by Amy Miles
Her eyes narrow as he slowly rolls his neck to the side, exposing bare skin. His heart pounds in his chest, thundering in his ears. If Fane didn’t notice their voices before, he is sure to notice the increase in Nicolae’s heartbeat now.
“No. Not really.” She steps closer, her hand outstretched toward him. She bites her lip, and Nicolae nearly loses it. He groans and grabs her hand, pulling her to him.
She goes willingly, eyes wide with expectation. “I thought I lost you,” he breathes. She’s actually here. Alive and healthy and utterly stunning.
“I know.” She leans up on her tiptoes, pressing her hand to his chest. He closes his eyes, fighting against the wild desire that seeks to claim him. He knows this feeling, having spent time with Roseline at the Savoy and Torrent, but this time it’s different. With Sadie he can still think, still function. He is not driven by an irrational lust.
She rises to brush his lips with her own. He closes his eyes, aching to feel her touch. He winds his arms around her, fingers splayed against her lower back.
“Get away from her!”
Nicolae cries out as he is launched through the air, toppling over a high-backed Edwardian chair across the room. It splinters beneath him. He groans as he rolls to his side, clutching his back.
Hurried footsteps beat down the hall. When William arrives in the doorway, he sways unsteadily, clinging to the doorframe for support when he spies Sadie crouched on the floor, defending Nicolae from Fane.
“Sadie? Why are you growling at Fane?” William’s hand falls free from the door as he stumbles into the room, wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”
“She smells danger,” Fane replies, sinking low as he stares back at Sadie. “To her, I am a rival. She’s just protecting her territory, and by that I mean Nicolae.”
Nicolae watches the odd staring match, torn between wanting to leap between them and his undeniable curiosity. He tosses aside the remnants of the chair as he gingerly rises from the floor.
Neither Fane nor Sadie notice him as they weave slightly back and forth like two animals locked in a death match. Nicolae frowns, realizing that is exactly what is happening. Fane is trying to show Sadie that he is the dominate one. “Is this really necessary?”
“She is a killer now, Nicolae. She must learn.” Fane’s words are clipped, edged with tension.
“By telling her you’re the top dog?”
Sadie’s lips peel back to reveal a straight row of white teeth, a low growl rises from her throat. Fane’s hands clench into fists at his side as he refuses to back down.
William takes a step into the room and both immortals bristle. “I’d stay out of this if I were you,” Nicolae calls from across the room, raising his hand in warning.
“You’re actually ok with this?” William splutters, his gaze wide with disbelief.
Gritting his teeth, Nicolae forces himself to nod. “The sooner they get this over with, the sooner we can leave.”
Casting a doubtful glance at his sister, William nods. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says as he turns to leave the room.
The past few days have been hard on William. Nicolae knows the last thing he wanted was for Sadie to be pulled back into the immortal world, and now she has become one of them. He wonders just how well William will accept Sadie’s new life. How easily will he forget how close she came to death if she ever goes for his jugular?
After William disappears back downstairs, Nicolae waits nearly an hour for the staring match to end, pacing the edge of the room. The two immortals hardly notice his presence, too consumed with their battle of wills.
The standoff continues well into the night. Nicolae comes and goes, his growling stomach finally winning over his curiosity. As dawn begins to break over the mountains the next day, he feels a subtle shift in the room.
Sadie finally lowers her eyes. Nicolae breathes a sigh of relief as Fane nods and rises. Sadie follows suit but keeps her gaze fixated on the floor. “She has submitted to my authority,” Fane says, pausing beside the chair that Nicolae slumps in. A small smile plays across Fane’s face. “That is a good sign.”
Four
Lucien’s polished black boots glisten under the red lights of the vibrant Amsterdam district. He walks down the narrow street, pausing to admire the 300-year-old gabled buildings with their stunning architecture. “Shame they don’t make them like this anymore,” he says to no one in particular.
A man lying against a building corner, wrapped in soiled clothes and clutching a bottle tightly in hand, bobs his head in agreement. Lucien stares at him, wondering how much the man can actually see. His nose curls with disgust at the stench wafting from the unclean man and swiftly moves on.
It is nearing the witching hour, and the night is only just beginning to wake in this part of the city. Groups of people converge on the district, hooting and hollering in anticipation of an evening of fun and debauchery. Tourists stumble over their own feet as their cameras flash, attempting to capture the essence of this famous place, but a camera could never do it justice.
It can’t express the electric feeling in the air or the scents of hormones that drift on the breeze. The thrumming of so many heartbeats is intoxicating.
Amsterdam is one of Lucien’s favorite places to visit.
He passes by crowded pubs, closed street cafes, theatres that closed their doors hours before after a successful weekend showing and overcrowded hotels that lead into the district. Here, where the glass-paned window fronts are open for browsing and anything goes, Lucien finds himself drawn in by the excitement of it all. The thought of what a girl is ready and willing to do for a handful of cash never ceases to amaze and excite him. Of course, none of them ever get to spend it.
But tonight he is not here for the entertainment. He is here for the second phase of his plan.
“You looking for a good time?”
Lucien spins on his heel, eyeing the busty brunette lounging against the aged brick of a three-story establishment. Her accent is thick, but no more so than her make-up. Her red leather mini-skirt cuts so high across her thighs that she leaves nothing to the imagination, and her black halter is nearly non-existent. Fake eyelashes, splashed with glitter, flutter at him as she steps out of the doorway .
Three girls writhe in the window behind her, on poles, chairs and the floor. Lucien reluctantly draws his attention away from them to focus on the girl before him. “That depends.”
He casually draws back the front of his unbuttoned suit coat, tucking his right hand into his pocket. His left clutches the top of a silver and black walking cane, hand carved and very expensive. He grins at the rhythmic sway of her hips, her high heels tapping out a steady rhythm as she approaches. “What are you offering?”
She leans in close and whispers in his ear. The scent of cheap alcohol hardly masks the latent drugs that spiral through her veins, and he can see the needle pricks along her inner arm. She stands just over five feet tall, even with a pair of 4-inch stilettos strapped to her feet. He scans her waist, guessing her to weigh no more than one hundred and twenty pounds, most of that spread between hips and bust. Upon closer inspection, he notices small rips in her halter, mended time and time again. The leather skirt shows wear; the zipper is broken and dangling off its threads. A small safety pin is the only thing holding her skirt up.
There is nothing remarkable about her up close, but that doesn’t really matter. The newspapers will only care about the placement of her body, not how pretty her face is. He pauses to imagine just how she will look with her intestines wrapped tightly around her neck, dangling from her balcony window over the street.
The bite marks along her forearm and wrist will tie her murder in with the victims he left in front of the Fortune Theatre in London a couple days ago. Her body drained of blood as well. That should be enough to begin to breed the panic he so longs for.
A murderer on the loose, jumping from country to country, creating strange, horrific displays of the victim’s bodies. Th
is story should make world news.
He fakes a smile as she pulls away, not the least bit interested in what she’s selling, but thinking she has potential. Things are starting to look up.
As he steps over the threshold into the seedy building, a new idea curls his bottom lip with desire. “Why don’t you invite a few of your friends to the party as well?”
***
The instant the door closes behind Fane, Sadie looks up to meet Nicolae’s gaze. She runs her hands nervously through her hair, wincing at the blood that still mats her strands together. “I’m sorry if you thought I was going to bite you. I would never”
“I know.” But does he really? That’s the question he’s been asking himself all night. He thought things had been fine between them, before Fane showed up, but now he’s begun to wonder. Was she really trying to kiss him or was she just luring him in?
No. Sadie would never hurt him, but that was the old Sadie. Who knows what this transformation from human to immortal has made her capable of. “That was pretty intense between you two.”
She shrugs and climbs onto the bed. She tucks her feet under her backside and pats the mattress beside her. “I got bored, so I gave in.”
Nicolae smirks, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Nice to know you’re still in there.”
She grins and scoots closer as he settles down next to her. He brushes his hand along her forearm, amazed by the silky feel of her skin. Even the fine hairs are softer than before. “What’s it like?”
“It’s…weird. I know I’m still me, but it’s like there is another part of me now. I feel strong, fast. I can see things, hear things that I know should be impossible.” Her smile fades into a slight grimace. “It’s a lot to take in, to be honest.”
His hand flinches in hers and she looks up. “What’s wrong?”
“What about me? Has that changed at all?” His voice is low and cautious. Sadie is the only person alive that can hurt him now. A part of him screams to flee from certain heartbreak, but he can’t make himself move. He lost his parents and Sorin to the blood feud between hunter and immortal. What if loving Sadie could end all of that? What if, together, they could bridge the gap and show both sides that is it possible to get along?
She reaches up to gently cup his cheek. He closes his eye, sinking into the fiery warmth of her touch. “Nothing has changed between us.”
“When I found you lying on the floor…”
Sadie brushes her finger along his stubbled chin, trailing toward his lips to silence him. He realizes how terrible he must look: unshaven and haggard from lack of sleep. He opens his eyes to see her smiling at him. “You saved me. That’s all that matters.”
He draws back from her touch, fixing his gaze firmly on the floor instead of her. “I couldn’t lose you. I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me for that decision.”
“Are you kidding?” Sadie laughs. She leaps off the bed and stands before an oval mirror resting on a wooden stand. She flexes her muscles, twisting this way and that to get a better view before she turns to face him. “I feel amazing.”
“But you weren’t given a choice”
Sadie waves off his argument. “Do you know any girl who would be upset over never having to shave her legs again? I mean come on, this is freakin’ brilliant!” She lifts her shredded pant leg to reveal smooth, toned calves. She smirks as Nicolae flushes. “Come on, Nicolae. It’s a joke. Lighten up!”
He leans back on the bed, propped up on his elbows. “Why aren’t you freaking out right now? I expected at least a good slap over it all.”
Her grin slowly fades as she drops her pant leg. She sighs and leaps onto the bed beside him, bouncing on her hands and knees. The bed hardly quakes as she lands. “I’ve spent the past few weeks obsessing over being left out. You know I suck at that.”
He nods in complete agreement. Sadie never has been one to think of safety first.
“Well, now’s my chance to make a difference.” She inches closer to him. “I know Roseline is in trouble. I heard you guys talking about it, and I’m going to help get her back.”
“No. No way!” He shakes his head, surging to his feet. He grimaces, rubbing at his neck as he considers what she is suggesting.
“I’m strong now. I can fight.”
“Strong?” He turns to face her. “Do you really think that gives you an advantage against another immortal? They have been training for hundreds of years, Sadie.”
She slips down off the bed and saunters up to him. His eyes widen as she draws close, pressing her hands to his chest, just over his heart. “You can train me.”
“Me?” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and frowns down at her. “I can’t just…I’m a hunter. A leader.” His voice rises in pitch. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Actually, I do.” She leans up into him, pressing her cheek to his neck. He swallows roughly, his hands struggling to find a safe place to rest. He settles on awkwardly grasping her arms. “You know me better than anyone. You know that I’ll do something completely reckless if I’m left on my own. Wouldn’t it be best for me to know how to defend myself?”
Nicolae groans as his fingers curl around her upper arms. He thrusts her back. “That’s blackmail.”
She grins and nods. “But it’s also the truth.”
He sighs heavily, resting his forehead against hers. “Fane won’t like this.”
Winding her arms around his waist, she smiles mischievously, peering up at him through her bangs. “If he thinks I’ve submitted to him, he’s got another thing coming!”
***
Roseline is dying. At least she hopes she is.
A bouquet of rotting flesh and spilled blood permeates the air. A heavy dampness clings to her skin, matting her hair against her neck and forehead. The stained sackcloth she wears drapes her emaciated body, soiled by mud and other unmentionable fluids.
Time has no meaning in this pit. There is no light, save from the dwindling candle flickering from a rusted wall sconce beyond the cell bars. The drip of wax against the uneven stone floor in the hallway is the only measure of time.
The near darkness is maddening. The sensation of knives grazing her skin has been nearly constant since Lucien sank his teeth into her neck. Her blood feels like it’s simmering in her veins and the gaping wounds in her hands, arms and abdomen keep her in a constant state of agony and weakness.
She is no longer in the torture chamber. Sometime after she passed out she was moved here, to this stinking, damp pit.
Roseline shifts, tucking her legs up into a fetal position as she clamps her eyes shut against the pain gnawing through the lining of her stomach. Her throat is parched, and despite her best efforts, she can no longer deny the scent wafting through the air.
She casts a feral glance at the body lying nearby. Blonde hair. Long legs. A small pink heart tattoo crests just over the waist of grungy low-rise jeans. The girl was probably a college student thumbing her way across Europe. At least, Roseline hopes she was that old.
Even through the halo of hair, Roseline can tell the girl’s neck is broken. The blood that runs down the crown of her head has begun to congeal. Her warmth is fading, but that makes her blood no less desirable in Roseline’s current state.
She wishes for the candlelight to snuff out so she won’t have to look at the body anymore, but even without sight, she will be unable to forget every minute detail of the dead girl. She has been the biggest temptation Lucien has thrown at Roseline so far.
The first three cups of blood left at her cell door are now splashed across the far wall. Thick trails of crimson creep down the stone toward the packed dirt floor. Next came a sheep, its throat slit so deeply its head dangles by a single tendon. Its rotting corpse remains untouched near the cell entrance, but the girl…she is new.
One taste, just one, would ease Roseline’s suffering, but it would also spark her transformation. Lucien won’t allow Roseline’s rebellion to linger much longer. S
tarvation is not an option.
Roseline rolls onto her side, facing the wall. Her revulsion at what she is becoming wars against her need. The thirst multiplies with each passing moment, and her thoughts have begun to fragment. Voices call to her from the shadows of her mind.
She digs her long nails into her palms, hissing as blood pools around the wounds. She licks her hands, closing her eyes to the metallic taste that barely quenches her need. Her blood will not heal her nor will it keep her thirst at bay for long, but it soothes her parched throat.
A sound shatters the stillness and sends Roseline cowering against the wall. She tucks her knees into her chest and raises a frail arm to cover her eyes as a swaying lantern approaches. She tries to peer around the glow but can’t see who or what walks just beyond.
“Hello?” Her voice croaks, so she attempts again. “Who is there?”
She can hear footsteps now. Each step is smooth, as if gliding over the stone rather than actually stepping. When she can’t detect any hissing or the foul stench of death on the air, she breathes a sigh of relief. Whoever this is, it’s not one of Lucien’s snake-like Eltat that attacked her in the Hell Fire Club caverns or the beast that shredded her intestines. She places her hand over her stomach, feeling the sticky blood that still seeps from her wounds.
“Roseline?”
She lowers her hand, nostrils flaring as a new scent invades her senses. It is bold, laced with danger and something more.
“Stay back,” she growls, clawing at the wall. Her nails dig deep into the stone as the lock on the cell door rattles. She doesn’t need to see past the light to know who is coming. It’s him.
“What have they done to you?” The masculine cry of outrage is quickly followed by a loud clink as the lock falls to the ground.
Roseline covers her ears and begins to rock as the door screeches open. The sound stabs at her mind, making her long for the return of endless silence. “Don’t come any closer, Malachi.”
