PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  As they crested the next hill, the Maltorim’s asylum expanded along the horizon. Stone walls encapsulated crowded rows of cemetery headstones and, in the center of the graveyard, a mausoleum—with its primeval doors and concrete edifice—awaited Ophelia’s charade. She marveled at the crumbling limestone, having never before been able to see so clearly from such a great distance.

  Ethan stopped, placing a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. The night’s wind, carrying on it the scent of the dead and the grit of dirt, swept between her and Ethan, chilling the warmth of him at her back and lifting her hair from her neck.

  “We’ll stay until you’re safely inside.”

  Ophelia swallowed. She didn’t turn to face him, just stood there, studying the path they’d yet to travel. He hadn’t stood this close to her since before they departed. She’d spent the journey half-wishing he would transport them through space, but he’d said they couldn’t risk that. The Maltorim would be able to sense them if they did, whereas if they approached on foot, their supernatural presence would seem just a part of the usual world around them.

  “It has to be this way,” he said, but his voice died off in a whisper, and Ophelia was uncertain whether the sentiment was intended for himself or for her. “Remember one thing when faced with tribulations, Ophelia: Fight. Whatever you do, fight. That is the only way to survive in our world.”

  Lenore sighed the full weight of her irritation as Robert brushed past Ophelia and Ethan to start the road ahead. “Well, then,” he said. “Come on if we’re to do this.”

  Ophelia turned to Ethan and startled at the sudden proximity of his body. He hadn’t felt so close standing at her back, but now here he was, his face inches above her own, his gaze pressing down into hers in a way that tightened her chest and shortened her breaths.

  What she felt could not be imagined. Surely the desire burned as deeply in him as it did in her. Surely the heat spread through his body with the same intensity and need. It was there, between them. Of that Ophelia was certain. And yet she could see in his regretful brown-gold eyes the same understanding that resided in her heart.

  “Perhaps—” she started, but he stepped away, his expression turning stony and his gaze averting to the distance. A cold breeze rushed by, moving Ethan’s dark hair, and his eyes watered. The pale moon washed out his bronzed skin, and the stubble on his jaw looked darker by contrast.

  “Good luck, Ophelia.” He didn’t look at her.

  “Of course,” she said quietly, folding her hands in front of her. “To ye as well, Sir Ethan Forrester of Rome.”

  She turned away, hoping to hide the tears that moistened her eyelashes. She clenched her fist, the dig of her fingernails in her palm a welcome distraction from the heartache pulsing in her chest. In her mind, she turned back around and demanded more from him. She yelled at him and cried to him. But even in her thoughts, that did no good. Ethan had accepted what needed to be done. And so Ophelia continued her quiet march away, farther and farther from him, hoping for the very thing she felt hopeless of, as though maybe if she stood there long enough, reality could be erased and the moment could be reenacted in a new way.

  Finally she found her own inner resolution and took the first few steps away—the hardest steps—and from behind her she heard Ethan curse beneath his breath. She nearly crumbled, so evident and raw was his pain, but she only hesitated, her next step shakier than the last. She couldn’t turn around now or she would fall apart, so she bit her lip and leaned into her next few steps, starting down the road to close the distance between her and Robert.

  After she’d gone a few yards, Lenore called out, “I want to know everything. You’ll know where to find me.”

  There was a bumping sound—perhaps Ethan nudging Lenore—and some sharp, quiet words that Ophelia could not discern. She didn’t respond. That Lenore could keep in contact with Ethan stirred within Ophelia a fiery anger.

  Just outside the cemetery, Robert stopped short and pivoted toward her. “You’ll have to bite me now, if they’re to understand why I’m bringing you in.”

  Her stomach bubbled with a mix of hunger and disgust, but when Robert loosened his collar and stretched his neck, Ophelia’s fangs snapped down. She closed her eyes, trying to listen to the howl of the wind between the graves to block out the sound of her mouth on his flesh—to block out her teeth piercing his flesh—but it was all for naught. The sound reverberated in her ears and echoed in her mind with a sickening crunch, but as the blood sloshed into her mouth, pulsing between her lips, the thrum of the life-blood overrode her inhibitions.

  It was loud and insistent—a carnal thrumming. The blood flowed sweet, like gooseberries and cherry blossoms

  Robert grabbed her hair and yanked back. “That’s enough.”

  The blood coated her tongue and teeth and soaked her lips, chin, and cheeks. She’d been completely unaware of him as she’d fed, but now she could see the tension in his jaw, the pain evident by the creases around his eyes.

  “My body will reject your poison,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  She wasn’t worried.

  She stepped back, remembering just who this man was. He might be her way to get into the Maltorim’s asylum—to gain their trust—but he was still the man who’d played a role in her parents’ end.

  “Let’s carry on, shall we?” he asked flatly, though it didn’t sound much like a question.

  As much as Ophelia didn’t want to speak with him more than necessary, she had to know. She needed to gather as much about this world as she could. “Is it true of all Strigoi, then? Can ye all expel the poison of the Cruor?”

  “Nothing is ever that simple, Ophelia. We are each what we are, and we are each unique.”

  “Even me?”

  “I’ve agreed to get you into the Maltorim only because of Ethan’s promise to me. Once I’ve done my part, I owe you nothing.”

  She stopped and turned sharply toward him. “What promise?”

  He shoved her shoulder and pointed ahead. “The entrance is that way. Through the mausoleum doors, behind a loose board, and straight ahead to the first door. Go through and you will find a man. You’ll be safe with him until I arrive, though I suggest you say as little as possible.”

  She stared him down, but he was unrelenting. Whatever agreement Ethan and Robert had come to, she might never know. After releasing Robert from her scowl, Ophelia gave a slow nod and turned to pick her way toward the cemetery gate. Once through, she increased her pace until she was erratically jolting between headstones, through the entrance and up to the door Robert had directed her to approach.

  The movement lingered behind her in a blur, and, as she stood staring at the large oak door, she felt something pulling her back. At first, she thought it was the after-effect of coming to a stop after such swift movement, but after a few more moments passed, she realized the pull remained, and it came from just a foot behind her.

  She turned around and studied the ground. Light from the candle sconces glinted off a piece of brass peaking up from beneath the dirt.

  Ophelia knelt down and brushed at the dirt—the same claylike dirt that packed the wooden-beam-supported walls. A knocker-like handle jutted out, attached to a small door in the ground.

  The large door behind her creaked open, and she spun around, her eyes wide and taking in the man that now filled the doorframe. His expression was soft, his skin dark, his eyes darker. The crease between his eyebrows likely came from studying her condition: her torn, soiled dress; her disheveled hair; her blood-stained face. She remained frozen, crouched by the ground, but kept her head turned toward him despite the painful tension the odd angle created in her neck.

  His brow furrowed, and Ophelia stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Bist du in Ordung?” He studied her and shook his head. “Jól vagy? Er alt i orden?”

  He started to step forward, but then seemed to think the better of it. Finally, he shook his head and squatted beside her, putting his hand between her sh
oulder blades. “Är du okej?”

  Realization dawned on Ophelia. He was trying to ask her something, but didn’t know where she was from. “My maker is dead.”

  As the man nodded, his coarse hair, tightly woven into strands, brushed his shoulders. “You’ve come to the right place. I’m Adrian. And you?”

  “Ophelia.”

  At that moment, Robert burst through the door. He feigned being out of breath, hunched over and sucking in gulps of air. Ophelia had to turn her head to hide her amusement.

  “She,” he said, panting, “tried to”—he sucked in another breath—“kill me.”

  Adrian’s gaze passed from Robert back to her. “This woman?”

  Robert plugged his hands onto his hips and straightened, tossing his chin up. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

  Adrian narrowed his eyes. “Pity she wasn’t a little stronger.”

  “Well? You’re going to take her to the Queen then, yes?”

  Adrian’s gaze swept skeptically over Robert. “Do you have any grievances?”

  “No. But I prefer to tell the Queen myself. The girl could perhaps be of use. For certain, she needs help, but I did see some restraint.”

  “So you chased down your attacker. How unusual.” Adrian’s gaze shifted to Ophelia, then back to Robert. “Excuse me, please, but I’m inclined to ask what your investment is in this girl. It’s not often a shifter would release a newborn from consequence in a situation such as this.”

  “I’d hate to see a final end to such a beautiful specimen, is all,” Robert said.

  Grinning, Robert shifted his gaze to Ophelia, and he made no effort to hide the way his attention slipped down to her breasts. It took every bit of restraint Ophelia had not to lash out, but as much as she hated him, she knew she needed him. Worse, she had to pretend to be grateful for his intervention. She lowered her gaze to her hands, now clasped in front of her waist, and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’.

  Adrian pressed his lips together and nodded. “Right. Of course. This way, then.”

  He removed one of the torches mounted on the wall and started down the long passage. Robert tilted his head after him, but Ophelia stood firm, motioning with her gaze for Robert to go ahead. He might be helping her, but this man was still not to be trusted.

  Robert’s grin widened.

  “As you wish,” he whispered, starting ahead of her.

  Oh, he was sickening in the way he found pleasure in her fear of him, but now was not the time to let her emotions get in the way. She followed, each step causing the emptiness where her heart should beat to grow. For all she knew, he would turn her over for being the child of a dual-breed the moment they came into the Queen’s company.

  The hall twisted at odd angles, a strange labyrinth that slanted forever downward, deeper into the earth, the air growing colder, moister, until they reached new halls made of stone so damp and cold that Ophelia felt as though she’d traveled through fields of rain. The halls, with their high ceilings and stony floors, harbored the stink of mold, and the farther they descended, the more the blocks decayed and the mortar between them eroded.

  She could see through the darkness as though it were daylight, and she wondered what purpose the torch Adrian grasped could truly serve. Studying him, she took in the tense muscles of his neck and shoulder, took in how tightly his hand wrapped around the handle of the torch.

  A weapon.

  She smirked at the back of Robert’s dimwitted skull. Adrian didn’t trust him, either.

  Robert cracked his neck, then craned his head toward their guide. “You know, Adrian . . . ”

  Adrian spun around, the flames flickering inches from Robert’s face and casting a yellow glow over both their expressions. Robert flinched, but his smile did not waver.

  “Know what?” Adrian asked.

  “I was just going to say. Your parents and mine—”

  Adrian turned around again and strode farther down the hall. “My parents are dead.”

  No one said anything for the rest of the descent to the Queen’s room, the strain in the air between the men palpable. They knew each other. Of course they did—Robert had been here before. Robert, so he said, was a favorite of the Queen’s. In his version of every story, Queen Callista was a woman who loved anyone willing to betray their own kind for her benefit.

  Once they reached a door encrusted with jewels, Adrian requested Robert and Ophelia wait a moment while he alerted the Queen of their arrival. As they stood outside, Ophelia’s mind wandered. How long would Ethan and Lenore stay nearby? Perhaps Ophelia could reunite with them once things settled.

  She was too nervous about meeting with Callista to think of anything relevant—what she would say to the Queen, for instance. If this Queen suspected for a second that Ophelia was lying, she would surely kill her.

  In that moment, Ophelia wanted to turn and run. To run so hard and fast that time would erase itself. All the way back to Lady Karina’s estate, where she would decline delivering the letter and accept punishment for her disobedience. Ophelia sucked in a deep breath. Her inability to change things left her restless, and she tried to will her body to stop trembling, but it was no use.

  She’d never had a choice. The serpent’s mark, which she was still burdened with keeping hidden, had enslaved her. She lifted her hand and touched her neck. No more burning. No more pain. But what sort of life did she have now? What kind of ‘life’ could any Cruor live?

  Part of her blamed Ethan. But as soon as she tried to harness that grudge—to focus on it and use it to guide her—the emotion softened. She could still see the hard lines of his face. His eyes were just as sharp but belied a deeper pain. For all his strength, he was a wounded man. A man in hiding. Soon, she would be in hiding, too.

  She could go to him eventually. Couldn’t she?

  The door creaked open and Adrian stepped out. “The Queen will see you now.”

  The Queen, standing eerily close to Adrian’s back and at least a whole foot shorter than him, smiled thinly to her guests. Her velvety black dress clung to her chest and stomach, and the hem swished to the floor and pooled at her feet, her bare toes peeking out. She was unnaturally thin, unnaturally pale, and unnaturally pleasant-looking. Almost-white hair fell past her shoulders, and she wiped a spot of blood from the corner of her mouth and extended her delicate hand.

  “Hello, Robert,” she said.

  Beyond her—beyond this girl who looked more child than woman—awaited a dark room with a long table sheltered by a white tablecloth and flickering candlelight.

  In the middle of the room, a lifeless body sprawled across the gold-leafed granite floors.

  Chapter 13

  Damascus, 1808

  As Queen Callista stepped aside and swept her arm toward the room, two young men came forward and cleared away the dead woman.

  Callista’s brow furrowed. “Is everything all right?”

  It was the first time Callista acknowledged Ophelia’s existence.

  Ophelia nodded firmly and took several timid steps into the large room. The ceiling seemed to stretch impossibly high, so high that it became lost in the darkness. Was there any ceiling at all, or did the room just stretch up to the dark night?

  Just then, a chandelier lit up overhead. The room became suddenly smaller, and Ophelia felt trapped. A hand, cold and unnerving, touched Ophelia’s arm. She spun around with a gasp.

  “Jumpy, are we?” Queen Callista asked, one side of her mouth twisting into a smirk. “Please, sit. Adrian has explained a bit, though I must admit to having many questions to ask you myself.”

  Somewhere behind Ophelia, Robert moved. She could feel it was him—shuffling forward, joining them inside the room. His grin beamed into the back of her head.

  Queen Callista’s smile tightened.

  “It’s not very polite,” she said through her teeth, “to remain standing when your Queen has invited you to sit.”

  With that, the Queen, smoothing her gown beneath her, too
k a seat at the head of the table. There were two chairs awaiting Ophelia and Robert on one long side. On the other side, four young men—boys, really—sat in a stoic row, their gazes unwavering, their eyes as coal-black as their hair, and their skin as pale as moonlight.

  Ophelia could not bring herself to move as swiftly as the Queen surely expected, but she took the seat furthest from the Queen and stared at the boy directly across from her. Anything would make a better focal point than the Queen.

  Robert sat beside her. The door to the room clicked shut, and Robert immediately jumped back up again.

  “My Queen, this woman”—he pointed at Ophelia—“has come here to—”

  Ophelia shot to her feet and lunged at Robert, fangs already snapped down. She had him pinned to the ground, her hair spilling forward to hide her view of the rest of the room.

  Robert pushed at her chest, holding her at a distance. “She has come to infiltrate the Maltorim.”

  “Liar!” Panic rushed into Ophelia’s lungs, but the anger over Robert’s betrayal was stronger. And also no surprise at all. “Robert is the one who intends harm.”

  The room stilled. Queen Callista rose from her chair, her fingertips pressing down against the tabletop. She arched one thin eyebrow and stared down at Ophelia. “Can you prove the truth of what you say?”

  Ophelia managed a nod but could not bring herself to words. There was only one option left—one thing Ethan had told her to do if things went sour, and one thing that Ophelia most did not want to do.

  “There are others,” she said finally. “Robert brought me to distract ye while they close in. Otherwise why waste this time on me, when ‘e could ‘ave ensured my death the moment I arrived?”

  In one swift movement, Callista removed a sword from over the door and sliced through Robert’s neck. His head rolled across the room. Ophelia stood and stepped away, the back of her wrist to her mouth as her stomach surged.

  The Queen tilted her head, grinning.