Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (15 page)

My
arms feel impossibly weighted when they are freed. Pain sends
explosions of color before my eyes as my broken arm swings
sickeningly against his back. My cries are stunted as he hauls me
over his shoulder and he works to unlock my feet.

I
stink of sweat, blood, and vomit. I am nude however veiled by a layer
of filth. He shows no aversion to my state as he gently eases me to
the ground. I see only a hint of deep compassion in his shaded
features, partially hidden within the shadow of his cloak. “You
are perished.” He tsks.

Shifting
me so he can disrobe, the man pulls his cloak from over his head and
places it over my body, offering me my dignity. He props me against
the wall and steps away. I blink, trying to clear my vision as he
turns to the side and rustles about on the tabletop with his back to
me. I recognize the sound of leather and realize he must have brought
a bag with him.

“Water,”
I croak.

“I
have something to suit all your needs.” He moves swiftly and a
strong hand comes to rest at the back of my neck as a flask is
brought to my mouth. I splutter at the warm, thick liquid sliding
between my lips.

I
spit out the offending blood. It splatters across his blurred face,
yet he does not pull away. “You must drink,” the man
urges as he tilts the flask higher. I buck weakly, my hands flailing
at his arm as I attempt to resist. He holds me with a firm hand,
tilting my head so I am forced to succumb to the blood.

As
the last few drops slide down my throat, I feel strength returning.
The human blood feels warm in my veins as it gushes toward my wounds.
The healing fires burn bright as I arch my back, my shrieks echoing
from the walls as flesh begins to knit back together and wounds are
cauterized internally.

The man kneels
beside me, waiting in silence.

I
do not know how long it takes for my wounds to repair. A few minutes.
An hour. Perhaps more. All the while he stays with me, hovering on
the edge of the shadows. I can smell his concern and am confused by
it.

Finally,
the spasms in my back release and I lie completely still, my eyes
closed as I listen for his movements. Anger ripples through me as I
feel my thirst rising.
He
did his to me. He created this need.

With
each drop of blood that I taste, the craving mounts. It will take
weeks for me to recover from this, to forget the heady feeling that
blood gives me. If I am not careful, I too could be drawn into the
bloodlust that my brethren so merrily adopt.

“Where
did you procure the blood?” I ask without opening my eyes.
There is only a slight waver to my voice now, though it is not rooted
in fear or exhaustion, yet in anger. I know if I open my eyes, I will
be tempted to unleash my ire upon him. I do not wish to do so;
however, the blood does strange, maddening things to my mind. It
makes violence seem like a proper alternative.

“I
do not know.” The honesty of his words surprises me no less
than the hint of regret that accompanies them.

I
ponder his words and the clipped tone in which he speaks. “We
have met before, you and I.” His silence stretches on for a
moment before he nods his assent. “You were the stranger who
left me at the ball.”

“I
had other tasks to attend to that night,” he responds, shifting
farther into the shadow, as if fearing I might take notice of his
appearance now that I am healed.
He
is a clever one
,
I muse.

“Was
I one of your tasks, then?” I roll my head to the side and
watch for sign of his movement. It is hard to make out his profile so
I allow my eyes to fall closed to listen and familiarize myself with
his smell. I have discovered that every immortal has a distinctive
scent. Some are more fragrant and offensive than others. His scent is
pleasant, though I am unsure if it is truly his. I can smell leather
and rain with a hint of a spice that I cannot place my finger upon.

“No.
You were not a task.” He shifts and my ears perk up at the
sound of the short three-legged stool shifting across the uneven
stone floor. It creaks as he lowers himself onto it. “I was
merely curious.”

“Why?”
I open my eyes and find him leaning forward, his face downturned and
his hands clasped before him as his elbows dig into his thighs.
Golden strands fall about his face, concealing him from my eyes.

“I
had heard rumors of your presence. I hoped to discover if they were
true.”

My
stomach clenches at the thought of the horrors that could have been
told to him from my brethren.
Does
he believe them? Would it vex me to not know his impression of me?

“May I ask
what is it that you uncovered from our brief conversation at the
ball?”

His
breathing is steady, without hitch or hesitation. His silence is
lengthy. I sigh, realizing he does not wish to answer this inquiry.

“I suppose I
should thank you for saving me.”

He
shifts yet again, though I do not look. “And yet you do not
sound as if you want to.”

I
rise slowly to my feet, feeling healthy for the first time in many
weeks. Perhaps for the first time since my wedding day. I uncurl my
spine, feeling each bone slip into its rightful place. I am light on
my feet and my head no longer remains trapped among the clouds. The
sluggishness of exhaustion has gone, only to be replaced with such
great vitality. Did I truly feel this well before Vladimir began
beating upon me?

No.
I do not think so. This must be another effect of the blood.

I
can feel it pooling in my belly, reaffirming my muscles and
strengthening my bones. I could race up those stairs and through the
door long before this man could react. I know this now. It is an
awareness that Lucien has given me. I am capable of accomplishing
great feats, if only I believe them possible.

Lucien
took me to limits that I never knew existed. I endured a pain that no
living being should be allowed to experience. He sought to unleash
me. Instead, he taught me what despair truly is, and with that
knowledge came a new realization. Desolation is not a thing held in
the physical realm, yet in your mind. He tried to break me, and break
me he did. It is a choice. Live and suffer or die and embrace
endless, peaceful darkness. Perhaps this man would be willing to
assist me.

“I
have no desire to live,” I say as I turn slowly to face the man
who gave me my freedom. His face remains lost in shadow, his clothes
too dark to discern. In the flickering light of the candle I think I
can make out golden strands of hair falling about his shoulders as he
sits up, though I cannot be entirely sure.

Why
does he not step into the light? Does he fear being seen? Is he
afraid I will reveal his identity when Vladimir finds me, for find me
he will. I know that if I run, my husband will come for me. Lucien is
a skilled liar. No doubt cunning in ways of concealment too.

I
have no way of knowing if Vladimir has returned, though I suspect he
must have. It would explain Lucien’s contradictory method of
torture today. Perhaps my torture was about to come to an end even if
this cloaked stranger had not come to my rescue.

I
am about to turn when he speaks, breaking the silence. “That is
a pity, for there is much good that you could do.” His voice is
deep and even. I cannot hear the lilt of madness in his tone or the
giddiness that seems to control many of my brethren. This man is
different.

“Good?”
Even I am shocked by the depth of bitterness that weighs down this
word. Is such a thing even possible for someone like me? Am I not
damned to a life of misery and evil?

“Light
and dark complement each other. You cannot have one without the
other. In time, you will learn this balance.” He pauses so long
I am sure he will not speak about it, yet when he does, his words are
filled with such raw emotion they draw me back. “You are not
alone, Roseline.”

“How
did you know to find me here?” I take a step forward, though I
pause when he sinks deeper into shadow.

I
move back away from him, though he does not draw closer. He seems to
prefer mystery rather than exposure. This frustrates me, though I
discover that I also find his behavior to be appealing. My brethren
prefer to be loud, boisterous, the center of everyone’s
attention. This man is the opposite. I am drawn to this contrast. “I
am familiar with this place. Lucien has a certain affinity for pain.
This is his domain. When I heard of your flight from the castle, I
knew to look here.”

“How?”

The
chair creaks once more as he rises. He stands tall and rigid; his
hands appear clasped behind his back judging by the way his shoulders
roll back are lost to the darkness.

“Fear,”
he says simply. I wrap my arms about my waist as I glance back at the
chains along the wall. Several sets of them hang motionlessly, each
covered in dried blood. The rough stone paving below each is
permanently stained by the blood of Lucien’s victims.

How
many of them were like me? Immortal? Does he bring humans here to
play with as well? I cannot imagine they would be as much sport.
Death comes so much easier for them.

“I
watched you that night at the ball. Timid. Filled with terror. You
clung to the wall, watching wide-eyed at the death around you. I
could see your horror, see the pain it caused you to see such
senseless mutilation. You did not enjoy it as they did. It horrified
you.”

I
find myself nodding in agreement. I need only to close my eyes to see
it all again. Blood ran freely through the town center. No one was
spared. Many were left in pieces. The bodies were piled after they
had been fully pillaged. Lucien took great pleasure in setting them
alight. As the scent of burning flesh stung my eyes, my brethren’s
celebrations took on a more carnal nature. That is when Vladimir
found me.

I
did not scream that night, though I dearly wanted to. I could not
bear adding my pain to the echoes that still lingered from the
slaughtered humans.

“You
watched what he did to me?” I ask softly.

“No.”
I see the broad expanse of his shoulders and back as he turns away.
Muscle clings to his arm like strong rope, rigid and flexing as he
closes his fists. “I could not bear to.”

Tears
well in my eyes and I waver on my feet. I have endured so much pain,
so much humiliation and torture. How much can one person truly take
before they break?

“You could
have stopped him.”

“No.”
He turns back. I see the strong line of his jaw as he takes a step
toward the light and pulls up short. “It would have been far
worse if I had done so. To do so would be to challenge him, and that
is not something I am able to do.”

“Why not?”

His
lips purse as he shifts his weight to his left side. I can feel his
unease, his growing irritation, though I am unsure if I am the reason
for it. “It was not the proper time.”

I
lower my head, fixing my gaze upon my feet. In the dim light, they
are nearly black with dried blood and grime.
The
proper time? Does he mean to imply that there will someday be a
proper time? If that is true, for what reason does he desire to
challenge Vladimir?
Only
a fool would do so in open combat, yet the tremor in his voice
betrays that this is indeed his intention.
What
terrible thing has my husband done to him?
I
wonder silently.

Then
another thought strikes me that I find alarmingly yet surprisingly
welcome.
What
if this had nothing to do with Vladimir at all? What if he came to
see me that night out of more than sheer curiosity? His advice that
night was meant for my benefit. Even today he has come to my rescue.
What if he is merely trying to save me, yet from whom? My husband or
myself?

“Have
you ever been kept in this place?” I ask, raising my gaze to
meet his; however, the space before me is vacant. I step forward,
squinting my eyes to search the depths of the shadows for any sign of
him, yet he is gone. His scent lingers in the air, although it is not
potent enough for him to still be within the room.

His
lantern rests upon the table. His bag, though, has been removed.

How
did he disappear again with no hint of sound?
I
clasp his cloak tightly about my shoulders and feel the hollowness
return.
Perhaps
he truly is a ghost.

No.
He was undeniably real. Here one moment and gone the next. A
mysterious guardian with no face or name. Nothing more.

I emerge from the
dungeon and out into the courtyard to find winter has arrived early
and with a vengeance. Blustery winds batter against the windows of
the great hall overhead. The glass rattles loudly in its wooden
frames. The howling of the winds races from across the castle grounds
like wolves braying in the dark of night.

The ground is slick
with ice, as are the tree limbs that dangle low over the castle
walls. Snapped pine branches litter the ground before me. Icicles
dangle from eaves and arched doorways, some nearly twice the length
of my hand. As I pass, I notice the water in the trough beside the
barn is frozen solid. None of the animals are visible. All have been
locked away, leaving the courtyard barren and lifeless.

I clutch the
stranger’s cloak tightly around myself as I step across the
frozen stone yard. The bottoms of my bare feet sting from the cold.
The woolen hood offers little protection from the bitter winds,
though it affords the opportunity for my eyes to adjust. Despite the
gray overcast of the sky, it takes several moments before I no longer
have to squint.

As I step through a
side door that leads into the kitchens, I discover an uncomfortable
chill has settled over the castle. It is far too cold for a human to
survive if stranded outdoors for any length of time, though I suspect
I would feel nothing more than mild discomfort.