The Veiled Series Collection

by Stacey Rourke

  “History calls Vlad the Impaler.” Tour Guide Barbie beamed as if her face was frozen that way. “In reality, he was the ruler of Wallachia—a region of Romania. It was his job to protect his people from the Ottoman Empire. And, I don’t mean the furniture, folks. This isn’t a Disney movie.”

  The people clustered in the tent chuckled, while the triplet I now knew as Elodie huffed her contempt.

  “Let them make a joke like that about Christians and the streets would run red with blood,” she grumbled, tossing glossy black bangs from her eyes.

  Hmmm … was that a hint of dissention in the ranks? Seems to me someone needs to fan the flames of those smoldering embers of contempt.

  As we continued our march, the tour guide’s droning faded behind us. “Here, we have the clay goblet from which Vlad drank the blood of the demon, Orlok, which led to him rising as history’s very first vampire.”

  “Check out the human getting the Donator Tresâ.” I jerked my chin toward a brunette seated in the booth we were sauntering past. “Think she has any idea what that actually means?”

  Perched on a high stool, the girl in question held perfectly still while a thin strip of black leather was braided into the hair at her right temple by nimble vamp fingers. At the end of the decoration, a lone raven feather was fixed to swing just above her shoulder blade.

  “Are you kidding?” Elodie mused with a humorless laugh, her thin lips pinched tight. “To her, that’s just a pretty accessory to show her support for a cause she couldn’t begin to understand.”

  “Where as those of us who have taken the time to educate ourselves know that the Donator Tresâ was a symbol of the Wallachia people after Vlad’s transformation,” Micah interjected, critical gaze fixed on the demonstration. “It showed their support for the yolk he took up to protect them all. By wearing it, they were offering up their blood to help fuel his immortal conquest to protect them. I wonder if the vamp performing it knows the curve of the feather is supposed to point in toward the jugular. Or, doesn’t she care to offer authenticity to a sorority girl that is probably just here in search of a sparkly Cullen she can bang?”

  Slim upper body swiveling in Micah’s direction, genuine appreciation softened Elodie’s critical features. “See? That is exactly what I mean. If you’re going to be an activist, at least take the time to educate yourself. Otherwise, you come across as a dumbass following the crowd like brainless cattle. You’re pretty okay for a human.”

  Pretty okay.

  It was far from a standing ovation, but we eagerly took it as a foothold in the ladder of Nosferatu acceptance that would elevate us to the answers we needed.

  From the curbside, a helmet-haired reporter spoke directly into a camera with all that was unfolding in this ground-breaking movement. “Capitalizing on mainstream media, the Nosferatu community has used their visibility to call what is estimated to be over a million and a half bodies out to support their cause. Spear-headed by Rau Mihnea, the purpose of this march is to end widespread discrimination—including demolishing current legislation which excuses hate crimes against undead Americans. Their goal today is to build and invigorate local and national support for the Nosferatu Presumption of Innocence Bill. Look for the NPI Bill on our ballot this November.”

  A shiver prickled down my spine at the idea of the bill passing. Vampire teachers, doctors, and local officials. Might as well set fire in the streets and watch the world burn. Disguising my physical reaction as a casual toss of my hair, I offered a tight-lipped smile to the white boy triplet, Thomas, who was staring intently in my direction.

  Before he could return the acknowledgment in anyway, a series of pops crackled through the street. Chaos erupted. People shrieked, diving for cover. Duncan was on Rau in a blur of inhuman speed. Forcing the vampire lord’s head down, he ushered him toward the nearest building, using his own mammoth frame as a shield. Thomas and Elodie vanished into the frantic masses, on desperate search for … something. Even then, I had no idea what was happening.

  The sound of gunfire was unfamiliar in my Ivy League world.

  My gaze was still rolling over the crashing waves of the sea of bodies in search for clues or explanations, when Carter’s frantic pleas cut through my mental fog. “Vinx! Vincenza! I need help. We’re losing her!”

  Brow puckered with confusion, my head seemed to turn in slow motion in the midst of a fast-forward scene. Micah was slumped on the ground, her head cradled in Carter’s lap. Skin drained ashen, her teeth chattered as shock set in. Tilting my head, I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing. The thick weave of her coat had changed colors, morphing from cloudy gray to sticky crimson. Blood. So much blood. A pool of it seeping out around them from a crater of torn tissue and mangled flesh pulsating in Micah’s chest. Pushing his hands down hard against the wound, Carter tried unsuccessfully to slow its demanding gush.

  In the distance, sirens wailed.

  “Bullets. That noise was gunfire.” Stumbling forward a step, my feeble mind whirred to catch up.

  “Yes! Those were bullets. And this is a bullet hole! Now help me, damn it!” Carter shrieked, the tendons of his neck bulging.

  “Is this your human?” a vampress asked. Brushing past me, she knelt beside Micah and took her hand. Ginger waves cascaded down her back, her expression soft and serene as she checked for a pulse.

  “She’s my … Micah,” I rasped.

  “I hate to tell you this,” brushing away a braid that had fallen in Micah’s face, the vampress glanced my way with what appeared to be genuine sorrow, “but your Micah will be dead before an ambulance can arrive. If she ever expressed desire to be changed, you need to do it now or it will be too late.”

  “Can you do that?” Carter asked, his tortured expression pleading for confirmation.

  “I-I don’t know,” I stammered, my inoperative heart shattering under the weight of my own inadequacy.

  “Of course, she can,” the helpful vamp intervened on my behalf. “And I will walk her through the process.”

  “My blood!” I erupted, the realization slamming into me. “I can heal her!”

  Staring into Micah’s stilling face, the undead good Samaritan shook her head. “It’s too late for that. She’s too far gone. Your only choices now are to turn her, or let her pass.”

  “The ambulance can’t get through,” a random bystander shouted. “There’s too many people.”

  Voice dropping to a desperate plea, I beseeched the fanged predator currently playing Florence Nightingale to my friend. “I’ve never had a progeny before. Please … you do it.”

  Whispers rippled through the crowd—judging all aspects of my looming failures, no doubt. From my potentially fatal hesitancy, to the act of making a life altering decision for another person.

  The vampress peered my way. Alabaster skin glowing under the street lights, she closer resembled an angel than a creature of the night. “This sweet child deserves a sire that loves and cares for her. Not an eternal bond to a stranger. If she is to be granted rebirth, honor her with your bite and blood.”

  “Vinx, please. She’s so cold.” Carter’s voice broke with emotion, Micah’s blood smeared across his cheek where he had wiped away a rogue tear.

  I’d like to say it was a complex reasoning that drove my leaden feet forward. The truth was far more humble. I had lost so many people I loved, I couldn’t lose another. She may wake and hate me forever, but she would wake.

  Falling to my knees beside her, I let my fangs lengthen from my gum line and tenderly wove my fingers into the thick ropes of her hair.

  Tipping her head back with care, I bowed my head to whisper against her cheek, “I’m so sorry, Mics.”

  Further words failing me, I squeezed my eyes shut on a rush of blood-tinged tears and sank my fangs into her fading pulse. Struggling not to gag on the metallic warmth that exploded in my mouth, I swallowed hard to f
orce it down. A simple taste, enough to meld our life forces, did the job. Pulling back, I dragged one lengthened fang over my wrist and split the skin in a cerise gash. Enveloped in my embrace, I held Micah against my chest and eased ruby droplets over her graying lips. Holding her tight, I waited for her heart to slow … and everything to change.

  Chapter Eight

  Experiment Day 94: Cause

  Observation – The active acquisition of information.

  Leather bound books were splayed across the dining room table in a stifling forest of knowledge. Legs curled under me, I plucked another cutlet strip from the platter at my elbow and plopped it on my tongue while trying to make sense of the letters blurring before my sleepy eyes.

  A ceramic mug thumped down on the table beside me, balanced between Micah’s splayed fingers. In her opposite hand, she cradled a mug of her own, the steam from her tea tickling over her cheeks as she sipped from the rim. “Drink that. You look like death, and not in the spry, reanimated way.”

  Mouth swinging open in a wide maw, the yawn that escaped me tittered on the brink of record-breaking. My lips closed in a series of noisy smacks, and I peered up into the face of my torturer. “Not actually being a vampire, the fact that you’re insisting I get on their sleep schedule borders on cruel and unusual punishment.”

  Over the months that had passed, Micah and I settled into what had once been my family home. A fact which sounded far more macabre than it was. On the outside, the craftsman bungalow was the same sanctuary I sought refuge in since I was a little girl. Inside, everything was unrecognizable from what it used to be.

  That was a concept I could relate to.

  Setting her mug on the table, Micah pulled her braids from her face and secured them on top of her head with a stretched-out hair tie. “Because, outside of these walls you’re a vampire. That ruse would be far less convincing if you were spotted walking to the local coffee shop at two in the afternoon not engulfed in flames.”

  “I know your mouth is moving, but all I heard was ‘Yadda-yadda-yadda, I’m the sleep Nazi’.”

  “There’s nothing more pathetic than the pouting undead,” she lobbed back.

  “Your face is pathetic,” I grumbled, only to immediately be struck by a guilty wave of female solidarity. “That’s not true. Your face is lovely. It’s your personality that sucks.”

  “Remember when you first changed and were emotionally crippled?” Mics asked. Snatching a tissue from the box on the counter, she dabbed at her nose, careful of her hoop. “Moments like this make me miss those days.”

  With a huff of laughter, I tossed back a swig from my mug. The moment the lukewarm concoction flooded my mouth, my face crumbled in disgust. Choking it down, I dragged my tongue over the roof of my mouth to try and wipe away the haunting taste. “Ugh! Did you mix human blood into my bovine again?”

  Easing into her seat, Micah pulled a thick text with a tattered crimson cover toward her and flipped open its dusty cover. “I did, and I will continue to do so. You have to be able to stomach blood. There’s no such thing as a vegan vamp.”

  “I can stomach blood! Pigs, cows, deer—all yummy. That’s why we keep that stockpiled in the fridge. Mixing human into it is like frosting a cake with unsweetened baking chocolate and expecting me not to notice. Can’t miss the ick!”

  Dropping the leather-bound book into her lap, Micah shriveled me with a glare. “We plan to inject you right into the belly of the beast. You will be completely surrounded and far enough into their world that no one will be able to help you. In that deep, what do you think would happen if they so much as suspected you weren’t one hundred percent vampire?”

  I weighed her words for a beat, my fingernail clicking against the handle of the mug. Finding this to be an argument I could never win, I scooped up my grisly cocktail and drained it in a gulp. I met Micah’s stare across the table, denying myself even a hint of a grimace.

  “Good girl.” Adjusting her glasses, Micah returned her attentions to the books.

  “Don’t think this is the last time I contest this issue, if for no other reason than my enjoyment of how your nostrils twitch when you’re annoyed.”

  Micah’s chestnut gaze flicked my way over the lavender frame of her glasses. “Isn’t that a constant state I’m in since we moved in together?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t love me.” I tsked, clucking my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  Grabbing her tea, she indulged herself in another slow sip. “I’d love you more if you would study, like you’re supposed to.”

  Elbows on the table, I dragged my hands over my face, my hope being the mountain of books would miraculously disappear. No such spectacular phenomenon occurred. “I took a college course on the history of Modernism and Postmodernism in Eastern Europe before I was turned. That was like a raunchy Jackie Collins novel compared to this. Why do I have to know every subtle fact, figure, nuance, and oddity of vampire history? I mean, I haven’t met a ton of vamps, but the few I’ve encountered weren’t exactly road scholars.”

  “They were lawless thugs. You need to be able to rub elbows with politicians without making an ignorant comment that insults their entire system of beliefs.” Closing the book, Micah slid it across the table to my growing pile. “That’s a good one. It has some solid information about vampires during the Age of Enlightenment which, from what I can gather, was Mardi Gras for blood suckers.”

  “Vampire sacraments, testaments from those fortunate few who walked beside Vlad.” I flipped through the musty pages, scanning for crucial details until I went cross-eyed. Which didn’t take long. “Basically, I’m prepping for vampire catechism.”

  Shuffling through the mess of papers and books, Micah decided on a small, blue leather bound. “I wouldn’t know. I’m Buddhist.”

  My shoulders lifted in a befuddled shrug. “Then the Buddhist equivalent. What would that be? Like jolly bellies and elves?”

  Shaking her head, Micah didn’t even bother to look up. “You’re thinking of Santa, not Buddha. That’s offensive as all shit. I’m getting you a whole other set of books to educate your dumb ass when we’re done here. Ow! Fuck!”

  While the taste for human blood didn’t appeal to me, its smell still riled the creature within. Pupils dilating, my head snapped up. My gaze fixed on the rubies budding from the tiny slice in Micah’s fingertip.

  “You okay?” I asked, wetting my suddenly parched lips.

  “Yeah, stupid paper cut,” she grumbled, popping her finger in her mouth to clean it off.

  “C-can I try something?” I tentatively ventured, rubbing my hands up and down the thighs of my black leggings. “A little experiment?”

  “Who am I to hinder science?” she mused, head tilting with interest.

  My chair squeaked across the hardwood floors as I pushed back from the table. “Fangs in the room, don’t freak out,” I warned, my incisors stretching from my gums.

  “We share a bathroom. I’ve watched you floss. Why would I freak out?” Micah scowled, lips twisting to the side. Freeing her hair from its tie, she soothed her braids over one shoulder.

  “Besides the panicked endorphin rush I can smell whenever I show fang? How about you instinctively covering your scars whenever I get a little long in the tooth?” Squatting down beside her, I extended my hand for her injured finger. “I know there are some wounds that can never heal, but you should know I would never hurt you. Like it or not, you’re all I’ve got now, Mics.”

  Tensed muscles relaxing a fraction of a degree, Micah offered me her hand.

  “Thank you. Now, all I’m going to do is … devour your soul!” I hissed in the most God awful pantomimed snarl ever attempted.

  Micah blinked in my direction. “You’re an ass.”

  “True story.” Bringing my own finger to my fang, I ground it into the point of my tooth until blood burst from my sk
in.

  Micah winced, retracting her hand slightly.

  “I just want to see if I can heal you,” I explained.

  Her hand returned in silent submission to science.

  Gently cradling her hand, I coaxed a drop of my blood into her shallow cut. Not sure how the process worked, I massaged it in for good measure. Under the scrutiny of our stares, the slice vanished.

  “It worked!” I beamed, grinning up at my flabbergasted friend. “Which apparently, you did not expect.”

  “No … I didn’t … it couldn’t,” Micah oh-so-eloquently stammered. “I didn’t expect your blood to be such a close replica for the real thing. It’s astounding.”

  “Do you think I could change someone?” I whispered, as if the walls would tattle my query to the outside world.

  Shoving her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose, Micah swiveled her legs my way and peered down at her blemish-free finger. “Scientifically speaking, if your blood can mimic healing properties of this magnitude, likelihood is high that this would carry over into the regeneration necessary to sire someone.”

  Pushing off the floor, I paced to the far side of the dining room. As I gnawed on my lower lip, a taboo idea formed on my tongue with an acidic sting. “My parents were preparing you for the serum. You had to be mentally preparing yourself for it. Is this what you want? Do you … want me to change you? Or, try to at least?”

  A moment passed in silence.

  Pushing her braids back, Micah exposed the lacework pattern of her scars. With one finger, she delicately traced over each of the violent slashes and punctures. “There was a time when I wanted that power and strength more than anything. I never again wanted to enter a room and feel vulnerable or afraid. I didn’t want to have to glance over my shoulder in parking lots every time I heard footsteps. I longed … for a life without fear. But, you know what? That doesn’t exist. I look at all you’re going through and I see how terrified you are of yourself. You shrink when your fangs drop unexpectedly. I watch you cut and prepare your food to look like delectable sushi platters and not the raw meat your body sings for.”