“Impossible,” declared his father. “We would know if anyone had the blood madness.”
“This is the reason why the Black Lily was formed. Apparently, there have been bodies found in the woods most frequently. Vampire kills, drained of blood.”
“And who told you this?” asked his mother. “The girl? She will do anything to ensnare you, my son. You mustn’t listen to her lies.”
Marius scoffed. “She wasn’t lying. I did my own investigation and found that everything she told me was true. Even worse and more far reaching than her allegations. The infected must be found and brought to justice.”
“Everything she told you?” His father crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, a sure sign of his mounting anger. He ignored the fact that Marius had revealed that the blood madness had taken hold in their kingdom, as if it didn’t even matter. “And how long have you spent with this woman for her to tell you ‘everything’?”
“What does that matter? Didn’t you just hear what I said? We have an infection. We must address it now, before it spreads further.”
“She’s bewitched you,” said his mother. “Sometimes these humans have been able to do it. You are not speaking sense.”
His mind reeled as he tried to regain control of his temper. They belittled his allegations and ignored the truth. When he spoke next, he summoned that place of calm that he always did when riled to anger.
“Today, I am one hundred years old.”
“Yes.” His mother moved closer. Her cool exterior softened to one of adoration. “You are my youngest son, my last child, who has met the day of his inheritance. The true day where you cross over to claim your Varis birthright. And you want to throw it all away. For what? A peasant girl. Who can never be queen at your side. You would give up your bride for her? Your own family for her? For this human who leads others against us?”
Marius realized in that moment that there was no way to explain what he felt or what he believed to be right and true in a way that they would comprehend. It was as if they were incapable of understanding. There was little more to say other than, “Yes. I would. And I am.”
“Go,” said his father with a dismissive wave. “Sate your thirst on her if you must. Afterward, you will take your proper place as King of Arkadia. Your bride will wait for you. We’ll be sure of it.”
Struck by how little his parents believed the sincerity of his words, he stared at them both for a tense moment. His father adjourned to the window, gazing out at his kingdom. His mother smiled in such a way that it chilled his blood. He didn’t know them. Even worse, he didn’t respect them.
Marius shook his head and walked toward the exit, pausing in the doorway and staring at these two people he didn’t recognize anymore.
“I have lived my life by following the expectations set for me as a royal prince. I have followed the guidelines of my birthright. And I have upheld the laws any Varis should for the sake of his people. But I have learned that this isn’t enough. Nor do I understand why you continue to preach to me that tradition takes precedence over justice.”
“Son,” his mother started, “listen to me—”
He stopped her with a sharp glare and a raise of his hand. “It took Arabelle—the peasant woman you speak of as if she were nothing more than a carcass to be used and thrown away—to show me that our world is unbalanced. Unequal. In wealth, power, opportunity, and justice,” he bellowed the last, unable to keep his temper reined. “You may both be content to hide here in the Glass Tower, ignoring your true responsibilities as fair and just rulers. But I will not.”
He marched from the room, vindication lifting his spirit higher. He strode past his own parlor then the ballroom and out the front doors, where Erebus had been delivered already. He’d sent word to the stable boy the moment he left the gardens with the princess.
He was saddled and veering out of the courtyard in a full gallop before he realized he’d left with nothing but the clothes on his back. He had no plan. No course of action or strategy for his next move. All he knew was that he loved Arabelle. And he must tell her so, no matter what she would say in return. Urgency gripped him fast, propelling him forward.
Speeding through the quiet darkness of Sylus, only the Silver Crown was still alive with laughter and gregarious voices. He didn’t see Nikolai and his troop on the main road. He paused near the blacksmith’s home and shop, finding no sign of anyone inside, no light of any kind. He wheeled and spurred Erebus on out of Sylus along the trail into Larkin Wood that led to the woodhouse.
Storm clouds blocked out the moon and stars, blanketing the night in silence. An owl called in the darkness, raising gooseflesh on Marius’s skin. As he rounded under a thick cluster of trees, he detected the rank smell of spilled blood. A lot of it.
He yanked Erebus to a halt, peering into the shadows, reaching out with his vampire senses. Erebus whinnied in protest, sidestepping as if to escape the smell of death and violence. The air thickened with the coming storm, thunder rumbling in the distance like a sleeping giant roaring awake.
“Whoa there, boy.”
He leapt from the saddle and followed the scent of death into the brush where a man’s body had been tossed, face down, limbs akimbo. Gripping the dead man’s shoulder, he flipped him over.
The blacksmith.
Throat ripped out and entrails hanging from an open gut, his body completely drained.
When he watched the exchange of the princess for the peasants from the palace terrace, he’d watched Arabelle mounted alongside the blacksmith. His heart plummeted.
A movement in the woods. Erebus whickered. Marius popped into fighting stance, seeking the source of the sound. Not far off stood Willow. He rushed toward her, but the mare whinnied in fright and tried to limp away. Her leg had been injured.
“Easy now,” he cooed. “Steady, girl.”
She must’ve recognized him, for she stopped and swung her head toward him. He eased up close and patted her neck in a soothing stroke. The strong scent of wildflowers and rain wafted over him. The wind shook the trees, leaves rustling.
“Arabelle!” he called, hoping she’d fallen nearby, a sickening dread rolling through his body.
No answer. Only the whicker of Erebus, uneasy with the stench of fresh decay ripe in the air. Marius returned to the blacksmith’s body then followed the scent of where they’d drug him off the road, finding the darkened patch of grass where they’d killed him. He closed his eyes and sought out the fainter scent that called to him like a beacon of light.
There it was. He trailed to the side of the blood-soaked ground. Yes, she’d stood right here, probably watched while they killed her friend. There were so many vampire scents mixed with Arabelle’s leading out of the woods into the open field. He glanced up, his chest pounding with uncontainable rage as he looked upon the place where the scent trail led.
His home.
The lights of the Glass Tower twinkled with majesty against the night sky and the gathering storm. There, his love had been taken against her will. There, the vampires with sanguine furorem had dragged her to some unhallowed place in the dungeons of the palace. For it was the only place where he would not have caught her scent and where no one would have seen the fair-haired prisoner on the grounds.
Swallowing the gut-wrenching dread climbing up his throat, he clenched his fists at his side and glimpsed a streak of lightning across the charcoal sky. In a mad fury, he raced toward the palace on foot, imagining how he would tear her captors apart with his bare hands.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Someone gripped Arabelle’s forearm and forcefully pulled her hand away from her ear. She opened her eyes. Crouching before her was the creature, Sergeant Loman. Vacant black eyes stared. Blood smeared down his chin and stained his white shirt.
Arabelle punched out with the heel of her hand, knocking him away. She scrambled to a standing position and readied to defend herself. He laughed as two vampires dragged Mary’s lifeless body from the cell, leaving a dark stain
in her wake.
“Still got some fight in you, eh? Well, you best come quietly. Someone wants to meet you.”
Realizing they were removing her from this room of torture and death, she didn’t resist when he grabbed her arm and shoved her forward. The savage one with the beastly fangs walked in front of her, blocking her view as they wound down a dark corridor, passing cell after cell, deeper into the dungeon.
Someone jingled their chain as they moved in the quiet darkness of one cell. Another cried and sniffled. Arabelle wondered at what crimes these prisoners had committed to be locked up in this cold, dank place. She pushed down the fear trying to climb out her throat, knowing good and well she’d committed heinous crimes against the crown. There was only one penalty for such a crime. But it was usually meted out in the open before a court, and yet they were winding deeper into the dungeon, not climbing out of it to the open air.
What time was it? Had she slept till dawn? Would Marius be at the trial? She hoped for a chance to see him one more time, even if he couldn’t save her from sentencing. She regretted their last moments together. She’d hurt him and made him angry. What she wouldn’t do to turn back time and confess to him what was truly in her heart.
“Am I going to the trial?” she asked, knowing Sergeant Loman was close behind her.
He chuckled, as did his cronies. “Yes, my sweet. You’re going to have your own private little trial.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end with the ominous tone of his voice. There wasn’t going to be a formal trial. Then what? Where were they going?
They made a sharp turn, the floor sloping downward again. She had to balance herself on the narrow corridor walls, the darkness thick like velvet. Finally, they reached an iron door. The savage one opened the door with a key. It slid open too easily for a door that appeared to be in disuse, for she could see mold and rust growing along the grooves and rivets by torchlight.
At the dead end of this hall, the sergeant pushed her down a winding staircase. Waiting to come out into another hellish room of stone, she was surprised when they stepped onto level ground, onto a plush red carpet, where gossamer curtains hung from one end to the other and warm candlelight bathed the room in a soft glow.
Arabelle stopped, unable to discern the shapes beyond the white veil.
“Go on,” he said, shoving her forward.
She stepped through the thin slit into some kind of exotic fantasy. At first glance, she saw nothing but silk cushions and drapes from floor to ceiling in a myriad of colors—red, gold, silver, purple, black. Parts of the room were sectioned off with more gauzy curtains, like luxurious rooms. But rooms for what?
Then she noticed someone stretched upon a tower of silver pillows beneath a glittering canopy of gems dangling on strings like beads.
“Come here, girl.”
Legs shaking, Arabelle stepped forward, hardly able to comprehend who lounged atop this fantastical throne—the Queen of Varis. Marius’s mother. And while Arabelle could see no evidence of bloodstains or mayhem, she was certain this was a place of nefarious deeds. A hidden chamber in the darkest depths of the dungeon to conceal even from other vampire eyes. The queen had known about the blood madness all along.
Dressed in black silk that hugged her perfect form, the queen watched in predatory stillness as Arabelle approached. She flicked a hand to Sergeant Loman, who immediately lay atop the silken bed, his head propped on a pillow beneath her arm, like a child curled up next to its mother. She brushed his hair away from his face.
“You must clean yourself after feeding, my dear.”
“Yes, my queen. You summoned us while we still fed. I apologize.”
His black eyes faded to ice-blue as he peered up at her with a look of pure rapture. Arabelle sickened at the sight and focused on not allowing her knees to buckle in shock and fear.
“That is all right,” she crooned. “You are not yet done feeding. Afterward, you may clean yourself and return to me for your reward.”
She trailed her fingers to the V-neck of his shirt and slipped her hand beneath, caressing him, petting him. The man actually purred at her touch, eyes sliding closed on an erotic groan. She thought they may have forgotten she was there, as well as the vampires at her back, until her glacial stare found her once more.
“So,” she said, still caressing him like a pet, “you are the one who has trapped my son. And turned him against me.”
Adrenaline shot through Arabelle’s body at the thought of Marius, at this accusation that she had trapped him. Marius despised her now, she was sure.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice trembled despite her attempt at calm.
“Yes, you do.” She propped herself into a sitting position on the dais. “You know very well what you’ve done. But I am here to tell you that it doesn’t matter. Once you are dead, he will forget you. He will take his bride and his rightful place on the throne of Arkadia.”
Heart pounding, Arabelle shrugged as if what the queen said didn’t cut her to the marrow. “That may be. But you don’t know your son as well as you think you do.”
“Oh, really? Please. Enlighten me.”
“Even after I’m dead, he will not forget me or his people. You obviously have little care for your subjects, but he is nothing like you, thank the heavens. He will seek justice for those that your”—she waved a hand to the sergeant and the blood-dabbled vampires standing guard around her—“henchmen have murdered senselessly.”
“Oh, little girl. It was not senseless.” She cupped the sergeant’s face to guide him closer to her. He eagerly inched up so that she could lick a line from his chin to his mouth before planting a suckling kiss to his lips. He moaned in agony when she parted. “It is of the sweetest senses that we have taken what was rightfully ours.”
Sergeant Loman stared at her with complete and utter rapture.
“Rightfully?” scoffed Arabelle. “By whose right? You are not gods.”
She smiled, and Arabelle felt a shiver of doom climb up her spine. The queen was old. Ancient. A being whose presence whispered of secrets untold and dangers escaped. How could Arabelle ever believe the Black Lily could fight against such a formidable foe?
“But that’s where you’re wrong.” She smiled at the creature at her side then slid her narrow-eyed gaze to Arabelle. “We are gods. And I am the ruler of all.”
Stiffening her spine, Arabelle notched up her chin. “A ruler who cares nothing for her subjects is no true queen or god or ruler to me. Even if you kill me, the Black Lily will live on to fight for a better world without you in it.”
“I doubt that. And if they do, I will simply crush them as I have every rebellion that has come before you.”
“What do you mean? I know our history well. There has never been a revolution by the people before.”
“No, not a revolution. I stamped out any resistance before it could begin.”
Confused, Arabelle’s thoughts raced through history and time, seeking some moment where rebels had stood against the vampire monarchy. There had been none, not once had there ever been a moment where—
“Wait. Are you speaking of the very beginning?”
Queen Morgrid ignored her, petting the mesmerized sycophant at her side. Realization dawned with a shocking wave of nausea.
“You,” said Arabelle, trembling. “You were the first vampire. The one who—”
That got her attention.
“Yes.” She stood so fast Arabelle didn’t detect the movement. “I am the first vampire. I created our race. It is because of me that every one of them exists.”
“But I thought—”
Arabelle could hardly breathe, growing light-headed with the trauma she’d suffered and now with the news that she stood before the most powerful vampire in existence. The one transformed by the hartstone into an immortal creature who fed on the lifeblood of humans.
“History tells us that it was King Grindal.” Arabelle spoke in a whisper, as i
f trying to convince herself that what she’d just realized wasn’t the truth.
“History tells you what I want it to tell. It’s easier to rule from the shadows through a puppet on display. He has served his purpose well. Thus far.”
She spoke of her husband as if he were an object. But of course. She saw all of them as objects, either to help her gain her desires or as obstructions. Inky black painted her irises and the whites of her eyes, and Arabelle feared she looked on a demon rather than a god. She stepped closer, examining her from top to bottom. Arabelle tried to back up, but one of the queen’s men stopped her retreat.
“You have poisoned my son,” she grated with a hiss. “You have infected him with your sickeningly sweet scent and the lure of your body. Your very existence is abhorrent to me.” She scoffed in disgust. “That a lowly, loathsome peasant should steal him away is unforgiveable. You are not worthy of his loyalty.” She slashed out and clawed a scratch across Arabelle’s face.
Arabelle gasped and pressed a palm to her cheek, fresh fury churning in her stomach.
“Yes. I am a lowly peasant. One who managed to raise my people’s hearts and spirits so that we could rise up against your evil tyranny. We are more numerous than you know, my queen.” She could not keep her tone from dripping with sarcasm. “And not only was I fortunate to capture a brief moment of time with your noble son. But I now understand he is the only one in this empire who truly deserves the title of loyal prince and devoted monarch. He is true nobility.” Arabelle willed herself to stop her tongue but could not. “The rest of you are nothing more than a nest of vipers deserving to be tossed into the pit of hell.”
A chorus of growls and hisses met her last remark.
“I’m done with her now, Adrian.” The queen’s eyes glowed white-hot. “Drink from her. Until there is not one—drop—left.”
Arabelle’s flight instinct kicked in with a panic. She ducked past the savage vampire and charged through the curtain, only to barrel directly into another stalwart guard. He lifted her by the waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her back through the drapery, where he dropped her on the red carpet.
The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily) Page 23
