Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (3 page)

His
blood had an overwhelming coppery taste that churned uncomfortably in
my abdomen. It was edged with something detestable, as if I had
tasted an animal left to decay along the side of the path, its flesh
nearly rotted completely away and addled with maggots wiggling among
the bones of the carcass. Something unsuitable even for the
scavengers of the sky.

Adela’s
blood was sweet upon my lips.
I
draw my shawl about my bare shoulders to ward off the thought that
ripples uneasily through my mind. I open my eyes and turn to stare
blankly into the woods about me.

I
have never been this far from home before. Behind us lie the great
stone walls that have protected Brasov from many of the wars that
consume the surrounding lands. It sits nestled at the base of the
mountains. A place that once held beauty for me, yet no longer.

I
wonder if I will ever again hear the crisp peels of the bells that
perch atop the front gate, warning against an enemy attack. Will I
ever see the slanted pitch roofs of the homes that surrounded my own
or smell the fresh scent of the bakery that I grew up just down the
lane from? Brasov was a bustling town, filled with chattering
children perched in the doorways of homes and the shouts of vendors
selling their wares in the market square. It was home.

The
church was built in the rearmost portion of the city, its spire
rising high toward the heavens. It’s bell, far smaller than
those that sit upon the city gates, would toll not long after dawn,
calling its people to service.

When
last I saw it, the church had been reduced to mere ash, smoldering a
deep orange. The mill was alight, as were the cobbler’s,
baker’s, and magistrate’s homes. I saw women clutching
young children in the streets as men slopped buckets of water to and
fro from horse troughs and the city well in desperate attempt to
stave off the fires.

I
glance once more over my shoulder, beyond the top of Lucien’s
head as he sprawls in the back of the wagon, and see the swatch of
sky behind us ablaze. The scent of smoke still hangs thick in the
air, drifting through the mountain pass and needling at my nose.

No
one expected invaders to destroy from within the city walls. Vladimir
managed to do what none before him had: he razed an entire town with
only a single candle.

I
cannot bear to watch the flames ripple against the darkened sky any
longer so I turn forward once more and focus on the tree branches
grasping for my arms from the edge of the road. I realize that
although the trees look the same as those growing just beyond the
walls of Brasov, these smell slightly different, as if copious
amounts of fresh air have somehow made them more primitive.

The
robust scent of pine combats the acrid smoke that clings to me,
trapped within the bloody clumps of hair that fall down my back. I
fear that I will never be clean again.

There
are several roads that depart from Brasov, each one headed to a new
and exciting destination. I used to dream with Adela of the places we
would explore should we ever take the high road east to Moldavia or
the southern road that winds into the lawless land of Wallachia.

Vladimir
took the western road, leading the horses deep into the mountain
pass. I can see the darkened peaks before us and wonder if the horses
will be able to pull us up such a steep incline.

“Where
is it that are you taking me?” I whisper to the forest. It is
the first time I have spoken willingly and I find myself loathe to
look upon my new husband.

He
shifts on the seat beside me, and my muscles spasm with terror. My
fingers clamp down into fists, ready to thrash out at him if he makes
a move toward me. However, he does not. He merely slaps the reins
against the mare’s back and I grit my teeth as I am thrown off
balance yet again.

Returning
my face to look forward, I glance at Vladimir from the corner of my
eye. His fine wedding clothes, sullied with the blood of my family,
were left on the floor of the kitchen in my home. They have been
replaced with a finely stitched white shirt and pair of brown
trousers that taper perfectly to the lean cut of his frame. His long
hair has been cleansed of any traces of blood. He looked staggeringly
handsome when he emerged from my father’s study, yet all I
could feel was revulsion, for I have glimpsed the demon that lives
beneath this mirage.

Lucien
refused to let me bathe while Vladimir attended to himself. He seemed
to rather enjoy seeing me painted with blood and soot. The residue
along my brow has begun to crack and peel, leaving me with a vexing
desire to scratch. My long strands are gnarled and matted, my dress
with hardly a stitch still intact. If not for the tight boning of my
bodice and the shawl about my shoulders, I would be incapable of
clinging to any shred of modesty. The stench of death infuses my
pores.

“I
am taking you home,” he replies simply. Vladimir’s smile
is broad as he turns to find me watching him, my mouth gaped open,
aghast. “To Castle Bran.”

I
blink, shocked by how alarming the word sounds echoing in my ears.
Home.
It
is meant to be a place of peace and love, not some macabre castle
filled with ominous shadows and things lurking in the shadows.

I
have heard of this place. Most have in our region. Tales of
unspeakable deeds, alien to any decent man, and the screams of the
dying along the castle walls have spread through the villages of
Transylvania.

The
name itself feels cloaked in evil, much like the lord of this castle.
There are several such stone fortresses in the nearby regions. I have
heard my father speak of their grandeur while on his travels.
However, war has left many of them under new ownership.

I
wonder where is it that this Castle Bran truly lies. The rumors
change from traveler to traveler, although one thing remains the
same: no man can speak of the horrors beheld as they passed by
without a strong quake to their hands and the contents of their drink
sloshing precariously as they down their mug of ale in a single,
unsteadying gulp.

Castle
Bran is a place of devils. There is little doubt to that.

Will
the castle lie within the heart of the mountains or somewhere farther
beyond? Does it dwell within the Transylvanian boundaries or some
remote land, cut off from my home?

Vladimir
speaks with a clipped accent that I struggle to place. Although he
uses my language with silky perfection, I know he is not from my
lands. Most likely he is from Wallachia where the dialect is peculiar
to me.

I
clasp my hands tightly around the frayed hem of my shawl, drawing it
close for comfort. I pray that Vladimir has not noticed the trembling
in my fingers, betraying my mounting anxiety. “And my family?”
I ask once I regain my ability to speak. “Will you leave them
in the ashes without a proper Christian burial?”

If
I were to close my eyes, I know the vision of smoke spiraling into
the cloudless sky, releasing the spirits of my loved ones to the
heavens, would return. I cannot bear to see it again so I hold my
eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Everyone I have ever loved is
lost to me. A weighted heaviness shrouds me as I realize that I am
truly alone.

“It
is a burial fit for kings,” Lucien declares from behind. He
lounges in the hay that covers the bottom of the wagon my father
recently bartered for. It is a fine make from the best craftsman in
all of Transylvania. He was rather fond of informing his guests of
this fact whenever they came to call. “I should think you would
be grateful.”

Gratitude
is the furthest thing from my mind, yet I would not dare let the
sentiment cross my lips or risk his wrath. Especially not with Lucien
lying less than five feet from me, sharpening the edge of his blade
with a stone. The repetitive grating sound is enough to drive a
person to leap in front of a pack of wild horses. I must admit that I
would be sorely tempted if I thought I could actually get away with
it.

I
remember glimpsing Lucien Enescue for the first time from our loft.
Adela had admired the jewels inlaid on his sword hilt. My father
loudly boasted of his knowledge of Lucien’s legendary skill
with a blade.
A
pity my father was the first to be slain by Vladimir so he was not
able to appreciate Lucien’s skill firsthand,
I
muse.

Bitterness
against my father rises up within me. There is no love lost between
us. I know that I will not mourn him. He was a cold, calculating man
whose only love was for power and all it could afford him.

My
sister and I were no better than his prize cattle, born and bred to
be sold to the highest bidder. My brother Petru was given his choice
of women. He had many of them in his young years, although none of
them ever captured his heart. Although I dearly loved my brother, I
was envious of his freedom to come and go as he pleased.

Vladimir
casts a glance at me, splintering my thoughts as my breath catches in
expectant fear. My muscles seize up when he reaches out to brush the
hair back from my cheek. I force myself to remain still, refusing to
meet his gaze.

I
feel numb, not from the chill on the air, yet rather from deep
within. As if with each touch, Vladimir encases my bones within ice,
cold and unbreakable. His hand lingers upon my cheek and I feel my
terror mount.

Will
he take me again? Surely not on the side of the road where travelers
could pass by.
Even as this thought flits through my mind, I realize this scenario
would probably be welcomed by my husband.

As
I look to the dirt path that winds ahead of us in the dappled
moonlight, I know we are alone. I close my eyes, silently pleading to
my God that my husband will leave me be.

“You
have questions,” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb across my
cheekbone. “That is good.”

I
bite my lower lip and draw back from his touch. I do have questions,
thousands of them. Nevertheless, I cannot bear to give him the
satisfaction. I want nothing from him, save my freedom. I doubt that
will ever be an option.

Lucien’s
laughter rises into the clouded night sky. The moon sits just above
the tree line now. Soon the new day will come. “She is fearful
of you, brother. That is a valuable trait. She needs to learn her
place.”

Vladimir
nods in agreement and his hand slips away. I allow a small sigh of
relief as he slaps the reins against the backs of the horses and our
pace quickens.

We
ride in silence as the world begins to wake. In the distance I see
smoke rising above the tangle of timberland. Women stoke hearth fires
and prepare the morning bread. Men will soon follow to tend to the
animals. Children will rub sleep from their eyes and emerge from
their warm duvets to grudgingly begin their chores.

Life
will go on as normal for the people of this village… while
mine will forever be altered.

“Rasnov
is ahead, brother,” Vladimir calls back over his shoulder.

“I
grow hungry.” I hear Lucien rustling the material of his shirt
as he rubs his stomach. My own twists with anxiety. Will they stop at
this town to eat? A shudder races down my spine as I wonder if it is
food that Lucien seeks or something more.

I
fear I will be ill if I am offered nourishment. My head feels light
and my abdomen knotted tighter than a baker’s twisted bun.

Vladimir
looks to me once more, contemplating. He watches silently as I place
my fingers slowly over the diminished bruises where he held me
through the long night. “The pain has receded, yes?”

Reluctantly, I nod.

“Blood
is life.” I turn to stare wide-eyed at him yet say nothing, and
he continues without prompting. “Humans need blood to sustain
them. As do we. It is the source of life that keeps our hearts
pumping. Without it, we too will wither and die.”

Is
he trying to explain why he mutilated my family?
Countless
thoughts spiral through my mind at once.
Is
it possible to flee this torment? Can I join with my family in the
afterlife? Why does he refer to humans as if he is not one?

Vladimir
laughs and I instantly wipe my face clear of any hint of hope. “It
is not so easy to kill our kind, my dear. Many have tried and
failed.”

His
words hold little endearment, though they make me shudder all the
same. I do not wish to pry further. However, desperate curiosity gets
the better of me. “Our kind?”

My
husband glances back over his shoulder and shares a loaded glance
with his brother before turning to look upon me. “You are no
longer one of them, Roseline. You are something more. Something
strong and fierce.”

“We
take what we want,” Lucien says in a dull tone, as if his
statement goes without saying. Although his inflection feigns
disinterest, I can detect a lilt in his voice similar to the one he
possessed just before he slit my sister’s throat.

“If
we… I am no longer human, then what am I?”

I
rub my forehead, beginning to feel the traces of pain bursting behind
my eyes. I am exhausted, both mentally and physically. If only I
could rest for a few moments, perhaps I might be able to wake from
this wretched nightmare.

“We
are those who walk among the shadows, children of the night.”
Lucien speaks the words as if caressing a lover. “We are
immortal.”

My
breath catches as Vladimir seizes my hand. How odd that his touch no
longer feels like fire, now like the ice that clings to my windowsill
after a mid-winter frost. I stiffen though I do not pull away. I can
feel the strength in his hands and know that I am hopelessly trapped.

“You know of
our kind, Roseline, although you would never dare to speak the name
aloud.”

There
have been rumors for many years, although I never wanted to believe
them. The tales were told in a whisper around the flickering of
firelight after children were sent off to their beds. Women would
cling to their shawls and knitting needles as they rocked, eyes wide
with terror. Men of sound mind could be brought to ruin over the mere
mention of the name
Strigoi
,
or vampyre.