past, its dusty hem brushing against my nose.

“I
forewarned you the price if you made an attempt on her life, Verity.”
Lucien’s voice is deep and without a hint of tremor. His steps
are purposeful as he approaches her. “I do not make idle
threats.”

His
deadly calm as he stalks the girl makes me feel numb with terror. I
have seen Lucien’s savagery firsthand and prayed to my mother’s
God that I would never be handed over to him. Verity seems all too
aware of her grave mistake as she tumbles backward over the pile of
tools, leaving splotches of blood in her wake as she crawls away from
his approach. Her axe lies upon the ground only a few feet away from
me. The desire to snatch it up is maddening, yet it is well out of my
grasp.

I
stare down at the stakes driven through my wrists and know I am
helpless. Verity made sure of it. The pain keeps me rooted in place,
much as my mounting terror. I do not fool myself into thinking
Lucien’s appearance is that of a knight arriving to rescue a
damsel in distress. No. There is a reason he is here and I fear I am
that reason.

“Peace,
Lucien. It was only a bit of fun.” Verity cries out as her
footing slips on a spilled cluster of bent nails and she tumbles back
to the ground. I can hear the fabric of her dress rip as she snags it
on the edge of the workbench. The pattering of blood grows more
pronounced, though I cannot see her wounds in the shadows.

Lucien
makes no attempt to attack, although he has the advantage. His
movements are slow, calculated. He is toying with her and relishing
every moment of her fear. “I am not a merciless man, though I
do not forgive blatant attacks on my family.”

“She
is not your flesh and blood,” Verity squeals as her head slams
into the far wall. I glance toward the window and noticed the moon
has gone behind a cloud, making it nearly impossible to see within
the closed cabin. The whisper of boots to my right is the only hint
as to Lucien’s whereabouts.

“That
girl is worth far more than an imbecile such as yourself could
possibly imagine,” he spits out, betraying his first true hint
of anger.

My
thoughts race as I try to understand the meaning of his words.
Why
have I been chosen? I am no one special.

A
shriek from the corner of the room is quickly followed by a deeper
growl. I hear the rustling of fabric as Verity resists, hear the
sound of her fists beating against his grasp. Rolling my head to the
side, my focus shifts to Lucien’s boots emerging from the
shadows, just before Verity lands with a pained grunt in the center
of the room.

Verity
rolls over my torso, dislodging the spikes in my wrists, though not
enough to be truly free. The wood piercing my stomach brings tears to
my eyes as it shifts and a fresh ooze of blood seeps down my side.

Her
foot connects with my cheek and whips my head about before she slams
into the wall a few feet away. She rises slowly, her hair a tangled
mess across her face, her skin ashen. “Vladimir will be furious
if you kill me,” she snarls as Lucien steps toward me.

“No,”
he says with a slow, sinister grin. “I do not think he will.”

Verity
raises her hands to defend herself as Lucien steps over me and slams
his boot into her face. The sound of her skull fracturing sends my
stomach churning violently. My stomach heaves when I notice a lumpy
gray matter seeping from the sides of her sunken face, her skull
splintered into bloody chasms. There is little detail left
recognizable.

I
hear the sound of Verity’s axe slicing through the air. It
lands with a thud against the wooden support beam before him. Her
head tumbles past, rocking to and fro as it comes to rest with her
nose pressed to the dirt. Blood drips from the neck wound, and I
begin to choke on the bile in my throat.

Lucien
turns and kicks at the stake in my wrist. It rips free, leaving
splinters buried deep into the back of my wrists as I retch on the
floor beside me. My stomach spasms several times before I am free to
roll back and catch my breath.

“Thank you,”
I whisper as acid burns my throat.

A
dark face hovers over mine. I look up to meet Lucien’s
murderous gaze. He smiles as he wrenches the stake from my side. My
back arches at the sudden burst of agony. He places a hand to my
chest, forcing me to lie still.

I
only have a moment to wonder why Verity’s body has not slumped
to the floor before Lucien drives the wooden stake back into my
stomach, leaning on it to apply slow, steady pressure as it punctures
my skin. I gasp against the pain, my free hand clawing at his arm as
my mouth hangs in a silent scream of horror.

“Do
not express gratitude just yet,” he whispers, dipping low to
speak into my ear. The scent of blood and musk clings to his collar.
A hint of a woman’s perfume resides on his neck. He has had
another tryst with Alamesia by the smell of his coat. “Vladimir
will expect payment for Verity’s death. He was rather fond of
her.”

Lucien
rips a stake from my other hand and drives it through my shoulder. I
cry out as my vision begins to blur. “Her blood is on your
hands,” I gasp, writhing beneath him as he begins to twirl the
stake. I can feel him tearing through muscle and scraping bone.

“On
the contrary, a blood debt must be paid, and I do so love to hear you
scream.”

With
one final push, the wooden spear pierces through the back of my
shoulder and stakes me to the ground. My shrieks rise into the night
as Lucien begins to painstakingly seek payment from my flesh.

Rusted
chains bite into my flesh as I pull against the restraints to no
avail. The manacle about my throat tightens, making swallowing nearly
impossible. I am too weak to free myself, my throat too parched from
screaming.

No
one has come for me. No one has tended to my wounds. I have only the
rats to keep me company.

The
air is moist and thick, smelling of decay and feces. I can smell it
over the blood and sweat that clings to my body. My hair falls in
matted locks about my face, plastered to the blood that seeps from an
open wound along my brow. The wall at my back feels grimy, coated
with age and filth. The stone is cold to the touch, bringing only
minimal relief against my feverish skin.

How
many other people have bled in this very spot?

I
am alone. I have been since I awoke in these chains with my toes
barely dragging against the floor, close enough to feel hope yet far
enough to know it is a falsehood. Another trick of the mind. Lucien
seems to enjoy these.

I
have had plenty of time to contemplate to what extent I must go to
take my own life if I am ever given the chance again. An endless
stream of questions plague me as I hang in the pitch dark. The agony
alone should be my undoing, yet I linger ever on the edge of insanity
and lucidity. Although my heart still beats in my chest, I am far
from well.

My
right foot hangs at an awkward angle, held on only by a stretch of
skin. My right arm is splintered into two pieces, dangling uselessly
from its manacle. My upper abdomen is spliced open nearly from side
to side in a jagged line. The wound began to reek of infection two
days past.

My
neck feels as if it has been severed from my body, attached only by
the thick metal collar that now holds me aloft. My left leg is
shattered. I can feel bone fragments shifting around and my kneecap
protruding out of the side of my leg. My fingers are crooked and
healing incorrectly. They will need to be re-broken and mended,
though I cannot reach them to do it myself.

Why
will he not let me die?

A
cold sweat clings to my body at the thought of my tormentor. Lucien
comes twice a day to visit me. At least I think it is the same day. I
have lost all track of time down here. He rarely speaks as he goes
about his task. His coal-black eyes show little emotion as he slices
into my flesh with a blunt knife, peeling muscle from flesh and
sinew. Only the cracking of bones and the sizzling of skin makes him
smile.

Lucien
Enescue, my brother by marriage bond, has become my living nightmare.
I realized in the days since I was brought to this dungeon that I did
not truly understand the depths of pain, not even at the cruel hand
of my husband, before Lucien began on me.

I
do not know why he continues to torture me so. In the beginning, I
feared he was doing Vladimir’s bidding for ending Verity’s
life, though I soon began to realize the personal enjoyment he
receives from our sessions. I believe he is doing this on his own
accord now.

What
will Vladimir think when he discovers the extent to which Lucien has
gone with me? Will he fly into a rage on my behalf or join in when he
returns?

No
one heeds my screams. They echo uselessly through the dank recesses
of the dungeon. Darkness and pain are my constant companions in this
godforsaken place. The dripping never ceases. It is maddening in its
steady rhythm, even more so knowing it is
my
blood
that splatters upon the grimy floor.