Blood Red Kiss

by Kresley Cole

  Nikolai shot up in bed, nauseated from his nightmares. He pinched his forehead, sorting through the chaotic scenes.

  He’d been lashed by the usual dreams of Myst gloating at a grave site, then the Roman stroking himself: “I’m about to have Myst the Coveted . . . you’ll be possessed.”

  But details of the memories continued to emerge. This time he’d heard Myst’s amused thoughts: No one possesses me except in their fantasies. I’ll kill you as easily as kiss you. “And I’ll be yours, only yours,” she purred, though she detested him.

  He’d also witnessed a new memory of hers, a recent one.

  Here in this room, Myst was smoothing on hose as she made a decision to . . . trick him? To act as though she’d accepted him—in order to get her chain back! Play at love, and act at surrender.

  His grip on his forehead tightened. Irrationally, he waited for the soft touch of his wife’s hand on his back. But she could never comfort him after a nightmare—even if she’d had that urge—because he was still secretly commanding her to sleep throughout the day.

  So she wouldn’t run away from him and leave him in torment again.

  Play at love . . .

  He’d thought they had a foundation to build on, but he’d been fooled by her beauty and abandon. She’d seduced him that night, had made sure he’d “caught” her touching herself, knowing he would lose his mind at the sight.

  He was as much a besotted fool as the Roman. Worse. At least that man had suffered no delusions she could care for him. The Roman had known she was incapable of feeling and had wanted possession only.

  Nikolai? He’d bought her a goddamned wedding ring.

  He’d been falling for a fantasy, one that had easily manipulated him.

  She desired her freedom and would use whatever means she had available to get it, leaving him as soon as she’d succeeded.

  Fool.

  When Myst woke, she burrowed down into the covers, feeling relaxed and content to her toes.

  Today was delivery day for the chain—the end of the demo that had resulted in a sale.

  She feared that life as she’d known it had ended when he’d vowed to give her the Brisingamen back. It was a leap of faith on his part, and she’d responded.

  Smoothing things over with her family might take a while, but she would figure out a way. Somehow.

  Eventually she would convince them that Wroth was different from other vampires.

  She snuggled into his pillow, loving his scent, and considered her new feelings. Though she’d smugly planned to punk him, she’d been snared in her own machinations. Her femme fatale plans had resulted in the oh-so-nefarious leap into his arms.

  She grinned. She’d take back her chain, but just because it looked so damned sassy on her.

  When she rose and stretched, she found him watching her. Her grin widened, but he didn’t return her smile.

  In fact, he scowled at her bare breasts.

  She drew her head back. “Are you angry with me?” He was usually brusque, but she could tell this was much worse. What could have happened since she’d gone to sleep, tucked against his chest?

  His eyes were somehow crazed and bleak at the same time, his face exhausted. Alarm began to build inside her. Exhausted immortals weren’t known for good judgment.

  “We have a lot to discuss.” He tossed her a robe. “Put this on.”

  She had no choice but to comply. He traced away, returning with the chain in his fist. “Tonight we’re going to make some adjustments between us—or more accurately, in you.”

  Her eyes widened. “What are you doing? You vowed to give it back today.”

  “A woman like you should understand broken vows.”

  “What are you talking about? How can you do this to me now?” Right when she’d decided to stay.

  His face was crueler than she’d ever seen it. “You mean after the last two weeks? Just because you’ve wanted to be fucked and I complied doesn’t mean I won’t treat you as you deserve.”

  She put the back of her hand to her face as if she’d been struck. “As I deserve,” she repeated dumbly. He might as well have said, “treat you like a whore.”

  He grasped her arm, squeezing it hard. “I can’t live like this, Myst. With this.” At her confused expression, he said, “I’ve seen your past. I know what you were.”

  “I don’t understand you!” She hadn’t lived her life perfectly—there’d been missteps and misjudgments—but she’d done little to be ashamed of. Was the killing too much for him to handle? He’d been a fucking warlord! “If you find me lacking, know that I regret very few of my actions over my long life.”

  That seemed to enrage him. “No? What about playing at love and acting at surrender?”

  Her gaze widened. “Wroth, that was—”

  “Silence.” He kissed her harshly. She shoved against him before he pulled back. “I’ve realized you are heartless. But what if I ordered you to be kinder? What if I made you forget your vicious sisters who kill without remorse?” He seemed out of his mind with rage, his eyes tortured. “Made you forget all the men who came before me?”

  She gasped, tears welling, but she couldn’t speak after his command. Her hands clenched, claws digging into her palms. Never in her life had she wanted more to scream, yet her lips parted silently when he said, “I should order you to want me so fiercely you can’t think of anything or anyone else—”

  A voice interrupted from downstairs. “General Wroth, you’re needed at Oblak immediately.”

  “Why?” he bellowed.

  She felt his gaze on her as she staggered to the window seat, tears beginning to fall. She curled up, leaning her forehead against the glass.

  “Your brother’s been badly injured, sir.”

  “Stay here until I return, Myst,” Wroth bit out. “Do you understand?”

  She looked at him mutely.

  “Speak.”

  “I-I understand.”

  He disappeared.

  She choked back a sob when she heard him downstairs, locking away her freedom. Then he was gone.

  Stay here? In the room or the manor? He’d been so thrown by the news that he hadn’t elaborated.

  Stumbling, clutching at the wall as energy funneled out of her, she made her way to his study. She opened the cabinet, revealing the safe. When she reached for the lock, her hand veered off course as though pushed by an unseen force. She bit her lip and tried again.

  Impossible. Because he’d commanded her not to touch it. Just as he would command her to forget who she was, that she even had a family! Lightning crackled outside in time with a sob. He’d been about to do it.

  It was true then—vampires couldn’t be trusted. Why had she gone against all she’d ever learned to be with him?

  The years had been weighing on her, and she’d yearned to lean on someone, to have a partner watch her back and hold her when she needed it. She must have convinced herself to accept him because he was strong—and she had grown so weak.

  No longer.

  There were ways she could get around his order not to touch the safe—nimble thinking, creative reasoning.

  But how?

  If she could reach her chain before he returned, she could feign sleep. Once he drifted off, she’d have the entire day to get far away. . . .

  The solution hit her. As tears poured from her eyes and the lightning grew continuous, she clawed the wall, tearing at the very stone surrounding the safe.

  So he would use her? Like a toy. A mindless slave. Adjustments?

  Toy, bait, whore. Just because you wanted to be fucked, he’d sneered.

  She’d endured two millennia of people thinking they could use her. Always using her.

  She’d take this safe with her teeth if she had to.

  15

  Nikolai traced into Murdoch’s room, finding his brother’s face torn, his limbs broken.

  “You should see the other guy,” Murdoch grated from his bed.

  Short of a behe
ading or sunlight, nothing could kill them; still, Nikolai shuddered to see Murdoch like this. “What happened to you?”

  “I was about to ask you the same. My God, you look worse than I do.”

  Nikolai pictured Myst crying at the window, staring out at the lightning storm that came from within her. The idea of her hurting all alone pained him so much. “We’ll talk of my problems later. Who has done this to you?”

  “Ivo has demons. Demons turned vampires. You can’t imagine how strong they are. He is looking for someone, but I don’t think it’s your Bride. They mentioned something about a ‘halfling.’ ”

  “How many?”

  “There were three demonic vampires in his party—other vampires as well. We took down two of the demons but one remains.” He peered past Nikolai. “Where’s your Bride?”

  Nikolai hesitated—but after all, this was his brother, and the weight of the situation suddenly seemed unbearable. So, haltingly at first, he explained everything, seeking the same unburdening he felt when he spoke with Myst.

  His brother’s expression grew stark. “You took away the free will of a creature who has had it for upward of two thousand years,” Murdoch said incredulously. “A good wager says she’s going to want it back.”

  “No, you don’t understand. She’s callous. Incapable of love. Her deception eats at me, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.” He absently muttered, “Why else would she want me?”

  Murdoch reached for Nikolai’s wrist. “All these years I’ve seen you choose the most rational course, even if it’s the most difficult. I’ve been proud to follow your leadership because you’ve acted with courage and always—always—with rationality. I never thought I would have to inform you that your reason and judgment have failed you, Nikolai. If she’s as bad as you say, then you have to . . . I don’t know, just help her change, but you can’t order it. Get back to her. Explain your fears to her.”

  “You saw her. Why else would she so quickly acquiesce?”

  “Why don’t you just ask her?”

  Because I don’t want to demonstrate again how obsessed I’ve become with her.

  “And about the other men,” Murdoch continued. “This isn’t the seventeen hundreds anymore. This isn’t even the same world. She’s an immortal, not an eighteen-year-old blushing bride straight from a convent. She can’t change her past, so if you want her, you’ll have to adjust.”

  Nikolai scrubbed a palm down his face. “When did you get so bloody understanding?”

  Murdoch shrugged with difficulty. “Someone explained a few rules of the Lore to me, and I learned we can’t apply our human expectations to the beings within it.”

  “Who told you this?” When his brother didn’t answer, Nikolai didn’t push, not with all the secrets he’d been keeping.

  “Get back to her, Nikolai. Begin.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “That’s the thing about being immortal,” Murdoch said. “It’ll always look worse than it is.”

  Nikolai attempted a grin but didn’t manage it.

  “Good luck, brother.”

  Outside the room, Nikolai spoke with those in charge of Murdoch’s care, explaining what would happen should his brother’s condition worsen.

  He was almost glad when Kristoff called a meeting about this newest threat, grateful for the time to cool off before he faced Myst again.

  But as the meeting ground on, impatience to return to her hammered at Nikolai. . . .

  Heading into the second hour, Kristoff asked him, “Why would your Bride not tell you about the turned demons?”

  “I don’t know. I will ask her.” He wondered as well. Had she known? No, she’d been teaching him everything she knew—teaching him constantly.

  Wait—why would she do so, if she only planned to leave him? His gut tightened.

  “Something to add?” Kristoff was studying him.

  Nikolai owed Kristoff his life, the lives of his brothers, and even for Myst herself. He would withhold information on her kind, but divulge the rest. “I have much to discuss with you, but I left my wife feeling poorly. I’d like to get back to her.”

  “By all means.” Kristoff’s face was unreadable. “But tomorrow we’ll talk.”

  With a nod, Nikolai traced back to Myst, frowning as a hazy idea surfaced in his chaotic thoughts. Had his brother’s heart been beating earlier?

  Before he could contemplate this further, his attention was distracted by Myst’s sleeping form. He gazed down at her, chest aching as usual. Sometimes he damned his beating heart because of the pain that seemed to follow it.

  Murdoch was right. She couldn’t change what she was, and he’d wronged her today. If only he could think more clearly where she was concerned—instead of reacting viscerally.

  In the past, he’d never understood why men talked of madness and love in the same breath. Now he did.

  He only hoped that when he asked her to forgive his weakness, she could.

  Joining her in bed, he pulled her close. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled her soft, sweet scent.

  At dawn, his exhaustion caught up with him, and he passed out. When he began to dream, he opened his mind to her memories, to what had become his nightmares. They overran all his other memories of battle and death, because these hurt him the most. See her in a sordid light. Punish yourself.

  See them all.

  16

  The dream of the Roman came first. Nikolai impatiently waded through the usual scene, seeking more.

  Did he truly want to see this? Could he turn back?

  Too late. He felt as if he’d opened the floodgates; these dreams were going to play out, each spinning to its gruesome, twisted ending.

  Myst slowly lifted her skirt for the man. Yet then Nikolai felt something new. Chills crawled up her spine as she peered down at the Roman, with his wet lips and furious stroking.

  She was ashamed at her disgust and closed her mind off to it. She was the bait. She’d be whatever it took to free her sister.

  “I’m about to have Myst the Coveted . . . you’ll be possessed.”

  No one possesses me except in their fantasies. I’ll kill you as easily as kiss you. The Roman sought to make her his plaything, just as he had used Daniela for weeks.

  Myst glanced up, and Nikolai saw through her eyes. Across the room, Lucia had Daniela’s limp body in her covered arms. Most of their sister’s icy skin had been burned. Daniela had been tortured by this animal at her feet, by his very touch.

  The familiar rage erupted within her. Control it, she thought. Just a moment longer. “And I’ll be yours, only yours,” she somehow purred.

  When Lucia signaled, Myst nodded. As she extracted her foot, his lips produced a loud sucking sound that made her grimace. She tapped the man’s bulbous nose with her big toe. In a tone laden with sexuality, she said, “You probably won’t live through what I’m about to do, but if you survive, learn and tell others you should never”—a tap with her toe—“ever”—tap—“harm a Valkyrie.”

  She kicked his head, punting his body across the room.

  Myst had been . . . rescuing her sister?

  Too quickly, another scene began, the one with the raiding party, the one Nikolai always most dreaded seeing. When the men neared, she pretended to be out of breath; she forced herself to stumble. All a part of the game.

  One tackled her hard into the snow. Others snared her arms. She feigned fear, weakly struggling. Amid cheers, a burly Viking knelt between her legs and told her, “I hope you live longer than the last ones did.”

  Lightning streaked behind the man’s head, and the wind seemed to follow. A few glanced around uneasily. Nervous laughter.

  Myst informed him, “The last ones had names. Angritte and her daughter Carin.” Young and simple, Carin had somehow recognized Myst as a Valkyrie. “Swan maiden,” the girl had whispered, uttering one of the Valkyries’ more beautiful names.

  Both the careless mother and her innocent daug
hter had been killed, brutalized by these men. Myst had loved Carin for her very innocence and joy; the girl had been stolen from Myst and from the world—which was poorer for the loss.

  “I will live longer than them,” Myst said. “And you.”

  The frown on her attacker’s face was the last expression he’d ever make. A change came over her. Bloodlust welling. Thoughts turned feral. The rage . . .

  She rose up, effortlessly shaking off the men. As lightning painted the sky, she slashed her way through them. When all but one had been felled, she told the sole survivor, “Anytime you think to hunt down a woman, wonder if she’s not like me. I’ve spared you, but my sisters would unman you with a flick of their claws, their wrath unimaginable.” She wiped her arm over her face, found it wet.

  She crouched over the man and saw her grisly reflection in his gaze. Her eyes were silver, and blood spattered her face. “There are thousands of us lining these coasts, waiting.” He was frozen in terror. “And I’m the gentle one.”

  She turned from him, dusting off her hands, and muttered to herself, “This is how rumors get started.” But her swagger disappeared as she climbed the hilltop by the sea, where two recent graves had been dug.

  “You stupid human,” she hissed at Angritte’s gravestone. “I’ve cursed you to your hell. Why did you disobey me? I told you to take Carin inland in the spring when the marauders come. Stay far from the coasts.” Myst’s voice broke on a sob as she ran to the girl’s tombstone. She curled up against it, her cheek resting against the runes.

  Choking with frustration, she hit the stone, her blood trickling along the new fracture.

  For days, she stayed like that. Villagers held a vigil at the base of the hill, offering up tributes for Myst’s protection and benevolence.

  Nikolai shuddered at the physical pain Myst didn’t seem to feel—her hand frozen in blood to the stone, her muscles knotted, her skin raw from cold. On the fourth day, her sister Nïx found her and lifted her from the snow as easily as a pillow. Tears were ice on Myst’s face.

  “Shhh, sister,” Nïx said. “We’ve already heard the tales of your revenge. That league of men will never harm another maid. In fact, I doubt they will ever trouble this coast again.”