Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (8 page)

Vlad?
Goose
bumps rise along my arms as I gather together the cryptic pieces of
truths that have been shared: Vladimir’s unusual clipped words
that speak of his foreign ancestry, the fear seen in both mortals and
non when he is angered, and the heads impaled along the castle walls.

My
palm presses against my chest, the fluttering of my heart increasing
as I realize the true identity of the man to whom I am now bonded. He
may be known as Vladimir Enescue in this place, yet he was once known
by an entirely different name: Vlad the Impaler.

Tales
of his terror spread through the land, though that was many years
ago. He was rumored to have died, his head severed from his body and
presented as a gift. His body was laid to rest in a monastery that he
himself had built. The building was later demolished. I believe there
is little doubt as to who may have accomplished such a feat.

Did
Vladimir fake his own death? If so, why? He had no need to flee, no
need to fear the grave. With his speed and ruthless love for blood,
he could have built an army the likes of which the world has never
seen.

I
stare at Amadeus, noting that though he may be clothed in muscle, his
hands look as if he has never seen a day of battle. The skin of his
palms are soft, unblemished by callouses. He was obviously a highborn
when he was turned, though looks may be deceiving. I am unsure if his
kind can even develop callouses.

I
dip low into an appropriate curtsy, dropping my head and my gaze. “It
is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Roseline Drago—” I
bite down on my tongue the instant I realize my mistake. Heat stains
the bared skin of my chest and my lower lip quivers, waiting for a
slap that doesn't come.
He
would not dare strike me,
I realize. No one will touch me while I am under Vladimir’s
protection, if it can even be labeled such a thing. I struggle to
cease the trembling in my fingers, knowing my weakness will be
noticed.

I
would love nothing more than to hide in the corner of my room and
forget the world beyond exists, yet Vladimir is waiting for me. I
know the consequences of not obeying him are far worse than doing his
bidding.

Amadeus
watches me as I rise slowly. I thrust back my shoulders and raise my
chin in attempt to look brave, forcing myself to meet his intense
gaze. “I am Roseline Enescue, of Castle Bran.”

He
nods in approval. “See to it that you do not forget.”

I
hear the darker implication of his words and give him a curt nod. I
will not forget, for doing so will surely bring pain. I may not know
much of my husband. Nevertheless, I have learned one very valuable
piece of information in the past day: he demands respect and fear
from those around him.

“Shall
we?” I accept Amadeus’s arm and carefully walk beside
him, praying my ankles will hold firm in these ridiculous shoes. I
suck in a tiny breath as we cross the threshold of my room and
release it slowly as we descend to the second floor.

All
of the doors are flung open this time. I peer into each room as we
slowly make our way through the maze of stone and wood. I never
dreamed of a place this vast. How did Vladimir build such a
masterpiece in so little time? Surely after the rumors of his death
spread he would have needed to go into hiding, though years would
have passed and he would be free to emerge as a new man, boasting of
youth and beauty.

Did
he seize this castle from a lord? It would not surprise me in the
least. I only wonder what price the former occupant had to pay.

My
steps echo about me as we pass beneath flickering torchlight. Black
sconces line the hall every few feet, casting eerie shadows to dance
about our path. I lift my gaze from the shifting shapes, unwilling to
let my imagination run rampant.

Amadeus
tugs on my arm and I draw back. The laughter up ahead has doubled in
volume. Only a few steps ahead, I spy a great, sweeping staircase
that leads to the lower floor.

I
turn to look at Amadeus and see a hard glint in his eyes as he leans
in close. I stiffen as I feel his lips brush against my ear. His
whisper is so low I am sure I am the only person able to hear it.
“You are walking into a den of wolves. If they smell your fear,
you shall not live through the night.”

I
swallow roughly and nod as I draw back. “I thank you for your
word of warning.”

A
scornful smile darkens his face. “I did not do it for you.”

His
grip tightens against my arm and I am drawn to the top of the stairs
and realize the steps lead straight into a vast room. At first I am
dazzled by the light. Hundreds of candles have been lit, held aloft
by great circular candelabras. High enough that the heat does not
affect the group below.

Dozens
of men and women fall silent as Vladimir rises from his seat. Its
back stands nearly as tall as he does at a raised dais near the head
of the great room. Rows of wooden tables, long enough to hold fifty
people each, run the length of the polished floor.

Lucien
sits beside Vladimir. He swirls a golden goblet lazily in his hand,
raising it to his nose to inhale the fine bouquet. I once saw my
father attempt this when he was invited to dine with a nobleman who
rode into Brasov on his way to Moldavia. My father lacked Lucien’s
finesse.

Vladimir
raises his own goblet and everyone follows suit. I can hear the thick
sloshing of blood in the raised cups as silence permeates the room.
“To my newest bride, the lovely Roseline of Brasov.”

“Here,
here!” The cheer rises into the vaulted rafters of the room.
Amadeus tugs on my arm and I stumble down the first step. He gives me
a hard look and I right myself instantly. I force steel into my spine
as I match his even steps. Twenty in all by my best count.

By
the time we reach the main floor, the fluttering in my chest has
swelled. I can feel a tingle of embarrassment rushing through my body
as I grip tightly onto Amadeus’s arm for support. He does not
protest as my nails begin to dig into the fine material of his
long-sleeve coat.

My
steps echo in my ear as I approach the first of the men and women
sitting farthest from Vladimir. The women gaze back at me with a
range between mild curiosity and open hostility. Then men on the
other hand seem far more intrusive than their counterparts.

“Look
ahead, my lady,” Amadeus barks under his breath.

I
lift my eyes and meet Vladimir’s, realizing how close I came to
insulting him. I squeeze Amadeus’s arm in silent gratitude,
although he does not respond. I do not fool myself into thinking he
was attempting to aid me. Most likely he was thinking only of the
punishment he is sure to incur if this presentation does not go
smoothly.

Vladimir
locks his gaze on me. I fight not to cower back from the intensity of
his darkened gaze. The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile as he
draws his cup to his lips and takes a long drink. My steps are
drowned out by the sound of gulping as each person follows suit.

Lowering
his goblet, Vladimir waves me forward. The instant Amadeus’s
grip loosens against my arm, terror floods back in. I look to him,
though he only looks back with a knowing and, if I am not mistaken,
expectant smile. I realize with a start that his earlier warning
about the effects my fear would have on the castle inhabitants was
not for my benefit. He was goading me into it.

Why
must these people be so cruel?
I
long to wrap my arms about myself and flee back to my room, to hide
from these evil people. However, Vladimir is watching.

I
exhale a shaky breath and press back my shoulders, determined not to
let them win. Soft sniggers follow the small train of my dress as I
approach Vladimir. He pushes back his chair and steps to the side to
offer me his hand as I mount the two steps leading to the dais.

“Welcome,
my dear. You look as lovely as ever.” He dips his face and
raises my hand to kiss it.

The
feel of his lips against my skin brings back memories of the night
before, and I fight back the shudder of revulsion.
How
long will it be before he comes to me again? Will I have to share a
bed with him each night?

The
thought of being forced to lie next to this man turns my stomach,
though I plaster on a smile as he lifts his head. Just to the side of
him I spy Lucien staring at me, his eyes narrowed.

Lucien’s
ever-watchful eye worries me. There is no lust in his gaze. No, there
is something darker within the depths of his blackened eyes.
Something promising pain and endless torture.
I
will have to be careful around him
,
I think as I fight to suppress a shudder and force my gaze away from
him.

Vladimir
takes my hand and leads me to an empty chair beside his. It is
equally matching in beauty, the mahogany carved by an expert hand.
The scrollwork alone must have taken ages to perfect.

The
cushion is plush, and I am grateful for the softness after such an
unbearable day spent on the hard wagon floor. With a broad smile
seated on his face, Vladimir turns to his guests as I settle into the
chair. “Let the feast begin!”

I
hardly touch the food placed upon my plate as the feast drags long
into the night. A roasted pig, smoked over a fire pit, was a fine
fatted hog when it arrived in the dining hall, yet now it is nothing
more than bone and skin. Bowls of steaming vegetables and
mouthwatering pastries have vanished, with only a few spare crumbs to
remain.

The
table manners of many in the room would have been enough to horrify
my mother. Men dug into the flesh of the pig with fingers still
cloaked with blood and other foul bits burrowed into their fingernail
beds. Splatters of blood lined cloth and wood as several cheers and
rousing chants filled the room, mugs sloshing to and fro as men
raised from their seats to join in song.

Flagons
of blood have been consumed. Spirits are high and wild as servants
rush forward to clear the table. A young girl reaches over my right
shoulder to take my plate. Her sunken eyes fly open wide as Vladimir
grabs her arm. “You did not ask permission,” he growls.

The
girl mewls in pain. I turn to give the girl aid, yet I am caught
speechless by the overwhelming scent of blood that clings to her
skin. It is sweet. My mouth begins to water as my gaze focuses on the
steady pulse at her neck.

Vladimir
smirks at my horrified gaze and releases the girl. “Be gone
with you, girl.”

She
whimpers and grabs my plate quickly, though not fast enough for me to
fail to notice wide slits across her wrists. The skin that rises
along the wounds is slightly discolored and appears hardened.

The
girl trips and tumbles to the ground as she reaches the stairs.
Raucous laughter rises all around me as I too find myself staring at
the poor girl. Terrified, she gathers the bits of food that fell from
my plate and rushes away, her head lowered so far I can easily see
the scars along her neck, under a mop of mousy brown hair that hasn’t
been properly cleaned in ages—teeth marks.

“She is
human,” I whisper to myself, clutching my hands so tightly in
my lap that my nails pierce my flesh.

“She is a
blood slave.”

I
turn to see Vladimir staring intently at me. When I say nothing, he
continues. “Where do you think our blood supply comes from?”

“I
had not thought of it,” I whisper again, feeling what little
food I managed to eat begin to churn in my stomach.
He
is using human slaves as food. No, not food. As living fountains.

“She has
wounds…” I trail off, closing my eyes to the thought of
someone cutting into the girl, repeatedly by the looks of her ample
scaring.

Vladimir
smiles and leans back in his chair. His legs part as he sinks low,
his boots crossed at the ankles. He looks perfectly at ease. “There
is healing power in blood, my dearest Roseline, and also in our bite.
It is true that the sweetest blood comes easiest from the neck. The
mortals have labeled us as blood drinkers, as murders, yet our bite
does not kill. A wound will seal over naturally, leaving no trace of
our plunder.”

“If
it were only a single bite,” I amend.

“True,
which it hardly ever is.” Vladimir smiles. “Blood is more
than life, Roseline. It is a drug and need. The more you succumb, the
more you will thirst for it.”

I
fail to suppress my shudder, which seems to heighten Vladimir’s
pleasure. “You long for it,” he muses, trailing his
finger idly around the lip of his goblet. I saw your reaction to her
nearness. It is natural.”

My
lips peel back with disgust as I shift as far from him as the arms of
my chair will allow. “It is an abomination. A thing of devils.”

Vladimir
laughs, nodding. “Indeed.”

I
fall silent as a clash of steel captures my attention. The sound of
clattering dishes is drowned out by the rising shouts and cheers.
Benches and tables are shoved out of the way as two men come together
in the center of the room.

One
man appears older, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His beard is neatly
trimmed, his sideburns left slightly bushy to match the thickness of
his wavy brown hair. His nose is pointed, giving him an eagle-like
intensity to his face. “Who is the man on the left?” I
ask as he lunges toward his opponent.

“That
is Emory,” Vladimir responds though does not embellish any
further. My husband’s gaze is wide with amusement. “The
other is Marcus.”

Marcus
is tall and thin, though I suspect there is lean muscle buried
beneath his fine evening coat. Even within the great hall of Castle
Bran, he still wears a black felt top hat. It perches upon his head,
making him appear taller than he really is. His skin in pale as
alabaster, his lips unusually red. His face is handsome yet in a
different sort of way. His beauty comes from a sense of elegance
rather than physical features.