

Desolate

The Immortal Rose Trilogy

By

Amy Miles

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved.

Copyright © 2014 by Amy Miles

Published by

http://www.AmyMilesBooks.com

ISBN: 9781311928931

Published at Smashwords

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

#  ALSO BY AMY MILES

THE AROTAS SERIES

Forbidden (Book 1)

Reckoning (Book 2)

Redemption (Book 3)

Evermore (Book 4)

THE IMMORTAL ROSE TRILOGY

Desolate (Book 1)

Savage (Book 2)

Refuge (Book 3) Coming 2018

THE RISING TRILOGY

Defiance Rising (Book 1)

Relinquish (Book 2)

Vengeance (Book 3)

THE WITHERED SERIES

Wither (Book 1)

Resurrect (Book 2)

Affliction (Book 3)

HIDDEN CHAPTERS

One Hard Ride

Preying on You

Four the Night

THE TRICKSTER TRILOGY

Co-written with L.G. Miles

The Trickster (Book 1)

The Ruby Eye (Book 2) Coming September 2017

The Last Trick (Book 3) Coming 2018

Zombie High Chronicles #1

Waiting on Us

A Love Restored

In Your Embrace

Obsidian Flames

Nailed It

For Rick and Landon.

#  THOUGHTS FROM THE AUTHOR

This book contains some very sensitive and mature topics that are not suitable for some young adult fans. I recommend that parents please preview the book first.

My Arotas trilogy hinted as to what Roseline's life was like living as a prisoner with a man who thrived off people's pain. It is deeply disturbing to me to place myself in the mind of an abuser, but for the sake of being real with this story, I chose to show the full extent of Roseline's transformation, without dwelling on it or being overly graphic.

While writing DESOLATE, I found it to be very difficult to put myself in Roseline's mind as well, to allow myself to not only feel her pain, but also her helplessness and utter brokenness. I cannot begin to fathom the anguish that comes with someone stealing your innocence, of reveling in your pain, but it is sadly a fact of life for many girls. I only hope that through the words of this book I can show that though terrible times may seek to destroy you, strength is birthed from trials.

An abuser cannot define who you are.

# TABLE OF CONTENTS

ALSO BY AMY MILES

THOUGHTS FROM THE AUTHOR

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

SAVAGE SAMPLE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

FOLLOW ME

# ONE

1690, Transylvania

Caro de carne mea. Os ex ossibus meis. Lorem nocte in saecula saeculorum.

The words whisper through my mind like a long-forgotten song as my eyes flutter open. Light and dark battle around me, seeking purchase on the room. Flames lick the wooden walls, trailing overhead to embrace the knotted timbers that hold the inflamed roof aloft.

Ash pelts down upon me like a livid rain, singeing flesh and hair. I cry out as I roll away from the gaping hole above, beating at the embers that set the hem of my dress alight.

I pause as my fingers glide across the rich fabric of my voluminous skirts, seizing it between my fingers to draw it up so I can see it in the dim light. The material was once white and adorned with bits of lace along the hem, accustomed for a wedding. It is now a dingy gray, soiled and charred into fraying bits. The ruffled hem of my dress crumbles into ash as I run my finger along it, fluttering down to land upon my bare feet.

I had slippers, I think as I turn to look about me, confused and dazed by my odd surroundings.

Heat from the flames strokes my cheek with mounting intensity. I can feel my eyelashes beginning to mat together with sweat that drips from my brow. I swipe the beads away with the back of my hand and realize a fever has ensnared me.

The air hangs thick before me, weighted with smoke and the scent of something repulsive, as if the grave itself spewed forth its inhabitants. I blink to see through the haze, startled to discover that when I focus, I can see each particle of ash that drifts to the floorboards, leaving a thick dusting on everything within sight.

"Hello?" I call, my throat croaking from the lack of moisture in the air.

My hands tremble as I push against the floor, attempting to rise. My leg muscles coil and I am sent careening backward. The wind is knocked from my chest as I slide down the inflamed wall. The scent of my burning hair stings in my nose as I crawl forward to escape the sweltering heat.

How did I jump like that? I stare down at my fingers, noting the definition of my skin stretched taut over pale flesh.

I was never one for hiding from the sun as some ladies were accustomed to. I lived for the moment when I could escape the confines of my father's home and be free. My mother loved to scold me about my freckles and sun-kissed skin, though as I turn my hands over, I realize the golden hue of my flesh has been stripped away.

My gaze trails up from my hands, pausing over the corded muscles that now lie just beneath the nearly translucent flesh of my forearms. I poke at the muscle, bewildered by its presence, though I have only a scant second to wonder at the changes in my body before I become aware of the blood that coats my upper arms, vining down to my wrists. I draw my hands up to my face and see drying blood caked within the half-crescent circle of my chipped fingernails.

"Hello?" I call again as I lower my hands and stare in horror at the billowing smoke before me. The fire has begun to spread to all corners of the room. I hear movement in the darkened shadows; however, I cannot decipher what causes it. "Is anyone there?"

A low, guttural chuckle rises from somewhere within the depths of the thick cloud before me. My stomach clenches painfully as the laughter rolls over me like a glacial downpour.

A memory seizes me: my family, perched resolutely in long wooden pews. My brother Petru sat beside my mother, stiff backed and vexed to silence. Storm clouds brewed along his handsome features, darkening his eyes. His hair was combed and slicked with mother's cooking oil, a look that would have brought tears to my eyes had I not been so preoccupied with my own ordeal.

My sister Adela sat beside him, prim and proper in her beautiful dress and ribbons. Her hair shone like waves of summer wheat in the candlelight and her heart-shaped face lit with excitement. This was her first wedding.

Ahead of me had been an altar of glossed wood and gold, achingly familiar from my mornings spent in this very room for weekly service. A large crucifix stood atop the altar and an aged, cracking leather Bible rested atop its polished surface. I fixed my gaze on the likeness of Christ, praying for deliverance, though none came.

I can remember hearing my feet whisper across the wooden plank floor as I slowly made my way down the aisle. My father's rotund stomach jiggled as he nodded at each of the guests seated nearest the aisle.

My cousins arrived just this morning for the wedding, all the way from the southern province of Wallachia. I had not seen them since their youngest, a wee pig-faced runt of a boy, was added to their rather excessive litter. My entire family gathered from near and far for the occasion, nearly fifty people in all. My father had seen to that.

It is not every day that a Dragomir marries into such a highborn family.

I remember the feel of my intended's hand as he clasped mine in his. His flesh was supple with youth and oddly warm to the touch. If I had reason to care, I would have questioned him as to his health, though I dared not. Not after I met his eye.

Hunger... that is what I saw when I looked at him for the first time, not one moon past. It was as obvious as it was appalling. His dark gaze made my skin crawl and my fingers tremble from within the confines of my skirts when my father presented me to him.

There was something indescribably evil about my betrothed. Why was I the only one to see it?

I suspect that Petru knew, yet he was too busy chasing skirts to think much of it until Father announced a deal had been struck. I was sold like cattle in a market. My pleas did little good. Nor did my tears.

I believe my mother knew of my distress, although she had learned long ago that no one defied my father's wishes. His word was law in the Dragomir household, and to many without. My sister, dear sweet Adela, knew of my fears. She would cradle me in the night, just as I used to do for her when nightmares plagued her as a child. She would whisper to me, plotting our escape. We would head to Wallachia and marry farmers and be blissfully happy. Childish dreams, still I prayed for them nonetheless.

When Vladimir Enescue seized my hand before the altar, I wanted to pull back, to run and hide in the woods so I could not be found, although his grip was far too tight and my father's reprove fierce.

I was trapped.

I do so pledge. My own damning words echo endlessly through my mind as I crawl forward, my hands flailing about before me in search of the pews my family sat upon. Heated splinters easily burrow into the flesh of my palms as I hunt, drawn inexplicably toward a sweet yet oddly tinny scent.

My hand touches something damp and sticky and I rear back. My knees ache from kneeling upon the hard floor, yet I dare not move. "No," I moan as I stare down at my mother's corpse. The flesh of her throat has been shredded, as if a rabid animal tore at her repeatedly. The front of her gown is a blanket of crimson. It clings to her like a vile sludge.

I turn away as my stomach contracts. I know I am about to be ill; however, my convulsion stutters to a halt as I spy my father's hand just beyond my mother, sticking out from behind the second pew. Only his hand. I cannot see where the remainder of his body has gone.

Beyond him I see piles of my fair-haired relations strewn about the room, some dangling over the backs of pews while others have been carelessly tossed aside in the aisle. Their clothes are alight from the embers that flitter down from the crumbling ceiling.

The scent of death rises in my nostrils and I gag. Bile burns in my throat as I peer through the smoke that now escapes through the charred hole in the roof to see my brother's body hung from the double doors leading into the church. A rusty nail impales through Petru's shoulder so that he slumps to one side, his chin propped against his sunken chest. Blood coats his wedding clothes, dripping from the tips of his shoes. The sheath at his hip is barren, his sword lost among the carnage.

I remember everything. I turn about in place, searching for my new husband. I know he is here somewhere.

Vladimir Enescue did this. He and his horrid brother.

Threads from the woven tapestries along the walls drift to the floor in charred piles of irreplaceable ash. The plank walls groan as the foundation of the church begins to deteriorate.

The fire appears to leap from body to body before me as I lurch to my feet and weave among the blue flames, desperately trying to fight against the pain swelling in my chest. It is not the dull ache of remorse, but a sharp, jagged pain that steals away my breath. Warm blood clings to my throat and chest like a second skin, sticky and maddening. My bronze hairs feel heavy laden as the thick strands slap against my face, matted with congealing blood.

The scent of boiling flesh needles at my eyes and turns my stomach rancid. The flames chase after me as I frantically scour the pews in search of my sister.

I cannot see my husband, though I know he is here. I can hear his laughter all around me, caged within the shadows. I can feel his taunting eyes upon me as he watches and waits.

Blood rains down from my hair, splattering against the bodice of my wedding dress, melding with the crimson design that spans my bodice. I do not know to whom the blood belongs. Myself? My husband? My sister?

"Adela!" My voice is hoarse as I grip a pew to pull myself over a slain cousin, Remus, and his young wife Valeria beside him. I try not to think of the unborn child within her womb that will never see the light of day.

My nails dig deep into the flesh of the pine seatback, crying out as the pew tears free from the floor and crashes atop Remus. I stare in disbelief at the flames that crawl up through the new cavity I opened in the floor. How did I manage that? Surely it is because the floor is severely compromised by the fire.

As I move to step around Remus, I spy deep indentations where my fingers lay buried within the wood. I step forward to brush my fingers across the markings. A sickening squelch from below my foot makes me feel faint. Oh, my Lord! Whom did I tread upon?

I dare not look for fear of losing my nerve as I pick my way through the carnage. Dismembered body parts lie scattered before me like a gruesome puzzle. Is this Lucien Enescue's doing? My husband's brother was the one who butchered my family and stole the life of my brother as I watched in stunted horror. I have never met a more vile man.

My hands tremble as I clutch my stomach and lurch to the side, expelling the acid that burns in my throat. I wipe my mouth clean, though the taste of guilt lingers. My chest rises and falls as the sound of crackling flames consumes my mind. The smoke grows thicker, hanging heavily in the air before me. Though much of it rises from the blistered slant of the church gable, the smoke pouring from the walls around me is suffocating.

The room begins to spin as I fight back the terror that grips me. "Adela!"

I push back to my feet, ignoring the flames that seize the hem of my dress. The floor is unbearably hot on the soles of my feet, yet I press on, gritting my feet against the blisters that form. Nothing seems as it should, almost as if I have awoken into a terrific nightmare. If only I could pinch myself and wake.

My sister's golden hair should be easy to spot in the firelight, yet she is nowhere to be seen. "Adela, answer me!"

I slip on the blood-slicked floor and crash to my knees before the altar, jarring my jaw so I nearly bite my tongue in half. Blood seeps between my teeth. Still, I ignore it as the copious amounts of fabric from my dress shield my knees from the brunt of the impact.

A terrible crash from behind sends me scrambling to my feet. I glance back over my shoulder to find the timbers nearest the door have collapsed, sealing me inside. I can no longer see my brother upon the far wall.

"Help!" I stagger up the steps toward the altar, terrified. Flames eat away at the wooden crucifix before me. Already half of the Lord's body has been destroyed; the other portrays a gruesome reminder of the eternal torment my mother so loved to preach to me about when I was headstrong as a child.

Am I dead? Is this my damnation?

My gaze lands upon a glint of silver and I lurch forward to retrieve a bloodied dagger, clutching it tightly to my chest as another memory envelopes me: Adela's wide eyes latch onto mine. Mewling sounds rise from her throat as she thrashes against Lucien's grasp. The muscles along her forearms pull taut as she fights to touch my outstretched hands.

"It is time, brother," Lucien growls as his gaze focuses on the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

"Time for what?" I whimper as I turn to face my new husband.

Vladimir smiles down at me, curling his finger along my cheekbone. "Do not fret. It will all be over soon."

Adela's piercing screams tear at me as Lucien waves the silver blade before my sister's eyes. She bucks wildly as his arms snake about her chest and her cries give way to wailing pleas.

"No, please!" I beg as stinging tears blur my vision. "Take me instead."

Vladimir's hauntingly handsome face shows no emotion. "The pain will only be for a moment."

"Roseli—" Adela's cry gurgles in her throat as the blade slices clean through her flesh. A thin red line appears first, and then a shower of blood cascades down from her neck, staining her pale-pink dress. Her eyes bulge as she fights for breath. Delicate fingers attempt to staunch the outpouring.

I fall to my knees and the dagger clatters from my hands. My hair falls in a heavy veil over my face as I bow my head. Salty tears stream down the curve of my cheeks, pattering against the heated floor. Small puffs of steam rise from where they fall. My shriek of agony weaves among the rafters of this desecrated church and up into the night.

That is when I smell it. The heady bouquet that clings to my skin is sweet, delicious. My throat clenches as the scent rolls over me and I fight the urge to lick my lips. I lower my gaze and notice fresh sheets of blood staining my bodice for the first time. It trails down from my throat and oozes into a deep, cleanly edged wound just over my heart. The hole has already begun to mend, sealing over with a new layer of pale flesh.

Reaching up with quivering fingers, I touch the sticky warmth that adheres to my chest. "No, no, no!"

I shake my head at the memory of Vladimir plunging the dagger deep into my chest, tearing flesh and scoring bone. The pain had been excruciating, although it paled instantly as a new pain surged through my veins. The fires burned hotter than any mortal flame, charring everything in its path. The darkness had come... yet not fast enough.

It was all real! I cannot breathe as mocking laughter draws my gaze upward and I meet the dark, maniacal eyes of Lucien Enescue perched among the charred rafters. His long hair drapes about his shoulders, thickly matted with blood. The flesh of his right cheek is scored deeply with claw marks, which show rapid signs of healing. His chin is layered red with fresh blood. As he peels back his lips into a grotesque smile, I feel faint at the crimson that paints his teeth.

The scent of death permeates the air around him as he leaps down to the floor before me in a billow of black silk. There is no sound as his feet connect with the ground. Only the whisper of air shifting.

"She remembers." His words feel like a thousand snakes writhing across my skin. Goose bumps rise as I flail backward, scuttling away from his slow, purposeful approach.

My fingers snag in something moist and stringy as I frantically try to flee. I turn slowly toward my hand, terrified of what I might discover. Tears roll unhindered down my grimy cheeks. Lifeless blue eyes stare back at me as I untangle my fingers from my sister's stained golden strands.

"Adela!" I wail as the room begins to darken about me. My head grows unusually light as I blink against my shock.

The wooden floor trembles beneath my hands as something lands beside me, though I only see my sister. A clean gash is carved into her throat, cut deep to her spine. I glimpse bone protruding from the wound and realize her head is only partially attached by a thin layer of stretched skin. The blood that spilled from her wound has already begun to congeal against her ashen chest.

It is not this wound that consumes my attention, but rather the semi-circle of teeth marks on the tender flesh nestled in the hollow of her neck. A tremor rises through my body at the taste of Adela's blood on my lips. I bit her!

"Guard the door, Lucien." A husky voice seems to call from a distance. "I do not want to be disturbed."

"The fire—" Lucien's protest cuts off and I hear him move away.

My vision blurs as a dark face appears before me. I try to focus as strong hands press me roughly back to the floor. I know that I must fight back, to scream for help as my thoughts splinter.

I can feel my skirts being lifted and a weight pressed down upon me.

"Congratulations, my dear." Cold fingers slide down my inner thigh as the hard voice of my husband whispers in my ear. "Your first kill."

Tears spill down my cheeks as my head rolls to the side. I stare into the unseeing eyes of my sister as my husband takes me for the first time.

# TWO

I bite on my lower lip to keep from crying out as the wagon wheel hits a deep rut in the well-traveled dirt road that spans ever before me. The route winds narrowly through patches of angry-looking thorn bushes capable of shredding cloth and flesh from a distracted traveler. A tangle of spruce and maple trees fight for survival in the densely seeded timberland, their roots twined together just below the surface.

During the day, I imagine the forest to hold a raw sense of beauty, yet in the dark of night it is truly fearsome to behold. As a child, my mother warned me of the evil that lay in wait in this wood. Nevertheless, I know I have nothing to fear. Glancing at my husband Vladimir from the corner of my eye, I know there is nothing within the borders of this land that could hurt me any more than he has.

The air is cool against my skin and my breath hovers in a weighted vapor before my lips. I should be perished on a night such as this, wearing so little, yet the wind that ruffles my skirts feels peculiarly soothing against my inflamed skin.

Judging by the descent of the moon, it has been several hours since we emerged from the gates of Brasov, the fires licking against our backs as we took to the road. Dawn shall be upon us shortly. Presently I can see the distant horizon awash with lighter charcoal hues instead of inky black.

The stars above shine brightly in the cloudless sky. I glance back over my shoulder to see great plumes of smoke dotting out the twinkling lights. The horizon is brilliantly lit as the fires spread from the church to the clapboard homes nearby, quickly devouring much of my former home.

I turn forward and clench my eyes shut as the tears come. I do not want to cry, yet I cannot find the strength within to cease. The jarring wagon ride sends pains shooting through my lower abdomen. My nails rake deep into the lip of the bench as I stifle my cries.

The shredded remains of my wedding dress are hardly suitable cushion against the rigidity of the seat. I shift to one side, praying for relief that does not come.

My new husband is a vile monster. His brother is far worse.

Lucien watched with indifference as Vladimir ravaged me long into the night, first in the church and then several times more in my childhood bed that I once shared with my sister in our loft. The only time he showed any emotion was when my screams rose above the ringing of the bells that peeled through the town, waking Brasov to the peril that had laid siege to the town. With his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, Lucien savored my anguish, as if tasting a fine wine.

Vladimir was callous and ferocious as he tore at me. My pleas fell on deaf ears as I resisted, raking my nails against his arms until blood spilled down my fingers, and still he did not relent. He gripped me until I feared my bones would splinter and my flesh became a patchwork of bruises. My lower lip split, staining my teeth with a coppery taste that made my stomach roil.

With each touch, Vladimir made my spirit wither.

When he was finished with me, he yanked me from the bed and slung me over his shoulder, carrying me to the wagon Lucien had prepared. I was not allowed the time to clean away his filth or to reclaim any of my treasures. No family heirlooms or even the doll my sister slept with in secret each night. I have nothing to remind me of my childhood nor the family that I lost, save for the tatters of a soiled wedding dress that my mother lovingly stitched, though even that has been contaminated by Vladimir.

Vivid bruises line my exposed arms. My inner thighs are chafed, my back raw and leaching blood. An incessant beating plagues my head. My mind is imprisoned in the desperate attempt to isolate itself from the ghastly events of the night.

How can one man be so heinous?

A near constant tremble has taken possession of my fingers. The slightest sound sets my heart aflutter. Every movement Vladimir makes beside me drives me to pure anxiety.

It is hard to breathe, to focus on anything save the pain. I do not know how much more I can take.

My husband made me bleed the first time, far more than I had thought possible. My mother had told me to expect a small amount of discomfort on my wedding night, yet that was hardly what I felt. Tearing. Ripping. Biting. It is almost as if my husband were an animal instead of a man.

The throbbing in my fingers is maddening. I look down upon my bloodied hands and realize that four fingernails have been torn away, no doubt lost in my desperate attempt to flee Vladimir's grasp, leaving only raw flesh behind. The flies will come for me soon enough, drawn to the scent, and I will not have the heart to swat them away. Wrapping my hands within the frayed folds of my dress, I shudder at the thought.

I am aware of my body in ways that I never have been before. My bosom is bruised, as if Vladimir had intended to rip them clean from my chest. My legs ache from being twisted at random. My hips feel as if they have been repositioned, sitting slightly out of joint. I fear that I will be unable to walk when I dismount this infernal cart.

Warm tears slip from the corners of my eyes. I can smell Vladimir upon me, lingering, burning my eyes. The memory of his hands upon me is both offensive and terrifying. I pray for refuge, a numbness that might secret me away, keep me safe.

Has it really only been a single night? Just yesterday I was picking flowers in the meadow with Adela for my wedding bouquet, laughing at her flightful fancy of the farmer boy who lives just beyond the walls of Brasov. She always did have an eye for beauty, and Gavril, son of Cosmin, was a sight to see.

My heart aches at the thought of their love that would never be allowed to take flight. Not that my father would ever have condoned such an unfavorable union. Gavril was poor and as such of no use to my father.

No. Adela would have been sold to the highest bidder. Someone older and boasting far more wealth than my father.

I wipe away the moisture that streams past my lips, falling in errant drops from the end of my chin as I attempt to press back the image of the teeth marks along my sister's neck. How could I have done such an appalling thing? Did Vladimir force me to bite her just as he forced me this morning?

Bile rises high in my throat as I think upon the amount of blood that I lost throughout the night, soiling the bed sheets. The feel of Vladimir's blood upon my lips was thick and vile as he forced me to drink from his wrist, like ale from a tap in a tavern. He told me it would staunch the blood flow from his attack. I cannot comprehend how it worked, only that it did.

My aches began to recede almost immediately and the profuse bleeding ceased. However, the horror of thick rivulets of blood sliding down the back of my tongue has not left me. He was relentless, forcing me to gag down his blood. I tried to spit it back at him. A backhand to my cheek sent my mind reeling.

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.

Tales become myth and myth becomes legend.

Those legends were the source of my nightmares, though I fear I will no longer have to sleep for the darkness to come. It is ever around me.

"I am no monster," I spit out with disgust and yank away from his touch.

Vladimir's eyes darken against the predawn sky. "You will be."

# THREE

Beside me, Vladimir's hands stiffen on the reins and the horses whinny in protest as he jerks them to a halt. Puffs of dust filter up from their hooves as they dig into the road to obey their master's demand. I tense as he lifts his nose to the air and closes his eyes. A sweet smell, like fresh honey from a hive, fills my nose and I turn in search of the source as Lucien leans over my back from the wagon bed and sniffs deep. His lips peel back over his teeth into a horrid smile.

"Do we have time, brother?" Lucien's throaty voice sends my skin crawling yet again as I shrink back from his touch. His broad chest is heavy upon my shoulders. I can feel the muscle that clothes his body, enabling him to wield his broadsword with such precision and might.

Vladimir turns his face up to the moonless sky and watches as wisps of dawn crawl across the horizon. I too watch, longing for day to come. My mother always told me that light drives away evil. Surely Vladimir will run from the rising sun, for there are no men more evil than these two.

My hope plummets as Vladimir nods. Lucien whoops as he leaps from the stalled wagon and sprints toward a small, single-roomed cabin with smoke spiraling from a crumbling chimney, nestled within a grove of trees. His feet hardly appear to touch the ground as he weaves among the old oaks.

Sheep, pigs, and a dairy cow mill about the fenced yard beyond. Chickens peck at the sparsely grassed yard in search of a meal. The previous day's laundry hangs on the line, billowing in the wind. My gaze falls upon nightshirts that are far too small to belong to an adult.

Lucien leaps over the roughly hewn wooden fence and bursts through the front door. It splinters on impact, though he shows no signs of injury as he disappears into the darkened room. I turn away, sickened by the frightened screams that escape through glassless windows.

"There will be no stopping him now." Vladimir does not sound the least bit grieved by this. I flinch as his hand falls atop my forearm. "Would you care to join us?"

My mouth gapes in open horror at the thought. I frantically shake my head and pull back from his touch, tucking my hand under the tattered folds of my dress.

"A pity. More for me I suppose." His sentiment spills from his lips as he tosses the reins into my lap and races to join his brother.

The sounds of children sobbing tear at my heart. I plug my ears and double over, praying for a merciful end for this poor family. Is this really happening? Must I sit here and listen to another family massacred? To children's last screams?

Terror roots me in place for only a heartbeat before I am on the move. I shove the reins from my lap and scramble to the edge of my seat.

He will find you, my mind whispers frantically as I ball up my bloodied skirts and leap from the wagon. I land with far less grace than Lucien and Vladimir and collapse to the ground.

I hold my breath as I look up through matted strands of hair to see if Vladimir has appeared in the doorway of the cabin, yet it remains empty. I close my eyes against a final guttural shriek that emerges from the cabin. The sudden silence is far less terrifying than the slurping sounds that follow after.

Scrambling to my feet, I hesitate as I look to the road before me and the forest beside. I am unfamiliar with this land. How far can I reach before he discovers my absence?

The darkness of the woods terrifies me so I take to the road, careful not to twist an ankle on the deeply rutted path. The horses whinny softly behind me. I do not look back. I dare not or lose my nerve completely.

My bare feet slap against the hardened earth as I urge myself forward. The sound reverberates in my ears, drowning out the sounds behind me.

Those poor children. My throat tightens at the thought of the terror they must have endured in their final moments. Is that how my brother and sister felt before they were butchered?

Tears blur my vision and I angrily swipe them away. There was nothing I could do to save that family, though knowing this truth and accepting it are entirely different things. I try to focus on something else, something tangible.

What gives Vladimir and Lucien such strength and speed? I look down at my hands as I run, turning them over. Do I possess the same ability now?

I cry out as my right foot lodges in a rut and spills me to the ground. Dirt and stones bury into my palms as I attempt to break my fall. The skin around my foot stretches as a horrible pop rises from my ankle.

"No!" I beat at the ground. Raising the hem of my dress, I can see that something is terribly wrong with my ankle. The bone presses too tightly against the skin. The pressure is maddening, as if at any moment my flesh will simply give way and bone will spill out onto the ground.

Pain lances up my leg as I attempt to pry my foot free from the earth. I bite down on my lip as fresh tears appear in the corners of my eyes. Glancing behind to see if I have been pursued, I am startled to see only an empty road behind me. Squinting against the rising sun, I realize the cabin and wagon are nowhere to be found.

How did I travel so far? I am not out of breath, nor feel the slightest bit exerted. As I turn forward, I realize with a start that I am nearly on the outskirts of the small village. That is impossible.

"May I help at all?"

I whip around to see a middle-aged man approaching from the edge of the woods. His clothes are worn and made from animal pelts. A long, shaggy beard clings to his chin, wafting in the morning breeze. A faded hat with a wide brim perches atop his head, no doubt concealing a bald patch befitting his age.

"No, I..." I pause to glance behind me. I am running out of time. "I am perfectly fine, though I thank you for your concern, sir."

"A wee bit stubborn, to be sure. However, this road is no fitting place for a lady." He adjusts a leather sack slung over his back and leaves the tall grasses along the side of the road to stoop at my side. His gaze trails down from my shawl to my soiled wedding dress. His face visibly pales as his eyes widen with shock. "What has happened to you, girl?"

"Please..." I lean forward. "You must leave. If he finds you..."

The man shakes his head and I notice hints of auburn glinting in his beard in the newly risen sunlight. It pierces through the forest, chasing away the shadows that linger. Beneath his weathered wrinkles and kind eyes I would wager he was a fine-looking man once. "I shall not be leaving you alone. Not in such a dire state."

I fight to still the manic thumping of my heart at the feel of his hands against my skin. He wraps his arm about my leg and gently works to release it from the rut, beating at the hardened earth. I close my eyes against the pain, gritting my teeth on the final tug. My heartbeat thumps loudly in my ears as I close my eyes to the nausea that sweeps over me.

"There you are."

I open my eyes as his gently releases my leg and sinks back onto his knees. "Thank... thank you." I finish weakly as I find my gaze rapt on the steady pulse at his throat. The thrumming of his heart rises in my ears as I instinctively lean closer.

The man watches me, his deep-set eyes wide with compassion. I realize with a start that I can smell him. Not the scent of the dried animal pelts nor the damp grass that clings to his boots nor the scent of his skin. It is the scent of his blood that calls to me.

It is a bouquet of cardamom and cinnamon, two scents that I would not normally have attributed with blood, yet I find it to be disturbingly pleasing. It reminds me of the pies my mother used to set upon our windowsill to cool on a winter's afternoon.

"Are you well?"

I blink, surprised to see that his brow is sunken deep with concern. "Yes." I offer him a small smile of reassurance as I clear my throat and draw back from him. "I am quite well now. I thank you for your assistance. That was very kind of you."

"'Twas nothing, my lady."

My smile falters at the term. "I am no lady."

"Pardon me. I assumed by the fine linens you wear..." He trails off with uncertainty.

I look down at the finely made dress. The silky fabric cost my father dearly, though his pride would not allow him to wed me in anything less than the best. My mother would have been delighted to stitch my dress even if he had not insisted to help with the great expense.

"It was a gift," I reply vaguely as I run my fingers across my soiled skirts. I can only imagine what a state I must look to this stranger. Covered in blood from head to bare foot. I look as if I aided in slaughtering a pig instead of being wed.

"Let us get you up, shall we?" He makes a move to draw close yet pauses as I throw out my hand in alarm.

"Please, sir, you have done me a great kindness. Now I must beg of you to leave." I can see the determination in his eyes and know that his honor will not allow him to follow my plea. "If you remain, you will lose your life. I promise you this."

His gaze narrows as he looks beyond me to the empty road. I know he will not be able to see the abandoned cart. Nevertheless, I know Vladimir is coming. There is little time. "Please. You must leave me."

"I cannot, miss."

I reach out with a trembling hand and grasp the furs that drape his arms. There is muscle beneath the thick layers of pelts, though I know they will be useless against Vladimir and Lucien. "You must. Do you not have a family to care for?"

"I do." His cap nearly falls from his head as he nods enthusiastically. "A wife and three wee ones."

A pained smile tugs at my lips. Perhaps this man is not as old as I first assumed. "Think of them."

"I am." He reaches for me and wraps his strong hands about my waist. "When my daughters are grown, I would like to think a man would cross their path and aid them just as I am doing for you."

I want to protest, to shove him aside, yet the pain in my ankle forces me to bite down on my screams. My mind grows woozy as I attempt to hop forward. I nearly collapse as the man strains to hold me upright.

"My name is Miron. I am afraid I did not catch yours, miss." His calloused hands tighten as I attempt another hop. My leg trembles beneath me. I labor to focus on answering him as darkness begins to appear along the corners of my vision. I have never been very tolerant of pain. Mother used to tell me I was too sensitive.

"Roseline... Dragomir," I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Dragomir?" He pauses, as if attempting to draw up a long-forgotten memory. "The Dragomirs of Brasov?"

"You know of my family?" My voice wavers alarmingly.

"I do." He scoops a hand under my legs and lifts me into his arms just before I collapse. "Had dealings with your father a time or two."

I can tell by the sharp edge to his tone that the dealings did not go well. "I am sorry. My father was not known for his generosity in business."

"That he was not." Miron offers me a small smile as he shifts me in his arms and turns toward the town ahead. I have never been to Rasnov before. My father never let me leave the high walls that surrounded Brasov. He said it was too dangerous. Adela and I often snuck through the wall to reach the meadows that grew at the foot of the mountains. It was there that we discovered flower nectar that was as sweet as honey and spring fawns who, if given space and time, would learn to come eat from your palm, yet we were never allowed to explore farther.

"My home is just around the bend. My Ileana will be happy to care to your foot."

"No!" Fear floods back in through the haze of pain. Fear of more death, more blood on my hands. "Please, you mustn't take me there. I beg of you."

"I thought we had settled this, miss."

Echoes of the screams from within the cabin I left behind spike my panic and I lash out at the man. Balling my fingers into a fist, I slam against his shoulder.

His eyes widen with pain as I hear a snap and tumble from his arms. I crash to the earth, gagging as pain roils through my leg. Miron stumbles back, clutching his shoulder as his face reddens.

"I am sorry." I gasp as I clutch my stomach, pleading silently not to be sick in front of this man.

"You hit me." The statement is edged with wild disbelief.

I stare up at him, knowing I have wounded him far beyond a physical marring. "Better a broken arm than a body without a head."

He staggers back, nearly tripping over his fallen sack of pelts. "You are mad."

"No," I whisper as my vision swims before me. "However, the one coming for me is."

# FOUR

I watch as Miron stumbles down the path, his sack dragging in the dirt behind him as he clutches his wounded shoulder. His pace is slow, much too slow.

I hurt him, whispers through my mind as he turns back when he reaches the crest of the road. Just over the hill lies the town and beyond that his family. Please hurry.

The look of betrayal in his eyes stings. However, as I place my palm to the ground, fear sweeps in to steal away my guilt. I can feel the heavy footfalls echoing up through the packed earth. "Run!"

He glances back over his shoulder at me and I watch as terror roots him in place. I do not have to look to know that Vladimir stands behind me. I can smell the blood that stains his skin, moist and fresh. Closing my eyes, I pray Miron will be granted a reprieve. However, in the pit of my stomach I know I am about to witness another death.

Please spare his family, I silently pray as Vladimir stoops beside me. His blackened eyes are wide and unblinking as he looks me over. My lip begins to tremble and my hands quake as he reaches out for me. I shy away and a soft mewing sound escapes my lips as he lays his hand upon my knee. The muscle along his jaw flinches as he stares down at my broken ankle. "The human did this to you?"

"No. He came to my aid..." I trail off as my husband's eyes narrow.

"He dared to touch you?" He rages, ignoring my pleas as he blurs from sight. Vladimir reappears a second later beside Miron. I turn away at the older man's cry of alarm.

The snapping of his spine echoes through the early morning calm. I shudder at the sound of his lifeless body slumping to the ground, feeling a numbness sweep over me. Tears spill freely down my cheeks, pattering against my bloody bodice. My head feels light, though my body feels weighted to the ground.

Strong hands wrap about my arms and hoist me into the air. I blink against the tears and come face to face with Lucien. His clipped beard is moist and the spaces between his teeth are filled with thick blood. His lips peel back into a crimson sneer. "You weep for the human."

"He was innocent," I whimper as his fingers dig into my bruised flesh. My ankle throbs terribly as he shakes me. My teeth pierce the flesh of my lip and blood seeps from the corner of my lip.

"Release her," Vladimir calls from just over my shoulder.

Lucien's gaze shifts as I cower in his grasp, grateful to no longer be the center of his attention. "She cries for the man," he spits out.

"Let her cry. It is her human weakness leaving her." Vladimir pats him on the shoulder, and I cringe as they both shift to stare down at me. I feel so small, so insignificant before them. "She is still young yet, brother. Give her time to adjust to our ways."

Livid eyes drill into me as Lucien draws me close. I turn my face away, holding my breath so as not to ingest the scent of death clinging to him. "Perhaps we were in error in selecting her."

"No." Vladimir's face is void of emotion, though his eyes are not. They roam down my exposed neck and linger at the low cut of my bodice. I tug at my shawl, desperate to hide from his gaze. "She is perfect."

Lucien's growl is low and threatening as he turns to glare at my husband. "This is about far more than your lusts, Vladimir."

"Peace, brother. I know what is at stake. You were correct from the beginning. She is the one."

Blood trickles from my arms where Lucien's nails bury into my flesh. I whimper though I do not pull away, knowing that by doing so it will only be worse. Lucien has proven that he likes inflicting pain. "We shall see."

He tosses me aside without a second thought. I cry out as I slam to the ground. My vision darkens as I collapse to the dirt, pressing my cheek to the cool earth. Strong hands grasp my arms and I shriek, clawing to be free. "Peace, my dear," Vladimir croons as he lifts me effortlessly. I tremble at the feel of his arms around me. Tears slip from my eyes at the memories of the pain those arms inflicted only a few hours ago.

"You are injured." It is not a question, rather a statement, one spoken with swift reproach. He tugs my chin so I am forced to acknowledge him.

"I fell," I whisper.

"While trying to escape."

I lower my gaze and remain silent. Vladimir laughs and tightens his grip about me as he carries me toward the wagon. His grasp is firm though less painful than Lucien's, almost as if he were carrying a child for whom he felt affection.

The thought is laughable. A monster does not care for its prey. It toys with it until there is nothing left, save a shattered soul too weary to fight back.

Vladimir walks at a human's pace as Lucien races on ahead. It takes only a couple seconds for him to disappear from sight.

"How does Lucien move so swiftly?" I inquire, desperate to think upon something other than being in Vladimir's arms.

"There are many things about our kind that you have yet to discover, Roseline. We are superior in every way to mortals."

"Is that the reason you slaughter them?"

Vladimir's grip tightens ever so slightly at my words. "No. I do that for pleasure."

Goose bumps rise along my arms as I fall silent. I was a fool to ask such a question. I should have known I would not like the answer.

As we begin to ascend the hill at the curve of the road I realize I hardly feel discomfort in my ankle from his long gait. Vladimir holds me snug against his broad chest as he walks, poised on the balls of his feet instead of flat footed like a normal man.

He is attempting to ease my pain. This realization gives me no sense of gratitude. Rather it is the opposite. I stare at the man that I am now bound to, pondering what mind game he seeks to play.

Vladimir is a visually stunning man, with a tapered waist, broad shoulders, and a strong jawline that would give any woman reason to pause. However, that hesitation would be her downfall. I know from experience that he needs only a mere second to rip out your throat.

His skin is nearly white against the black clothes he wears. His hair unbound and spilling over his shoulders. His forearms are clothed in lean muscles, as are his legs and back. He has the body of a day laborer, though I have my suspicions he does little labor.

I have noticed changes within myself since I awoke last night. My hair seems longer and fuller, my waist narrower, and my hips flared in an appealing manner. My chest has blossomed in proper proportion for a young woman and my legs have lengthened, molded with graceful muscle. The hem of my dress now falls about the tops of my ankles instead of brushing my toes.

I long to know why I have changed, what I would look like in a mirror, though I dare not ask. Instead, I bite my tongue and wait for the wagon to appear on the road before us. I would rather live of a lifetime without answers than to ask anything of this vile man.

The sun has begun its rapid ascent in the sky. The horizon is splashed with hues of blues and purples as the moon is driven back to its slumber. I close my eyes as I embrace the new warmth that seeks to drive away the fear encasing my heart.

"We can walk in the day," Vladimir says. I open my eyes to see him watching me. "The rumors of vampyres are flawed. Ludicrous in their falsehood. Mortals do not know what we are, so they let their fears run rampant with wild tales."

"I was told that your flesh burns when it touches the light of day."

"Do not sound so hopeful." Vladimir laughs as he waves Lucien forward. The horses rear back as they draw near to us, stomping nervously at the ground as Vladimir approaches. Even they must smell death on him. "Do you feel as if you might burst into flame?"

"No." I admit as I glance back toward the sun. "I have no sins to atone for though."

"Do you not?" He mocks as Lucien whips the horses into submission and they settle so we may pass beside them. As he lifts me into the back of the wagon, I can see his amused smile. "We shall have to remedy that."

I drag myself away from him as he trails his fingers down my arm with a smile infused with growing lust. I draw my filthy shawl about my shoulders and drape it across my chest as a tremor of fear ripples through me. His lips peel back into a knowing grin. "We shall arrive at Castle Bran by nightfall. We have much to celebrate, my dear."

I raise my good leg to my chest and bury my forehead into my knee. Warm tears come before I can stop them. Vladimir's chuckle makes my stomach roil as he leaves me to join Lucien. The wagon hardly jostles as he leaps up onto the bench seat.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." Vladimir turns. I look up, wiping away my tears. He tosses a bundle of cloth over his shoulder at me and I am forced to lunge forward to retrieve it. I cry out as pain lances through my leg. The bundle nearly slips through my fingers. It is heavier than it appears.

I draw it into my lap and slowly unfold the rags. My breath catches as I reveal a tiny baby, hardly past its first season change. Blood is splattered across its face, though it appears unharmed, albeit it eerily still and silent.

I look up at Vladimir in horror. "What is this?"

His grin widens as he looks down at the innocent babe. "A snack."

# FIVE

I clutch the babe to my chest as we jostle down the road, passing through deserted villages. Has word spread that the lord of Castle Bran is passing through? Perhaps that would explain the closed shutters and overturned baskets of wares left rolling in the streets.

The babe hardly moves in my arms, hardly makes a sound. Its chest rises and falls in halting, labored breaths. Its skin is pale, tinged slightly blue. There is something terribly wrong with this child.

Drawing back the clothes, I search along the babe's neck for any signs of teeth marks yet find none. I gaze along its legs and arms, turning it gently to inspect its back. There is not a wound to be found.

As I gently wrap the child against the blustery winds, I find Vladimir turned in his seat, watching me. "Can you not smell it?"

I instinctively draw back from his gaze, curling my shoulders inward to protect myself and the innocent child. Several moments pass and I realize that he demands an answer. With my focus fixed on the babe's colorless lips, I respond, "I can smell the blood."

From the corner of my eye I see Vladimir shake his head. He turns his body so his knee presses into Lucien's side in the narrow seat. I cringe, loathing the feeling of his rapt attention. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace! I silently scream as I cower against the wooden wall of the wagon.

"The child is marked for death."

My eyes close against the tears I feel brimming along my lower lashes. I knew, though I did not want to see. "How do you know this?" I cling to the innocent child, praying that Vladimir is wrong.

"Breathe deep and tell me what you find." It is not a request. We both know this.

My fingers tremble as I clutch the babe close to my nose and take a breath. I smell nothing, save the coppery scent of the blood that clings to its cheeks and forehead, no doubt splattered from its mother as he was torn from her bosom. "I smell nothing."

"Death smells rotten. It reeks of decay. Try again."

Like you, I surmise silently. His gaze is intense, demanding. I release a shuddery breath and close my eyes as I draw the child close once more. This time I detect new scents: the soiled linen that cocoons the child, the smell of his mother's fear that lingers, and the scent of something dank and overripe, like an unseen wound festering with infection.

I open my eyes and see Vladimir nodding with approval. "You will learn to recognize this scent well, Roseline. It will help you choose your victims."

"Do you only kill those who are already dying?" Did this family have some sort of illness, a plague perhaps, that I did not detect before? Is that why Lucien chose them?

"No." His grin sharpens with cruelty. "I am partial to children in their prime. Lucien is not so fastidious. He merely relishes the hunt."

Lucien chuckles. "You always did prefer youth... and beauty." He glances back over his shoulder at me and I shudder. The holes in my shawl and dress make me feel as naked to his gaze as when Vladimir ravaged me before Lucien.

The child does not protest to my tight grip as I press it against my bosom. I would give anything to save this life, yet I have nothing to offer. "Why spare this babe?" I whisper.

"Spare it?" Vladimir's expression freezes somewhere between incredulity and mockery. "Every immortal has to start somewhere. I assumed with the manner in which you fed from your sister that you would be hungry again."

"Adela?" I whisper. A tiny movement of protest in my arms makes me realize just how tightly I was clutching the child. Perhaps it still has a chance.

Lucien sniggers as he tugs on the reins to steer us around a bend. The trees tower high overhead on either side of the road, blocking out the noonday sun. I do not know how much farther we have to travel. Nevertheless, a part of me despairs that we shall arrive much sooner than I am ready.

"You were the fastest I have ever witnessed turn. I was sure we would have to drag your body from the ashes, yet you awoke while the moon was still high." Lucien glances back over his shoulder at me. "You were ravenous when you awoke. I enjoyed the way you tore at your sister's throat. You were delightfully animalistic."

A ball of acid forms in my stomach at the thought. How could I have done such a thing? Surely he is distorting the truth. I am no butcher. I could never mutilate my own flesh and blood.

"You lie," I spit back.

"Do I?" Lucien scoffs, though Vladimir places a hand atop his brother's arm. Lucien falls silent, yet as I lower my gaze, I can still feel his belittling smirk.

A sickness begins to spread through my chest and settle around my heart. What if he is not wrong? Why can I not recall what happened to me?

The events surrounding my birth, as Vladimir insists on calling it, are still hazy for me. Some clarity returned once I saw my slaughtered family. Other memories have yet to resurface.

There were teeth marks upon her throat and Adela's blood upon your lips, a voice whispers in my mind. I shake my head and turn my back on the two men. No. I could never have done such a monstrous thing.

I ride in silence as the miles pass by. I have lost all bearings or calculation of how far we have come and am unsure of how much farther we must go. Lucien and Vladimir never seem to tire, though as the sun rises and the heat melds with the land, I begin to feel lethargic. My head lolls in time with the spinning of the wooden wheels. My eyes droop with exhaustion and I give way to the pain in my ankle for a time.

My eyelids flutter open and I instantly sense danger. My arms and lap are barren. I bolt upright in search for the babe yet find that it has vanished.

"Where is he?" I run my hands in a frenzy along the straw-covered floor beside me yet come up with nothing more than splinters buried deep into my palms.

"He is gone."

I stiffen at the sound of a new voice and realize I am not alone in the back of the cart. A woman, with stunning waves of scarlet hair and a tiny button of a nose, sits across from me. Her skin is paler than a winter snow and her full lips are the color of freshly spilt blood. Metal chains drape about her neck and wrists, tinkling as she slowly licks her slender fingers.

I stare at the droplets of blood that cling to her nails and feel my stomach fall away. "You killed him."

A wide grin stretches across her face and her green eyes narrow in such a way that it reminds me of a cunning mousing cat that once lived in my father's barn. "His fate was already sealed. I only helped speed the process."

"You wretched woman," I spit at her and toss the handful of hay that I cling to at her. My chest rises and falls with anger, yet I instantly subside at the raucous laughter from the front of the wagon. The woman's eyes twinkle with delight and she leans forward to speak.

"How delightfully naive she is, Vladimir." She reaches out to trail a single fingernail down my exposed leg. I yank it back under the protection of my dress. She grins. "We shall have much fun with her."

Vladimir tsks and shakes his finger at her over his shoulder. "This one is not for playing, Alamesia. She is my new wife."

Alamesia hisses as she recoils. "This is the girl? Surely you jest."

"No." Vladimir's tone is suddenly laced with ice. "I never jest."

I watch as Alamesia grasps her mistake and pleads forgiveness for her misstep. Gone is the woman's haughty confidence, replaced with simpering fear. Vladimir appears dispassionate to her apologies. However, Lucien speaks with calm reason and my husband finally relents. When Alamesia finally looks to me again, I notice she waits for Vladimir to turn forward before she casts a contemptuous glare in my direction, as if it were my fault she incurred Vladimir's anger.

I shall avoid this woman in the future, I silently vow as I turn to watch the trees as they pass, feigning a disinterest that is far from the truth. From the edge of my vision, I note the rigidity of Vladimir's shoulders. Lucien's tense grip on the reins feels as stifling as the cold silence from my riding partner.

Does everyone fear Vladimir? My father informed me when Vladimir solicited my hand in marriage that he was lord of a castle. He had failed to mention that Vladimir is also the executioner of any who irk him.

The sun becomes blistering as the afternoon wanes, and I seek solace in the sparse shade my shawl can provide. Alamesia glowers at me as she is forced to endure the unseasonable heat without any covering. Neither Lucien nor Vladimir speaks of it. However, I notice the pace of the horses increases.

Not long before sundown I spy light up ahead. I press my palms into the floor of the wagon and crane my neck to see.

Tall torches, the height of a man, stand on either side of the road, winding through the forest and up a hill. I peer through the darkening woods and notice more light through the trees. The terrain slopes upward as the horses begin to lean into their steps. Their harnesses jangle as they attack the incline.

Bits of hay tumble from the back of the wagon as I clasp onto the clapboards for support. I gnash my teeth at Alamesia as she shifts and connects solidly with my ankle, merely winking back at me. The throbbing pain does little to alleviate my curiosity as I turn once more to the view.

The mountains rise up around us and a chill rides the evening air. It feels blissfully cool against my skin as I draw back the hem of my shawl. The trees have begun to shed their leaves, cushioning our path. I catch glimpses of white stone and red wooden shake shingles as we turn one bend and begin up another.

A few minutes later, the trees fall away and I am enraptured by the sight before me. Castle Bran is no small feat of modern architecture. It rises above me to greater heights than I have ever glimpsed. Far greater than the church where I said my vows on the previous night. Before it burned to the ground, it was as the largest building in the town.

Castle Bran gleams like an impenetrable fortress atop the hill in the fading sunlight. It steals away my breath. "It is beautiful," I whisper to myself.

"Beauty is only a fool's disguise," Alamesia mutters darkly, although I notice she too is captured by the moment.

Vladimir turns in his seat to face me. "Welcome home, my dear."

# SIX

At first, I struggle to comprehend what it is that I see, yet as we draw near to the gates, I realize the poles lining the top of the castle walls are actually spears with severed heads impaled upon the spikes. Mouths gape in a silent scream of horror. Empty eye sockets are tilted so it appears as if the dead watch the entrance. Torn flesh dangles from what was once a neck. Dried blood stains white bone that protrudes from snapped spines still attached to the heads.

It is a gruesome sight to behold. I cower back, horrified, as we roll beneath dozens of men and women. My only consolation is that I do not see any children.

"Is this your first encounter?"

I glance over at Alamesia with growing wariness. However, this time I see nothing beside curiosity in her eyes. "Yes," I manage to find my voice. It is weak, to be sure, yet thankfully present.

She points to the tall wooden gates as they slowly open, as if on their own. "There are more within. The great hall once boasted heads of great bears and lynx. Now they have been replaced by Vladimir's greatest conquests. Kings and lords from across the land now perch upon his walls."

I glance up at a head and shudder. "How can murdering a woman be so great a conquest? There is no honor in this." I wrap my shawl about me as if it might somehow protect me from the horrors of my new home. Nothing could have prepared me for this sight.

"Honor is determined only by the one taking it," Lucien says in a clipped tone. He whistles to the horses and they eagerly attack the final incline. They bray and dip their heads as the wagon levels off and we roll through the gates of Castle Bran.

The doors close behind us. I turn to watch as two men, draped in dark hooded cloaks, push the giant-sized doors. A wooden beam booms as it falls into place to seal out intruders, reverberating through my chest, though no one in their right mind would dare come here willingly.

Alamesia bangs on the side of the wagon, her rings giving off a metallic rap against the wood. When Lucien pulls on the reins, she leaps from the straw-covered carriage and lands lightly on her feet. With a final glare cast in my direction, she rises up beside Lucien and whispers something in his ear before sinking back to the ground and trouncing off in a flurry of skirts.

"Be careful with that one, brother." Vladimir warns. "Many men have awoken beside her with a dagger at their throat."

I catch Lucien's smile from the corner of my eye. "I am not most men."

"Indeed you are not." Vladimir claps him on the back and leaps from the seat. He lands soundlessly and comes around to the back of the wagon. He holds out his hand to me.

When I do not accept, his lips press into thin white lines. "I am not a patient man, Roseline, nor am I commonly forgiving."

"My apologies," I whisper meekly, thinking back on the fright I saw in Alamesia's eyes when Vladimir's tone dropped similarly. Although terror seeks to root me in place, I know to refuse would bring far greater pain. "It is my leg. I fear I shall not be able to move easily."

He casts a glance down and frowns at the obvious swelling. My ankle is double the size and discolored with bruising. "This will not do."

He turns abruptly. "Atticus!"

A tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes and light stubble along his jaw appears from an open doorway at the base of the castle. His steps are controlled and his swagger pronounced. I noticed a slender sword at his hip and a matching dagger tucked into the top of his calf-high boot.

"You have returned," he calls with an air of exaggerated welcome. He approaches with his arm outstretched to clasp Vladimir in a familiar greeting.

"My lady needs help to her room. See to it that she is mended and prepared for the feast. I am sure she is weary from her journey."

Weary from the journey? Not from being stabbed in the chest, mauled through the night, and dragged halfway across the country while my family's embers still burn? Bitterness rises high within my throat, though I swallow it back down as the man turns to acknowledge me.

"My lady." His bow is low and forced. "I had not expected you so soon."

"And when were you to expect her?" Vladimir snaps as the man rises in a sweeping flourish.

"I only meant that I presumed you would extend your stay in Brasov," he amends quickly. Atticus is a sly one. I can see the cunning within the depths of his carefully guarded expression. I will have to mind myself about him. He turns and offers me an abbreviated bow to the one he offered Vladimir. "Come, my lady. I will see to your preparations."

He scoops me effortlessly into his arms and I am forced to be carried yet again like an infant. The thought makes me shudder and draws forth a smile from his lips. "I vow that I will not bite."

"Why does that sentiment not bring me any comfort?" I mutter. He snickers and holds me close to his chest. Close enough to feel the rigid definition beneath.

"Atticus?" He turns swiftly, and I see Vladimir marching back toward us. His face clouds over with barely concealed animosity. "I requested that you take her to her room. Nothing more. Is that understood?"

Atticus's finger flinches ever so slightly against my waist as he nods. "Of course. I would never think upon doing anything more. I will send Verity to attend to her more personal needs."

"No." Vladimir shakes his head. For the first time I realize he has begun to show signs of weariness. Perhaps the journey was more arduous for him than I originally thought. "Send Emeline. I do not trust Verity with her."

"As you wish." He turns only after Vladimir spins on his heel and marches into the castle.

I do not feel comfortable in this man's arms. His grip is tighter than necessary, boasting of an intimacy that I am sure Vladimir would not approve of. It is difficult for me to focus on my surroundings as we weave through the darkened interior of the castle.

"Should I be wary of this Verity?" I ask, counting the steps as we mount higher into the stone building. The draft flowing down from above feels delicious against my flushed skin.

He smiles, though there is a tightness to it that concerns me. "Verity would toy with you as a cat toys with a meal. She is cruel, though that description would be fitting for most who live within these walls."

I cast a glance at him. "Even yourself?"

This time his smile is instantaneous and broad. "Especially myself."

I can hear several voices behind closed doors as we pass on the second floor. However, Atticus does not leave me in one of the spare rooms. Instead, he begins to ascend to a third floor.

No sounds come from these heights and my heart rate begins to increase with doubt. Why is he taking me away from everyone else? Does he plan to attack me? Will Vladimir come if I scream?

I am surprised by a chuckle that rumbles deep in Atticus's chest. I glance up to find him smirking down at me. His sharply handsome features are dulled by the dim flickering of candlelight at the top of the stairs. "You look as a little lost lamb being led to the slaughter."

"Perhaps I am."

His smile broadens as he ascends a set of stone steps so narrow he is forced to hold me upright, almost to the point where I am staring eye to eye with him. I see the slight darkening of his eyes and the widening of his pupils. His scent shifts and I tense in his arms.

It is too dark here, too remote. "My husband seems rather protective of me," I comment purposefully

Atticus blinks and nods slowly, his grip loosening minimally as he reaches the top step. "He always is... in the beginning."

"And after?"

When he shrugs, I come dangerously close to his lips. I press down on his arm as we slip through the narrow doorway into a wide hall and he concedes, letting me settle back in against his chest, a safe distance from his lips. "Vladimir has fine tastes in women, though over time they wane."

"Do they always?" I pray he does not notice how I hold my breath in anticipation of his answer. Is it possible that Vladimir will tire of me? That I will be cast aside? That I can be free once more?

There is a flickering of torch light at the top of the stairs, and I feel hope. Surely this was prepared for my arrival, yet if that is so, then why was Atticus so surprised to see us return today?

"Vladimir has yet to remain with one woman." He lifts me so my head does not connect with the doorway as we enter another small hallway with low-hanging wooden beams. The ceiling above is vaulted into a peak, and I realize with a start that we have entered the tallest turret that I spied from below.

Atticus pauses before a wooden door and looks down at me. "Eventually you will be given over to us when he tires with you." He leans forward to whisper into my ear. My skin prickles at his touch. Fear nestles firmly into my heart. "I look forward to that day."

I feel numb as he kicks at the bottom of the door and carries me across the threshold into a darkened room. A chill is on the air and the hearth lies cold and dormant. The only light to see by is from the moon that spills in through a glass-paned window on a far wall. "I will send for someone to stoke the fire for you, if you would like."

Thinking back on the heat of the noonday sun, I shake my head. "That will not be necessary." He sinks low to place me atop the bed. A small puff of dusts rises around me. "This is to be my room?"

"Indeed." Atticus rises and dusts off his hands, as if needing to erase the memory of me in his arms. "As I said below, I had thought Vladimir would take his time with you. He does so enjoy the first night."

I look up. "There have been other wives?"

"Many." He laughs and moves toward the door, pausing with his hand upon the latch. "And I have bedded every one of them."

# SEVEN

The moon is high overhead. Its light pools on the floor beside the bed. I stare at it, blinking sleep from my eyes as I realize that it is nearly transparent on the wooden floor in the light of the crackling fire nearby. I groan, rubbing my hands over my face, feeling beads of sweat that cling to my brow.

I sit upright, wincing at the throbbing pain in my ankle. Lifting the hem of my dress, I see it is wrapped in cloth and the pain has lessened.

"Just a few more spoonsful and all will be well again," a singsong voice says from beside me. I shriek and fling out my arm to push the strange girl aside yet feel as if my hand connects with a stone wall. She is nothing more than a wisp of emerald silk and snowy hair. However, I hardly make her bat an eyelash, though she does curl her lip with disapproval. "It is rude to try to strike someone attempting to heal you," she scolds and rises from the bed.

A bowl stained with a thick crimson liquid sloshes as she sets it on a small wooden table beside the bed. A wooden spoon rattles around the edge of the dish. "Finish this, then call when you need help dressing."

With her nose lifted high into the air, she turns and slams the door behind her. No name given. No kind word. I assume this must be the Emeline that Vladimir mentioned earlier. She is merely doing Vladimir's bidding, like everyone else around here.

I stare at the door for several moments after I hear her steps trail off in the hall beyond. There are no other sounds in the turret, though I can hear plenty of action in the castle below. It would appear that a grand feast has been prepared, no doubt in Vladimir's honor.

Thrusting myself back onto the bed, I sink into the soft blanket. It rises around me, offering comfort where the straw bedding beneath does not.

The blood collecting in the corner of my mouth makes my stomach turn sour. I wipe at my lips until they are raw and aching, spitting to the side until the taste of blood diminishes. Even as I appreciate the fading pain in my ankle, I cannot help but wonder to whom the blood once belonged.

I roll my head to the side and look about my room. Now that there is fire in the hearth, I can easily see my surroundings. The room is nearly as large as the bottom floor of my childhood home. Richly woven tapestries line the stone, giving the dreary walls a splash of color. Wide wooden beams run from wall to wall overhead, the wood a dark mahogany.

The table beside me rises to the top of my thigh, with an intricate carving to match the design that spirals about the four posts of my bed. The linens atop my bed are the finest material I have ever felt, soft and extravagant. Everything about this room boasts great wealth and lavish tastes.

I wonder which of the former wives chose this décor. I turn away from my thoughts as I stare at the dress that has been laid out for me. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before. The design is foreign to me even though my father insisted I remain in the height of fashion when out on parade in Brasov.

The dress is two toned, a soft green of a beautiful spring meadow and the other in rich gold. The tightly fitted corset has been replaced by flexible stays to enable breathing and maneuverability. Flowing lace collars have replaced the stiff ruffles that my sister so dearly loathed.

I reach out and touch the fine material and realize the golden skirt is layered and slightly padded at the hips, producing a full, flowing look. The overskirt opens at the front to form a small train at the back.

The neckline plunges deeply, crisscrossing with delicate golden ribbons. The sleeves are large and gathered just below the elbow. The lace cuff is turned back to expose my wrists and forearm. Rosette ribbons and lace drape from the waistline of the dress. A strand of pearls lies beside.

I run my hands down the front of my soiled corset and feel lost. This place, this dress, these people all feel alien to me. Tears dampen my lower lashes as I turn away to the window and let the arm of the dress fall. The moon is high in the cloudless sky. A frost clings to the glass. I stare at the spider web-like crystals, longing to be outside in the cold, to be free of the sweltering heat within my room.

Only a gentle throbbing now rises from my ankle. I know I will not taste the remainder of the blood to ease my discomfort. I will never willingly accept blood again.

The door opens behind me and Emeline steps through. A look of consternation is firmly planted on her pale-rose lips. "I thought I told you to call when you were ready to dress."

I look down at myself, noting each speck of grime under my cracked fingernails, each splatter of family blood that tarnishes my beautiful dress. "I am not fit for entertaining."

Her dark eyebrows rise with surprise. "Do you honestly think you have a choice in the matter?"

She laughs and steps into the room with a rustle of fabric. Her small, pointed shoes tap loudly against the wooden plank floors. "Come."

When I hesitate, she hisses and points a finger at a low-backed wooden chair that has been placed at the end of my bed. "He is not a patient man."

"So I hear," I mutter as I approach the bed once more with great tenderness. She frowns her disapproval, however says nothing. Her silk dress brushes against my arm as she moves past with a fresh bowl of water and cloth in hand.

She does not say a word as she begins removing my corset. I clutch to the front of it as she grows weary of the lacing and tears it apart. "Modesty is unbecoming of a new bride." She tsks and yanks the corset from my hands.

I cover myself with my hands as she dips the rag into the water and begins scrubbing my flesh with such intensity I fear there will be nothing left. "I am not your bride. You are a stranger to me."

Her hand clasps down hard onto my shoulder. I gasp in pain as her nails dig into my muscle. "Do you think I enjoy this? I intended to dine with Marcus at the feast. Instead, he is left to the cunning wiles of Verity while I am here tending to the likes of you. If he takes her to bed this night, I will make you atone for this grievance."

I wrench out of her grasp and spin to glare at her. "I do not care about your love affairs. I want to be left alone. Nothing more."

A cruel smile tugs at her lips as she leans in and shoves me back into place. Her whisper unsettles the hair at the nape of my neck as she dips low. Her nails draw blood as she increases her grip on my arm. "Vladimir has a taste for pain. How long do you think you will manage to endure before he breaks you, just as he did the others?"

"Are you all so contemptible?"

Emeline laughs as she rises and scrubs flakes of blood from my back. "I am one of the nice ones."

"Brilliant," I mutter and clutch my arms tighter beneath my armpits.

She forces me to rise and remove my underclothes. My skin feels feverish from the fire as she works, making sure not to miss a single spot. By the time she helps me ease into my dress, I feel laid bare, violated.

I see the way she smirks at my chest and feel her mockery like a swift kick in the stomach. Her own dress does little to hold back the ample flesh attempting to spring free. While she may have more depth to her curves, I have grace on my side. I am taller than her and my body is clothed in lean muscle that she will never possess.

Yes, she is strong, though it is a mirage of the soft, curvy girl before me. Perhaps men prefer that. I sincerely hope they do so they will leave me be.

"You will have to work hard to make up for your... shortcomings." She gives my chest a pointed look as she adjusts the fabric overtop. It feels cool against my skin, a pleasant contrast to the hearth fire.

"Perhaps you overestimate the value of your own assets," I spit back at her. Emeline flushes red and yanks me by the hair until I am seated on the chair once more. She combs through my wet strands with merciless vengeance. I bite down on my lip to stave off my cries. Many strands detach from my head as she hits snag after snag.

Emeline twists my hair at the base of my head with enough force to snap a human's neck. I gnash my teeth as she jabs a pearl comb into my hair to hold it in place. "Do that again and I will speak with Vladimir of this."

She grips my face and turns me so I can see her from the corner of my eye. I had anticipated the same fear that Alamesia and Atticus displayed earlier, though what I see is haughty confidence.

"Do you really think he would take your word over mine?" She runs a long fingernail down the side of my cheek, grazing just deep enough to part the skin.

"Do you?" I grab her finger and snap it backward. Pain flares in her eyes as she yanks away her hand, hissing at me like a viper.

Crimson blotches her cheeks as she lurches upright. Her dress is wrinkled and her hair falling from her combs, though she takes no notice of it as she trounces to the door. She turns back in the threshold with a savage grin. "Vladimir will take you tonight and the whole castle well revel in your screams."

She slams the door behind her and I am left with fear nestled firmly in the pit of my stomach. I know he will come... and pain will surely follow.

# EIGHT

I can hear the laughter from below, raucous and bellowing, as the moon begins to shift in the sky. I pace my room, wringing my hands at my waist as I wait, pondering what awaits me.

My ankle throbs only a little, hardly enough to distract me from my anxiety. The shoes Emeline left for me are a tight fit. My toes curl painfully in the pointed tips. The heels are higher than my usual slippers and I find walking in them to be very trying.

"It will not do to fall flat on your face, Roseline," I scold as I turn back from the window and freeze.

Standing in the door is a man of breathtaking beauty. His chestnut hair is long, as is the custom, and drawn back by a leather thong. Hues of copper appear as he steps into the light of the fire. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle, stretching the fine fabric of his shirt until the seams strain. His nose is rigid, his dark eyes deeply set. His brow shows not a hint of wrinkle; his eyes do not boast laugh lines.

"I startled you."

It irks me that he is amused by this fact. "I did not hear you arrive nor open the door."

"Indeed." He steps closer, his gait heavier than most. The ruffles at the neck of his thigh-length crimson coat hardly hide the contours of his chest. "You should have caught my scent before I approached your stairwell."

I can feel a blush rising into my cheeks as I lower my gaze against his mocking disapproval. I take a breath for the first time and feel heady as his scent washes over me: ginger and a dash of clove.

Why do these men all smell so wonderful? I silently swear as I realize the firm set of his lips has relaxed into a knowing smile. I clear my throat and take a step away from him. "I will remember your scent in the future."

He leans in. My breath catches as his lips peel back from his teeth in a sultry smile. "See that you do."

My skin feels slightly flushed as he leans back and offers a hand. "I am to escort you to the feast."

Panic rushes in to steal away my embarrassing flush. I glance to the door and know that I am not ready to face what lies below. I look back to the man and scramble for some form of delay while I gather my wits about me. "I am afraid I do not yet know your name, sir."

To my great surprise, the man tosses out his hand and dips into a deep and very formal bow. I have never seen a man do this before. It is customary for a lady to curtsy in the presence of a highborn male, but to see a man do the same catches me off guard. "My name is Amadeus of Wallachia. I am one of Vlad's counselors from long ago."

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!"

# NINE

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.

He moves with the stealth of a cat, low and deliberate. I can see him taunting Emory, forcing the bulkier man to lumber after him as Marcus leaps upon a tabletop. So this is the one whom Emeline has her sights set upon, I muse silently.

Not far away, I spy a stunning woman with shiny black hair piled atop her head in a beautiful fashion. Her neck is graceful, her hands primly folded in her lap. The bodice of her sapphire dress dips low enough to hardly give her any decent support for her ample chest. A wide string of jewels, inlaid in yellow gold, rings her neck. A matching jewel nestles within her hair.

She is beautiful even from this distance, but there is something cold and calculating about her appearance. A man sits beside her, his features of similar appearance, though he looks a tad kinder. A shadow of stubble clings to his strong jaw. His eyes are a startling blue, wide and alert. "Who are those two?" I inquire again.

"That is Verity and her brother Cassius, twins, though their personalities are as far apart as the sun trailing after the moon. Cassius is a follower, eager to please his sister. Fiercely protective as well. He has proven to be of great entertainment over the years."

The deep chuckle in my husband's voice leaves little wonder as to what dark things these siblings are capable of. I stifle a cry as Vladimir places a hand upon my arm. "I would steer clear of Verity for a while, my dear. She can be rather... passionate."

He does not elaborate on the matter, though I doubt he needs to. Watching the hawk-like intensity of Verity and the fervor of her growing lust for Cassius leaves me in stiff agreement with Vladimir. She is a woman who gets what she wants.

The fight ends swiftly as Marcus lands a blow that slices Emory's right hand off completely. It flops onto the floor. Blood pools from the severed limb. Even from where I sit, I can see bone protruding from Emory's wound.

"How dreadful." My stomach churns once more with bile as I fight against the need to be ill.

Vladimir laughs. "Do not turn away, my dear. You will spoil the fun."

I turn back only because he watches me. I know I need to prove myself tonight, though to what extent he will force me to do so is unclear.

Emory lumbers over to a table and grabs a flask of blood, downing it in a single go. The thick crimson that escapes his lips spills over his beard. He swipes his arms across his chin, smearing it into a horrific stain. He retrieves his hand and spits the dregs of his cup onto it before holding the severed hand up to his wounded arm.

My mouth gapes in disbelief as I watch his skin begin to shift around the wound. It bubbles and stretches, sealing over the injury. Within minutes, only a small red circle gives evidence to the damage Marcus inflicted. With his head lowered, Emory offers his sword to Marcus and returns to the party. Verity claps with delight and rushes to Marcus's side to congratulate him on his prize.

"All of that for a sword?" I ask with a mixture of disgust and awe.

"It is the way of things." Vladimir shrugs.

"His hand... how did it heal so swiftly?"

Lucien casts an irritated glance in my direction, as if the answer should be obvious. I do not see how it could be. A day along my life was normal. I had never glimpsed such dark magic before.

Vladimir leans closer and gently brushes the loosely curled bronze strands from my shoulder. The scent of blood on his breath is pungent and his need to touch me seems to be growing by the minute. My own goblet remains untouched and will remain so if I have any say in the matter.

"Human blood can heal nearly every wound. Remember this, for it may someday save your life."

A dark foreboding falls over me as he turns and cheers for the next round of entertainment. A man raises a bow, his arrow poised and aimed across the length of the great hall. His arm shows no sign of quiver despite the vast size of the bow.

The arrow takes flight. I close my eyes as the arrow lands below the target, striking a man in the throat instead of the apple perched atop his head. Blood seeps from the wound, gushing from a darkened hole as the wounded man yanks the arrow free. I cannot bear to look, even as he too grasps a flask of blood.

"Your aim is improving, Clement," Vladimir mocks as the man lowers his bow. He tosses it aside and storms from the room.

These people are barbaric, I muse silently as I cradle my arms about my waist.

The contests go one for nearly an hour. None of them ends in less than a fatal wound, only to be healed within moments. As disturbingly gruesome as it all is, I begin to realize just how trying it would be to kill one of them.

No wonder the rumors of vampyres have spread across the land. With such evil contained in one room, I dread to think of what they would do to an entire village. Fire and pitchforks would hardly be enough to take down a single immortal, let alone a group of them.

Music begins to spill through the room, though I cannot say from where it comes. I see no musicians, yet the melody is present nonetheless. The mood of the room begins to shift as men and women come together in the center and begin to sway together.

I spy Emeline casting furtive glances at Verity as she winds herself around Marcus, leaving hardly any chance for the man to breathe. Emeline selects a man at random. His face is pleasant albeit dark, with a look that can only be described as a haunting beauty. His name escapes me, though Vladimir gave me a running commentary on most of the attending guests.

Vladimir's laughter steals away my gaze. His head is dipped low in private conversation with Lucien at his side. He raps his brother on the shoulder and sinks back into his seat as Lucien rises and jumps from the raised platform. He weaves through the revelry, appearing to search for someone.

I watch, mesmerized by the dancing before me. With the tables pushed against the walls, a wide open floor space has appeared, easily large enough for the men and women to writhe together, moving in ways that make me blush with deep chagrin.

Vladimir seems to be taken with my naivety. I can feel him watching me, though I dare not avert my gaze toward him.

A fight suddenly breaks out among two men, each finely dressed and wielding handsome swords. I rise slightly in my seat and see Emeline cheering them on. Her dress has become unlaced, her sleeves draping off her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed with a fetching rosy tint. Her dance partner is locked in battle with a man with a stunning head of red hair and a mustache that curls slightly at the ends.

Emeline's hair now spills over her shoulder and her lips appear reddened and bruised. I realize with a start that she is the reason for the fight.

She sways back and forth, swishing her skirts as she giggles. Her eyes are alight with excitement at the clang of swords as she slowly slides her hands along the curves of her body, her desired tryst with Marcus apparently long forgotten.

The two men circle each other, crouched low. They never break eye contact as they move with fluidity and grace. "Will they kill each other?"

Vladimir laughs beside me and I realize that I spoke out loud. "No, my dear. They may take a limb or two. However, no one will die tonight. I will not allow it."

I sink back in my chair and draw my gaze toward him. My husband looks stunning in his fitted coat of gold and black. The collar rises high along his neck, making him look regal and every bit the lord of this castle.

"You have much control over your men, my lord," I say with as much respect as I can muster. The words feel like treason upon my lips, yet I have learned that Vladimir demands complete submission and respect. He thrives off flattery. Perhaps if I speak the damning words now, he will delay any desire to abuse me.

His gaze narrows a fraction. "They are not my men. They are my brethren, your brethren now too."

"My apologies." I lower my gaze and fold my hands into my lap.

He places a hand upon my arm and I bite the tender flesh of my lower lip to force myself not to pull away. "You have much to learn, dearest. I will teach you."

His words feel weighted with far more than a simple desire to teach me swordplay or proper etiquette. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I realize the deeper meaning behind his words.

Oh no, please no! I still ache from the night before. He cannot possibly think to ravage me again so soon.

My heart is troubled as I glance back at the floor to avoid Vladimir's piercing gaze.

Lucien captures my stare. My mouth drapes in open shock as I find him mounting Alamesia in the corner. Although there is little bare skin to be seen with Alamesia's skirts billowing around them, there is little doubt as to what is happening. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are rolled back into her head as it lolls from side to side. Her back arches atop the table as she presses up into Lucien.

I quickly glance away only to find similar scenes occurring all around me. Swords have been forgotten and fine garments have been tossed about in great haste. Men and women writhe together, some in groups, while others are off on their own. Emeline seems to have calmed the fight, having chosen to see to both men instead of just one.

Vladimir watches me intently as I take in the shocking scene before me. Screams of pleasure and masculine grunts begin to replace the laughter. Heat rises from the neckline of my dress as I turn away, sickened by the open fornication. How can they do such ghastly things in front of so many people? Have they no shred of honor or decency?

When Vladimir's hand falls atop my arm, I fail to hold back a tiny squeal of panic. His eyes are darker and his pupils are dilated. I can smell his lust leaching from his skin, bold and nauseating. Fear returns like a battering ram against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

His grip is strong as he pulls me to him. "This is the way of things," he says in a deepened voice as he slips his hand around the back of my head and crushes his lips against mine.

The arm of the chair digs into my side as he pulls me tightly toward him. Terror floods through my veins as his tongue seeks to part my lips. I want to bite him, to scream for help, yet I know none would come. The harder I push back against him, the tighter his hold becomes.

A growl rises deep in his throat as he rips at the sweeping neckline of my dress. The fabric tears effortlessly, baring me from neck to waist.

I cry out, attempting to cover my nakedness. He grasps my hands and with a single yank on my arm sends me crashing into his chest as he rises, toppling my chair. I gasp, fighting to suck in a breath as he presses on my shoulders, forcing me to the ground.

Tears stream down my cheeks as small whimpers escape my lips. Vladimir's hands skim under the folds of my dress, tearing them away. I close my eyes as I feel him against my inner thighs.

"Please," I weep. "Do not do this."

Vladimir leers as his weight comes to rest heavily upon me. He grips my hands over my head, pinning me. He does not listen to my pleas, nor is he swayed by my tears. Instead, he seems to bask in my fear.

I close my eyes and grit my teeth as the pain comes again, burning and deep. A sharp slap to my face makes me cry out. My eyelids burst open and I find a new horror buried in his eyes: excitement.

"Scream for me," he demands.

Vladimir clasps my hands together with one hand and then balls his other into a fist. He slams it into my side and I cry out as I feel bone splinter. He growls in appreciation as he makes me shriek again and again. My head slams against the leg of my fallen chair, beating against the wooden floor. Darkness begins to eat away at my vision and I give in, pleading for an escape from this nightmare.

# TEN

I cower in the corner, my head buried against my knees. My hair drapes over my face, hiding me from the outside world. The flood beneath me is cold to the touch, soothing the growing bruise that stretches around my backside and up to my hip. Tears fall unheeded from my eyes. My nose runs, though I do not make any effort to clean myself.

Warm late afternoon sunlight spills through the window upon my toes. I curl them, realizing that even they ache. I have lost count of how many bones have been broken and reset over the past few days. One week. That is all I have managed to endure since my wedding, yet it feels as if I have suffered an entire lifetime of torment at Vladimir's hand.

He comes to me each night, penetrating the safety of my room, only to leave me a few hours later, broken and desolate. These walls offer me no protection, the door no barrier from the evil that walks these halls.

My only solace is that I have been allowed to remain in my room instead of forced to attend another nightly feast. I can hear their swordplay and catcalling from below. No matter how deeply I bury my head in my pillows, I always hear.

What Vladimir does to me in private is abhorrent, though far more tolerable than being ravaged in front of a room of people. Curling my arms about my knees, fresh tears come as I think on my first night. Of the men who watched as Vladimir took me over and over again, I could feel their lust, their desire. They are waiting for Vladimir's attentions to wane, and when they do, I will be turned over to them like a bone tossed to dogs.

I cannot bear this.

My only reprieve comes in the day when they pass out in various reaches of the castle in a lust and blood-drunken haze. It is these moments that I fight to remind myself that there is still good in the world... somewhere.

A pounding at my door sends me scuttling back between the table and the side of my bed. It is a small space, the only that I can draw comfort from.

I glance to the window, terrified as I see that my thoughts have tricked me out of hours of freedom. The sunlight has faded and with it my brethren awake.

"Go away," I whisper, knowing whoever stands on the other side of my door will hear me.

"I have a gift for you," a man calls.

Goose bumps rise along my arms. Why would Vladimir send a man to my door? He has made it clear that I am not to be touched.

"I have no need for gifts," I manage to say. My throat bobs as I swallow against the parched sensation.

The door opens and Atticus crosses the threshold into my room. He pauses, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit room. A smirk tugs at his lips as he finds me cowering in the corner. "Vladimir insists."

I press back against the wall, frantically clearing the stringy strands of hair from my eyes to watch his approach. He moves swiftly yet makes no movement to come near. Instead, he pauses at the end of the bed and drapes a long bag of some sort over the edge and backs away.

"You have until sunset to prepare." He turns back at the door and casts his gaze over my unkempt appearance. "I will send Cyra to help you bathe. I dare say Vladimir will be none too pleased to see you in this state."

That is precisely why I do not bathe, I think bitterly as the door closes behind him. Long after his footsteps descend the stairwell, I emerge from my hiding place. The floor creaks beneath my hands and knees as I crawl forward. Using the bedpost for aid, I pull myself upright, wincing at the myriad of pains that needle at me from muscles I had not known I possessed.

With a trembling hand, I reach out and draw back the cloth and gasp. Lying atop my bed cover is the most beautiful dress I have ever glimpsed. The deep crimson fabric is silky beneath my fingers, the gold embroidery delicate and simply breathtaking.

"You will soil it," a girl cries from behind me. She rushes forward and slaps away my hand, bushing the fabric as if I had rubbed dirt into its threads. She turns in a huff, her hands planted upon her narrow waist. Vivid violet eyes scrutinize me. "Atticus was kind in his description of you."

I feel my ire rising as I open my mouth to protest. She holds up a hand. "We have much work to do and little time. I, for one, do not plan to miss this ball."

"A ball?" I ask, horrified at the thought. Would Vladimir really open the doors to the castle to allow hundreds of people to enter? Would any human be crazy enough to entertain the idea?

She grabs my hand and yanks me to the corner of the room where a washbasin has been left. The water is warm to the touch, having sat beside the fire all day. Cyra hisses as she dips her hands into the water and shakes her head, tossing the cloth at me. "You do it. I will tend to your dress."

In a flurry of black silk, she bustles away. I watch as she leans over my bed and begins picking at the dress, removing invisible threads. At least she is giving me some privacy, I muse as I disrobe with my back turned to her and rub the heated water over my body, cleansing myself for the first time in four days.

It feels good to be clean. However, along with that comes the fear that once I am, Vladimir will find even more reason to come to me. Perhaps he will not do so tonight. Not with a party to attend to.

Wishful thinking, yet I must cling to it.

A few moments later, I sense Cyra standing behind me. I look over my shoulder to find her staring at my back. Her gaze is narrowed, intense and probing. A fan of black material rises to encircle her, stiff and reaching nearly to the top of her head.

"You are marked," she says.

I press my lips into a thin line and turn away. "Vladimir has a way of doing that."

"Foolish girl," she snaps, and I cry out as her palm connects with my neck. I raise a hand to rub the wounded skin. "It is not those marks I speak of. Have you not seen it?"

Lowering my hand, though my neck still tingles with pain, I glare at her over my shoulder. "You speak in riddles."

With a roll of her eyes, Cyra moves to snatch a small mirror from the vanity. It is rounded and inlaid with beautiful silver. She holds it up and waits expectantly. I attempt to peer over my shoulder into the glass yet can see nothing. "It is no use," I say and give up.

I flinch as I feel her fingers graze over the top of my hip. Terror of being touched roots me in place and though her touch is not unkind, it is probing. "I have never seen a mark of this sort before."

Her voice sounds far off and the look in her eyes seems to be filled with awe.

"What does it look like?"

She blinks, appearing to come back to the present. A scowl instantly curls her lip. "It does not matter."

Tossing aside the mirror, she grabs me by the arm and I hardly have time to fling the cloth back into the bowl of dirty water before she is rubbing me down. My skin grows pink under her merciless attentions. She takes great care to make sure every part of me is dry. I breathe a sigh of relief when she finally slips the silken fabric over my shoulders.

She tugs on the lacing of the dress, forcing me to suck in a breath as she places my ribs in a bind. Stepping back, she tilts her head, fluffing the dress here or there. "It will have to do."

As the final wisps of sunlight are devoured by night, Cyra places the finishing touches on my hair and then begins on my face. I have never worn powder or color on my skin before, like the harlots that wander the streets at night in Brasov. No true lady would wear such a thing, yet Cyra seems intent on forcing me to do so.

She dabs at my eyes, rubbing something thick and black against my lashes until they are clumped and weighted. Finally, she steps away, finishing with her administrations. "There. One last thing."

Cyra turns and pulls something from the cloth bag, and I feel my breath catch. A beautiful plume of feathers rises from a crimson mask. It looks dainty and yet perfectly suited to match the dress that graces the curves of my body. "Put it on."

I take the mask from her and slip it over my hair and into place. A small strap winds around the back of my head, holding it in place. Cyra holds up the mirror and my breath catches as I see that with her mastery of power, she has made my eyes look wide and fierce beneath the guise.

"It is beautiful," I whisper.

"Yes." She agrees. Her gaze lingers a moment too long and I grow uncomfortable. It seems intimate somehow. I frown, curling my hands about my waist. "I do not remember having seen you before."

Cyra blinks and raises her gaze from my neckline. A faint blush appears in her cheeks. "I have only just arrived with the others."

"Others?" I swallow roughly.

She smirks and hands me a pair of shoes. These boast heels, much like the pair I wore the night of the feast, and I am forced to stifle a groan. "You cannot have a party without guests. For what is a masquerade without a ball?"

I have heard of the term masquerade only in passing, from travelers arriving from distant lands, although to my knowledge no such party has been held in Transylvania.

"Come. We must not be late." She turns and rushes toward the door, not pausing to see if I will follow as she dashes into the hall. Though I feel none of her excitement as I exit my room, counting each tap of my stiff-backed shoes as I descend, I do feel a sense of anticipation on the air.

Clusters of voices echo up through the stairwell. I can pick out Verity and Cassius's voices easily enough. Atticus's deep tone rings out loud and clear, as does Emeline's laughter, no doubt trying to overshadow Verity.

"Ah, there you are," a voice calls from a room I just passed. I turn to find Amadeus leaning against the frame of his door. "I wondered where you were hiding."

"My whereabouts are none of your concern," I respond in a clipped tone as I turn and hurry away. He follows behind, though not closely enough to be improper. To an observer he would merely appear to be going in the same direction, yet I know better. He is stalking me from a proper distance.

The instant I reach the final step, I am inundated with unusual smells and sights. A flurry of color surrounds me, dresses of every shade of the rainbow with masks to match the finery. Men wear dark-colored trousers and three-quarter-length jackets. Their masks are more manly, many sporting antlers, horns, or some other form of animalistic depiction.

Emeline looks stunning with her snowy hair falling in delicate curls about her silver mask. Verity's plum dress pales in comparison to the black mask that has a wide plume of narrow feathers along its crest. Cassius looks very regal and protective as he stands beside her.

I rise onto my toes in search of Vladimir and find him to be absent. I lower to the floor and breathe a sigh of relief.

"He has gone ahead to see to the preparations," a low voice whispers into my ear.

I cry out and turn to stare into the most hideous mask I have ever seen: a devil. Blackened eyes lie beneath, lifeless and void of emotion. The mask depicts another emotion, one of anger and evil. Its surface is black and painted crimson. The full-face disguise is twisted into a pained grimace. The man draws the mask away from his face and I take a step back, terrified to be standing so close to Lucien.

"The beauty of a masquerade is in not knowing to whom you speak," he says dully. When he turns his gaze away, I note the hint of malice in the twist of his lips. "Though by now you should be familiar with my scent."

With a curt nod, he turns on his heels and disappears into the crowd, leaving me breathless and shaken. If I allowed him to sneak up on me, what else might happen tonight?

# ELEVEN

The tinkling of laughter calls from the festivities spread before me, stretching from one end of the town square to the other. The girlish giggles are far too high pitched to be genuine, evidence that the wenches are in their prime tonight. Men, both human and immortal, vie for their attention as they whip around the packed dirt ground, spinning around a crumbling fountain, more of a glorified pig trough than anything, in my opinion. Although the men's intentions may be aligned in one aspect, I know all too well that there is a darker need wafting through my kinsmen on this night.

The wagon ride to arrive at this village, nestled within the heart of the mountains, took nearly an hour. It was unbearable to be pressed in tight against Amadeus and Atticus, who both somehow managed to be seated beside me. I was grateful to arrive for no other reason than to be free of their company.

I believe Lucien enjoyed watching my discomfort, making no move to save me from their attentions. With Vladimir gone, I was left to fend for myself.

Now, as I stand in the shadows of this nameless town, a feeling of dread coils through my stomach. I know there is more going on here than a party. Why the humans do not sense it is beyond me.

The scent of lust entwines with a darker, more animalistic thirst that seeps from my brethren's pores. I stick to the background, present yet unwilling to join in as Vladimir wishes.

Soon the blood will begin to flow and screams will replace the laughter.

"This is no place for a lady," a man whispers in my ear. I can feel the heat of his breath upon my bare skin, almost as if he longs to press his lips to back of my neck. Startled, I turn and search the shadows behind me and find them to be vacant.

His voice is one that I am unfamiliar with. Perhaps he is one of the guests that arrived for the party.

"Who are you?" I speak into the darkness; however, there is no answer. Nor is there any sign of the man.

The fact that he managed to escape my inspection tells me that he is more than mortal. No human could scale the wall or leap to such a great height to hide from view.

I turn back to the town center in search of the stranger, though I know not what to look for. The crowd before me is a swirl of color, dazzling rainbows of blues, yellows, and purples. Skirts swing high and men bow low as the band strikes up another song. I can see no hint of the man who spoke to me. I search for several minutes, my ire mounting with each tick of the clock. He plays games with me, I silently conclude, not happy in the least to be made a mockery of.

I rise up onto my toes, sweeping my gaze from left to right until I discover the mystery man and realize with a start that I noticed him only because he intended to be seen. He stands within the very heart of the dancers, unmoving, his gaze riveted on me with as much curiosity as I am consumed by.

He is immortal, that much is obvious by his flawless face peeking out beneath his mask, which sits high on his cheekbones. The polished silver of great war stallions rides the crest of his brow, a stark contrast to the long golden strands of hair beneath. The etched metal curves the side of his face, while a plume of black feathers runs the length of the top of the mask, blowing in the winds.

His vivid eyes are stunning to behold within the shadow as lantern light flickers all around, brilliant and unwavering as they stare at me. His clothing is fine, boasting great wealth and excellent design. His pants are black and form fitting. His black leather boots are knee high and shined for the party. His white shirt has a sheen to it that makes me wonder if it might not be made entirely of silk. His suit coat, with its gleaming silver buttons, is tailored perfectly to fit his physique.

A sense of awe grips me, the likes of which I have never known before. He is tall and broad shouldered, a warrior by the looks of his stance. He is cunning as well. I breathe deep, searching for his scent. I frown, realizing I cannot pinpoint him.

His lips peel back into a knowing smile and a flush burns in my cheeks. He knows I'm trying to discover his true identity.

I am unsure of what it is about him that speaks so loudly to me. Perhaps is the fact that his gaze is not glazed with lust and his actions are mysterious rather than blundersome. I clutch my hands against my maroon corset, no longer pondering about the way the boning digs deep into my ribs, rather on how revealing it is. My bosom is pushed so high I fear a single breath would have me popping straight out of this infernal costume.

My skirts are long and tastefully drawn to give them fullness, my shoes hardly seen as I step forward. My hair has dried and is coiffed elegantly, clipped up with a fine pearl comb that Vladimir presented to me earlier in the week as a gift. My bronze hair falls in one full spiral over my shoulder, leaving the other side, the one the stranger spoke to me on, completely bare to the elements.

When he stares at me, I feel as if he can see right through my mask. It is a fine cover, made of shiny gold, lace, and a towering single crimson feather adorned by a row of smaller white feathers that look as if they have been plucked straight from a snow-white dove.

The wind rustles my skirts and droops my feather into my eye. I frown, batting it away. When I look up, the man is gone. I step forward once more, my heart thundering in my chest. Surely he is a ghost, I think as I scan the faces of the townspeople

Vladimir glances up from his seat, perched upon a stack of crates across the square. He has a woman under either arm and one knelt before him, her hands splayed across his upper thigh as she works. His grin is broad, his gaze intense as he searches for me.

I step back into the shadows, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. I do not care what vile things he does with those women, only that he enjoys it enough to leave me be when this night is over.

A whisper of breath against my neck alerts to a presence. I inhale, steadying myself, and realize his scent is still lost to me. "I cannot place you, sir."

"I am downwind from you," he murmurs against my ear. His voice is deep, soft yet demanding.

I swallow as the lively song ends and shifts into something slower, the beat melodic and beautiful. The whirlwind of silk softens as men and women couple together. The symphony of heartbeats grows to maddening heights as they press up against each other. The scent of their combined desire makes me feel a bit hazy.

"You should not watch," the man whispers, this time on my right.

How does he move so silently? I wonder as I turn to follow his movement. "My husband will know if I do not," I say.

"I think not. He seems to be rather preoccupied. Look there." An immaculate white-gloved hand rises beside me. I resist the urge to turn and face the stranger as I follow his gaze.

Vladimir now has his face buried in the neck of the buxom beauty on his right. Her cheeks are flushed and her skirts hiked high. Vladimir snakes his hand up her leg and I turn away, sickened by his actions.

"Is it is not wise to speak to me so openly," I whisper and lean back into the shadows, only to find myself pressed against a solid chest. The buttons of his coat are cold against my upper back. I can feel the others pressing through the lace cinches of my corset. He does not draw back, nor does he attempt to step aside.

"I do many things that are not good for me," he mutters.

His words intrigue me further. Is he some sort of rebel? Was he even invited to this party? He seems to show no desire to join in with the dancing. A small smile tugs at my lips, despite knowing that I should no doubt fear this man. I have yet to meet a kind immortal. "Am I to guess who you are, then?"

"You could try," he muses. I can hear the smirk in the lilt of his voice. "Though you will fail."

My fingers flutter imperceptibly against the ribbons that dangle along the front of my dress. The purr of his voice against my ear makes me forget that I loathe all immortals. I turn my face to the side and feel the plume of scarlet feathers rising from my temple brush against him. "You are not from this place."

"An obvious guess." He responds without moving away.

"I was not finished, sir. Your accent speaks of distant lands. Perhaps you are a refuge from the Austrian Empire."

He is silent for a moment and the urge to turn around swells within my chest. Who is this mystery man? Why has he singled me out when he has his choice of maidens to drink from on this night?

"I am impressed." The admiration is his voice both is both enthralling and frustrating. Does he take me for a simpleminded ninny?

"So I am correct?" I press.

I feel the rumble of his laughter against my back before he steps away. "I did not say that."

"You speak in riddles."

"Perhaps I do." He sounds distant now, though I know there is little space to move behind me. This section of the town comes to an abrupt end, unlike the other streets that all lead away into the dark of the forest. A wooden fence wall rises less than five feet behind me. Could he be perched upon it? I long to turn and look, yet I do not. I cannot or risk admitting that he has captured my full attention. "Perhaps you are simply asking the wrong questions."

The scuff of his boot directly behind me betrays his location, yet I cannot help but wonder if he did this on purpose. He knows how to be silent when he wants to be. Heat kisses my neck as I realize he intended for me to know.

My nostrils flare as a new scent rides the air. I turn unconsciously toward it as the spicy bouquet makes my stomach growl. Vladimir's harsh gaze rises to meet mine as I step forward, drawn instinctively closer. His black leather mask, its sleek design fiercely portraying a stag with great horns, drips with blood. His thirst-blackened eyes demand me to join him.

The white ruffles of his shirt are a sheet of crimson as he shoves aside the wench he so eagerly accosted only moments before. Her stiff body tumbles over the other two that cower at his feet. The screams begin near the end of the town center and crash through the crowd like a wave against rocks. My vision blurs with red as splatters of blood dapple the courtyard.

Vladimir closes his eyes and lifts his hands overhead, his head tilting back as he snarls at the moon. My heart clenches with fear as I realize how purely animalistic he looks in this moment. Never before have I seen him feed. Not like this. Not in the open, where smoke and dim lighting shade him from sight as they did after our wedding.

His bellow falls away as he lowers his gaze. I shrink back, my hands trembling against my waist, as he smiles and grabs the two girls before him, digging his nails into their necks so a fountain of blood spills over his hands.

"You must go to him," the man whispers behind me. A chorus of shrieks rises and falls as the music continues to play. Laughter turns to snarls, dancing turns to spasms and writhing upon the ground as the immortals begin to feast.

"I cannot." The tremor in my voice leaves little doubt as to the extent of my fear. I am paralyzed. I know these men and women are monsters. I could hear the screams of the blood slaves as they performed their nightly bloodletting from other parts of the castle, yet I was always safe within the walls of my room. Now I have nothing to save me from this moment. Nothing to cling to or hide within.

"You must." His tone has changed, become more insistent. "You will be punished if you do not."

A bitter laugh slips between my lips. "That will happen either way."

I nearly cry out as a hand clasps around my elbow, firm and demanding. "If you want to survive, you must learn to play their games."

His words sicken me and I try to pull away. He holds firm. "I am not like them."

"No." The silence in this small hideaway feels palpable as I listen to his heart beat in time with my own rampaging pulse. He is unaffected by the scene before us. Neither drawn to the blood nor disgusted by it. He appears to be maddeningly indifferent. "You will soon learn that you must draw your friends near and your enemies nearer."

My lip curls into a disgusted sneer as I watch Vladimir tear out the throat of a shapely beauty. Her blood squirts nearly five feet, splattering Cassius in the back of the head. He turns as Vladimir tosses the girl aside and then leaps upon her, accepting his lord's discarded offering.

"And which are you?" I ask, feeling him shift behind me.

I wait for him to answer on baited breath. The silence seems to stretch on for an eternity and I begin to fear he will not answer me at all. "I will be watching."

I turn on my heel and stare into darkness. He has vanished.

# TWELVE

The new moon has come and gone since I arrived at Castle Bran, though it feels as if a lifetime has passed. Vladimir has proven to possess an insatiable need that I have yet to fill. He comes to me each night when the moon is high and leaves me long after I have fallen unconscious.

The masquerade is nothing more than a distant memory now, wrapped within a haze of pain and torment. The mysterious stranger a ghost, a figment of my tortured mind. A falsehood that I cannot bring myself to think upon during my waking moments.

I stare at myself in the mirror perched atop my small vanity. Its frame is slightly warped and its glossy finish fading with age. My silver mirror has vanished and I have reason to suspect Cyra pinched it before leaving after the party. She did seem to have a keen eye for pretty things.

My fingers tremble as I gingerly touch the bruised skin encircling my right eye. It is tinted with a mixture of blue and purple and is deeply painful. The swelling and discoloration extends over to my nose. My upper lip is split and seeping blood. My jaw feels as if it has been lodged within a vice. The back of my head is split and bleeding, matting my hair. My vision is blurred, though I have grown accustomed to this.

I sit back, no longer able to stomach my image in the mirror, and absently brush my finger over the new flesh that replaced the deep gashes I carved into my wrists the week before. Whatever God my mother believed in has refused to hear my prayers.

My mother would turn over in the grave, if she had been buried, at the thought of me attempting to take my own life. She would not understand the depths to which I have sunk. One beating melds with the next. I fear the day and cower from the night. Vladimir always comes for me.

He flew into a rage when he entered my room to find me collapsed in a pool of my own blood after my first attempt to kill myself. I vaguely remember staring up at him as I felt my lifeblood draining away, watching as he frantically bit into his own wrist and tore a gash in his wrist, forcing me to drink.

The beating I received after I had healed was by far the worst I have endured to this point. My brethren would have been mortified to see Vladimir in such a state. Even I was shocked by the fear I saw in his eyes.

Why does he fear losing me when he so obviously despises having me near?

I am nothing more to him than a body to warm his bed each night. I lie as still as possible until he is finished, praying that I can withhold my screams. They only make him more ravenous.

I wake each morning with the light of the sun to inspect my wounds, ever ignoring the cup of blood left on the side table for me to drink. I refuse. If he finds me ugly, then so be it. I will not give him the satisfaction.

A monster lives in the room beside mine, not a figment of my imagination nor devils playing in the shadows of a child's room. Flesh and blood, just as my mother always feared. Vladimir Enescue is a demon clothed in beauty. My brethren are no better. I shudder as the memory of his brutality traipses across my mind, for I know all too well what wickedness lies within the depths of my husband's eyes.

I stare blankly across the length of my room toward the far wall, its uneven stone surface draped with a beautiful woven tapestry that reminds me far too much of the ones that were lost in my wedding pyre. A tear slips from the corner of my eye and trails down the curve of my cheek. When it splatters against the pale flesh of my upper chest, I don't bother to wipe it away.

I can hear the drop with perfect clarity. It is no more impossible to hear than the sound of laughter on the far side of the castle or the horses prancing in the rising muck in the barn beyond the high walls that surround my new home, an impenetrable prison of rock and mortar.

Vladimir told me once that the wall was built to keep people from the villages out, yet I know better. It was built to keep his victims in.

I keep to my room now, fearful of emerging. I have not seen Atticus, Amadeus, or Emeline since the ball, though I hear their taunting from below. They mock me from afar, knowing I can hear each of their words. Their cruelty seems to have no limits.

Verity worries me. I now fully understand why Vladimir warned against her involvement with me. The dark-haired beauty has a rebellious heart of stone and a passion for decapitation. Even my own brethren avoid her except to bed her, when she is so willing.

Her brother Cassius is deeply protective of her. A protection that I sense stems deeper than brotherly affection, although I would never dare to say so. Two nights ago I heard the wailing pleas of a blood slave as Cassius staked him to the floor of the great hall and set him alight for touching Verity. It took hours for the man's screams to fade. He was obviously no longer a human, yet something caught in between. Cassius turned him only to see his suffering lengthened.

I rocked in the corner of my room, humming to drown out the screams. Vladimir did not come to me that night. As punishment for killing without permission, Vladimir took Verity to his bed in the room beside me. Instead of screams, I heard laughter. Her love of depravity seems to have no end, nor does her plot for power. After she cast Marcus aside, she set her sights on a loftier target: my husband. If only he would choose her over me.

After that night, Vladimir's demeanor changed when he came for me. He became more aggressive, although I did not think it possible. He was more animalistic, growling and snarling as he ravaged me over and over.

Some days I can hardly walk to my privy and back. Others I lie in bed and dread the sun dipping below the horizon. I do not know how much more I can take.

I handled the loneliness well at first. As time passed, it became smothering. I have no one to speak to, no one to share my grief with. No one to care.

It is in these moments that I miss my sister most. There were no secrets between us. At night we would lie awake in the loft until long after our parents were asleep and talk about silly things and the future. Who we would marry, what our children might look like, what our first kiss might be like.

I rub my hands along my arms and feel a chill that I know has nothing to do with the cool draft seeping beneath my door. I could never have imagined a future such as this.

Staring unseeingly toward the mirror, I realize my torment will never end. I have seen enough to know that Lucien did not lie about my being immortal. I have seen limbs reattached and severed abdomens sealed with new flesh. Gruesome, horrible wounds all healed by human blood.

I have attempted to smother myself in my down pillow to no avail. Apparently, I no longer have a need to breathe either. I have considered setting my skirts alight, yet after listening to Cassius's torture, I could never have the heart to attempt it.

I long for a swift, clean death. However, I know no one would aid me with it. Verity might be willing to lop off my head if provoked, but even she is not fool enough to come near me and risk Vladimir's wrath.

I am untouchable. He made sure of that.

Men stare at me from time to time, though none dare approach. I am a leper among my brethren and for this I am grateful. They are all wicked. I am nothing like them.

Fading sunlight streams in from the window behind me, warming my shoulders. I shift, comforted by its presence. It is nice to see the sun again, even if only for a few brief moments. Fall shifted abruptly into winter only days past, and I have scarcely seen the sun through the constant gloom.

I can hear Vladimir still snoring in the room beside mine. I suppose I should be grateful that he does not wish to sleep in the same bed. I do not know if I could be forced to endure that level of intimacy, nor could I give up these sparse hours of freedom.

The castle is still. All remain asleep apart from me, though they will wake soon.

I turn to look back at the window over my shoulder, knowing the time has come. I rise slowly and draw open the glass, breathing deep the fresh air.

My hair lashes against my cheeks as I lean out of the window to stare down from my turret. The ground below is moist after the drenching rain that fell through the night. Trampled leaves are strewn about the courtyard, buried amid several inches of muck and straw. The scent of manure and urine rising from the stables below burns in my nose as I cling to the window frame. The glass beside me is warped and dingy, rattling in its frame as the winds gust.

Vladimir told me that I am to call Castle Bran my home now, yet it has proven to be nothing more than a prison built of wood, stone, and a vile appetite for degradation.

It took every ounce of willpower, and no small amount of threats on my father's part, for me to speak the words that bound myself to Vladimir Enescue. I had thought it was only for one lifetime. Now, with an eternity spread out before me, I realize I may never be free from this prison.

Roseline Dragomir is dead. Now I am nothing more than a hollow shell of the girl I once was, young and foolish. I have learned much since the day I died.

My nails pierce into the flesh of the wooden frame as I lift up into the sill. I perch atop the uneven ledge and take a calming breath. It will all be over soon, I silently vow as I close my eyes. This will work.

I can hear the rustling of leaves in the trees and the rippling of the waters that feed into a lake just beyond the castle walls. Cows and sheep mill about in their pens, sniffing along the ground for stray bits of hay. An owl hoots and calls forth the night, eager to spread its wings and soar on the cool winter currents.

The horses seem uneasy. Perhaps they too realize the sun is about to set and their unsavory owners will soon wake.

A part of me has come to accept that my fate was sealed the moment Vladimir set his sights on me. I could not have turned away, no matter how desperately I desired to.

I am his. His claim on my life and my body is absolute.

I live in fear every moment of every day. My nights are filled with pain when Vladimir comes to me, my days filled with anguish as I nurse my wounds.

I must escape this torment. I must be free.

Time seems to slow as I release the window frame and lean forward. I do not open my eyes as the winds buffet my descent. My skirts flap against my legs as I plummet from the third-story room. A hint of a smile curves across my lips as I anxiously await my death.

# THIRTEEN

Pain consumes my world, ensnaring my thoughts and then shattering them into thousands of shards. I had thought darkness would be a comfort, though it only feels like a prison. I am aware of my body in ways I have never known before. My toes feel as if they are nothing more than bits of bone rattling in my boots. My legs are curled backward, my heel touching my hip in such a manner that it makes me nauseous.

My ribs are on fire. My arm is out of socket and lying uselessly beside me. My nose feels as if it has shifted to the side, my cheekbone smashed in.

I groan, my throat too raw to allow a scream, as a boot slams into my side. Warmth spreads along my ribs as I gasp for breath, gagging as something sharp digs into my stomach.

"Is she not precious, brother?" The crooning voice sends shivers trickling down my spine.

"Verity?" Blood bubbles burst between my lips as her name gurgles in my throat.

A wisp of dark hair fills my vision just before she sends her backhand against my cheek.

"She knows my name," Verity hisses as she rises. Through my partially swollen eye, I watch as she wipes her hands upon her dress, as if touching me left something offensive on her skin.

Blood spills within my stomach and out through a hole in my side. As I try to curl inward to inspect my wounds, I feel warmth seeping from several openings along my chest and abdomen. What have they done to me?

Death was stolen from me once again. The taste of blood at the back of my throat is rank, as if drained from a rotten corpse instead of a living being. Perhaps it was. I shudder at the thought, knowing that human blood would have aided me in healing.

I shift and cry out as I feel my flesh tear. I rise up just enough to see a splintered board rising from my right side, impaling me. It has been driven deep into the earthen floor. Another has been thrust through my wrist, just above my shattered arm. Two metal stakes have been driven through the tops of my feet.

My cries of mounting terror come out in rasping coughs that leave me lightheaded and wearied.

"Do you know what it is that you have done, sister?" Cassius hisses. I recognize his voice. It has plagued my dreams since the night of the fire, taunting me as if it had been me he set alight instead of that blood slave.

I can just spy the toe of his black boot as he paces to and fro a few feet away. I can smell his anxiety, his fear. Despite my pain, I curl my lip in an attempt to smile and find it to be split and swollen. I am unsure if it is delirium from the pain or just the realization that despite the horrors I have experienced at Vladimir's hand, no one is allowed to touch me. No one.

Verity and Cassius will pay for this. I take great comfort in that knowledge.

"It will be our heads on a pike if we do not return her where you found her," he calls as she bustles past him.

"Peace, brother," she soothes, her voice as silky as a fine pastry. "Vladimir is gone."

Gone? A silent scream catches in my throat as I attempt to discern my surroundings.

The walls are made of thick wooden planks, darkened with age and soot. The roof is peaked and the building appears to be a single floor. Leather harnesses hang from pegs along the wall. Branding tools and stonemasons' hammers lean against a long table with a wooden bench pushed beneath it.

Hay litters the floor, although it seems mostly undisturbed. This must be the small hut that I spied from my window, I muse sorrowfully. It is well outside of screaming distance, even for an immortal. Not with the rippling waters of the lake, the lowing of the animals, and the usual hustle and bustle of the castle to interfere with my pathetic attempts.

No one will look for me here. And why should they? If Vladimir is gone, there is no one to care for my wellbeing.

Despair seeps into me like a slow-killing disease. I can feel the weight of it paralyzing me.

"You overestimate the girl's worth to Vlad," Verity calls from somewhere to my right. I try to turn and look in her direction, but the wound in my stomach catches and I hiss through the stabbing pain.

"You are a fool and I will have no part of this!" Cassius stomps past me and snatches open the door. He turns back as the cold wind whips through the small cabin. It unsettles my hair. I breathe deep, searching for any other scent in the area.

"He will have your head for this. Mark my words." He slams the door behind him. I listen as his boots crunch on the stone walk as he attacks the steep climb back up toward the castle.

Will Cassius's fear for his sister's life prod him into revealing my location? Surely by doing so he would betray her trust, yet it might save her life. I cling to this thought, praying for salvation as Verity approaches, her skirts swaying against the floor.

"Why am I here?" My throat allows nothing more than a croak, to which Verity's high-pitch laughter responds. She sinks down beside me. Her long black hair tickles my nose as she shakes her head.

"We both know you do not belong here, Roseline. You are weak, pathetic. You obviously wish to move on to a... a better place."

"And I suppose you want to assist me." I grunt as I try to shift, yet pain stabs at me from five different directions. I suck in a breath and hold it until the agony eases to bearable limits.

"I am not as cruel as you would think me to be." She runs a finger down my cheek, pausing over my lips.

At first I think there is a hint of tenderness to her touch, though when she draws back her finger, I see my blood dripping from her sharpened nail. Her lips part and she sucks her finger into her mouth, closing her eyes at the taste of my blood.

"You drink from immortals too?" My lips curl with disgust and she laughs, slapping me across my cheek, leaving an identical palm print to the one she already gifted me with.

"I like blood. It does not matter from whom it comes."

The floor is cold against my back and a chill hangs heavy in the air. Moonlight drifts brokenly through the grimy glass windows. There is no fire to light the space, making it nearly impossible to see beyond the scant splinters of moonlight that paint the floor.

I cannot see what lurks within the shadows on the other side of the cabin. Does it go on for several feet or come to an abrupt halt? What fiendish tools might that side offer Verity?

"Why do you loath me so?" I ask, straining to lift my chin so I can see her as she moves about in the shadows. Her steps are nearly silent. The swish of her plum skirts against the strewn hay is the only hint as to where she has gone.

I hear a clang of metal and tense. Although I have never seen Verity in battle, her affection for a broad axe is commonly known. Her affinity for decapitation gives me reason to pause. Perhaps if I knew why she captured me, I could bargain with her?

As she drags a silver double-edge axe into the moonlight, I swallow roughly. The sharpened blade is stained with the blood of a previous victim. Her eyes are wide and appear to glow silver in the light. Her long tangled strands drape to her waist, a stark contrast to her nearly transparent skin.

Some would call her beautiful. I would call her ghastly.

Her eyebrows dip severely, making her look menacing instead of sultry like Alamesia or Emeline. Her nose is broader than most and her lips so pale they hardly have any color to them at all. Her fingernails are long and chiseled to a severe point. She reminds me of a lynx that hunts in the mountains nearby. She moves with grace and ease, yet there is something altogether animalistic about her mannerisms.

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.

# FOURTEEN

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.

A clanging from above makes me press back against the cold stone wall. A small whimper passes between my lips as goose bumps rise against the bare flesh of my back. A flickering of light spills down from above and I know he has returned.

Terror seizes me. I know pain will soon follow. This knowledge is maddening in its inevitability, in my complete failure to stop it from occurring.

In the beginning, I was mortified by my nakedness, though I quickly realized it was merely another form of torture. Lucien took no notice of my state of undress. It simply made his task easier. He is slow and methodical with is administrations, a soulless butcher.

I do not know how long I have been hidden away down here. A few days? A full moon cycle? Longer?

Why has Vladimir not come for me? Surely he has noticed my absence by now.

I have been driven mad! I think as my chains rattle when the light appears at the base of the tunnel overhead. Vladimir is no hero. He is a monster. No one is coming to save me.

I squint against the lantern as it swings to and fro. Lucien descends a set of crumbling stone steps with a lazy stride. I glimpse black leather boots stained with mud first, followed by long legs and a tapered waist. I close my eyes, unable to bear looking upon his pale face.

Lucien's beauty is deceiving. A demon wearing the face of an angel. Immortals are all like this... even me. Rare, intoxicating beauty created to ensnare the unknowing passerby. I have been transformed into a predator with every advantage on my side, and the thought of it sickens me.

"Ah, you are awake. Excellent." Lucien slowly moves along the wall, lighting each torch with his lantern. I watch him with heightened wariness. We both know I cannot endure much more of his attentions.

I can smell the blood in a pouch tied by a leather thong at his side. He has forced it upon me several times, holding my tongue with clamps so the cold, congealed liquid slips down the back of my throat. I loathe the feel of it against my lips, though the aftereffects of the blood are what truly terrify me.

I have come to a personal knowledge that blood is life, though in ways far different than to mortals. One taste fuels an instant addiction. The need never fades. It lingers, taunting me in the long hours of night.

The more I drink, the more I crave.

I despise what I have become, driven by a thirst that I refuse to quench. I do not wish to be like my husband, like Lucien or my brethren. I was human only a short time ago. How can I now be forced to consider them a source of food?

Without blood, I would die in this dungeon. Lucien is too cunning to allow that to happen. He keeps me teetering on the brink of death, only to revive me when it suits him best. It is the epitome of cruelty.

"Please," I whisper in a hoarse voice.

"Please?" He turns slowly, his long fingers clenching the lantern as he raises it to shoulder height so he may see me.

I cringe back from the light and bite my lip against my screams. My body trembles with fear and exhaustion. Blood gushes from my abdomen, warm and sticky as it oozes down my thighs, pattering against the floor.

"It has been days since you pleaded for mercy." He tsks, shaking his head with disapproval. "I had thought you were past this weakness, Roseline. Is this not why we are here? To carve out the fear and weakness from your flesh?"

"I thought you were forcing me to pay a blood debt for Verity," I croak.

"Oh, that was paid long ago. This is something more. It is..." He pauses, contemplating, "An experiment, if you will."

My eyes roll back into my head as I dangle freely. I am too tired to hold on, to resist. "What is the point?"

His footsteps are marked with utmost control as he approaches. I can smell his eagerness even as he restrains himself. He is methodical, never allowing his emotion to take control. "The point, my dear Roseline, is to unleash you. I have seen the timid girl lash out in the briefest of moments. There is more to you, buried under that flesh and meekness. I plan to release it."

I lift my head and stare at him through locks of greasy hair. "You want me to kill?"

"Oh no." He chuckles as he clasps his hands behind his back. "I do not want you to kill once. I want you to slaughter thousands. To crave the scent of death, just as you long for a fresh fountain of blood to spill from the neck of a young girl. I want you to yearn for it."

My arms tremble as I fight to pull against my chains. "I shall never be like you."

A slow, knowing smile darkens his face as he steps closer. "You already are. You just do not know it yet."

I watch his approach, fighting to think lucidly beyond the pain. There is something different in his eyes today: caution.

Someone knows! My heart skips a beat at the realization that a scent of fear has begun to leak from his skin, mingling with my own, though his is far more overpowering than mine. Who is it that he fears?

"Do you ask for mercy?" He sets his lantern atop the table. In its warm glow I spy an array of blunt and serrated tools. Many of them have been used on me. Others I am sure it is only a matter of time before they are introduced. Each has been cleaned of any trace of my blood.

"Yes," I whisper, dropping my gaze. My body slumps with false submission.

Think, Roseline! I silently scold. Discover a way to deter him.

My body does not hold sway over Lucien as it does Vladimir. My husband would be wildly affected to see me in such a state. His love of pleasure mingled with pain became obvious on my wedding night as he took me behind the burning alter while I stared into the lifeless eyes of my beloved sister and each night after. He revels in my screams, indulges in his wildest fantasies. Lucien enjoys screaming, though it is a different sort.

"Is it nearly night?" I ask, squinting my eyes to see past the lantern light. Neither sunlight nor the glow of the moon has ever filtered down into this prison, yet I stare up at the tunnel as if filled with longing.

"It is." I hear the clanging of metal and fight to still my rising panic. He has begun to stoke a fire in the sunken space at the end of the room. A great hollow pit has been carved from the castle's foundation. A metal grate runs the length of the man-sized hollow, allowing a sizeable fire.

Lucien dips low and blows on the embers. He rises as the flames flicker to life, feeble though present. Dipping a ladle into a wooden bucket, he pours black pitch over the flames and they instantly ignite. I fear the fire, not just for the flames however, but for the intense heat it releases. It is suffocating, even in this cavernous room where the heat trails up the walls and escapes through the tunnel overhead.

Lucien begins to unbuckle his cloak and lays it over the top of a three-legged stool beside his worktable. Rats skitter along the base of the walls as they flee the heat roiling from the pit. I turn away my face, pressing hard against the cold stone to steal some of its coolness. I close my eyes as I hear metal shifting not far away. I begin to quiver as I realize that today will not be cutting. He is sorting through his branding irons.

"Where is my husband?"

The clanging stops. There is a long pause as I feel Lucien's gaze piercing the dim light to search my face as he walks around the table to face me. "You seek Vladimir?"

"I... I would like to see him." The words feel like treason upon my tongue. Surely, Lucien can see through my lie.

He lifts a spear-tipped branding iron and runs it along his cheek. It is dark and still cool to the touch, though I remember the agony of having it thrust upon my stomach, cauterizing my wounds. The memory of my own burning flesh makes the room spin about me.

His skin feels unbearably warm to the touch as he snatches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Would you?"

Callous eyes ensnare me as he searches my face. My chin aches under the intensity of his grip, though I dare not scream. Tears sting my eyes as I fight to evade the pain. "You are a clever one, are you not? Vladimir has underestimated you, though he always was a fool when it came to beauty. He thinks with what resides in his pants rather than the mind he was gifted with."

He shoves me back into the wall as he releases me. My head slams into the stone with enough force to split the skin along the back of my head. Warm blood seeps from the wound, oozing slowly down the nape of my neck.

"Your husband would not approve of my actions." He pauses as he turns to look at me. My throat clenches at the rabid look in his eyes. He stretches out his hand and grasps the end of a wooden-handled dagger, its blade serrated and deadly sharp. I close my eyes as the tears come. I cannot stop them.

I whimper at the feel of the steel gently gliding down my cheek. His breath is hot against my ear as he leans in close. "I suppose I shall have to remain discreet."

I bite down on my tongue as the blade digs into the base of my throat, sealing off my scream. The tears fall hot and fresh down the curves of my cheeks, dampening my split lips. My head lolls to the side and my chest rises in halting, wheezing breaths.

I cannot take any more of this. I have begged for death to find me countless times, yet my pleas fall on deaf ears. I am utterly broken... desolate.

A poison has begun to seep into my soul, snatching away every hint of hope that I held fast. The darkness is mine. I claim it, cling to it. The light only brings pain now. There is nothing left, save torture, mocking laughter in the shadows, and anger.

Someday I will make Lucien Enescue pay for this. I do not know how, though I vow he will die by my hand.

# FIFTEEN

I whimper at the creaking groan of the door opening above, though I am too weak to look up. As a lantern begins to descend toward me, I discover that my vision is heavily blurred. It takes far too much effort to breathe so I still my lungs and wait, conserving energy.

It has not been long since Lucien left me. I spat out most of the blood that he tried to force-feed me, silently basking in his fury over having wasted blood. The effects of what little blood I did ingest have begun to take the edge off the pain, though not enough to do permanent healing.

The gaping wound in my stomach has been cauterized, as have the flaps of skin along my legs and back. The bones in my arm have begun to reconnect, the sinew and flesh growing back together. Blood can heal most wounds, though nothing can remove the scent of charred flesh lingering in my nose.

Lucien's torture on this day was mild compared to what I have grown accustomed to. It was almost as if he were trying to mend my wounds instead of create new ones. Someone knows, chants repeatedly through my mind. The statement becoming more of a desperate plea rather than a fact as time ticks past with mocking leisure in the dark.

My head hangs low, my chin resting atop the breastbone that protrudes from my chest. I have lost weight in this pit. Food has been scarce. What little Lucien left for me was stolen by the rats long before I could recover enough to consider eating.

My hair drapes over my eyes, shielding me from the approaching person. My arms tremble in the manacles as I risk a small inhale, dreading the familiar scent of blood that clings to Lucien, although this time it is absent.

I slowly lift my head and blink against the blurred light. A cloaked figure moves toward me. I can tell he is a male by the breadth of his chest, yet his outline is dark and muddied in my vision. His approach is slow and cautious as he sets the lantern down on the tabletop. I flinch at the tinkling of metal.

"No," a gentle voice says as I press back against the wall. "I have not come here to hurt you."

If only I could curl in upon myself and hide. I feel barren and exposed before his hooded eyes. His scent is unfamiliar to me. I have never met him before, though his voice sounds vaguely familiar.

"Who are you?" I ask with a voice that quivers like a newly birthed fawn attempting to find its footing for the first time. I am deeply shamed however too weary to do more than hang before him, naked and soiled.

"A friend."

A bark of bitterness leaves me in a fit of wracking coughs. Blood bubbles from my lips, escaping from what I fear to be a tear in my lungs. I spit to the side, repulsed by the metallic taste upon my lips. "I have no friends."

"That is only because we have yet to be properly introduced."

I hang heavily in my chains, feeling woozy. The floor rises up to meet me as he steps forward. There is nothing I can do to stop him from touching me. I do not even have the strength left in me to scream. "Your voice..." I trail off as his face swims before my eyes.

Darkness encroaches along the edges of my vision, and when I blink again, I am sure I have lost several moments of time as he is now touching me. He gently pushes my chin up so my head lolls back against the stone wall.

His touch is firm yet tender as he cradles my head and unlocks the manacle about my neck. The instant the restraints are gone, my head snaps back to my chest, crushing my nose.

"My apologies." He grunts as he fights to support my weight with one arm while battling with the chains with the other. He balances me awkwardly in his arms as he works to free my wrists.

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.

# SIXTEEN

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.

I walk through the empty kitchen and out into the deserted halls with silent steps, listening to talk of the horses that have fallen to the brutal ice storm that has seized the land. Soon they will be the main course on our dinner table.

Night must be upon us for so many of my brethren to be awake. Odd that it does not feel so late though. My time spent in the dungeon must have displaced me from reality.

"Roseline?" I turn at the voice, my fingers tightening instinctively around the folds of the stranger's cloak.

A man stands in the doorway of his chambers, his shoulders nearly as wide as the door. His skin is darker than most, almost as if he has spent far too much time out in the sun. His lips are pale and his eyes gleam with an amber hue, making his pupils seem void of all light.

His tawny hair is full though cropped shorter than most, resting upon the tops of his shoulders instead of down his back. Not long after I arrived, I heard that Verity chopped Clement's hair while he slept as a prank. Everyone within the castle knows of his love of staring into a mirror. Though I would not go so far as to call him an overly prideful man, he does take great pleasure in looking presentable at all times.

Judging by the slightly uneven length to his hair, I am inclined to believe the tales. Verity does rather enjoy jabbing people where it hurts the most, or at least she did, I silently amend, remembering all too well her final moments in the boat shack.

She had felt fear—of that I am sure. A part of me feels sorry for her, though I know if Lucien had not arrived, I would have been forced to endure her own form of torment. Though she implied she wanted to end my life, I know it was a ruse. No one with her keen love of torture would let their victim goes with such ease.

I refocus my thoughts on Clement, noting that his clothes are made of fine velvet, a deep blue that makes his eyes appear to glow from within. I have always found him to be eccentric, though for the most part tame. Although Vladimir ridiculed his skill with a bow and arrow on my first night within the castle walls, I would not dare offer to be one of his targets.

I am also not fool enough to assume that he is completely harmless. No, he would rip out my throat if he saw benefit in doing so. Luckily for me, that day has not yet come.

"Clement." I dip my head in somber greeting.

He is a mask of mystery, revealing neither emotion nor thought. "The entire castle has been searching for you since Vladimir's return."

"Have they?" I step closer so he can catch the full extent of my degraded state in the flickering light. "A pity no one thought to look for me in Lucien's dungeon."

His lips peel back from his teeth as a low hiss rises in his throat. "It would be wise not to speak of such... deceptions. Vladimir does not take kindly to falsehoods against his brother."

I tilt my head to the side so he may take in the full view of my newly healed patch of scars that runs the length of my neck. In a day or so, all evidence of my time spent in the dungeon will be gone, yet even a cupful of blood is not enough for an instantaneous healing. "Do you think I did these to myself?"

Clement steps forward, his imposing stance meant to make me cower. Perhaps before I would have. Now, I have no care to. His eyes narrow. "You have changed."

I nod in agreement. "Endless affliction has that effect on a person. You reach a point where pain no longer matters, where the only thing that means anything is a choice."

His brow furrows. "A choice between what?"

I smile, feeling the first ounce of empowerment I have felt since arriving in this horrid place. "Between merely existing and living."

I turn on my heel and walk past, leaving him to mull this over in silence. As I reach the steps to the second floor, I hear the latch on his door catch and exhale a tiny breath of relief. Although I managed to come across as confident, I am far from it. It is true that I have changed from the whimpering girl who first entered Lucien's dungeon. He broke me, though not in the way he had hoped.

He wanted me to fight back. I simply realized that to do so would be to mean that I care... which I do not. Death has been plucked from my hands, though I will not give up reaching for it. I know now what this life has to offer me and I want no part of it. No, I will seek death with every ounce of my being. Vladimir, and his wicked brother, will have no control over me. I will see to that as well.

The climb to my chambers is long and arduous. My heart feels heavier with each step I take. I know what awaits me at the top of the stairs. By now Vladimir will be aware of my return. I made no effort to conceal my voice below or the sound of my steps as I rise toward my turret. The only question is... will Lucien be waiting there for me as well?

As I step past my door, an unconscious tremble begins in my fingers. I have never willingly gone to Vladimir before, never seen the interior of his room. Up to this point, he has preferred to defile me in my own room. I suspect this has been a symbol that I am not safe anywhere.

I reach out to push open Vladimir's door and note the growing tremble in my fingers. I draw my hand back, clutching it to my chest as I will myself not to give in to the fear. To push it aside completely.

You do not fear death, a voice in my mind whispers. You fear living.

As I reach out toward the door once more, it flings open. Vladimir stands before me, his face darkened with anger. "Where have you been?"

Before I can speak, my husband grasps my wrist and pulls me through the doorway. I am only vaguely aware that the door slams behind me as I sprawl to the floor. Pain flares along my right hip from where I land upon the hard floor, though I hardly take notice. It is a mere annoyance after the days of torture I have recently endured.

A fire spits in the hearth nearby. A wide and tall metal grate has been placed before it, forcing the majority of the heat back up through the hole above the fire, allowing only enough heat into the room to take the chill off the air. All the furniture in the room has been shoved to the opposite side, despite the screen. Vladimir has always shown a great sensitivity to heat, I muse, storing that information for later use.

Lucien sits in one of the finely upholstered chairs beside the window, his leg lazily crossed over his knee. He lifts his gaze to mine and I can see the depths to which his anger has grown buried in his eyes.

I almost smile when I realize he was unaware of my release. Perhaps he is not as intelligent as he supposes.

"I asked you a question," Vladimir roars as he yanks me up from the floor and shoves me into a chair. It rocks back onto two legs, threatening to spill me backward, but my husband places his boot on one chair leg and slams me back to the ground.

My head spins for a moment as I am thrust forward. I dig my nails into the fabric to remain rooted in place.

"Isn't it obvious, dear brother?" Lucien says with utmost boredom. He flicks the tip of his dagger, unearthing dirt or perhaps my blood from beneath his fingernails. "She has attempted to escape. Just look at how filthy she has become."

My lips curl back from my teeth as a low growl begins to rumble deep within my chest. "You lie!"

"Careful girl," Vladimir warns as he paces before me. His gaze drifts over my matted hair and unkempt decor. "That is my brother to whom you speak."

"No." I shake my head as I lift my chin to stare back at him. "That is a demon."

For a moment there is no sound in the room; then great bellowing laughter seizes Vladimir and Lucien. I watch as tears stream from their eyes, as if I have just presented the best joke known to man. Their laughter vexes me. I dig deep trenches into the cushion of the chair yet remain silent.

Vladimir wipes his eyes and walks over to stand beside Lucien. They both look at me, sizing me up. "Apparently your attempts have failed, brother. She should have slit your throat the moment she discovered your presence in the room."

"Yes, that would have been impressive." The corner of Lucien's lip twitches. "Apparently we will have to try again."

I struggle to comprehend this sadistic twist in the plot. Vladimir knew what Lucien was doing to me. He probably asked him to do it. My stomach turns bitter as I lower my gaze. My eyes begin to sting with unshed tears. I refuse to give them the satisfaction.

They did this to me. Both of them. I was a fool to think Vladimir would be furious over his brother's actions. It was all a ploy, a sick, perverted game for them.

"No." Vladimir shakes his head and moves toward a side table. He reaches for a golden pitcher and pours himself a drink. My stomach clenches at the sweet scent of blood. My throat burns with need, yet I refuse to let them see it. "She has been gone far too long."

Lucien turns in his seat. His former pleasure vanishes, only to be replaced by something that might be considered desperation. "Do not let your lusts cloud your judgment, Vladimir. The girl only needs more time."

Vladimir takes a long, slow drink. His gaze never leaves mine. I can see him weighing his options. The hollowness within me spills forth as I realize the depths to which this betrayal affects me. It is not just my husband and Lucien that have betrayed me, yet the stranger as well.

They must have sent him to me, knowing I would cling to the hope of a savior. My chest clenches as a single tear slips from the corner of my eye. I wipe it away, though I can still feel the damning moisture against my cheekbone. He is just as much a monster as these two are. I am a fool.

"What of Verity?" I ask as Vladimir turns away. I cannot bear the thought of being dismissed so easily. Not without answers. "Was her death a ruse as well?"

"Oh no." Lucien grins as he returns to his administrations of cleaning his nails. "She deserved her death."

Vladimir's laugh is cruel and filled with more ice than clings to the trees upon the castle grounds. "She was no longer useful to me. Her jealousy would only seek to endanger your life and I could not allow that to be. Besides, Lucien was growing restless. I felt her passing would give him proper... motivation with his time spent with you."

A quake begins within me as anger pools in my abdomen. "And what of Cassius? Surely he will seek revenge. He dearly loved his sister."

A slow grin spreads along Lucien's lips, almost as if he relishes the thought. "Cassius is a good dog. He does as he is told, unlike his sister. He will play the part well."

Could this be true? Could Cassius truly be that naïve, or does his own fear of death force him to accept a fate that is less than he would have liked? He knew of his sister's exploits. The entire castle knew, though I doubt that gave him any solace when he watched her body burn upon a funeral pyre... if they even gave her one.

I sit up straighter in my chair. "And what is my part to be, then?"

Vladimir's eyebrows rise with surprise. "Have I not made that clear yet, my dear?"

He sets down his glass and approaches. When he reaches the side of my chair, I have to force myself not to draw back from him. He snatches my chin between his fingers and leans in so close all I can see are the flames of the fire mirrored within his glassy eyes. "You are mine to mount whenever and in any manner I so please. Your body is mine."

"So I am to be your whore?" I spit back at him, repulsed by the thought that I am nothing more than a piece of meat for him to play with at his every whim. Surely my family was slaughtered and my mortality stolen for a purpose greater than mere lust. It is abominable to think otherwise.

"Not just his." Lucien chuckles as he rises to his feet. I shift my gaze to the side, straining to see him as Vladimir tightens his grip on my chin so I cannot move my head. "You will be shared among the men, in time."

"No!" Vladimir's grip loosens as he turns on his brother. "This one is mine."

"Come, come, dear brother. Your brethren will not be pleased with this. It is the way of things." The way he speaks so freely of my imminent rape chills me to the bone. There is hardly any emotion to his words. Certainly not any lust of his own. No, Lucien is not interested in my body. He longs to possess my soul.

Vladimir shoves me back as he rises to face off with Lucien. "I forged the rules. I possess the ability to amend them."

Lucien's pale skin flushes with anger. I turn my head to watch him as spittle flies from his lips. "Do not be a fool, brother. The men will demand their time with her. If you refuse, there will be trouble. She is a girl, nothing more."

"If that is true, then why did you select her for me? It is unlike you to hand select a girl for my bed." Vladimir takes a step forward to challenge Lucien. "I know you too well, dear brother. You have a personal interest in this one. She is special. You said so yourself, so why must you force this issue with me?"

Lucien's brow dips low and I tense, sure he will strike Vladimir. The intensity between them is nearly palpable. "The girl is to be shared. That is final."

He turns on his heel and walks toward the door. I hardly have time to blink before Vladimir leaps and tackles Lucien to the ground, scrambling to be on top. I see the glint of a blade a second before it comes to rest against Lucien's neck. "No one will touch her without my permission. Is that clear?"

Lucien snarls and sends his elbow barreling into Vladimir's thigh. It is enough to rock him off balance. Lucien scrambles to his feet, crouched low. His lips peel back as he growls. "She makes you weak, brother. Let me have her for a time. I will break her and then unleash her. Once we have her as we want, then you may delve into your debauchery."

"You have already had your time with her and look what it has done." He circles Lucien, keeping his dagger firmly gripped in his hand. "She is a mass of scars!"

"She will heal," Lucien inserts quickly. He stays low, his movements carefully measured. I draw my legs up into the chair, afraid to hinder their skirmish. I lift my prayers heavenward that one of them will die this night, though I am unsure which death I long for most. "She was broken. Can you not see it in her eyes?"

The instant Vladimir shifts his gaze toward me, Lucien lunges. The sound of the two men clashing together is like a catapult launching stone against a castle's battlements. They tumble end over end, rolling and scrabbling for purchase.

Furniture smashes into slivers of wood as they slam into tables and chairs, fighting for the advantage. Lucien grabs a small table and brings it down over Vladimir's back. I turn away as jagged shards explode into the air. My husband cries out as he slams to the floor. For a moment I think him defeated, though as Lucien approaches, he grabs a dresser drawer and rolls onto his side, slamming the corner of the wood into Lucien's thigh.

The two men tussle, their grunts and growls surely heard in the far reaches of the castle, though no one would dare enter to stop the fight. I lift my feet from the floor as they roll under me. My chair shudders as they slam into the wall.

I look to the floor in frantic search of the fallen dagger. I spy a glint of silver a second before Lucien cries out. I glance over my shoulder to find Lucien staggering to his feet, a wide gash pouring with blood over his right eye. A broken stool lies at his feet. Vladimir crouches low, preparing for his attack, though his movement is slightly slower than usual.

I lick my lips, feeling parched yet buzzing with new energy from my earlier healing. The effects of the blood will not last long, though for now I have an advantage. The dagger sticks out from beneath the smashed armoire nearest the door. It would take two bounds to reach it, though Vladimir and Lucien are locked into a fierce battle before me.

The four-poster bed groans as Lucien slams his brother's head into the wide wooden frame. The instant Vladimir's eyes roll back into his head, I leap from my chair and sprint for the dagger.

Neither of them notices as I rise with the blade in hand. Vladimir grunts upon the floor. He takes a deep breath and flips onto his back, raising his leg to kick Lucien in the stomach. Lucien stumbles backward, surprised by the attack.

I hear a guttural cry of alarm escape his lips as I bury the dagger deep into the back of his chest. I push until the four-inch blade is buried to the hilt. Blood pools over my hand as I twist the blade, snarling, as Lucien collapses to the ground, rolling onto his side with a pained groan.

"What have you done?" Vladimir lurches to his hands and knees and crawls to Lucien's side. He places a hand on his brother's chest, closing his eyes as he listens.

Lucien's mouth opens and closes, mimicking speech, yet only strangled air passes through his lips. I smile and clutch the dagger tightly in my hand, enjoying the weight of the blade. Vengeance is sweeter than any blood I have tasted.

"You've punctured his heart." I watch as Vladimir hastily tears off his coat, sending golden buttons rolling across the floor. He rips the sleeves of his shirt back and bites deep into his wrist. With his teeth, he peels back the flesh and blood pours from the wound directly into Lucien's mouth.

Vladimir grunts as Lucien greedily sucks at his wrist. He grimaces as he pushes back against Lucien. I take a step back as my husband turns a look of unrepentant rage upon me. "You will pay for this."

# SEVENTEEN

A hiss passes through my clenched teeth as I shift on the straw mattress of my canopy bed. The wooden frame creaks loudly as I grip the bedding. My knuckles are white with pain.

It has been three days since my husband last came to be with me. Three days since he scourged my flesh with a glass-tipped whip after I dared to attack Lucien in his room. I knew a severe punishment was coming. Although Lucien survived my attack, with the help of Vladimir's blood, my husband took great delight in seeking his vengeance upon me.

The first day, I could hardly breathe through the pain. I counted the passing hours by the throbbing in my flesh. Embers from the blazing fire Vladimir lit beside my bed landed atop my open wounds, flitting over my raw flesh, driving me to the brink of insanity. The heat was unbearable, the pain severe enough for me to struggle to disconnect my thoughts from the agony.

I had thought that I had grown strong while imprisoned within Lucien's torture chamber, yet when Vladimir split my skin over and over again, I learned I was wrong. Pain breaks you no matter how strong you are. In the end, everyone will succumb to it.

I pleaded for death on the second day yet knew it was well out of my reach. The pain had shifted from agonizing to maddening as my wounds slowly began to heal on their own. Vladimir sent Emeline and Clement to tend to my fire. They only darted glances in my direction before hurrying from the room, as if they themselves might receive the same treatment for lingering too long.

Tears were my companions as the sun pranced across the sky. No one spoke to me. No one tended to my wounds. I was alone.

Today, I am angry. No, I am something beyond anger now, although there is no word known to man or the undead to describe it.

My skin crawls at the thought of Vladimir's hands upon me, his bare flesh against mine. I would take a thousand lashes of his whip to avoid another night in his arms. He sought to ruin me, emotionally and physically.

In the first few days after my transformation, I would simply turn my face away and pray that he would finish with me quickly. However, his needs were insatiable. Night after night he would visit me, though he quickly grew weary of my catatonic state.

My body is no longer good enough for him. He wants my mind now too. He wants me to look at him as he ravages me, to scream when he strikes me. I do my best not to give in, though at times I am unable to stave off my cries.

I have lost track of how many times he has come to me. A part of me does not wish to know. As I lie here, immobilized by pain, I have realized a new truth. Vladimir wants me for himself. This he made very clear, though I feel his desire for me runs far deeper than mere flesh. No. He wants to contort me into something like him. A monster he can control and unleash at his bidding. I am not a wife for him. I am a tool.

He does not just want a whore to warm his bed each night. He wants a savage that will give in to his whims, enjoy his sadism. An equal that he has never had before.

I watched as his eyes grew alight with fervor when he saw the pain in mine the day I attacked Lucien. The moment I came alive, fighting to protect myself from his whip, he knew he had me.

The forms of torment steadily increased through that long night, although my pain threshold did not. I tried not to cry out, biting my tongue so hard I feared it might severe completely from my mouth, yet his patience was better than my own. His ability to inflict pain is an art in which he and his brother seem expertly mastered.

I lost count of the number of dislocated joints, purple bruises, or burns that marred my flesh. He shattered bones one at a time, leering down at me as I fought against my screams. Lucien watched from the shadows. I could see the gleeful glint in his eyes.

Escaping the dungeon was not enough. Now, I have two men to fear.

I close my eyes briefly to the memories, desperate to lock them away with all of the others. I wince as I twist at my waist on the bed, praying for relief to come in a different position. Warm blood seeps from my wounds as my movement tears through the thin layer of new flesh that has begun to grow.

Salty tears sting my eyes as I listen to laughter from across the castle. My brethren are high in spirits this night. The attack on a local village must have gone well. More innocents slaughtered for sport.

The ice storm broke against the walls of this castle as I stared into the flames, praying for an end. I lost count of how many times Vladimir ravaged me that night, in between lashes with the whip. My blood clings to each of the walls, splattered and smeared as he tossed me about like a doll.

All the while Lucien smiled in the corner, taunting Vladimir, urging him on. He spoke in whispers, spreading lies about my plans to escape. He chose Rasnov as my destination, weaving tales of the men who would bed me. His words drove Vladimir to greater levels of agitation.

No doubt this is the town that was plundered last night. My throat clenches at the thought as guilt swells in my chest. Blood spilled. Families left in ruin for one twisted man's whim.

I was wrong about Lucien. He is not just a demon. He is the father of all evil.

I know this raid was not of my own doing, though I still feel the shame of such heinous deeds, as if their blood were upon my hands instead of theirs.

Vladimir must be pleased.

Will he come to my bed to celebrate this night? I pray he remains with one of the wenches below instead. Let them pleasure him for once.

I turn my head and bury my face into the feather pillow. It smells of sweat and blood, a scent I have called my own since arriving in this horrid place. I know suffocation will not kill me. I have tried it more times than I care to count. Leaping from my tower window earned me nothing more than shattered bones and a respite in the dungeons that I have yet to fully recover from. I wish I had the willpower to drag myself to the fire and set the room alight, yet I know the pain that will come from the flames as they melt away my skin. Vladimir would never allow me to die by any hand other than his own.

Knife wounds heal, as do burns and scars. Death is no longer an option. At least not an easy one. This has become a way of life for me. Pain, hunger, loneliness... I can see no end to my suffering.

I have mourned over my fallen family these past few days, clinging to my pillow as if embracing my beloved sister. Yet as the ice storm lets up and the rains return, I have come to realize that she was the lucky one. Adela died swiftly while I die a little more with each passing day.

The frost upon my window melted long ago, although I cannot tell if it is from the rising temperature outside or the sweltering heat within the confines of my room. The apparent shift in weather brings me little relief. What lies beyond the castle walls is not for me. I am a prisoner. My room is my domain. Though small and insignificant, at least I can call it my own.

Eternity is something I never really thought about until my wedding night when I was murdered and brought back to life. A half-life. A cursed life. Now, I cannot stop thinking upon it... nor of my guilt.

Lucien may have wielded the blade that severed my sister's throat, but I tasted her blood. I sank my teeth into her flesh. I saw the terror in her eyes. Perhaps I am already the monster that Vladimir seeks, I ponder grimly as I lift my blurry gaze toward the window. The stars are trapped behind wisps of gray cloud, the edges beginning to lighten. The rains have let up for the moment, though I sense they are not done with us yet.

My sister's blood is upon my hands. How many more will suffer her fate because of me?

I close my eyes to the thought. With each lash, each droplet of blood spilled, I have learned how precious blood truly is. It is not just a heartbeat, though rather the essence of life itself. It sustains. It heals. It destroys.

A knock sounds at my door. I close my eyes, praying Vladimir has not come.

I cast a glance at the window and notice the first hints of dawn piercing through the low-hanging clouds. It is late for a visit from him. Usually he finishes with me by now and slumps off to bed. After a night of butchering, he will hopefully pass out amongst my brethren in the hall below and leave me in peace.

"Roseline?" A voice calls through the wooden door. The man's accent is thick and bears hint of a foreign lilt. I stiffen, biting down upon my cry as my exposed flesh contracts. Warm blood begins to pool along my back.

It is the stranger from the dungeon.

"I have nothing to say to you," I reply in a whisper.

There is silence from the other side of the door. I hear him brush his hand against the rough grain of the wood. His stance shifts and I imagine him leaning to one side, placing all of his weight onto one foot as he did while speaking to me in the dungeon. "Will you allow me to enter?"

Why has he returned? Did Vladimir send him to toy with me further?

I inhale, attempting to define the scent on the other side of the door. I catch a whiff of leather, mud, and smoke, though that could describe many of my brethren who live beyond the castle walls.

I do not answer. I cannot. Tears squeeze out from between my closed eyes as I feel his betrayal far more deeply than that of my husband. I was a fool to think an immortal could be kind. Foolish thoughts of a foolish girl.

The urge to sink into the layers of my duvet grips me as I hear the latch of my door click. I close my eyes and slow my breathing as he crosses the threshold of my doorway.

I am hardly in any condition to defend myself against this man should he decide to attack. Despite his earlier kindness, I have learned while living at Castle Bran that everyone has an ulterior motive. Especially the men.

Is that why he has come? Perhaps I was wrong all along. Perhaps he was working for Lucien instead of my husband. Has Lucien sent him here to defile me despite Vladimir's strong protest?

The floorboards creak as he steps heavily across the length of my room. My pulse thumps loudly in my ears and I know I am not fooling him. He could hear my frantic heart beating long before he entered.

His approach slows as he nears my bedside. I breathe in when he draws close and catch the scent of horse beneath the layer of mud that must be caked to his legs. The fragrance of rain hangs heavy upon him. Surely only a fool would be out in weather such as this. Not even Vladimir, with his heart blackened by bloodlust, would want to raid in such a storm.

He has only just arrived from beyond the wall. That would explain the smell of smoke that surrounds him... He must have paused beside the hearth to dry himself before coming to see me.

Where has he come from in this foul weather? Where did he go after he left me? Was he paid handsomely by Lucien for his services rendered?

Even as these thoughts traipse through my mind, an image of Lucien's rage buried within his eyes when I stepped into Vladimir's room resurfaces. He did not know I had been set free. What if I am wrong to assume this man is anything more than what he appears to be?

The uncertainty of this stranger's intentions drives me mad. I resist the urge to turn and look at him. Partially because of the pain it would cause to maneuver in such a way, yet mostly because I fear his presence.

Why does he not speak? Why does he just stand there watching me?

"I know you are great pain." His voice is deep yet quiet, low enough not to startle me. His accent boasts a perfect reflection, though fails to cover the fact that his ancestry is obviously not of our lands. Will I ever discover from where he originates?

I suck in a breath and hold it. There is no use pretending any longer. I can hear the leather of his vest shift as he crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. I wonder how large those arms might be. Are they connected to fists that will beat me? Or fingers that will carve into my flesh with delicate care?

I felt his great strength when he held me in the dungeon, fighting to free me from my chains. His touch was firm yet tender. He never gave me any reason to truly fear him. However, that does not make me less suspicious of his sudden return. Surely he does Vladimir or Lucien's bidding and that means he is my enemy.

"I am sorry." His words are barely above a whisper, shocking enough to make me long to see him for myself. When I look upon his face for the first time from the far corner of my eye, I see that his gaze is riveted to the blood-stained sheets that are rumpled upon the bed about me, instead of on my nakedness.

Though he has seen me in a similar state, this time is far worse. The light of the fire and the dawn spilling through the window highlight every wound, every curve of my body. I have never felt so laid bare before.

"For what do you have to be sorry?" I grimace as I fight to shift position. His face pales as his gaze flits up toward mine and then darts away again. I long to capture a better glimpse of him, yet he remains on the edge of my vision.

"No woman should endure such tortures," he whispers.

I close my eyes, wishing I could believe that he truly believes these words, yet I cannot. "You should not say such things. There are too many ears."

"Indeed." He instantly agrees. "Though I would say the same for the sake of any lady."

"I am not just any lady, though you are already all too familiar with that, are you not?" I grit my teeth against a ripple of pain that begins somewhere near the base of my spine and shoots up toward my neck. My skin is stretched too taut in this position, yet I am afraid to move and lose all sight of him.

"No," he says as he comes to kneel beside me. "That you are not."

# EIGHTEEN

The man kneels in silence beside me for a moment. Neither of us speaks nor does he expand upon his previous words. He has known my true identity from the first moment I met him at the masquerade ball, though I am still in the dark to exactly who he is. I do not even know his name. I certainly am unclear as to his motive for being here.

He clears his throat and shifts back after a moment. When he does, I can barely make out a veil of gold that drapes over his rigid jaw. His eyes are shielded from me. I find this secrecy to be maddening. You can tell much of a man from his eyes.

"Vladimir sent me to tend to you," he says as he rises to his full height. "It would seem he grows weary of your... exile."

"Exile." I laugh bitterly. Wracking coughs bring tears to my eyes as it feels as if a thousand knives slice through my exposed flesh. He places a hand atop my shoulder, holding me in place until the coughing fit subsides. The instant it does, he releases me and steps away again.

I grimace at the lingering heat of his touch against my flesh. He admits he works for my husband. I was correct about him!

"I do not need your assistance," I whisper hoarsely. My vision swims as a moment of lightheadedness washes over me. It passes quickly enough, though leaves me feeling weakened.

"How long have you been left unattended?" My pain mingles with mortification as I feel his gaze trail down my body. In the dank dungeon, I was clothed in shadow, yet here in I know nothing is hidden from his gaze.

He takes his time observing my various wounds. Several times he acts as if he means to reach out and touch me but draws back. He tucks his hands into his sides, clutching his thighs instead.

I feel unforgivably exposed and my emotions lay as bare as my body. "It is none of your concern."

I attempt to roll my head away; however, a light touch against my arm stops me. "Please. I would like to know."

Taking a haggard breath into my lungs, I count to five before releasing the breath. It comes out shaky, though I feel measurably calmer.

If he was going to attack me, he would have done so already, I attempt to argue, though the fact that he may yet be toying with me lingers in the back of my mind. "Three days."

A low growl rumbles deep in his chest as he steps away. I attempt to follow his movements with my eyes, though it is useless. He steps outside of my vision and I am left to wonder about his action. Weariness tugs at me, though I fight against it, knowing I need to remain alert in his presence. Moving has drained too much of my energy and further inflamed my pain.

His boots shuffle across the floor as he moves. The sound of sloshing perks my ears and the scent that follows floods my face with heat. His steps are far more careful this time as he moves toward the window. The latch groans as he opens the windowpane and dumps out the contents of my chamber pot.

"Please leave," I whisper, mortified beyond belief. I am too tired to do anything more than plead and pray this stranger does possess some small amount of dignity that the others do not.

"I am not permitted to do that." I hear the splashing of liquid and feel my cheeks flame with heat as he washes the residue of my chamber pot from his hands in a bowl of water on the side table. The sound of the cloth rubbing against his calloused hands grates against my nerves.

Why is he doing this to me? If this is some new form of torture Vladimir has concocted for me, he is doing a marvelous job at getting inside my head.

"Your wounds are not healing well." He tosses aside the cloth with little care as he turns back toward me. "You have not touched your blood."

The sparse contents of my stomach curdle at the thought of the cup of blood that was left for me while I slept the day before. It reeks of Vladimir.

"You cannot make me drink it."

"I have no intention of forcing you to do anything." Glass bottles clink together as he searches along the top of my wooden dresser for something. "I was merely stating a fact. Nothing more. I seem to remember your aversion to blood from our previous encounter."

Sucking in a breath, I rise up just enough to twist my neck so I may see him fully, deeming the pain worth finally knowing to whom it is I speak.

My eyes widen with surprise at the man standing before me. He is younger than my husband and utterly beautiful. His damp blond hair flows down the back of his neck and a brown leather thong drapes over his shoulder, darkened by moisture. His leather tunic appears richly made, obviously handcrafted to taper along his chest and waist to perfection. His black riding boots are speckled with thick clumps of newly drying mud.

It is hard not to notice the breadth of his chest through the low cut of his vest. The skin beneath is golden and smooth, though it is not his physical beauty that ensnares my thoughts... It is his lopsided grin.

"It is nice to finally meet you in the light, face to face." He bows low, sweeping out his hand in greeting. Never in my wildest imaginings could I have drawn up an image of such raw beauty.

The firm set of his chin and the taut muscles of his shoulders draws my gaze as he rises back up, and for the briefest of moments, I forget my pain. His smile remains, though there is a humorous glint in his eyes as he surveys my growing blush. "My name is Fane Dalca and I have been charged with your personal care and training."

I sink back down, too weak to hold myself upright any longer. My vision darkens as the room begins to blur. I take several calming breaths, fighting back the growing nausea.

"I have heard your name before," I mutter into my pillow. The scent of sweat seems all the more potent as I breathe in deep against the pain. "You are a ranger. I suppose that would explain your odd selection of clothing."

I roll onto my cheek and watch as he shifts to move toward a chair to the left of the window. He lifts it off its feet and sets it closer to my bedside so I do not have to strain to see him. My brow furrows at the thoughtfulness that fuels this action. Do not lower your guard. He is cunning. Do you let him fool you once more?

He reaches for a pitcher of water and douses the fire. Steam rises from the grate. I breathe out an audible sigh of relief as sweet coolness returns to the room, soothing the fever that clings to my flesh.

Fane kneels before the grate and works for several minutes to smother the flames, ensuring none might spark back to life. Dusting the soot from his hands, he sinks back into the chair.

As a chill creeps back into the room, I find myself breathing easier. Fane seems to sense my need and remains silent. He casts a curious gaze about my room and I am reminded of how different this space is to my childhood home. It is far larger than the house I was raised in. The wooden floors aren't warped and the ceiling is tall enough so I do not have to stoop low when I pace the length of my room.

The space is bright and airy, despite the dreary skies outside. Tall glass-paned windows are scattered about the room, letting in far more natural light than I am used to. My own home, although not the smallest in Brasov, only had a handful of windows in the entire structure.

A handmade rug adorns the floor, stretching nearly from wall to wall. It is soiled with splotches of my blood. The beautifully woven tapestries that hang from the walls attempt to conceal the dreariness of the stone with their vivid colors. Waxed candles stand resolute in black sconces at random places. A candelabra dangles from the pitched roof overhead. When lit, it casts a warm glow to chase away the shadows. The chair that Fane perches himself upon is beautifully stitched, the fabric rich in both texture and color.

I find the way he watches me, though appearing not to do so, to be both exhilarating and unnerving. His gaze is somehow intense yet thoughtful at the same time. Watching him watch me is exhausting and I am reminded how much the pain has wearied me.

"You have a lovely room," he muses, fixing his gaze upon me once more.

"You are welcome to it, if you would like, though I fear you might not enjoy the company of the man living next door."

His lip curls into a smirk. "No. I dare say I would not."

I watch him closely, marking the steady rise and fall of his chest. His pulse is strong and even. His breathing measured. He is completely in control. A fact that I find both annoying and intriguing at the same time. "You are not like the others, are you?"

He cocks his head to the side. "Why do you say that?"

"You do not smell of blood," I say simply.

"Ah, I see." He nods in an exaggerated fashion that somehow makes it seem all the more genuine. I search for any change in his pulse that might hint to a falsehood, though find none. "Perhaps it has been a long day and I have merely been too busy to feed."

"No." I attempt to shake my head yet immediately fall still. I close my eyes as I feel the new layer of freshly mended skin tear along the top of my spine. Warm blood seeps down my neck and onto the sheet. "You did not smell of it in the dungeon either. Nor did you seem interested in joining in with the savagery of the masquerade."

"I was downwind from you. It would have been impossible for you to smell the blood upon me that night."

"True, though I doubt you would have wasted your time speaking with me if you had attended the ball for a more carnal need."

Fane watches me, his brow furrowing with an unknown emotion. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that there is anger simmering behind his carefully guarded gaze, yet I am unsure why.

No one has shown me an ounce of sympathy since I arrived. In fact, I have only been greeted with barely restrained lust from the men and blackened jealousy from the women. Mockery and cruel jest has been my companion.

"I do not think you forgot to eat at all," I say weakly as my cheek presses heavier against my pillow. The weariness of my efforts is starting to take its toll on me, though I dare not sleep while he is near. Even an animal will not slumber when threatened, though am I becoming confused as to whether or not I am truly being threatened? It is hard to say.

I know what it is that my eyes see, though the mind and men can play tricks. Fane appears innocent enough, and perhaps even overly polite, yet I know not to let my guard down.

My limbs grow heavier, my thoughts slightly muddled, as Fane rises to his feet and for the first time I notice a small glass bottle in his hand. The cork stopper appears to be slightly ajar. My shoulders tense as he approaches and sinks down beside me, low enough that I can make out each distinct feature of his face.

His hand rises to meet mine. His touch is delicate as he slowly uncurls my fingers and places the bottle within my grasp. "It will not work as well as the blood, though it should ease some of your pain."

I try to look down at the label on the brown glass surface, yet I already know what it is: a draught of herbal medicine that tastes worse than maggoty apples on a fall morning. Fane is right; it will help with the pain, though only to the extent of sedating me enough that I no longer feel anything at all.

Therein lies a grave danger. I watch him, searching for any hint of malice as he leans in close. "I am not here to cause you harm, Roseline. I spoke the truth before. I am a friend. Nothing more."

"How can I extend trust to a complete stranger?" I ask, clutching the bottle in my fist as if it were a lifeline. After three days of little sleep and more pain than I care to withstand, I am nearly willing to give it a shot.

"I suppose you will have to take a leap of faith. When you wake, I will endeavor to prove to you that my intentions are pure."

"And if you fail?" I ask, unconsciously wiggling the cork from the lip of the bottle. It is not easy singlehandedly. The cork drops to the floor and rolls away.

Fane lowers his gaze, and for a moment I sense a profound sadness within him. "Then my life will be forfeit."

I hesitate a moment longer, my pain mounting to dizzying heights. When he looks down upon me, I realize his eyes are the purest blue I have ever glimpsed before. Clear and vivid.

"I will hold you to that," I whisper. My hand quakes terribly as I bring the bottle to my lips.

"One sip only." He rises as I tip back the bottle, then crosses to the fireplace where he stacks the remaining logs into his arms and moves toward the door. I grimace at the thick, sludgy herbs that trail down my throat, making me green with nausea.

"I will see to it that you get your rest tonight and will return on the morrow to check on you." He turns back to look at me, nodding his approval as my eyelids begin to droop. The medicine has never worked so quickly on me before. I realize only after it is too late that there was another scent mingled among the strongly scented herbs: poppy.

My mother used to crush this flower and create a draught that could ease pain and riddle the mind with lethargy the likes no man can resist.

My fingers tremble around the narrow bottle, my need for oblivion growing by the second. Soon I will not be able to keep my eyes open or even care to try.

"Rest," he whispers as beads of sweat along my brow begin to cool as the temperature of my skin begins to diminish. I sink into the pillow, feeling cocooned by softness.

"Why do you aid me?" My words are heavily slurred.

"I believe you and I are far more alike than you know, Roseline Dragomir."

The room begins to spin about me on an uneven tilt as I hear my human name echo through my mind. Fane closes the door behind him and I slip into a dreamless slumber.

# NINETEEN

Fane does not return the next day nor any of the ones following that. Days turn into weeks, and still he does not come. Sitting with my forehead pressed to the cold windowpane, my knees tucked into my chest as I cradle my legs, I begin to ponder if somehow Vladimir intended Fane's absence as a form of punishment.

How cruel it would be to offer the tiniest hint of compassion only to strip it away again. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Fane's visit was nothing more than a vision from my pain-riddled mind.

Yet there was evidence of his visit in the small, shattered-glass bottle beneath the bed when I awoke two days later. I carefully cleaned up every tiny sliver of glass and placed them within a wooden box on a table beside my bed. From time to time, usually after Vladimir leaves me, I will open the box and stare at the glass shards, fearful they may have vanished.

My husband never speaks of Fane, nor do any of my unseen brethren in the far reaches of the castle. It is as if he is a ghost in the mists, vanishing as fast as he came. I have heard tales of such apparitions appearing on the moors of the English isles, where rain and fog play tricks on your mind. Perhaps that is all he ever was.

The dreariness of winter has become tiresome. I spend my days beside the window, staring out of a white world of snow and ice, wondering if I am slowly going mad. It would not surprise me. A part of me would even seek to embrace it.

One thought circles through my mind with increasing frequency with each day that passes: if Fane is real—and at this point I am not entirely certain that he is—he was sent to me for a reason. He said he was charged with my personal care and training. I have no need for him to oversee my personal care, yet the training aspect... this gives me reason to pause.

The man who rescued me from the dungeon was obviously skilled. He managed to evade Lucien's detection, which in and of itself is impressive. He is a ranger from beyond the walls. From the tales I have heard told around the feasting tables, these men are highly trained. Warriors of a different caliber from the men and women living within the plush halls of Castle Bran.

Rangers are spoken of with a hint of awe, a fact that I find rather odd considering nothing seems to impress the savages I live beside. If Fane truly is one of these men, I can only conclude his form of training will stem from combat. The very thought of that spreads ice through my veins faster than any winter storm that breaks against this castle.

I do not know how to fight nor do I have any desire to. Perhaps Vladimir is concerned that Lucien will push the issue of sharing me with the other men. Would he really seek to train me to defend myself against his own brother?

I look down upon my arm and place a hand over the bruises Vladimir left the night before. I can easily make out each individual finger that gripped me until my tears fell freely. There is another matching pair of bruises to be found about my throat and along my side. Would a man so eager to inflict pain hire a man to teach me to protect myself? I cannot fathom how it would make sense.

Perhaps I misunderstood his intentions. I was in a grave amount of pain that day. Yes, that must be it.

Sure that Fane was incorrect in his task, I slowly peel my fingers away from my arm. Vladimir did not cut me this time. He used me and went on his way with hardly a word spoken. Somehow this utter dismissal feels all the more cruel, though I should be grateful for his lack of attention. I have become used to the pain. The fact that it has lessened gives me cause for concern.

I do not try to repress the shiver of apprehension that weaves its way down my spine. Vladimir's eyes appeared less black than normal, almost a charcoal gray, slick with veiled hatred. Normally, he does not bother to hide it.

He did not hound me about joining him at the feast tonight, nor did he offer a cutting remark about my lack of decorum as the lady of the castle. New guests have begun to arrive to pass the winter, and I have hidden away in my tower. Not out of fear, though out of self-preservation.

Something has changed. Perhaps he has changed his mind about sharing me with the other men. I shudder at the thought, knowing nearly thirty now reside here at any given time. I do not know if I could bear to be tossed aside to this pack of salivating dogs. Vladimir's cruelty is paramount, though at least I only have him to fear. If I were dismissed completely, I would have reason to fear everyone.

I know my mind is not right. The days blend together, leaving me miserable and alone with my thoughts. They wander as far and wide as the mountains that surround this castle.

Cassius lurks outside my door through the night, pacing the steps of a man driven mad by a denied right to revenge. He believes me to be the one who murdered his sister. Lucien's lies seem to have no end.

I can smell him sometimes in the early hours of the morning. He never speaks, never attempts to enter, though he prowls out there like a caged wolf, rabid and hungry. It would do little good to inform Vladimir. He would only mock my weakness.

I have not seen Lucien since the night Vladimir flogged me, and for this I am grateful. Rumor had it that he left the castle for a time. A month, perhaps longer. I do not know where he could have gone in such foul weather, though I breathe a bit easier knowing he is no longer scheming for my demise.

For a time I wondered if Lucien's sudden departure had anything to do with Fane's disappearance. I would sit in my windowsill and stare out over the dismal castle grounds as they slowly mounted with snow, wondering if Fane was punished for being kind to me. I would not put it past Lucien, though if what he said about Vladimir charging him with training me is true, why would Fane just vanish?

Too many questions bounce about in my head, wearying me with the lack of answers. I rise from my window, sickened by the never-changing view. I am disgusted by the never-ending ice storms and blistering winds that howl through the castle halls. I long for spring, when winter will retreat and the earth will come alive once more. That is still a short way off.

It hurts to walk this morning. My gait is slightly labored by the bruises that curl around my hip from my backside. These are from the wooden vanity that Vladimir shoved me into when I raked my nails down his cheek. The whelps along my back are from the wooden pole that once hung suspended over my window. The curtains now pile upon the floor below me, trampled and forgotten.

I take several turns about my room before sinking back onto the window seat. There is no place else for me to go. With each day that passes, these four walls grow narrower. I cling to my legs as I begin to rock slowly, my tailbone protesting against the hard wooden window seat. What if Vladimir intends to show me off tonight at the feast?

There have been countless new voices coming and going through the castle these past few days. There is talk of a gathering, though I have tried not to listen to the details.

Emory and Cyra have taken up residence in the room below mine to allow space for immortals arriving from the northern territory near Hust. I hear the two of them battering the walls and rattling windows each night. Her screams are as shrill as they are obnoxious. His cries of pleasure redden my cheeks. Although I have never seen them together in public, they do seem to get along rather well in private.

I heard Alamesia whispering with Emeline about their ardent lovemaking in the stairwell just outside my room. The women's jealousy is plainly obvious even from afar. I suppose with Lucian gone, Alamesia's bed has grown rather cold.

I would not propose that Emory and Cyra are in love. From what few whispers I have dared to listen to, love shared between immortals is stronger than the finest steel. It binds completely. Nothing can separate them, save death, and even then the remaining immortal will be forever wounded by the loss.

No, Emory and Cyra do not share this bond. They share a need. Nothing more. They are no different than the rest of my brethren. They live for the thrill of the hunt, for blood and wild fornication, both done as publicly and as often as possible.

I envy any immortal who can find true love. The sort of love that would cause you to whisper together in bed as you prepare to sleep the day away in each other's arms. The serenity of knowing you are fully someone's to love and cherish.

The fates chose differently for me.

I know little of the ones who have arrived from the north. They seem no less beastly than the immortals already living here. Soon the castle will be crowded. I can already feel the additional people pressing in upon me.

Vladimir informed me to expect these guests. His previous threats relating to my duties as lady of the castle were not veiled, though I wonder if they have been temporarily forgotten. I would have thought he would have pushed the issue of my willful exile sooner, yet he seems distracted. I only hope this distraction is willing to lift her skirts for him long enough to allow me to heal.

The solstice rapidly approaches, and with it comes a rise in hysteria. Some call it the Devil's night, and I feel that to be an appropriate description. It is as if my brethren are driven to greater heights of cruelty, debauchery, and blood lust the nearer we draw to the solstice. I stay behind my door, terrified to exit. If Vladimir wants me to be at the feast, let him come drag me from my room.

My mother warned me never to go out on the Devil's night. She claimed it was a time for the undead to roam the lands. When demons escape the shadows to snatch young girls from their beds. When dark magic is most powerful. I suppose now I understand why she took such pains to look our doors and douse the lanterns. If only she had been wise enough to fear evil on other nights as well.

In three days' time, the moon will bring the longest night of the year. I fear what Vladimir will do to celebrate this event.

Staring out over the castle grounds, shrouded within a heavy fog of ice that seems to permeate even the thickest of stone walls, I tremble. I have been force-fed blood several more times in recent days. My throat burns with a thirst that I cannot bring myself to quench and a need that plagues my soul.

I do not want to kill. I do not want to be driven by blood lust. I am not sure I will have a choice.

With a weighted sigh, I rise from my seat and hesitantly approach the mirror that rests atop my dresser. Its frame is old and faded, the glass showing hints of age marks and slight warping. It is new to my room, the fourth of its kind. All of the others have been smashed to bits.

Even after all this time, my breath still catches when I glimpse my new image.

My skin is smoother than before, my bronze hair falling in glossy waves nearly to my waist. My eyes have shifted from deep blue to the aqua color of the sea. My body has lengthened, sharpened, perfecting itself into something entirely different from the girl I once was.

Raising a hand to the bruise along my cheek, I note how even the swollen, purple flesh cannot hide the flawless skin beneath. My sister Adela was the beauty in our family. To be fair, I did have nice hair and high cheekbones before, though that was the full extent of my appeal, in my opinion. I was plain, yet I was content with that.

I no longer recognize the girl staring back at me. Roseline Dragomir is truly dead.

The sad fact is that no one is still alive to mourn me. Everything I have ever held dear is gone. I sink down onto the edge of my bed and weep for all that I have lost and all that I will never have because of Vladimir Enescue. How many more lives will be destroyed by his hand?

I would not wish my fate, my immortality, on any living soul... for I am in doubt as to whether I have a soul left intact at all.

# TWENTY

Newly formed icicles dangle from my window. Small droplets of water bead at the ends before plummeting to the ground far below. I have been observing their steady decline for several hours, marveling over the colors the afternoon sun casts off their glistening surface.

A line of unmanned carriages and wagons sits below my window. The horses have been stowed in the barns, their needs seen to shortly after arriving just before dawn. The festivities and merriment lasted nearly until midday before the castle fell into a hush once more. I stood at my door, listening to the new voices. There are twenty-four in total. Fifteen men and nineteen ladies, though judging by their manner of speech, only one or two of them would be considered a proper lady.

I heard laughter and the slamming of doors for several hours as rooms were sorted and bedmates were selected. I was actually rather impressed that only two fights broke out, both settled swiftly and severely. Vladimir seems to be in no mood for discord today. Nothing will spoil his solstice celebrations.

A dress has been laid upon my bed, though I have spent much of the day ignoring it. I do not want to participate in whatever events are planned. They are bound to be depraved and unsavory in nature.

The dress itself is a thing of sheer beauty. Made of a deep sapphire and gold-scrawled velvet, it is weighted and bustled perfectly to fit to my narrow waist, flaring fetchingly at the hip, as seems to be the emerging style. A single strand of pearls has been draped across the bust of the dress and a pair of golden slippers lies beside it.

My hair falls about my shoulders in long, untamed tresses. I press a hand against my corseted waist, longing for the freedom that my nightgown provides. The boning of my day dress suddenly feels constrictive, making it hard to take a breath. I have taken to wearing an older fashion of clothes that I scrounge from the rooms when my brethren have left to plunder. Emeline has a pile of discarded dresses in the bottom of her armoire. I have no desire to wear something fancy or to impress Vladimir so her dresses suit me just fine, albeit a bit loose in the top.

I am relatively pain free this morning. Vladimir has not come to me since our guests began arriving. For this I am very grateful. My wounds have healed and my bruises have receded. I nearly feel whole. As much pleasure as this knowledge brings me, it is also paired with wariness. Vladimir must have something planned, and judging by the fine stitching of this dress, he fully intends to show me off this night.

A knock sounds at my door, startling me. I instantly chide myself for allowing my thoughts to whittle away at my concentration. I glance to the window and see that the sun still perches too high in the sky to yet be dusk. Who could this be? Surely we are not to prepare for the evening's revelry this soon.

I approach the door with caution, sniffing at the air. I focus on each individual grain in the wood as I grasp the door handle. The scent waiting for me on the other side curls my lips into a tiny smile of victory, though I instantly wipe away any hint of this emotion or risk him sensing my rise in heartbeat.

"I thought you were a ghost." A slight fluttering rises in my chest as Fane's scent rolls over me when I open the door wide. This time the smell of damp grass and rotting leaves is prevalent instead of smoke. He must have come from beyond the snows. "I suppose I am thankful you are not, merely for the fact that if you were, my sanity would be in question."

"I am truly sorry for my rude and sudden departure." Fane dips low into a bow. "It was never my intention to leave you without sending word first. However, I was not given the chance."

He seems larger than I remember, standing nearly a foot taller than myself. His hair is fuller now that it is not dripping from the rain. A leather thong ties the two sides of his vest closed so I can only see a hint of his flesh and muscle beneath. Though he has been gone for nearly two months, I find him no less breathtaking than before.

"Where have you been?" I ask before reason can restrain my query.

I know I should not care, should not even have opened my door to him, yet the need to know he is real, a tangible thing that I could touch if I so dared, drives me to remain.

A muscle beside his right eye tenses as he offers a wearied smile. I can tell by the way he leans heavily against the door that he rode hard to get here. Was it because he knew the others would be asleep? A part of me almost hopes he chose to forgo rest to see me, though not because Vladimir bid it.

"I have been nowhere and everywhere. The trees and villages all begin to look the same after a while," he replies. His voice is deep and weighted with exhaustion.

I try not to be disappointed with his vague details, yet a part of me wishes to know the goings on outside the castle walls. Does anyone remember me? Does my town think I was lost to the fire as well? Did the fires spread through the city and decimate the grain stores?

I have not been allowed to step outside the castle walls since that fateful night, so to the rest of the world, I might as well be dead. Oh, how I wish that were true. "You have returned?"

"For the moment. Not many would dare to refuse an invitation from Vladimir Enescue. His solstice events are quite the spectacle." I tilt my head to the side, attempting to dissect the hint of sarcasm in his tone.

He brushes his gloved hands against his pants. Horsehair flutters to the ground about his boots. I can smell the hint of hay from the stables on him now, as well as other less appealing scents.

My stomach clenches as I grip the door to remain upright. There is a tension in his voice that worries me, though no more so than the fact that his gaze is suddenly riveted to his mud-slick boots instead of my face. "Do you know what Vladimir plans for me?"

His head comes up so fast I wonder how he manages to avoid slamming the back of his skull against the stone wall behind him. "You know he has plans?"

"I am not blind, nor am I deaf."

A smile tugs his lips into a dazzling smile. "You are observant. That is good. You will need those skills soon."

"For what?"

His face twists and for a moment he looks almost pained. Then the expression smoothes out. "That is not something you need to worry about tonight."

The wood of the door begins to crack as I dig my nails into it. "There are plans beyond tonight?" I step forward, surprising both of us with my boldness. "I want to know."

Fane casts his gaze aside. "I am not sure now is the proper time..."

I release my grasp on the door and clutch his hand instead. He winces at the strength of my grip, though he does not pull away. "Please. I am going mad wondering what evil plot Vladimir is concocting against me. You must tell me."

With a curt nod, Fane motions for me to step back into my room. I hesitate a moment, suddenly gripped with a terror that if I release him, he will vanish once more. I uncurl my fingers from around his arm. My mouth gapes open in horror at the growing red lines that give evidence to my grip. "My sincerest apologies," I whisper, stepping back into my room.

I cannot look anywhere except for the markings upon his arm. Fane steps into my room and closes the door behind him, engaging the latch. When he turns to look at me, I see compassion in his eyes. "You are far stronger than you realize, though I will admit this does not hurt. You have no reason to be dismayed. I have suffered far worse."

His smile makes my abdomen clench with guilt. My hands quiver at my sides as I back away, stunned to find myself against my bedside. I sink onto the soft surface and clasp my hands in my lap.

Fane heads for a chair and lifts it effortlessly, setting it down before me. He leaves several feet of space between us, though as he sinks into the plush cushion, he leans forward. I look back at him, noting the markings on his arms have already begun to fade. I breathe a sigh of relief.

He waits until he has my full attention. His gaze is guarded yet thoughtful. "Are you entirely sure that you want the truth?"

I nod, biting my lower lip as I curl my arms about my waist. I realize only now that my low-cut dress is hardly the proper attire to speak with a strange man in my bedchambers, yet considering this is the first time I have been clothed in his presence, I take comfort in its layers.

"Very well." He sinks back into the chair. The wood creaks around his broad frame. He places his hands upon his knees, tapping his fingers lightly. "There is a tradition that takes place every solstice night. A hunt... of sorts."

"A hunt?" I mirror his question.

"Yes." He nods slowly. I sense his reservation in moving forward so I remain perfectly silent for fear of giving him cause to change his mind. "This hunt is different than some, though hardly the worst I have seen. Six humans are selected to participate in the hunt. The last to survive will join our ranks this night."

I swallow roughly. "And the others?"

Fane looks aside. He digs his nails into the flesh of the chair arm and purses his lips. "They are not given a choice."

His words feel deeply ominous. "A fight to the death."

"Essentially." He brushes aside shavings of wood that he has unburied from the chair arm. They flutter to the floor. I watch each particle as it lands. "It is not in an arena. It is in a town. The villagers will be rounded up. Volunteers will be given a choice to come forward. If none do, Vladimir will select those who participate."

"Surely men of the village will volunteer to protect their families."

Fane's face contorts as he snorts with bitterness. "No. No one volunteers."

"Then how are the men selected?" I ask.

He blows out a deep breath. When he finally lifts his gaze to meet mine, I recoil from the hollowness that I see there. "I never said it was only men that are selected."

My throat clenches as bile churns within my abdomen. "Monsters!"

He nods slowly. I watch as he swallows, realizing he too is repulsed by the idea of it. A shadow seems to cross his face, and I find myself curious as to what hidden depths lie within his blue eyes. "You have seen this hunt before?"

His gaze is piercing as he sizes me up. His hesitation inflames my curiosity. "I have," he finally answers, though he offers nothing more.

I rub my palms against my dress. They have grown clammy and the trembling in them makes me nauseous. "You said this is not the worst hunt you have seen..." I press.

His face pales as he hangs his head. "There is one that is worse."

"Will you tell me of it?"

Fane clenches his fists upon his knees, his bones creaking in protest of his grip. The muscles along his forearms tense as he shakes his head. I can feel him withdrawing, pushing me away silently. Terrified of losing my opportunity at knowledge, I lean forward and place a hand upon his.

His fingers flinch and his head jerks up. I can see his surprise and offer a slight smile. "My apologies."

I withdraw my hand and watch as he clenches his own, slowly drawing it back into his chest. His hand quakes, though he does not attempt to still it. "The hunt of which I speak coincides with Lamphae, the spring day of the moon. The festival spans over three days, though the hunt is a single night. Dusk to sunrise."

I find myself leaning toward him, drawn by the hypnotic rhythm of his voice. "I know of this festival."

He nods. "It is meant to be one of rejoicing, to celebrate the arrival of spring. For our kind, it has taken on a darker tone."

Without warning, Fane pushes up to his feet and walks past me. He moves to the window, his shoulder pressed against the wall as he stares out across the castle grounds. "This hunt does not involve humans."

"I'm not entirely sure I like the sound of that."

He nods yet does not turn to look back at me. "This hunt involves only one person against a group of immortals."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Precisely. That is its purpose. This person must prove they are worthy of their position."

"Their position?" My eyebrows dip with confusion. "You speak in riddles."

Fane sighs and draws away from the window. I notice his shoulders have slumped and his face looks drawn with weariness. "It is a tradition that when a mate is selected by Vladimir, she must undergo this trial. If she survives the night, she is allowed to remain at his side. Her position as lady of the castle shall never again be brought into question."

"Mate?" I spit out the word as if it is poison upon my tongue. "I am not an animal to simply be mounted and then tossed aside."

Fane smiles. "No, you most certainly are not, and that is why you will survive."

A numbness begins to spread up from the bottoms of my feet as his words sink in. I struggle to swallow and find my mouth too dry to succeed in my attempt. "How many other women have succeeded?"

His smile vanishes as he casts a pained look in my direction. "You would not be here now if any of them had lived the night."

"Oh!" I sway in place, sure that at any moment I will lose control of my limbs and tumble to the floor in a state of shock. He expects me to fight. I am not capable of such a feat!

I am only vaguely aware of his steps as he crosses the floor and kneels before me. I blink as he places a hand upon mine, clutching it tightly. "I am here to help you prepare."

"Prepare?" I expel a laugh dripping with bitterness. "I have only ever held one weapon in my entire life and you saw the punishment I received because of it."

My voice trembles, though I am unsure if that is natural or if it stems from the terrible quake that is rising through my arms and legs. My skin prickles with sensitivity and I become increasingly aware of the fact that Fane's thumb is brushing gently along the back of my hand. I stare down at it, focusing on this one sensation, and I fight to push aside my terror.

My heart thrums loudly in my ears as I look to the window and out over the grounds. It is deserted, left unattended during the long daylight hours. How easy it would be for me to set the hay barn alight and run, yet how far would I reach before Vladimir and his dogs track me down? Would they leave my limbs intact or maim them beyond repair? I am sure Vladimir does not have need for both of my feet, though it would only make the game that much more pleasing to him.

"I do not think I can do this." I pull out of his grasp and surge up to my feet. I feel restless and confined. I begin to pace, shaking out my hands at my sides to release some of my fear. Finally, I cannot stand the motion any longer and I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold glass of a window.

The idea of this hunt seems altogether barbaric, though not the least bit surprising. I should have known something like this would come about. I have heard rumors, gossip among the ladies of the castle, that I am not a fit mate for Vladimir. Although I sorely agree with them, I did not think the whispers would lead me to this.

I am a fool.

Will they hunt me with swords on horseback? Release the hounds to sniff out my trail? Will they even give me a weapon to fight back with?

This will be a fight for my life, a life that only this morning I would have happily given away, yet when faced with the knowledge that I will be hunted like an animal, I find myself angry instead of accepting my fate.

"I have longed for death these past few months," I whisper, watching as my breath fogs against the window. "Longed for it with the very fiber of my being, though I refuse to go out like this. No, my death will be on terms. Vladimir does not control my destiny."

A small smile begins to form along Fane's lips, though I raise a hand to stop him.

"I was born into privilege. I do not know these woods nor how to survive in them. I know nothing of how to conceal myself or my scent. I only went into the woods to play in the stream with my brother and sister or chase after butterflies. I am no hunter."

"That is why you have me." Fane's approach is swift as he pauses only a few scant inches behind me. "Vladimir does not want to see you lose."

"If that is true, then why force me to endure this trial?" I am unwilling to expend the effort to mask my misery as tears gather along the corners of my eyes. Is there no end to the depths of my torment? Have I not suffered enough? Does Vladimir seek to truly destroy every portion of my soul?

My shoulders slump as I play out the wretched events of this coming hunt. When I reach my own death, an odd sense of peace falls over me. "Perhaps this is the solution I have been looking for," I whisper. "I have been attempting to take my own life and Vladimir has thwarted all of my attempts. If I were to allow myself to be slain, I could finally be at peace."

"No!" His strong grip on my arms startles me and I shrink back. Horrified, Fane instantly releases me and moves away, his face a mask of regret. "My apologies. I never intended..."

I stand up straight once more and offer him a hesitant smile. His reaction, although surprising, seems almost natural for him. He is the only one who has shown me even an ounce of kindness since I arrived. I am certainly not about to extend him any form of trust, of which he has yet to earn, though I am most willing to accept a heartfelt apology. "I know you did not mean to hurt me."

"You do?"

I nod. "No one who truly means to hurt someone would ever look that stricken."

He chuckles and nods. "I am not accustomed to harming a lady."

"And a man?" I press.

The planes of his face harden as he looks away. "That is another matter."

My curiosity piques as I stare at this battle-hardened man before me. Although he attempts to conceal his revulsion, it is clear as day to me. A hint of a smile tugs at my lips as I realize I am not the only one who has a soul in this room.

"I only meant to stop you from considering that course of action. I know the agony with which you have lived, and although I may not know the depths to which this violation has hurt you, I do know something of pain. I beg of you to not give in."

"Why should I not?" I ask, touched by the rawness of his voice. Yes, he knows of pain. A great deal of it by the sounds of it.

His face softens as he looks at me. "You are worth saving."

The tenderness of his words startles me. A hint of a smile tugs at my lips as I see a blush begin to rise along his neck. He averts his gaze, though not soon enough to conceal the emotion within. This man may be cunning, yet I believe him to be sincere. The eyes never lie.

"How old are you?" I ask.

He blinks, obviously startled from his thoughts. "I have been immortal for far longer than you."

I purse my lips and try to read between his vague answer. "Are you as old as Vladimir?"

"No." He shakes his head and waves of fine golden strands fall about his face. "I am not nearly so old."

I am not entirely sure why he allows it, though I can hear a distinctive bitterness edging his words. Surely he has never spoken so freely before. Otherwise, he would be without a head by now. Everyone in this castle worships Vladimir Enescue, either for his power, his money, or for his love of debauchery. Fear and loyalty many times run side by side.

"You trust me..." I whisper, knowing that it is not a question. He lifts his head slowly to look at me. "You should not do so."

"For what purpose?" He steps forward, his intense gaze piercing. "You loathe him the same as I. Does that not make us kindred spirits?"

Although my heart is screaming to agree, I shake my head. "He would kill you where you stand for speaking those words."

"Perhaps it would be worth it."

A warm blush rises in my cheeks as I look away. There is something about the way he looks at me now that makes me wonder if Fane has been just as lonely as I am. A friend would be nice, yet it is a luxury I cannot afford.

I clear my throat and step away from him. "Can you help me learn to wield a sword?"

"Yes." He dips his head in acknowledgement and the intensity between us abates. "Among other things."

There is no hint of doubt in his response. My gaze roams his stance—casual yet that of a skilled warrior. I can spy callouses along the insides of his palms, evidence of his many years of training. I had not thought an immortal could develop callouses, yet apparently I still have much to learn about my kind.

"Will you teach me to fight back?" I ask, fearful he might scold me for even thinking something so ridiculous. No one has ever challenged Vladimir and lived, yet none of his enemies have ever been as intimate with him as I am.

"A word of caution might be in order, though yes, essentially I will give you all the necessary skills you would need." His smile is slow and broad. "I have faith that someday you will be quite the force to be reckoned with."

Fear grips me at the thought of what Vladimir would do to me if I were ever to raise a sword against him. Would it truly be any worse than what he has already done to me? a voice whispers in the recesses of my mind.

I could be free...

# TWENTY-ONE

The nighttime air holds a bitter chill. A frost hangs on the horizon, waiting to unleash another bout of misery upon us. My dress flutters in the wind, the ribbons cinched at my arms flapping against my sides.

The tight curls of my hair came loose from their combs not long after we departed from the castle, despite being housed within a closed carriage during our journey. Vladimir and Lucien sat across from me, speaking in eager yet hushed tones. I did not care to listen to their conversation. The fact that they were excited told me that whatever it was they had to discuss would sicken me.

The wagon caravan journey to the nearby village took little over two hours. The steady clomping of the horses' hooves kept time as we burrowed into the darkness. I searched for Fane as we departed, yet he was nowhere to be seen. He vowed to remain by my side. I find myself hoping he will fulfill his vow when we arrive.

Our earlier conversation weighs heavily upon my mind. Vladimir's hunt tonight will give me a small dose of what is to come. I fear being set loose to fend for myself. A night may seem like a blink of an eye, yet when you have rabid wolves nipping at your heels, it can feel like an eternity.

Sadly, I do not share Fane's faith in my ability to survive, though I have sworn to myself I will try, if for no other reason than to be in control of my own demise. If I am to die, it will be by my hand and no other.

"You seem tense," a deep voice calls, drawing me away from my musings.

I look away from the darkened carriage window to find Vladimir staring at me. His face is cast mostly in shadow. The lantern fixed to a pole nearest the driver's bench swings to and fro on the uneven path.

"I will not pretend to enjoy something so vile." I tuck my hands into the folds of my dress so he is unable to see the trembling in my fingers. I hate how easily his voice can bring out a panic within me. How can I ever hope to survive a hunt when I can hardly contain myself before one man?

Lucien's chuckle is low and throaty. "She does not see the benefit of our sport, brother. Perhaps we should explain it to her. She is obviously of simple mind."

I grit my teeth, though I seal away the quick retort that teeters upon my lips. I loathe this man with every ounce of my soul. I would gladly watch his soul rot in the fires of damnation. On that day only will I prance and smile at such a death.

"Come, Lucien. She has proven to be quick of mind. How else could she have bested you in my chambers?"

I brace at Vladimir's open mockery. If he were anyone other than Lord of Castle Bran, I have no doubt his head would be left rolling behind our carriage by now. Lucien's smile is tight as he leans forward to survey me. "A mere oversight on my part." He locks his darkened gaze upon me and I fight the urge to shudder. "It will never happen again."

Vladimir pats his brother on the arm. "See to it that it does not. I dare say you are a greedy one when it comes to blood. I felt a bit addled by your healing."

Lucien smirks and slowly sinks back into shadow. I do not need to see his eyes to know he continues to watch me. My skin crawls as Vladimir slips from his seat to join me. "Pay him no mind, my dear. Lucien has always been a fickle man."

"Indeed," I respond tersely.

My husband takes my hand in his, his fingers trailing a line down my palm and pausing to circle about my wrist. "We shall be arriving soon. I do so look forward to showing you off to everyone."

"For what purpose?" I ask, drawing back my hand. "So they may place a wager on whether or not I shall survive my own hunt?"

Vladimir stiffens. Color seeps from his face, though he holds his composure. "I see you have been introduced to Fane."

"Indeed." I repeat my earlier sentiment. I turn my face away from the window, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear I know to be rooted deep within my gaze. The eyes are a window to a person's soul, and mine is wide open.

Vladimir thrusts back against his seat in a huff. "I had hoped to spare you that knowledge a bit longer."

"Oh, cease your drivel, brother." Lucien raises his feet and crosses his ankles one over the other beside me, hemming me in between him and Vladimir. "You hired the man to train her. Despite the fact that I feel this to be a sore waste of money, we both know she was bound to find out."

Vladimir sighs, bobbing his head in agreement. "Yes. I should have known he would begin his lessons right away. Fane is an upstanding man, I'll give him that."

Lucien snorts and I turn to look at him. "Is there something funny about that?"

His smile broadens as he spreads his arms along the top of the seatback. "Perhaps you should ask your trainer yourself. I am curious as to how honest he will be this time."

"This time?" I close my eyes, hating the inflection of surprise in my voice.

"Oh," Lucien crows, uncrossing his feet, and he moves to the edge of his seat, placing himself so close he nearly touches my knees. "So he has not told you, then? Interesting."

I bite my lower lip and cross my arm over my chest. It irks me that in this position, I give Vladimir ample view down the neckline of my dress, though I am incapable of releasing my hold. I feel as if I am on the verge of unraveling and need the pressure to remain together.

Vladimir leans in close. I cease the expansion of my lungs so I am not forced to breathe in the potent scent of blood that lingers upon his breath from an earlier bloodletting. "Do not trust your trainer, my dear. He may have the face of an angel and the words of a saint, though he is far from either. Fane Dalca has a dark past. Listen to his instructions. Learn from his example. However, never let your guard down."

I turn away without any acknowledgement of his warning. I feel cold despite the fact that the dismal weather does not affect me severely. Are their words true? Am I not the first to be trained by Fane? If that is true, what chance do I have to succeed when they could not?

A few moments later, I notice lights peering through the trees. I curl my fingers around the edge of the open window and breathe deep, instantly wishing I had not. Amongst the scent of pine and earth is a dominant smell of fear.

"We have arrived," Lucien crows as our wagon pulls to a stop outside of town.

It is nearly pitch dark when I dismount from the carriage. Women in fine dresses and beautiful jewels cluster together. Men in handsome coats and trousers laugh and pat each other upon the back. Vladimir and Lucien brush past to see to the final arrangements.

I stand by myself only a few short steps away from the carriage. I want to turn and flee, take to the woods when no one is watching.

"You will not make it," a voice calls from the darkness over my right shoulder.

I do not have to turn to know it is Fane. "You deceived me," I whisper, not turning to face him. I do not want to draw attention to myself nor him skulking in the shadows.

"To what specifically do you refer?"

"To the women you trained before me. How could you fail to mention them?"

His silence draws out so long the group before me begins to dissipate. The men lead the way with lit torches toward the village. Women walk arm in arm together as they follow behind.

Fane emerges from the shadows and pauses at my side. My head reaches the top of his shoulder and I am once more reminded of how insignificant I am compared to him. "Vladimir sought me out with the sole purpose of preparing you. For reasons beyond my comprehension, he is absolute in his desire for your survival. He trusts me with your life."

"As such I should as well?" I turn to face him, feeling my anger rising. "Trust is not given. It is earned, and to this point you have done little to assuage my doubts."

His face is cast in shadow as he lifts his hand and motions for me to lead us to the village. His willingness to allow me to be in control does not sway my ire. "These doubts you have were placed by the man you yourself detest. Does this not seem odd to you? For what purpose do you perceive his motives to be?"

My steps are slow and measured as we walk beneath naked trees. Air puffs in great clouds before my lips, cooling upon my cheeks as I step into each breath. "If he truly wishes for me to win this battle, why would he pit me against you?"

"Is it not obvious?" I flinch as he places a hand upon my lower back. I turn to demand that he move it, but I discover I have begun to head along the wrong path and he is merely correcting my course. Once I move to follow his lead, he speaks again. "You and I are alike. This concerns your husband. The more time we spend in each other's company, the better the chance of us growing fond of one another."

I stifle a snort behind a gloved hand. "He is jealous?"

"Always." His voice comes from beside my ear, his breath warm against my chilled skin. A shiver ripples down my spine and I straighten. Perhaps Vladimir has reason to be concerned, I silently muse as I place a body's width between us.

"Then we shall endeavor to prove him wrong," I say, clearing my throat. I tuck my hands firmly together before me as the rutted road turns into a smoother path.

"Indeed." He leads me past a darkened building, its clapboard sides weathered and decaying. Two of the windows have lost their covering, allowing the frigid winds to blow right into the home. Two small hands cling to the windowsill. A small girl with a little round face, smudged and covered in freckles, peers out as us.

Fane motions for me to wait as he steps toward the window. The little girl whimpers and disappears from sight. "Do not be afraid, little one. I will not harm you."

I listen as he coos at the girl, amazed at the tenderness in his voice. Slowly the girl rises, her eyes wide with fright, yet I can see her desperation to trust Fane. She looks to be no older than five or six summers. Too young to be left alone.

"Do you know of a safe place to hide?" Fane asks, stepping so close to the window that he conceals my view of the girl. "Good. I need you to take a blanket and a small sack of food. Run there as fast as you can. Stay to the woods. Do not come out for anyone until dawn. Do you understand?"

Fane reaches through the window and gently pats the girl on the head. My chest constricts as the girl offers him a small smile and darts away. He steps away from the building and rejoins me. When he says nothing, I hold out my hand to stop him. "You saved that girl."

His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "She will be safe if she remains hidden. It is a little thing."

I clench my fingers about his arm, waiting for him to look at me. "Vladimir is mistaken about you. You are a good man."

Fane's face darkens and his gaze glazes over. He shakes his head and pulls out of my grasp. "I am far from that."

He sets off before me at a clipped pace that I could easily keep up with if I so wanted, yet I do not. I can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that he needs space so I give it to him, just as he gave me time the day he came to tend to my wounds.

Watching him march before me, I realize Fane is a haunted man. His demons chase after him. He carries them wherever he goes. Is this why he rescued me from Lucien's dungeon? Am I just another lost soul he is determined to save? Is he trying to atone for unspoken sins by being kind to me?

Whatever his reasoning for assisting me, I decide in this moment that he is the best chance I have of surviving.

# TWENTY-TWO

Fane's pace slows as we near the center of town. A bonfire has been lit, casting its light upon the wide area. Nearly one hundred humans have been herded together at the far end of the space, nearest the tanner's shop. Men clutch their wives, fighting to show bravery that I know they do not feel. Women cry as they cling to small children clutched about their skirts.

Their clothes are simple and worn. Many of them do not even have shoes to protect them from the elements. Several of the little girls hardly have more than a slip of cloth covering their little bodies.

My heart clenches at the brutality of it all. Six of these townspeople will be taken from them on this night. Five to their grave and a sixth to endure immortality. The lone survivor will be lost to this village, just as the others will. They will be feared, cast out. I am unsure which fate is worse.

Fane reappears at my side as I hesitate, my gaze riveted on a small boy and girl who hold hands and shiver from the cold. "I cannot do this," I whimper. "I cannot bear to watch these people slaughter each other for mere sport."

"You must. If you leave, it will send Vladimir into a rage and more innocent people will die. Consider the children."

"I am!" I shout back, blanching as the brother and sister send terrified glances in our direction. I turn my face aside, unable to look at them. "I will stay... for them."

"And I will remain at your side."

"You will?" I lift my gaze to see him standing before me now, blocking my view. His jaw clenches as he nods. I can see the tension in his own stance and know that I am not the only one disturbed by these events. I consider thanking him for his offer, though I find myself unable to speak the words.

"Roseline." Fane turns at the masculine voice that calls from over his shoulder. He lowers his head in a partial bow and steps aside as Vladimir sweeps in. He winds an arm around my waist, holding me close.

"I thought for a moment you had run off." I release a nervous laugh, knowing all too well he did not fear this. I can see the glint in his eyes as he surveys Fane with barely restrained jealousy. "I see you two have been acquainted."

Fane dips his head, though he remains silent. He clasps his hands behind his back. "I felt it only best to remain at her side for the festivities."

Vladimir strokes his beard. "And why, pray tell, do you think that?"

"What better opportunity to show Roseline the reality of death than with a demonstration such as this? There is much that can be learned from watching sheer desperation."

"Yes, I suppose you are correct." My husband's hand flinches against my hip. I can tell he is displeased by Fane's logical answer. "See to it that she remains safe in your care."

Vladimir seizes my chin and lifts my face. Crushing his lips mercilessly upon mine, I feel my lower lip split. He growls and deepens the kiss, licking his tongue across my open wound before he thrusts me away and storms off to see to his guests. My fingers tremble as I touch my bruised lips.

Fane's approach is cautious, his gaze guarded. I lower my hand and press back my shoulders. "Why do you bow to him?"

"Why do you allow him to assault you?" He counters.

A feeling of helplessness settles over me as I look toward the well nearby, longing to wash the vile taste of Vladimir's tongue from my mouth. "Because I must," I whisper.

Fane nods, silently answering my question in kind. I look to him, noting the tension has not eased from his shoulders. "You loathe him."

"No." He shakes his head and offers me his arm. I step forward and tentatively slip my hand through the space provided. He draws his arm toward his side, sealing me into his grasp. "There is no word strong enough to describe the wrath I feel toward Vladimir Enescue."

I walk alongside him in silence, musing over his words. Fane is a man of mystery. He is strong, yet I have seen his vulnerability. He is fearless, yet I saw terror in his eyes when he spoke to the little girl only moments ago.

Someone was taken from him, I surmise, watching him from the corner of my eye. Someone very dear to him.

As we approach the crowd of spectators, Fane easily maneuvers us to the front of the row. Seats have been removed from the various homes and businesses surrounding the town center. Those in the front have high backs and soft cushions. The rows behind are less comfortable, though judging by the rabid calls and hollering, there will hardly be a time when these immortals choose to remain seated once the battle begins.

With a single glare from Fane, a tall man with gaunt cheeks and eyes sunken deep into his face rushes to vacate his seat for me. I find that I take great pleasure in assuming my new seat as the man is forced to the back of the crowd. One less person to enjoy the show, I think silently.

As Vladimir raises his arms out to the side, stepping out to turn and face the crowd, I let my gaze flit back toward the villagers. My husband's words blur as I stare into each of their faces. They already know what is coming, I realize with a start.

"This is not the first time." I lean to my right to whisper into Fane's ear. He kneels beside me, choosing to remain without a seat. Part of me knows he could easily scare out the occupant of the chair beside me, though I suspect he prefers to be in the dirt. Low and prepared, as a warrior should be.

Fane nods and places a finger over his lips to silence me. I try to focus on Vladimir's eloquent speech, though I do not have the heart to stomach it. The scent of fear pulls at my senses, making me feel sluggish and weakened. One glance around me reveals I am the only one who suffers from this ailment. If anything, the frenzy has grown as Vladimir ends his speech and walks toward the villagers.

My fingers curl into the wood of my chair as he makes a show of pausing before a mother no more than twenty summers past. A babe cradles in her arms and tears well in her swollen eyes. The crowd behind me pounds their feet and pumps their firsts, yet Vladimir moves on.

Fane was correct. No one volunteers for the fight. Men with haunted eyes cling to their wives, offering them the only protection they are capable of now.

Three men are selected. Two women as well, though I suspect they were chosen for their appeal rather than their skill with a blade. The final selection is a small boy, no older than perhaps twelve or thirteen summers. His tawny hair is unkempt, falling into his eyes.

"He cannot do this," I mutter, pressing my hands against my chest.

"The boy has as much chance of surviving as the others," Fane says. I turn to look at him as two men part from the crowd and usher away the distraught mother. Her screams tear at my heart. When her shriek cuts off abruptly, I know that her end was mercifully swift compared to what her child will endure.

"He is no more than a boy," I hiss, twisting in my chair. I do not wish to look, though I know Vladimir's eyes remain fixed upon me. I hear the creaking of a wagon approaching and turn to see men leaping from the back. A large sack hangs over their arms as they walk toward Vladimir. They kneel before him and unveil a pile of weapons.

Double-headed axes, sharp-ended pikes, a mace with spikes the length of my forefinger, and swords. All of them gleam brilliantly. No doubt they are forged specifically for this night.

"Choose your weapons carefully. Only one shall live to join us into an eternal night."

The men move first, clutching the heavier weapons with uncertainty. The women choose the pikes, unable to swing a blade. I watch as the small boy paces before the selection.

"Hurry along, boy. We do not have all night," Lucien growls from my left, farther down along the center of the front row. The boy seems to ignore the laughter that follows. He dips low and runs his hand across the blade of a finely engraved sword. He shakes his head and moves on to the next.

Fane shifts, and I turn to look at him. "These are no warriors. They are farmers who wield pitchforks instead of axes."

He nods. "Yes, though if I were a betting man, I would place my money on the boy."

This surprises me. I start to ask him to explain his reasoning, though I am cut off by a sudden hush that falls over the crowd. I turn to see the boy has risen without a weapon in his hand.

Vladimir smirks as he approaches. "You will not survive long without a weapon, son."

The boy nods and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small wooden branch that has been hand carved. A bit of leather dangles from the end. "This is my choice."

My husband throws back his head in open mockery. "That will hardly keep your head attached to those small shoulders of yours, boy."

He purses his lips and clutches the small slingshot to his chest. There is defiance in his eyes despite his silence. I notice Fane smile and begin to realize what it is he sees in the boy.

"Very well." Vladimir turns to face the crowd. "Shall we begin?"

I watch as the men and women glance at each other with uncertainty and no small amount of fear. Some of them are most likely kin. Neighbors for generations to be sure. I cannot begin to imagine the thoughts and emotions they must be experiencing.

The villagers press in together as a circle is formed around them. I realize now why so many of my brethren chose not to find a seat, for they have become a wall of flesh, sealing in the warriors. The circle is small, barely more than the height of twenty men across. Hardly enough space for six mortals to fight for their lives.

"Will they fight?" I ask.

Fane nods. "They know the consequences if they do not."

I follow his gaze and am startled to see that barrels of pitch have been rolled off the wagon and placed beside the villagers. Immortals stand on either side with torches lit. "They would not burn the village to the ground," I say in horror.

"No." Fane shakes his head. His eyes look bleak as he stares up at me. "They would burn the children alive."

"Oh." I gasp. Will the depths of my husband's debauchery find no end?

A clash of steel draws me back to the beginning of the battle. The first woman falls within the first breath, an axe buried into her side. She drops to the ground, the dirt dampening with her blood. A girl with straw-colored hair and a splash of freckles across her cheeks makes a wild swing with her pike and loses her balance. I close my eyes as she stumbles and lands upon her own weapon.

A cry rises through the crowd as the spike-tipped weapon protrudes from the back of her neck. I turn away, sickened. "How can you watch this?" I ask Fane, disturbed by his rapt attention.

He darts a glance toward me and I see the glint in his eyes dim. "There is much that can be learned from death. For some it is swift. For others, it is born from mere foolishness. The girl tripped over her own skirts. Her death was of her own violation."

"It is still a senseless loss."

Fane nods in agreement. "Have you noticed the boy?"

I glance back at the center of the circle and realize he has vanished. "Has he fallen too?"

"No." Fane smiles and points. I crane my neck to see over the fallen women and spy a swatch of his dark-brown shirt peeking out from behind the fountain.

"He hides out of fear," I muse, finding myself drawn to the edge of my seat.

"On the contrary. He watches."

I lean forward to observe only the boy. The men grunting as they battle each other does not capture my attention the way he does. He crouches instead of sits, as I first assumed. His hands brush along the dirt, sweeping about his feet, as his gaze focuses on the men.

I blink as a spray of blood douses the villagers. Shrieks rise as they turn away, wiping the foul liquid from their eyes. The boy does not move, does not show any emotion, as a man drops before him. Lifeless eyes stare at him, yet he does not flinch.

"He is brave," I whisper.

A loud bellow of pain captures my attention as one of the men stumbles back. Blood pours from a head wound, trailing down his cheek to pool in the hollow of his neck. He limps backward, his hands raised to shield himself.

"Finish him," Lucien roars over the cheering of the crowd.

The injured man is defenseless and terrified. I can smell his despair leaking from his pores. His chin trembles as he silently mouths a prayer. His opponent advances, bloodied sword drawn. With a mighty swing, the blade buries deep into the injured man's neck, the blow not strong enough to severe the head from the body.

I cry out as memories of my sister's slit throat flash before my eyes. Fane's face swims before me. I can see him trying to speak to me, yet all I can hear is Adela's screams.

A hand strikes my cheek and I blink. The memory fades and I am once more present in the circle. "Thank you."

Fane's brow furrows as he sinks back onto his heels. "It is not in my nature to strike a lady, though I am pleased it helped."

A shudder works its way rapidly through me as I wrap my arms tightly about myself. "I saw my sister."

He shifts besides me, his arm resting against my leg as he nods. "I assumed as much. Are you all right?"

I offer him a small smile. "I am."

"Good, I was—" He cuts off at Vladimir's cry of outrage.

"Pick up your weapon or I will end your life myself," he screams, leaping into the center of the circle.

The boy remains crouched low, his hands no longer searching the dirt. He stares up at the one remaining man, his gaze unwavering. Why does he not act?

Vladimir grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him to his feet. The man's jaw clenches, though he makes no attempt to move toward Vladimir. "You have had your fun. Let the boy go."

My husband's lips curl back into a sneer that would make my blood run cold, yet this man does not flinch. I realize I am looking at a man with nothing left to lose. Death stands at the doorstep, though only one is capable of returning.

"That is not how this game works," Vladimir says, dragging the boy after him. The man shifts to keep an even distance between Vladimir and the crowd. His back turns to face me so I lose my ability to see his expression. "You kill when I command you to. If you survive, you are rewarded with immortality."

"I do not wish for your immortality," the man spits, backing up four paces. I watch as he draws near, my mind scrambling to decipher his escape plan. There is nowhere he can run that will bring him peace.

"Whether you wish it or not, one of you will be granted it. The only question you must answer is are you willing to give your life for this boy?"

I watch as the man rises slightly onto his toes. His balance is impressive despite his labored breathing and the obvious weight on his axe pulling at him. For a moment, I think he will not answer, though when he does, I am too startled to react.

"You will have neither of us." With far more strength than I would have guessed the man to possess, he flings his axe straight at the boy and turns on his heel. He dashes straight toward me, his eyes wide with anger. His cheeks are reddened, his arms splattered with blood. The instant before he leaps for me, I catch the scent of sweat mingled with urine.

A blur of motion startles me. I rear back in my seat as my attacker's mouth falls slack. The life within his eyes vanishes as he plummets to the ground. Upon impact, his torso splits in half and the man's body rolls in opposite directions.

The feel of his blood upon my skin sends me into a panic. I begin to shriek, beating at my arms and chest. My vision blurs and I fall backward in my chair, frantically scrambling away from the human.

"Peace, Roseline," Fane's soothing voice calls to me, though my vision blurs. "You are safe now."

My head feels far too light as I turn to find the voice. My eyes roll back into my head as I plummet to the ground. Pain flares along my ear before darkness sweeps in to steal me away.

# TWENTY-THREE

I blink against the sunlight, confused and weary. It feels unnaturally warm against my cheek. I turn away from the light to find that I am not alone.

"Fane?"

He sits beside my bed, slumped in his chair. A soft snore rises from him as he breathes in and slowly expands his lungs. I rise in bed and stare at him, marveling at how peaceful he looks. The lines that crease his forehead with worry are gone. His posture is relaxed. He looks as if he does not have a care in the world.

I draw back the covers and scoot to the end of my bed. The floor is cold upon my feet as I attempt to rise without a sound, yet the floorboard creaks beneath me.

"It is rude to sneak out of bed before saying farewell," he mutters and raises a hand to wipe his face. I sink back onto the bed and tuck my hands between my knees. My nightgown drapes over me and hangs to the middle of my calves.

"I was not attempting to sneak away. I did not desire to disturb you."

With a groan, he stretches his arms over the back of the chair. I avert my gaze as his vest pulls taut against his chest. I would wager this man has caught the eye of many a girl in his time.

"It is my job to be disturbed by you," he says as he slumps once more. His long legs are crossed at the knee, his boots still upon his feet.

I feel a slight flush rise along the neckline of my nightgown and pull my knees into my chest to conceal it. Wrapping my arms about my ankles, I dip my cheek to my knee and watch him. "You did not have to sleep in the chair."

"The floor is hardly a more comfortable option."

I laugh and shake my head. My hair falls about me in wave of silken bronze, shining brightly in the early morning light. "I meant that no harm would come to me here." His lips purse together and I realize my misstep. "No more than usual," I amend with a whisper.

Fane lowers his leg to the floor and sits forward. The gap between us is minimal and his gaze is searching. "You made me ill at ease last night. I feared for your safety so I remained at your side."

I raise my head and stare at him, searching beyond his spoken words. "You protected me."

"The man sought to do you harm. I did what needed to be done."

"No." I shake my head. "Not from the human. From Vladimir."

Fane averts his gaze, focusing on the window rather than on me. I watch as he swallows roughly. His shoulders rise and fall with a silent shrug.

Warmth begins to spread in my chest as I hide my smile in my knees. Perhaps I do have a savior after all.

"My presence has been allowed temporarily. I am to leave soon."

"Leave?" I release the hold on my legs and they drop to the floor, falling mere inches from the tips of his boots. I stare at him, realizing how desperately I hope it is not for good.

Fane returns his gaze to me and smiles with a softness that rejuvenates the warmth in my chest. "I am to bury the boy."

I did not expect this reply. It takes me off guard, and I am once again swallowed up by the fear I experienced on the previous night. "I do not understand. If the man was so averse to harming the boy, why would he slaughter him in the end?"

Fane's gaze narrows and his head tilts to the side. He watches me with a piercing look that makes me squirm. "Did you not know?"

I shake my head and tuck my lower lip between my teeth, sure I will not find peace in his response. "The boy was his son. That is why he would not attack him. That is why the boy had no need to fight. His father let the blood spill upon his hands so the boy would remain blameless."

"A lamb for the slaughter," I whisper.

Fane nods. "Vladimir was furious at the man's deception. He loves nothing more than to pit family members against one another."

A bitter taste floods my mouth as I think of his account of how I tore at Adela's throat when I awoke. She was chosen to give me life, a sacrifice he knew all too well would haunt me for all of eternity.

When I refocus on Fane, I realize with a start that there are tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Without thinking, I reach out and clasp his hand. He slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine. "I am sorry for your loss," I say softly.

His Adam's apple bobs several times before he nods and wipes away the tear. I do not pry further. I do not need to. The agony of his loss is just as fresh as my own, though I suspect his occurred long before mine.

"Will you tell me of her?"

Fane rises to his feet and clears his throat. "Someday, perhaps. Though today is not that day."

He moves away from my bed, appearing torn between the seat beside the window and moving toward the door. "I will return by midday for you. I think perhaps a walk in the gardens might do both of us some good."

I smile as he walks determinedly toward the door and opens the latch. "I would like that." As the door closes behind him, I realize my words are sincere.

As the sun climbs the morning sky, I take extra time to prepare myself. The water in my basin is cold, though I hardly notice as I ponder Fane's return. There is a great pain buried within him. He seems lost and terribly alone. Would it be wrong for me to long for a friendship with him? By doing so, would I be endangering his life?

When the noonday sun begins to trail back toward the horizon, I begin to grow concerned by his absence. He promised to return for me, though I have not caught a whiff of his scent within the castle grounds. Perhaps his task took longer than expected.

I wait with as much patience as I can muster, yet as the sun dips below the far horizon, I know within my soul something is amiss. I pace within the confines of my room long into the night. When Vladimir comes to me, he does not speak of Fane's absence. He does not speak at all.

Though his attention throughout the night could hardly be considered kind, he is far gentler than he has ever been. I begin to wonder if seeing my life threatened on the previous night has shaken him. After he has finished with me, he does not rise as he is accustomed to doing. Rather he remains beside me, his breathing steady.

He speaks for the first time as the moon grows level with the distant tree line. "When you wake this evening, I have somewhere I want to show you."

I swallow before answering, giving myself a moment of pause to ensure that my voice does not betray me. "Will we have need to travel far?"

"No." He props himself on his elbow and stares down at me. I feel exposed to his gaze as he lingers, my stomach pressed tightly to the bedding. He places a hand upon my hip and instead of digging into my flesh, he grazes his hand across my skin with a gentleness I did not think him capable of. "It is quite near."

"Then I shall be prepared, my lord."

His lips pull back into a smile and his gaze flickers away from my hip to my eyes. "I have sent Fane away on a task. He will return on the morrow. When he does, you will begin your training."

Grasping at the rare moment of kindness I have glimpsed in my husband, I rise to a seated position, my hair draped as concealment over my chest. "Must I fight?"

Vladimir's smile freezes into place. For a moment, I fear his lips will peel back into a familiar scowl, yet instead, his expression falls away. His gaze grows vacant as he rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "It is the way of things."

"And are you incapable of altering the traditions?"

"Incapable?" His gaze refocuses and I tense, realizing my poor choice of words.

"My apologies, my lord," I rush to say, turning my face away as I wait for the back of his hand to strike. When it does not, I risk a glance toward him. "I mean no disrespect."

"No." He sighs and shakes his head. "I do not think that you did, though it changes nothing. Lucien is correct. This is the way of things."

"And me? Will I be cast aside as well? Shared among the men?" Despite my firm resolve not to show any fear, a tremor attacks my voice.

Vladimir rolls his head to the side to look upon me. His gaze is sharp, his features dark. "You are mine and no one else's. I will kill any man who dares lay a finger upon you."

Though I know his words to be filled with menace, I feel oddly comforted by them. Being ravaged by a single man is far better than thirty.

"Thank you," I whisper and rise from the bed. He watches me like a hawk as I clean myself. It is disconcerting for him to still be here. He has never done this before.

I pull a nightgown over my head and turn to face him, unsure of myself. "Should I fetch you food or drink?"

Vladimir's smile broadens as he rises from the bed. I do not let my gaze shift lower than his neck as he approaches me. I can see a hunger growing is his gaze, though it has little do with physical nourishment.

He grasps my arm and twists me about, pressing my cheek against the wall as he raises the hem of my gown. "I like this gown very much," he grunts in my ear. I feel his hand splay across my hip as he presses into me. I close my eyes and think upon happier times as the sun breaks the distant horizon.

Vladimir leaves me shortly after. I wait to hear the latch on his door before I rise from the floor. I wash slowly, staring at the cloudy water, wondering if I will ever truly feel clean again.

Though the sun has come again, I feel none of its warmth or cheer. I suppose I should be thankful it has reappeared after such long bouts of dreary gray skies, though I cannot bring myself to care. I pull a clean dress over my shoulders and wring droplets of water from my hair. Sinking down onto the window seat, I stare out over the castle grounds. The view is as familiar as the back of my arm, though the scenery has shifted. Gone are the glistening icicles and mounds of snow. What remains is trampled grass and muddy paths.

The air is warmer now and I can feel my skin longing for the cold once more. I tug at the collar of my dress. A spreading dampness clings to my lower back. I wipe my palm across my brow and discover small beads of sweat have formed. What on earth will the heat of summer be like?

The latch on my window screeches as I spread it open. I close my eyes and turn my face into the winds, sighing with relief. I hear the steady rushing of the waters that feed down into the pond beside the boat shack, no doubt overflowing its banks as it fights to contain the newly melted snows.

Birds take flight from the trees, cawing as they circle the sky above. Horses paw at the sodden yard, delighted to be free of the barn. I too share their need to be unrestrained. Chickens and turkeys peck at the ground. I can hear their beaks scratching against the soiled stone as they scavenge for food.

Opening my eyes, I search the meadows beyond the wall, wondering where Fane might be. He is a ranger and as such spends the majority of his time far beyond our borders. He lives upon the back of a horse, doing Vladimir's bidding.

As I sink down onto my seat and place my chin upon the back of my hands, staring with deep longing at the distant horizon, I realize I envy Fane his freedom. Though he may be bound to Vladimir through service, at least he can escape from time to time. I am not so lucky.

The longer I sit and stare at the distance, I begin to wonder exactly what task Vladimir has sent Fane to attend to. Surely the burial of six bodies would not take a full day to accomplish. No, this is something more. Curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself daydreaming of what it would be like to escape, to flee over the mountains to lands unknown to me.

Before my wedding day, I shared a similar dream with my sister. It was fun to imagine what life could be like in distant places. Would their clothing be foreign to us? Would we speak the same language? What of our skills with bartering for goods to survive?

I lift my head and frown, knowing I would never have gone to any of those places or experienced a different life. I felt smothered under my father's thumb, though I was content to spend my years in Brasov. I would have found a home, small yet clean, to care for. I would have found a man who was loving, though not deep of purse. I had little care for material possession. All I longed for was a family to raise.

My thoughts flow back toward Fane once more. I have seen the depths of his pain and know that with every fiber of his being, he understands my own. I have seen him hollow and broken, a kindred spirit. As I breathe in the cool, fresh air that blows through the window, I find myself almost missing him.

I hardly know the man, I silently chide and push aside thoughts of him, resolved to focus on the things I can control. Such as the imminent walk with Vladimir.

# TWENTY-FOUR

I stand before my door, waiting for Vladimir to come for me. Tension ripples through my stomach, turning it sour with anxiety. He has never made such a request of me before, certainly never in such an oddly polite manner. I ponder what his intentions are even as I hear his door open and close. His boots clomp heavily on the floor, then pause before my door.

I reach out and unlatch the handle, opening the door to find his hand raised. I blink, surprised to find him slightly taken aback. He lowers his hand and clears his throat. For some reason, his awkward glance increases my despair.

He holds out his arm and I step forward to take it, though I loathe to be near him. He does not clasp his hand over mine the way Fane did as he led me into the village on the night of the battle. Instead, Vladimir stands rigid beside me, appearing just as deeply uncomfortable as I am.

Why does he behave in such an odd manner? I wonder as I allow him to lead me down the steps. When the stairwell grows too narrow for us to walk side by side, he pauses to let me pass, quickening his step once we reach the second floor to take my hand once more. I glance at him from the corner of my eye as we wind through the halls. He nods in acknowledgement as we pass immortals emerging from their chambers, giving the appearance of a proper lord of the castle rather than the fiend I know him to be.

There is a tremor in his arm as he draws me toward the lower level. It would hardly be noticeable if I were not acutely aware of every move he makes, terrified that at any moment he will strike out at me or thrust me into a darkened room.

"Vladimir?"

He halts and turns to the side to face Lucien, who emerges from the stairs that lead down into the kitchens. I can feel the heat following at his heels and instinctively take a step back. Vladimir moves with me, though I have little doubt that this was not done for my comfort, yet rather his own.

Lucien eyes me with great suspicion. "Might I inquire as to where are you off to?"

"I intend to show Roseline the sepulcher."

His brother's eyes narrow, growing cold. "You think that is wise?"

Vladimir nods. "It is time."

Their cryptic conversation continues as Lucien falls into step with us. I tune them out, feeling lightheaded at the thought. Lucien is worried. Vladimir is nervous. What could possibly be occurring?

Lucien parts ways with us at the front door. I can feel his eyes upon my back as Vladimir leads us past the stone well at the center of the courtyard and through the castle gates. The night is dark and the moon veiled by thick layers of cloud. I struggle to see my footing, though I have nothing to fear of falling. Vladimir clings to my arm with a painful grip.

We walk for several moments, skirting along the castle wall instead of heading out into the meadow. Up ahead, I sense a shift in the wind and realize we are drawing near to the cliff.

Castle Bran is built upon a tall outcropping of rock and earth. From this vantage point, I imagine much of the mountains would be laid out before us, though I have never been to this spot before.

Perhaps he intends to shove me off the cliff. To make my death look like an accident instead of suffering the humiliation of watching my death during the hunt.

The winds beat against my long skirts. My hair lashes against my face, tangling with my eyelashes. "Do we travel much farther, my lord?" I call against the wind.

"Our path lies just ahead."

His words are nearly lost to the gale that rises from within the canyon below. I place a hand upon the wall to steady myself, feeling dizzy to look upon such great heights. As I walk, the clouds shift above, allowing me just enough light to spy the deadly drop-off.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I cling to the wall and to Vladimir's hand. I detest him knowing my fear, though I am incapable of veiling it.

A moment later, Vladimir shocks me by turning and stepping straight over the cliff. My cry of alarm is strangled in my throat as he lands a few feet below. I step toward the ledge and discover a set of natural steps carved into the mountainside.

Before I can react, Vladimir clamps his hands about my calves and lifts me down to him, his hands sliding along my sides as he lowers me to my feet. "You are trembling," he says. His gaze is demanding as he stares down at me.

"I am not overly fond of heights." My voice sounds pinched and meek.

Vladimir chuckles. "Then that is something we shall have to remedy."

The remainder of our descent leaves me breathless and deeply shaken. He pushes me to rush down the steep gradient. I cry out multiple times as the earth becomes unsettled and pelts down around me, though the rocks beneath my feet never move. When my feet touch the ground, I am captured by the need to drop to my knees and kiss the dirt.

"This way." Vladimir has already begun to disappear into the darkness. My legs feel weak as I move to follow after him. We weave through tangled brush and thickly overgrown trees. This part of the land is wild and untamed by man.

In the distance, I hear the call of a wolf. It's howl echoes off the walls of the canyon, making it nearly impossible to locate it. Vladimir walks ahead with no sign of fear or exhaustion. I, on the other hand, feel unkempt and shaken.

Nearly ten paces ahead, Vladimir pushes aside a fallen branch and stops. His head lowers and he looks upon the ground. I approach silently behind him, curious about his odd behavior.

He moves aside to allow me room to stand beside him, all the while holding back the branch so there is space for us. I stare down at the ground, confused as to why he has brought me here.

The space before me is nearly thirty paces across and half that again, creating a small clearing. The ground appears to be sunken. Grass grows in errant clumps, though hardly well enough to spread out and thrive. A chill trickles down my spine as I catch a scent on the air. It is dank and tinged with death.

A great cracking from behind startles me as Vladimir appears to tire from holding the branch and rips it clean from the tree. He hurtles it into the woods where it crashes to the ground with a splintering of dead wood.

"This place feels ripe with age," I whisper into the darkness. The moonlight shifts unevenly through the trees, casting a dappled glow over the ground.

"Can you smell it?"

I shake my head. "No. It is more..." I pause, unsure of how to explain the knowledge. "It is more of a feeling, I suppose."

I sense him nodding behind me, though I do not turn to look. "This place is cursed," he says. The haunted tone of his voice makes my stomach coil with unease. "You stand before a grave site."

I swallow roughly. "Of your victims?"

He is silent for a moment. "No. Of my wives."

Horrified, I try to step back, though I find myself pressed against my husband's chest. He is tall and unmovable. His hands come to rest upon my arms, locking me against his chest.

"Why have you brought me here?" I ask as tears begin to well in my eyes. This space is large enough to contain dozens of bodies... if they were left as bodies at all.

I can feel the warmth of his breath against my neck as he presses his forehead against the back of my head. "I do not wish to see this be your fate."

"And yet you force me to fight."

"Yes," he whispers. His fingers tighten and release against my arms. I can feel his emotion, raw and volatile. "It is the only way to keep you from harm."

"Keep me from harm?" I break free of his grip as I turn to stare at him with incredulity. "A battle to the death is your way of keeping me safeguarded?"

He averts his gaze. His jaw clenches tightly enough for me to hear it pop before he looks back at me. "You do not know our ways. There are rules, laws that even I am unable to abandon."

I bite my lower lip as I curl my arms about my waist. I turn to look back at the grave, wondering how many women have been brutally slaughtered before me.

"Fane will teach you how to survive." His words draw me back. I am surprised by the tension in his voice and of the manner in which he speaks.

My chest clenches as realization falls over me. He cares for me. In his own twisted and revolting way, he cares.

"You wish to see me survive?" I ask with great hesitation.

He nods, his gaze lowered. To see such vulnerability in him is deeply disturbing. Thoughts race through my mind as I struggle to match up the beast who defiles me each night with this insecure man standing before me. How can he treat me in such a repulsive manner yet appear to have affection for me as well?

A newfound awareness dawns as I stare back at the man who has stripped bare every part of my soul. I can hurt him

I press my shoulders back and lift my chin. "I will need to be healthy while I train."

He glances up at me, his eyes wide and glistening in the dim moonlight. He tilts his head, as if listening to the distant howls instead of my words spoken just before him. "What is it that you suggest?"

My mouth feels parched as I try to swallow. Do not press too far, I warn myself as my tongue darts between my lips to wet them. Vladimir follows the movement and I see a change in his gaze.

For the first time since I arrived, I realize I am not completely without power. His desire for me is a weakness. Lucien knows this and has voiced his concerns on more than one occasion.

I take a deep breath and watch as his gaze flits down to the low, sweeping neckline of my dress. "You need to take more care with me."

Vladimir's gaze snaps up to meet mine. His lips peel back from his teeth. A low growl begins to rumble in his chest. I raise a hand. "I am not finished."

His eyes widen with surprise. I have no doubt my own do as well as he subsides to listen. I did not expect him to do so. Feeling the empowerment surge around me, I take a step forward and place a hand upon his chest. This is the first time I have ever willingly approached him in such a manner.

I pray that I know what I am doing. My hand quakes as I step once more, closing the gap between us so we are nearly chest to chest. I can feel his heart thumping beneath my hand. His scent grows strong in my nostrils. His skin flushes as he looks down at my hand.

"I cannot train if I am unable to walk," I whisper, slowly sliding my hand up from his heart. A low groan rises from his throat as my fingertips move across the hollow of his neck. I watch the increase in his pulse at his neck. "Perhaps for a while you might manage to hold back some of your... passion." I fight to hide my disgust as I choose my words carefully.

He reaches up to grasp my hand, pressing my palm against his cheek. He breathes in deep, drawing me close. His arms wrap about my waist. Internally, I can hear myself shrieking, beating against his chest to be free of his embrace, though I show none of it outwardly.

"You would be willing?" A musky scent rises from his skin as he presses me back against a tree. I can feel the warmth of his flesh as he presses the length of his body against mine. He dips his face and buries it into my neck. His teeth nip at my shoulder as his hands lower to cup my waist.

A single tear slips from eye as I roll my neck to the side and allow him access. "Yes," I whisper, knowing all too well I have just made a deal with the devil.

# TWENTY-FIVE

After a week passes, I begin to fear for Fane's safety. His disappearance from the castle has gone unacknowledged by all except for myself. Vladimir has made no mention of his delay, nor has he given me any reason to question his involvement in this matter either. My husband seems rather indifferent on the matter.

Since I spoke my damning vow beside the grave of Vladimir's former wives, I have discovered new depths to misery. My husband no longer beats upon me as he did before, though with each night that passes, I feel a pain far more profound winding its way into my soul. Willingly giving myself to Vladimir has made me feel withered and fragile.

His touch is softer, his time spent in my bed lengthened, as he takes his time to search each curve of my body. It is getting hard to hold back the tears. His embrace sickens me, though I know I had no other choice. If I am to survive and perhaps seek a way to escape, I must be able to fight.

I only pray that someday my actions will no longer be weighted with self-loathing.

Night draws near as I stand before the window. Will Fane return on this night? Surely he cannot linger much longer. Already winter has begun to show signs of waning. Spring bulbs have begun to bud on the trees. The air fills with the sweet scent of flowers ready to burst to life.

I fear the spring, for with it comes the hunt, and I have yet to prepare.

In the confines of my room, I have begun to survey the grounds with a far more critical eye. I search for dips in the valleys and crevices among the rocks. It is a little thing, though it is something.

I try to prepare myself mentally for what lies ahead in only a few short weeks. Time passes as quickly as water through my fingers. I am terrified of my fate.

My shoulders slump as I press my face against the chill of the stone beside my window. My eyes grow heavy from lack of rest. Months of little sleep have begun to wear on me. As my eyelids begin to droop, I spy a lantern in the dark. I jerk upright, blinking rapidly to be sure my vision is clear.

Fane!

I cannot catch his scent yet, though I know it must be him. The rest of my brethren have begun to feast in the great hall below. Several new guests have arrived from the east. Vladimir will be distracted with their tales long into the night.

My heart rate rises as I watch the lantern in the woods flicker in and out. The horse is traveling far too swiftly for a normal rider. Between the gusts of wind, I can hear its hooves pounding the ground. It must be him!

Gathering my skirts about me, I rise from my seat. I nearly laugh at the feel of a smile gracing my lips. It feels unnatural to smile, to feel even the smallest bit of joy, yet I do. I had not realized before how much I have grown to desire his company.

I glance one last time at the window and decide tonight I will willingly emerge from my room. If I move quickly, I may be able to skirt the great hall and escape detection. The desire to greet Fane at the stables pulls me away from the window.

I turn toward the exit and come to an abrupt halt. The door to my room stands open wide. Atticus stands in the doorway, his large frame filling the space so it is hard to detect the flickering of candlelight in the sconce beyond.

"It is rude to enter a lady's chamber without permission." I instinctively shift away so my back is not against the wall. I do not trust this man, nor do I have any intention of placing myself at a disadvantage. He reeks of blood. His eyes are wide, his face flushed.

He has consumed too much, I realize as the telltale signs of blood lust become blatantly obvious to me. He sways slightly as he takes a step into my room.

"It is equally rude to look so ravishing," he says as he leans back against the doorframe.

"Vladimir will take your tongue off for speaking such things to me," I hiss as I step behind my bed.

Atticus watches me closely. His lips part as his gaze weaves down from my lips to the rise of my chest. "He is preoccupied with other... interests at the moment. I am sure he will not even note my departure from the feast."

My heart thrums frantically in my chest. His smile broadens and his eyes droop slightly as he listens to my panic. He breathes in deep, savoring the scent of fear that betrays me. "I will scream."

"I sincerely hope so." He closes the door behind him with a foot. "No one will hear you though. The hall is filled with merriment the likes of which even you could not interrupt. The revelry has begun early and you, my sweet, innocent child, are not expected to be in attendance. We are all alone."

His hands drift down the front of his coat, slowly working each golden button. I take a step back, my gaze sweeping the room in search of a weapon, though none exist. After my previous attempts to take my life, all sharp objects have been removed from my room.

I look to the mirror on my table as my only source of hope, yet I know that he will be upon me before I ever reach it. I turn at the sound of fabric shifting and see him watching me with the hungry eyes of a mountain lion about to devour its prey. His shirt hangs open, untucked from his trousers.

"I have waited a long time for this." He smiles as he takes a step in my direction.

I inch closer to the fire, praying its heat will keep him at bay, though Atticus is too far gone to give a care for a little discomfort. As he lunges for me, I dip low and grab a handful of ash from the hearth and thrust it into his eyes. He cries in outrage and swipes blindly at me.

I throw myself onto my bed, scrambling to my knees as he clambers after me. His hand snags the hem of my dress, pulling me back as I try to slide over the far edge of the mattress.

"Come back here, wench," he growls as he grasps nothing more than a handful of fabric.

I buck and writhe upon the floor, tearing at my dress with my nails to be free of his grasp. The outer layer of my skirt comes loose and sends Atticus tumbling backward. His head smacks against the wall, though it only gives me a second to flee.

I dart for the door, fumbling with the latch with trembling hands. This cannot be happening. My only thought is to hold out long enough for Fane to arrive. Surely he will come to see me, forgoing the feast to ensure I am safe. What if he does not come?

My terror mounts as the scent of Atticus's lust grows bold and nauseating. He leaps upon me, clawing at me with nails sharp enough to shred the bodice of my dress. I cry out and beat my fists against his arms.

He grunts as he fights to still my hands, trapping them in one great hand while the other grabs me by my waist and pushes me beneath him. His knees land on either side of me, pinning me in place.

"Get your hands off me." I thrash in his grasp. I spit into his face and watch as his eyes darken with rage. Snatching my wrists, he slams my hands into the floor with enough effort to shatter bone. My fingers throb as tears fall freely from my eyes. Tears of fear, disgust, and anger.

Atticus shoves his knee up into my ribs to silence me. My cries turn to labored gasps as I curl in upon myself. I wheeze and blink to clear the darkness that threatens to steal away my vision.

His hot, rancid breath washes over my face a second before he crushes his lips against mine, grinding my lip against my teeth. He muffles my screams as his free hand tears away at my skirts. Only a thin barrier now lies between us.

Blood seeps between my lips and fuels his desire. His tongue darts over my split lip. He groans as his hands rise above my thigh. I squeeze my legs together as terror washes over me with the ferocity of a winter storm. Countless times has my innocence been stolen by Vladimir. I will not allow Atticus to do the same.

His gaze shifts as he draws my torn skirts up to my hip. I seize the moment and slam my forehead into his temple and ram my knee right up between his legs. Atticus groans and his grip on my hands diminishes.

Desperate to be free, I clamp my teeth down upon his arm and dig in until his blood pools in my mouth. He beats at my jaw, striking blow after blow. I glare back at him as rage sharpens my gaze.

His cries of outrage spurn me on. I clamp down tighter. He releases my hand and slams a fist into my jaw. It snaps open of its own volition, though the instant he is free, I grab the front of his shirt and toss him aside. He slams into the wall and rolls back to his feet, crouching low as I have seen Vladimir and Lucien do before.

I mirror his movements, keeping my weight shifted forward. It feels the natural thing to do. Blood drips from Atticus's arm, splattering against the woven rug. His lips peel back into a fierce snarl. He looks like a crazed man. "You whore. Look what you did to my arm."

A slow smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I will do far worse if you dare touch me again."

"Insolent wretch!" He flies at me with greater speed than I anticipated. I barely have time to dive to the side before he is upon me, covering my back like a bear mauling its victim. I slam my elbow back into him, unsure of what area I connect with, though I am hoping it is his ribs. He grunts in pain yet does not release me.

Keep your hands free, I admonish myself as I struggle against his grasp. I know the moment he pins me again, I may not be able to get free.

"Help!" I scream despite Atticus's earlier statement that we are completely alone. Has Fane arrived at the stables yet? Has he entered the castle in search of me?

My thoughts fragment as I scramble across the floor, carrying the weight of both of us on my back. He latches his arms about my waist, tearing at the underskirt of my dress until it comes free, exposing me fully.

Aghast at the feel of his hands upon my bare flesh, I dive toward my bedside table. I jerk my head to the side at the last second, narrowly escaping the wide wooden leg. A sickening thud overhead and the slackening of Atticus's grasp gives me a second to breathe.

He slumps from my back and collapses onto the floor. I crawl out from beneath him. My arms tremble as I kick him off my trapped foot. He does not move as I claw my way up the table in search of anything I can throw at him.

"I will make you scream for that," Atticus growls in my ear as he snatches a handful of my hair, yanking my head back so far I fear it might snap off completely. I can feel the flesh of my scalp starting to tear. My screams echo off the stone walls. Blindly, I grasp the edge of my hand mirror and bring it down atop his head.

Blood splatters me, seeming to explode from his face. A wide gash appears over his eye. Others open along his cheeks, nose, and chin. A rain of glass falls about my feet as I claw at him to release my hair. He shoves my face into the edge of the table and I slump to the ground.

The room spins before me and darkness rushes in to steal away the pain. I feel my body thrown back to the floor, though I am removed from it all. I can hear fabric ripping, feel his hands shredding my dress away in great chunks

It is only when I feel him pressed against my thighs that I revive. I shriek and thrust up into him hard enough to knock him off balance. I grasp a broken shard of glass from the floor and pounce atop Atticus, giving no mind to my lack of clothing or the pains that riddle my body.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I stare down into his bloodied eye. My lips peel back from my teeth in a snarl as I drive the shard from the mirror into his throat. Blood bubbles burst between his lips as his hands frantically paw at my hand. I lean into the shard, savoring the sound of his flesh peeling away. My arm jerks as the tip of the glass breaks off in his spinal cord.

"Roseline?"

A rumbling growl rises in my throat as my head whips around to find Fane standing in the doorway. His face is vacant of color, his mouth gaped in horror. Lucien stands over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he focuses on Atticus's gasping breaths.

I hear the flurry of silk and the pounding of boots. Soon my doorway is filled with the faces of Alamesia, Emeline, Amadeus, and finally Vladimir, who pushes his way to the front.

He shoves Fane aside as he enters my room. I sink back to the floor, crouched low. Blood coats my body, warm yet surprisingly pleasant. I watch the myriad of emotions splaying across Vladimir's face as he approaches.

My muscles coil as I prepare to lunge for Vladimir's throat, when I catch Fane's gaze. His eyes are wide with warning as he shakes his head.

Reluctantly, I sink back onto my heels, though not before I see Lucien turn his gaze upon Fane. His complexion shifts from ashen to a pale rose as Fane averts his gaze. I bark out a snarl and Lucien turns his gaze upon me. A slow smile darkens his face.

"Look at her, brother," he whispers. The awe in his voice sickens me as he moves past Fane to stand beside my husband. "Is she not breathtaking?"

Vladimir nods slowly. "Indeed."

I force myself not to look at Fane as Vladimir approaches. My chests rises and falls as I seek to control my anger as he draws near. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I manage to say. I wet my lips and taste Atticus's blood upon me. I turn to the side and spit. A sniff of disgust jerks my attention toward Alamesia. Her lip curls with haughty disapproval.

Vladimir follows my gaze and seems to realize for the first time that we are not alone. "Leave us!"

His fingers dip into the pool of blood expanding upon my bedroom floor. The rustle of silk and the rapid retreat of footsteps hardly register as he reaches out to touch my cheek. I tense as a low growl rumbles deep in my chest, yet I do not pull away. I am lucid enough to know that would bring his anger down upon me.

"I will live," I respond tersely.

He casts his glance to the side and observes Atticus. His neck is awash with blood, his white shirt giving evidence to the growing stain. His mouth opens and closes, though no sound escapes. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Isn't it obvious, brother?" Lucien calls from behind, his tone dripping with boredom. "Atticus tired of your decree."

Vladimir hisses at Lucien and the man falls silent, though I can see defiance in his eyes when I look up at him. My husband turns back to face me. "Is this true?"

I nod, unable to trust myself to speak again. Vladimir's face darkens to match the deep velvet of his coat. He turns to face Lucien and Fane. "No one is to touch my wife. Is that understood?"

A murmur of assent ripples between them, though only Fane seems to be in rapt agreement of Vladimir's command. "If I hear of anything like this again, I will begin hanging every man in this castle. Heed my words, for I am in no jesting mood."

Lucien raises his hands to examine his nails. "It is time for the feast, Vladimir. You have guests to attend to."

"I will leave them to your care," he responds. Lucien nods in agreement and exits my room.

Fane turns to follow, though Vladimir calls him back. "You let this happen."

Vladimir stares down at me with such intensity that I fear I might flinch and betray myself. A trembling has already begun in my hands and arms. I know it will soon spread to the rest of my body. I have killed a man.

I look down at Atticus, knowing his life could be spared if Vladimir wills it. Judging by the rage simmering within his eyes, I dare say Atticus's chances are grim. A part of me is oddly grateful for this retribution.

"My apologies, my lord." Fane dips his head low. "I only just returned."

"That is not acceptable." Vladimir reaches out a hand to me. I hesitate for a second too long, and I see the storm clouds brewing in his face. I rise up and take his hand, letting him help me to my feet.

Vladimir turns us around to face Fane. I struggle to meet his unreadable gaze. He stares into my eyes rather than anything revealed below. How many times must I be laid bare to this man before he will show me dishonor? "She is your responsibility now. If anything like this happens again, it will be your head on a pike at the castle gates."

# TWENTY-SIX

I hear his approach long before Fane knocks upon my door. I wrap my shawl about my shoulders and press my cheek against my knees. "Come in."

Fane enters my room and closes the door behind him. When he turns to face me, I can see the slump of his shoulders, weighted down with his unspoken thoughts from the previous night. "I waited as long as I could."

"I know." The castle grounds are dreary today. A near constant rain overnight has left craters in the deep muck. I can hear the pattering of the rain dripping into the hog's feed trough from the roof above. Fane's hair is slicked with moisture, his leather pants splattered with drying mud. His boots look more brown than black now.

He shifts uncomfortably near the door, inside the room, though only just. "You blame yourself for his death."

"No. I lift my head to meet his steady gaze. "I do not mourn for his passing. I fear it."

"Why?" This time he approaches swiftly and drops down beside me.

I suck in a deep breath and hold it for a moment, willing the tremor in my fingers to abate. "I enjoyed it," I say, releasing my breath.

"His death?"

"Killing him." I expect him to look upon me with disgust, yet instead, he nods with apparent understanding, so I continue. "I felt powerful when I held his life in my hands. I knew I had a choice: show him mercy or end him. I could have chosen mercy..."

Fane sighs and sinks down onto the floor before me, careful to allow plenty of space between us, though I realize I no longer need it. I have grown to trust Fane. Despite not having a great deal of time with him, he has shown me through word and action that he cares. That he is genuine. "Atticus was an evil man. The world is a better place without."

"Perhaps so, yet his death should not have come by my hand. Not when I enjoyed it so." My voice wavers and I bite down on my lip.

"He was your first?"

I shake my head, closing my eyes to the memory of my sister's lifeless, accusing eyes. "Vladimir set me upon my own sister right after I awoke on our wedding night. She was my first." My voice cracks and I tighten my grip on my legs. "She trusted me to protect her and I am the reason she died."

"No," Fane says adamantly. He rises up and places his hands on the seat beside me. "That was Vladimir's doing."

Warm tears curl along my cheeks. "I bit her. That was my doing."

Fane's touch atop my hand is hesitant, though he does not draw back when I stare down at him, loathe to accept any form of comfort. "You have no fault in what happened to your sister. You had just transitioned and needed nourishment. It is a natural progression."

"There is nothing natural about feeding on your sister," I spit out and turn away from him.

"No, of course not." His grip on my hand tightens as he frowns. "I realize I am not relaying my sentiments correctly."

I turn back to look at him and am touched by the lines drawn across his brow. His head is lowered, his posture slumped. I sigh and place my hand atop his. He looks up, surprised by my touch. "I know you mean well."

He smiles and nods as he draws back his hand. He watches me for a moment, most likely weighing my mental state. I dry the remainder of my tears and brush back the fuzzy curls about my forehead. The near constant heat from the fire is doing awful things to my thick hair.

He sinks back onto his heels and scrunches up his nose. I laugh at his silly expression. "Something wrong?"

"Not really..." He sighs and then crosses his legs before him. "I wonder if I might express an observation without upsetting you."

"That depends."

"On what?" He tilts his head to the side and I notice the beautiful golden highlights in his hair. The nearness of the fire has begun to dry the strands, making them look soft to the touch.

"On whether you think I need to hear it."

Fane inhales and exhales slowly, obviously taking the time to consider this carefully. "I believe it is something that should be said, yes."

"Then by all means, proceed." I crisscross my arms around my legs and draw them in closer to my chest, as if this position can save me from whatever he might say.

He clears his throat and fiddles with the golden buttons that line his fine coat. I have never seen Fane in such fancy dress. The coat fits his broad frame with fine elegance. His trousers are tight enough for me to see the muscle that lines his thighs and calves. I wonder why he is all gussied up.

"I saw something in you last night and I was not the only one to notice."

"What was it?" I hold my breath, sure that whatever revelation he has will no doubt be dreadful.

"Rage."

I stare at him for a moment. "Rage?"

He nods. "You were the topic of many whispers last night. I believe you have made quite an impression on our visitors."

I scoff and wave my hand in the air. "I do not care what they think."

Fane leans in. "You should. They are the ones who will choose whom you fight in the forest in a few weeks."

I feel the blood drain from my face as the tremors return. He watches me as I clasp my hands tightly against my knees and fight to still the rapid beating of my heart.

"You are afraid, and so you should be, yet that fear is what will keep you alive." Fane pushes up from the floor, rising to his full height as he offers me his hand.

"Why do you feel burdened with my care?"

He withdraws his unaccepted hand to his side. His gaze grows guarded and he turns away. "I have my reasons."

I rise slowly to my feet. To this point, I have yet to press him about his past, knowing there was little trust earned on either of our parts, yet I suddenly feel emboldened to ask. Perhaps it is the way he looked at me last night, with eyes filled with sorrow, or the way his thumb gently traced circles across the back of my hand only a moment ago. Something has changed between us, though I am unsure if there are words to describe how. "Please tell me."

Fane's shoulders rise and fall with the steady rhythm of each breath. His voice is deeper than normal when he finally speaks. "I had a family... before. I came from more humble beginnings than you did. My father was a stonemason by trade. He spent his life building fine homes for people who cheated the poor so they could build their castles. My father was an honorable man, the hardest working person I knew. My mother was a kind, plump woman whose laughter could brighten any dreary day."

I can see a hint of smile stretch across his face as he turns to begin pacing. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Everyone loved her cooking. She made the best pies in all the village. Her bread was sinful, most would claim."

He turns and glances toward me, though instantly lowers his gaze again. "I had three sisters and a young brother. To be honest, I cannot really remember the boy's name. He was hardly more than a babe when I was turned. I hardly knew him as I spent my days working in the mill. I was a young man with dreams larger than this castle and no money to my name. I turned my back on my father's trade and went to live with Lungun, the carpenter. He was a harsh man with fists of iron and a quick temper, though I did well in his home."

Fane turns back once more and I watch the emotions playing across his face. "I had a young wife named Cosmina. She had hair like the night and eyes as beautiful as the pond that lay just beyond the edge of town. I loved her laugh and the way she always had a kind word to say, even for the foulest of men, yet she was too trusting."

The planes of his face harden as he finally turns to face me. "She was with child when a man came to our doorstep. There were no strangers to Cosmina, so it was only natural to invite him in to warm beside the fire. I was kept late that night. A sizeable shipment of wood was due to depart for Oradea on the morn. I knew it would never make it there. The roads along the border were too dangerous, yet Lungun was determined so I obeyed."

Fane sinks heavily onto the edge of my bed and buries his head in his hands. "I heard her screams all the way from the mill. By the time I arrived—" His voice cuts off. His shoulders shake as he fights against the tears that gather in his eyes.

I rush forward and sink down at his feet. "There was nothing you could do."

"This I know." He growls as he wipes at his eyes. "There was little left of my beloved when I arrived. She had been torn apart, as if by rabid wolves. I still remember seeing my unborn child's body tossed beside the fire, the cord wrapped several times around its neck. He was nearly full size. I held him in my arms all that long night, vowing that I would avenge their deaths."

When he looks up at me, I can see rage burning deep within his darkened eyes. "I was to have a son, an heir to carry on the Dalca name."

I close my eyes and press my cheek into his palm. His fingers quiver at my touch, though he does not draw away. I can feel the strength of this broken man in the palm of his hand. He had said we were kindred spirits. Now I know he is right.

"I hardly moved all that night and through the next day. The sun came and went. When the knock sounded at my door, I assumed it was Lungun arriving to scold me for missing work. I was wrong."

I release my hold on his hand and he splays them out before him, wide enough to hold the boy that he lost so long ago. "They came for me that night. I remember stumbling out into the cold, my feet bare and no cloak to warm me. The torchlight was brilliant, blinding me as they ushered me toward town. When I arrived, I saw them for the first time, clustered together in their finery. The women teetered as I passed, reaching out to stroke my hair and arms. I was shoved into line with my townspeople, shivering from the cold and the unknown."

He closes his hands into fists. His arms shake and blood seeps from between his fingers, yet still he does not release his grip. "I was chosen to fight. I had nothing to live for, no reason to pick up a sword. Two children were chosen alongside me. A boy of six summers and a girl of ten. They lived down the lane from me. I knew them by name, shared a sweet with them from time to time on my way home. Two women were chosen and two men. I knew all of them well. They were kin to me."

I hold my breath as Fane runs his hands through his hair, unconcerned with the blood that trails through his fine strands. He rubs his hands down over his face, his gaze unfocused as he looks beyond me. "The two men took down the women first. I did not act until they went after the children. The girl escaped my grasp, fearful that I was going to harm her. I could not save her, yet the boy... he was mine to protect."

He clears his throat and blows out a shaky breath. He turns his hollow gaze upon me and I am rocked by the depths of his pain. "I killed those men with my bare hands. No sword. No axe. I choked the life from them, imagining they were the men who took away my Cosmina. They were gone and only the boy was left. I picked up the sword and handed it to him. I placed the tip against my chest and commanded him to strike me down. I do not think he had the strength within him to kill me. His arms were frail, his clothes swallowing up his tiny frame."

A discomfort in my lungs alerts me to the fact that I have unknowingly been holding my breath. I release it slowly. "What did you do?"

"I said a silent prayer and looked toward the heavens to await my death, yet my gaze never reached the sky. A man stood before me, dressed in fine clothes and draped in jewels far larger than I ever dreamed existed. None of this seemed remarkable to me, save for one detail. A small wooden ring sat upon his finger. To most it would seem insignificant, yet I recognized it immediately. I hand carved that ring when I asked for Cosmina's hand. I remember filling with rage as I stared into the knowing eyes of my wife's murderer."

I reach out and place a hand upon his arm. "What did you do?"

Fane pulls away and stands with his back to me. "What I must to avenge my family."

I suck in a breath and feel the ache of the lost child profoundly in my chest. "That is why you saved the little girl. You were making amends?"

"No." He shakes his head. I watch as his hair shifts along his back. "There are no amends for the evil I performed that day."

I rise to my feet and step up behind him. I hesitate before setting my hand upon his arm and realize that he is shaking. My heart breaks for this man who feels that to show any weakness would be to place a target upon his back. He survives as he must, doing what he must, yet I sense great turmoil within him that has yet to be dealt with.

"I cannot begin to understand the pain of your loss. My sister was taken from me and though this pain is severe, I cannot imagine that it compares to the loss of a wife and child. No man should be forced to endure that."

The muscles in his arms clench as he nods. "I made a vow to myself that one day I would take away the one thing Vladimir holds most dear." He turns to face me, his chest looming before me as I raise my gaze to look up at him. Tears dampen his lashes, though none fall. "I do not pretend to understand the inner workings of Vladimir's mind, yet one thing is very clear... He has feelings for you."

My breath hitches ever so slightly at the intensity of his gaze. "Do you plan to steal me away from him?"

Fane lifts a hand and gently brushes stray bits of hair from my eyes. His touch is gentle, hesitant. "Perhaps someday."

I lower my gaze as heat floods into my cheeks. I can feel it spreading from within the collar of my dress, warming my neck. "Have I spoken out of turn?" he questions.

"Yes," I whisper, staring at my feet. I lock my forefingers together before my dress and rock back onto my heels. "And yet no."

He places a finger beneath my chin, lifting it so I can meet his gaze. The hollowness has been replaced by an emotion I had not thought to see again: hope. "Someday I believe you will be Vladimir's undoing. If you are willing, I would like to assist you in this endeavor."

His words stir something deep within me, a longing for this to come true. I wish it for his sake and my own. "Are you ready to begin your training, Roseline Dragomir?"

I blink at the use of my mortal name. My name. Not Vladimir's. A subtle reminder that the girl I thought I left behind is still a part of me. A girl whose need for vengeance must not be ignored.

Vladimir stripped everything from us. I know Fane is correct. I am the only one who can ever truly harm my husband.

"You must be sure of your path." He urges. His hands fall upon my forearms, his grip demanding though far from painful. Fane is giving me a choice: fight back or give up.

"I do not wish to die," I reply with certainty, and for the first time I realize the truth behind my words. Despite the horrors that life has dealt me, I have found a flicker of life within me. A desire to hope again. To live, not hide in fear.

"You will need to fight for the right to live. I can only show you the path. You must choose to walk it." His grip tightens as I feel the emotion riding behind his words. "Are you willing?"

Pressing back my shoulders, I take a step forward and nod. "I am willing on one condition."

He blinks in confusion. "What is your request?"

A slow smile spreads along my lips. "Ensure that Lucien is one of the hunters. I have a score to settle with him."

# TWENTY-SEVEN

I open the door to my room the following day before Fane has a chance to knock. His expression of surprise swiftly melds into admiration. "You were listening. Good. I wondered if you would be able to hear my approach."

"I heard you the moment you entered through the courtyard on your horse. It has one shoe that is loose. You really should see to that."

"I shall." Fane's smile deepens, and I blush beneath his obvious approval. "Care to join me for a walk?"

He steps forward to offer me his arm, waiting to see if I will extend him the trust he requires. "The sun is shining today and I thought we might begin our lessons in the meadow."

My breath catches at the thought of being beyond the inner castle walls. How I have longed to explore the forests. "Truly? I am permitted to leave?"

Fane laughs and dips his head. "Vladimir requires that you are properly trained and to do so we will need space. He will allow you leisure to leave the castle temporarily."

A thought rises up that strangles any joy I previously felt at the thought of escaping this stone prison. "Will my husband be there to watch my progress?"

"No." Fane lays his hand atop mine as I accept his arm and he leads me out into the hall. I step with hardly a sound, evidence that my time spent alone in my room has not been in vain. I have learned a few things about being an immortal. I am fast, agile, and cunning when I put my mind to it. In mere seconds, I could race to the steps and leap down the grand staircase, though I restrain myself. "Vladimir has gone to welcome some new guests. I believe they have traveled here from Clus."

"For what purpose?"

There have been many new faces coming and going beneath my tower window. Some have lifted their gaze to spy me in the window, though many do not seem to care.

"The gathering has begun," he says with a frown, and I am instantly reminded that my time has grown short. What was once months now feels like only a few short weeks before the hunt. Fane has informed me that many will come, some sooner than others if they have a greater distance to travel. "It is safe to assume that Vladimir will be gone for several days so you can rest easy."

"And the others?" I whisper as we pass several closed doors along the second-floor hall.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye and notice his grin. "No one will bother us."

As if to uphold his statement, I begin to decipher halting snores and labored breathing, mingled with other sounds that make my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Fane appears to take no notice as he confidently leads me toward the stairs and out into the uncovered courtyard.

The clouds passing lazily across the sky cast dappled sunlight onto the open space before me. I stare at the uneven stone paving, marveling at how large they are up close. My bird's eye view from above is incapable of giving justice to the brilliant colors that swirl through the stones. Pebbles weave between them, creating a patchwork of earthen tones. The stones rise nearly six inches above the ground, providing a suitable path to walk unhindered by the muck. I hardly had the mind to take notice when I walked with Vladimir to the grave. I was far too nervous, though now, on Fane's arm, I feel a sense of wonder.

He leads me past a well in the center of the courtyard. Its wrought iron arch is beautifully crafted. I try to peer into its depths as we pass, though I cannot see the bottom. Fane points to several details about the castle as we make our way to the far end. Carved holes in the shape of crosses line the battlements to protect from a siege. Archers could take aim with diminished risk to their own person as a battle raged on. Multiple staircases lead up to balconies and beautiful awnings.

In the light of day, Castle Bran's fearsome appearance fades away. I stare wide-eyed at the splendid architecture all about me as Fane pushes open the towering double doors that Vladimir brought our wagon through upon our first arrival to the castle.

"Are you coming?" he asks as I tug back on his hand, standing with my head craned back to see the tall arches atop the gates. I smile as I begin to feel the tightness in my chest fade with each step that takes me away from the confinement of the castle walls. The cobbled path leading away from the entrance spills over into sweeping stone steps, both steep and amazingly liberating.

"I feel as if I can breathe out here," I whisper as I stare at the beautiful spring colors beginning to emerge all around. Vivid reds, fiery oranges, and brilliant yellows dapple the path ahead as flowers begin to open their petals. Tall pines boast heavy-laden green boughs, dipping toward the ground.

The air is crisp and the winds cool against my skin. I breathe deep and savor the smell of fresh, untainted air.

"It is all so wonderful." I twirl in place, desperate to take in every detail at once. Fane laughs and motions for me to follow him. I do so, eager to escape farther into the woods.

I see a bench up ahead, made of hewn trees that are stripped of their bark and fashioned into a seat large enough to fit four people. "It is so beautiful here," I praise as I duck my head to look at a bird's nest in the tree overhead. I can hear them twittering back and forth among the branches, though the leaves conceal them.

A grove of trees lies just beyond where I lower myself onto the bench, low hanging and secluded. I long to go there and hide for hours on end, yet I know Fane has a plan. I clasp my hands in my lap and release the breath I have been holding.

All around me I see vibrant life. Small woodland animals scamper about, collecting nuts to replenish their food stores after the winter months. Birds swoop down and collect pine needles and return to the treetops to weave their nests. Butterflies float on the breeze, their colors vibrant.

"Thank you for bringing me here," I whisper. I cannot help but wonder if he will linger after the hunt, no matter the outcome. A part of me knows he will leave again. He is a ranger. They never stay in one place for long.

Perhaps this is the life Fane chose so he is not forced to be around Vladimir or perhaps it was a life chosen for him.

Fane leans back with his fingers wrapped around the back ledge of the bench. His long legs stretch out before him, crossed at the ankles. He looks at peace here. I wish I knew his secret to finding it.

I smile at him as I curl my knees in toward my chest. My long skirts fall about my boots, draping in a perfect circle about me. "Thank you for showing me there is still beauty within this cage."

Fane returns a smile of his own. "There is much beauty to be found here if you are willing to search for it."

The tenderness of his words surprises me. A single glance in his direction reveals I am the object of his attention. I turn so my hair veils my rising blush. The gentle rolling hills before me fade from sight as I close my eyes and breathe in the rich scent of newly turned soil. I can smell the moss that clings to the trees nearby. The earth is waking.

"May I ask you a question?" I inquire, opening my eyes to look at him.

"Certainly." Fane draws himself upright and turns slightly so he is facing me.

"Are you happy?" I almost feel foolish for asking such a thing after his admission over losing his wife, yet he is still a puzzle to me. How can someone find peace in a world filled with such cruelty?

Fane's smile freezes into something stuck between shock and uncertainty. He clears his throat and looks beyond me, toward the pond just down from where we sit. It ripples with life as frogs leap from the bank and dive beneath its murky depths. Fish come to the surface, feasting on an array of bugs that skim along the glossy surface. I shudder, remembering my time spent in the cabin just beyond. Verity may be dead and buried, though she still haunts my dreams.

"No one has ever asked me that before." He brushes back the hair that blows into his face, recently escaped from the leather thong at the nape of his neck. I cannot help admire the strength of his jaw and the stubble that grows there. I can see veins pressing against the skin of his hands and know there is great strength buried beneath, forged of granite instead of muscle.

"I am sorry if that was too forward of me."

"No. Not at all. It is just... unexpected." He reaches out and gently places his hand upon mine, his gaze searching. A part of me screams to pull away from him, to flee before anyone spies us, yet I find his touch to be pleasant.

"I am content with my life."

I frown. "How can this be?"

His hand feels warm and substantial upon mine. When I spread my fingers, his fall into place between mine. Not entirely clasped, yet far more intimate than we have ever been before. I watch as he lowers his gaze to stare at our entwined fingers. "I know who I am, what I have become, and I accept that."

"That sounds truly depressing."

Fane laughs and nods in agreement. "Perhaps, yet I know I cannot change my fate."

I retrieve my hand from beneath his and clutch my calves, rocking back so I am balancing. "I can," I whisper.

A single eyebrow lifts, though he does not speak. Instead, he waits. I purse my lips, wary of speaking the thoughts that plagued me all through the long night. "I have my own thoughts, my own desires. I cannot live a life where I am forced to endure pain and confinement. You tell me I am a survivor, strong enough to endure this hunt, yet I want more than that. I want to live."

As I speak the words, I feel a greater sense of empowerment than any time before. I feel as if freedom might actually be an attainable thing, not just a fool's dream.

"I have lost count of the bruises that have spread across my body since I arrived here. Countless broken bones, torn flesh, and branding irons thrust upon my skin. I have been humiliated, raped publically, and pillaged in more ways than should be humanly possible."

My chest rises and falls rapidly as I surge to my feet, staring down at him with all the fury that I possess. "I cry for help and all I hear is laughter in return. Mockery and harassment follow my footsteps. I beg for mercy and my husband strikes me. I scream and he laughs. He has taken everything from me. You speak of avenging your wife and son and that is a noble cause indeed, yet I do this for me. For those who are incapable of saving themselves."

Tears slip between my eyes as I feel my anger begin to abate. I hug my arms about myself as my trembling lessens. When I look at Fane, I am surprised to see revulsion marring his handsome features. "Do I disgust you?"

"Not at all." His expression shifts, though he does not give me reason for his revulsion. "This life is a cruel one. Do not expect anyone to show you mercy. You must take what is yours. You will have no rights. Only strength and your anger will help you survive."

He reaches out and lifts my chin, a smile rooted deeply on his face. It reaches to his eyes, brightening them. "Do you wish to know how I can be content with my life, such as it is?"

I nod and hold my breath, as if he might be about to reveal a secret that could change everything. "I fight." That is not the answer I was expecting. Fane reaches beside him and clasps the hilt of his sword. "Hold out your hand please."

My fingers hardly tremble as he draws his blade and places it across my open palm. It is lighter than I would have imagined, the silver edge sharp and deadly. I brush my thumb along the markings etched into the blade, marveling at them. "Is this a cross?"

"It is... or rather half of one. The other is in my chambers. These are gifts from Vladimir for your training." Fane watches as I carefully inspect the sword, testing its weight, gripping it in hand as I raise it into the air before me. It feels good in my hand. "This was my task that I was sent to retrieve. It is why I was gone."

My breath hitches as I turn the blade and catch a glint of blue. I blink, twisting the blade again, though I cannot make the color reappear. "It is beautiful."

"Yes, and lethal." He reaches out and gently takes the sword from me, replacing it into the scabbard at his side. "A sword can be your greatest weapon, though it can also become a crutch. I will teach you not to need a blade. To kill with your surroundings. I will teach you to think quicker, run faster, and leap higher."

He places a finger over my heart. His touch feels warm against my bare skin. "I will teach you to feel. Death is never easy, no matter the cause for it. Learn to respect death and you will never been tainted by it."

Next he presses his finger to my forehead and smiles. "A sword can strike fear in your opponent if you prove you are worthy of possessing it, though if you learn to wield your mind, no one will dare to touch you again. You captured their attention with Atticus's death, now I will teach you to claim it."

A slow smile stretches along my face as I raise my gaze to meet his. I sense a fire burning deep within him and feel our souls bind together. He understands me, I realize and flush with pleasure. Not just my fears and doubts, yet my desire for revenge.

"I want them to fear me," I declare without any hesitation.

"Trust me," Fane leans in close, capturing my attention. "In time, they will all cower before you."

# TWENTY-EIGHT

My first training session with Fane went far better than I could have hoped. We explored the castle grounds and discussed basic survival skills. He pointed out knots in the trees that can be used as handholds should I need to climb, burrows in the ground to duck into if someone follows too closely, and a trick to diving into a pond without creating a splash.

He spoke of how to mask my scent with mud, pine needles, and feces. I cannot say that I am altogether keen on the idea of wiping manure upon my body, though I suppose if it were that or facing death, I could set my pride aside for a time.

On the second day, the rains returned and we were forced to use the lakeside shack as our refuge. I tried not to look at the dried blood Verity left behind. Fane watched me closely for any sign of mounting distress, though I tried to push aside the memory of that night. He spent most of the day teaching me how to evade an attack should someone leap upon me from behind.

When I was weary, bruised, and in need of a break, Fane scraped his fingers along a pool of blood from where Lucien crushed in Verity's head and held it up for me to see. He spoke of the attraction of blood, how the scent of newly spilled blood can drive an immortal to distraction, though also to a lethal frenzy. A fact he warned me to remember.

By day three, we began running—sprints at first, then long distances, allowing my legs to lengthen and my spirit to soar. This was by far my favorite part of training. It has been too long since I have felt the wind in my hair.

Duties left unnamed between us took Fane away for nearly four days. I paced within my room, my anxiety mounting the longer he was gone. He returned with a slight limp to his step and a wicked cut over his eye. When I inquired, he merely shook his head and told me it was nothing.

Blood could have healed his wounds, yet he did not partake. I inwardly smiled at his refusal, feeling the bond that has formed between us strengthen.

This morning he came to me at the crack of dawn. He took the lead as he ran, weaving under the drooping limbs of aged willows and over rolling hills lush with new grass.

"Keep up," he calls from ahead. I grin and pump my arms, easily matching his stride as we sprint over one rise and down another. Our surroundings blur into one giant mess of color as I lean forward and attempt to take the lead. The high slits in my dress allow me freedom to run full out, though the volume of my dress still hinders me. I seize the heavy layers and tear them free, sending them fluttering out behind me.

Fane laughs as he ducks out of the way of my dress, and I cheer as I cross over the imaginary finish line with barely a second's lead on him. With my arms tossed out to the sides, I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath. "That was amazing!"

He sinks down beside me, looking a little windblown, though hardly as tired as I feel. "Are you ready to go again?"

"Again?" I clutch my chest as it rises and falls rapidly. "I cannot."

"You need to learn that you do not need to breathe, Roseline. Your mind tells you that you are wearied, though your true nature is to thrive off motion. Your muscles are stronger and more than capable of battling for days without rest if necessary. A short run is hardly enough to wind you."

"We have been sprinting for over an hour," I gasp between great gulps of air. "I hardly consider that to be a short run."

Reaching for a stick that has fallen from a great spruce, Fane lifts a single finger. As I watch, he digs his nail deep into its flesh and carves the three-inch thick branch cleanly in half.

"How did you...?"

Fane holds out one half of the stick to me. The wood is smooth where it was cut. "You must stop limiting yourself to what your human nature tells you. You are so much more than that now, Roseline. You can sprint faster than a mountain lion, leap to the top of a tree in a single bound, and dive to the depths of a lake and spend the night there without taking a single breath."

My mouth opens and closes as I try to think of what to say in response. Some part of my brain agrees with Fane's words. Can I not feel my own strength? Feel how easily it was to fly across the castle grounds in the blink of an eye?

"It is hard to let go," I finally whisper.

"I know." And I know he does. "Though we do not have the luxury of giving you time to truly believe it. You must choose to accept that you are capable of accomplishing anything now."

I look down at the branch, sliding the smooth fleshy surface across the palm of my hand. "When will you teach me how to wield a blade?"

Fane's jaw goes rigid. "Soon. Once you have mastered the basics."

It is hard not to become frustrated with the delay. Surely I will need to know how to use a sword to survive my hunt, though Fane still seems more intent on teaching me how to use my surroundings to my benefit. It all seems to be a waste of the frightening short amount of time I have left.

"Vladimir will return by nightfall tomorrow."

My head jerks up. "How do you know?"

"Lucien returned ahead of them. I met with him this morning. It would seem they had a rather... pleasant time on their journey."

The trembling in my hands arrives before I can still it. Fane notices and shifts his gaze away. "I may be called away again for a short time."

"No!" I reach out and grab his hand, surprising both of us. I clear my throat and draw back. "My apologies. It is just that I worry about the effect this delay may have on my training."

Fane offers me a weak smile. "As do I, though it is unavoidable. I go where I am commanded."

I wrap my skirts about my legs as I draw my knees into my chest. It feels good to curl in upon myself, to feel grounded. I have so many unanswered questions that I long to ask, though I have held back.

Will Fane mock my fears? Snigger at my lack of knowledge? Will he treat me as the others did, with snide remarks and cruel jokes at my expense?

The physical changes within my body were obvious from the moment I first awoke, yet it is not those I fear most. It is the inner turmoil I can feel building within me. At times I find it hard to control my thoughts or urges. The scent of blood slips beneath the crack in my door and I find myself drawn to it. This realization leaves me plagued by guilt and I find at times I do not care.

I feel weaker when Fane is not near. His confidence in me makes me feel capable of taking on the world. When he is gone, I retreat within myself again. I have grown to need him.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, focusing on the way the trees sway in the winds as I gather my courage. "You say you have accepted what you have become, though I hardly know what I am. Will you tell me?"

I know he can hear my heart thumping against my ribs, smell my rising fear, though he does not acknowledge either of them. He watches me and I realize he is attempting to gauge the level of trust I have granted him by asking.

Vladimir and Lucien would eagerly lie to me, boasting of the amazing feats I am now capable of. Fane will be honest. He will tell me what I have truly become. "You are not an animal, though Lucien would claim you are." He is silent for a moment before he speaks. "You have heard the rumors of the Strigoi I presume?"

"They are well known in my part of the country."

Rumors began to spread of a plague spreading across Transylvania some years before. Not like the plague that brought England to its knees a few years previously, yet this one was no less dark. Vlad the Impaler became a legend. Never before had such brutality come to our lands. Children were sacrificed to their mother's. Wives to their husbands.

Those were the original tales, though whispers spread of something far more sinister... a blood drinker.

"I do not believe anyone knows the exact age of Vladimir and Lucien. Some say Vladimir is the oldest. Others contest this. They came from across Europe many years ago, killing and stealing as they went. They gained land, titles, and wealth."

"Why have they settled here?" A shiver begins at the base of my spine and slowly trickles upward. Goose bumps rise upon my arms and I brush my hands over them.

"No one knows for sure. Some claim he found love here once. Others believe there is a hidden treasure buried beneath this castle."

"And you? What is it that you believe?"

Fane scratches the edge of his jaw. A light stubble has begun to grow. For the first time, I notice the shadows beneath his eyes. His cheeks seem slightly sunken. How long has it been since he last slept or ate?

When he turns to look at me, I am stilled by the hollowness within his eyes. "I believe there is something that draws him to this place. He could have chosen anywhere to live, chosen any wife, yet he chose you and this place. One might wonder why."

"Me?" I clasp my hands in my lap, clenching them tightly together. "What have I to do with all of this?"

The knowledge that Lucien chose me as Vladimir's bride has haunted me for months now. Though I have wondered, no real answers have been given for my selection. Now Fane expresses his own suspicions. Why me? Why now?

Fane shakes his head. "I do not know, though I fear someday we will discover the truth of it." I blow out a deep breath, wishing I had not asked. Fear worms through my stomach, turning the contents rancid. I feel ill at the thought. "I see things others do not. I hear whispers when I should not."

I lean forward. "Will you speak of these things with me?"

"No." His response is immediate and firm. I sit back as rapidly as if I have been slapped. "There are some things better left a mystery."

"And yet you still seek to protect me?"

A small, weary smile forms upon the corner of his lip. "Someone has to."

I fall silent for several minutes, concentrating on each breath instead of the thoughts that dash through my mind. I want to press him, to plead with him for this knowledge, though I fear it would be unwise.

"Will I become like him? A monster? Will I desire to kill?"

Fane draws one leg up toward his chest and rests his elbow upon it. The floor of the shack creaks under his shifting weight. His breathing is slow and steady, irritatingly controlled. "Only you can answer that question, Roseline. You have the desire, yes?"

I give a brief nod. It is true that the urges grow stronger. "I am afraid of it."

"There is nothing to fear." Fane reaches out and takes one of my hands in his. His touch is warm and gentle as he places his thumb over my wrist. "Your heart still beats. Your blood still feeds your veins. You are a living being with a soul. That is all you need to remember."

"Am I still the same girl?" I ask, gently brushing my finger over the inside of his wrist, feeling it beat in time with my own pulse. Yes, our hearts beat. We feel alive, yet we are changed.

I have often wondered if I would forget my life before. Will my memories become tarnished by this life? Will I forget the times I spent weaving spring flowers into crowns with my sister or helping knead bread alongside my mother?

"What do you know of magic?"

His question startles me and I draw my hand away from his. "Magic? My mother told me tales of black magic, of witches and demons."

Fane nods. He reaches out his arm and gathers three stones that are scattered along the edge of the room, covered in thick layers of dust and cast aside as they fell from someone's boot. He opens his palms for me to see. "There are varying forms of magic in our world."

He rubs his finger across the surface of a light-colored stone and places it in my waiting hand. "Some magic can be used for good."

Next he places a darker stone beside it. "Sometimes magic can begin with good intentions, though it becomes tainted."

"By what?" I whisper.

"By selfish desires." He plucks the final stone from his palm. After he dusts off his hand on his pants, he raises the stone for me to see. This one is much darker and crusted with mud. It is veined with black and roughly shaped. "Sometimes the darkness takes over and it can no longer be used for good."

I swallow roughly as he places the final stone in my hand. "Magic is all around us. It is a part of us, of nature, of this world. It can be harnessed and used through a series of spells."

"Spells?" I look up from the stones to see him watching me. I blush and set the stones aside.

"Enchantments of old. I only know a few."

My eyes widen with surprise. "You know magic?"

Fane nods solemnly. "All immortals are taught."

"I have not been."

"You will." He scoots a bit closer, so close our knees nearly touch. "An enchantment was used on your wedding night. It would have sounded like a foreign language, gibberish really. Perhaps it sounded like a song."

I inhale sharply. "I remember strange words..."

"Those words, spoken at the time of your death, are what gave you a new birth." Fane closes his eyes for a moment. I can hear that his heart has begun to pace faster. When he opens his eyes, I sense regret within them, dulling their beauty. "You will never die, Roseline. It is a gift and a curse. The world will pass by you and still you will remain, frozen forever in time."

"It is possible to die. You said this hunt will—"

He holds up his hand. "Death is not an option for you. I will see to it."

Fane rises swiftly to his feet and holds out his hand to me. I gather my skirts beneath me. "Are you ready to resume your training?"

"I believe so," I answer with hesitation. My thoughts linger on the new truths he has shared with me. Much of it I already knew from Vladimir; others I had guessed, though hearing them spoken by Fane seems all the more menacing.

"No." His grip on my hand tightens. "You must know, Roseline." His fingers slide between mine and tightly clasp my hand. "It is the only way to survive, and survive you must."

"Why?" I whisper, caught up in the intensity of his gaze.

He reaches out his free hand and cups my cheek. "Because I have grown rather fond of you."

# TWENTY-NINE

I run my hands along my cropped halter, enjoying the feel of leather against my skin. It is less constricting than my usual corset, freeing me to bend and twist with ease. My abdomen is bare, revealing the new planes of muscle for which I have immortality to thank. A black shoulder harness attaches to the halter with metal brads, covering the top of my shoulder and only a small portion of my upper arm. The halter itself is held together by silver metal buckles that tighten along my chest to fit me to perfection. The leather is shiny and obviously newly crafted.

A matching skirt has been fashioned for me as well. Straps of black leather fall from my waist, weighed down with connecting metal links. A long belt weaves about my waist and a black harness buckles just above my hips, allowing ease of access to my swords.

I have two of them dangling from my waist in a scabbard. They feel heavy and awkward as I walk. It took a few turns around my room to get a feel for their balance.

Fane claims this is the most suitable outfit to wear when training for battle. A gift he brought back for me when he returned from his travels. They took him away for nearly half a moon cycle this time, leading me to dip slowly into despair, sure that something grave had befallen him on the road.

When he appeared at my door this morning, a wrapped gift in hand, I nearly forgot myself and embraced him. His lopsided grin sent my heart a flutter and it took great effort to regain my composure. I am grateful for his return. With only a few short days remaining, I know I will need his guidance all the more.

I reach down and adjust the top of my black leather boots. They cling to my calves, extending their protection up to my knees. The soles of the shoes mold to my feet, allowing me to feel the ground beneath far better than the horrendous heeled shoes I have been forced to endure these past few months.

As I finish dressing, I pause to braid my long hair down my back, like my mother used to. Growing up, I hated this design. It felt old and matronly. Now, it feels practical.

As I stare at myself in the mirror, I am determined to force Fane to teach me something new. Something useful. I was given these swords for a reason after all.

I open the door to my room and step out into the hall without a moment of hesitancy. I practically skip down the stairs and push through the front doors, breathing deep the familiar scent of the meadow. If I had my choice, I would spend an eternity outdoors.

I weave down the path, humming lightly to myself as I head toward the bench where Fane and I first spoke, though he is not there. I frown, wrapping my arms about my waist as I turn and look upon the castle grounds. There are no foot indentions in the dew-blanketed grass, nor any scent of Fane on the air. It is not like him to be late.

Trepidation sinks heavily to the pit of my stomach as my mind flits from one doubt to another. Has he been sent away yet again?

And then I hear a faint thud. I turn and lift my nose to the wind. The scent is faint yet discernibly belonging to Fane. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I take off in a full-on sprint. I nearly whoop with delight at how freely I can move in my new clothes. Fane was right. The leather outfit is far better than my dress.

I pump my arms and leap, pushing off from a large rock and soaring over the small valley to land atop the next rise with hardly a sound apart from my laughter. This is amazing!

My feet hardly feel as if they touch the ground as I dash ahead, tracking Fane's scent. The winds shift and I pull up to a halt, confused.

I stiffen as I feel the razor edge of a blade slide lightly across the surface of my neck, and I know Fane has bested me. "If this were a real hunt, your head would have rolled down the hill by now."

"I know." My shoulders slump as I turn to face him. I blink, shocked to find a camouflaged figure standing right behind me. I lean in close as Fane lowers the blade and sniff deeply. "I cannot smell you."

"That is the point." A potent muck coats his pale skin with such complete perfection it is hard to discern his skin color amongst the green pine needles stuck to the mud. He is coated from head to foot, like a pig lolling in a mud pit.

I scrunch up my nose as I detect a hint of something less pleasing though still very much a part of a pig. "Feces? Really?"

Fane nods curtly and motions for me to follow him. I do so yet make every effort to avoid being downwind of him. We walk farther into the forest and the instant we move into the clearing, I discover my mistake. Fane's vest hangs from a tree branch, flapping in the wind. I turn to look at him and realize only now that his chest is bare. I battle with the urge to stare at the hard planes, though I cast aside my gaze. He has never done so when I was decidedly less than dressed so I am determined to give him the same courtesy.

"You must learn to decipher between a real scent and a residual one. The hunters will be high on bloodlust, though they are highly skilled. They will know how to deceive you if they feel the need."

"If they feel the need? Why would they not?"

Fane sighs and snatches down his clothes. He sets off without saying a word. I rush to catch up, casting furtive glances at him as we head toward the pond. He pauses on the edge and hands his clothes to me. "Hold these."

"You never..." My words trail off as Fane pushes his pants to the ground.

Oh God! I flush furiously as I stare in utter disbelief. He turns and leaps into the water, hardly disturbing the surface. When he rises to the water's edge, he shakes his head and I step back to avoid being splattered by the wet muck.

"You are welcome to watch me bathe if you like." He smirks as he stands and begins rubbing fresh water across his chest to wash away the drying filth.

My cheeks flush hot and I spin around. Fane laughs and splashes about for several minutes. When I hear him step from the water, I turn and my mouth gapes open.

I have never seen a man in such a beautiful state of undress. His skin is slick with water, his hair dripping about his shoulders. I watch as the droplets roll down his bare chest. The instant they hit his hips, I clamp my eyes closed. I realize with a start that my pulse has increased. "I am sorry. I should not have looked."

I toss his clothes toward him and turn away. Even after all of this time spent in Vladimir's bed, I have hardly seen him exposed in quite the same way as I just saw Fane. Vladimir is always in too big of rush to ever disrobe completely. Nor is he half as stunning as Fane.

A hand falls atop my arm and I look up, instantly breathing a sigh of relief that he is fully dressed again. "You are rather beautiful when you blush."

"You should not say such things," I whisper, though I secretly feel pleased with his compliment.

Fane bends at the waist and lets his long hair hang free. He ties a leather thong about the damp strands and rises.

"Are you ready for your first lesson with a dagger?"

Disappointment jabs fiercely at me as I frown. "I had hoped to start with something a little bit bigger."

Fane laughs and draws his dagger from the leather holder at his hip. "This weapon can be far more deadly than you realize. Follow me."

A few moments later, I pause beside a row of four trees, each one with an identical barren patch of flesh exposed, no larger than the palm of my hand. "What is this?"

"Before you can learn to wield a full-size blade, you need to learn how to take down an opponent from a distance."

"That is impossible with a knife so small," I protest.

Fane grins and produces three more daggers, each one no longer than my forearm. "Do you see the small circle I have carved in the center of each tree?" I nod, though thoroughly confused. "Watch closely."

I am unsure if I am to watch him or the tree. By the time I make the decision to watch the tree, all four daggers are quivering from the center of each of the four circles.

"That is amazing." I gasp as I sprint across the clearing. No human could possibly throw that distance, let alone with such accuracy. I seize the daggers and pace the steps back to him. "How did you do that?"

"Practice." He collects the daggers from me and motions for me to stand beside him.

I listen as he explains how to hold the handle lightly in my grasp, not so hard that I am clenching, though not so loose that it falls freely from my fingers. He lightly touches my wrist as he steps around behind me, raising my arm. I can feel his breath against my neck as he leans in and runs his fingers along the ridge of my forearm, showing me how to take aim.

It is hard to concentrate with him so near. His voice seems deeper than normal, his touch warm and gentle. I close my eyes and fight to reign in my errant thoughts of what it might be like to allow myself to sink into his arms. "Are you ready to try?"

I nod and he steps back three paces. I can feel his eyes upon me and grow nervous, clenching when I know I should not. He waits, no doubt knowing my first throw will be an epic fail, though patient enough to let me make my own mistakes.

I take a deep breath and aim, focusing only on the tree across the clearing. A voice whispers in my mind, reminding me this is foolish, a waste of time, an impossibility. I shove each of them away.

Drawing my hand back, I feel the blade between my fingers and release. In the blink of an eye, the tip buries deep into the flesh of the tree before me. It strikes on the outer edge of the barren patch yet decidedly within the target.

"Perfect!" Fane praises. He approaches and pats me on the shoulder before awkwardly dropping his hand to his side. "I would not have thought it possible on your first attempt."

I smile sheepishly. "I was aiming for the tree on the far right."

Fane bursts out laughing. I missed my target by nearly fifteen feet, though I am proud that I at least struck one of the four trees.

"Well done either way." I look up to see how close he has come. His deeply masculine scent floods my senses and I realize something in his gaze has shifted. He no longer looks upon me with admiration, yet with some emotion far deeper. There is a yearning in his gaze as he approaches that calls to me. I find myself breathless as he reaches out to take my hand.

"You should not look at me like that," I whisper as I turn away, letting my bronze ringlets fall like a shield between us. Surely he can smell my growing desire, hear the pattering of my heart as I consider the feel of his hand upon my arm.

If only he would reach out and touch me, really touch me. Not as a mentor or a trainer, yet as a man longing for a woman, though I know I should not wish for such things. I long for Fane in ways I had not known possible.

"Why not?" he inquires softly, tugging me closer.

"Because it will only bring evil down upon you." My breath catches as the scent of his blood, of his skin and damp hair, ensnares my senses.

"I am not opposed to a bit of evil in my life," he smiles. He slides his hand down my forearm as if testing the silky texture of my arm. I close my eyes, memorizing every touch: the warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his heart, and the way he seems to hum to himself when he is lost in thought.

I suck my lower lip between my teeth, biting down as my fingers curl upon his hand, attempting to push him out. He slides his fingers between mine, entwining us together. "How can something such as this be evil?"

"It is not," I breathe as he leans in close. I can see the golden flecks that rise in his eyes when he is near. They appear to glow in the light, as if the sun were beckoning the pieces of itself back to the heavens.

How did I ever live before him? Truly, it was no life at all, though I walked and breathed and cried. Fane dried my tears and put a sword in my hand. He showed me not a girl who cowers in her room in terror, yet a woman, confident and able.

He saw in me what I was unable to see in myself—a warrior. Though as with most tales of heroics, death always follows. My hunt weighs heavily on my mind. Is it so wrong to embrace the hope of something more when time is so precious? Is it wrong for me to allow myself to feel for him just this once?

I clench his hand tightly in my own, curling my fingers so I clasp him strongly. I tug at his arm and pull him near. "Vladimir will not show mercy if we are discovered."

Fane nods. The lines about the corners of his eyes deepen, yet I cannot spy a single ounce of doubt in his expression. "My life was meaningless before I met you. My days filled with death, bloodshed, and horror. You have no idea how many times I pondered taking my own life or provoking a fight just to be done with it all despite my vow. Rage is not enough to sustain a life."

I suck in a breath at his admission. "Did you ever try?"

"Yes." He looks down at our hands and smiles, appearing lost to his memories. "Many times."

"And yet you did not succeed?"

He draws my hand to his lips and with the utmost of care, kisses each finger in turn. I wince at the dirt lining the cracks in my nails, burrowed deep into the nail beds, though he sees none of it. His touch is light, though weighted with a thousand unspoken words of affection.

"I was not meant to," he mutters against my hand. He rolls his head to the side and presses the back of my hand to his cheek. I can feel the stubble that ever clings to his strong jaw.

"How do you know?" I ask softly.

He smiles, looking up at me from over the crest of my curled fist. "I am here."

Though simply said, I wonder if it could it be true. All of the torment I have endured was simply to allow us to come to this very moment together?

Had Vladimir not chosen me, I would never have known Fane. Never been given the chance to fall in love.

Love? The word echoes through my mind, resounding in my soul. Do I love Fane?

I slowly withdraw my hand from his grasp, using as much care as I am able. Fane watches me as I struggle to swallow, clasping my trembling hands in my lap. I lower my head, clenching my eyes tightly shut. Lord, guide me. I believe I am falling for him.

"What are you thinking?"

A wry smile tugs at my lips. His touch, although gentle and endearingly sweet, has left me feeling rattled. "How cruel this life can be."

I know he can hear my heart pounding wildly in my chest, though I am a slave to my rising emotions. Fear. Doubt. Longing. They all mingle in the pit of my stomach and I am terrified to embrace any of them.

"It does not have to be," he murmurs. The tone of his voice deepens as he reaches out to push aside the thick waves of hair that fall about my shoulders. His fingers graze the sensitive skin along my neck and a shiver ripples down my spine, hovering along the rise of my hips.

"And yet it is," I insist, standing a little straighter.

Fane sighs and drops his hand to his side. "You are afraid."

"Of course I am!" I lean back from him so I may stare at him with open incredulity. "How can you not be?"

His broad shoulders rise and fall with a shrug that I suspect bears far more concern than he lets on. "I am a ranger."

"And that makes you more brave than I?"

"No," he instantly inserts. Fane dips low to grasp a branch. It is knotted and twisted, overly damp from the rains. No doubt the interior flesh has already begun to decay. He twists it between his fingers, as if he needs something to occupy his hands. "I do not begrudge my job."

I remain silent as he pauses for several moments. I see darkness swoop in to steal the light from his eyes, and I wonder if he will ever truly reveal what it is that he does beyond the walls of Castle Bran.

"The days all seem the same. Another horse, another village, another death." He clenches his jaw and snaps the twig in half with hardly an ounce of effort. "Seasons blend into years. After a time, you stop counting them, for what is the point when eternity stretches before you with endless bleakness?"

I suppose I had known he was lying the day he told me he was content. I do not blame him for this omission. We are hardly more than strangers, yet I cannot help but think back on how few the days have been since we first met at the masquerade ball.

Several new moons have come and gone since that day. A lifetime for some. A blink of an eye for others. I suppose it is a bit of both for me, depending on the perspective.

Had my sister inquired if I believed in such swift affection, I would have called her a fool and scolded her for such wild notions, yet here I sit, beside a man who by all intents and purposes should be a stranger to me, yet I find myself irrevocably drawn to him. Not to his beauty, although it is difficult to not take notice of it.

Fane is a man of depth and I know I have only begun to explore the top layer. He is kind when he should not be, tender when most are cruel. I find the way he watches me to be both unsettling and thrilling in the same instant. My savior has become something different... something so entirely and dangerously more.

"What changed?" I ask as he tosses aside the stick.

Fane smiles. "Must you ask?"

I nod sheepishly. I know I should not need to hear the words, though I do. With all my heart I do.

"You, dearest Roseline. You have bewitched me, body and soul. I fear you will be my undoing someday."

I smile, inwardly pleased. "I like that."

"What?" He leans in close. My skin tingles beneath his delicate touch.

"The way you speak of me. It is almost as I imagined it to be." A warm flush rises in my cheeks as I dart a glance in his direction, then quickly shift away. I cannot bear the thought of him silently laughing at my naiveté. Fane had a wife and a child in her womb. He knows things of this world that I have hardly imagined, let alone experienced.

My stomach clenches at the thought of another woman in his arms, sharing his bed during the long nights of winter. Does he still think of her? Surely he does. Cosmina was his first love.

His touch is gentle when he draws my face around to look at him, capturing my attention. He is hardly a breath away. I stare into his eyes and nearly weep from the emotion buried within their darkened depths. He loves me.

"May I?" He waits for permission in silence, neither pushing nor drawing away. He simply waits.

A thousand voices scream out their warning in my mind as I stare back. I want this, I shout at the voices. Please let me have this one moment.

Though even as I plead for permission, I know what my answer must be. "I cannot."

Fane's smile does not harden nor fade as he nods and leans back. "Someday, I will ask again."

I lower my gaze and breathe out the air I had not realized I was holding. Someday, I hope I will have the courage to say yes.

# THIRTY

I limp over to my mirror and turn just enough to see the purple splotch spreading across my lower back, from hip to hip. I wince, biting down on my lip as I place a cold cloth over my bare right side.

Fane told me our training would be trying, though I never imagined just how painful it would be once we actually started hand-to-hand combat, which commenced shortly after the dagger throwing since I was in sore need of a distraction after our near kiss.

Fane was right to leap to distract me. Without his attack, I would have been a flutter of nerves. Instead, I spent the remainder of the afternoon fending off sneak attacks while blindfolded. He kept his touch firm and demanding, allowing me to think past the moment we shared earlier in the day.

To be fair, I believe I did a fairly decent job of combating him, considering this was my first real attempt at taking down an opponent. At first, Fane let me fight with all of my senses, though once his movements became too predictable, he tied a cloth about my eyes and I was plunged into darkness. This served two purposes. The first and most important was to learn how to rely on my other senses should I find myself trapped in the dark with a hunter. The second was to help me deal with my own terror of being helpless during an attack.

Although Fane never said a word, I know this part of my training bothered him. Each time he would strike my skin and I would cry out, mostly from surprise, he would hesitate. Once I began to see a pattern, I was able to use this to my advantage.

My proudest moment came just before the sun began to dip toward the distant tree line and I managed to best Fane, sending him flying backward into a tree. He came up spluttering as I ripped off my mask and planted my foot firmly atop his chest. My smug smile faltered, though, when I realized I had a dagger pressed to my inner thigh. Fane is good. I doubt there are many immortals who could take him in an open fight.

After only a single afternoon, I have earned more bruises from him than I have from spending a night with Vladimir, though I will wear these with pride. You are improving, are the words that kept me going as I limped back up to the castle as the sun began to set.

He believes in me when I cannot. When he told me to leap to the top of a tree, I laughed at him, sure he was jesting. When he wrapped his arms about my waist and hurled me into the tree, I stopped laughing. I barely had time to grasp the branch before I crashed back to Earth. I suppose this will be a skill I will master another day.

I turn away from the mirror as my door bursts open. My smile vanishes as Vladimir crosses the threshold. I dash to my bed, covering my nakedness with my hands and arms. He watches me, his expression a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"You are not hiding anything that has not already been seen, my love." I can hear the annoyance seeping through his slurred words. His breath reeks of blood, his clothes of cheap perfume and horsehair.

I straighten, though I do not release my hold on my chest. "I was not expecting you so soon."

"No?" He steps inside and closes the door behind him. My stomach rises into my throat as he slowly begins to remove his gloves. When his hands drift to his belt, I feel sheer panic grip me. In his current state, he is not of sound mind to remember his pledge to be gentler with me before the hunt. There is a savage glint in his eyes as I back away until my spine is pressed against the cold wall. Vladimir grins. He likes it when I feel trapped.

His belt buckle drops at his feet. He never breaks eye contact with me as he pushes his pants to the floor and removes his shoes. "The hunt is only a couple days from now," I say as I press against the wall.

Vladimir's teeth peel back from his lips. His steps falter as he approaches. As my husband begins to unlace the leather thongs that hold the neckline of his shirt together, my mind races, desperate to grasp onto anything that might save me from this coming torture.

His approach is slow and purposeful, that of a hunter who enjoys taunting its prey. I can see the enjoyment he gets from watching me cower. I want to close my eyes and trap myself in a safe place within my mind, to hide until he is finished, yet I cannot. I stare at him, focusing on the black, soulless eyes that have haunted me every day and night since my wedding, and something shifts. To some it would seem a miniscule shift, yet to me... it is life changing.

"No." I shake my head and drop my hands.

Never before have I stood before him completely disrobed. Not like this. Not with defiance.

"What did you say to me?" His upper lip curls into a snarl. His fingers clench into fists at his sides, and I know pain will soon follow so I do the one thing that might tip the scales in my direction.

I take a step toward him. Vladimir freezes. "I said no. If you wish me to survive the hunt, you will leave me be."

His pale skin blotches red as he stares at me with unrepentant and crazed anger. "You dare tell me no?"

In a single leap, he lands before me, his hands grasping my arms to yank me away from the wall. I clamp my eyes closed against the tears that threaten to fall at the feel of his touch against my bare skin.

As his hands drift down to my bare hips, bending me over, I spin and slap him across the face. His eyes widen in surprise and he takes a step back. I fight to keep a smile of triumph from my lips as I stare him down. "I said no."

Vladimir's mouth opens and closes as he blinks rapidly. I can see his confusion and beyond that an emotion buried deep, seeking to rise to the surface. One that makes my blood run cold: approval.

What have I done?

With a swift open palm punch to my chest, he sends me sprawling back onto the bed. I claw at the bedding, trying to flee before he is upon me. He flips me over and traps me between his legs. "Fane told me you were a fighter, though I had my doubts."

His grasp on my arms brings tears to my eyes that I cannot stop. His nails dig into my flesh as blood trickles from my wrists. Without breaking eye contact, he raises my right arm and slowly licks at my blood. His moan makes my stomach convulse, yet he holds tightly to my waist with his knees.

Locking my arms over my head, he slowly leans down until he is only an inch from my lips. "I do so hope you win the hunt. I look forward to many more... experiences with you."

His hand weaves its way down my stomach, pausing to grip my hip. I wince as he presses against my bruise. Vladimir grins. "It looks as if I am not the only one who has been teaching you a lesson."

He slaps my hip and I bite down on my lip to still my cry. I no longer want to fight back. I just want him to finish and leave me alone, though Vladimir has no intention of leaving me quickly. I can see the truth of this glinting in his blackened eyes.

As his fists pound into my flesh and I bite through my lower lip to hold back my screams, I wonder if Fane is out there somewhere in the dark. Is he trying not to listen? Does he feel rage at my abuse?

Minutes turn into hours as I endure pain and humiliation. Vladimir never tires. He hardly gives me a chance to breathe between punches or jabs before his hands tighten around my throat and I am tossed across the room, bouncing off the corner of a dresser.

As the first hint of dawn begins to crest the bottom ledge of my window, I close my eyes and pray for an end.

When a knock sounds at my door an hour later, I curl into a ball, shivering from the pain. "Roseline?"

I bury my tears into the pillow as the latch shifts on the door. I hear the hinges squeak, followed quickly by the hiss of breath. "Roseline!"

Fane leaps to my bedside and instantly curls me up into his chest. I let him lift me into his arms as he turns and sinks back onto the soft surface of my bed. I feel like a child in his embrace, small and broken.

My hair is matted against my forehead and cheeks. Sweat and blood mingle along my brow and seep from both of my ears. My body is a patchwork of bruises, some bold and wide, others small yet purposeful.

Fane says nothing. He just rocks me, his head pressed against the top of mine.

I cling to him, digging my fingers into his arms as the tears come. I do not try to hide them as my body is wracked with sobs. Never before has Vladimir broken me quite like this. He loves to mess with my mind, damage my body, though this time he messed with my soul too. He spoke of my sister as he beat me, used me. He spoke of the sweet taste of my mother's blood, of Lucien's pleasure over feeding off my cousins as they pleaded for their lives. He made me relive it all.

"I heard your screams and tried to come for you. Lucien had me chained in my room so I would not interfere." Fane's voice cracks as his fingers tighten around me. I can hear the revulsion in his words and know it has little to do with me. "What happened?"

"I said no," I whisper into his chest.

Fane pulls back until I look up at him. My eyes are puffy, my nose running profusely, though he notices none of it. A small, pained smile brightens his face. "That took great courage."

I shrug. "I was foolish."

"No." Fane lifts his hand from where he holds my leg to keep me perched upon his lap and gently grasps my chin. "The girl I met only a few moons ago would never have stood up to him. I am proud of you."

I lower my gaze. Shame washes over me as I think back on the past few hours.

"It hurts." I turn away, embarrassed by my weakness. I should be stronger now, capable of handling the pain, yet I cannot. I feel as if I have shattered into a millions shards of glass, unable to be mended.

Fane gently lifts me off his lap and sets me beside him. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind me and pulls the covers over my shoulders to veil my nakedness. "I know something that might help. Will you permit me to carry you?"

In the beginning, I would have been suspicious of his motives. Although Fane has never been anything save a gentleman with me, he now watches me with a bit more care than before. The look in his eyes warms me in places I had once thought would be dead forever, reminding me of our near kiss. "May I take the blanket too?"

He laughs and nods. I tuck the ends of the blanket around me, securing it as best as I can before he lifts me effortlessly. His gait is swift yet gentle as he carries me out into the hall. I feel him brace a split second before he leaps down the flight of stairs. I tense, sure the jarring landing will cause excruciating pain, though I hardly jostle at all.

"Ye of little faith." He grins as he rises onto the balls of his feet and dashes down the hall.

As we burst from the confines of the castle, I nearly laugh out loud at the exhilarating freedom I feel. Fane moves across the rolling terrain with surprising grace as we pass by our training grounds beneath the lofty spruce trees that line the eastern edge of the castle grounds.

"Where are you taking me?"

He remains silent as he shifts his gait to follow a winding path into an area I have yet to explore. Piles of pine needles dot the rock path as it weaves beneath towering spruce trees. I crane my neck to see what is before us and wince at the strain on my neck muscles and slowly lower back down.

"Are you always this inquisitive?" Fane's chuckle rumbles deeply in his chest beside my arm.

"Usually. At least I always used to be..." I trail off as I am hit by the reminder of my former life. My throat tightens as I look away, hoping he does not realize how close I am to tears. Will this ever get any easier? Fane would tell me that it does, though even I know that is not true, not after seeing how hard it was for him to speak of his lost family.

"Well, concern yourself no more. We have arrived."

I look up to find us standing beside a small pond no larger than thirty paces across. I turn and look back over his shoulder, searching for my turret through the maze of barren branches. I can just make out the orange tile roof.

"Are we still on castle lands?" I ask, feeling a slight hitch in my breath at the thought of being beyond Vladimir's borders.

Fane smiles and slowly lowers me to my feet. "I am afraid so. They extend much farther than you would imagine. I believe much of this land was... passed along to Vladimir with only a small amount of negotiation on his part."

"I imagine he was rather persuasive," I mutter as I step toward the rippling water. The surface sparkles like fine crystal, marred only by the occasional leaf floating past. On the far side of the pond, dozens of geese mill about, no doubt attempting to avoid a hunter's dinner table. How funny they would know that within these grounds they are not the first item on the menu.

The aged pine needles crunch beneath my bare feet. The grass is cool to the touch. I sink slowly to the ground and dig my fingers deep into the rich earth. The cool breeze rustles my hair as Fane drops to one knee beside me.

"There are rumors that these waters contain healing powers," he whispers, only inches from my ear. I flinch at his sudden nearness, though I do not back away as I stare out over the sparkling surface.

"Do you believe such things?"

"No." He falls silent for a moment. "Though the waters do feel good after a long, hard ride."

He rises and steps back from me. I turn, surprised by his sudden departure. "You are leaving?"

"Only for a while. I assumed you would rather disrobe when I am not around, though I am willing if you are." A tiny smirk appears at the corner of his lips before he turns and heads back up the gentle incline. I watch until he disappears over the crest.

I slowly turn back toward the water's edge and a shiver seizes me. I have never been a fan of water. As a young girl, I nearly fell through a thin sheet of ice that covered the small duck pond at the back of our property. My mother had been furious, my father coolly indifferent. The fever nearly took me.

I remember my sister's constant prayers as I lay shivering in my bed. My mother sat beside the fire, her knitting needles clicking with maddening speeds. She always did turn to her knitting when she was worried.

Since that day I have not stepped within a few feet of water's edge and here I sit, desperate for relief from my aches and pains, though too terrified to move. I look back in the direction Fane went and realize he has not left me at all. He is simply waiting.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself as I gently tug the blanket from my shoulders. Instead of the anticipated chill from disrobing outdoors, I find myself smiling at the wind's gentle caress against my skin.

Is that how the water will feel? I wonder as I gingerly rise to my feet. I waver unsteadily for a moment before taking a hesitant step forward. The soles of my feet sink into the damp soil as I near the edge. It crumbles beneath me, threatening to tumble me face first into the water.

"Are you all right?"

"I am fine," I call over my shoulder toward Fane. He has begun to pace and I fear he will turn to check on my progress before I have dipped beneath the concealing waters.

"I suppose it is not as if water can harm me anymore," I muse as I dip my toe into the water, thinking of how Fane promises I could spend an entire night in its depths without need to breathe.

The water feels deliciously cool against my foot as I step in, my arms spread wide for balance as I sink deep into the bank. The mud rises between my toes and I release a small squeal. A deep laugh from behind makes me purse my lips. "It is not amusing."

"Perhaps not, though you most certainly are."

I grit my teeth and fling myself into the pond, choking and pawing at the water as I poorly attempt to keep my head afloat. Within seconds, Fane is standing along the shore, his arms crossed over his chest and his smile broad. "Why did you not tell me you could not swim?"

"It is not that I cannot," I splutter as I pick a leaf from the side of my face. My legs pedal beneath me to keep my chin just above the surface. "I just prefer dry land."

"And yet you still entered..." He cocks his head to the side and watches me with that intense gaze that I have come to recognize. It is almost as if he is trying to peer into my mind.

"Do not look at me as if you think this decision was based on bravery." I sweep my arms back and forth, treading water to remain in place. There is a current within this small space. I should have realized it sooner when I watched the leaves floating toward the far shore.

It will not take long for me to tire, yet even as I realize how weary I should be, I also begin to notice that my muscles no longer hold the same ache. I stare up at Fane and know my thoughts are clearly written across my face."

"You may thank me at your earliest convenience." He grins.

"Are you always this haughty?" I shake my head and laugh as droplets of water from my hair splatter against his pristine pants. He does not back away. Instead, he drops into a crouch. His nearness makes me sink a bit lower beneath the surface.

"It was either this or blood. I assumed this would be far more preferable to you."

I curl my lower lip with disgust. "I will never drink blood again."

His knowing smile makes the tips of my ears burn. "Never is a very long time for our kind, Roseline."

He rises to his full height, taking my blanket with him. He holds it out and turns his head to the side. "We should return you to the castle before someone begins to wonder where you have gotten off to."

My stomach clenches at the thought. "No one ever looks for me."

He tilts his head to the side yet does not look in my direction. The water laps about my chest as I slowly swim back toward the shore. "Perhaps not normally, though this is not a normal time."

The hairs along my body rise as I step out of the pond and into the waiting blanket. Fane gently wraps it securely around me before he lowers his gaze to discover my curiosity. "Tomorrow night is the Avangor, the blood moon. They will come for you at sundown."

"I do not understand. I still have three more days.

Fane nods solemnly. "Vladimir has chosen not to wait."

I feel the familiar quake begin to rise within me. "I need more time."

"There is none." He raises his hands to hold me upright as I waver. "Time runs short."

I stare up at him, knowing my fear is laid bare before him. Water droplets fall from my hair, pattering against my nose, and trail down my chin. I am warm and revived, yet an icy chill has seized me.

His lips part as his gaze shifts from my eyes to the quivering of my lips. "I told you I would ask again."

I stiffen in his arms, terrified and filled with utter longing. It curls my toes and seeks to push back against the numbness. "This cannot be," I whisper.

"Why can it not?" Fane steps near. I can feel the heat of his body beneath his leather vest. "Why can fate not give us this single moment of happiness?"

"Because it will never be enough. Do you not see this?" I shove my hair back from my face, swiping away the moisture that clings to my lashes. I am soaked through, yet I hardly feel a chill.

"If I allow myself to feel for you, it will be torture when you are gone and even more so when you are near. Lucien watches me like a hawk, and Vladimir..." I fight to suppress a shudder. "He will know."

Fane steps closer, pressing the length of his body against mine. I can smell the scent of his longing pouring off him in rhythmic waves. "I am not the one who is blind, Roseline," he murmurs as he stares down at me from his great height. His smile broadens as he leans down and whispers in my ear. "You do not need to allow yourself to feel for me. You already do."

I stiffen as he presses his cheek against the side of my face. I wish to lean into his touch, to accept his embrace, yet I am terrified.

What do I know of love? Of real love?

My father used me to further his fortune. My mother did nothing to stop him. Vladimir has been nothing short of atrocious. How am I to know if what I feel truly is love or a mere infatuation?

"I can see it in your eyes," he whispers into my ear. I tremble in his grasp.

"See what?" I breathe out as he nudges the hair back from my neck and presses his lips to the side of my throat. I clench my fists tightly against my sides, desperate not to reveal my desire.

"You want me." I bite my lower lip as he smiles against my neck. "I can smell it."

Blast his sense of smell! I feel weak in the knees as his hands lace about my waist, molding our bodies together as if we were one. His hands are strong against my back, kneading through the sodden folds of my blanket. As I roll my head back to allow him access to the base of my neck, I vaguely realize how easily it would be to bare myself to him.

His fingers dig deep into my flesh as he presses me back against a spruce tree. We disappear among its drooping branches, sealing out the world and all of its cares. The sun is lost behind clouds that seek to cloak the castle grounds in coming darkness. I can feel the change in the wind as I press against the bark of the tree and lift my eyes to the sky, feeling as turbulent as the tempest building above.

My heart thrums with maddening intensity as Fane's hands roam the breadth of my waist, tugging me close, then pushing me back with measured control, almost as if he comes to his senses and then refuses to acknowledge them all over again.

I can feel the battle waging within him. It is evident in the strength of his hands and the press of his body. He wants me. His scent envelops me with turbulent intensity. A low growl rises in his throat as he nips at my neck, nearly tumbling me into a careless abandon.

I dig my nails deep into the flesh of the tree as I attempt to resist, yet as Fane's lips trace a burning trail toward my mouth, I find I no longer care.

"May I?" he whispers hoarsely.

With a growl that surprises both of us, I yank him about and shove him against the tree in answer. Chunks of bark jar loose and fall about our feet as I wrap my arms around his neck and rise up to meet his lips. Adela was wrong. There is nothing sweet or romantic about a first kiss.

Raw passion makes my mind hazy with desire as I grip Fane, needing to feel every part of him against me. I claw at his back as I crush against his lips until my own are bruised and swollen. I plunge my hands into his hair as he wraps his arms about my waist and lifts me so my feet are nearly a foot off the ground.

If only I had known a kiss could be like this.

Fane slowly lowers me to the ground, severing our connection. My chest heaves as I step back, fighting to regain my composure. My fingers tremble as I press them to my lips, clutching my blanket with my free hand. "Thank you," I whisper.

"For what?" I delight in seeing how out of breath and disheveled he is. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and wide as he stares back at me. The top buttons of his shirt have come undone, and I spy a hint of muscle and instantly ache to slip my hand within to explore.

I stumble backward several steps and out into the rising winds, needing the coming deluge to quench the fires burning deep within my belly. "For giving me something to hold on to."

Fane calls out as I turn and sprint away. I slide on the grass as the rains overhead unleash, threatening to upend me on several occasions. My blanket hangs heavy and thick between my legs as I flee, though I do not turn back. I cannot.

If I do not leave now, I may commit an act that I will forever regret... like confessing my inclination toward him.

Love. At least be willing to be honest with yourself, I scold as I flee over the hills and back toward the castle. It looms like a monster rising from an eerie fog from upon the hilltop. I have no right to feel this way, yet, no matter how hard I have tried, I cannot deny the truth. I have fallen in love with Fane Dalca.

# THIRTY-ONE

I hear the drums first, rising from the depths of the darkening woods. I turn my back on the window as the last few droplets of color fade from the sky. The stars twinkle high above, though tonight they do not capture my attention.

My heart thumps loudly in my ears as I stare at my door, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching. I know they are coming for me. It is time.

Panic seizes me as I realize this might be my last night on this earth. How odd it is to suddenly be fearful of the one thing I have wanted most: death. Maybe meeting Fane has changed me. Maybe the feel of a blade in my hand has given me something small to live for.

There is no knock or pause to request entrance to my room. My door bangs open and half a dozen immortals stand in the threshold, fighting to peer in. My candle is diminished so they do not spot me for a few scant seconds, though it is long enough for me to get a good look at them under torchlight.

The first I see is a slender redhead with waves of fire cascading over her shoulders. Never before have I seen such a vivid color on any other woman. Her skin is pale as winter snow and her lips the color of blood. I cannot help but wonder if she has actually painted her lips with it to celebrate this occasion.

Metal chains wrap about her long neck and wrists. Her dress is foreign, much fuller than any I have ever worn. Her feet are bare and her eyes are amplified by thick bands of black. Alamesia's grating laugh sends ripples of unease down my spine.

Beside her is a tall, dark-haired man with a severe-cut beard and eyes the color of coal. His hair is unusually short, almost as if it has been shorn so you can see the strange markings on his neck, leading up to his scalp. I am tempted to lean in closer to see what design it makes at the back of his head, though one look at his eyes tells me I want no part of this man near me. The bloodied blade at his side gives evidence to the skirmish I heard below only a few minutes ago. I suppose I now know who won.

Two burly men stand behind Alamesia, rising nearly a foot taller and double the width. Their russet beards are unruly, their hair matted with leaves and dirt. They look as if they have been rolling with the dogs in the meadow. Judging by their scent, they may have had a time with the pigs as well. I do not know their names or their scent. These three men must have been among the newest group to arrive. I have heard many new voices come and go throughout the day.

I recognize the last immortal simply by her state of undress: Bellamy. If she were to speak, I would instantly recognize her accent from being raised by a small sheepherder in the countryside of France, where Lucien found her. Her name is on the lips of nearly every male that traipses through the front doors of Castle Bran, and I would wager she has shared a bed with most of them as well. She has been absent for some time, though Lucien seemed rather pleased to see her once more.

I had hoped Fane would be sent for me. He would have been a familiar face, though perhaps it is for the best. If Vladimir ever caught one of Fane's less-than-guarded glances, he would lose his head and a few other limbs in the process.

"There she is," the dark-haired man says with a gravelly voice as his grip tightens atop his fancy wooden walking stick. It has the head of a lion, its teeth sharpened into points. I dare say they appear to be dripping with blood. A fitting cane for such a beastly man.

"I saw her first, Barrett." Bellamy offers him a smile dripping with honey as she places a hand high to tweak his nose before twirling to face me. I can see no hint of compassion in her eyes, only excitement as she digs her nails into my arms to wrench me from the dark.

"You had your fun during the plagues within the provinces of England. It is only fair that someone else shall have the honor." I can see the ruddy tint still clinging to Barrett's cheeks from Bellamy's touch. He is not fooling anyone with his gruff tone. Men are essentially all the same.

Bellamy smirks and waves him off. "We must not keep everyone waiting." Her voice is singsong, as if gripped by a dream world, yet laced with a lethal dose of poison.

"No, we certainly would not want that," I spit back. The contents of my stomach rise in my throat, though I swallow it down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of sensing my fear.

If my greeting party is anything to judge by, the hunters should be far more anxious to begin the hunt. It is a sport to them, as sick as it is sadistic.

When Fane came to see me at dawn, he informed that I have received my request. Lucien will be among the hunters and he is eager to take a swing at me. As are the hulking men clomping behind me down the hall, no doubt. Their swords look sharp enough to severe bone with a single blow.

The castle is oddly empty as I am shoved down one corridor to the next. I fight the urge to drag my feet and force them to carry me. That will only expend energy I am sure to need before the sun rises... if I can make it that long.

The great hall is eerily still and vacant of firelight. Every door has been flung open, each room we pass unoccupied.

I am going to have quite the audience, I muse silently as I am prodded in the back by Barrett's walking stick. The desire to beat him over the head with it grips me suddenly, though I hardly have time to think upon it as I am sent flying through the exterior door with a violent shove. I tumble end over end to the bottom of the stairs.

The leather of my skirt slaps against the stone as I roll to a halt, the edge of the bottom step digging painfully into my spine. Alamesia and Bellamy cackle as they leap down beside me. "Watch that top step. It can prove to be tricky."

"Enough."

I tense at the sound of the stern voice that echoes around the stone courtyard. Blood and gravel cling to my palms as someone grasps me under my arms and hauls me to my feet. My black leather halter is dusted white from the stone, my sword dangling from its sheath at my side thankfully unharmed.

This is not exactly how I wanted to present myself: disheveled and favoring my side. It is a weakness that the hunters will use to their advantage. Blast you, Alamesia! I silently curse.

"Why must you always spoil our sport?" Bellamy pouts. I look up as she steps around me without a glance and watch as she saunters toward Fane. Golden waves of fine hair trail behind her in the wind as she glides her hand across his chest. Rising onto her toes, she licks her blood-red lips and leans in toward him, sniffing the curve of his neck. There is a distinct sway to her hips as she moves past with a smirk, and I notice a muscle along his jaw flinch reflexively.

"Vladimir will not be pleased if Roseline arrives in a less-than-perfect state for her hunt."

Alamesia snorts and crosses her arms over her chest as she juts out her hip. Her jewelry tinkles as she sways. "Roseline is it now? Tsk tsk, Fane. I would be cautious at how familiar you address the girl in front of Vladimir. He might not take too kindly to that. He seems unusually fond of her."

Acid burns my throat at the thought of Vladimir's particular form of fondness. Fane stiffens and appears determined not to glance in my direction as he turns to address Alamesia. He presses his shoulders back and lifts his chin with defiance. "I am her trainer, nothing more."

I try not to let the lack of emotion in his tone nor the dullness of his eyes bother me, yet it does. I thought Fane was different than them. Was I mistaken about his feelings for me? Was it all some sick ploy to win my affections at my expense?

Judging by Alamesia's grating laugh, she does not entirely agree with his sentiment. "We shall see."

As she moves past to join arms with Bellamy, I cannot help but wonder to what she is referring. Will she see if Fane cares more for me than he is letting on, or is she referring to his status as my trainer?

Why do these people always speak in riddles? I cry out as Barrett takes another swift stab at my side. I growl and turn on him. "If I live to see the dawn, I am going to beat you with that stick."

Barrett laughs as he snatches my arm and yanks me close, pressing me so tightly to his chest that I fear he will crush my lungs. He reaches up and brushes the back of his hand against my cheek, slowly and with purpose. His cold eyes lock onto mine as he leers down at me. "I sincerely hope I am the one to remove your pretty little head."

"You will have to catch her first," Fane says from behind him. Barrett lifts his head to glare at Fane over my shoulder.

"It will be my pleasure." With a shove that steals my breath away, Barrett stomps past and heads toward the darkened woods.

The torchlight, spaced every few meters along the stone courtyard walls, casts an eerie glow upon the ground. I realize with a start that the sun has completely vanished from the sky. I dart a glance toward the front gates of the castle. Could I make it? Could I outrun the others and make it to the village before Vladimir discovers I have fled?

Fane meets my gaze and gives me a tiny shake of his head. His grip tightens on his sword hilt as two hands grip me from behind. "He is waiting," a gruff voice blasts just above my ear.

The scent of manure is strong in my nose as I am practically carried onto the castle grounds. Fane walks ahead of us. I can see his blond hair glowing in the full moonlight rising just over the distant trees. I lift my gaze to the sky and realize there is an odd rust hue to the moon. I blink, sure I am not seeing it correctly.

A numbness drapes over me as I contemplate how little time I have left. How many will come after me? Five? Ten? I dread to think what would happen if Vladimir unleashed all of them upon me.

I cannot do this. I cannot outthink all of them! I can feel hysteria slipping in, smell the scent of fear clinging to my skin. The men behind me breathe deep, savoring my anxiety.

I crane my head back to look at them. They stand well over a foot taller than I do, mouths gaped wide in a grin. Even in the dim light, I can see many of their teeth are chipped or missing altogether. It looks as if they attempted to gnaw on rocks. The scent of putrid meat escaping between their lips turns my stomach.

Did they eat their last victim? Did they tear flesh from bone before draining them of blood?

I have heard tale of such savage men from a distant country somewhere on the continent. I glance down at their clothes and realize they both wear the skins of a bear, with a necklace of bone wrapped about their stocky necks.

If I must die tonight, I vow it will not be by the hands of these men. Even as the words sift through my mind, I know I will do whatever it takes to avoid these two hunters. If I must perish, I do not want it to be horrific.

"The blood moon rises," Barrett calls from the shadow of night up ahead. A sinister laugh turns my blood cold. "It is time."

# THIRTY-TWO

I can hear voices up ahead in the dark, hundreds of them chattering away with an air of excitement. It makes my stomach knot painfully, yet I keep my spine straight and my head tall with a confidence I am sorely lacking.

Fane walks ahead of me. He has not looked back at me once. This rejection, no matter the reason, hurts far more than that blasted stick Barrett insists on prodding me with from time to time.

Why is Fane treating me so coldly? Is it to protect himself, or is he trying to separate himself emotionally because he knows I stand little chance tonight?

I pause as we reach the far wall of the castle grounds. It rises high over my head, far taller than I had imagined it to be when leaning out my turret window. A tangle of vines and branches weave across the stone as far as I can see. Rusted spikes line the top of the wall, some of them still bearing the blood and feathers from the last foolish pigeon to land upon it. "We are going out there?"

I loathe the way my voice cracks with uncertainty. I have never been beyond this point. It is foreign and terrifying territory for me.

"You did not think we would spill blood within our own home, did you?" Barrett laughs. "That is just poor form."

With a curt nod to his large companions, beefy hands release my arms only to be replaced by Barrett's long, thin fingers. The softness of his hands makes me shudder. He grips my arm and leaps soundlessly over the wall.

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."

# THIRTY-THREE

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.

Tonight I must be perfect in everything that I do. I must win. I am a survivor.

Last until sunrise. That is your only task. I follow the banks of the stream for several minutes, careful not to splash in the water as I pass. The moon rises higher above, casting bright light upon the glistening water. Though I am grateful for the light with which to see by, I also realize it will be easier to spot me.

I pause to catch my breath and survey my surroundings. I am deep within the heart of the mountains. Spruce and pine trees block my view of the valley beyond. Darkness is all around. I cannot spy any hint of firelight from a village. This area was chosen for its remoteness.

The howl of a wolf startles me and I nearly topple off the rock outcropping that I perch upon. Its cry rises from the canyon below and is swiftly echoed from across the valley. There are other hunters in these woods tonight.

I hear the snap of a twig a split second before an arrow bursts from the edge of the woods. I instinctively roll to the side and come up to my feet, mere inches from the drop-off. Squinting against the moonlight, I peer deep into the woods for any sign of my attacker, though I see and hear none.

It must be Rymus, I think as I drop to a crouch. Fane taught me a smaller target is harder to hit and this position is the best to give me leverage should I need to dart away or leap to attack. Is he alone? How did he find me before the others?

Rymus is slight in stature, soft footed, and lethal with a bow. Fane warned me that I should not underestimate this man from the north. He could have crept along the forest floor with hardly a sound, though as I search the forest floor, I realize the arrow did not come from ground level. I look up and peer into the depths of the spruce trees standing before me.

It takes me several seconds to spot him clinging to a tree trunk nearly twenty feet in the air. His dark clothes blend perfectly with his surroundings, though he fails to hide the metal tip of his arrow from the moonlight. I see a glint of metal a split second before it comes hurtling toward me.

Without a thought, I turn and dash into the woods, running faster than I have ever gone. The cold winds whip my hair behind me, lashing against my cheeks. My footsteps pound the earth in rhythm with my thumping heart. I hear a thundering crash from behind me and know someone else has discovered my trail.

I urge myself on as a hulking shape appears to my right. Castor the Scot is on my tail, his kilt flapping out behind him. This immortal is twice my size, with arms as big as wine barrels. Beefy hands clench his favored weapon: a rust-colored wooden staff with an anvil-like head on the top. With one swing he could break every bone in my body.

Run faster! I silently scold as I leap over a downed pine tree. My scream follows me down into the ravine as I lose my footing. I tumble end over end, crying out as I am bumped and jostled, finally coming to a halt at the bottom. Get up! Get up!

Lurching to my feet, I cast a wary glance over my shoulder and my heart stops. Three more are upon me, riding the loose soil straight toward me. Lucien is in the lead, followed by Barrett and the bear-like brute Timen, whose broad-axe seems to be an extension of his arm.

I cannot fight all of them at once. Think, Roseline! I dart a glance around me and seize on an errant idea. Five are behind me, which means five more are still out there. It will only be a few moments before I have all ten gathered. I must find a way to thin them out one by one.

Fane warned me against seeking high ground so they expect I will follow his advice. That is why I will not.

I rush into the shadows and flip backward into a tree. Digging my nails into the bark, I rise swiftly to the top. The tree sways dangerously under my weight so I shift to compensate as I get a lay of the land.

"She has gone aloft!" a man shouts from below.

I hear their pounding steps as they reach the leaf-strewn ground beneath me. I have to move. The muscles in my legs flex as I leap from the tree and scramble to grasp the next. Like a flying squirrel, I jump through the forest from one treetop to the next. I can hear the shouts below me as confusion reigns, unsure if they should come up after me or stay below.

I wince as a dagger spirals through the air, slicing through the top layer of my cheek. As warm blood oozes along the wound, I turn to find Barrett halfway up the tree beside me. His beady black eyes are wide with triumph. "I am coming for you, Roseline."

"You look a tad unsteady, Barrett. Are you afraid of heights?" I call back as I watch him clutch the tree with colorless fingers. I laugh as he risks a glance down and then scowls back at me. "Let us see just how scared you really are."

I snatch his dagger from the tree trunk and leap to the next tree, searching for greater heights. I clamp the blade between my teeth, tasting my blood upon it. My stomach churns, though I push aside my revulsion. Others have begun to climb behind me, though they seem as unsure as Barrett. For the first time since entering these woods, a laugh passes my lips, low enough to be snatched away by the wind, though a chorus of snarls below me lets me know that all heard it.

A new sensation begins to bud within me: hope. Can I really survive this night? Can I outsmart these hunters? Fane was reluctant to reveal that none of the other wives had lasted until the moon was high overhead. I have and then some.

That tiny ounce of hope vanishes as I spot Fane atop the far ridge. His stance is rigid, his face grim as he clutches his sword in hand. He is staring right at me. It is impossible to tell from this distance what he is thinking. His face is a mask, concealing his emotions. Just stay away from him, I mutter silently as I leap again.

The view from here is spectacular. I can see the foothills that lead into the mountains, see the rolling pastureland where animals will graze on the sweet dewy grass at dawn. I can see plumes of smoke spiraling up into the cloudless sky from homesteads across the land. Somewhere out there in the dark was my home.

Is it abandoned now? Has someone moved in to seize my father's lands? I am seized by a longing to see my former home, and with that thought comes an even stronger one. You know those woods. In those woods you would have the advantage.

"Come and get me," I whisper to myself as I increase my pace, broadening the distance between Barrett and myself.

I can hear pounding feet below and know that those remaining on the ground have not lost my trail. How long would it take me to run home? An hour by foot? Perhaps more. The mountains are sure to slow my pace. I cannot hope to outrun the hunters. Their bellies are full of blood, making them stronger and faster, though if I could wear them out...

I search about me for somewhere I can hide. I nearly weep with relief when I spy a lake ahead of me. If only I can make it there before the others.

Reaching behind me, I grab my dagger from my waist and slash it across my palm. A growl rises from below as I squeeze droplets of blood onto the branches, squeezing my hand so it splatters onto the ground. Tearing a strip of leather from my skirt, I bind my hand and dive for a tree ahead of me, disappearing into the branches. The scent of my blood will only slow them for a moment. Long enough for me to make my escape.

"Where is the girl? Who claimed her? Rales? Theron? Can you see her?" Lucien's tone is cold and livid. I can hear him pacing below. The two beefy bodyguards who manhandled me from my room earlier step out into the moonlight and stare up into the tree, trying to catch a glimpse of me. They look in the wrong place.

"Can you see her?"

"No. She is hidden."

I inch out on my branch and peer through the thick boughs to see Fane approaching from the west, his blade lowered. Lucien's mane of hair flaps wildly as he rapidly shakes his head. "Barrett, what can you spy?"

"Nothing," a grunt replies from several trees behind. "I can smell her. Who claimed the first blood?"

I press back into the tree trunk and still my breathing. I close my eyes and rest for the briefest of moments. My hand is throbbing, though I fight to ignore the pain as I consider my options.

If I move, they will instantly be on my trail. If I do not, someone will eventually climb the tree to discover that I remain. Chittering over my shoulder makes me nearly cry out. I clasp my hand over my mouth to still my cry as I turn to find a squirrel emerging from its nest. I stare into its black eyes and silently thank it for its sacrifice.

Untying my bandage, I drag my blade across my palm, digging deeper into my flesh. I snatch the animal with my wounded hand and smear crimson blood across its head, back, and fluffy tail. I yank out strands of my hair and wrap them around its tail so the wind will carry my scent.

Thank you, my lips silently mime as I turn and hurl the squirrel through the air into a tree to my left.

"Stop!" I close my eyes and press back into the tree trunk, clasping my wounded hand to my chest, praying my ruse will work. Seconds slip past as I hold my breath. "She is moving to the north!"

Barrett curses as he clambers down out of the tree, taking to the ground after the rest of the hunters. Their progress is cumbersome as they each fight for the lead. Lucien comes out ahead as he turns and shoves the tip of his sword straight through Rales' throat. His brother rounds on Lucien, who is already on the move. Theron whips his spike mace in the air, intent on smashing in the side of Lucien's face, though Lucien sidesteps and slashes his glistening blade across his abdomen. The two giants fall and lie still.

"She is escaping and you are concerned with narrowing the competition?" Barrett grunts as he shoves past and tries to slight Timen's lead.

"I never cared for them anyway." Lucien leaps to his feet and dashes after Barrett. I wait until the sounds of their retreat have faded before I emerge and leap to the ground.

The forest is still, though I know it is not without its perils. I have yet to see Rymus and his brother Cain. Castor from Wallachia has failed to make an appearance as well.

I say a silent prayer of thanks as I rise and listen. Fane taught me well. He knew the men who would most likely volunteer for this hunt. He told me their skills and their weaknesses. I only hope this knowledge will help me before the night is out.

With silent footfalls, I race toward the lake, drawn by the churning surface. It shines brightly in the moonlight, calling me to safety. I pause at the water's edge and look back over my shoulder. I cannot hear any sounds of my pursuers, though I know it will not take them long to discover my ruse. Tying my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, I turn to face the water and stop short.

Fane emerges from the tree line, his sword tip plunged into the earth. "Are you here to kill me?" I call softly.

"No." There is no emotion on his face, no hint of thought in his eyes.

"With whom does your loyalty lie? With my husband or with me?"

Fane evades my question as strongly as he avoids my direct gaze. "I know where it is that you will go."

I hesitate, wondering if he truly does. "Will you tell them?"

A hint of a smile flits across his lips as he lifts his sword and places it upon his shoulder. "The hunt ends at dawn. Survive 'til then and you will live."

He turns to leave. "You want me to hide? You told me not to," I call out to him.

Fane glances back over his shoulder. "I also instructed you not to bleed. However, that appears to have worked out rather well for you."

He vanishes back into the forest without a sound. I turn to face the water and pump my fist in triumph, then leap into the frigid depths of the lake and head for home.

# THIRTY-FOUR

My legs ache and my chest burns by the time I reach the other side of the lake. It is far wider than I first thought. I drag myself up the shore, pulling myself along with tree roots that sink deep into the water.

I roll onto my back and breathe, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest. I am weary. I would love nothing more than to find a place to hide, though this is what Fane expects, and if he does, so will the others.

Determined to do the opposite, I turn and head toward my home. Trees lash against my skin as I sprint ahead, running full out. The moon seems to stop directly overhead as I push myself beyond my limits. I stay clear of the road and villages, terrified of the thought of unleashing a blood-crazed immortal on innocents.

No. This is my fight.

The air is cool against my skin, though I still feel as if I am on fire. The soles of my boots warm with friction. Sweat beads in my halter, yet still I run. I pause only for a moment at a stream to moisten my mouth before moving on.

Finally the moon begins to shift once more. I can feel the change in the forest. The scent is different. The land calls to me.

I have reached the outer edge of the forests that surround Brasov. Fane expects me to enter the town, to choose my home to hide within. I will not do so. Instead, I skirt the outer walls and head back into the forest, drawing them away from the mortals.

The terrain here is rough, strewn with rock formations that lead to chasms high enough to send a man to his death should he lose his footing. I know of this place. Heard tales of how you can easily get lost. This is where I will make my stand.

Crouching atop the mountain face, I survey the land before me. All is quiet, yet I sense they are drawing near. Surely they are as tired as I am from the run.

Slipping down through a crag in the rock, I drag Barrett's dagger across my palm once more, reopening the flesh that has begun to slowly seal over. I press my palm to the rock as I run, staining the confined space with my scent.

They will come and I will be ready.

I bind my wound and climb into a darkened crevice to wait. Time drags out and my muscles begin to cramp. I dare not shift my position or emerge to see if anyone has arrived. I watch the moonlight against the opposite rock face. It inches forward with maddening indifference.

My eyelids grow heavy and my head lolls to the side. I can feel the drain of blood loss on my mind. My thoughts grow sluggish and the tug of sleep more insistent.

The sound of a stone pattering down from above sends me into a silent panic. They have found me.

I can hear their whispers from above. There are six of them. Do the others come up from below to trap me? Are they working together as a team, or is it every man for himself now? This group is not the type to share glory.

"Climb down there and flush her out," I hear Lucien growl. A heated argument breaks out from above. I curl in on myself, clutching my dagger tightly to my chest as I wait for the inevitable. My scent will only throw them off for so long.

A shrill cry echoes against the rock as a dark shape hurtles past me. He lands with a sickening thud. The sounds of bones snapping make my throat go dry.

"No!" A clash of swords rings out. I listen to the scuffling of feet and grunting on the rock above. A deep growl makes my skin pimple as Lucien battles with an unseen enemy.

"Have we forgotten why we are here?" Barrett's deep voice booms. "We are here for the girl, and here you two are squabbling over nothing."

"He is my brother!" a strangled voice cries.

That must have been Rymus or Cain Lucien shoved off the cliff. I know little of these two, only what I need to. They are here to kill me. At the moment, I am grateful Lucien's anger has now narrowed the numbers to seven against one.

"Was your brother," Barrett mutters. "I would not press him, Cain. Lucien seems to be in a foul mood tonight."

"I do not care about his mood. He killed Rymus and the others. How many more of us will you take out before the night is over, Lucien?"

The others? I silently count the scents that filter down from above. Perhaps it is a trick. Perhaps they speak such things to surprise me, though I doubt Cain is of sound mind at the moment. No. Lucien has killed the others. That means there are only five that remain now. Fane. Lucien. Cain. Barrett. Castor.

"Enough." My head whips up at the sound of Fane's voice. "This is getting us nowhere. She is obviously not here."

"Is she not?" The cramp in my leg intensifies as Lucien's voice calls down into the darkness. It sounds louder in this small space. "You seem so sure of yourself."

I hear footsteps overhead, the vibrations felt through the rock. "She tricked us once with shedding blood. Do you not think she would do it again?"

Bless you, Fane. I wait in agonized silence for Lucien to mull over his words.

"That is precisely why I know she is here." My throat rises into my throat. "If you want to live to see another dawn, you will climb down there and flush her out. Is that understood, Cain?"

A strangled affirmative reaches me a moment before I hear fingernails sliding down the rock face. His boots search for ledges to hold himself aloft. I can smell his sweat and also his fear.

Good. I wait for him to scramble down the cliff side, his face pressed against the stone. I shift silently in my hovel and wait. I know the instant his hand slides into my blood trail. The scent of his need becomes potent and his heartbeat rises.

"She is here. I can smell her," he calls to the men above.

"Can you see her?" Fane calls down.

Cain is silent for a moment as he cranes his neck around. The moonlight does not reach the bottom of the crevice. It narrows below him, making it nearly impossible to slip any lower. "No. I smell her though."

"Of course you do," a deep voice drawls from above. Castor has arrived, or perhaps he was there all along and has only now decided to speak. "She smeared blood across the walls. It is another trick."

"A clever one," Lucien muses. I hear him begin to pace. He stops, and I hold my breath. "You are sure she would return to her home?"

I can almost imagine Fane nodding. "Yes. You know as well as I do how losing her family has tormented her. She is alone and frightened. She will return to the one place she felt safe."

I will my heart to stop beating as I strain to hear. For several moments, all is quiet, and then I hear the one thing I hoped for most. "We will return to Brasov. Cain and Timen will remain here in case she returns. She will not see the light of dawn."

Pressing my palms to the rock, I feel the men sprint away. I release a small sigh of relief and let my forehead rest upon the stone.

"Keep watch for me," Cain calls from somewhere below. I push myself inch by inch toward the exit, straining to see him.

"Do not do anything foolish. Lucien said to stand guard," Timen shouts down.

"I do not obey Lucien. My brother needs me." I can hear Cain's boots hit the crevice floor, hear his shirt rip as he struggles to squeeze through the narrow space. None of the hunters are small men. Each boast large chests and sizeable arms.

An idea strikes me and I realize I have no choice but to act. If Cain reaches Rymus, he can regenerate him and I will have three immortals upon me. I cannot let that happen.

Peeking out from my hiding place, I see that a wisp of cloud is drawing near to the moon. I clutch my dagger between my teeth and inch my fingers toward the opening, ready to pull myself free the instant this hole falls deep into shadow.

One. Two. Three. I take a deep breath and latch my fingers around the lip of the hole and thrust myself free. My nails score deep into the rock face as I dig in to slow my descent.

I see the glint of Cain's eyes a second before I shove my dagger deep into his chest. His mouth falls slack as I twist, severing his heart.

"Cain?" Timen calls from above. I duck low as he comes to the edge. "I heard a noise."

I search around me for Rymus, though I cannot see him. This bothers me, yet I cannot linger. It will take only a moment of silence to alert Timen. He will either climb down to me to investigate or call for help. I cannot allow him to do that.

Casting a glance overhead, I see that I am running out of time. The cloud has shifted and the full light of the moon will be upon me in mere moments. I leap to the wall and climb as silently as I am able. Timen calls twice more, though he is met with only silence.

As I near the mouth of the crevice, I flatten against the wall and breathe deep. I can smell his fear. It tastes sweet on my tongue.

I flip the dagger in my hand and grasp it between my fingers as Fane taught me. One chance to survive. Aim high.

I lean back from the wall and wait. The instant Timen's head appears, I toss the dagger. It lands with a wet thud. I scramble up the remaining few feet and discover Timen lying on his side, the dagger buried through his eye. His bloody hands clasp the hilt as he tugs. I fear his cries will carry on the wind and alert the others.

Without hesitation, I stomp on his stomach, hard enough to shove my boot straight through his abdomen. His cries turn into gargled gasps. I fight to ignore the squelching sound when I yank my boot free or the bits that dangle from my foot. Instead, I sink down on my knee and shove the dagger through to the back of his head.

His hands fall still at his sides. I listen as his heart continues to beat and know my job is not done. I pull my dagger free and plunge it into his chest repeatedly. With each strike, tears spill from my eyes. My stomach roils and my hands quake.

I can feel his blood upon me, warm and sticky. The dagger clatters to the ground beside me as I fall back, exhausted and horrified by my actions.

A clap from behind me sends me scrambling to my feet. I turn to find Castor mounting the rock, his body half in and half out of the shadows. "Impressive. I did not think you had it in you."

I watch him with growing wariness as he approaches. His spiked mace drags along the ground, scoring the surface of the stone. He seems in no hurry, yet rather appears to be savoring the moment.

"You may have fooled the others. However, I know your tricks, girl. You think you are clever. I know better."

He raises his arm and swings his mace to and fro, mere inches above the ground. I look for my dagger just as Castor slams his boot down upon it. He shoves his foot and sends the blade hurtling into the crevice. He tsks, shaking his head. "We cannot have you getting foolish ideas in that pretty little head of yours, now can we?"

He raises his mace, placing the wooden stick upon his shoulder so the spiked ball rests against his stomach. He shifts his weight onto one side and stares down at me. "I am not a cruel man, though I do enjoy a good hunt. Your death will come with honor, for you have fought with more bravery than any before you. Therefore, I will give you a choice. A swift death or extended."

"That is no choice at all." I turn my head to the side and spit.

"Perhaps not." He taps his finger against the mace. "Have you decided?"

I pause for a moment, watching as he shifts again. The mace swings slightly, nestling between his side and his arm. "Yes." I hold up my hands in defeat as I slowly rise. He marks my every movement, though he appears unconcerned. "I have."

A grin alights along his face. "Well then, shall we end this?"

The instant his grip tightens upon his mace, I place my weight onto one foot and launch myself at him. My hands land a bit too high, though it is enough to knock him off balance. His eyes are wide with surprise as he tumbles backward. His skull slams into the stone and his eyes roll back into his head.

I do not hesitate as I slam my boot down upon his mace. Its spikes pierce the flesh of his arm. I lean into it, placing all of my weight upon the ball. I bite through my lower lip to still my cries as the spikes pierce through my boot and up into my foot. I do not relent until the mace severs bone and cuts through flesh. Castor screams as I bury the spikes into the stone. With him staked to the ground, I pull my foot free, stepping tenderly as I glare down at him.

I see unrepentant rage staring back at me. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses my name. "You wench. I would have given you a clean death!"

I nod as I limp up next to his side. "You failed to realize there was a third choice." His eyes narrow as I smile down at him, fighting to think around the stabbing pain in my foot. "I choose to live."

Yanking back my wounded foot, I kick his arm with all of my might. His flesh tears free. His cries echo through the mountains as the portion of his arm beneath his elbow disappears into the night, lost to the caverns below.

I turn my back on his curses and limp away. Three more to go.

# THIRTY-FIVE

Lucien comes for me from over the mountain. I can smell his scent, though he tries to hide it with the shifting winds that funnel through the gorge. Castor's cries must have brought them, and he is not alone.

Two remain with Lucien. Barrett and Fane.

I know they will outrun me. I am wounded and bleeding. I can feel my energy beginning to wane. I look to the heavens, noting the slightest hint of lightening in the sky. I only need to make it until dawn.

Yet I know the light of day will not stop Lucien. I have angered him by outthinking him. The game no longer matters to him. He seeks revenge.

As will Castor if he is freed. He will never be able to truly heal now that his arm is lost.

I glance back over my shoulder and breathe deep. Fane is trailing behind. I wonder if he is injured. Has Lucien attempted to end his life too? My stomach clenches at the thought, though even as it does, I am reminded that Fane cannot be trusted. Not until sunrise at least.

This is what Lucien desires, a still voice whispers to me. He knows Fane will unsettle me. It is a test to see where my loyalties lie. He has suspicions of my feelings.

I cannot allow Lucien to live or risk being found out. Vladimir will fly into a rage at the death of his brother. If I do this, I cannot remain. He will hunt me. I know this, yet there is no other option.

I cannot kill Fane.

I leap from the mountain's peak and brace for impact, knowing my landing will be torturous. Pain lances through my foot as I land upon the uneven terrain. The soil shifts beneath my boots and I begin to tumble, rolling with growing speed.

Tree roots and rocks slam into me as I plummet into the base of the canyon. My ankle snaps, as do several ribs and my right arm. Pain bursts before my eyes, darkening my vision as I roll to a halt.

My pulse throbs incessantly in my head as the world feels as if it continues to spiral about me. Every part of my body hurts. I cry out as I try to pull myself upright. I look down upon my ankle and know I am done. It has shattered completely. My right arm dangles uselessly beside me. My body is a mass of scrapes and cuts, each one flooding the canyon with my scent.

They will come for me over the mountain and fan out, attempting to funnel me farther into the gorge. I have lost the advantage.

Do not give up. You are a survivor. Fane's words filter through my mind as I search my surroundings for a place to hide. It will do me little good, yet I have to try.

Warm blood pools along my waist. I clamp my hand over the gaping wound, wincing at the pain my touch induces. My scent will be easy to track.

The trauma to my head makes it difficult to think as I drag myself toward a tree. I leave a trail of blood behind me. Digging my nails into the bark, I pull myself upright and nestle myself into a small nook between two tree roots. They curl up around me, embracing me.

My head lolls back as I stare up at the sky. Already, the black has begun to lift. A faint lavender has taken its place. Soon, the sun will rise, though I know I will not be alive long enough to see it.

Plunging my fingers into the earth, I can feel the vibrations of their approach long before I catch their scent. Lucien reeks of excitement. Barrett smells far more wary this time around. And Fane... he is unknown.

As they leap off the mountainside and land before me, I realize Fane's face is still an unreadable mask. Though Lucien paces before me, his smile smug and his hands gripping his sword, I cannot look away from Fane. Though he gives me no inclination as to his intentions, I choose to trust him. He bared his heart and soul with me. A man cannot do that and then turn his back on you. Not a man with a soul.

My entire body trembles as Lucien stalks before me, his eyes wide with excitement. He has given himself over to the bloodlust. Nothing will stop him now.

I turn my gaze upon Barrett, who stands in place, staring at the sky. I can sense his disappointment and his resignation. "She wins," he mutters and shoves his sword into his sheath.

Lucien turns. The muscles along his jaw flinch. "Wins?" He sneers. "She has won nothing. The sun has not fully risen."

"Already the sky lightens," Fane says, remaining a few steps behind Barrett. His voice lacks emotion, an even match for his steely gaze. "You know the rules."

"Blast the rules. Have either of you glimpsed the sun?" Lucien jabs his hand toward the horizon. I follow his gaze and realize with a bitter irony that it rises behind the tallest mountain. "This is not over."

He turns on me, his fingers clenching and unclenching upon the hilt of his sword. He is seething, working himself up for the kill.

"Is there honor in killing a defenseless woman?" I call out. Pain strangles my words and I wince as blood spills from my lip. I can taste it upon my tongue.

"This is not about honor, you foolish girl. This is about destiny. I chose you for a purpose and you have yet to prove to me that you are worthy of that purpose."

From the corner of my eye, I see Fane strike. Barrett never had a chance to react before a sliver of red appears along his neck. His eyes grow wide as his body falls slack. His head departs from his body as he collapses to the ground.

Fane stands behind him, his sword bloodied. Lucien whirls around. "Deceit! I told Vladimir he was a fool to trust you."

A smile stretches across Fane's face as he nods. "That is the last mistake either of you will ever make."

With a growl that rivals any I have ever heard, Lucien dives for Fane. He raises his blade to connect with his opponent. A blur of color leaps between them, and I hear Lucien's cry cut off. Stunned, I watch as a great gray wolf lands atop Lucien, his arm clutched in its jaws.

Lucien shrieks and beats at the wolf. Others appear from the tree line, their gaze focused on Barrett's body.

Fane backs away slowly as Lucien continues to beat against the wolf's jaw. A pack of twelve approaches, their bellies low to the ground. I can hear Lucien's skin tearing as two wolves break of from the pack and aid their leader.

I watch as Lucien's hand reclaims its firm grasp on his sword and he slices at a tawny wolf. Blood stains its fur as it falls to the side. Another is sent hurtling through the air. It yelps as it slams into a tree and slides to the ground.

"Come on." Fane reaches beneath me and pulls me into his arms. He cradles me to his chest and sprints into the forest, leaving behind the braying of the wolves and Lucien's shouts.

I cling to him, digging my fingers into his arm as tears come. The sounds of the battle begin to fade behind us as Fane puts distance between us. "Will they kill him?" I ask.

"No. Though they will try. The pack was tracking us earlier. Lucien was a fool to let them get so close."

I press my cheek against his chest, counting the beats of his heart as he runs. A brilliant light blinds me as he crests the ridge, and I raise a hand to shield myself from the sun. "I made it," I whisper, slowly lowering my hand, savoring the warmth of the new day.

Fane's grasp tightens around me as he nods. "I never doubted you for a moment."

"I did," I say, leaning my head back to stare up at him. "I was sure you were wrong until I was trapped in that crevice. I knew if they found me, that would be the end of me. In that tiny space I realized I wanted to live."

I expect Fane to smile, though instead, his eyes widen with surprise and his pace slows to a near walk. "You were down there?"

"Of course." I laugh. The sound trails off as Fane sinks down to his knee and lowers me to the ground.

"If I had known... I would have aided you." Grief darkens his voice. I reach out and touch his face, moved by his guilt.

"You did help me. You sent them away."

He shakes his head and pulls away from my grasp. "Only because I thought you would double back to Castle Bran."

My eyes widen with surprise. "You thought I would return there?"

"I never dreamed you would remain where you placed your scent." A look of awe begins to dawn on his face. "You truly are unpredictable."

A flush rises in my cheeks as I look away. He draws back my chin, waiting for me to look upon him. His smile is tender, his gaze filled with loving promise. "I could not bear the thought of losing you, of living without you."

Though his words chase away the pains that riddle my body, I know I do not deserve his love. Not when I cannot truly be his. "It is not right that you should love me, a wretched girl with no future."

"Not right? What deems you unworthy of my love? A vow spoken with a rebellious heart? A vengeful husband who will soon place a price upon my head?"

"All of the above," I whisper as tears begin to swell in my eyes, choking off my words.

Fane seizes my hand in his, clutching it to his chest. "You are mine and no one else's."

I suck in a breath, ignoring the agony in my ribs and the blood that seeps from my side. None of that matters. "I am yours?"

"Yes." He smiles, raising my hand to press his lips against each of my fingers in turn. "For all of eternity. I vow it to be so."

"You should not." I turn away. My lips begin to tremble as the warmth of his hand wars with the ice confining my heart. "I am not free to love you."

"And yet you do." He reaches out to gently cup my cheek in his hand. His face swims before me as I raise my gaze. His eyes are wide and knowing. I am unable to fathom the depths to which I can see within his soul, though I dearly long to have the chance to do so.

"And yet I do," I whisper. "With all my heart, I do."

"Then that will be enough... for now." He looks beyond me to the mountains that will lead me to Castle Bran. Vladimir will come for me soon. When he discovers me, I am unsure of how he will react. Will be blame me for Lucien's attack? For the death of so many of his men? Perhaps not, though he will surely seat the blame firmly upon Fane's shoulders.

Time is fleeting.

I cannot imagine a life where Fane does not exist, one of eternal misery and torment, yet if he remains by my side, his death will be sealed. "Where will you go?"

Fane's smile is achingly gentle as he draws me near, encircling his arm about my waist. His hand spans my lower back, holding me to him.

"I do not know, though there is one thing of which I am certain." He lifts my chin so he may look upon me. He smiles and closes his eyes as he gently brushes his lips against mine for the last time. I lean up into his touch, desperate for it to be unending. He smiles against my lips, drawing a whimper from my throat. "I will return for you."

His words are but a whisper, yet I seal them in my heart all the same. Tears trail the curve of my cheek as I feel him pull away, hear his footsteps as he leaves me behind.

I wrap my arms about my waist as numbness settles over me. The warmth of Fane's hand upon my face fades sooner than I am able to bear. I know he is gone, fled far over the mountains to unknown lands beyond. I wish I could go with him, though I cannot. I am bound to Vladimir, to a marriage I cannot escape. At least not yet.

Slowly, I open my eyes to the rising of the sun. I do not know how I will survive without Fane at my side, yet I know I will, somehow... if only to see him once more.

# THE END

# DISCOVER THE NEXT INSTALLMENT

# SAVAGE

Book 2

Grab your copy July 18th, 2017

An innocence forgotten. A love abandoned. A new era begins.

The world has changed. Humans live, fall in love and return to the dirt from which they came, but for Roseline Enescue, time stands still. A hundred years pass without word from Fane, long enough for the feel of his touch to wane and she begins to doubt that he ever truly existed at all.

Vladimir continues in his ruthless pursuit to destroy her spirit. Plagued by the sinister whispers of his brother, Lucian, her husband turns to new methods of torture that leave Roseline on the brink of insanity. As rumors spread among the humans of vile monsters that inhabit Bran Castle, giving way to wild legend and myth, she is forced to fight alongside the family she despises in order to survive.

Soon it is no longer survival that she longs for...but blood.

#  SAVAGE

CHAPTER ONE

1719, Austrian Lands

A light fog clings to the earth, winding its way through the small village nestled in the valley below. On either side of me, stretching in a long line, my brethren position themselves at the forest edge. I can smell their hunger and feel a similar stirring within myself as I sniff the air.

There are at least thirty humans slumbering in their homes below us. They are unaware of what danger is about to unleash upon them. Vladimir's fingers twitch with excitement against my hip as he holds me close. Our breath hangs thick in the air as we wait and watch.

There is no movement from below, save for the rustling of a horse in its pen. Chickens perch on the lower branches of the trees, clucking in their sleep. Wisps of smoke rise from dwindling hearth fires into the clear night sky. A small stream bubbles at the base of the village. It will soon run red.

"It is time," Vladimir whispers. His voice carries on the wind as he steps forward, motioning for me to keep pace with him.

I run alongside my brothers and sisters, moving like spectral ghosts in the night. Thatched wooden huts grow larger as we race down the hillside. There is no sound to our approach. No one will know we are here until it is too late.

Vladimir motions for those to my right to flank to the side. Those to our left follow suit while Vladimir and I drive straight into the heart of the town. My husband leaps upon an empty wagon seat and rides it to the ground when it teeters under his weight. He slides beneath a rope hung between two trees with garments drying overnight. I skirt around the tree and come to a halt three steps behind Vladimir as he stands before a closed hut door.

He reaches out and rubs his hands against the wooden doorframe. His chest rises and falls, not with exertion but with eagerness.

"Will you join me?" he asks without turning around.

I know that he expects me to say yes. To give him any other answer will mean hours of pain later as he tries once again to beat me into submission. But I have learned much over the years. The key to my survival is creating a distraction.

"There are only three humans within. I will choose another so you do not need to share."

He glances back over his shoulder. His gaze is dark and piercing as he watches me, attempting to read my expression. When he sees nothing that would betray me, he nods.

"As you wish."

With that, he pushes open the door and enters the darkness. I lower my gaze as the first scream rises into the night. It is that of a woman. She pleads for the lives of her children.

I turn and walk away.

As I move through the town, I listen to the shouts of alarm. Terror washes over this village as I pass by a blacksmith shop. His hammer lies in wait near a dwindling fire. I try not to think of how it will never be picked up again.

The lone horse I spied earlier rears up on its hind legs as I draw near to it.

"Shh." I stretch out my hand to calm the beast. "I am not your enemy."

Once Vladimir has finished his feasting, all will be dead. The humans drained of their blood and animals slaughtered for sport. All that will remain of this place come dawn will be ash.

I experience no remorse for those who die around me, for I have seen much death in my time. That is the way of things. As it will soon be for this beautiful animal that I now stroke.

Time no longer holds any beginning or end for me. It flows like water, at times with a subtle pressure that propels me forward. At others with enough force to move the mountains aside and drag me to the ocean's depths. My life, if you can call it that, has been a culmination of terror. There are many regrets that haunt me. I have endured my fair share of betrayals.

Over the past thirty years, many things shifted in the world around me. Humans live, they fall in love, and then return to the dust from which they came. I remain the same, never aging and never growing. Like a face carved into stone.

As I stare into the eyes of the horse, it settles into the touch of my hand.

There was a time when my heart beat for another, but that age has faded into distant memory. Fane Dalca lied to me on the morning he fled Lucien's vengeance. He never returned as he promised.

I watched for him each day, standing at my window and awaiting his arrival with expectant joy. For three decades I waited for him, yet he never came back for me.

I smile as the horse nudges my hand. Crouching down, I take hold of a salt cube that has fallen in the hay and offer it to him. This is real. This moment. The past is gone and with it the shadow of Fane's touch and empty promises.

At one time I believed that my life could be set right again, that I could be free of my misery, but it, like myself, is unending. I was a fool to think that Fane would not betray me like the others. Why should he prove to be any different than my cruel, vile brethren?

My grip on the blade at my hip tightens as the horse licks at my palm in search of the last traces of salt. Its tongue is rough but nice.

With each day that has passed since Fane left, I have felt myself slipping farther into darkness. I try to resist, to remember the goodness that I once knew. This time of loneliness has taught me that there is nothing good left in this world. The light that Fane begged for me to cling to is almost extinguished.

I move my hand around to stroke the horse's mane.

I loved Fane once, but no longer. Love is a weakness. He taught me that. The only thing I have left to embrace now is my fate.

"Forgive me."

With a flash of steel, I slice through the tender hide of the horse's neck. A spray of blood splashes me, soaking into the fabric of my dress. I close my eyes and whisper a prayer of peace for the animal. This quick death is a mercy that no other in this village will receive.

I stay with the horse until the end, stroking it as the light in its eye fades. Hanging my head, the first of my tears fall. "Rest now, my friend."

At the sound of laughter, I look up to see Emeline's snow white hair streaking through the night. She chases after a man fleeing in the nude. Some of the flesh on his back lies in thick strips that slap his side as he runs. Her pale rose lips are rich in color from his blood.

Cassius emerges from a hut across from me. His fine clothes glisten dark red in the moonlight. He pauses to straighten the ruffles at his wrists and then marches with purpose to the next house.

"I do so love it when they fight," he says when he attempts to push open the door only to find it barred.

Stepping back into the moonlight, he crouches low and leaps onto the rooftop. Plucking strands of thatch from the roof, he drops it down a small chimney to ignite the fire within. "Roasted or fresh, I will have my meal."

With a heavy sigh, I push back to my feet. When I close the pen door behind me and step into the dirt path, I spot Vladimir exiting the hut I that left him in. His teeth flash brilliant red in the moonlight when he smiles at me.

"You appear dressed for the occasion," he calls out over the screams and laughter that surround us.

I look down to see that I too am covered in blood. "Is this not what you wanted?"

"Indeed it is. The night is truly ours. Come," he stretches out his hand to me, "join me."

Any hesitation on my part will spoil his mood. I learned long ago that defying him was a bad idea, but to ruin a hunt would mean suffering torment in Lucien's dungeon.

"There is another hut that needs my attention. I do not wish to slow you down," I call back.

"Then will you join me in the next?" There is a hint of hope in his voice, but he grows distracted. A woman fleeing with a bundle of cloth tucked in her arms escapes the hut beside him. Vladimir pounces.

Rubbing my fingers in the blood that stains my bodice, I relish its warm stickiness. My throat goes parched with need, but I push it aside.

The fallen animal deserves my respect.

The small sound of whimpering catches my ear, and I tilt my head to the side. Off to my right, I spy a lean-to building with stores of grain and hay. The sound appears to be coming from that direction. With silent steps, I move past Emory as he tears at his victim's throat. The man's beard is so long that it conceals much of the gruesome wound.

Smoke begins to billow into the sky from the southern edge of the village. That will be Lucien's doing. He does so love to watch things burn.

"Hello?" I call out, searching in the shadows.

There is no response beyond that of a cry from a small child. Moving through the dark, I follow drag marks matting the grass. I step into the barn and follow the blood trail. A girl, no more than five summers old, cradles the head of her dead mother in her lap. She cowers behind a large hay bale and whimpers when she sees me.

The woman's torso is a patchwork of claw marks. Her eyes are vacant and unseeing, though if I were to touch her I would still feel a lingering warmth.

The effects of the blood make my fingers clench at my sides.

"Will you hurt me too?" the small voice asks.

Careful not to inhale as I gather my skirts, I sink down in front of the girl. There is a wide gash along her cheek. Her skin is pale and her eyes wide. She is in shock.

"No, little one." I shake my head. "I will not hurt you."

She stares at me for a long moment then looks down at her mother. The woman was once handsome, with blue eyes and soft yellow hair. Blood and soot stain her face now. The little girl begins to rock, and a gentle melody passes her lips.

"Are you alone?" I ask. One sniff of the air tells me that she is.

"Mama said run." She wipes are her nose with her arm. "I missed her."

The girl clings to her mother with desperation. "You should have run. She would want you to be safe."

"Am I safe with you?" The hope filling her young face makes my chest pinch.

"No one is ever truly safe."

I am forced to look away from the girl as the memory of my own sister's death floats to the surface. Adela looked at me with those same pleading eyes on the night of her death. She trusted me to protect her, and I failed her in a monumental way. Lucien may have slit her throat, but I am the monster that fed on her.

"You are nice," she whispers. Her small dirty hands smooth the hair back from her mother's face.

If only she knew how far I am from nice.

"Your mama is gone, child. There is nothing for you here. You need to run."

Her efforts will not be enough, but it is not my place to interfere with humans. Their fate is their own.

The girl's chin sets in defiance. "She sleeps."

"What of your papa?" I ask, hoping to distract her. If someone else yet lives, they might talk sense into the child. "Is he nearby?"

She points to the back of the barn. "The bad man ate him."

My stomach twists with guilt. I had a hand in the horrors that have fallen on this innocent town. Though I was not the one who slew her family, I did nothing to stop it either.

Death is a given if she remains here. Someone will hear her heartbeat and come. As I stare back down into eyes brimming with tears, I find that I cannot leave her to such a fate. Not when I have the ability to save her.

"What is your name, little one?" I crouch down beside her.

When the girl does not answer, I reach out and try to place a hand on her arm, but she flinches and cries out. I wait for her to calm once more before trying again.

"My name is Roseline."

"I am Brigita," she whispers finally.

"That is a lovely name." I notice the way the girl still clings to her mother, drenching her dress in fresh blood. It will not be easy to separate the two. "Do you think your mama would be more comfortable in her bed?"

Tears leak from her eyes as she nods, then rubs her nose with the back of her hand. "It is cold."

"That it is. Should we move her inside?"

Brigita's lower lip begins to tremble. "She is too heavy."

"Not for me." I smile down at her with a warmth that I have not felt in a very long time. "Will you let me help you?"

She clutches her mother tighter to her chest as she runs her eyes over my own bloody dress. "It will hurt."

"Not at all, little one. I promise to be very gentle. We will have her in bed before you can finish your song."

"Now why would you want to spoil my fun?" a voice calls from behind me.

Brigita stiffens and tries to push back, but the weight of her mother in her lap is too much. Frantic mewling sounds rise in her throat. The scent of her fear is overwhelming.

I fight to ignore her tantalizing scent as I turn to see Marcus towering behind me. He is tall in stature. Though thin of frame, he is still an imposing figure emerging from the dark. His black felt top hat, worn around the edges from use, sits at an angle over his forehead.

"She fears you," I reply, rising to place myself between him and the girl.

"As she should." He grins, tapping his finger against the sword hilt at his side. It is not drawn. There is no need for weapons.

His pale skin appears to glow in the moonlight streaming through the barn door. When he takes a step forward, I tense and his smile fades.

"You hold no claim on this kill. I had the other family members. By all rights, she belongs to me."

I face off with him, bracing myself. Marcus is a skilled fighter, but I have learned much over the past thirty years. "Let the girl live."

"Live?" He laughs. "Do not tell me that your love of humans still persists?"

"She is a child, Marcus. She is innocent."

"They are all innocent." He rolls his eyes. "That is what makes them taste so good."

My heartbeat thrums in my ears as the vision of my sister's lifeless body blurs with the face of this sweet girl. I have no right to interfere. Marcus is correct about his right to the girl, but I cannot let him touch her. I will not.

He leans in closer, drawing my focus back as he sniffs the air. His upper lip curls with disgust. "You reek of horse. Do you think this will fool Vladimir or the others? They will know that you have failed again to hunt as one of us. That will not end well for you."

Marcus's taunting smile makes my blood begin to boil.

"It will end well enough if there is no witness left behind to tell my tale."

The girl behind me screams when I attack Marcus without warning. Her cries will not stand out among the wailing of those dying in her village.

I leap onto a hay bale and use the rafters overhead to swing up onto his back when he tries to duck out of my way. With only a split second before he grabs hold of me, I plunge my blade deep into Marcus's neck. A quick twist of the dagger severs his spinal cord. Blood pours from the wound when I yank my blade free and jump back to the ground. His body collapses.

My hands quake as I step away from his outstretched hand. I pause to wipe his blood from my hands.

I had to kill him. There was no other way to spare Brigita's life. Though death has become commonplace in my life, I have worked hard to keep my own hands clean...until tonight.

If Vladimir discovers that I have killed one of my brothers, I will pay dearly.

"Does he sleep too?" Brigita asks from behind the bloody hands she covers her face with.

"Yes, little one. He is sleeping too." I am ill with fear as I sink down beside Marcus. What have I done? How could I let this moment of weakness destroy everything I have fought so hard to gain?

"Be a good girl and look away now."

I am careful not to show Marcus's final moments to the girl as I use my blade to saw through his neck. Once his head is free from his body, I stab the dagger deep through the top of his head.

Fire will finish him off.

"Do not look yet, little one," I warn when I hear a rustling behind me.

With ease, I lift Marcus's body from the ground and toss him back further into the grain barn. His head goes sailing to the back wall. I move outside and seize a handful of thatch from the girl's home. When I dip the ends into the flames of the burning house, the thatch catches fire. I walk along the barn, setting it alight. As soon as the fire eats its way across the roof, I hurry back inside.

"We must go before the others come. Your mother would want you to be safe, little one. Will you come with me?"

"Mama come too."

"No, sweet child. Your mama needs to rest. She is sleeping, remember?"

She solemnly nods her head. When I kneel down beside Brigita and set her mother with care on the floor, she lifts her arms to me. I draw her up into my embrace, cradling her to my chest. "I am going to take you to a place where nothing bad will ever happen to you again."

"How far?"

I look into the dark woods and fill with uncertainty. How far is too far for Vladimir's reach?

"Rest, child. We will be there soon enough."

"Will you stay with me?" When she nuzzles into my neck, the first of many tears begin to fall. She stares back at her mother's body as I begin to run, unable to give her the answer that she needs.

#  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Miles was born and raised in a military family but has now settled with her husband and son in South Carolina. She is also the author of Defiance Rising, Relinquish, Forbidden, Reckoning Redemption, Evermore and Captivate. To learn more about her and her books, visit AmyMilesBooks.com

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