Chapter 15
Rosalind stalked down the narrow stairwell, clutching a flask.
She tugged up the front of her dress—a delicate gown of sea-foam green, flecked with gold threads that curled down to the hem like vines. Not exactly standard dungeon-attire, but it would do the job for meeting with Erish. Ambrose had quite helpfully called for a servant to bring her a dress, so she wasn’t forced to climb down to the dungeon half naked.
And on her way down she ‘d stopped by her room for a few crucial items—namely, the weapons she now had discreetly strapped to her thighs below the tulle.
Apart from her blades and stakes, she carried only one thing: a flask of ambrosia. The blood of a god, right at her fingertips—a potential bargaining chip for her meeting with Erish.
At the end of the stairwell, she pushed through a misshapen oak door into a dank, earthen hall. The old dungeons had been crushed by a giant, but Ambrose had ordered his men to work day and night to build a new one. It now held a single prisoner: Ambrose’s wife.
From silver lanterns, warm light danced over the hall. It smelled like a grave down here.
A sharp pain pierced her chest. Was this what Miranda felt, buried under all that dirt? Suffocating under the earth, trapped in darkness? Her fingers curled into fists, and she shook her head. No. Miranda doesn’t feel anything.
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away. As soon as she was done with her little interview, she and Aurora would try to raise Miranda.
She ran her hand along the earthen walls as she walked toward the dungeons. A single lantern lit the space, casting wavering light on an iron-barred cell at the end of the hall. As she moved further into the hall, her chest tightened. Crumpled in a heap on the stone floor lay a bag of bones, dressed in rags.
Erish. The stunning succubus queen.
Rosalind swallowed hard, crossing to the iron cage. Erish’s black hair, once lush, lay snarled over her emaciated arms. Iron chains bound her neck, wrists, and ankles.
Rosalind crept up to the cage.
Is she even alive?
“Erish?” she said softly.
The queen lay still. Sweet earthly gods. Erish was a traitor and a terrible person, but her husband could have at least given her some food and a blanket.
Standing just outside the cell bars, Rosalind crouched down. “Erish?”
In the next instant, the queen lunged, her hand flying for Rosalind’s head. Rosalind dropped the flask, trying to dodge backward, but the queen had her by the hair. Erish snarled, and Rosalind caught a glimpse of a savage red scar on the queen’s neck.
“Rosalind,” Erish spat. “The special little human.” Her eyes were wide, her grip on Rosalind iron-clad. “Did you think you could decapitate a succubus and live?”
Rosalind’s heart raced. Gripping the bars, she kicked between them, her foot connecting with Erish’s face—but quick as a flash, Erish grabbed her foot, twisting it. Rosalind slammed forehead-first onto the stone.
She yanked her foot out of Erish’s grasp, recoiling. When she touched her forehead, her fingertips came away coated in blood. Thick red drops stained her green gown, now smudged with dirt.
“Great to see you, Erish,” she said from the floor. “I’m so pleased captivity hasn’t dampened your spirits.”
Erish leaned back on her haunches, her snarl more animal than human. “You’re the reason I’m here, filthy human wench. And now you’ve come to gloat, dressed like a queen. If I could, I’d eviscerate you slowly and drape your entrails over my shoulders like a shawl.”
Shuddering, Rosalind brushed the dirt off her bodice. “I’m not here to gloat. I just came to ask you a question.”
“Do you remember that time you cut my head off?” Erish pulled down the iron collar just an inch, exposing the angry red scar on her neck. “I’m not clear why you think I would help you.”
Because I’m reasonably sure you’re an addict. “I’ll give you a taste of ambrosia.”
Erish’s eyes widened, and her body went completely still.
Now I have your attention. Rosalind would give her just a drop—enough to tempt her. Not enough to imbue her with fresh powers.
“What do you want to know?” Erish asked in a low voice.
“If I drink the ambrosia, what will happen to me? I’ve had it before, but only when wearing iron. I’ve never used the gods-magic the way Drew has.”
Erish’s lip curled. “What are you afraid of? Are you scared some little human tart will sever your head from your body, and you’ll wake up in a dank sewer, chained with the rats? That your husband and king will bury you under the earth, that he’ll let you starve? I can’t imagine where you’d get that idea.”
Rosalind crossed her arms. “Lay off the guilt trip, Erish. You were kidnapping humans to turn them into mindless, flesh-eating demons—including my best friend. You caused hundreds of deaths.”
“I was revered as a goddess in the ancient world,” Erish hissed. “I deserve an army to defend me. And now you find me sitting in my own filth. That is your fault.”
“If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll have a word with Ambrose about your living conditions. I’ll make sure you’re sent food, and something to wash with.”
“And why would he listen to you?” Erish lunged forward, gripping the bars. “You think you’ll be his new queen? You think your pretty face is enough for him?”
Rosalind frowned. She was growing impatient—she had a sister to raise from the dead, and Erish was stalling. “What? No. I’m not going to become his queen.”
“That’s right, you won’t. You spend enough time with Ambrose, and he’ll rip through that delicate human neck. And if somehow you managed to survive his rapacious blood hunger, he’d have to watch you growing old and wrinkled. Rotten with cancer. He’d be repulsed at your sagging skin, your creaking knees, your bladder giving out. That is your fate, after all. Another body for the whore pit.”
Suddenly, Rosalind wanted to be anywhere but here. “I have no desire to become queen.”
Erish’s grip tightened on the bars. “Turning humans into demons—is it really so terrible? I gave them eternal life. Without me, they’d be cursed with corrupted, rotting bodies. Just like yours.” Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “What a choice for a sanctimonious cunt like you—become a demon, or die. You do realize those are your only options?”
Rosalind shrugged. “I guess I could live forever and watch myself abandoned one by one by everyone who ever loved me, until there was nothing left but my narcissistic rage. But somehow, that doesn’t seem appealing.”
“Do you know what will happen when you die, Rosalind? Will you be trapped in a void, with nothing but your sad little memories?” Erish licked her lips. “You’d best figure it out fast. You’re dying right now.”
“And you’re stalling. Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to keep me here as long as possible? Getting a bit bored of hearing your own bitter thoughts? Even you’re growing sick of yourself.” Rosalind rose to her full height, brushing off the back of her dress. She was quickly losing control of this conversation. “I’m here to ask about the blood. The ambrosia. Did it drive Drew insane?”
Erish sneered. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Yes. He paid us a visit. I guess you missed all the excitement down here.”
“Did he seem sane?”
“No.”
Erish tilted her head. “You already know the answer. You’re just not willing to admit it to yourself. You’ve already lost half your mind anyway. What difference does it make if you lose the rest?”
“You didn’t lose your mind though, did you?”
“Like I said, I’m practically a goddess. Don’t expect the same rules to apply to me.” She frowned. “Do you ever wonder what your corpse will look like?”
Rosalind’s stomach tightened. “I don’t have to wonder anymore.” Not since she’d seen her identical twin’s graying corpse.
“Now that’s intriguing.”
&
nbsp; “Will I become addicted to the ambrosia, like you are?” Rosalind asked. “I mean, I’ve had it before. But I’ve never used the gods-magic. Is that what’s addictive?”
“I don’t expect that you’ll be any stronger than I am. You can hardly deal with your second soul. Honestly, you should just give up and let her take over.” She licked her lips. “I can see her in your eyes now. Look at your reflection.”
She knew that Erish was playing mind-games with her, but curiosity compelled Rosalind to lift the metal flask, gazing at her own face. Her breath froze in her lungs. She stared at a stranger: long, platinum hair, pale skin, and green eyes. She blinked hard, and her dark hair returned once more. What the hell was that?
She glared at Erish. “Did you create that illusion?”
The succubus lifted her chains. “I can’t do any magic with this iron all over me. I can see Cleo—that’s her name, isn’t it?—taking over. She’s really quite beautiful. I see why Ambrose would have given in to his carnal desires all those centuries ago.”
Rosalind’s fingers curled. “What happened between them?”
Erish arched an eyebrow. “Are you jealous of your second soul? Tell me, which demon do you want more: the incubus who killed your parents, or the vampire who wants to fuck you and kill you?”
“Neither,” Rosalind grumbled. She unscrewed the cap on the flask, poured a few drops into the cap, then handed it over. “I have to go. Here’s your payment.”
To her surprise, Erish didn’t complain about the tiny pour. She simply glared at Rosalind and sipped it, before handing Rosalind the cap and wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you what Ambrose did to Cleo. Then we’ll see how much you like him.”
Rosalind screwed the top back on the flask. “I’ll ask Ambrose to send down some food and blankets.”
“Where is it you have to run off to so quickly, little tart?”
“I have to go visit my sister.”
Erish only grunted as Rosalind turned, stalking through the dirt tunnel again.
Her stomach churned. Her worst fears could be true. Drew had probably been driven insane by using the gods-magic.
Maybe human bodies weren’t meant for such power. And as much as she hated to admit it, Erish was right. She didn’t have much of her mind left to lose. Not with Cleo taking over, one brain cell after another.
Rosalind rubbed a knot in her forehead. She didn’t want to lose what was left of her sanity, but she was running out of options. And if they needed an abomination to fight Drew, maybe she’d have to fill the role. She pulled open the door and began climbing the stairwell.
Despite Erish’s claims of addiction to ambrosia, she’d spent the entire conversation stalling, trying to prod at sensitive topics. She hadn’t really seemed like an addict. Maybe Erish was desperate, but it wasn’t blood she craved. She was starved for attention, desperate for conversation—even if it meant talking with her worst enemy. Maybe isolation was the worst punishment of all.
Do you know what will happen when you die Rosalind? Will you be trapped in a void, with nothing but your sad little memories?
At the top of the stairwell, Rosalind pulled open the misshapen door.
Suddenly, nothing seemed more important than raising her sister from the grave.
Chapter 16
Rosalind pulled a shawl tight around her shoulders as she walked down the winding path to the yew. She could already see Aurora standing near a fire pit. By the tree, cedar smoke curled into the air, and the flames cast a glowing light over her sister’s corpse. The sound of tinkling bells filled the air.
Thank the gods for Aurora. The vampire had volunteered to arrive early for the necromantic spell, so Rosalind wouldn’t have to face digging her own sister out.
As Rosalind drew closer, she could see a thin layer of dirt covering Miranda’s skin and her white gown. She took her place next to Aurora. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
The vampire wore a long, black gown and held two silver cups. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“We have to try,” Rosalind said quietly.
Aurora handed her a silver cup. “Here. Wine.”
“Is wine the first step?”
Aurora took a sip. “Wine is always the first step. Especially when you’re standing over your sister’s corpse.”
“Good point.” Rosalind sipped the fruity wine—the same wine she’d had at her picnic days ago.
But for this picnic, Aurora had brought a macabre feast: black bread, a necromancy book, goat blood, and a caged raven. Aurora bent down, snatched the spell book from a wicker basket, and flipped through the pages.
Against her will, Rosalind’s gaze slid to her sister’s body. Miranda’s face had taken on a greenish tinge; her lips were a deep blue.
Rosalind couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she was staring at her own corpse, glimpsing her own future. A hollow opened up in the pit of her stomach. It’s not me. It’s Miranda.
“Rosalind?” Aurora said. “Are you with me?”
She tore her gaze away. “Yes. I’m here.”
Aurora held out a piece of black bread. “Eat this. Food doesn’t agree with me. I had Caine’s fae chef bake it for us.”
Rosalind took it from her, and her stomach rumbled. When was the last time I ate? She took a bite, chewing into the rye bread, delicately sweetened with molasses. “Now what?”
“Now you throw the bread into the fire.”
Rosalind took one more bite and tossed the rest into the bonfire, to a burst of flame. Black smoke curled into the air.
Aurora stepped closer to the fire, opening a silver flask. She took a sip, then poured a thin stream of blood onto the fire; it hissed as the flask emptied. “Now all we have to do is drink more wine, and sacrifice the bird.”
Rosalind took a sip of her drink. “Would Caine be upset about the raven? What if she’s a friend of Lilu? His familiar?”
Aurora glared at her, picking up the birdcage. “I told you, Caine would be upset about all of this. Anyway, Nyxobas likes ravens.”
Snatching the spellbook from the ground, Rosalind shivered. Right. Well, good thing he’s not here.
The raven flapped its wings, squawking, and Aurora cooed gently, stroking its head. In a split second, she flung open the birdcage and with a soft crack, she snapped the creature’s neck.
Brutal.
Aurora tossed the bird’s limp body onto the fire and glanced at Rosalind. “And now, all we need is the spell.”
Rosalind propped the book on her hip, holding it open with one hand. Hand-drawn skulls, ravens and waning moons decorated the spell’s page. She scanned for the spell, then chanted: “Usella Mituti Ikkalu Baltuti.”
Aurora joined in. Their voices mingled with the tinkling of the bells. The wind picked up, toying with Rosalind’s hair.
Usella Mituti Ikkalu Baltuti.
Rosalind’s veins flooded with a strange power, dark and ancient. She closed her eyes, her vision swirling glimmers of stars. And with the piercing glow of starlight in her mind, she thought of Caine’s eyes. Caine was the closest thing she knew to the god of night. She tried to imagine how he conducted the magic—his body blazing with pale light, shadows moving around him, his movements predatory and precise.
A scent wafted past her, electric and earthy at the same time. The whorls of stars gave way to an earthly vision: a room with dark wood, dirty ivory sheets. Sunlight streaming through a warped window. A shapely woman dressed in a ragged nightgown, brushing her blond hair.
Where am I?
A wail pierced the air. She glanced down and saw that it was a baby crying in a basket on the floor. She reached down to pick the child up. It looked at her with gray eyes. Cradling the infant in her arms, she soothed the baby, and a protective warmth enveloped her.
She glanced up at the crooked bedside table. A hairpin lay on the surface—a sharp spike of silver, with a thorny design decorating the top.
Re
cognition hit her like a fist. Caine.
The night sky swirled again, enveloping her, and a sharp hollow rose in her chest, eating at her ribs. The image was replaced with a thick forest, gleaming with daylight. Pines towered over her, and she gripped a sword. She glanced down at her arm, taking in the thickly corded muscle and golden skin. Caine.
He slid his fingers into the V of his shirt, feeling the small divot over his heart. The scar that Rosalind had given him. The sunlight seemed to darken, and through Caine’s eyes she looked up at the sky. A legion of shrieking valkyries were coming for him, and he tightened his grip on the sword.
White light burst in her vision, and she gasped, opening her eyes.
She stood before the yew, and the night breeze whispered over her skin. Her body shook from her visions. Had they been real, or some sort of hallucination?
Aurora touched her arm. “I think I felt the shadow magic.”
All around them, deep, silvery magic whirled through the air—but when Rosalind glanced down at her sisters body, Miranda lay still. None of the magic had actually been directed into her body, and it was already disappearing like smoke.
Rosalind’s stomach dropped. Maybe it had worked? Her legs shook, and she rushed to her sister’s body. She traced her fingertips over Miranda’s skin. Cold. She stared at her sister’s chest, willing her lungs to swell with air.
Aurora, her brow furrowed, pressed a hand over Miranda’s chest. “There’s no heartbeat.”
Rosalind lifted her fingers to her sister’s throat, feeling for a pulse. She felt only cold, dead flesh. “Nothing.” Sadness tightened its grip on her heart, and she pulled her hand away. “I felt the shadow magic. I think I even got some mental images from Caine. But the magic didn’t go where it was supposed to.”
“What mental images?”
Grief ate at Rosalind’s chest, sharp and hollow. A tear streamed down her face, and she wiped it away. This had been the best plan she had.
“I think it was an image from Caine’s life. That tattoo on his arm that looks like a knife? It’s not; it’s a woman’s hairpin.” Her chest tightened. “But that’s not the concerning vision. I saw a legion of valkyries coming for him. It could be a vision of where he is now, because he already had the scar I gave him, but I sure as hell hope not. It wasn’t looking good for him.”
Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3) Page 11
