by Iris Walker
She couldn’t go to the grand hall. She wouldn’t go there. Her only choice was the courtyard. She doubled back, around a staircase, and gripped the French doors, throwing them open with all her might. She sprinted forward, her breath coming in large gulps. Megan hadn’t tasted fresh air in over a month. It was sweet; she’d forgotten how sweet it was, and clean, and thin. Not thick and oily with blood. She didn’t have any time to enjoy it, though. The dusk was burning out, darker and darker with each second, as the windows of the castle glowed golden against the cover of night. There were several scenes of carnage around her, but she tuned them out, not even looking when she heard splashing; a manic struggle from the fountain.
Stay back, Clay’s voice echoed. There’s nothing we can do.
She bit back the tears and raced through the stone path, cutting through the once immaculate, now trampled garden, her sights set on the door to the hallway. She raced to it, jamming the handles down and breaking into the castle’s halls once more. She glanced to the right, to the foyer, before a glimmer of movement caught her eye. She zeroed in on a single face, peeking out from behind the deep-purple curtain. A boy. No older than five. Just standing there, watching her with numb fear, passive and frozen, like it was a game of hide and seek. What’s a child doing in a place like this? her mind screamed. Megan’s eyes widened and she took a step towards him.
Click.
A searing pain exploded through her arm as an arrow shredded her bicep, just above the crook of her elbow. The boy’s eyes widened in terror and he clutched the curtain, concealing his face, gripping the fabric with his chubby sausage fingers. Megan’s gaze turned to the vampire Charles, now in front of her, one arm stretched with the crossbow trained on her head. Blood streamed from the gash in her arm, seeping through her fingers and collecting on the rug.
In some demented reflex of her mind, she thought for a split second that she should move, that her wound would stain the beautiful Persian rug. Then, the terror set in afresh, and she scrambled the other way. Just as she broke into the large space, past the crumpled body that had dropped from the bannisters above, the other vampire’s voice boomed around her. “Little wo-olf,” he called, a sadistic singsong. “Where are you going?”
A noise bubbled out of her throat, a hysterical cry, and she backed up, clutching her arm, feeling the sides of the wound between her fingers, the blood thick and feverish. On either side of the hallways surrounding the courtyard, her attackers advanced. Charles from the left, and the other one from the right, each one stalking her like vicious predators closing in for the kill. Her legs moved without thought, every muscle in her body as tense as a bowstring. Charles raised the crossbow with an evil grin, training it right at her, and she stumbled backwards, just as a noise came from behind her. She didn’t have time to look, but as soon as she felt hands gripping her, she screamed, thrashing in terror, feeling marble fingers on her skin. The vampire’s grip was stone cold ice, wrapped around her, and she was whipped backward, still struggling to break free, until the hand gripped her throat and squeezed, lifting her off her feet.
When her eyes centered on the figure in front of her, she realized that it wasn’t either one of her attackers, but another vampire. A woman. A queen. She was much, much older, and somehow, more terrifying than Hughie and Louie over there. Megan kicked, squirming underneath the death-grip that sent another wave of adrenaline crashing through her. The world blurred as the vampire queen flicked her wrist, sending Megan’s body into the stone wall.
After the head-on collision, things got a bit blurry for her.
She didn’t know where she was, or who she was with, but there were fragments of memories, glimpses of nonsensical scenes in front of her. Stairs. There were so many stairs in this godforsaken place. Each step took her further up, except that it wasn’t her doing the walking. She was being carried. Cradled, almost. It would have been comforting, if the hands underneath her hadn’t been icy cold and as hard as the marble she’d been flung into. A vampire, she thought distantly. When she tried to see which one it was, a sharp pain drilled through her forehead and her vision was fragmented into triplets.
Oh, right. There was the small matter of her needing to heal. Nearly every area of her body was damaged in some way, from small cuts and scrapes to the bleeding gash on her arm. Her head must have taken quite the beating, losing that fight against the stone wall. And she wouldn’t heal, not until she’d recovered some of her energy. Wolves were the slowest healers out of everybody, but the most precarious caveat that surrounded their anatomy was that wolves could only heal if they had energy reserves. A starving wolf will injure just like a regular human because the healing sleep only kicks in if there’s enough left in the tank to sustain life and fix the damage. She wasn’t healing, and she certainly wasn’t sleeping. That meant she was in danger, in a bad, bad way.
It would probably be a good idea to tell somebody, and Megan tried to open her mouth, but she couldn’t manage it. Besides, her throat was like sandpaper; bloody, ragged sandpaper. Her eyes opened again, and she caught a glimpse of the vampire queen she’d literally run into. The woman was beautiful. Not just ‘oh, she’s so pretty’ or ‘wow, a real looker, that one’, but actually, immensely beautiful. She could have been featured in a Michelangelo painting or something, the face of a Greek goddess. Long, bountiful curls cascaded down her back, the color of freshly oiled mahogany set against porcelain skin, glowing with an angelic sheen. Her eyes were like rubies, burning in the night, sparkling with power and fury, and her cloak was a rich shade of amber; satin and velvet gliding on the steps behind them.
Further up they went, until they’d reached the top level of the castle. More vampires, all in the black uniform that sent distant terror into her mind, clustered at the elaborate stone doors. Megan’s eyes slipped shut again, and stone scraped stone, leading into a dark chamber. Another passageway, with more vampires stationed every few feet, gave way to another space, as she was greeted by a different scene than the horrors she anticipated.
This room was the most luxurious space she’d ever seen, let alone visited. It was massive, with vaulted ceilings and a blazing fire and elegant furniture everywhere. Large, scrolling windows occupied the wall opposite them, which led to a smaller corridor. She couldn’t possibly imagine what could have been on the other side of that hallway, considering the royal accoutrements that this room held. As she took in her surroundings, she realized that there were other people here, laying on the couch, curled up by the fire, or walking around the room silently, carrying things and cleaning. The more she looked, the more humans she saw, like a sickening I-Spy page. And then, something happened that made her forget about all the humans, all the vampires, and all the horrors she’d witnessed.
The bed.
She was set down on the bed, and holy hell, that mattress must have been stuffed with feathers taken straight from the archangel Michael because it was the softest thing she’d ever felt, and after more than a month of sleeping on a moldy lump of hay, she would have sold her kidney for two more minutes on it. Shadows passed over her after her eyes had slipped shut, a sigh escaping her lips. Time passed, until she found the energy to force her eyes open again. The woman had moved to the other side of the room, hovering over a vanity or something. She turned to the side, and Megan glimpsed the profile of her beautiful face, slender, but fierce. “Todd?” the vampire queen called. A human with disheveled blond hair rose from somewhere, stepping towards her. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes fixed on the floor, as he presented himself to her. He’s dirty, too, she thought, a moment before realizing that no, those were deep, dark bruises and bite marks, not grime. Her heartbeat picked up a hair, and she looked back to the vampire queen. “Fetch some broth for our little wolf,” the woman purred. Her voice was saccharin, sweet but also teeming with ferocity, cutting like a delicate, curved knife.
Megan’s head rolled to the side, and her eyes focused on the gash, blood seeping out like a leaky faucet. Dark, oily red
spread out onto the gray silk, which had been embroidered with swooping designs and glass beads and was so utterly extravagant that it was a work of art in and of itself. That ridiculous voice born of her meager human upbringing sent an alarm out, just like when she’d been bleeding on that Persian rug. She tried to push herself up, to slide off the bed even though everything in her screamed to stay on the soft, heavenly surface. The vampire queen glided across the floor, coming up to her. Megan’s voice was thick in her throat and came out like a frog croaking, but she managed to form words. “I’m… I’m bleeding on your comforter.”
The vampire caught Megan’s gaze and gave a funny little laugh, her face fixed in light-hearted amusement as she blocked Megan from moving and resituated her on the bed. A pale hand reached towards her and Megan flinched, expecting the hand to slash her throat or crush her skull or something, but instead, the vampire cupped a freezing hand around Megan’s cheek and smiled softly once more before letting it drop.
The whole experience was utterly terrifying. Megan remained entirely still, paralyzed by fear. But the human had returned with a bowl of something warm and steaming, and Megan had forgotten about her fears entirely. Something inside of her ignited at the smell of it, a wave of need rolling over her. It had been so long since she’d eaten or had anything to drink. Humans could only go about three days without water. Wolves could go longer, but it was definitely a grind. The woman pulled Megan up so that she was sitting, more or less, and the human named Todd handed her the bowl. She caught a glimpse of him, clearer now. He must have been thirty or so and had stubble on his face. He was tired and a little gaunt, most likely from the blood loss.
She thanked him and took a long draught, her eyes fluttering shut as the liquid rolled down her throat. It was just chicken broth, thick and steaming, but she’d never tasted anything so heavenly. And it was probably good that it was simple; after the night she’d had, anything more than that and she definitely would have puked. Even as the broth hit her stomach, she felt shaky, and forced herself to drink it slowly. Her eyes focused on the vampire in front of her, who’d brought a rolling tray to the side of the bed with a basin of water. Basin, as in Little House on the Prairie times. Megan supposed that nobody had introduced these people to Pyrex bowls and Tupperware.
The woman plucked a towel from the tray and dipped it in the water, using her long, slender fingers to ring it out before pulling one of Megan’s feet onto her lap. Another instinct lit up in her mind, that she was going to get dirt or blood or dead-vampire-goo on the beautiful gown, but the woman didn’t seem to care. And Megan didn’t care either, because oh dear Lord, that towel felt good on her mangled feet. Since wolves normally healed from injuries, she didn’t have much experience with prolonged, sustained pain. The scratches and cuts were red, puffy, the inflamed skin throbbing from her race through the castle. With each caress, Megan felt the tension melting. She hadn’t realized that she was still wound up as tight as a bowstring, even though she was laying on the bed and there was no sight of Charles or his crossbow. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to fully relax again, but this was a start.
The woman inspected Megan’s feet, her touch barely pressing on the skin, dipping the towel back in the water and then returning to her labor. Megan wasn’t sure what to do. Did she just sit here? Did she say something? She was afraid that doing anything at all would stop the treatment, which sent a pang of fear into her. After everything she’d been through, she was still fighting the urge to pinch herself and make sure that this wasn’t some fever-dream. Even if it was a dream, she’d want to stay. After a few moments, the woman lifted her eyes, looking at Megan from underneath her thick lashes. “What is your name, little wolf?”
“Megan,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t sound as raspy, thanks to the broth, and speaking of that, she took another sip, relishing the salty taste of it.
“Megan,” the woman hummed. “That is beautiful.”
“What – what do I call you?” Megan asked, swallowing to wet her throat.
Another small smile curved the vampire’s beautiful, perfectly sculpted lips. “My name is Fausta Morgada Ambrose, but to you I am Mistress Fausta.”
“Oh,” was all that Megan could think to say. She didn’t care that ‘mistress’ meant ‘master’ and that her people didn’t believe in slavery. She didn’t care that Clay would probably refuse to call this woman, or any vampire, by that title. And she didn’t care that her mother would have publicly executed her for bringing dishonor to their kind by allowing herself to be subjected to the whims of a vampire overlord. In that moment, Megan was a terrified sixteen-year-old girl, and she probably would have pledged her undying loyalty to a turnip for another bowl of chicken broth. Fausta continued wiping her feet, removing the dirt, the grime, the filth of prison. Megan took another sip, and then another, feeling the warm broth suffuse throughout her body. After so long, and after all the trauma she’d experienced, it might as well have been a steak dinner. She felt her lids drooping, and just before she slipped into the healing sleep, she felt the bowl leave her hands and a heavy blanket settle over her.
There was music coming from somewhere; a beautiful, lilting sonata, rising in the air and deepening with each note. Megan hadn’t opened her eyes yet. She didn’t want to. If this was a dream, if her mind was trying to remember what music was like, or what comfort was like, she knew that it would break her to wake up in the prison once more. The music slowed, and then faded, something inside of her aching to hear just one more note. “You are just in time for the sunset, little wolf,” Fausta hummed.
Megan’s eyes flew open and she looked at the room around her. The opulent furniture was leisurely scattered in the same configuration, the fire still roaring, but there were less people now, and she noticed a giant box on the other side of the room, covered with a black curtain. Her eyebrows drew together just as Fausta glided over to the space before her, extending her hand with a warm smile. “Come.”
Megan certainly wasn’t going to argue.
When she took Fausta’s hand, she noticed her smooth, olive-toned skin, not the persistent coat of dirt she’d grown accustomed to. It had been so long that she’d forgotten what she looked like, before the grime of prison. Someone had washed her while she was asleep, brushed the rat’s nest of hair that had matted into clumps, and dressed her in clean clothes.
Megan let Fausta lead her through the room, coming closer to the balcony. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror, seeing that she was wearing a beautiful, soft suede outfit. She recognized the style; she’d only seen it once before in her life, after sneaking into her mother’s old chest and pulling out the heirloom ceremonial garb. Her grandmother had almost ripped her a new one for it, too. Just the sight of the furs in the reflection sent a pang of fear through her. Her legs faltered, and she stayed glued to the mirror. “I, um, can’t wear this…” she muttered, immediately regretting the words. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, or anything, but this is-”
“Ceremonial garb for wolves?” Fausta asked in a sweet voice, standing behind Megan and placing both delicate hands on her shoulders.
“Yes.”
“You are a wolf, are you not?”
“Yes, but it’s… it’s for the alphas and betas only, and it’s worn during the remembrance days. Omegas aren’t allowed to wear the sacred furs.”
Fausta leaned in, her cold skin seeping all the warmth from Megan even through the dress. “And I am telling you that you may wear them. They suit you.”
They did suit her. Megan’s eyes traced over the soft suede fabric, pulled together at the waist with a simple tie, and no knots. In fact, there wasn’t any stitching on the entire outfit, and the sides were corded with leather, leaving two long gaps with crisscross ties. If Megan was old enough to shift, it was an outfit that wouldn’t be destroyed by the transformation. On the shoulders was a beautiful wolf pelt that tapered down her back and either side of her arms. Traditionally, it was supposed to be one
of the bloodline’s fallen brethren, but that practice had fallen to the wayside. Megan pushed her discomfort down and nodded, supposing the subject was closed for discussion. Fausta smiled and led Megan out to the beautiful stone balcony. Elegant furniture sat around the area, and a massive firepit roared with flames, warming the whole area. There was a table set up, piled with food, two chairs positioned next to each other. Fausta took one of them and gestured for her to take the other.
As soon as Megan sat down, her eyes drifted to the horizon in front of her. Her mouth parted as she watched the beautiful orange and indigo hues dance across the clouds. It had been so long since she’d seen the sky, so long since she’d been outside. She was mesmerized, transfixed by it. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Fausta let out a soft laugh and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs in one fluid movement. “Yes, it is quite a sight. Darian had an eye for such comforts.” Megan’s fingers absentmindedly stroked the fur on her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the sky. She barely noticed when Fausta placed a plate in front of her. “Eat,” the vampire said warmly.
Megan glanced down and saw the plate, heaped high with fruits and cheese and warm bread that was still steaming from the oven. There was a substantial amount of roast chicken underneath. It was like a medieval feast and Megan’s mouth watered at both the sight and smell of it. She looked to Fausta, who’d gotten a wine glass full of something red, holding it elegantly, her fingers curled around it. “Thank you,” Megan replied, her eyes welling up with tears. She wasn’t sure why she was crying. Maybe it was the horrors she’d seen, or the hell she’d been living in, or the way she’d been hunted like an animal. Or maybe it was all of that, rolled into one steaming pile of trauma. Every emotion that had welled up inside of her seemed to burst out all at once, to bubble over like boiling water.
