The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily)

by Juliette Cross

  “And what happens to me when we get back?” she asked, pulling on a stocking, bitterness lacing every word as she watched him move from the horse to the fire.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “If you think to make me one of your meatsacks, I’ll kill myself first.”

  The strength with which she stated this struck him hard. Marius leaned back against a tree opposite her, arms crossed.

  “You hate us that much, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meatsacks? What a deplorable term.”

  She scoffed. “You can say bleeders if it makes you feel less like a user, but it’s all the same.”

  “No, it’s not. We compensate bleeders for their service. And it’s voluntary.”

  “Ha! Sure. For some. But someone forgot to pay the corpses we keep finding in Larkin Wood.”

  “Corpses?” He stopped and angled his head. “What are you talking about?”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not sure if you’re a good liar or what, but—”

  “When were corpses found in the woods? Recently?”

  He’d known a soldier to go too far, but that had been decades ago. He and Nikolai had found the perpetrators and imprisoned them for their crimes. He’d not heard of anyone stepping out of line in ages. But if what she was saying was true, then he knew why the poor scullery maid fled from him in quaking terror.

  She sat cross-legged, her teeth no longer chattering, and examined him a moment before shaking her head.

  “You need to come down from your ivory tower more often. Seems you’re blissfully unaware of what goes on right under your nose.”

  She finger-combed her golden hair, then began to braid it over her shoulder with swift movements, layer over layer. She pulled a ribbon from her pocket and tied off the end, then stretched out her hands to the fire.

  “No woman has ever spoken to me so boldly. You are without a doubt the strangest woman I have ever met.”

  “At least I’m not boring. Like all those meatsacks up in the palace.”

  “Must you call them that?”

  “That’s what they are.”

  “They don’t all think so.”

  “Right. Because you inject some hypnotic toxin or something when you feed. So I’ve heard.”

  He paced closer to her.

  “I have never taken blood from anyone who didn’t want to give it to me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s true, dear prince.” She angled her face up at him, sarcasm lacing every word. “I’m sure it’s every woman’s dream to have royal fangs gouging her neck.”

  Anger licked up his spine, and now it was he who was trembling. He practically whispered his response, for it was his nature to grow more quiet and still than to raise his voice when his blood was up. He crouched before her and tipped her chin toward him with his index finger. She didn’t resist, but hard defiance met his gaze.

  “Is it your dream, Arabelle?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not the least bit curious?”

  “Why would I be curious to have my blood sucked from my veins?”

  “It’s quite an intimate experience.” He traced her jaw, gliding his finger toward her neck and down the column of her slender throat. Her pulse pounded faster. He could hear it. Feel it beneath the pad of his finger. “It doesn’t hurt at all. Not once my fangs are inside you, that is. The pleasure is”—he dragged his gaze away from her tender throat and fixed her with a heated expression—“intense. Potent. I’d make sure you enjoyed every second of my embrace.”

  She held him in her amber gaze, and for a flickering second, he thought she would assent to the invitation. He’d offered it only to torment her, anticipating anger in return, never expecting to see a flash of longing in her eyes. She lifted her hand and carefully pushed his away.

  “Is that what you call it? Sucking the life out of someone else? An embrace.”

  “When I take a woman in my arms, whether to my bed or to feed, it is always an embrace—gentle, warm, and pleasurable.”

  Her mouth slid into a wicked smile. “Well, then. We’d never suit, my prince. I prefer a rough tumble in the bed. I’ve never been one for cuddling and tenderness.”

  After the initial shock wore off that she was certainly no virgin, he laughed. “I’m sure that is true.”

  He stood, needing to put some distance between himself and her. Her heady scent spun his thoughts toward a rough tumble on the cold ground. Her blade might not have impaled his heart, but she’d certainly ensnared his mind and body. He determined not to lose his wits in the she-devil’s presence. Best to keep some distance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Arabelle focused on calming her nerves. She refused to allow him to see what his flippant invitation had done to her. She’d never allow a vampire to suck her blood, especially not an uppity royal. But, heaven help her, when he’d knelt in front of her and hooked her with his blue eyes then trailed his fingers down her neck, she almost envisioned herself spreading out on the ground and welcoming him.

  What had he done to her? Was it vampire magic of some sort? For even now, while he piled another log onto the fire, all she could imagine was his mouth on her skin and how unbelievably wonderful it would feel. Her gaze followed the movement of his masculine hands and the sinewy muscle of his forearms disappearing under his shirt, where he’d rolled up his sleeves, then up to the width of his chest, trying to picture what he would look like without his shirt.

  Snap out of it, Arabelle.

  “Tell me about these corpses,” he said, his tone gone sober, not the seductive timbre of a few moments before.

  Surprisingly, he actually appeared concerned. “There have always been corpses, ever since I can remember. Only, they’re not always from Sylus.” She paused and examined him. “And they’re increasing in number. Rapidly, as of late.”

  “Tell me,” he urged. “Please.”

  She considered this prince for a moment. His sincerity softened her heart in a way that frightened her. He was the enemy, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, he should know the evil taking place within his own domain.

  Stretching her legs out sideways, she leaned her weight on one arm.

  “Several years ago, I came upon a crowd of workers on the edge of the wheat field. When I took a closer look, I saw a man with glassy eyes, his throat torn apart and the dark stains of blood all over him, his clothes. Barkley, the man who stood with me at the Crossing, was there. He ushered me away from the scene, telling me it must be wolves that had done it. But even then, as a young girl, I knew it wasn’t wolves. They don’t savage their prey.”

  The prince said nothing, taking in her tale with grim silence as he stared into the fire.

  She went on. “As the years went by, more and more bodies appeared. It seemed that once upon a time, the vampires committing these crimes had tried to hide their victims. But as time has worn on, the bodies have appeared more carelessly, out in the open. And more frequently.”

  “If this were so, you should have reported it to the palace.”

  She scoffed. “Are you being serious? And risk being taken myself?”

  “We’re monarchs, not tyrants. We’d find out who the criminal is.”

  “Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. But understand our circumstances. Poor peasants who have seen body after body being dumped around our village, and you expect us to waltz up to the palace and report it? How do we know we wouldn’t be reporting to the perpetrator himself?”

  Marius had no reply, intently watching the fire. Pensive.

  She continued. “And there’s no way this could be only one vampire. This is the work of many.”

  His mouth straightened into a line as he stared into the fire, the light dancing over the acute angles of his jaw and cheeks. She could not pretend he wasn’t a beautiful specimen, even though he was the enemy. The fact that he seemed genuinely concerned that vampires had been murdering peasant
s and getting away with it truly shocked her.

  “It’s the blood madness,” he said quietly. “It must be.”

  “What?”

  “Blood madness.” He inhaled a deep breath and met her gaze across the flickering flame. “The proper name is sanguine furorem.”

  She sat up straighter and curled her legs at her side. “What is it, this blood madness?”

  He came around and sat on the ground next to her, feet planted apart, arms around his knees, hands clasped. His white linen shirt stretched taut against his lean frame, outlining the muscles in his shoulders. Arabelle’s gaze slid back to his face, where his expression was fixed in deep thought.

  “Tell me,” she urged, sounding much like he did a few moments before.

  “We don’t speak of it,” he started hesitantly. “We call it a madness, but it’s really more of a disease. Once a vampire gives into the frenzy, it is over for him. Yes, he will kill for blood, because their will is taken over by the driving need for it.”

  “How so?”

  He turned toward her, part of his face falling in shadow, the other gilded by the firelight.

  “The desire, the unmitigated lust for blood is so powerful that a man loses his ability to reason.” His gaze dropped to Arabelle’s mouth. “From what I understand, it makes a man insane. Quite literally.”

  “So you, you’ve never known this sanguine furorem before.”

  “I’ve felt a powerful push to take blood before. Yes.”

  “But you didn’t act on it?”

  “No.”

  “And how can you be sure that you don’t have this, this madness?”

  “If I did, you wouldn’t be sitting there looking so perfect and beautiful. I’d have you beneath me with my fangs in your flesh.”

  Arabelle froze. Did he mean that he, that she—

  “Yes,” he said, seeming to answer her very thoughts. “You stir my blood, my primitive desires, Arabelle. But I will not succumb. You are not in any danger.”

  And yet, she felt as if she’d never been in deeper peril all her life.

  “That’s quite a relief,” she said genuinely, clearing her throat.

  Tension thickened the air as his attention remained riveted on her and her on him. She noted the tips of his fangs were extended when he spoke and forced herself not to stare. Some perverted part of her yearned to flick her tongue over them, as she’d done the first night she met him, and feel the sensation of his fervent desire once more.

  He broke away and focused on the fire before he began again, his voice soft and gentle this time.

  “Our forefathers from the dawn of the first vampire lived with the blood madness and diminished the human population to a staggering low. Until a new regime finally established the laws to protect mankind, so that man and vampire might coexist in peace.”

  She heaved out a sigh. “Well, then. Someone is wishing for the old days. For this blood madness is running rampant in some of your men.”

  He grew quiet before murmuring to himself, “That must be it.”

  Arabelle frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “If what you say is true, then I need to do my own investigation. Our laws are to protect not only humanity but also our own kind from falling back into the darkness.”

  “The darkness?”

  “The place where man is lost inside the vampire, and he is nothing more than a highly lethal, blood-crazed animal.”

  Arabelle didn’t know what to say to that. She never thought to be sitting around a fire, rationally discussing the murders of her people and the need to stop it with the prince. He seemed to end his wandering thought and stood abruptly, holding out a hand to her.

  “It’s time to get back to the palace.”

  So much for admiring him. She was back to being prisoner. Standing, she brushed the dust off her backside.

  “And why on earth do you wear men’s clothes?” he asked.

  “It was all I had when I left my home in Sylus. And, quite frankly, it’s comfortable. And easier to ride.”

  “I preferred you in the gown you wore the other night.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I am sure that you did. You’re a man.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said in a perplexed manner. “And what exactly does that mean?”

  He stepped toward Willow and unhitched her reins. The mare didn’t so much as flinch at the vampire’s presence. Arabelle thought her a traitor for accepting this stranger so quickly.

  “Only that men want their women pretty, complacent, and proper.” Arabelle patted Willow’s neck. “Perfectly nauseating.”

  “That’s not always true.”

  “Oh, really? What kind of woman do you prefer?”

  And why in the devil was she asking such things?

  He gripped the horn of the saddle and edged closer. She bumped the stirrup with her bottom, backing against Willow.

  His voice dropped low once more. “I like my women with a little spirit.”

  “That’s a surprise. I rather thought you preferred docile and obedient, from the looks of your Blood Harem.”

  “My tastes have changed.”

  “Since you took your last blood whore? Oh, I mean, concubine, of course.”

  He smiled, and Arabelle felt her insides melt, though she kept her expression flat and seemingly unaffected.

  “No,” he said, backing her against the horse. “I’d say my tastes changed more recently than that.” He leaned in, his lips close. Too close. “Much more recently.” Then he backed away a step. “Ladies first.”

  “What? You’re not riding with me.”

  He scoffed. “The hell I’m not. What did you think I’d do? Lead you while you rode and give you the chance of sprinting free?”

  “Well, where’s your horse?”

  “At the first crossroads. A ways back.”

  “You tracked me from way back there? On foot?”

  “I most certainly did. And I’m not giving you the chance to wiggle free again. Now get on the horse.”

  Frowning, she did so. Then he lifted up behind her, his entire frame contouring against her—legs, chest, torso. He gripped the reins on either side of her. She had no choice but to simply hold onto the horn of the saddle and pretend that his long, hard frame fixed so snugly against hers didn’t make her mind wander with wayward thoughts.

  He leaned his head down, mouth close to her ear, breath whispering against her neck and cheek with laughter in his voice.

  “Don’t worry, Arabelle. I won’t bite.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” she asked, eyes forward as he nudged Willow onto the dark trail, leaving the warm fire behind them.

  “No,” he said, straightening and removing his mouth from so close to her throat. “That’s a promise.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Riding behind Arabelle, so close that her bottom rocked against him in a torturous rhythm, was not the wisest idea. This position—her sumptuous body pressed against him, her rainflower scent filling his lungs, her loose wisp of hair blowing back over his cheek—was the most brutal kind of torture. He wasn’t lying when he vowed not to bite her. But he said the words more for himself than for her. If he made the promise aloud, he would keep it. He was a man of principle, no matter what she thought of him.

  “So where did this burning hatred of vampires originate?” asked Marius, needing to talk and keep his mind from wandering below his belt.

  “Your very existence oppresses my people,” she replied evenly.

  “How is it that our existence oppresses you?”

  She snorted a laugh. So improper. Marius smiled, though she could not see it.

  “We work your land and toil all day so that you might enjoy the luxuries in your pristine castle, and you ask me that?”

  “We’re monarchs, not tyrants, Arabelle. And you don’t toil for me. Not directly. And neither does half the village. They work for the aristocracy of Sylus.”

  “Yes. Who
provides a percentage of their profits from farming to the palace. Meanwhile, we’re given scraps from our masters. Just enough to survive and eke out a meager living.”

  Marius paused, not liking to hear the words “our masters” coming from her mouth. He wasn’t quite sure why.

  “So you believe that our class system doesn’t work.”

  “You are quite stupid for a prince, aren’t you?”

  Marius refrained from laughing. “Am I?”

  “Quite. You think only because it has always been so, a struggling working class forced to serve the rich upper class, that this makes it right.”

  “It has worked for centuries.”

  “Yes. And it’s been wrong for centuries. If you actually read that book The Perils of Class Society, then you know I am right.”

  She had him there. He’d read it. Three times. And he struggled with its truths as well as its fallacies.

  “It won’t work.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It will work. The peasant class will break free. I will be sure of it.”

  “Who? You and the Black Lily?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll all die before it’s over.”

  “You underestimate us. We have resources.”

  “That’s true. Why don’t you tell me where your stash of gold is? You must have found quite a lot to be tipping so many blades and arrows with it.”

  “Ha! As if I ever would.”

  “You cannot actually believe we’ll allow you to keep an arsenal of gold at your disposal now that we know you have it. And that you’ve used it against us with weaponry.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t tyrants.”

  The horse tripped over a log. Marius banded his arm around Arabelle’s waist as the mare caught her footing. When she’d righted her stride, he loosened his hold but did not remove his arm, reveling in the sensation of having her so close and warm in his grasp.

  “Look. In order for vampire and humanity to coexist peacefully, the class system must remain in place. Do you concede that vampires are the superior species, in a physical capacity only?”