by Tracy Tappan
Tears rose into her throat, but she swallowed them back. Grigore was at her side, tense and watchful, and she didn’t care to court any more of his wrath with another display of lovesickness.
They rounded the rock jetty which protected the Constanţa harbor from high winds and rough seas, streaking gracefully into open waters. The angle of their ship steepened, the deck rising and falling more forcefully over the bigger swells. Sea spray misted her face.
“Best you go belowdecks, my lady.” Grigore’s bearded jaw was rigid, his tension mounting as he stared at something in the distance.
She followed the direction of his attention and frowned. “What goes forth?”
A fleet of a dozen or more ships hulked just outside of the harbor, twice as many as their own armada, and as each one of their ships emerged, two of those others swooped in on them like vultures.
The captain of the Tempest ground out a curse from the forecastle. “Bring her hard about!” he shouted.
Men scrambled up the yards. The helmsman grunted and strained at the tiller.
“Grigore?” A shiver of apprehension slid down her spine. “Who are they?”
Grigore’s mouth flattened against his teeth. “Those are Russian frigates.”
She gaped up at him. Russians! “’Tisn’t possible! The Russians have no means of knowing our plans of escape.”
“Don’t they?” Grigore turned his head to look down on her, his silver eyes molten with accusation. “Besides Vârcolac, there’s one man who knew of this escapade, is there not?”
For one dazed, disbelieving moment, she just stared at him, unable to countenance who he spoke of. “Nay,” she protested thickly, her throat fouling with bile. “Ştefan didn’t betray us. I know it!”
“Tell me where Dragoş is on this ship, then?”
Her stomach dropped down to her feet. “He didn’t come b-because I’m Vârcolac,” she quavered, her emotions shredding her voice. “He threw me over for that, you said so yourself.”
“Evidently, I was mistaken.” Grigore marked the path of one of the Russian frigates bearing down on them, sails flapping in the wind, hull slicing swiftly through sea swells. Gunports open.
“I wish I was not.” His voice lowered. “I wish you hadn’t been mistaken, either, my lady, trusting Dragoş to organize all of this, letting him vow to help our people when all the while he was acting as a Vampire Hunter in truth.”
She pressed a hand to her breast, struck to her soul as she remembered that night at Peleş Castle when Ştefan had told her of his plans. Why would you do this? she’d asked him. You risk your very life by helping vampires. He’d barely batted an eye over the danger. Was that because all the while he’d known he wouldn’t be in any?! Had he vowed his love for her only to use her? I need your help to see this through, he’d said. I cannot access every Vârcolac enclave to pass the word.
She squeezed her lids tightly shut, her knees going weak as ciorba soup. Any moment she would fall to the decks and prostrate herself to all of Romania for being duped by her woman’s heart. Stars above, she’d led her own people into an ambush!
She gripped the railing again, her knuckles going white as she fought to withstand the shock of the realization, and to bear the anguish.
Grigore had told her to hide belowdecks, no doubt wanting her safe, but she couldn’t move. She could only stand in place and stare at the attacking Russian frigate, watching it tack into firing position across from their sleek privateer. Pettrila could see men just beyond the black snouts of the enemy canons, long fuses held at the ready. Time seemed to slow to an impossible crawl, her heart constricting to half its normal size as the gunners lowered the glowing red wicks to the tops of the guns.
An instant later, a succession of ear-splitting blasts quaked the night, the canons spitting fire and belching black smoke. Plumes of water shot up from the ocean surface where several balls drove harmlessly into the sea, while others carved through the topsails of their ship. The upper half of the mainmast was sheared off in an eruption of wood shards and ripping canvas, and Pettrila screamed as the bloody remains of men from up in the yards splattered down onto the deck.
The Tempest returned a full broadside at the attacking Russians, the planks beneath Pettrila’s feet shuddering from the report of the guns one deck below. She lurched against Grigore, gripping his arms.
Another salvo wailed farther off, and she turned to look. A volley from a different Russian frigate had just been launched at their sister privateer, the Lady Revenge. Bar shot and cannonballs swept half a dozen men over the sides, chewed through railing, bulkhead, and hull. One of the Lady Revenge’s cannons was blown from its bed and sent tumbling onto its back into the ocean, coughing black smoke before slipping under the churning waves.
Pettrila pressed a fist to her lips, acid pushing at the backs of her teeth. The Lady Revenge had been holed in her lower decks and was taking on water fast. Her brother, Octav, was on that ship.
Grigore jerked away from her and flung back his head, bellowing in rage. “Bloody betrayer!”
The ship that held her brother and Grigore’s parents listed precariously to port, getting sucked into the ocean with alarming speed.
Tears blinded Pettrila. Why, Ştefan, why did you do this?
“Hard to starboard!” the captain of the Tempest yelled. “Tighten the sheets!”
The enemy frigate was cleaving sharply through the swells, coming about for another assault.
A second deadly frigate was sailing tight on its bow.
The Russian gunners reloaded—wadding, cannon ball, powder. They fired. The shriek of canvas being slashed from the mizzen mast was joined by the screams of dying men. A long cable snapped loose and whizzed straight for her—
“Pettrila!” Grigore called out.
Panic froze her in place, her eyes widening on the writhing snake of metal line.
Grigore charged forward and pushed her.
She skidded across the deck and slammed into the railing, knocking her head hard against the wood. Blackness swam across her vision. Gasping, she fought the unconsciousness that pulled at her, but darkness closed in an ever-tightening circle around her pupils.
And then there was nothing.
* * *
Pettrila woke in a small, dim room, the smell of smoke and blood lingering in her nostrils. A single candle on a shelf spilled a meager pool of light, but even that hurt her eyes. She was stretched out on a thin mattress in what was a ship’s stateroom, judging by the tightly shuttered portholes and the furnishings bolted to the floor. Two blurry Grigores were seated on the edge of her bed, pressing a wet cloth to her brow.
She dragged her tongue across her lips to moisten them and worked at focusing her vision.
“By darkest night, you’re awake at last,” Grigore breathed, his expression drawn with concern. “How do you fare?”
“My head hurts,” she croaked. Worse than that, it felt as if someone had shoveled out the bottom of her stomach into the kind of infinite emptiness that spoke of a severe blood-need.
“You hit your head very hard.” Grimacing, Grigore peeked under the cloth. “I pushed you too vigorously, I’m sorry. Damn me, I’ve been worried after you.”
She nudged his hand off her brow. “How are we alive, Grigore?”
He set the cloth aside. “We were rescued. I know not by whom, but whoever ’twas, they manned the cannons on the jetty and fired relentlessly at the Russian frigates, sending our enemy limping away. After that, we sprinted further out to sea, and are now steadily making our way to England.”
To England? She pleated her brow, then winced as her forehead complained. “I thought the privateer captains worked for…” She hesitated. She couldn’t utter the name, Ştefan, no matter how much he might deserve condemnation. “…the hunters.”
Grigore shrugged. “They’re not exactly men of the highest morals, my lady. An offer to line their coffers once we reach shore has seemed sufficient to earn our passage.”
Grigore glanced aside. “Ours and one other.”
Only two out of their original six? “The Lady Revenge?” she whispered the question.
“Nay,” Grigore answered in a voice drenched with grief. “It sank, no survivors.”
Swallowing convulsively, she pressed a hand to her face. My dear Octav. “By the moon, it seems this world is determined to leave me without family.” She was a complete orphan now.
Grigore clasped her hand. “You and I can be a family, Pettrila, do you hear?” His forehead collapsed into creases. “Blast, I know I can be a difficult man betimes. I’m not as suave or as charming as I’d like to be, though I try. And—” A tautness rippled through his hand. “I must confess that part of my ill-mannered behavior of late was bred from jealousy. It’s killed me watching you fawn over that traitorous bastard, Dragoş.”
Pettrila turned her head aside. A tear trickled from her eye and dripped onto the pillow. She didn’t want to think about that now. Ştefan, leader of the Vârcolac Vânător, was the reason her brother was dead. Her chest jerked. Stars, and she thought it’d been an unbearable happenstance to be thrown over for being the wrong breed of woman. What she wouldn’t give to go back to that.
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted, Pettrila. Please, heed me. I…I think I could make you a good husband.”
She stared blurrily at the rough wood of the stateroom wall.
“’Tis a new life awaiting us in England. Let us commence it together.”
She dug her cheek deeply into the rough pillow, more tears welling and falling. She’d thought to begin her new life with Ştefan. ’Tis my greatest desire to run off to England with you, little doe, and marry you. His lies tore through her just as destructively as bar shot, leaving her bloodied and wounded on the inside as though she’d taken a hit in truth. She’d loved Ştefan so!
“Pettrila…?”
“Must we talk of this now, Grigore? I wish to sleep.” She was tired down to her soul.
“I fear you mustn’t wait too long,” he said. “You’ve lost a great deal of blood and need to feed.”
“There will be Sânge Taicăs on board,” she responded dully. She herself had arranged for several to be on each ship; she wasn’t the only unmarried Vârcolac making this journey.
“None here, I’m afraid. Only bonded couples are on board.” He paused. “Remember, we weren’t supposed to be on this ship.”
She turned her head to look at Grigore. That could prove to be a problem. “Can we pull alongside the other privateer?”
“Come, my lady,” Grigore coaxed softly. “There’s no time for that.” He picked her up and settled her on his lap. “Bond with me.” He slid one hand into her hair and cupped the back of her head, gently urging her face against his throat.
She was too far gone to her blood-need to prevent her fangs from giving a tight throb of hunger. Saliva wetted her mouth, her lungs and brain filling with the aroma of Grigore’s blood. Without thought, she leaned into his chest, instinctively wanting to fill herself with him. Grigore’s pulse beat against her lips, and she began to tremble with the desire to feed.
Numbness fanned over her. Both of her parents were dead, now Octav, too, and Ştefan might as well be dead, gone from her life forevermore. Loneliness ate a hole straight through the center of her, the will to resist ebbing away. What did it matter? She slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and touched Ştefan’s letter. Her throat tightened in a spasm. She let her fingers fall away from the grainy parchment. What did it matter…?
She twisted one trembling hand into Grigore’s shirt. Wooden and without emotion, she drove her fangs into his neck.
Chapter Thirty-four
Present: Community of Ţărână, October, 4:00 p.m.
Pettrila Nichita entered Ţărână’s underground garage with stiff dignity, presenting to the gallery of observers the urbane, impassive mask which was her public viewing face; no expression showed on her countenance that she didn’t consciously and deliberately put there.
She’d never been down to this part of the town before—little wonder; the place smelled ghastly—but the Tribunal had wanted to reconvene here for the gruesome work that lay ahead.
She sniffed. Gruesome work. Pah. That was a jest. For all of Devid’s failings, he was not a murderer of innocents, no matter how much he wanted his human. Unless… She frowned inwardly. Had the Tribunal found some dissolute child molester who was already destined for the electric chair for Devid to sacrifice? Someone whose death wouldn’t give Devid’s conscience the slightest twinge? There had certainly been enough time to find the perfect sacrifice, what with all the manufactured delays.
Yes, wasn’t it convenient that Dr. Parthen had ovulated the day after Devid was charged with his grisly task? Not that such a nuisance could’ve been arranged on purpose, but it was interesting, suspicious even, that Dr. Parthen had chosen now to procreate with her hideous demonoid mate. If the doctor had put herself away for only her fertile time it would have cost the Tribunal only two days. Instead everyone had been forced to wait the several days required for the doctor and her mate to perform the act which would get her pregnant, then the additional three-day hibernation period of recovery a Vârcolac male fell into after the stress of constant intercourse. And while her mate was all but unconscious, the doctor had refused to resume without him…and the Tribunal wouldn’t have dared reconvene without that woman. Six days had elapsed, and if the doctor hadn’t used reproduction, an act which always took precedence in this community, to stall for time, then Pettrila was the Queen of Sheba.
For what asinine purpose remained to be seen.
There had been one good outcome of the delay, at least. What was supposed to have been a single night stay in a jail cell for Devid had stretched into six long, miserable days.
Jaċken Brun hadn’t wanted to incarcerate Devid at all, but Pettrila, of course, had insisted.
“Devid will surely slink off and bond with that human if left to his own devices,” she’d snapped. “Ask him yourself, if you doubt my word.”
Devid had given Jaċken Brun a look of barely banked fury. “Would you have let anyone keep you from Tonĩ?” he’d said baldly.
So, away he’d gone, stupid boy.
The wannabe Soothsayer entered the garage now, along with Dr. Parthen. She was dressed in a forest green turtleneck this afternoon, even though the community’s temperature never altered from 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Vârcolac reproduction was unquestionably barbaric since the male vampire shifted into a primal state that rendered him insensible to the process. But to engage in the act with a degenerate Half-Rău like Jaċken Brun had to be immeasurably worse; the doctor’s neck no doubt sported a panorama of bruises and savage bite marks.
Devid was escorted in by Jaċken Brun. Her son’s strides were heavy, as if his ill temper weighted every footfall. Indeed, his mood looked filthy
Pettrila sat in the seat reserved for the claimant of the blood-debt, the best place to observe the sacrifice, and watched dispassionately as her son was led to the sacrificial area, where a large table—large enough to hold a body—was placed, a sheet of plastic spread underneath. An array of sharp instruments was arranged on a small side table, and she saw Devid blanch.
Pettrila felt one of her eyebrows flicker upward. Interesting. Did the boy not know what was to transpire? Had Dr. Parthen’s minions plotted Devid’s rescue without his knowledge? How truly odd.
Her son glanced briefly at his human woman, seated on a folding chair in the gallery of spectators next to a whey-faced Luvera—what was wrong with that child? Then he turned to glare at Pettrila, his aggressive expression bringing Grigore to mind, as it so often did: that same arrogant set to his bearded jaw, those identical fierce silver eyes, the similar height and build to their bodies. He was his father’s replica in so many ways, m
aking it no trouble whatsoever for her to return her son’s glare with a full measure of force.
“Shall we begin?” Dr. Parthen asked.
The nine Tribunal members took their seats at a table directly across from Pettrila’s chair, set on the other side of the sacrificial table and nearer the gallery.
Pettrila maintained a bored expression, even though she was quite curious to see what tricks had been devised to thwart this. Whatever they were, she would surmount them.
Dr. Parthen addressed Pettrila formally. “As dictated by Dantură Pravilă, the person to be sacrificed will be escorted before you for your approval, Mrs. Nichita.”
Pettrila regarded the doctor with studied blankness. Ţărână’s leader has done her homework. The woman had familiarized herself with the edict of Dantură Pravilă which stated that the complainant of the blood-debt must approve the sacrifice or else the blood-debt would be resolved without a death. “Usher the man in,” Pettrila said magnanimously, “by all means.”
“It’s a female, actually,” Dr. Parthen corrected.
Pettrila gave her brows a vague lift, and without hesitation gestured for the proceedings to continue. So here was the plan exposed already. The doctor and her failed Soothsayer of a brother assumed Pettrila lacked the stomach to watch a female sacrificed. They’d made their first error, then. In her many long years on this earth, Pettrila had borne witness to a staggering array of human suffering. She’d tolerated all of it; she’d bear this.
No, only Devid could prevent this deed.
Dr. Parthen nodded to her brother.
The Soothsayer opened a door at the far end of the garage and spoke to someone just outside in the corridor.
