Dark Craving_A Watchers Novella

by Veronica Wolff

  I wrench free, feeling hair tear from my scalp. I reach behind me, pushing her back. The motion sends a fresh curtain of blood spilling down my back. She sucks in a quick breath, stepping close again, and touches me tenderly above my wound. There is no parting us.

  “You’ll have to go through me,” I say. The handle of my weapon is warm in my palm, like a living thing. An extension of me, of us.

  He darts a hand out around me, snatching at her, and I crack the urumi, slashing down. The metal sings as it whips through the air toward him. I step back to twirl it up and then down again, one fluid movement. Sketching an X in the air, I sever the hand from his arm.

  The impact shoots my broken rib deeper into my flesh, and a great sound escapes me, a battle cry that is my defiance.

  As he stares at the stump of his arm, his expression of shocked disbelief twists, sharpens. It becomes one of wrath. He leaps at me, a savage, slavering, wordless thing, but I’ve whipped the urumi around him and snagged his chest. He staggers, and it jolts the weapon from my grip, sending a shock up my arm. Deep in my body, broken bone grazes something vital, and I stumble, too, pitching sideways and hitting his desk, sending papers flying. Blackness beckons, my vision gray and spotty.

  But Annelise is completely focused. She prowls toward him—she’s the one stalking now. “Looks like I’ve got the upper hand, Master Dag.” She kicks his hand aside from where it’d fallen to the floor. “Get it? Hand?” She lunges and strikes.

  This time I hear sizzling as her strange blade slices his arm, his back. She’d missed his heart, and yet he screeches—a monstrous, unearthly sound—and drops to his knees. Howling, he wrenches his body, trying to pat at his smoldering wounds. The room stinks of sulfur and rot.

  She gives the knife a little toss to her hand, reseating the weapon in her palm. “Sorry, I know how you hate my jokes.”

  I see her blade clearly now. A long, thin dagger, beautifully crafted—it feels as old at this island.

  Dagursson sees it, too. It’s all he sees. “No,” he whispers. “How could this be?”

  “They say you Vikings like a good death.” She squats and wraps an arm around him, forming a surreal tableau. Her eyes are fevered. She’s a goddess of fire and rage and madness. “Ready for yours?”

  Like a creature enthralled, Dagursson is frozen in place, tracking the weapon as she raises her arm, dagger aimed at his heart. He’s murmuring something in a guttural language I don’t recognize. It has the cadence of a prayer.

  She’s about to strike. There’s a loud click. We all freeze. The sound has come from inside the wall, and it echoes, reverberating around us. It’s followed by a great moaning—the low, haunting groan of wood—as one edge of Dagursson’s bookcase shifts away from the wall.

  A hidden passage. We are transfixed. It creaks open.

  Annelise’s arm is suspended in midair. Dagursson is hunched and twitching, a creature melting in acid. And me? My mouth is agape.

  Because standing before us, tall and proud, is my sister. My Charlotte.

  “You?” I whisper. Have I died? Is this a hallucination? My sister come to take me to the other side?

  But Charlotte—bored, annoyed—looks only at Dagursson. “Do I have to do everything, Alrik?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Annelise demands. She’s standing now, tense with anger.

  It means my sister isn’t an apparition.

  I can barely breathe through my pain. I find my voice between quick, panting gasps. “Could it really be you?”

  A foxlike smile curves her mouth as she spots me and prowls toward me. She’s in modern street clothes, looking long and sleek and gray. “Look at you, Ro. All grown up.” Her eyes rove my broken body. “And I see you’re still trying to kill yourself.”

  “You’re here,” I repeat, mesmerized. Then I laugh, a giddy, childish sound. “You’re here.”

  “You know this person?” Annelise blurts. I feel her gaze burning into me but can’t tear my eyes from Charlotte for fear she might disappear again.

  “Yes, I’m here. I’ve been here. Why do you think you’re still alive?” She looks back to Dagursson and sighs heavily. “Bugger all. Look at this mess. How did you manage to do this? You always were a pain, little sport.”

  “Help me.” Dagursson moans and reaches for Lottie. “Feed me.”

  “You’ve been with Dagursson, all this time?” I try to stand upright, but my own bone stabs me from within. I bite back a cry, gritting my teeth, grasping for clarity. “I don’t understand. How are you alive?”

  “Alive? Not quite.” Charlotte grins, baring gleaming fangs. She hisses at me. When I flinch, she breaks into bright, tinkling laughter—it’s the sound of a young girl, a sound I remember. She dabs an eye. “Oh, Ro, for chrissake. Shut your mouth before you catch something in it. You look like a sodding daftie.” She paces a circle around the dying vampire, huddled into a shrinking mass on the carpet. “Of course I’m alive. Do you really think I’d let some delinquent from suburban…I don’t know”—she waves a hand—“wherever that girl was from…do you really think I’d let someone like that kill me?”

  “Ronan,” Annelise says sharply. I tear my eyes from my sister, and what I see kicks me in the chest. Fury but also—thrillingly—jealousy make Ann’s eyes glow. “Who is this girl?”

  Charlotte swivels her gaze slowly, languorously, toward Annelise, perusing her as though assessing a cut of meat. For the first time since she appeared, true fear prickles the back of my neck.

  A sharp crack of a laugh escapes Lottie. “Oh! I know who you are. You’re the girl my brother’s in love with.”

  Annelise pins me with her eyes, part shocked, part flustered. “You’re in…? She’s what…?” She looks back to Char. “This is your sister?”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m relieved she chose not to address the love part of that equation.

  Charlotte nods. “Can’t you see the resemblance? Though I got all the brains in the family. Ronan here…he’s just the troublemaker.” She squats and traces the hair from Dagursson’s brow. “I’ll never guess how you managed this. Now I’ll have to feed the old sot myself.”

  “What are you doing helping Dagursson?” I ask.

  “I’m not helping anybody. Alrik here is helping me. I’m having him trace our lineage.” She strides to the sofa, pulls off a pillow, and systematically shreds the case into strips. “I won’t let you kill him, you know. He’s the keeper of the lore. He knows all the genealogies. The family trees. Our family tree. We’re of powerful stock, you and I. Descended from druids and seers, we are. But first thing’s first: Lift your arms, little man,” she says, standing before me once more. I do as she says, and she begins to wrap my bare chest tight. “Though I guess I can’t call you ‘little man’ anymore, can I? You’ve been working out.” She lightly smacks my bare chest and shoots Annelise a grin. “I’ll bet you like the view, don’t you?”

  “I don’t like that he’s injured, no,” Annelise says, but her cheeks have turned crimson. I lose myself for a moment, watching her, transfixed by what is a visual symphony of expressions moving across her face. She won’t meet my eye.

  Lottie laughs and ties off my binding with a sharp tug, slamming me back into reality.

  I shoot her a glare. “Easy, Char.”

  “Don’t be a baby.” She pats my cheek. “Just think how bad this would be if you were a normal man. But you’re not normal, Ronan.” Her hands slide to my shoulders, gripping tightly. “And you’re not just a Tracer, either. You’re a pure-blooded Celt.”

  She wanders back to Dagursson, standing over him. We all study him—he’s twitching now, a sizzling, melting mass on the floor, barely alive. “Bloody hell,” she mutters, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll stain my shirt.”

  “How did you even get this way?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “I told you. He turned me.”

  “You just…asked him?”

  “Don’t be daft. I tricked him.” She nudges the va
mpire with a toe of her pointed boots. “Old boys like Dag here think females are dumb. That we should be seen and not heard, all that nonsense. I like to think I enlightened him.”

  “How?” Annelise asks, sounding a bit in awe.

  Lottie hitches a thumb my way. “You know how he’s got his special talent? Well, I have talents, too.” She sees my surprise and laughs. “That’s right, Ro. I never told you. You’re the idiot who tells everyone everything. I never told anyone. I convinced Alrik to turn me, and then, uh-oh, guess who’s the strong one now?” She laughs, and she might as well have been giving a football replay for all her casual calm. “He might be a Viking, but we’ve got the old blood. The Celts were here first, Ronan. Who else do you think made the first vampire, if not the Druids? We’re way more powerful than any Viking or Spaniard or whatever.” She waves it away. “We’re wasting time. We need to get out of here before this stench travels and his lackeys come running. I’m so not in the mood.”

  Charlotte is alive, I’m injured, and Annelise is watching me with an expression that says she’s not forgotten the whole I’m-in-love-with-her bit. Assassination can wait.

  “Fine.” I reach out my hand, and Ann’s fingers twine through mine. My heart swells, my eyes only for her as I say, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Charlotte shoulders between us with a smirk. “Sorry, little brother. Where we’re going, there’s no room for baggage.”

  “Baggage?” Annelise says sharply.

  “Ann is no baggage,” I say calmly. I know both women, and I’d like to stop this whole standoff before it snowballs out of control.

  Charlotte sighs. “Spare me the love-struck drama. If you need the girl to live, fine. But I’m no babysitter. Your girl stays here.” She squats beside Dagursson. “I’ll have enough drama sorting this mess out.”

  My eyes are glued to Annelise as I say, “I’m not going anywhere without her.”

  “I’ve had quite enough of that, Ro. Now just shut up and—”

  “You don’t order me around. I’m not twelve anymore, Lottie.”

  “Do not call me that.” She scowls and shudders. “Fine, you’re”—she pauses briefly—“nineteen now, is it?” She hoists Dagursson to his feet, looking at me with an expectant look. “Well? Are you going to help me with this or not?”

  “What are you doing?”

  She frowns, surprised that I’m not following her unthinkingly. “Is that any way to show me you’ve missed me?”

  “Missed you? I mourned you for years, Char. Bloody hell. I was gutted. You could’ve given me a sign you were alive.”

  “Must we do this now?” She drops Alrik, and he grunts as he hits the ground like a sack of dead weight. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t trust you to not give me away. I have plans, Ronan. Big plans.” She reaches out and pinches my chin. “Don’t worry. They involve you, too.”

  Unease prickles the back of my neck. “What plans?”

  She comes to stand toe-to-toe with me, as though we’re facing off. In her boots, she’s tall enough to look me straight in the eye. “Did you know Tracers can be Vampire?”

  I’ve no clue where she’s going with this. I meet her gaze unwaveringly. “Tracers don’t survive the transition. We’re saturated with enough power already.”

  “Some Tracers live through it.” She jabs her thumb Annelise’s way. “Her Carden did.”

  Ann gasps. “Carden was a Tracer?”

  “Fine,” I say, not eager to bring him into this. “Some survive. A few. Very few.”

  “Ah, but those who do”—she beams—“they’re not just regular vampires. Between your abilities as Tracer and our bloodline?” She looks to the sky, smiling and sucking in a breath as though lost for words. “The possibilities, Ro. Think about it. You’d be the strongest. The most powerful.”

  “If I survived.”

  “Don’t be such a little wanker. You’d live. You know you would.”

  She’s right. I’m strong—I probably would survive. In my darkest hours, I’ve entertained the notion. To become Vampire. It’s a fate both repellant and enticing.

  “Carden was a Tracer?” Annelise repeats, and I can’t read the subtext in her voice. Do I hear grief for what he used to be? Or is she attracted to the possibility of ultimate power?

  “Oh, aye,” Lottie says. “It’s why the Directorate won’t kill him. McCloud is too strong, with too much potential. They think they can harness it. And anyway, I don’t think there’s any one vampire who could kill him.”

  Annelise’s eyes go wide. “Carden is that powerful?”

  “We should go,” I say abruptly, “all of us. As fascinating as this is, we should discuss it somewhere safer.” I scoop the urumi from where it’d fallen beneath the table.

  Lottie’s eyebrows snap together. “Hey, that’s mine.” She snatches it from me and hooks it at her waist. “I’ve been looking for this.” She gives me an impatient nod. “Come on, then, let’s get Alrik on his feet.”

  “On his feet? The only place I’ll see Alrik Dagursson is in his grave.”

  Annelise gapes. “You’re taking Dag? You have got to be kidding me.” She’s standing by my side now—she’s on my side.

  Charlotte’s features crystallize, smoothing like ice. For the first time, I see her truly, as the vampire she’s become, radiating an unearthly essence that goes deeper than fangs. Her eyes narrow on Annelise. “I don’t kid.”

  “No? Then I guess you’re just a lunatic, because it’s insane to drag a bleeding, dying vampire—check that—Directorate vampire out of here.”

  “The only crazy one here is my little brother for wanting you around.” Charlotte stalks toward Annelise, wraps her hands around her neck, and backs her into the wall.

  I jump up, broken rib forgotten. “Get your hands off her.”

  “Oh, sod off, Ro.” Lottie sneers and shoves Ann away. “You mortals never could control yourselves.”

  Annelise stands tall, pulling her shoulders back—it’s a stance I know well, and my every muscle flexes. “Easy,” I murmur to her. I’m on alert, ready to intervene.

  But Ann ignores me. “Maybe my math is off,” she says tartly, “but weren’t you a mortal yourself, like, I don’t know, a couple years ago?” She waves her fingers and skips backward from Charlotte, intoning in a low, mocking voice, “Oh, ancient one.”

  “Bloody hell,” I mumble, edging between the two. “Ladies, we have bigger concerns just now.” A distant slamming door proves my point. “Like that, aye? So let’s take this elsewhere, shall we?”

  “I’ve got one more thing to do.” Annelise drops to her knees beside Dagursson. He’s moaning now, legs writhing, skin bubbling. “Time to say good-bye to your buddy, Lottie.”

  “You will not kill him,” Charlotte orders.

  But Annelise doesn’t budge. “You’re a Viking,” she says to Alrik, “so I guess I need to be bidding you something like ‘Godspeed,’ right?”

  Outrage and disbelief distort my sister’s usually flawless features. Even when she was merely human, nobody—nobody—disregarded her like this. She storms toward Annelise, but I grab her arm to stop her.

  “Wait,” I command, summoning a pulse of power from so deep, it turns my stomach.

  Charlotte stops and sucks in a startled breath. Her eyes are wild, and she pins them on me. “Get. Off. Me.”

  I give her an even smile. “We’re adults now, Charlotte. Let’s discuss it that way.”

  Charlotte’s voice is steel as she slowly tells me, “Don’t do your little tricks on me. Tell that girl to get up this instant. I’ll kill her, Ronan. I swear I will. Unless she gets up right now.”

  My sister tries to jerk away, but I don’t let go.

  Annelise raises her arm. That strange dagger is in her hand again. She tilts it so it catches the light. “I know I’m supposed to aim for the heart, but from the looks of your other cuts, I bet I don’t even need to aim with this thing.”

  “The misericordia?” Lottie shrieks
. “How did you get the misericordia? How did she get it?” she demands of me.

  I shrug. “That thing was news to me.”

  Annelise flashes my sister a challenging smile. “It’s like you said, Lottie. We mortals are so impulsive.” And then she sweeps her arm down in a graceful arc. She is power and determination and beauty as she plunges that strange, slim dagger deep into Dagursson’s heart. His corpse erupts, his body roiling, smoking, hissing. It’s the sizzle of molten steel dropped in cold water. Annelise gives me an exaggeratedly apologetic look. “I guess I really need to work on my self-control.”

  I don’t think it’s possible to love her more than I do in this moment.

  I’m distracted, and Charlotte manages to break free of my grip. “You just killed the only link to our family,” she screeches, her gaze skittering nervously between Ann and me. I see how she wants to leap on Annelise, but for the first time ever, I see fear in my sister’s eyes. She points at Ann. “Who is she? Who is she, really?”

  Annelise killed a vampire—a powerful, ancient one—which makes her an unknown quantity. Ann is a variable—and with the misericordia in her possession, she’s a dangerous one.

  “Who is she?” I say, repeating her words. “Who are you, Charlotte?”

  The curtain of her black hair sweeps into her face as she swings to look at me. “I am your blood kin, and you should honor that.” My sister is raving, fangs bared, her face a mask of wrath and retribution.

  “What did Dagursson do to you? What have you turned into?”

  “I’ve always been me,” she says in a voice slow and seething. “Little Ronan, you were a child when I left. You didn’t know me. You’ll never know me. Just like you’ll never know this girl.” Disgust twists her mouth as she scans Annelise from head to toe. “She wasn’t even born here. Who is this girl that she’s more important than your family?”

  “Annelise is my family.”

  “No, you’ve lost our connection to them. If you don’t come with me, you lose me, too.”

  “I won’t leave her. I won’t leave Annelise. Not like this.”

  “You and I, we can be more powerful than any girl.”