by Hayley Todd
“Why did you try to save me?” I asked, thinking back to how my perception of the guards had changed when it had been him ushering me forward.
“Because, I always try to save you,” he replied cryptically. He looked over the fire at me, warming his hands but otherwise saying nothing.
I gazed at him. My eyes tracing that face that seemed so familiar. Even when he spoke, it was as though the words were an echo from a memory.
“How old are you?” I asked, quicker than I had meant to. I had tried to leave a long, lingering pause. Something showing my disinterest. Something protecting my hiding memories.
“Old enough,” he said, again sharing no true answers. He coughed and it nearly covered the footsteps approaching from outside. Nearly.
I leapt to my feet, side stepping closer to him, keeping me back from the door. I lifted a finger to my lips and he nodded, silent. We couldn’t put out the fire with no sound however, so left it to crackle, receding into the cracked archways of the homes structure.
“It came from somewhere around here,” a female voice echoed down the empty stretch of streets outside. Crunching footsteps approached, just outside of the building.
“There is nothing here but old brick and bone,” a masculine voice responded. His voice was low, terse, like a father chastising a child.
“I know what I felt, father,” the girl retorted, stepping closer. I could smell her now. She was human. There were other figures with her who had remained silent. They stood away but not far off.
The Emperor had had his own coven. At least, based off of the dark magic they used. It seemed they had followed me here. I glared down at Marcellus for a moment. Maybe he’d somehow ratted me out?
I felt power tingle in the air. My Magick wanted so much to reach out and touch it. I took a slow breath, pressing my ability down as far as it would let me.
The veil of power hung in the air for several seconds, pressed into an arch around us, before they continued walking at last. Marcellus glanced up at me, questions in his eyes.
I knelt, very slowly, pressing my lips to his ear. “I cannot be here right now. We must leave.” The words were whispered through clenched teeth. My Magick was pulsating, beneath the surface of my skin, feeling eager to leap through. I grimaced, clutching my arms around myself, fighting more furiously.
We locked eyes for a moment before he slipped silently to his feet and headed to the door. There was a tiny click as the latch came open, then he slid the door aside.
The street outside was dark, but no figures loitered there. We crept out. The edge of the city was not far and I needed to be away from these people. I headed that direction, staying to the shadows. He followed me, step for step.
There was only one more row of houses between us and the trees and the potential freedom that lay beyond. I took his hand, pulling him along behind me. We dashed over the last stretch of moonlight, the clearing between only feet away now.
And then we found ourselves surrounded.
The dreams seemed to only get more vivid since I turned. They featured my favorite character, Achillia. They seemed to be advancing now, instead of staying trapped on the moment before the Coliseum. I was sold on her now, eager to see her story unfold.
I had considered since turning, the strange feats she performed in my dreams. She seemed to be treading a path, similar to my own. It was frightening and had me wondering if witches were near.
I had actually done some research and found Achillia to be a great heroine of Rome. I didn’t know if the Achillia from my dreams was some fabrication of my making, rich imagining of a long forgotten History Channel episode, or some sort of life lessons to be learned. Or what seemed to be becoming a more likely chance: some kind of prophetic visions.
I considered telling Carson about it, but his reflection of Marcellus drew me up short. Could I tell him that I pined for him before I knew him? I couldn’t tell Anton. I could already see him making fun of me for it.
I would tell my father but it had been hard to get a word in with him since I’d turned. My mom was still on lockdown. Maybe I could tell Kellic. But I wasn’t sure if she’d think it was true.
She seemed to be my best bet.
I dressed slowly, wearing comfortable clothes. Carson had been quiet since my father had called him into his office. We were told to meet him in an interrogation room and to dress comfortably.
I guess I couldn’t blame him for the lack of conversation. I had been silent as well.
I wasn’t sure he noticed over his own thoughts.
We headed down hallway after hallway until we came to a solid cement wall with a gated entry. There were electronic panels down one side. Carson lifted his wrist and ran his leather bracelet over a black box. A green light shined from it and the door clicked open.
He swept it aside, gesturing for me to follow. I stepped through the door, gazing around. The room was shaped like a hexagon with glass windows all around. Carson led me across, waving to the windows. A buzz sounded and a speaker emitted the words, Welcome back, Agent Carder.
I stared up at him.
“What is this place?” I asked, awed.
He glanced down at me as though noticing me for the first time. His face lit up as though awakening from habit. “I’m sorry, what?” He asked.
I narrowed my eyes on him for a moment.
A small grin slid over his lips and he leaned forward, pressing his lips to mine. I beamed.
A door in front of us clanged open. He pushed it inward, guiding me through. He guided me through a massive underground fortress.
“Your father may be an old king, but he entrusts his security to the modern age,” he said, leading me deeper. He seemed to know exactly where he was going but I was completely turned around. “This is your dad’s security playground.” He gestured around the innards of the facility. It was made of metal panels all around the structure plus reinforced doors and electronic locks.
“Where are we going?” I asked, afraid that if I didn’t have a death grip on his arm, he may leave me behind completely. He was acting oddly, lost to his own thoughts.
He looked down at me, his expression troubled. “Damien has captured several of the witches we fought against last night. He wishes for my assistance in interrogating them.” He explained, looking uncomfortable.
At long last, we came to another set of steel doors, lining both lengths of the hallway. He drew up short, knocking on one of the doors. After a moment, it swung open to reveal Damien and Anton, both sitting within a room with a long wall of transparent glass.
Damien had pulled the door open and stepped aside. Anton now stared at us, his eyes wide.
Damien gathered us inside before he began explaining what was going on. “We managed to capture a high Marshall in the group of witches,” he supplied.
I glanced up to him and then up to Carson. Neither acted like an explanation was due. That was kind’ve irritating.
“What a high Marshall?” I asked. They both looked down at me, as though only then, recalling I had entered the room. Carson’s eyes searched my face for something.
Damien looked to Carson, Carson glanced over at me. Then he finally spoke. “They’re very powerful, and a part of witch society. They are a position in every coven that is earned. High Marshalls are not to be taken lightly.”
My mind jumped back to the fight in the woods. The ease that Damien had had in collecting witches into a box. If the high Marshall was some kind of badass, why had they been captured so easily?
I kept my concerns to myself. Common sense seemed out of place in this new world of mystery and magic. Carson hovered over me, Anton not far behind, and Damien moved to the door. He gestured for Carson.
“Your dad evidently wants me to go with him. You’ll be okay in here with Anton?” He asked. I glanced over at the other man who was watching me, interesting but not in a predatory way. I nodded to Carson who kissed my forehead and followed my father into the interrogation room.
“How’re you doing?” Anton said in a forced whisper over the sounds of Damien and Carson questioning the high Marshall. I turned to him and looked him over.
He looked tired, exhausted even, and like he hadn’t slept for days. He was ragged and his body hung limply. “I’m fine, how’re you?” I asked, taking a seat on a bench lining the wall.
“I’ve...been better,” he grimaced and it looked painful on him. I hadn’t taken the time to decide how to feel about Anton.
He had anticipated marrying and impregnating me for the better part of my life. He seemed like an arrogant ass. But he had saved my life. He had betrayed his own father to keep me safe. His life had been cast aside while he tried to defend me. That had to hurt.
“Thank you...for what you did...with Henrick.” The words didn’t come out easily and I fought against them, forcing them out. His eyes weren’t focused on me but opened wide for a moment. Then he settled back into his calm, indifferent demeanor.
“I only did what needed to be done,” he replied, running a hand along the back of his neck. I watched him, closely. His eyes were glassy, his breath smelling of alcohol, and he seem ragged and worn out. He was drunk.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” I mumbled. Was I sorry? Not really. I was sorry for the way it had decimated his life plans but I wasn’t sorry not to be going through with it.
He scoffed. “The wedding was never going to happen.”
“What?”
“My dad was never going to leave the wedding to chance. He was taking his time and planning every aspect but that was never one of the conclusions.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He was slouched forward in his seat, a glass balanced in his hands. He looks me over seriously for several beats before continuing. He took a sip. “My father has wanted this throne for hundreds of years. He was going to let some girl,” he gave me an apologetic glance, “ruin it for him.”
So, Henrick thought I would find a way to break the wedding. That was promising.
Anton touched my hand gently. Some of the panic seething inside of me rolled away. He grimaced. “My father wanted me to take you to bed, Kyra. With or without your permission,” he said, drawing away from me.
I stared at him, wide eyed. He had been beaten and disowned for refusing to rape me then. A shiver rolled down my spine. Henrick flashed before my eyes as a much more sinister man. I had known that the marriage was simply a contract covering for the real goal, but to hear out loud what his plans had been for me.
I swallowed hard.
“But you refused,” I said, the words not wanting to come out.
He nodded, staring hard at me, as though waiting for me to snap. “My father is not accustomed to the word ‘no’,” he continued, watching me. He self-consciously rubbed the clear skin where marks of anger had been left.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say. What did you say to someone who had been injured and nearly killed protecting you from a nefarious villain?
That was how Henrick’s image now formed in my mind. A dark, distorted figure with only his own goals at the forefront, careless of who he tore down in the process.
On the other side of the glass, Damien and Carson were stabbing questions at the man who sat there. He was unassuming, clad in a black t-shirt and khaki jeans. He had dark auburn hair and brown eyes.
He glared daggers at my father.
“What were your intentions with the warehouse,” Damien was asking.
The man lifted his lip in a snarl but provided no response. He sat back in his seat, watching them like they were hawks circling above. And they kind’ve were.
“How many witches does Henrick have in his pocket?” Carson pressed, leaning across the table.
Even from here, I could see the way his muscles bulged in his forearms. He was dressed plainly but still looked exquisite. He had on a grey button up shirt, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms and a pair of black slacks that were made for his form.
“That’s almost painful, you know,” Anton said from beside me. I turned to see him watching me with a guarded expression.
“What?” I asked, my eyes flickering again over the scene inside. The room hadn’t changed.
“That imprint,” he supplied, gesturing to Carson. “I can feel it radiating off of him from here. Yours,” he paused, “Is harder for me to grasp onto. It’s like feeling overwhelming pleasure but never getting a release. It’s a tense connection.”
I could understand what he meant. That draw that I felt for Carson at all hours of the days and nights, that pull that emanated from him. That buried feeling that if I didn’t take action on it right this moment, I would never get to.
“It got worse once you slept together,” he continued, as though the conversation were completely normal. I glanced at him, not eager to hear commentary on my sex life from my ex-fiancé.
“How can you feel it?” I asked him.
He looked over to me, his eyes tracing my face, and his hard expression morphed into a softer one. “It’s like a tingle in the air,” he supplied. “I can feel the connection between you. It’s like an abrasive rubbing against my skin. For you,” he continued, while reaching over to brush my skin with his fingertips. “It seems I have to maintain direct contact. He is not so guarded though.”
There was a sadness in the expression that flickered over his face.
“Does it hurt you?” I asked, letting him touch me and watching my own emotions exposed across his expression. He seemed nearly awed, reveling in the passing waves of emotions.
“No,” he replied simply. “It feels like I am experiencing the emotions with you. Sometimes the imprint can sting a bit but more out of desire than a physical pain.”
I looked him over. “You’ve never imprinted on someone?” I asked him. The pain in his eyes flared and they shot to mind, a careful expression on his face.
“I haven’t,” he finally replied though it took him several moments to form the word. “I am curious, though.” He ran the back of his fingers over my neck and a shiver built through me. “The bond runs through your very blood. If I were to partake, would I feel the full power of it?” He seemed to be talking to himself now, his words disjointed and spoken to no one.
There was a darkness in his eyes that frightened me. His fingers moved to my chin, freezing me in place. I didn’t detect any malice in him but it was like he wasn’t aware of his actions. He scooted closer to me over the bench. He tilted my chin with one hand, arching my neck.
“Anton,” I warned, wondering if he even realized that I was there. His eyes were trained along my neck. “Anton,” I hissed more forcefully. His eyes dashed up to mine.
He released me. “Would you let me experience what you feel?” He asked, his eyes still tracing my skin. If not for his helpless expression, he would’ve been frightening.
I thought about it. I could let him taste my blood. What difference would it make? Maybe it would draw that manic look from his eyes. He seemed lost, as though he wanted to offer his assistance but he wasn’t sure how.
“Go ahead,” I breathed, barely a whisper.
His eyes were wide but he nodded. He ducked his head close to me, his fangs pressing through my skin. I could feel the overwhelming pressure as he drew on me. His fingertips dug hard into my skin and I tried to shrink away from the pain of it, unable to escape.
The door to the room swung open and Carson stood there, his face dark. His eyes immediately flitted to Anton before his teeth were ripped from my neck and he was tossed across the room like a ragdoll. He wasn’t quick enough to right himself in his inebriated state and crashed over a table, knocking its contents across the floor and fell in a heap.
“What did he do to you?” Carson growled, turning my face with my chin. He bit into his palm and pressed it to my lips before I could argue. I took a little, not much, just enough for the wounds at my neck to heal over.
“He didn’t do anything. He wanted to
feel our imprint,” I responded, glaring hard at him. He seemed distracted and as though he were awakening from a dream. He looked between us before kneeling before me.
He clasped my chin between his fingers and his breath splashed like a warm sweet wave across my skin. “I’m sure he wasn’t inclined to explaining that it is hard on an imprint for someone to feed from their partner,” he growled, low in his chest. The fury in his eyes was enough to have me shying away from him.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
He stopped, straightening up and staring down at me. He leaned close, drawing me into his chest with his arms. I wrapped my arms around his back in kind, endlessly confused.
“I know you didn’t,” he mumbled, burying his face in my hair. Then he pulled back, glaring at Anton’s hunched form. He had sat himself upright but had made no effort to get up from the floor. His glass and--from the smell--its whiskey contents had been splashed across the room, making the air smell acrid.
Carson advanced on him, leaving me on the couch. Anton cowered below his gaze. “Are you seriously taking advantage of her lack of knowledge?” He asked. His voice was nearly unrecognizable. It reminded me of the tense tone he had used whenever I had been in the coma. It frightened me. “After all your father has done, you have the gall to bite my mate?” He spit the words out as though they personally harmed him.
Mate. The word echoed in my mind. Is that what I was? I was still not entirely educated on how vampire society worked. Had his taste of my blood claimed me?
Anton struggled to his feet, a grimace of pain on his face. He had a split down his forehead that was leaking blood but it healed over almost instantly. He stood to his feet and stretched.
“Well, your blood is good for healing at least,” he mumbled.
Carson dashed forward, his fist twisting in Anton’s shirt, pulling him closer. Anton had a lazy fear in his eyes. He looked terrified though he hardly responded to the threat. Carson reared his arm back, his fist aimed at Anton’s nose.
“Wait!” Anton cried, covering his face. “There’s something wrong with your imprint.” He said the words in such a rush that I barely understood what he meant. Carson froze and I could see the tension lining his muscles.
