by Rebecca Main
A cry of triumph surges through the crowd. Nova is on the ground, her hand cradling her face. Lafayette stands only a few steps away from her, looking ready to pounce. He does. I concentrate on following the action as best I can, their movements still mostly a blur to me.
Nova careens into the stone walls encasing them after a direct kick to her stomach. She crumples inward, releasing an audible groan. Lafayette zooms in for another attack, striking out once more with his foot and kicking her in the chest. The sound of bones cracking brings a satisfied cheer from the crowd. My hand slips from its place on Sebastian’s arm to rest in my lap with my other.
Nova crawls away, using the wall to help her stand, but she is only allotted a second’s reprieve. As the seconds go on, Lafayette’s strikes seem to become more ferocious, more savage. Nova's efforts appear pitiful in comparison. They are entirely the opposite of what training I saw from her before.
Looks can be deceiving.
I do my best to suppress my anxiety, but find it difficult. Nova’s blood stains the air.
The scent sets me on edge. Start fighting, I think desperately. Cold fingers wrap around my wrist and slip past my curled fingers to grace my palm. A gasp cuts short in my throat as I chance a glance at Vrana.
“Patience,” he says. I can scarcely make out the word, but do as I'm told. His hand retreats. Inhaling deeply—with only a hint of disgust flitting over my features—I sit back in my seat and return my hand to Sebastian’s arm.
“She’s doing excellent,” Sebastian whispers in my ear.
“She’s being beaten within an inch of her life,” I quip.
“Yes, but look at their faces,” he continues, lips skimming against my earlobe. “They’re enraptured.”
I swallow as he slowly retreats and scan the crowd. They are enraptured. They’re practically foaming at the mouth. Even the Royal Households cannot contain their glee.
The two girls in Count Delacroix’s booth struggle under their restraints. Both lunging and clawing toward the pit. It provides the ancient vampyré with even greater amusement than the others, his attention torn between the fight and the ravenous girls.
The crowd lets out a mighty roar as Lafayette circles the perimeter of the ring. His hands raised to the sky in triumph as Nova kneels in the center. Stalking closer at a leisurely pace, Lafayette’s eyes turn a brilliant scarlet.
“You are pathetic,” he taunts with a sneer curling his upper lip. “You are unworthy to be called vampyré.”
Applause and shouts of encouragement ring throughout the room, but one sound seems to cut through it all.
Nova’s shoulders shake, the action reverberating throughout her entire body. When her head raises to look up at Lafayette, another burst of laughter spills forth from her. Rage settles over Lafayette at the slight, and the crowd goes silent.
He bellows and charges, fist raised and fangs fully extended, but he meets only air. Lafayette turns around sharply, startled to find Nova behind him. She stands back, semihunched and head bowed. Her hands formed into white-knuckled fists.
“Don’t go soft on me now,” she jeers, lifting bloodred eyes to stare the larger man down.
In a blur, they collide together, and though Lafayette lands his blow, it is Nova’s uppercut that changes the tide. Lafayette stumbles, briefly stunned, and Nova attacks. Her fist slams into his kneecap, and Lafayette cries out. Driven by both pain and fury, he lashes out with his arm.
Nova catches it with ease and bends his forearm until is snaps.
The vampyrés go wild. The room echoes with their shouts and cheers as Nova delivers blow after devastating blow. For a second I catch a look of fear on Lafayette’s face—the drawn eyes and gaping mouth—and feel some semblance of pity for the creature. Then it is gone, replaced with cold determination. He leaps at Nova, and they tumble along the ground.
Lafayette’s nails rake down Nova’s side, and she lets loose a howl of pain. With unrestrained violence, she locks one badly injured arm around his back and braces the other under his throat.
“Patience conquers, motherfucker.”
Her snarl resonates across the room as she gives a powerful jerk. Lafayette’s head snaps off in a flood of blood, dousing Nova and spraying the inside of the pit. Everyone erupts into applause as Nova pushes the body to the side and stands. She wipes the blood from her eyes, then licks the residue from her lips.
Adrian raises a hand, silencing the crowd. His eyes, a deeper red than I thought imaginable, flit through the eager faces of the court. Then his lips twist into a smile.
“Welcome back.”
++
A grand celebration is held in the Vrana family’s honor, blut champagner the drink of choice. Thankfully, the traditional, sans blood variety, is available as well for the other supernatural courtiers—sorcerers, shape-shifters, and more among the count.
As sunrise approaches, our party retires to our apartment suite at the far southern end of the vast underground palace. A mousy young boy with a pinched mouth awaits our arrival, standing before a dark door embellished only by a silver raven knocker.
"Your keys, sir." He produces a ring of keys for Vrana. He takes them and the boy scampers away.
"Jax." Vrana gifts the sorcerer with the key set after unlocking the massive door. "Do what magic is necessary to see that we may all access the apartment suite without those, and so no intruders may enter."
"You've got it, boss."
Vrana opens the door with a mighty push.
“Nova, you were spectacular,” Ruby says for the umpteenth time before entering our apartment suite, dragging the fledgling vampyré behind her. Nova returns the compliment with a strained smile, her eyes still bloodshot.
“I’m going to shower, then sleep,” Nova announces before turning tail and zipping away into the apartment suite. How she knows where to go is a mystery to me. I take my time entering, examining the foyer with a keen eye. The walls are decked in wallpaper the color of dark platinum with gleaming silver highlights embossed into the material.
“She’s in a mood,” Jax comments.
“She’ll survive,” Vrana replies. “I suggest everyone get some rest. We have much to discuss on the morrow.”
I arch a brow at his surly tone and share a look with Ruby. She smiles impishly back, waiting until Vrana and Sebastian have retired. I take my time to explore further. Off the foyer to the left is a dining room, and to the right, a tiny kitchenette. At the apartment's nucleus is what can only be described as a great sitting room where all members of the family might gather.
It plays host to a great ebony fireplace, one taller than Ruby. It crackles and spits orange flames high into its spout and fills the room with warmth. The only other light sources offered are oil lamps with outdated lampshades.
Ruby makes herself comfortable on a black leather sofa, while Stormrow adjourns to the built-in bar to pour himself a drink. My eyes sweep the length of the great room, noting the two hallways that peel off from it, perhaps to the bedrooms and washrooms.
"Come sit, Irina" Ruby says. She points to the love seat opposite her couch.
"You'd think Nova would be happier with her win," Jax says.
“You know she's still on blood rations,” Ruby chides.
“Ah.” The sharp scent of scotch is a welcome reprise to my senses as the liquor splashes into Jax's glass. "Anyone else for a nightcap?"
“Yes," I say, waiting until my drink is in my hand to ask my question. “What exactly do you mean by 'blood rations’?”
Jax looks to Ruby who gives a slight raise of her shoulder to his silent request. “Vrana restricts her diet. As far as I know, he gave strict orders regarding how much she is allowed to consume per night.”
“That’s quite cruel.” The scotch burns its way down my throat. It’s strong aroma clearing the last vestiges of blood from my airway.
Ruby gives another shrug, rising gracefully from her seat and stretching. �
�No,” she says plainly. Then, before I can question further, she departs in a whoosh with a wicked smile. I turn to Stormrow.
“Well then, you explain to me how it isn't cruel. The poor girl must be starving.”
Jax chose to sit in one of the two cognac chesterfield chairs placed across from the fireplace. He kicks his feet up onto the matching ottoman. "Surely you can agree that the way she is treated is better than that of those savage children Delacroix keeps as pets, hmm? Vrana is different than the others. He isn't keen on such displays. Nor would he put his family through that kind of torture.”
I'm unconvinced, even though Stormrow's justifications seem passionately given. After all, I know the way in which he treated Nova at the beginning, and that was only a few weeks ago.
“Keep in mind as well that my diet doesn't include blood, so I’m not the right person to ask. I wouldn’t work yourself up over it. Vrana always has his reasons.”
Prague | Winter 1794
Time slipped by without notice. Minutes turned to days. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to years. A decade passed, and Jakob’s sanity hung in the balance.
A torturous routine was cultivated between the brothers—one that took several years to perfect. At dawn, Charles left him sixteen ounces of blood, the morning paper, and a book to read on the top step of the cellar stairway. In the evenings, when Charles returned home, he collected the used objects and spoke with his brother. These chats varied in length, depending on Jakob’s moods.
When the silence between them grew too much, Charles fetched Jakob his second, and final, helping of blood. Another sixteen ounces, this batch warmed briefly over the stove and spiked with wine. It was a mindless ritual they kept, but one that kept them both alive.
Rules dominated their relationship to ensure Charles’s safety—rules that Jakob created and enforced. Without them, his hard-earned control and resolve would crumble. Without them, the hunger would be too great for him to ignore. And Jakob hungered. The rules were as such:
Feedings limited to two, sixteen-ounce portions of blood,
Stimulating materials provided daily,
Restricted access to the household—supervision mandatory upon allowances, and
Confinement to the household at all times.
The rules were paramount, most assuredly so during the first year. But now… now they were the restraints chipping away at his mind. As such, when bouts of claustrophobia brought Jakob to his knees, he bent the rules.
Between midnight and one, he slipped from the house, having learned long ago how to liberate the lock of the cellar door. Often times Jakob would but sit atop the townhouse. He closed his eyes and inhaled the world around him. Though the respiratory act was no longer necessary, it did him no harm to indulge. The streets of Praha at such an hour preached wood-burned smoke for warming houses and the lingering of late-night suppers.
When Jakob could not appease his restless nature, he hunted. Using his supernatural strength, he would leap from rooftop to rooftop, following some delicious scent until it became too much. Jakob had not killed a human, but the vermin and stray mongrels of his fair city did not have such a hold over his conscious.
He stalked through alleyways on the hunt for the darkest corners of the city, and he trailed the sickly-sweet stench of spoiled foods—his preys’ favorite bait.
But Jakob longed for more. He yearned for the light. He yearned for a purpose in his eternal life, for watching his brother’s slow transformation from naive youth to a quality man was like a stab to the heart.
After all, in one year’s time, Charles would have outlived his brother.
++
Prague | Winter 1795
Life went on. No one could stop it. No one could curb its path. Life. Went. On.
Except, death.
Jakob’s unique state of being denied him the pleasure of knowing such release. Instead, he watched with growing resentment as his brother’s life went on.
The passage of time held one positive. Jakob was relocating to a small garden unit apartment three blocks away from his brother’s home. Years of patience had finally paid off. No longer would Jakob have to rely on the kindness of his brother while he dealt with his… malady.
If only the reasons for such a change in scenery were different.
Charles was married.
A chance meeting with a fair young lady had ignited a fierce reaction from the youngest Kysely. His wheat hair was suddenly kept in a neat fashion. His clothes tailored with care. His cutting cheeks kept flushed with delight at the mere thought of her.
How Jakob hated her—Evangeline, the darling girl with her sapphire eyes and ink black hair who simpered and giggled far too much. Jakob’s fangs sank deeper into his prey. His hunger ignited further with each pull of blood. His victim, a fair-haired tom, whimpered in his clutches. Jakob’s grip tightened infinitesimally over its mouth and nose to stifle the noise.
It was the creature's own fault for roaming into Jakob’s path. And tonight… tonight was not a night for Jakob to be tested. The fashionably dressed man squirmed futilely in Jakob’s steel band grasp. No doubt he had been running late to some fanciful party. He must have reasoned the alleyways to be faster. Jakob once had too, and look where that had gotten him.
Jakob pulled away with a gasp, shoving the limp body to the ground.
He licked his lips and pulled the kerchief from his jacket pocket with a satisfied air. He wiped the blood from his chin and savored the unique taste of the man on his tongue. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted before, rich and robust. Clean with the hint of some stimulant ebbing from its flavor. Jakob eyed the young man’s body. A frown forced its way upon his brow.
Rules were meant to be broken.
Chapter 3
Present
Sleep comes far easier than I expect for a full night of being on high alert—though I’m not truly surprised. The watchfulness of both me and my wolf has exhausted us. Upon my head hitting one of the goose-feather pillows, we both knock out.
When I awake, the thought of such constant vigilance dares to weaken my fortitude. I'm ashamed to admit I feel out of my depth. How do I move forward? How do I survive Vrana and the Dark Court? I sink into the bed and toss the pearly white duvet over my head, hoping the furniture swallows me whole.
"You can do this, Irina," I whisper harshly to myself.
All my life I have been shielded from the hardest missions and more dangerous assignments, and now here I am, totally unprepared. I have few advantages, but I'll make them work, somehow. I'll use their perception of me against them. Play the spoiled, cold girl and learn all their weaknesses while they're none the wiser. I'll sniff out some way to get word to my pack—make alliances with other supernaturals here at the Dark Court. And, most importantly, find a way to secure my position here among the Vrana vampyrés.
Stay alive, Xander had said, so I will. But doing so means surviving this hellish court. It means adapting. My wolf growls its agreement, and my resolve hardens once more. I will stay alive.
At least until the pack can find me.
Tossing aside my duvet, I rise from the bed and inspect my quarters more thoroughly after lighting every candle and oil lamp I can find. Does the Dark Court not know about electricity?
Gold trimming lines almost every piece of furniture in the opulent room. Beautiful Turkish blue damask wallpaper decorates the walls, and thick carpet cushions my bare feet. For a moment, I imagine the circumstances are not what they are and merely enjoy the lavish room with its open and airy atmosphere.
It is a welcome reprieve from the dark theme of the foyer and great room.
I slip over to the armoire located near the bedroom door. It is stocked with slinky dresses and lingerie and nothing else.
I scoff and slam the doors shut. Enough exploring. My grumbling stomach agrees. I cast a brief glance at my attire, my undergarments from the night before, and I snatch a robe from the en suite b
athroom before heading to the kitchen. The clock reads six, which gives me roughly an hour before the sun sets and the others awaken.
I find sanctuary in the little kitchen. The fridge is half stocked with perishables, and the few cabinets it possesses holds longer-lasting dry and canned foods. It will do.
“Good morning. Or should I say evening? That seems more appropriate. Good evening, Adolphus.”
So much for enjoying a peaceful breakfast. “Stormrow.”
His hair is mussed from sleep, casting up in several opposing directions. It makes him look boyish, even with his close-shaven beard. Or perhaps it's his eyes that give the effect, their hazel depths filled with mischief.
“Is that coffee I smell?” His nose leads him over to my side, where I stand protectively in front of the coffee maker. “Sharing is caring, or so I’m told.”
I don't bother making a fight of it and step aside. At least I'm not subject to the smell of blood.
“I would hate to be the person to draw such a look on your face,” Stormrow comments as he catches the scowl I shoot toward the built-in bar, readily stocked in both blood and booze.
“Who’s to say it isn’t for you?” I allow my features to smooth over into placidity. “After all, it was your clan who betrayed my pack's allies.”
Stormrow’s typical enthusiasm falls from his face. “If I recall correctly, it was your allies, the Trinity coven, who came to the table with a forgery. At least we delivered.”
“Yes, how could I forget. You delivered half of what you promised.”
“Better half than nothing at all.”
I shrug. The duplicity occurred before my pack and the Trinity coven had officially aligned. My defense of their actions could only go so far.
“I suppose they didn’t like the fact that your clan was working with a vampyré,” I say, voice full of hollow sympathy. “Oops, I mean for a vampyré. What is your exact title? Peon? Lackey? ... Bitch?”
