Beautifully Unnatural: A Young Adult Paranormal Boxed Set

by Amy Miles

  Vasile shifts, digging the toe of his boot into the ground. “You know you shouldn’t ask.”

  “All the same, I need to know,” Fane presses. He pushes off from the rim of the well, turning his back to Roseline as he leans against the circular stone. “How bad is it?”

  She can picture Vasile’s wild mane of marble-streaked hair, obnoxiously large nose, and the left eyebrow that perpetually twitches when he is nervous. Roseline learned long ago that it is a mistake to assume Vasile’s disheveled appearance carries over into his duties. He is Vladimir’s lapdog, through and through.

  He is certainly not the person Fane should be speaking to about his master’s wife. Especially with such emotion laid bare in his voice.

  “She will be able to walk by dusk,” Vasile shrugs. Roseline’s fingers clench into fists beside her leg at his emotionless response. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  A growl rises in Fane’s throat. “You speak as if you do not care.”

  Vasile approaches, his eyebrows furrowed. “And you care far too much.” The warning edge to his tone only confirms her fear — her friend is walking a thin line.

  Fane crosses his hands over his chest; his black leather jacket pulls tight across his back. Roseline stares up at him, wishing she could reassure her friend, to find some way to tell him she is safe, but her escape will have to suffice.

  “Have you looked in on her?”

  Vasile says nothing. His silence unnerves Roseline. Is he delaying? Has her escape been discovered and Vasile is buying time? She glances back down the tunnel, expecting to see Vladimir creeping silently toward her, but it remains empty.

  “Leave her be, Fane. You know what will happen if Vladimir finds out you have been to see her.” Vasile’s hand comes to rest on Fane’s shoulder. Fane and Roseline stiffen at the same time. “I will check on her when we wake. I am sure she will have healed by then.”

  His grip tightens as Vasile steers Fane away. Roseline commands her lungs to hold fast until the door slams behind them. Still she waits. Precious minutes pass, but she cannot risk exposure.

  One wrong move and her dreams of escape will come crashing down.

  She reaches for the grate, praying Fane has made it to his room on the far side of the castle. Even then, he might hear her. His hearing is the best among her brethren.

  Careful not to draw blood, she bites her lip as she inches the grate up onto the path. The groan of shifting metal makes her cringe. Her muscles coil as she waits for the inevitable sounding of the alarm but none comes.

  She lifts her duffle bag up through the opening and quickly follows it. Kneeling on the rocks, she wipes away any trace of her presence. She tightens the strap over her shoulder and darts across the courtyard and out into the garden grounds.

  Roseline flies over the grassy hills, past blooming fall flowers still damp with morning dew. She picks her way through rocky paths until she reaches the perimeter wall.

  Without any hesitation, she leaps into the air. Her feet plant firmly on the wall and race upward. Pushing from the balls of her feet, she leaps to a nearby tree, grasps the worn branch, and swings back and forth. Her fingers release and propels herself easily over the top of the wall.

  The landing is far from graceful as her right leg buckles under. She goes with it, rolling back to her feet before bounding across the road. She dives behind a tree and clutches her leg, wincing at the shifting bones. It is too early to move. She needs at least another hour before her femur will heal completely, but she does not have an hour.

  Someone will eventually discover her empty room. It will not take long before Vladimir rouses her brethren to search for her. Roseline glances toward the human town, cringing at the thought of entering it, but she knows she cannot just sit here.

  Digging through her bag, she pulls out her most recent wardrobe addition: a black trench coat. She tucks her long bronze braid into the collar and adds a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses to the outfit. They might help to mask her unusual eyes, but they can do little to hide her beauty. She and her family are well known in these parts. Her reputation, by association, is not the most appealing throughout the country and will only make her escape that much harder.

  Over the years, Roseline has been called many things. A witch. A sorceress. Even a demon. The only name that has endured for over three centuries is vampire.

  A fabricated name, as incorrect as it is vile, created to describe Vladimir’s insatiable thirst for blood. Now all immortals carry the tainted name, both the good ones and the evil, but vampires exist only in nightmares and on Hollywood screens.

  She cannot really blame the humans for this mistake; even she struggles to find the good in some of her family. Apart from Fane, there are few in Romania who can pass for good. Most of her immortal brethren easily live up to the vampire lie.

  Roseline keeps her face tilted away as she hurries into the town center. Small shops have begun to open. The baker whistles as he prepares his tables with mouthwatering baked goods. A butcher calls out harshly as a delivery boy stumbles over the curb, spilling an assortment of meats onto the street.

  A young boy rides past on his bike, tossing newspapers with wild abandon. Most land well out of range. A handsome teen with vivid green eyes and unruly dark hair glances her way from the bus stop as she disappears around the corner. All around her, Brasov is waking.

  The hunch of her shoulders becomes more pronounced as she forces herself to move at a human pace along the city streets. It is infuriatingly slow.

  The train station sits about two miles outside of town. She picks up speed as she moves to the city outskirts and spans the distance in less than a minute, even with a limp.

  Without acknowledging the sparse crowd that lingers in front of the station, Roseline hurries for the ticket booth. “One ticket to Bucharest, please,” she requests, working to make her voice sound grittier than it normally does.

  The train attendant’s muddy brown eyes give her a onceover. Roseline turns her chin, fearing the man’s scrutiny. “You running away from something, Miss?”

  She shrugs noncommittally and pulls the collar of her coat higher under her chin. He frowns, tapping the counter as she passes over her money. He stares at her for a moment longer before shrugging. He stamps her ticket and passes it through the narrow slot with her change. “Good luck to you.”

  With her ticket in hand, Roseline slinks out of the room. A young couple sits nearby, sipping from steaming coffee cups, immersed in their morning paper. They pay no attention to Roseline as she sinks down onto a bench at the far end of the platform.

  Her knees bounce anxiously as she waits for the train to arrive. She absently peels at the chipped blue paint on the wooden slats as she darts glances at the people lounging about the platform. Her nerves fray as the hands of the clock overhead slowly tick past.

  The 6:58 AM train arrives five minutes early, much to Roseline’s delight. She boards and rushes into a vacant bathroom, locking the door behind. Roseline drops her duffle onto the sink and leans back against the wall.

  Her fingers steady her as the train lurches away from the station, but she does not relax until the train has moved a fair distance from Brasov.

  She has made it. Within twenty-four hours, she will be in a new country, with a new start to life.

  She is finally free.

  Two

  “Psst.”

  Roseline swats at the voice that has been calling incessantly for nearly five minutes. Can’t this girl take a hint?

  “Hey, new girl. Wake up.”

  After a swift kick slams into her chair leg, Roseline bolts upright. Her bag clatters to the floor, pens rolling in all directions. “Where am I?” she slurs in her native tongue.

  “Huh?” A bright pink mohawk fills her vision; the scent of watermelon gum overwhelms her senses.

  “Forgive me,” Roseline amends, slipping into an American accent. Even after her years studying the English language, her thick accent still comes thr
ough. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Mr. Robert’s class, and just so you know, he doesn’t take kindly to students drooling on his periodic table.”

  Glancing down, Roseline spies the open textbook, slightly damp around the edge. She winces, rubbing her lip with the back of her arm. Her thoughts are fuzzy and the fluorescent lights overhead make her eyes water. She groans and buries her head in her hands. Jet lag is a killer.

  The flights were mind-numbingly boring. Not even the bed in first class had eased the aches in her healing body as they flew over the Atlantic from London’s Heathrow airport.

  An epidemic of night terrors have followed her to America. Dreams soiled by pain and blood. She wipes her eyes, wishing she could bleach away the images.

  “I am sorry.” Roseline smiles weakly, struggling to focus on the girl across the aisle from her. “I am normally more polite when I wake.”

  “No biggie,” the girl shrugs, pursing her lips to blow a small bubble the same shade as her hair. Roseline cannot help but wonder if the girl took a pack of gum with her to the salon as an example of what hair dye she wanted.

  Amazingly enough, her obnoxious look does not stop at her hairline. Deep black circles the shade of artist charcoal ring her eyes, giving her a rabid raccoon look. Black lipstick—with nails to match—contrasts against her snow-white skin. Throw in the spiked neck collar and leather bracelet and this girl knows how to make a statement.

  “Welcome to Rosewood Prep. Home of valley girl knockoffs. Don’t let the fancy name fool you though—free wedgies and swirlies are handed out by the football team each morning,” the girl says, leaning back on her stool.

  “Are these friends of yours?” Roseline asks, amused by Mohawk Girl’s running commentary.

  “Hardly.” The girl rolls her eyes; the ring in her upper lip rises as her lips curl to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth. Rich, but still an outcast, most likely by choice.

  Kind of like me, she muses silently.

  No, she shakes her head. She is nothing like her classmate. Eccentric as the girl might be, she has nothing on Roseline’s dark past.

  Mohawk Girl stares openly at her. “The name is Sadie Hughes. Lover of all eighties rock gods, purveyor of the right to freedom of dress, and one badass mini-golfer.” She grins. “What’s yours?”

  Sadie’s voracious chewing reminds Roseline that she failed to eat, skipping out on lunch to avoid the crowds. In hindsight, that was probably a foolish idea as she has begun to feel a tad light-headed.

  Roseline rubs her temples. “I appreciate your desire for small talk, but I am only here for the class.”

  She turns her attention back to the tweed-loving science teacher at the front of the room. By the sound of it, he is adamantly preaching at his bleary-eyed class about why science is relevant to their lives today.

  Like anyone cares.

  Sadie stares hard at Roseline’s profile. “I get it, you know. The tough exterior, moody rejection. You’ve been hurt. Join the club.” She tosses her chewed pencil onto the desk, small chucks of pink rubber falling into her lap as she sits upright. “But at least I have manners.”

  A smirk tugs at Roseline’s lip. The girl has spunk. She likes that.

  “Alright.” She turns to face Sadie. “My name is Rose Danbry. I detest summer, adore ice swimming, can run faster than a bullet, and can easily kill a man with my bare hands.” She raises her delicate fingers, as evidence of the brute strength that miraculously lies hidden within her hands.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sadie’s mirroring grin is wide and toothy. “I’d work on your intro a bit though. It’s pretty lame. And that accent? Killer, by the way! Where are you from?”

  “Romania.”

  Sadie’s eyes light up. “Europe? Awesome. Your English is really good.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “A tad formal though.” Sadie frowns. “We’ll have to work on that.”

  Roseline turns back to the front of the room, berating herself for letting any info slip. She needs to remain focused and avoid drawing any attention to herself. She makes a mental note to focus on adapting to the local lingo.

  Tilting her head to the side, Roseline listens to the whispered conversations floating around the room, barely audible over the gentle hum of the heat pumping through the vents in the ceiling. She notes each sarcastic phrase, lilting laugh, and clipped slang word. She studies the sentence structure and files it away for future use.

  Several guys dart glances over their shoulders at her throughout the lecture. Some blush and turn away while others meet her gaze, openly leering at her. Roseline rolls her eyes and slumps low behind her raised textbook.

  Just what she needs—a bunch of hormone-crazed teens following her around.

  One of the things she hates most about being an immortal is how she naturally attracts human males. It doesn’t matter their age; they are all drawn to her. Some are more subtle, but others are downright obnoxious. She has been the source of more fights in her lifetime than she cares to count.

  Each detail of her mortal body was perfected during her immortal birth for one purpose: to hunt and kill. At least that is what Vladimir has spent years trying to convince her of.

  Perhaps he is right. For what other reason does she need lush ruby lips, a perfectly sculpted body, and endless legs? Her beauty is a work of art. Roseline despises it and all that it stands for.

  “Earth to Rose,” Sadie calls, waving her hand before Roseline’s face.

  She blinks, yanked back from her musings. The room has erupted into complete chaos around her. Students dart for the door, their backpacks swinging wildly behind them as they dive into the hallway traffic. Chairs screech against the hardwood floors, grating on her sensitive hearing.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Sadie asks, her lips pursed with concern. “You seem a bit out of it.”

  “Yes, I’m quite all right.” Roseline forces a smile as she snatches her bag off the floor, retrieving a pencil that rolled two desks over. She crams her science book inside, stretching the seams, and glances up to find Sadie staring blankly at her. Roseline swears internally and focuses on making her next words sound more natural. More human. More like a chatty teen. “Just daydreaming, I suppose. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Good thing that bell wasn’t for a fire or you’d be toast.” Sadie hops off her stool and leans back to study Roseline. “The parking lot can be pretty hectic this time of day. Want some help finding your car?”

  Her hesitation doesn't go unnoticed. “Let me guess, your mom is picking you up?” Sadie rolls her eyes. “Lame.”

  The well-rehearsed lie slips smoothly from Roseline’s lips. “My mother is away for work. She took the car.”

  “You only have one?” Sadie arches an eyebrow.

  Shrugging, Roseline throws her bag strap over her shoulder and glides down the aisle. “For now. We only moved here a couple days ago. Her job transfer was rather sudden. The movers have yet to arrive with our belongings.”

  Sadie gives her a onceover. “I guess that explains your crazy outfit.”

  Glancing down, Roseline frowns. Her black V-neck tank narrows down to a trim white skirt and black leather knee-high boots. What is wrong with that? Rolling her eyes, Sadie points to the window. “Did you sleep through the sleet this morning, too?”

  Roseline inwardly groans, realizing now how much her summer outfit must make her stand out among the hoodies and parkas. She forces a sheepish smile. “This is all I brought with me. I was under the impression it would be fall here.”

  Sadie snorts, shaking her head as she leads the way into the hall. “Seasons mean squat around here. We have some crazy weather come off that lake. One minute it’s sticky outside and then the winds shift and hello winter.”

  The hall is jam packed with teens when Roseline arrives at the doorway. Sadie shoves straight through the human wall, unphased by its momentum. Her voice carries back to Roseline. “I gotta grab my brot
her first. He won’t mind giving you a lift.”

  “No, wait, that is not —” Roseline groans as Sadie disappears into the flood. She sucks her lip between her teeth as she glances in the opposite direction toward the exit.

  “Are you coming?” Sadie calls over the din of the crowd. Roseline can barely see Sadie’s head as she jumps up and down in the middle of the hall.

  Roseline grits her teeth. What choice does she have? Sadie’s obnoxious call has already drawn attention. Deciding it is best to avoid further peering eyes, she ducks low and dives in.

  Wading through the hall is less like swimming and more like carving a path through a wave. Teens on all sides part as she approaches—some pause to stare, others are too preoccupied with making party plans for the weekend.

  “Rose? You back there?” Sadie asks.

  “I am here,” she calls back, exiting the fast lane. She finds Sadie standing beside a wall of crimson lockers. A look of consternation pinches Sadie’s face. “Is something the matter?”

  “Darn thing is stuck again.” Sadie slams her fist into the locker door. She swears and hops about, cradling her wounded hand.

  “May I help?”

  “Have at it. The stupid thing likes to stick in the middle,” Sadie mutters around the fingers she has shoved into her mouth.

  Roseline surveys the door, noticing the hinges and general location of Sadie’s previous abuse. She places her palm against the metal. Careful not to dent the door, Roseline pushes her hand until she feels the click. When she pulls back, the door springs open and a flood of magazines pour from the overstuffed locker.

  Sadie squeals and dives for the cascade of teen gossip.

  “I am sorry.” Roseline stoops to help collect the stray magazines. She notices a pattern as a young boy’s face appears on several of the magazines. “Who is this?” she asks.

  “No one,” Sadie grunts indignantly, shoving handfuls of the magazines back into their disorganized home. “I certainly don’t like Justin Bieber. I’m just holding these for a friend.”

  Roseline smirks. She doesn’t even have to sense Sadie’s nervousness to know a lie when she hears one. Heat paints Sadie’s cheeks as she slips her hand back through the door to cram her schoolbooks inside. Maybe Sadie is not as badass as she tries to appear.