by Irina Argo
She really needed to stop thinking about this, she told herself for the hundredth time as she glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the bedside table—also for the hundredth time—to find that about a minute and a half had passed since the last time she’d checked.
She was sitting motionless on her bed staring at the opposite wall, trying with all her willpower not to think or look at the clock again, when she heard a soft knock at the bungalow door. After a brief pause, it opened and Antar came in.
He sat on his heels in front of her and took both her hands in his. “Simone, let’s go. I know a place where I can hide you. Nobody will find you there and I’ll take care of you.”
“Antar ...” She couldn’t believe her ears, couldn’t believe the offer he was making. This wasn’t about his loyalty to Tor; it was just about her, about keeping her safe. Goddess, he cared for her.
“Let’s go, Sim. I’ll take you far, far away. You know the Legacy can’t provide Sanctuary for people charged with violating Confederation laws. So this is the only way to help you. Let’s go.”
“But then you’ll be breaking the law. You’ll lose your job and be a wanted criminal. I won’t do that to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
Simone cupped Antar’s face in her palms. Goddess, the expression on his face: he wasn’t just worried about her; he was miserable.
She shook her head. “No. I can’t. Even if I was willing to do that to you—which I’m not—it would be weak. I won’t run away. My father would be ashamed of me ... I can’t.”
“It’s not about honor or shame, Simone. It’s about your life.”
“I’m the daughter of the King. I am the princess. It is about honor for me.” She leaned forward and kissed Antar gently, almost without touching his lips, and felt his body tense in response.
What if this was the last time she ever saw him? Simone’s heart wrenched at the thought. If they executed her, she’d die without ever experiencing, even once, what it was like to be with someone she loved. All her affairs had just been games, tests of her charms, explorations of her sexuality. But Antar was so real. And Simone’s feelings for him were real, too; he wasn’t like the others.
Yes. She’d decided. “I want to be with you. Now.” She brushed Antar’s lips with hers again. His eyes occupied her entire universe at this moment.
“Simone.” Antar held her fingertips to his lips, his hot breath on them warming her from head to toe. “You don’t love me.”
Simone was staring at him, blinking—torn between anger that he dared make assumptions about her and longing to reassure him that yes, she did love him; she dreamed of spending her life with him—when Sargas ducked his head in the door.
“Sorry to interrupt you guys, but your father has arrived, Princess.”
When she stepped outside, Sargas and Rock moved discretely to flank her. Sweet of them to be so subtle about their prison-guard role, she thought. Her ears caught the throb of approaching helicopters.
While she’d been inside, the village had changed dramatically, lushly decorated with garlands of tropical flowers and leaves that now hung along walkways and from the roofs of bungalows and had been strewn plentifully through the bushes and trees. The village inhabitants had changed, too, out of their everyday camouflage and into bright, colorful indigenous clothing. And it had all been lit by hundreds of flickering torches that cast dramatic shadows over every surface. She noticed several daring demon children sitting on bungalow roofs, swinging torches above their heads.
Simone might have been locked away, contemplating her impending execution and her father’s wrath—but it was party time in Aldeia Alada.
She spent so much time with Tor at their residences or going to elite social events that she never saw how much the locals rolled out the red carpet when the Vampire King visited them. For a second, she felt a frisson of pride—and then she was back to being terrified. All of that decoration might have looked like exotic beauty, but for her, it was just another sign of her father’s power. He was going to kill her. Or just be incredibly, horribly disappointed in her. And she wasn’t sure which would be worse.
A wave of excitement rolled through the crowd as the King’s two helicopters moved into view above the village, hovering over the landing pad, projecting their searchlight beams downward as they prepared to land. The welcoming party—Girtab, Antar, and others whose positions she didn’t know—moved into position. As the helicopters landed, Simone thought she might actually faint.
As the main helicopter’s rotors slowed down, four intimidating Sekhmi—the King’s bodyguards and members of the Royal pride—descended the stairs and positioned themselves around the copter. Damn, Odji and Anock. Of course, what else did she expect?
The last time she’d seen them, they’d been at Arianna’s house, unconscious—because she’d knocked them out with Anock’s own weapon. She wondered if they knew that the King hadn’t even been angry with her about it; if they knew that, they’d be even more pissed.
And now on top of everything else Antar was somehow going to find out that she’d been having sex with them—both of them, and sometimes both at the same time—and even though it was just fun and didn’t mean anything, it’d kill whatever chances she might have had with Antar.
The King stepped on the ground, his powerful aura spilling across the village and sending a shiver up Simone’s spine. Tor always made a dramatic entry; the power he radiated was palpable. Even with their eyes closed, vampires could discern that they were in the presence of their King. Simone didn’t know about other immortals, but she couldn’t imagine anyone not feeling it.
And, as always, his appearance made his aura come across even more dramatically. He looked like no one else she’d ever seen, with long, almost metallic platinum hair—usually worn pulled into a ponytail—and stormy, dark-grey eyes, today set off to perfection by grey linen pants and an ankle-length trench coat. Right behind Tor was Theores, the Grey Cardinal of the Council—the Confederation’s governing body—and one of the King’s his most trusted advisors. She was also the closest thing Simone had had to a mother, though she was more like a young, cool aunt. Theores locked eyes with Simone and smiled, the first encouraging sight Simone had seen since before the incident with the tourist.
Tor, in contrast, had never so much as glanced at Simone as he disembarked from the helicopter, and he still didn’t do so, turning away from her to exchange warm greetings with the Alphas and then spending several minutes exchanging news, and casually chatting. It was only after he and Theores were invited to proceed to the main celebration near the bonfire at the center of the village that he addressed her.
“I understand we have a lot to talk about.”
With her heart in her stomach, Simone silently nodded.
The King turned to his bodyguards. “Odji, please escort this young lady to the helicopter.”
For five hours Simone sat alone in the helicopter. While the King and his pride enjoyed the winged demons’ hospitality, she experienced it from a distance, inhaling the aroma of an obviously delicious dinner and hearing the faint strains of dinner background music increase in volume and tempo as the revelers switched from eating to dancing.
Finally the celebration died down, the pride members boarded, and the helicopters lifted off. In Manaus they transferred from the helicopter to the pride’s private jet, heading back to France.
On the white leather chair next to Simone’s, Theores leaned back luxuriously, preparing to relax and enjoy her Pink Sunset. She looked like she’d just stepped out of her dressing room, not like she’d spent the past five hours at an outdoor party in the tropics: form-fitting white slacks completely unmarred, silk blouse unwrinkled, and every lock of her artfully tousled black hair exactly where it should be. Damn, Theores was cool—in the hip sense and the unflusterable sense.
Theores’s eyes met hers. “You surprised me, Sim.” She sipped her dr
ink. “When you have an urge to kill, at least learn to do it without witnesses. We all have sins, but we don’t advertise them. I understand it was bloodlust. I’ve been in your shoes. But Sim, there was a whole tribe of winged demons and a substantial portion of the Legacy leadership within sensing range—and a half dozen of them within twenty feet of you. You disappointed me, you really did.”
And there it was: the disappointment. Simone was almost relieved that she didn’t have to wait any longer. Although this was Theores; she still had to face Tor.
Theores summoned the flight attendant and handed her glass to the attractive female vampire who responded. “Please, Tameri, make it a Red Sunset, not a pink one. I guess it was my fault,” Theores continued. “I haven’t taught you to hunt humans. I thought as one of the Elite and as a princess you wouldn’t ever need to know how. But anything can happen, right?”
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Simone muttered, not knowing what else to say in her defense. “I didn’t know that human blood was so weak.” That human life was so weak.
Tameri appeared with a fresh drink—red this time, almost undiluted by champagne. “Perfect; thank you,” said Theores as she accepted the glass. She took a slow sip and closed her eyes in satisfaction.
“That’s why we keep Amiti.” There was appreciation in her voice, but it was the appreciation of a farmer praising livestock.
Simone thought of Arianna and wanted to object, but suddenly her stomach swirled with hunger. No, now was not the time to philosophize.
“Tameri, please, bring me a Red Sunset, too—just like Theores’s.”
“Of course, Princess.” In a few seconds she was handing Simone a glass of highly concentrated Red Sunset. Great Sekhmet, it was delicious. Savoring the heavenly ambrosia, Simone realized how much she had missed it. Even diluted, even when it came to her from a catheter and not straight from the vein like what Arianna had given her, Amiti blood was incomparable.
Damn, why should Simone care where the blood came from? Honestly, why should she?
Chapter 18
Arianna was lying on her side on a hard bed, with a splitting headache and a deep, wrenching pain in her stomach. She was covered with a light grey blanket, in a small room with pale cement walls. There were no windows, just a closed door and a ceiling vent, which apparently was working: the temperature was fine and the air fresh. The bed was against the wall, the only other furniture a small table and a chair. In the opposite corner an opaque plastic compartment extended from floor to ceiling. Through its open door she could see that it held a shower, washbasin, and toilet.
Totally confused, Arianna moved the blanket aside and sat up, her efforts met with a massive headrush. Once her head stopped spinning, she found that she was wearing something like grey pajamas, or hospital scrubs, made out of thin cotton, with drawstring pants and a short-sleeved v-neck shirt.
Her wrists were bandaged. She lifted a bandage to check underneath and gasped: she had horrible red gashes on both wrists, like she’d tried to commit suicide. But she had no memory of trying to kill herself. What the hell was going on? And where was she?
She got to her feet and was hit by another wave of dizziness. Leaning against the bed, she waited a few moments to regain her balance, then walked across the room to the door. It was locked.
Being locked in a room with no exit was more than she could take. If the door didn’t open within the next few seconds, she’d have a panic attack. Frantically, she banged on the door with her fist. To her astonishment, it opened immediately, as though someone had been standing on the other side of it just waiting for her knock, and as Arianna stood there, gaping, that someone came in holding a tray of food.
During the next second, two things happened at once. One was that the door closed behind the person who’d come in, a harsh metal click announcing that it was locked again. The other was that Arianna registered that the female holding the tray was Elora—and Arianna’s memories rushed back. She’d been kidnapped, abused, and drained of her blood, and then Elora had pushed her outside to a circle of vampires, and they had made her drink something.
And that was it. No memories of what had happened next; nothing until just a minute ago when she’d been lying in the bed.
“Where am I? What did you do to me? Let me out of here!” Her voice sounded desperate. No surprise there, but she’d been hoping for something more authoritative.
Ignoring her, Elora set the tray down on the table. “Eat.”
“Let. Me. Out of here.” Arianna repeated, this time more firmly.
“This is your new home, dear. There is no way out of here.” There was superiority in Elora’s voice, in her smile. “Remember I told you that we would treat you well? The room is clean and the air is fresh. You will also be fed well. Eat.”
Arianna strode to the table, ignoring her shaking legs, and grabbing the tray, threw it to the floor. “I’m not going to eat your rotten food. Let. Me. Out of here!!”
Elora slapped her so hard that Arianna flew across the room and hit the opposite wall. She slid to the floor, her head spinning from the blow. She felt blood begin running from her nose. Elora walked over to her, placed her hands on her hips and looked down at her.
“You have to learn, you little piece of shit, you will be hurt every time you are disrespectful to any of us. You are bloodstock. No name, no identity, no rights. None. Period. Got it?” As if to underscore her statement, Elora bent over and removed the bandages from Arianna’s wrists, exposing the deep red gashes along both wrists. “Do you know what this is?”
Arianna was silent.
“You got these scars during the Ritual of Fate which sealed your destiny as a bloodstock and bound you to our pride. You slashed your wrists for us voluntarily. It indicates that you have surrendered to your fate and have gratefully accepted it. These scars will never go away; we took care of that. We used a sacred oil that prevents the scars from healing. They’ll always be there, visibly red. And they’ve been infused with a unique scent in the air so we can track you if you ever try to escape.”
Arianna stared at the scars, horror-stricken. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Was it possible that she was only dreaming? Could this just be a nightmare?
“Well, dear, I need to go now.” Elora picked the dishes up off the floor, put them back on the tray and moved to the door. She knocked twice, with her elbow. The door opened to let Elora out and then closed again behind her with that terrible, final click.
This had to be a nightmare. Arianna crawled to the door and shoved it with all her might, first pushing, then pulling. But it was locked and heavy, solid; it wasn’t going anywhere. Listlessly, she leaned her back against it, trying to comprehend everything that had happened to her.
So, to review: she was drained, and powerless, and this was to be her jail from now on.
The Sekhmi had taken everything from her, leaving her only the very barest essentials she needed to survive. They’d taken her freedom, her whole world, restricting it to the size of this cell. They even refused to call her by her name. Why? To dehumanize her, to detach themselves from her, to treat her like a thing, not like a living being.
Arianna felt herself starting to freak out. She sat there on the floor, trying to slow her breathing and heartbeat, Losing her mind wouldn’t help her get out of here; she needed to be able to think, to plan, and in order to do that she needed to stay calm. Breathe in. Breathe out.
It wasn’t working. What good would thinking do, anyway? She was trapped, totally trapped. She’d never heard of anyone escaping a bloodstock cell; who was she to think she might find a way out?
The panic attack hit her like a tsunami, pulling her deep beneath the water, the turbulence trying to tear her arms and legs from her body. She rose and threw herself violently against the door, limbs flailing. And did it again and again, over and over.
“Help! Help! Let me out of here! Let me out!” she was screaming. She felt the popping wr
ench of her shoulder dislocating, but the sensation meant nothing to her and she kept going.
The impact against the door was knocking the wind out of her, but that didn’t matter because soon she wouldn’t be able to breathe anyway: she knew without even having to look that the walls behind her were closing in like in a horror movie, taking the air with them. Exhaustion was setting in, but she kept punching and kicking the door, and she couldn’t scream anymore, so she switched to calling out with her mind—Help! Help! Let me out of here! Let me out!—as she desperately prayed that the door would open and save her from this living hell.
But it was too late; the walls were right at her back now, and there was no air left. She sucked in one last breath and then lost consciousness just as she felt the walls crush her, expelling the life from her body.
Chapter 19
The King’s jet landed at the Royal pride’s private airport in the suburbs of Nice, France. Looking out the porthole, Simone saw two black Mercedes and a helicopter, with bodyguard types standing stoically beside each vehicle. Simone recognized all of the bodyguards except the two broad-shouldered ones next to the helicopter.
As she disembarked the aircraft, the helicopter guys approached her, displaying upward arrow tattoos on their right hands. Damn, they were from the Legacy; the Confederation’s cops had come for her. Not good.
“Princess,” the one on the right addressed her. She sensed he was some sort of a were-animal, maybe a wolf or hyena. “You are in the custody of the Legacy until the Court assembly. Please come with us.”
She knew how this worked; now she would be kept locked up like a common criminal. Why wasn’t there some flexibility around the fact that she was Royalty and didn’t fall into the same category as commoners? She hated this law of the Confederation that treated everybody equally—and she hated these nitpickers who followed the Code to the letter. They probably thought that her father would try to get special treatment for her—or even hide her somewhere beyond their reach.
