Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (34 page)

I gasp as we soar
over the top of the wall and land on the other side. I wish I could
say I land with as much grace and poise as he does, yet that would be
a terrible lie. The only reason I am standing is because of his grip
on my arm.

“I can walk
well enough on my own.” I jerk out of his grasp and march
ahead, trying desperately to ignore the taunting laughter behind me.
I really do hate those men.

I feel naked without
the thick layers of my dress and corset about me, though I take
comfort in the familiarity of the leathers. I attribute them with
battle. Fane was right to give me a warrior’s outfit. It helps
steady my mind, to focus.

I can feel Barrett’s
eyes upon me, though I refuse to acknowledge his gaze. There is only
one pair of eyes I long to meet, and he walks ahead of me with fierce
determination in his stride. If only he would give me some sign that
he is still the man I thought him to be, though his expression when
he glances back is cold as stone.

I wrap my arms about
myself, feeling a chill that has little to do with the night air.

My thoughts begin to
take on a darker tone as I think upon my coming death. It is sure to
be painful, though I have learned to endure far more agony than most.
My only prayer is that Vladimir does not permit them to defile me
before the end.

“Move faster.”
Another jab with the stick. I grit my teeth and increase my pace.

Barrett
will be the first to go,
I vow to myself.

I hear the crackling
of flames long before the bonfire comes into view. It sends smoke
spiraling up into the cloudless sky, masking the twinkling stars
above. I was incorrect about my earlier assumption of how many people
have gathered. As I scan the wide clearing that opens up before me, I
quickly surmise there to be at least double my original count.
Possibly more.

“Many have
come,” Fane says to no one in particular, though I know he is
speaking to me.

“I had the
pleasure of capturing the last girl. She was not very sporting,”
Barrett crows proudly as he lifts his blade from the leather sheath
at his side to run his finger across its smooth surface. A line of
blood appears along his fingertip and he quickly licks it away. “You
should have heard the girl beg for her life as I opened her throat.
It was sheer bliss.”

Images of my
sister’s death darken my vision. Does he know this was my
sister’s fate? Is he playing games with my mind?

I do not give him
the satisfaction of a response as I follow Bellamy and Alamesia down
the small hill and into the heart of chaos. Ruckus, hooting, and the
clang of swords greet me as I step into the light. Women giggle as
they writhe atop men’s laps, their skirts held immodestly high.
Mugs of blood clash together as men cheer and sing loudly out of
tune. They remind me of the old pub that housed most of the working
men after the sun went down and the wenches came out. My father
frequented the tavern from time to time to my mother’s stern
disapproval, though he was not a man to be told no.

I turn away and
search for the one man who holds my fate in his hands. I spy his
white-blond hair from across the clearing and feel nothing as I
notice a woman straddling his lap. Her hair is piled atop her head,
spiraling around the curve of her heart-shaped face as she nibbles on
my husband’s neck.

The low cut of her
dress does nothing to conceal the wares she is trying to sell to
Vladimir. I know of this woman: Lavinia Ardelean. She was one of the
wenches my father used to frequent in my village. My mother said she
was evil, that her beauty would fade and God would seek his vengeance
on her for her sins.

I suppose my mother
was not all that far off. Perhaps Vladimir found her not long after
he purchased me from my father. I shudder at the thought that my
father may have suggested her company while Vladimir took up
residence in Brasov, awaiting my answer to his marriage proposal.

I feel nothing for
Lavinia Ardelean. A whore, yes, though a survivor as well judging by
the way she gropes my husband. Perhaps she will warm his bed while my
ashes are burned on the pyre before dawn.

Slowly people begin
to turn in my direction as I come to a halt. I widen my stance and
grip my swords, attempting to appear ready to face my fate. Fane
gives a nod of approval and moves away, melding seamlessly with the
crowd.

I feel alone and
exposed before the eyes of my brethren. Many appear eager, though
most are drunk on blood.

Too much blood will
change an immortal. They become far more violent, aggressive, and
deadly. It also makes them stronger. I will be at a severe
disadvantage.

I wait in silence
for Vladimir to acknowledge me, though he does not. His focus is too
rapt on the barely concealed bosom of Lavinia. “I have come,”
I shout above the din of laughter.

Vladimir peers
around Lavinia’s bare arm and tenses, his pale skin seeming to
glow in the moonlight. His lip curls into a sneer as he shoves the
girl aside and rises. Her gaze searches the crowd until she meets
mine. Her lips peel back as she bares her teeth at me, a growl rising
in her throat.

Her eyes bulge as
Vladimir snatches her into the air, his hand clenching her throat.
“That is my wife, wench. You will never show her such
disrespect again.”

With a snarl, he
tosses Lavinia over the heads of those sitting behind him. Her
crimson skirts flutter as she tumbles over the back row and plummets
to the ground. I hear a crunch of bone and smile.

“Silence.”
Vladimir turns slowly in a circle, his arms raised high over his
head.

Lucien pushes aside
a black-haired beauty that mews with dissatisfaction. Her lips are
red from the blood that rises from a new knife wound on Lucien’s
bare chest. I feel ill as she licks her lips, closing her eyes to the
sensation of his blood slipping down her throat.

Of all of my
brethren, I fear Lucien the most. Vladimir is evil, though he hardly
compares to the dark and malevolent glint in Lucien’s gaze. He
has proven to be cold and methodical in his tortures. I plan to be
the same when his life dangles in my hands.

A hush falls over
the crowd as Lucien rises. He is dressed for battle. Gone are the
fine clothes and polished boots. Tonight he is dressed all in black
leather, just as Fane. Like a ranger.

Many of the
immortals clamber over each other to get a look at me as I walk past.
I force myself to take slow, smooth steps. The blades at my sides
threaten to topple me as they dig into the earth, though I place my
hands upon the hilts and feel a sense of calm fall over me. I may not
be the best swordsman of the lot, though I am cunning when I need to
be.

Vladimir raises his
hands high over his head until the crowd finally falls beneath a
blanket of silence. Only the winds whipping through the trees can be
heard. He turns slowly, smiling at each of his guests. “Tonight
we celebrate the union of my marriage. Tonight we stand as testimony
of our love.”

The urge to spit at
him is nearly overwhelming, though I keep my expression vacant.

“This is
tradition and it shall be upheld!”

His voice rises
toward the stars, among the great plume of smoke. A cheer swiftly
follows and the ground beneath my feet rumbles as they stomp.
Vladimir turns to look at me. “Come forth, my love.”

I approach slowly,
careful to keep my swords held aloft. The space between us feels
lengthy, though I appear at his side in the blink of an eye. His hand
falls upon my arm and a new hush seizes the crowd. “Tonight you
will all bear witness to this hunt. If my love survives until dawn,
she will prove her worth and take up her rightful place at my side
for all eternity.”

He does not speak
upon what happens if I do not. Instead, he grasps my hands and yanks
me toward him. His lips crush against mine, his tongue darting across
them one final time. When he pulls back, I see lust billowing in his
gaze, and for a moment I fear he will take me right here in front of
all of his guests.

Lucien clears his
throat and the moment passes. “The night grows long, brother.
Might I suggest we begin or risk questions arising about your
sincerity of this grand event?”

Vladimir licks his
lips and releases his grasp on me. “Of course. I would not want
that.”

I glare back at
Lucien as Vladimir steps between us, his gaze bright. “Although
these look lovely on you, they are not permitted.”

Before I can react,
Vladimir snatches both of my swords from my sheath and tosses them
aside. My mouth gapes open as he steps back, the torn scabbard
dangling from his hand. “I am not permitted a weapon?”

“Not this
time.” Lucien sneers, kicking aside my swords. “Though I
am sure they would have done you little good.”

I grit my teeth to
hold back my biting remark. Vladimir nods his approval and turns.
“Hunters… come forth.”

I hold my breath as
the crowds begin to part to let men pass, though men is hardly an
appropriate term. Many of them stand well over a foot taller than
myself. They carry great clubs over their shoulders, boasting spikes
the length of my forearm. Some have shaved heads, others bushy beards
grown to their chin. All look eager to taste my blood.

Lucien joins the
group, as do Barrett and my two beefy guards. One man stands at the
end, his head bowed low.

I gasp and take a
step back. “Fane?”

“He did not
tell you?” Lucien inquires, his voice high with laughter. “Oh,
that is cruel.”

I turn to look at
Vladimir. “You would allow this?”

He shrugs, though
there is a tightness around his eyes that betrays his disapproval.
“It is the way of things. Fane is a hunter so he must hunt.”

I
stare at the veil of blond hair that hides Fane from my sight. His
words echo through my mind.
Only
one may live.
He
knew! That is why he was so quiet this morning and so withdrawn
tonight. He knew he was selected to kill me.

The pain of this
betrayal is staggering as I fight to still the quaking in my hands.
The hunters before me shift, sniffing the air, memorizing my scent.

Vladimir turns to
face me, placing himself between me and the men who will do
everything in their power to end my life on this night. “You
will have a head start. I suggest you use it wisely.”

Tree branches snag
against my skirt as I race through the woods, away from the castle,
away from the hunters. It is dark under the thick overgrowth of pine
and spruce trees. The moonlight is spotty, affording me only minimal
lighting.

The terrain is
sloping and unpredictable. Large rocks and fallen trees hinder my
path as I try to keep my gaze fixed ahead. How long do I have before
Vladimir will unleash the hunters? He never said, and that worries
me. Even if he had, I would not trust him to keep his word.

As I run, I struggle
to remember all of Fane’s instructions.

Do not let
yourself be cornered.

Do not go for
high ground. They will expect that.

Do not bother
trying to hide your tracks. You do not have time to worry upon that.

Do not let
yourself bleed. That will make them ravenous.

Do not expect
mercy.

Killing is the
only way to stop them.

Blood will heal
you. It will be your saving grace when you need it most.

With each rule I
mentally review, I feel my stomach churn faster and harder. Acid
rises in my throat and I know I cannot go much farther.

I throw myself
behind a tree to be ill. My throat burns as the sparse contents of my
stomach splatter onto the dense undergrowth. The taste that lingers
as I wipe my lips is vile.

Stepping
back from the tree, I spy a mint plant and pause.
Fane
told me they follow my scent…

I crouch low and
snag fistfuls of mint, crushing the leaves between my fingers to
release the spicy odor. I rub the leaves against my bare skin,
careful to touch every spot. I grab fistfuls of dirt, clumps of
rotting leaves left over from the previous winter, and scat from what
I would guess to be a mountain lion. I hold my breath as I rub it
upon my skin.

Craning my neck, I
turn my head to listen and am instantly on my feet again. In the
distance, I can hear them shouting. The hunt has begun.

I dash around
gnarled bushes and hollowed-out logs until I reach the sputtering
banks of a small stream. Scooping two large handfuls of mud onto my
hair, I work the slime into each strand until I am coated from head
to foot. I know this will not last long, though perhaps it will give
me a fighting chance.

Ten immortals are
coming for me. Each highly skilled and eager to win. I do not know
what the prize will be for the person who takes my life, though I
imagine it must be impressive to draw such a crowd.

My chest clenches as
the pain of Fane’s presence among the group hits me yet again.
I hold no qualms over killing the others. Fane is a different story.

Do I really stand a
chance against him? This thought plagues me as I run, scrambling down
the slope of the mountain only to be met with another. There are
several miles now separating me from the castle. I have no idea how
far and wide these mountains stretch. Only that they seem endless.

Fane is the least of
my worries at the moment. I must focus and devise a plan to whittle
down my pursuers. I know how difficult it is to kill an immortal.
Taking ten down without any weapons feels like a sheer impossibility.

Once they are out of
my way, I will focus on Fane. He has intimate knowledge into my
strengths and weaknesses. He knows I drop my shoulder when I parry
and my footing is always wrong. My timing is a hair too slow and I
lack conviction in my swing.