Chapter 37
Rosalind stood on the cliff’s edge, staring out at the Astarte sea. A damp breeze kissed her skin, and she licked the salt off her lips.
She swayed slightly on her feet. The sea wind toyed with her hair, and she drank in the briny scent of Dagon. She closed her eyes, trying to gather the energy she needed for a storm spell.
But as soon as her eyelids fluttered closed, Cleo greeted her with a vision of Ambrose kissing the tops of her breasts, her back flat against the wooden wall, dress hiked up around her waist. His firm hands gripping her waist.
Richard will be upset…
Rosalind shook her head to clear the vision. “Not now, Cleo. I need to practice.”
Cleo slammed her with another vision—her legs around Ambrose’s muscled waist, her back against the rough tree bark. He kissed her milky white neck, and her body writhed against his…
Rosalind’s fingernails dug into her palms. I don’t need to be a voyeur into someone’s sixteenth century sex life. “Stop it. I get it. You liked fucking Ambrose. Can we move on?”
Her legs were shaking, and her gaze flicked to the starry sky. With the daywalker plans in complete disarray, they had few defenses against Drew. She’d have to master her abilities, or they’d all die when he invaded the city again.
She held out her arms to the side. Gusts of marine wind whipped at her hair. This time, she had no incubi to attack. It was just her and the vast skies. She arched her back, opening her body to Mishett-Ash, imagining a storm simmering on the horizon. An electric thrill surged through her limbs.
This is working.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up the stars, watching as dark clouds rolled in. An ancient, wrathful power vibrated through her body. Maybe she was mastering this magic after all. She narrowed her eyes at the sky, watching as the clouds covered the moon, blotting out the light. Far below, the sea began to seethe like a dying beast, slate gray and angry.
An electric thrill charged her muscles. She flicked her wrist, and lightning pierced the dark sky. I can do this.
A second flick, and the clouds opened, unleashing a torrent of rain.
Fat raindrops soaked her clothes, and the distant call of a valkyrie pierced the air. Filled with a soul-deep assuredness, Rosalind stepped off the edge of the cliff, and took flight into the air. Gray magic whorled around her body, and she soared over the frothing sea, dark as bitumen.
Thunder rumbled over the horizon.
Cleo whispered, It feels good to wield the power of nature, Rosalind, Doesn’t it? Glorious. Until they punish you for it.
Rosalind swooped lower, letting the ocean’s spume wash over her, tasting the salt. Cold wind whipped at her skin, tearing at her dress and hair. Finally, she’d wielded the gods-magic successfully.
Too much power now. They’ll burn you, too.
Her heart began to pound harder when she thought of Cleo burning in the funeral pyre, of Richard watching. But she couldn’t think about that now—not with Drew eating at the shield, ready to invade the city and slaughter everyone.
Rosalind pushed the memories of Cleo to the back of her mind.
She swooped back over to the cliff’s edge, landing with a hard roll on the jagged rock. She grunted, then righted herself, dusting off the gravel. Cold magic still rushed through her veins, dulling the pain from her landing’s impact.
As she stood on the cliff’s edge, another crack of lightning flashed in the sky. Reaching out toward the sea, she focused on the salty air, letting Dagon’s magic curl from her fingers. Her mind flickered with an image of Dagon in his bestial form, his tentacles sliding over her skin…
She flicked her wrist, then watched as the ocean convulsed. Slowly, the tide retreated from the shore, leaving behind sludgy black rocks,, hammered by the storm’s onslaught. Dagon’s phantom tentacles curled tighter around her body, encircling her waist as she used his power.
As watery magic surged through her blood, she flicked her wrist again, and the sea returned once more—this time, as a wall of black water, rushing for the cliffs. Rosalind stared, wide eyed, as a small tsunami rushed for the cliff’s edge.
But before water met rock, Cleo seized her mind.
* * *
Rosalind faltered, her vision going dark. Then, a shocking burst of green—Cleo’s aura.
The green aura thinned, giving way to a sycamore grove. In the heavy spring night, she stood, dressed in her thinnest white dress—the one Ambrose liked, because he could see through the fabric when the sunlight hit it from behind.
Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders—Ambrose and Richard were the only men who’d ever seen her with her hair down, threaded with flowers. Bluebells for peace of mind.
She sighed, leaning back against a trunk. She’d eaten dinner with Ambrose last night, at his manor. She shouldn’t have gone to him like that, so recklessly—not with the witch hunters roaming Fife. But she couldn’t resist his beauty, nor stay away from his touch.
She plucked a petal off a bluebell. Ambrose drew her to him like a moth to the flame. Some nights, she just stood outside his window, watching him. Trying to draw his attention to her, making sure his love wasn’t false. She was sure he saw her, too.
But last night had been different. She’d stood in the garden just outside his manor. She’d needed to see him, needed to feel his hands all over her. But when she saw him with that other woman, the one with the raven hair, beautiful as a goddess—
Their quarrel had been terrible. She’d said things she regretted, and she was sure he’d never want to see her again. But then, he’d invited her to dine with him, just the two of them. Roasted quail, venison, strawberry pudding, and malmsey wine—enough to drown a man.
But they hadn’t finished eating. Just as she’d finished her second glass of wine, Ambrose had pushed the food off the table, and he’d taken her right there. He’d laced his fingers through hers, and he’d given her the most amazing love of her life.
She hoped she’d see him again tonight. He knew he’d be able to find her here, and she was certain he’d want to see her again. Already, her body was warming—getting ready for his touch.
The sound of footsteps turned her head, and her heartbeat sped up. He’s coming.
But as she stepped through the grove, looking for her love, the world seemed to tilt below her feet. It wasn’t Ambrose coming for her.
How did they know I was here?
There were three of them, their black caps peaked, iron tools gleaming in the moonlight. It was the Hunters.
Her heart skipped a beat. Ambrose and Richard are the only ones who know I come here…
Her heart thudded, and she lifted her hand to begin a spell. But before her lips could finish the first Angelic word, an iron arrow struck her in the chest. She fell to the earth, pain screaming through her shoulder. Grief cut through her.
Ambrose turned me in to the Hunters.
A hunter kicked her hard in the gut, another slammed a boot into her ribs.
Ambrose is sending me to my death.
One of the Hunters—his face red as a devil’s—tore the front of her dress, and she screamed.
Ambrose wouldn’t come to save her.
Ambrose had sent them here.
* * *
As the storm raged above, Rosalind clenched her fists tighter, until her fingernails pierced the skin. A hard wave slammed against the rocky cliffs. The black clouds seethed in the sky, dark as the smoke from a witch’s pyre.
Cleo’s wrath was hers now—and she had a score to settle.
Ambrose, you faithless prick.
She turned, rushing back toward the fortress.
Fury ripped through her nerves, colder than a valkyrie’s rage. Ambrose had been Cleo’s lover, and then he’d sent the Hunters for her. Instead of meeting her himself, he’d left her to be beaten and raped.
And then he’d let her burn.
Wrath shook her body.
Why had Ambrose done this to Cleo? Becaus
e she’d been too much trouble for him? Because he didn’t know how to get rid of a lover he no longer wanted?
Shadow demons aren’t capable of love.
No wonder Cleo hated the fucker. No wonder she wanted to light him on fire.
Rosalind’s feet pounded through the forest. Her breath was ragged in her lungs. She ran, carried on the wind, and gusts of cold air billowed around her.
But Cleo had said something else. Richard had known where Cleo would be. He was a jilted lover. What if it had been him?
And what if Richard’s angry soul had poisoned Caine’s mind against Rosalind?
She lifted the hem of her dress, running faster through the Gelal Fields. She needed to get to the bottom of this, once and for all. She was sick of all the secrets.
But before she got to the fortress walls, a loud crack boomed over the horizon. Flicking her wrist, she flung open the entrance to the castle. She sprinted through a dark hall. As she ran through the candlelit corridors and up the stairs, her mind flashed with images of the fire.
Ambrose sent me to the flames, Cleo screamed.
He’d burned his lover. He’d left his wife to rot in a prison.
Demons can’t really love, Cleo whispered. They will use you, then kill you.
Gasping for breath, Rosalind sprinted up the stairs to the White Tower. She knew where she’d find Ambrose: toying with another courtesan.
At the top of the stairs, she rushed through the long hall, her gaze on the two guards at the door. Two near-giants, large as vikings, wielding axes designed to separate intruder’s necks from their bodies. But she didn’t feel so intimidated anymore.
“Stop!” One of them shouted, readying his weapon.
She held out her hands, and two sharp bolts of lightning shot from her wrists, finding their marks in the guards’ chests.
Good, Cleo purred. Vengeance is glorious.
Stalking past their unconscious bodies, Rosalind climbed the stairs. She flicked her wrist, flinging open the door. Blazing with power, she stepped into Ambrose’s chamber. With the storm raging above, a glass dome covered the open ceiling, and rain hammered against the clear glass.
Ambrose stood, naked, by one of the windows.
Before she could even register surprise, he had her pinned against the wall, his hand around her throat.
Chapter 38
He pressed his muscled body against hers. Cleo seemed to thrill at his touch, wanted his hands all over her waist—but Rosalind heard nothing but the angry roar of blood in her ears.
Either you or Richard gave her up to the Hunters.
She slammed her fist into his cheek, knocking him away.
His head whipped to the side, and he touched his mouth, dabbing at the blood. He eyed her warily. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“What did you do to Cleo?”
Rosalind felt her body shifting, lengthening. Her hips narrowed, and from the corner of her eye, she watched her dark hair lighten to a pale gold.
Ambrose’s eyes widened. “Cleo,” he whispered.
Rosalind’s fingers twitched, fire magic sparking at the tips. “You better tell us now, vampire,” she spoke, half in her own voice, and half in Cleo’s. “Because we know what it feels like to burn. I’m not sure you do, but we can change that real fast.”
His jaw dropped.
Despite her fury, Cleo’s lust simmered, and Rosalind found her eyes scanning Ambrose’s chiseled body. She could almost understand why Cleo had become obsessed with him.
Almost, but not quite.
“I won’t speak to you in that form,” he growled.
Now, Rosalind understood what Cleo wanted from Ambrose. It wasn’t simply sex or vengeance.
She wanted a confession.
“Tell me the truth!” she shouted, her voice mingling with Cleo’s.
In a fraction of a second, his hand was at her throat once more, squeezing ever so slightly. “I won’t ask again.”
Coolly, she surveyed him. Now she had the power to fight him—but she wasn’t here for a slaughter. She was here for a confession. She let her body transform again, growing petite once more, her hair darkening. “If you don’t give Cleo what she wants,” Rosalind said. “I will turn into her once more and flay your skin from your bones. Are we clear?”
Slowly, he backed away. “I need to get dressed for this conversation.” He crossed to his bed, pulling on a pair of black underwear. His clothing littered the silky sheets, and she had the distinct impression he’d been banging someone not long ago.
“Where’d your latest lover go?” she asked, taking another step closer. “Did you hire an army of thugs to burn her to death?”
As he stepped into his pants, Ambrose’s gaze was positively glacial. “You really have completely lost your mind, haven’t you, Rosalind?”
She shook her head. “I’ve just come to understand why Cleo hates you so much.”
“You’ve lost your wits. You’re no good to me if you’re insane.”
“Don’t you get it?” Rosalind shouted. “She’s not going to let my mind rest until you tell me the truth.” She stepped closer to him, letting the flames spark from her fingertips. Smoke curled to the ceiling. “Confess what you did.”
Still bare-chested, Ambrose gestured to the bed. “Sit.”
She curled her lip. “I’m not sitting on sheets you just screwed on.”
He took a step closer, his dark magic curling from his body. He was angry. Furious, even.
But he didn’t scare her anymore. “Tell me what you did,” she demanded.
He took a deep breath. “I met her in the 1590s. I had moved to Scotland nearly a hundred years before.”
“Why?”
His eyes darkened. “You don’t need to know that. You only need to know that it was the darkest period of my life—until I met Cleo.”
Deep in Rosalind’s chest, Cleo’s aura sparked.
“She was different. A female philosopher. Smarter than any woman I’d ever met. She had a lover when I met her.”
“Richard.” Rosalind swallowed. “That’s Caine’s soul.”
“Hmm. I guess that explains what happened earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
He arched an eyebrow, jaw tensing. “You know what I mean. Anyway, I’d meet her in the sycamore grove, or among the wildflowers at night. She was an amazing lover. Passionate beyond belief.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen the mental video.”
“But she always wanted more.”
“So?”
His aura darkened the air around him. “You have to understand that in Scotland at this time, the whole country was overrun by prickers. Hunters, you’d call them. More powerful than at any other point in their history, except now. Anyone found guilty of witchcraft would be burned at the stake. I wasn’t as powerful then as I am now. I hadn’t taken over Lilinor yet.”
Rosalind crossed her arms. She was losing patience. “And why did you give her over to the Hunters?”
“She’d become obsessed with me. She needed to see me every night. If I wasn’t there for her, she’d send wisteria vines all over my manor, clinging to the brick. She’d practice magic in my garden. The people who lived nearby had begun to notice. There were rumors.”
She swallowed hard. Cleo’s magic roiled sharply in her gut. “So you turned her in?”
“Not until she spied on me one night. She caught me speaking to Erish in my home. It was before Erish and I had married, but Erish had… an interest in me. The jealousy ripped Cleo apart. She threatened, then and there, to turn me in to the Hunters. I tried to calm her. I invited her in for dinner. I thought I’d made her happy again. I thought I’d stopped it. But she was too unpredictable. She didn’t forgive me. Because the next night the Hunters came for me. And there was only one way out of it. It was me, or her. They wanted a witch, and I gave them one.”
Rosalind’s fists tightened, fury still blazing through her blood. “She didn’t turn you in.”
&nbs
p; His eyes had darkened to a pitch black. “She was trying to get me killed. And after what I’d already been through, I wasn’t dying for a crazy woman.”
“She didn’t turn you in. Maybe they saw all the wisteria.” Cleo’s anger seethed, and Rosalind nearly punched him again. “They raped her, you know.”
The room grew positively frigid.
“She didn’t turn you in.” She shook her head. “You said the Hunters were all over Scotland. Maybe they just came for you anyway. Or maybe they’d heard about the vines. Or, you know, the fact that you drink people’s blood.”
Ambrose seemed to pale, shadows thickening around him. “Are you certain she never sent the Hunters for me?”
“She thought you’d be coming for her in the sycamore grove. She was certain of it.”
He dropped his gaze, staring at the floor. “When they burned her, I hid inside the nearby church, and I forced myself to watch the whole thing. She cried my name, over and over. And Richard screamed hers. He was the next to burn.”
Bile crawled up her throat.
Cleo’s voice had gone quiet.
“Those are the old ways that the Brotherhood wants to bring back,” Rosalind said quietly.
“I’ll never forget the sound of her screams.”
Rosalind shook her head. “What did you mean about Richard’s soul? How it explains what happened earlier?”
He glanced at her quizzically. “Caine’s outburst, of course. His jealous rage.”
A pit opened in the hollow of her stomach. “What outburst?”
“When he found you with me here earlier. You do realize that the only reason I didn’t slaughter you for bursting in here is that you were the best shag I’ve had since… well, since Cleo. That, and the—”
Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3) Page 23
