by Ana Calin
I point to the flat screen. “I stumbled over Dracula, the ‘92 production. I thought I’d watch it, but I must have fallen asleep.”
“You, watching movies in the home cinema?” Mark says, puzzled.
“I told you, I stumbled over that old version of Dracula, it’s priceless. Plus, any other girl would spend half her time in the home cinema, it’s a luxury.”
Mark blinks as if he doesn’t know what hit him. I can tell the other serpents around are in awe as well.
“I’m glad you started to see things that way,” he says. But then he narrows his eyes, sniffing the air around my head. “Have you been drinking, my love? You smell like whiskey.”
A chill runs through me from head to toes.
“I, I, er—” Fuck, I can’t screw this up now. I run my fingers through my hair, looking around as if I’m embarrassed, then lean in even closer to him, so close that my lips almost brush his cheek. I could throw up, but I manage to keep up the act. “I did, in our bathroom, I’d relaxed in the tub before I came here.”
I take his hand, and whisper against his cheek. “But drop it. I don’t want your men thinking I’m a drunkard.”
I take Mark’s hand, using it for support as I get off the couch. I don’t know where to take it from here, but I know I need to bring whiskey into the bathroom before he notices I haven’t drunk any there. But as we pass through the main hall, heading to the grand stairs, I get an idea.
“Now I remember.” I scratch my head and squint my eyes. “I thought I heard something downstairs, that’s why I came to check.”
Mark looks at his men. “There have been guards here the entire time.”
I smile to myself—I know exactly when there weren’t, because that’s how I made it to Tristan’s chamber. Mark has had this hall guarded at all times ever since he forced Tristan to move in, and I’d watched the patterns for days until I finally found the cracks.
“It was at about seven. I heard something like quick, patting steps, really, they were so loud.” I can always argue later that I must have imagined it because of the drink. I point in the direction of his study. “I followed the sounds there, but it was nothing. Then I went to the library, where I stumbled over the Dracula movie.”
Mark became extra alert the moment I pointed to his study. It’s his sacred place, his sanctuary, where he keeps a lot of secret items, documents, weapons.
“Go to our room, Isolde, I’ll be right there.” Then, to his men, “Let’s go.” He leads the way, and my heart jumps in exaltation. I’ll get the few minutes alone that I need.
Lifting the lower part of my robe, I hurry up the stairs to our bedchamber that resembles the chamber of a king. It’s huge, even the doors are almost twice my height. I empty some of the whiskey bottle into the toilet to make it look like I drank more, then pour some in a glass that I then place behind a thick perfumed candle on the margin of the bathtub. That will justify why Mark didn’t see it when he first looked for me. Then I tuck myself into bed, doubling up like I’m suffering from period pain. When I actually get my period, I can always blame it on some kind of hormonal imbalance.
I try to stay relaxed when Mark comes into the room, but my body tenses instinctively. Being alone with him often means I get abused, and tensing has become an automatic reaction. He stops in place, which is never a good sign, and always increases my anxiety.
“Are you feeling better, my love?” My mouth distorts at ‘my love’. That word is a sacrilege in his mouth, considering the things he does to me. Besides, I can hear the suspicion in his voice, and I know that he enjoys making me twitchy.
“The cramps are bad, but they’re getting better if I stay warm.” I make myself even smaller under the comforter. Mark goes to the bathroom, surely to check for the whiskey, probably finds it, and returns, only to stand behind me.
I can feel his eyes on me, and he knows it. My jaw clenches so hard that my teeth crunch. I curse myself inwardly, because I know he can hear it.
He approaches, my heart beating harder as the mattress dips under his weight. He crawls to me over the bed, his slimy mouth touching my ear.
“Who do you think you’re fooling,” he breathes, his forked tongue slipping out of his mouth to my earlobe. My skin creases at his snake touch. “You forget that I can smell blood, my love? I usually know you’re getting your period days before the cramps.”
My jugular pulses like crazy. He breathes in theatrically.
“Mhm, fear.” His hand crawls under the comforter, cupping my hip hard. But I’ll be damned if I give him satisfaction this time. I clench my teeth, press my eyes shut, and force myself to go on with the strategy I’ve chosen.
“All I know is that my lower belly is killing me.” I touch his cold hand with mine, pushing it to my lower back. “Actually, a massage would do me good.”
He freezes. The bastard can’t believe this is happening—me, not being afraid of him. For the first time ever since I first lay eyes on him at that hotel in Bucharest, I feel a small surge of power. I push my butt toward him, nudging.
“Please—husband.”
He starts massaging my lower back. I can barely repress my disgust, but then I close my eyes and think of Tristan. I imagine it’s his hand kneading my body, his skin on mine.
“Good to see you’re enjoying this,” Mark says.
“Mhm.”
His hand slips lower, pushing between my butt cheeks. My eyes snap open. No. No. No.
“Mark, I’m in pain.”
To my relief he stops, and removes his hand. I pray to God that he doesn’t take his clothes off, because that would mean he’s going to take me despite my protest. Serpents don’t sleep, so there’s no other reason why he’d get naked by the bed.
But what he does is walk away and pour himself a glass of whiskey.
“I have been very busy these past few days, and we never got the chance to talk about it, but—” he sips. “How well do you know Tristan DeKnight, Isolde?”
I turn to look at him, much to Mark’s surprise. I usually go out of my way to avoid seeing him. His suit jacket and his shirt are open, revealing his hairless, flat, long torso that glistens with a film of slime in the moonlight. I swallow down the disgust.
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing,” I say with all the casual confidence I can muster. I rest my pillow against the headboard, and then lean with my back against it, facing Mark from a sitting position.
“All I knew before he came here was that he was Vlad Dracula’s right hand—or left hand, as Juliet once told me. He was born and raised in the order of the assassins, and he’s been trained in blade fighting since he was two years old.”
“You weren’t introduced to him at your sister’s wedding?”
I shake my head. “Not even at Vlad Dracula’s wedding to Ruxandra, a few days later. He was head of security, always on call, and he never mingled with the attendees. I rarely even saw him around.”
“So a few days ago at the party he just walked up to you and introduced himself?”
Damn it. This was a trap. I try hard to keep cool, but my hands have clamped under the comforter.
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me more about him,” I try to turn the tables. “Seems you and Tristan have a far more interesting history with each other than him and me.”
Mark sips whiskey, looking at me over the glass, his serpent eyes simmering with devilry.
“Yes, as a matter of fact we do. Back when I was the Devil’s Son’s henchman, I tortured Tristan DeKnight.” He says that full of relish, resting against the window frame and pushing his free hand into the pocket of his slacks. “He was human, a teenager, but arrogant enough to think he could pick on the serpents. The assassins were growing bolder in their attacks on supernaturals at the time, because they’d had a few successful missions, but then they started to make mistakes. They began sending their young and reckless assassins against us. You must understand, the assassins had to learn somehow.” That look
in his eyes, the bastard is self-righteous about this.
“The Devil’s Son ordered me to make an example of Tristan DeKnight, and I never regretted it. Especially because it worked.” He leans forward and marks his words, making sure that he creates a clear picture in my head.
“After I whipped him, I left him on the dais to bleed to death. I’d given him a hundred lashes. The prick fainted at the seventieth. He swore he wouldn’t show his pain before we began, but, ah, you should have heard him scream, Isolde. Every time the lash ripped through his white, taut, pretty boy flesh he’d arch, stiffen, and cry out.”
I look away before he can see my tears. Tristan, the beautiful knight who’s shown me kindness, being whipped to death by this brute. Mark knows me well enough by now to realize what his description is doing to me, and he continues, walking over like he’s prancing on a fucking catwalk.
“But it was an act of co-creation, Isolde, I assure you. That boy and I created something truly beautiful. Look at me!”
My head snaps up. Of course, the fucking devil wants to see the pain in my face. If he can’t give it to my body, then he’ll give it to my soul. He looks up and runs his hand through the air from left to right as if he’s reading an enormous headline.
“Assassin bleeds for days in a raided village. We ravaged the village he was hiding in, because the inhabitants were supporting the assassins. Nobody gave them shelter since, I assure you. Anyway, by the time Vlad Dracula, King of Vampires, found the boy, the ravens had already eaten from his wounds. I heard that brought him back to consciousness, so he felt the pain.”
My heart twists in my chest. “Stop, please.”
“Why, Isolde? It’s a story with a happy end, just wait for it. Lord Dracula found him, you know that already. I think normally he would have taken the boy down and let his vampires feast on him, but there was something about the scene that brought back memories, personal memories that ran deep. The sight reminded him of himself. He’d also been whipped to the bone once, so he took pity on the boy. Turned him into a vampire.” He grins with double meaning. “And now pretty prince Tristan DeKnight even has the chance to take revenge. Because I will give him that chance, I promise you.”
Keeping control is very hard. I could spew a volley of insults at him, but instead I’m kneading my own hands under the comforter. I stare straight into Mark’s face, the tears that pooled in my eyes swelling out and falling down my cheeks.
“Oh, so beautiful,” he whispers. He’s always loved to see me cry, and he’s always gone as far as necessary to cause me to. He stares without blinking at my suffering face, feeding on it.
“Pain is so beautiful, sweet Isolde. It is the essence of human nature, you see. It’s what makes humans human—their ability to suffer. You know, there are experts who say that’s how you measure whether a creature should be treated with compassion or not. They say you only have to ask yourself one question—can this creature suffer? Because, you see, suffering is the most precious feeling. It’s what connects you to your basest instincts, suffering is the place where people truly become themselves. This, right here, Isolde, is the real you. It’s even more real than your skin.”
He slowly wipes a tear off my face with his finger, and licks it. He rolls his eyes in delight, his lips parting as he abandons himself to the sensation. “The taste of compassion. Exquisite. Did I ever tell you I could taste people’s emotion from their tears? Yes, it’s what got me interested in suffering in the first place. Oh, look how I’m opening up. You’re so good at this, no wonder I fell in love with you.”
I want to scream at him how much I hate him, but I’m too afraid of the repercussions. I’m a coward, because he’s an expert at giving pain. He always gives me just a little bit more than I can take, raising the level of what I can put up with every time, so that he can keep increasing the intensity with each session.
“I was six, playing, when I discovered this inclination. It was the Middle Ages, you know, axe throwing was considered an acceptable pastime for children. And what better way to practice on living targets than practicing on animals. But the cat I had chosen from a distance had an owner, an old widowed lady, whose five sons were all at war. The cat was all she had, and well, she broke down after the creature fell dead from the barrel. That was the first glimpse I got of the authentic human soul, of how it bares itself in the face of suffering like a beautiful maiden losing all her clothes, like Venus herself emerging from a dusty, chapped shell. Nothing is more human than pain, Isolde. I stood fascinated, I got high on the experience. But after a while the effect wore off, and I craved for more—like any addict, I admit.”
“You are a born henchman,” I say through my teeth, saliva pooling at the edges of my mouth, my cheeks burning from everything I feel inside—anger, hurt, the need to pour his own poison down his throat.
“Let me tell you a secret, Isolde, from husband to wife.” He bends close and touches his lips to my ear gently. It’s actually barely a touch, it’s like the brush of a wet snail. “I’m not done with the boy yet. By the time this is over, I’ll make Tristan DeKnight bare his true soul—not to me, but to himself. I promise you, the vampire assassin will know a whole new level of misery. I will make of him my masterpiece.”
CHAPTER V – Saving Isolde
Tristan
MARK SERPAINT CONDUCTS his business in this town from an obscure strip club by the sea. The place seems carved into the limestone slope, its terrace overlooking the sea. This place has been abandoned for years, and it’s falling apart from neglect, but it doesn’t matter, because clients are only interested in what’s inside.
“You like the girls, Tristan?” Serpaint calls at me over the music. “Or do you prefer vampiresses, like many of your kind? I heard most vampires see human women only as food, falling in love with them is almost like falling in love with your pet. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“So you wouldn’t like to fuck one of the girls? No taking their blood, though, they’re making us good money here.”
“I’m good, thank you.”
The red lights slink around the club, Serpaint’s corner seeming a big leather cocoon from where he presides over the girls turning and twisting around poles. All that covers them are sparkling stars on their nipples, and thongs.
The scent of their blood and sweat wafts over to me, and my nostrils flare. I haven’t hunted in days now, I’m gonna have to find release. I glance around—Serpaint’s men have the most mouth-watering scents in here, not to mention that his own scent makes me want to rip his throat open. Despite the way I hate him—or maybe because of it—I can imagine feeding on him like a beast, hurting him and drinking him at the same time. Maybe because of all the power in his blood.
“Okay, now I’m even more curious about your sex life.”
“What’s so interesting about my sex life?” I throw over my shoulder.
“You’re being secretive about it, and that compels.” I glance at him, and he grins knowingly. “But you know that.”
I return my attention to the club, my eyes rapidly assessing the people. They’re all human besides Serpaint’s guards, who are all at and around this table. Even the two big bouncers outside are fully human. They clearly have military training but are, still, only men.
Serpaint moves closer and puts a long, alien-like hand on my shoulder. “You know, there’s a reason why I’m asking all this.” His eyes dart over to the bar where Soraya sits, his serpent assistant. “I think she’s into you.”
Indeed, she looks my way from the bar, smiling. She has very white and very big teeth, looking alien-like with her physique that’s specific to serpents. She’s wearing a tight green outfit that covers her from throat to ankle, singling her out as someone who is to be respected, not hit on. Her dyed black hair is now loose, but still doesn’t balance out her too-long face, and she’s wearing tons of makeup. Seems she’s the matron of this place.
“I’ve been looking for a worthy man for her for a l
ong time,” Mark says as I’m studying the woman that I intend to make him fall in love by using the potion.
“Maybe you and her would make a good couple,” he continues, “especially considering the difficulties between my people and yours. It could be a strategic alliance, like back in our time, when rivaling kings had their relatives marry to secure peace and joint dominance over territories.”
I look him straight in the face and raise an eyebrow. “Really? You’re thinking about marriage, no less?”
He shrugs and puts his hands up as if displaying his innocence. “You can take her for a test drive, I don’t mind.”
“Sir,” one of the serpents intervenes. “He’s here.”
All eyes turn to a heavyset man with a beard and thick black curly hair, throwing money at a dancing blonde, and acting like he owns the place. Serpaint raises two fingers like a king, and his men grab the guy just as he’s about to get a lap dance, escorting him over. They invite him to take a seat opposite from us.
The guy doesn’t seem intimidated. If anything, he’s pissed. From the corner of my eye I spot a retinue of tattooed men in jeans and leather heading over, which means he’s someone with power, someone with people to back him up.
“You have guts, Serpaint,” the man says with hostility. He’s either a big somebody in this town, or he’s plainly an imbecile, treating Mark like an equal. “I sold you this place, and now you treat me like this?” He jolts forward and holds up a chubby finger with a thick golden ring in Mark’s face. “Lemme tell you something then, I don’t like half the stuff you’re doing with it. You’re giving me trouble with old clients. They say you’ve replaced their dealers, and even introduced some new powder that does whacky shit to people.”
“It loosens their tongue, that’s what it does,” Mark replies, relaxed.
The guy waves his chubby finger in Mark’s face. I barely repress a smile. I can tell the serpent fucking hates it, and I wonder when he’s going to snap. That will tell me a whole lot about his weaknesses.
