by Thea Devine
“Minute by minute,” Mirya muttered in her harsh, rusty voice, “you will become more of the thing that you are. You can’t stop it. You can’t help it. You can’t control it. It will take hold of you and wring the last of your humanity from you in a bloodbath of death.”
“Stop it!” Senna bolted from the chair. She could feel the impulse burbling up inside her. The heat, the impatience, the need, the greed of the monster bursting inside her like an explosion and no way to hold it back.
It felt like liquid fire pouring over a dam. She had no defenses, no containment strategies.
It was as if Mirya deliberately wanted to destroy her. No, the thing she’d become.
Or else she really did know something that she didn’t wish Senna to know. Which meant Senna had to take control of all the clamoring impulses and remain calm, contained, bloodless.
She hated that Mirya just watched the struggle reflected in her face, her eyes, her posture, her very soul, until she was finally able to fold herself back into her chair, her hands crossed, her face impassive.
Mirya could have helped, but she did nothing.
I can do this. I can tame the beast. By myself. As always.
The silence lengthened.
Finally Mirya rose from the bed and hobbled over to Senna, and without a word she placed her clawlike hands on Senna’s temples.
Immediately, Senna felt calm, centered, as if all would be well.
“You must return to Lady Augustine’s home and take possession. It is very important that you claim your portion as Lady Augustine’s ward. They all still believe it. That will not change. They will find you. You will have to decide.” She pushed away from Senna abruptly. “That is all I can tell you.”
“But what about Dominick?”
Mirya shook her head. “Nothing.”
“I have to go back.”
Mirya nodded.
“Go to the funeral.”
Mirya shrugged.
“Pretend nothing’s changed, in spite of Lady Augustine’s death.”
“Perhaps,” Mirya said.
“And that’s all you can tell me.”
Mirya said nothing.
“All you will tell me,” Senna surmised, frustrated that the information was cryptic at best and perhaps utter nonsense to put her off.
Mirya stared at her.
There was only one way to find out. Mirya must come with her, Senna decided, wondering if this was the decision that Mirya had foretold.
“I understand that you just gave me a lesson in restraint,” Senna said finally. “And I appreciate how necessary it is for me to learn to keep those impulses and appetites at bay. So, will you come with me to Lady Augustine’s?”
“No.” Mirya started to back away.
Senna leapt across the short space between them and grabbed Mirya’s shoulders. “I think you misunderstood me,” Senna said, her voice calmer, quieter. “I need you to come with me to Lady Augustine’s. I need your good sense, your advice. I need your help.”
Mirya gave her a long, telling look before she closed her eyes and nodded.
“Thank you,” Senna said, releasing her.
“You’ve learned nothing,” Mirya muttered.
“Which is why I need you with me,” Senna said calmly.
“A vampire needs nothing,” Mirya spat.
“I need to find Dominick,” Senna contradicted her. “And because of that, I need you.”
He didn’t know who was alive and who was dead. If Senna was dead. After she was forced by his dying mother to save him, and then his mother infecting Senna with her poisoned bite . . .
Devil’s bones.
Dominick had never felt so powerless, and now he was in the hands of Dnitra, the mysterious stranger who had yet to give him any explanation for her virtual kidnapping of him.
He should have stayed.
He was so weak that only a whirlwind could have lifted him from Senna’s side. He couldn’t have stayed: Senna had taken another’s bite as well, the bite of a Tepes, the ancient enemies of his clan. He didn’t know. He might never know if the bite had drawn blood, if she was now of Clan Tepes. Only there might be a child, and if there was, he’d destroy anyone who got in his way.
Find your people.
Dnitra was of his people: like him, she had the cool, flat blue eyes and reddish hair that were traits. She wore obsidian for protection, solely ancient Iscariot knowledge. She had powers. She looked beyond him as the whirlwind surrounded them and lifted them, with a droning hum, away from the desiccated, blood-drenched landscape of Drom.
Talk was impossible. His mouth was still full of the taste of his mother’s blood drying on his tongue. His wounds heaved fire, the pain so crippling he could barely keep his balance.
Senna was gone, and he couldn’t bear to even imagine how she was coping with the dark, bloody reality of her turning.
He swallowed the bile in his throat. It still tasted metallic, it tasted as if every inch of his body were covered in blood, dried and smeared, everywhere, even his hands, his face.
Dnitra’s silence unnerved him, but he had nothing to say to her, not even a question, because if he asked about Senna, she would tell him, and he wasn’t certain he was strong enough to know.
He ached for Senna. On every level. But everything was different now. The Countess had claimed another victim.
Everything had changed.
He felt exhausted, as if all his power was drained. He’d taken too much during that final confrontation, and he felt too much, in the aftermath of the attacks and the fire.
Humanity was the curse of living. What was left of his was dwindling fast.
The humming ceased; Dnitra was no longer in the cocoon of the whirlwind with him. He felt himself falling suddenly to his knees and then to the floor.
What floor?
He forced himself to a sitting position on the unfamiliar stone floor to find he was surrounded by a half dozen strange faces, and that he was in a cavernous room with stone walls hung with richly colored tapestries.
He looked at Dnitra.
“This is Castle Biru in Stigira.”
He shook his head at the unfamiliar names.
“Romania, Dominick,” Dnitra prompted impatiently. “Your mother’s people. Your clan.”
“She sent you.” He felt flat resentment that, even in death, the Countess was still manipulating him.
“She summoned,” the older of the men said, “through me. I am Iosefescu. That one”—pointing to the other man—“is Zelenovic.”
“I see.” Dominick’s tone was tinged with bitterness. “She didn’t trust me enough to fulfill the quest she gave me.”
“No,” Iosefescu contradicted gently, “she just didn’t trust there would be enough time.”
“And now?”
“We have all the time in the world.”
Senna and Mirya were standing just at the bottom step of the stairway to Lady Augustine’s town house, and Puckett, her longtime butler, waited in the doorway, as if he expected them.
“Miss?”
“Yes, of course,” Senna said, stunned to find herself dressed all in black—as if she’d come from a funeral. The same for Mirya. “Thank you, Puckett,” Senna said, as he helped Mirya up the last several steps. “We must carry on.”
“Indeed, miss.”
“This is Mirya, who was my nurse a very long time ago.”
“Of course, miss. We’ll prepare a room.”
Senna gingerly followed him into the house, pulling Mirya after her, subtly seeking the scent of death, which, given Lady Augustine’s bloody demise, should have permeated the air.
But everything smelled fresh, clean, untainted by the bloodletting.
She made a sound as Puckett led the way past the parlor and up to the bedro
om floor. That bloodsucking beast had not been her.
“Mrs. Mirya will have the back bedroom.” Puckett motioned to the door. “I’ll send a maid with fresh linens and water.”
“Thank you, Puckett.”
“And of course, there will be callers. We’ve set up refreshments in the dining room, miss. Since Lady Augustine was not a direct relative, it wasn’t necessary to provide a full-on dinner, but we have tea and sherry, cakes, sandwiches, and biscuits.”
Senna nodded her approval. What did she know of funeral customs? Callers. People she’d known. People who were Lady Augustine’s oldest friends. Mourners from the funeral. Curious gossips.
“Of course. It was a terrible loss,” she murmured, opening her bedroom door and motioning Mirya inside.
“Oh, no,” Mirya protested. “Not there. The devil lives in there.”
“I live in there,” Senna corrected, keeping her tone even. “I just want to see if you sense anything in that room.”
Mirya edged over the threshold. She felt darkness encroaching, and a palpable sense of evil. She felt oppressed as if someone were pushing on her chest.
“You should take another room,” she said finally.
“Why?”
“There is evil here, and death.”
Senna gave her a skeptical look. “I do believe you will say that about everything connected with me now. Tell me what you sense about Dominick.”
“He is not here.”
“I think that’s obvious.”
“He is not anywhere.”
“How is that possible?”
Mirya gave her a long, opaque stare. “In England.”
“Not in England?”
Mirya shook her head. “The Others, they are here. Dangerous. Waiting. For you.”
“What do you mean, for me?”
“For you,” Mirya repeated cryptically. “For the child. The Eternal Ruler.” She moved to the door. “You will see.” And with that, she closed the door.
Senna leapt and thrust it open to see Mirya disappearing into her designated bedroom.
Waiting for me. And a child? The Eternal Ruler?
Senna touched her belly. She still felt nothing there, not a bump, a curve, a quickening, or a feeling. Maybe it was better that way. When Dominick came, which he would, it would all make sense.
She tried to deny the longing she felt for the shroud and her bed of death in the secret room, the need to burrow into the dank, hot burial dirt and just close out everything else. It wasn’t her: reveling in death, lusting for blood, impassively violent.
Except it was; she barely had the thought of escaping to the secret room when she was there, digging into the dirt, making a cavity for her body, drawing up the shroud, breathing the fetid air deep and heavily into her consciousness.
It felt right. It was just what she needed—always being aware that Mirya was lurking. Mirya would not stay still in a guest room. Mirya would prowl, take the temperature of the house and its occupants, come to conclusions; once Senna gained her trust again, she’d ultimately share.
She has powers different than mine, Senna thought as she settled in. She’ll discover things I need to know, she’ll help me the way she used to, and together we’ll figure it out.
Senna was awakened by the feeling that something was out of place. She bolted upright, every sense tingling.
She didn’t think, just flew into her room, out the door, and across the hallway to Lady Augustine’s room.
Mirya stood by the bed, eyes closed, her hands stretched out over the mattress.
“What are you doing here?”
Mirya turned, her eyes hooded. “I am listening.”
Senna felt like stamping her foot at that cryptic response. “And what do you hear?”
Mirya swept her with a dispassionate glance. “That there are vampires among us.”
“I’m happy to know that,” Senna retorted.
“She does not rest.”
“She was only buried today.”
“He will return.”
“Who?”
Mirya shook her head. “I can tell you no more.”
Senna felt herself seizing, her vampire impulses warring with her need to keep Mirya on her side. “Who?”
“No more.”
Senna blocked her. way combatively, the vampire in her stiff with impatience. “Mirya—”
And Mirya sensed it. “So you’ll kill me here, will you?”
Senna stroked Mirya’s neck. “It’s tempting.”
“It is now your nature.”
Senna recoiled. “No!” But the flashing urge to kill rose like a wave.
She pushed Mirya away violently. By the damned, what was she thinking? She needed Mirya. She needed—
The doorbell pealed, startling her. She had lost track of where she was, who she was. She had to think for a moment who would be coming here now Lady Augustine was gone.
She shook herself. The mourners. She had to receive them. She was Lady Augustine’s prostrate ward.
And she needed Mirya. The Mirya who would see her as the Senna she used to be, but advise her as the creature she’d become.
I’ll make her see me as the needy, impoverished scammer I used to be.
She stared into Mirya’s moist eyes, insinuating her thoughts into Mirya’s consciousness, fighting a taut resistance as Mirya comprehended Senna’s will.
I am the girl you helped, gave succor, taught to survive on the streets. I am she and you are you and nothing has changed. I am Senna, orphan of the streets. You are you, with your magic and with your knowledge you will make yourself helpful to the me I am who is not known to you.
Over and over, she pounded that thought into Mirya’s resistant consciousness, gauging by her eyes the moment her comprehension changed and she accepted Senna’s thoughts.
“The mourners have come,” Senna murmured. “I need you by my side.”
Mirya opened the door. “Many are here. Friends known to you. Strangers. Enemies. Be careful.”
Perfect.
Senna moved to the stairs. Already too many callers had crowded in, and Puckett was maneuvering them into the parlor and toward the food laid out in the dining room.
She took a deep breath. “Mirya?”
Mirya fell in behind her as she descended the steps and grasped the outstretched hands and expressions of sympathy that greeted her as Lady Augustine’s ward.
She hardly remembered those months she’d been in Lady Augustine’s hands, when all she had to think about was clothes and parties and good times.
And vampires.
And suspicious Peter, who had vowed to expose her.
She couldn’t remember the mourners’ names. The rooms were crowded now, the throbbing of a normal heartbeat multiplied by the number of guests, who were wholly unaware of the danger among them.
The rooms reeked of perfume, sweat, and pulsating blood just beneath the skin.
“Oh, my dear—” Yet another sympathetic dowager coming up behind her, as she stood greeting guests just inside the door.
“Thank you so much,” she murmured. “Thank you for coming.” Or: “Yes, I miss her,” feeling like a hypocritical monster, having fed on Lady Augustine’s blood and body. “Please come in. Yes, it will be different without her.”
And then there were the questions about Peter. “He disappeared,” she told them. “No one can find him. . . . No, we don’t know where he is. . . . No, we haven’t a clue what happened, why he didn’t attend the funeral. I’m heartsick, I assure you.”
She wasn’t worried about Peter. Peter had to be dead. But Charles—where was Charles?
Puckett passed around sherry and biscuits when the influx of guests seemed to have slowed down, when they had all crowded into the dining room and were feeding and drinking, t
alking about Lady Augustine and gossiping about the other guests.
Senna wandered among them, wishing they would leave because the temptation of their throbbing bodies was almost too much to bear.
No! She flogged herself mentally even as she felt her hands constricting, her palate contracting, her whole body readying to feed in the midst of all that glorious pulsating human flesh.
Too dangerous to her when she was still ruled by ungovernable impulses and emotions and had no control over the waves of red lust. She had to get them out, all of them, at that instant. She whirled to see Mirya watching her with those teary, knowing eyes, as though the compulsion was wearing off.
A quick mental block—I am not what you think—and Senna turned away abruptly. Obviously, Mirya was still leery of her.
She was beginning to feel frantic. Get out, get out, get out. No one moved. They all were so engaged in eating and exchanging memories of Lady Augustine, she couldn’t compel them as a crowd.
She saw Puckett, bearing a tray he held precariously above his shoulders as he wove his way into the parlor.
She willed herself through the crowd until she could tug impatiently at his sleeve.
“I’m exhausted, Puckett. It’s too much today. Would you . . . ?”
“I understand, miss. I’ll attend to it.” He handed off the tray and began, subtly, gently, to move the crowd toward the door.
He was expert at it. Slowly, patiently, even those reluctant to leave he guided toward the front door.
Senna positioned herself in the dining room as the crowd cleared, to finally have room to breathe, and to try to contain the warring impulses within her.
Mirya edged over to stand quietly by her side.
Suddenly a cascade of whispers swept through the remaining guests.
Senna started. Everyone froze. The sound grew louder.
Now what?
The hostess must always be welcoming. She pushed herself toward the front door, Mirya behind her. And stopped short as she understood what her guests were saying.
It’s Peter. Look—it’s Peter . . .
Peter? Senna stopped short.
He will return, Mirya had said. And there he was, standing in the doorway, battered and barely alive, filthy as the grave, dressed in rags and bloody, his face as mottled and scarred as any monster’s, leaning on a cane and surveying the remaining crowd until his searing gaze settled on Senna.
