by Iris Walker
Their leader? Megan thought in despair. She’d hardly seen Clay since they’d been separated and she hadn’t dared ask Fausta about his whereabouts, for fear that the vampire queen would use her concern for Clay against her. If Clay had been kept in the prisons, he hadn’t seen how utterly hopeless their situation was. There was no use in rebellion, Fausta had seen to that. It would be snuffed out before it even caught flame.
“You took the life of a vampire,” Fausta spat, her iron fingers gripping Clay by his hair. “For this, I should take your head. But I will show mercy, just once, and take something else of yours. My subject, my loyal vampire, will never walk this earth again because of your treachery. So, I see it fit that you should be unable to walk in your wolf form.”
Fausta forced Clay’s eyes to hers, and Megan caught a glimpse of what the vampire searched for: fear. Her heart wrenched for Clay, tears building in her throat, brimming in her eyes. She caught it just in time as a pang of alarm jolted through her. She could show no sadness, no remorse. It would be Fausta’s last straw for her if she thought even a fraction of her mind felt bad for Clay. Panic surged in her chest; now more than ever she needed that distance, that numbness, but her panic seemed to chase it away. She held her breath in her lungs, until they cramped for more, and she let the air out in a small stream, drawing it in softly, so it wouldn’t shudder.
Fausta turned, bringing her eyes to Megan, and giving her a sharp nod. “You know what must be done, Megan. It is your responsibility to see that this crime is answered for.”
Megan nodded once, afraid that moving any further would cause her to break down. Fausta outstretched her hand, and a vampire servant walked up to her with a gleaming silver axe, kneeling and presenting the weapon with both hands. She took it and thanked him, twirling the menacing weapon in her palm as though it weighed nothing. Another vampire servant brought a bucket, a large, sloshing monstrosity to the throne area. It only took a moment for the smell to snake its way into Megan’s nostrils. Sharp, acidic, and vile, like ammonia to humans. To any other person, or to a vampire, it would smell like a watered-down herb, or maybe even common grass, but wolfsbane to a wolf smelled like death itself. It burned her nose, her lungs, as she pulled in another breath, and then another, the panic of what Fausta wanted setting in.
She didn’t just want Megan to take Clay’s hand.
She wanted Megan to use an enchanted silver blade dipped in wolfsbane. This would seal the wound and damage the cells to the point where no healing could ever occur. It was a punishment so horrendous that not even her own kind would inflict it. Clay would lose his hand in human form, but in wolf form, he would lose his front paw, and a wolf could never truly recover from that. Never again would he gallop at the same speed, would he be like lightning against the forest floor, with a lithe grace unparalleled to any other creature that had pawed the earth. Megan wanted to collapse, she wanted to fall to her knees and beg Fausta not to do this, to show mercy. She began trembling, nearly shaking her head, but a single look from Fausta brought her warning back, her promise. Those that weren’t loyal received death, and those that were loyal kept their life.
This was Megan’s test.
Fausta was showing her entire following that she’d truly domesticated the wolves, she was using Megan as living proof that she’d succeeded in enslaving the race. And if Megan let her down, there’d be no recovery. There’d be no making it up to the vampire queen. Images of Magnus slammed into her mind like buckshot, one after the other at rapid fire, images of Ryan and of the other horrors she’d witnessed, images of Charlie and his crossbow and the burning fire that had seared into her arm that first night after the siege. As despicable as it was to her, all those memories, all that pain and fear, overshadowed the memories of Clay’s sacrifice to her. Memories of him deciding to pardon her, to conceal her true identity and bring her back to the Brooks wolves as a refugee of the war. As much as she hated herself for it, in that moment, fear overshadowed love, eclipsing it in the darkest cloud ever imaginable. She staggered forward, her breath coming in short gasps, as she tried to hold it together, as she tried to justify this horrific sentence. Surely, one paw was better than Clay’s life, and her own with his. It wouldn’t be a fast death, either, Megan was sure of that. She used all of these pitiful thoughts as strength, as she watched Fausta dunk the axe into the bucket, as another wave of stinging acid slipped into her own lungs, and as her trembling hands gripped the smooth handle of the weapon with enough force to turn her knuckles white.
With each step down the marble stairs, closer to Clay, she imagined herself saying any number of things to him, saying that she was sorry, or that she was choosing the lesser of two evils. She imagined herself telling him about all the horrors she’d witnessed, giving him her reasons and explaining that she couldn’t be forced to choose between her own life and death. But she didn’t say any of that. She knew that she couldn’t. She knew that she wouldn’t.
Megan knew that she was a coward.
Coward, she screamed at herself as she neared the wooden block where Clay’s hand had been forced. Fight back, you coward. Even as she looked at Clay, his head bowed to the floor, muscles standing out in rigid cords, she found that he didn’t tremble. He didn’t cry out in fear. He was the pinnacle of strength in the face of evil. And she was even more ashamed to find that this angered her, and the final thought that ran through her head before she brought the axe down was one of searing, burning hatred. Why couldn’t you just be a coward, too?
She felt a push of urgency, like her muscles were jumping underneath her. She wanted to end this as quickly as possible. Megan hoisted the axe above her head, trying to tell herself that it would be just like chopping wood at the cabin, that she’d go back inside and heat up a can of soup and watch a repeat hallmark movie she’d seen thirty two times. At the last second before she brought the blade down, Clay’s head raised, and his mahogany eyes drilled into hers with such force that all her fear and panic multiplied, exploding inside of her. They were a stranger’s eyes. Hardened, full of hatred and rage and boiling with injustice. Of all the things he could have said to her, he chose the only one that would keep her up at night, for so many nights ahead.
“One swing, Megan.”
A ragged cry escaped her lips as she heaved, and in a smooth arc she brought the weapon cracking down so hard that it cleaved a wedge in the chopping block, and brought forth that well of red poison, oozing onto the marble once more.
She didn’t remember anything after seeing Clay’s blood seep down the wooden block. It was like static, like someone had pulled the cord on her brain and left a giant, gaping black hole in its place. The next thing she was aware of was when she floated back into her body and found herself once more in Fausta’s chambers. She was laying on the bed, freezing cold, her hands like ice, her lips and nose numb. Why am I so cold? she thought distantly. Her hands were shaking, but not with fear. She was shivering. Woozy memories floated by, like she was trying to remember a dream but couldn’t quite grasp it. Something told her that it was better that way. Someone was wiping her face, and each time they brought the silk cloth back, it had a little more red on it, and then her eyes slipped to her hands, and she saw little splatters of paint, dotting her arms and wrists.
Not paint. Blood.
A bolt of panic stabbed through her with as much force as Charlie’s arrow. Had it been real? It couldn’t have been real. It was a dream… just a terrible, horrible dream. Someone made a noise, and it wasn’t long before she realized that it had been her; a terrible, awful moan. And then there was Fausta, holding her, next to her, those icy arms wrapped around Megan’s shivering form. Fausta was whispering in her ear, that cold, sweet breath washing over her face.
“You did so, so well, my girl,” Fausta said, stroking her hair, rocking her on the bed like she was a five-year-old, afraid of the dark. “You have made me so proud.”
Megan heard the words, like hammers in her mind, each one affirming that the horri
fic events swirling in her thoughts had actually happened, that she’d actually done it. She’d maimed Clay for life, and his blood was spattered on her hands. A reminder, a mark, a stain. She was unclean, she was unfaithful, and she was dirty.
An enemy of the pack, just as her mother and grandmother had whispered to her, just as the rest of the bloodline had muttered behind closed doors. Now, it was true. She started scratching at the skin on her arms, but the blood had already dried and it was just flaking, not coming off. Her movements became more frantic as she clawed at her skin with fervor, until Fausta’s icy marble fingers encircled her wrists and the vampire stopped her easily, ignoring her panicked protests. A moment before Megan started screaming, she smelled that woozy scent of Fausta’s hair, those spices, and felt the vampire’s cold, inhuman lips press to hers. Down she tumbled, losing time, losing direction, falling into the darkness.
When Megan pulled out of the thick drowsiness that Fausta’s kiss always brought, she felt warm water slipping all around her. The air was muggy with steam and salt, and golden light glowed from somewhere, soft behind her eyelids. It was tranquil, and for a moment she thought it was a dream. Tranquility was the furthest thing from Fausta’s cruel empire. Everywhere she looked, there was suffering, fear. Wine and drugs flowed freely so the vampires could surround themselves with pleasure, but in reality it was just poorly masked pain. Like covering your fears with a sheet and expecting them to go away. Like covering Magnus up with a blanket, even though you could still hear him wailing. But in here, there was none of that. Someone was humming, and Megan knew it was Fausta, but the arms that gripped her weren’t icy rocks, as they normally were. They were hardened, smooth and devoid of any imperfection, but they were warm. Megan let her eyes slip open, wanting to see the owner of the enchanting melody that filled the steamy room. She saw Fausta, the vampire queen, but not in any way that Megan had experienced before.
In the massive roman-style bath, dark teal water glistened all around them, slick with perfume and oil as it lapped against the intricate tiles of the pool. Candlelight glowed steadily, like little orbs of gold, flashing on the glassy surface of the water, wavering out and sparkling. As wonder rolled over her, Megan realized that this bath might have been the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life. And Fausta Morgada Ambrose was beautiful in it, but not in the numbing, regal, fear-inspiring way she normally was.
In this bath, Fausta wore only a thin linen dress, that looked like a nightgown. In the water, the dress clung to Fausta’s figure, encasing her like a statue, glistening in the warm, silky light. Her dark hair was a shroud, wrapped around her shoulders and framing her face, the ends of her curls bobbing in the water around Megan. Megan had never seen her in anything but intricate velvet and silk robes. Here, in the bathtub, was as human as she’d ever seen any vampire. Fausta hummed, singing some unknown melody, some beautiful song that had been lost in the pages of time, revitalized by this being that wasn’t commanded by death or age. Megan watched Fausta’s face for a long time, just looking at it, studying it, searching for something. Time passed, as Fausta dipped a cloth in the water and ran it over Megan’s body with soft, gentle motions. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the fading high, but Megan no longer felt the need to flinch at Fausta’s touch. She knew that the vampire had immense control, unlike the newborn vampires, who were like normal-sized Godzilla’s, walking around and lobbing heads off with one touch, accidentally breaking stone pillars by walking into them. But Fausta was old enough to have mastered both the gentle and the violent touch. She could choose, alternating between the two with alarming precision and care. So why do you destroy? Megan thought distantly. Her eyes tracked Fausta’s gaze, those red orbs that had inspired so much fear and so much comfort, all at the same time. They weren’t angry, they weren’t crazed, and they weren’t brimming with power. Twinkling in the soft glow, hidden in this muggy room, they were just normal eyes. “Welcome back, little wolf,” Fausta murmured softly.
Megan didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes one more time, letting her arms and legs float against the soft saltwater, nothing but Fausta’s left arm keeping Megan from drifting off. Megan wondered in a childish corner of her mind if she would just float on forever, down a warm, steamy river, and never stop.
“Things will not always be like this, Megan,” Fausta sighed. “I am fighting for a better future for all of us, your race included. But unfortunately, there must be more violence before this period of chaos is to end. Even the cruelest of leaders could not possibly create as much suffering as there is when leadership is uncertain. It is chaos that breeds violence, and as much as it pains me, the chaos must continue for a few moments longer.”
“Why?” Megan whispered.
A slight, bitter smile touched the corner of Fausta’s lips. “Because the job is not done. Darian Xander opposes me, from the shadows, from the ruins of a conquered empire. So long as he is alive, as his resistance is alive, we will not be allowed peace. I took ownership of the northern vampires, and it is my job to take ownership entirely, lest we be fragmented and dashed to pieces.”
“Are you afraid of him?” Megan asked.
“I am as much afraid of him as he is afraid of me. We both know that the other is a formidable enemy, with strengths and weaknesses. However this battle is to be won, it will not be an easy fight, from either side. But we also both know that the stakes of this battle will determine who is fit to lead our people into the future. An easy fight means an easygoing leader, and this has never been good for the world. Whether I kill him or he kills me, life will prevail.”
“What…” Megan began, the words touching the back of her teeth as she bit down on them.
“You may ask me, little wolf,” Fausta murmured, her voice nearly a hum as she ran the rag over Megan’s leg.
“What do you believe about death?” Megan whispered.
A distant look crossed the vampire’s expression. “The people I grew up with believed that life was like an expansive forest. We have many dark, ancient groves that span hundreds of miles. At one point, these had never been touched by man, and held much mystery to normal folk like us.”
“Normal folk?” Megan asked.
“I was brought into this world as a peasant,” Fausta said with a warm smile.
Megan’s eyebrows crunched together slightly, and she studied the queen’s beautiful face.
“It is understandably shocking, seeing me now, after centuries of royalty. But I hailed from a long line of commoners. When my maker, Salvatore, found me, I was the most disgraced I had ever been. It was a summer night, and I had been sent by my mama and papa to fetch water from the well down the forest path. I had made the trip hundreds of times, but during that one, I ventured too far off the trail. I was a whimsical child, you see, chasing the shadows, looking too long, always taking one step too far. I was fearless, and stupid. But the well was very close to the road, so that travelers could use it, and that particular night, there was royalty traveling amongst the trees. A young prince and his entourage. I heard them, and I crept closer, a watcher in the woods. He was relieving himself against a tree, and for a peasant girl who was brought up in eastern orthodoxy, it was not every day that you saw underneath a man’s trousers. Curious as I was, I felt sinful for even wanting to look, but I could not rip my eyes away, and just as he’d finished, he spotted me from the brush.”
“This prince was a cruel one, and instead of hitting me, or even just leaving, he brought his guards over, to bear witness to this spy, as he called me. I begged for forgiveness, weeping at his boots, but there was none in his heart. He raped me, there, in the woods, with the twigs and rocks digging into my legs and the bugs slithering across my arms, my mouth, as he pushed my face into the dirt and took away my virtue. And when he’d had his way and left me there, bloody and broken, he took out his dagger, preparing to gut me like a deer for my crimes. I can still picture every jewel on that handle, the way the silver caught the moonlight. He brought it down
swiftly, but I was determined to not die. I stopped the dagger with my bare hand, gripping it in place, just inches from my belly, staring at his eyes the whole time with a look of burning hatred. The prince was not expecting this, not at all, and I saw true fear invade his eyes. It gave me power, this fear of me.”
“At that precise moment, the guards were snatched into the shadows, as though the forest itself had arms and was plucking them like weeds. I thought I was hysterical, imagining it, until the prince wrenched his blade out of my hand and scrambled away. It wasn’t until I saw his look of terror that I understood… he thought I was a witch. He thought I’d been hiding in the woods as a temptress to him, and then unleashed my revenge on his wickedness. But he was mistaken and did not get far. A being stepped out from the shadows, a god, wrapped in moonlight, with eyes of fire. He held the prince by his hair, as though he were a rambunctious child, and he looked at me with such admiration that I thought it was a strange, strange dream. I was bloody, dirty, and dishonored on the forest floor, and I could not imagine such a creature finding value in me, in that state. But Salvatore called out to me, in my language, and said, ‘take the dagger, girl’. I rose, as though possessed, and picked up the blade, still marbled with my blood, clumped with dirt. I walked over to my savior, and I presented the dagger to him with my head bowed, but he told me to stand tall, that the vermin in front of me did not deserve to see my eyes turned downward. And then he asked me what I wanted to do with the dagger,” Fausta said with a nostalgic smile. “You must understand that women in my land had not an ounce of the freedom we experience today. Thoughts of violence and retaliation were the devil’s seeds, sown into your mind, and we were taught that it was not our place to raise a hand. It was our place to sink, to beg, to kneel at the feet of others. So I gripped that dagger with the same hand that was dripping blood, that was nearly severed, and I told him that I wanted to bury it in this prince, just as he had forced himself into me. I told the vampire that I wanted to see him bleed out on the forest floor, with the cold earth and the bugs for company. Salvatore got the strangest, most intoxicating smile as I thrust the dagger into the prince’s gut with such force that the hilt was swallowed up by him, with my eyes on his face the whole time. I watched his pain and I thought that it was what my face must have looked like when he had ripped through me. Salvatore let him fall to the ground, and I watched him until it was done. And then Salvatore took me with him, calling me a treasure, a jeweled dagger of his own. He gave me the gift of his life, through weeks of transformation, and then I was a vampire. I was an heiress to his empire, and then, I was queen, as I am now.”
