by Iris Walker
She was terrified. She didn’t have the backbone to stand up to Fausta, because since the massacre, she’d seen the ruler break a human’s legs after they’d been caught running, she’d seen Fausta force dead-blood (poison) down a vampire’s mouth after they’d accidentally touched one of her ‘pets’, and she’d seen Fausta’s groupie royal vampires systematically rip apart strongbloods that refused orders. So yeah, as far as Megan was concerned, Fausta had won, and there wasn’t a damn thing that a single disgraced wolf standing up to her could do about it. She knew it was pathetic. She wasn’t like Clay, or Lucidia, who’d walked head-first into a caster attack and hadn’t thought twice about it. She didn’t have that kind of willpower. That was why she drank and took the royal vampires up whenever they offered her drugs, or little sips of whatever cocktails they were drinking. They liked to do that, to invite the pets over for scraps or trinket conversations.
She didn’t like to drink. She knew that it made her brain all cottony and she knew that it was exactly what her dad had succumbed to after years of ostracization because he’d screwed the alpha and given her a bastard wolf-baby (yeah, Megan wasn’t too popular with her own people – that was why she grew up in seclusion). Megan had spent years silently hating and scorning her father for all his weakness, his cowardice, his addiction to that bottle. But it turned out that she was just as weak as him, and knowing that made her want to drink even more and spend even more time around the vampires because they only hit the pets sometimes, and most of the time it was only when they were super drunk, and they all had the good stuff and they liked to share it. Pathetic.
But she was alive, and she hadn’t been maimed, or given to the troops to rip apart, and here she was, surrounded by music and having the supreme leader of all the vampires brush her hair. In this new world she’d been thrown into, she’d risen about as high as she possibly could. A part of her was truly grateful to Fausta, but the rest of her was just mortally terrified of screwing it up. So whatever Fausta asked for, she got. Whatever Fausta offered her, Megan took. And whatever Fausta liked, Megan emulated.
Most of the time, she looked at Todd to get a glimpse of what to do. Todd was probably smarter than all of them, and boy, did he know how to play vampires like they were fiddles. He’d made it to the top and he’d slowly brought himself up in Fausta’s eyes, and the eyes of the other vampires. They passed him around like he was an expensive bottle of wine, sipped and savored and enjoyed over a long conversation. There were other pets, too, those that circled in and would stay for a short stretch, until she wouldn’t see them for a few days and just assume what had happened. She liked to think that they’d been brought downstairs to the fourth floor, where human blood slaves, purebloods, and any flight risks were kept on tight lock, but honestly, Megan knew better. It wasn’t her problem though. Her problem was her head, which she’d done a fine job of keeping attached. Just stay back, Clay echoed. There’s nothing we can do.
The harp music continued, Megan watching the woman’s face with passive curiosity. She was crying, her fingers trembling against the strings of her harp, but she was doing a very good job of hiding it. There were plenty of humans that hadn’t done so well concealing their fear. Case and point, the blond guy. Fausta had a giant cage in her suite that was always covered in a thick black curtain. Megan had eyed it curiously for a few days, wondering what was underneath. Ever so often, she’d hear a muffled noise, or a clanking. And then, one night, through half-opened drunken eyes, she’d glimpsed the cage without a curtain, and had seen Fausta talking to a blond human man covered in dirt and grime, clothes hanging in tatters. He looked like a mountain man, and Megan had used the memory as inspiration to keep on pleasing Fausta on more than one occasion.
After the first few days of relaxation and bliss, Megan began to notice the more gruesome practices that surrounded her. Fausta had pets that she thought were pretty, or fun to have around, and then she had pets that she tortured like a little kid, pulling the wings off a trapped butterfly. The blond guy was one such pet. He’d come out several times, and each time, they’d make a spectacle out of it. At one point, Megan thought that Fausta might actually plan certain occasions to torture him, like it was a weekly appointment or something. But mostly, she just did it whenever the urge came.
And the guy was a wreck.
There were some humans that had the smarts to play along. There were also some humans that didn’t, and they never lasted long, but most of them knew to at least not bitch and moan (because the vampires hated that, she’d learned). There were nights that Fausta had ordered her men to beat the blond guy unconscious to get him to stop wallowing, but no matter how many times they’d hit him, he never seemed to stop crying. Now, in the midst of their harp solo, she’d brought him out for a little ‘exercise’, which was just two sadistic vampire heirs toting fencing swords, poking and slashing at him until he danced. His hands were bound behind his back, his ankles bruised and swollen from the iron shackles.
A year ago, Megan would have stormed up to them, or done some Lucidia crap. At the very least, she would have been spitting mad about it. But now, her eyes passively slipped over the scene of gore, her mind relishing the soft cushion underneath her and thanking the lucky stars that it wasn’t her stuck between those cruel silver swords and burning red eyes. Pathetic, she thought bitterly.
Little slashes were dripping red like macabre tattoos, amidst the deep scars that he’d accumulated since he’d arrived about three weeks after the siege. Deep bite marks in various stages of healing marred him, even though the vampires didn’t seem to take any blood; they preferred to toy with him, to make it hurt. He was wailing, crying out each time the swords sliced through the air and scratched him, leaving angry red trails. They were taking extra care to not cut too deep. “Please!” he cried, causing the harp player to flinch, grinding her song to a small halt before she began again. Megan felt Fausta stiffen from behind her, a subtle, slight movement. He kept whining, kept crying out, louder and louder with the growing desperation. Just stop it, you fool, Megan thought, her own chest clenching up with the tension.
Fausta drew in a long breath, gathering Megan’s hair and smoothing it over her shoulders, until it was soft and elegant. She nodded to one of the vampire servants on the other side of the room, and a moment later, they brought Megan a plate of food, heaped to the top. She gave him a nod of appreciation, curling her legs up and focusing on the harp music, trying to ignore the escalating situation on the other side of the suite. Fausta glided over and whispered something to the harp player, who scurried off and rolled her instrument with her. A vampire guard grabbed the timpani player by his shoulders and dragged him out after the harpist, closing the door softly behind him. Todd and two other women that Megan recognized vaguely stirred from their spots on the bed, where they lounged or drank or just waited for Fausta to return. The vampire queen walked over to the man, his cries pitiful and ragged, and as soon as she approached, he crashed to his knees, his hands still pinned behind him, sobbing on the floor at her feet. One of the royal vampire heirs flashed Fausta a smile. “If he’s bothering you, we can shut him up.”
“Nonsense,” Fausta purred. Megan could hear the smile in her voice, and it sent a wave of icy fear through her.
Megan’s eyes drifted to the painting featured above the fireplace. She looked at it a lot, pretty much any time there was something in the room that she didn’t want to look at but couldn’t cower from. Vampires didn’t like it when humans cowered from them, because apparently, it felt ‘judgey’. And when they felt judged, they tended to take it out on the one doing the cowering.
So Megan focused her attention on the only work of art that had survived the siege. A massive painting, with a golden plaque that named it as The Fall of Phaeton by Peter Paul Rubens, in 1604. Megan had no clue who the guy was, or how Darian Xander had even acquired a painting that looked like it belonged in the Louvre, but every time she looked at it, she seemed to see something new. It was a ri
chly hued oil painting that looked renaissancey and featured a Greek guy, falling off a chariot. Horses tumbled, a crimson and gold chariot going ass over teakettle, trampling a bunch of other half-naked Venus looking figures with horrified expressions on their faces. Once the siege was officially over, vampire servants had commenced replacing the decorations in Fausta’s chambers, changing all the purple and rich gray to deep amber and black. They’d asked her what she wanted to do with the painting and she’d eyed it for a good five minutes before calmly saying, ‘leave it’. It was the only thing that had remained intact from Darian Xander’s royal stronghold. Nearly everything else had been destroyed, or trashed, or damaged in some way or another. But something about that painting, its spot above the fireplace, the way it looked different in the morning, afternoon, and night, had given Fausta pause. Megan too found herself fascinated with the painting. What did Darian see in it? Why was it the biggest decoration in the room?
“Please!” the blond man cried, falling on his knees in front of Fausta, his hands still tied behind him. Fausta’s eyes flared with amusement and she knelt, an elegant, controlled movement, letting her gaze slide to the sniveling man on the ground. She tisked her tongue three times and then raked her fingers over his grimy hair, her smile widening as he tensed, shuddering at her touch. Megan’s lungs tightened, her heart hitching slightly at the sight of Fausta’s hand, but she recovered her composure quickly, tracing over the painting once more until her mind quieted. “He’s probably just hungry,” Fausta purred. “All that exercise and nothing to eat.” Fausta got up swiftly, walking over to the large dining table by the windows and picking up an old plate with crumbs and half-eaten scraps. She brought it over to the ground in between the couches. “Come on, then, Magnus.”
Magnus’s eyes widened in a desperate haze, and he hauled himself up from the ground just in time for the vampire heirs to kick him, knocking him over again. Megan’s left hand crept over her right wrist, squeezing, harder and harder, a slow pressure until she could feel her pulse. It was a reflex that she’d used more and more, a strange comfort in a strange place. Maybe it was just a soothing movement that didn’t give away her building terror, or maybe it reminded her that she was still alive. Maybe it confirmed that she was still alive.
Fausta watched Magnus stumble over to the plate of food, his movements encumbered by the bindings, and he collapsed in front of it, turning his tortured eyes up to the vampire queen. Bile rose up in Megan’s throat, and she let her own food sit in front of her, only having taken a couple bites. Fausta nodded to him, a sicky sweet smile on her lips. “Go ahead, then,” she purred. Magnus hunched over the food, gobbling it up like a rabid dog, and Megan felt a wave of disgust, of embarrassment for him. He was so… broken. It would have been a mercy for someone to shove a pillow over his face and end his miserable existence.
But Fausta Morgada Ambrose had never been about mercy.
She watched him for a moment, her eyes taking in the sight of him groveling at her feet like a builder might look at a construction of his; sizing it up, trying to figure out what he’d done well, what to improve on. A professional pride. And then her burning red eyes slipped to Megan, and she quirked her head to the side, sending the fear of God pumping through Megan’s veins. She walked smoothly over to the bench, a curious smile on her perfect apple-red lips. In a gliding movement, Fausta perched behind her and wrapped both icy, mountain-breaking arms around Megan, resting her head on the wolf’s shoulder.
“Look, Magnus,” she purred. “My dog eats better than you.”
He didn’t react, didn’t make any movement away from the scraps that he scarfed down. “I said ‘look’,” Fausta repeated with a steely voice.
A shiver of terror ran through the man and his eyes twitched up, sheepishly looking at her. Megan watched the anguish, the suffering present in his gaze as his hazel eyes fell on the plate nestled on her lap, the soft cushion underneath her. Megan’s eyebrows pulled together, a silent apology for what he was being subjected to. “You feel sorry for him, little wolf…” she whispered, the breath cold against Megan’s face.
Uh-oh. Megan was frozen, a deer in the headlights. She could almost feel Todd’s tension behind her, but there was no turning back to him now, no looking at him for a prompt. There was only Fausta’s icy breath across her collarbone, and her heartbeat, steadily climbing like a metronome on the run. Prickly sweat sprouted along her palms. Fausta let out a small, velvet laugh, and shifted towards Magnus, so they were both looking straight at him. “You think I am too harsh on him, that I toy with him out of cruelty,” she continued. Megan shook her head slightly, the movement jerky underneath the vampire’s grip. Fausta rose, pulling Megan to her feet, keeping an arm around her shoulder and steering her closer to Magnus until they knelt in front of him. He was still trying to devour his food, the vampire heirs snickering at him from behind. They leaned further, closer until Megan could smell the putrid stench of his skin, the lukewarm, greasy scent of the chicken that had been left out all day. She saw up close the despicable gnashing of Magnus’s grimy teeth, the spittle dripping from his lips each time he tried to get another bite. Fausta let out a satisfied sigh, and pulled Megan closer, as though they were observing a wild animal, some flighty creature in the woods.
“You see, little wolf, this is no ordinary human. This is the once great and powerful vampire master who ruled over millions of subjects, whose territory stretched thousands of miles in either direction. This is Magnus Theudemar Demonte, the sword of steel that bites those who would challenge him.” Something hitched in Magnus, something deep in his chest, or his mind; a glimmer of recognition. “This is the liberator of women,” she continued. “The keeper of wolves, the iron fist that breaks all opposition, the conqueror and the king, the bringer of bounty, prosperity, and honor to all who bend the knee. Isn’t that right, Magnus? Isn’t that who you once were?”
He shuddered to a halt, saliva still dripping from his mouth. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor in front of him, he nodded slowly. All trace of Fausta’s smile left, her voice turning to slate. “And then, the leader who preached loyalty above all betrayed his own flesh and blood because of greed. He conspired with the casters to birth a vampire killing weapon and intended to wield it against those of us who wouldn’t follow him. He was responsible for nearly three hundred murdered vampires on the night of the comet. In the end, his foolish, arrogant, ridiculous faith in those magical-slinging snakes was the cause for his downfall; the very weapon that he built was the one that turned him human. So, you see, Megan, he is not a helpless human, being poked and prodded by a mean vampire. He is scum, lower than the worms that wriggle in the dirt, and he is only alive because I am not yet convinced that he has paid for his crimes against our kind. Once he is broken, entirely, completely, and beyond repair, once he hates himself for everything he’s done, I will begin the process of ending his pitiful mortal existence. Slowly. Very, very slowly.” Megan watched him, taking in the tortured look in his eyes, the guilt that hung in his gaze. She knew that he was guilty, and she knew that he knew it, too. “From riches to rags,” Fausta hummed. “And then from rags to dirt. That will be justice enough for your treachery.”
After another moment, the vampire rose, offering Megan her pale hand. Megan took it and followed her back to the bench, Fausta perching next to her and returning the plate of food. Megan ate mechanically, ignoring the queasy fear that had settled in her gut. The fresh grapes were too sweet, the bread too spongy, and the meat juicy enough to create a shimmering crescent of liquid at the bottom of her plate. Her hands trembled slightly, sweaty and cold, and the headache behind her eyes grew, throbbing with each pulse.
She wanted wine. Fausta probably knew she wanted wine, or morphine, or some of the other stuff the vampires kept around them, but lately, Fausta had been a little more cautious about keeping the bottles flowing with no end. Megan had lost a few pounds, drinking herself to sleep nearly every night after all the horrors of the massacre and
the reconstruction. She’d still give Megan wine, but only after she’d eaten, and had enough water, like the crazy vampire was some sort of inspirational personal trainer pushing her to be her best self. More likely she didn’t want the world thinking she drowned her precious pet in booze. Fausta had a thing for beauty, for the appearance of health and luster in those creatures that she surrounded herself with.
After Megan had eaten most of the food on her plate, she handed it off to the vampire servant and curled up on the bench, squeezing her legs together to stop the agitated tremor that crept up when she’d been sober for too long. She knew what it was; withdrawal. She’d seen her father go through it several times when he tried to find that wagon he couldn’t ever seem to hop back on. Fausta raised her hand, waving with one finger, and Todd slipped out of the bed, walking over to her. He didn’t have a shirt on, only his silk pajama pants, hanging loosely from his waist. Probably the only similarity between the wolves and vampires was that neither group seemed to care about nudity nearly as much as the humans did, and looking around the castle, it showed. Bite marks still stuck out on his tan skin, which had gained a bit of its color, but they weren’t as vicious as they were when Megan had first arrived. She beckoned him closer, and closer still until it looked like she was going to whisper something in his ear, but just as he braced his hand against the back of the cushion, Fausta’s lips brushed his as she pulled him down to the couch, his head lolling backwards. A smile danced on his lips, his glazed eyes fascinated by the ceiling.
Much to her shame, Megan’s own chest wrenched for it, her pulse kicking into high gear. Two months ago, the idea of a vampire kissing her would have been repulsive. Now, just seeing a vampire’s lips sent a little tremor through her. It made her feel even more pathetic, which made her want the kiss even more, because it brought such a sweet oblivion like nothing she’d ever felt before and she could ignore all those things she’d done to stay alive and stop hating herself for just a few moments. She couldn’t help but eye Fausta as she pressed her teeth to Todd’s neck, watching as his drunken smile widened, a little laugh slipping through his lips. She pulled back, licking the bite one more time before returning to her spot, watching Magnus. Time passed tensely, Megan’s nerves jumping out of her skin, her chest tightening with that agitated feeling that crept in when she was sober, or conscious for too long. Eventually, the vampire heirs dragged Magnus back into his cage, covering it with the thick black curtain like nothing had even happened, and Fausta rose elegantly, carrying Todd back to the bed and dumping him onto it. The other two women stirred, making room for him before sinking back into their exhausted comas.
