Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

Rusted chains bite into my flesh as I pull against the restraints to no avail. The manacle about my throat tightens, making swallowing nearly impossible. I am too weak to free myself, my throat too parched from screaming.

  No one has come for me. No one has tended to my wounds. I have only the rats to keep me company.

  The air is moist and thick, smelling of decay and feces. I can smell it over the blood and sweat that clings to my body. My hair falls in matted locks about my face, plastered to the blood that seeps from an open wound along my brow. The wall at my back feels grimy, coated with age and filth. The stone is cold to the touch, bringing only minimal relief against my feverish skin.

  How many other people have bled in this very spot?

  I am alone. I have been since I awoke in these chains with my toes barely dragging against the floor, close enough to feel hope yet far enough to know it is a falsehood. Another trick of the mind. Lucien seems to enjoy these.

  I have had plenty of time to contemplate to what extent I must go to take my own life if I am ever given the chance again. An endless stream of questions plague me as I hang in the pitch dark. The agony alone should be my undoing, yet I linger ever on the edge of insanity and lucidity. Although my heart still beats in my chest, I am far from well.

  My right foot hangs at an awkward angle, held on only by a stretch of skin. My right arm is splintered into two pieces, dangling uselessly from its manacle. My upper abdomen is spliced open nearly from side to side in a jagged line. The wound began to reek of infection two days past.

  My neck feels as if it has been severed from my body, attached only by the thick metal collar that now holds me aloft. My left leg is shattered. I can feel bone fragments shifting around and my kneecap protruding out of the side of my leg. My fingers are crooked and healing incorrectly. They will need to be re-broken and mended, though I cannot reach them to do it myself.

  Why will he not let me die?

  A cold sweat clings to my body at the thought of my tormentor. Lucien comes twice a day to visit me. At least I think it is the same day. I have lost all track of time down here. He rarely speaks as he goes about his task. His coal-black eyes show little emotion as he slices into my flesh with a blunt knife, peeling muscle from flesh and sinew. Only the cracking of bones and the sizzling of skin makes him smile.

  Lucien Enescue, my brother by marriage bond, has become my living nightmare. I realized in the days since I was brought to this dungeon that I did not truly understand the depths of pain, not even at the cruel hand of my husband, before Lucien began on me.

  I do not know why he continues to torture me so. In the beginning, I feared he was doing Vladimir’s bidding for ending Verity’s life, though I soon began to realize the personal enjoyment he receives from our sessions. I believe he is doing this on his own accord now.

  What will Vladimir think when he discovers the extent to which Lucien has gone with me? Will he fly into a rage on my behalf or join in when he returns?

  No one heeds my screams. They echo uselessly through the dank recesses of the dungeon. Darkness and pain are my constant companions in this godforsaken place. The dripping never ceases. It is maddening in its steady rhythm, even more so knowing it is my blood that splatters upon the grimy floor.

  A clanging from above makes me press back against the cold stone wall. A small whimper passes between my lips as goose bumps rise against the bare flesh of my back. A flickering of light spills down from above and I know he has returned.

  Terror seizes me. I know pain will soon follow. This knowledge is maddening in its inevitability, in my complete failure to stop it from occurring.

  In the beginning, I was mortified by my nakedness, though I quickly realized it was merely another form of torture. Lucien took no notice of my state of undress. It simply made his task easier. He is slow and methodical with is administrations, a soulless butcher.

  I do not know how long I have been hidden away down here. A few days? A full moon cycle? Longer?

  Why has Vladimir not come for me? Surely he has noticed my absence by now.

  I have been driven mad! I think as my chains rattle when the light appears at the base of the tunnel overhead. Vladimir is no hero. He is a monster. No one is coming to save me.

  I squint against the lantern as it swings to and fro. Lucien descends a set of crumbling stone steps with a lazy stride. I glimpse black leather boots stained with mud first, followed by long legs and a tapered waist. I close my eyes, unable to bear looking upon his pale face.

  Lucien’s beauty is deceiving. A demon wearing the face of an angel. Immortals are all like this… even me. Rare, intoxicating beauty created to ensnare the unknowing passerby. I have been transformed into a predator with every advantage on my side, and the thought of it sickens me.

  “Ah, you are awake. Excellent.” Lucien slowly moves along the wall, lighting each torch with his lantern. I watch him with heightened wariness. We both know I cannot endure much more of his attentions.

  I can smell the blood in a pouch tied by a leather thong at his side. He has forced it upon me several times, holding my tongue with clamps so the cold, congealed liquid slips down the back of my throat. I loathe the feel of it against my lips, though the aftereffects of the blood are what truly terrify me.

  I have come to a personal knowledge that blood is life, though in ways far different than to mortals. One taste fuels an instant addiction. The need never fades. It lingers, taunting me in the long hours of night.

  The more I drink, the more I crave.

  I despise what I have become, driven by a thirst that I refuse to quench. I do not wish to be like my husband, like Lucien or my brethren. I was human only a short time ago. How can I now be forced to consider them a source of food?

  Without blood, I would die in this dungeon. Lucien is too cunning to allow that to happen. He keeps me teetering on the brink of death, only to revive me when it suits him best. It is the epitome of cruelty.

  “Please,” I whisper in a hoarse voice.

  “Please?” He turns slowly, his long fingers clenching the lantern as he raises it to shoulder height so he may see me.

  I cringe back from the light and bite my lip against my screams. My body trembles with fear and exhaustion. Blood gushes from my abdomen, warm and sticky as it oozes down my thighs, pattering against the floor.

  “It has been days since you pleaded for mercy.” He tsks, shaking his head with disapproval. “I had thought you were past this weakness, Roseline. Is this not why we are here? To carve out the fear and weakness from your flesh?”

  “I thought you were forcing me to pay a blood debt for Verity,” I croak.

  “Oh, that was paid long ago. This is something more. It is…” He pauses, contemplating, “An experiment, if you will.”

  My eyes roll back into my head as I dangle freely. I am too tired to hold on, to resist. “What is the point?”

  His footsteps are marked with utmost control as he approaches. I can smell his eagerness even as he restrains himself. He is methodical, never allowing his emotion to take control. “The point, my dear Roseline, is to unleash you. I have seen the timid girl lash out in the briefest of moments. There is more to you, buried under that flesh and meekness. I plan to release it.”

  I lift my head and stare at him through locks of greasy hair. “You want me to kill?”

  “Oh no.” He chuckles as he clasps his hands behind his back. “I do not want you to kill once. I want you to slaughter thousands. To crave the scent of death, just as you long for a fresh fountain of blood to spill from the neck of a young girl. I want you to yearn for it.”

  My arms tremble as I fight to pull against my chains. “I shall never be like you.”

  A slow, knowing smile darkens his face as he steps closer. “You already are. You just do not know it yet.”

  I watch his approach, fighting to think lucidly beyond the pain. There is something different in his eyes today: caution.

  Someone knows! My heart
skips a beat at the realization that a scent of fear has begun to leak from his skin, mingling with my own, though his is far more overpowering than mine. Who is it that he fears?

  “Do you ask for mercy?” He sets his lantern atop the table. In its warm glow I spy an array of blunt and serrated tools. Many of them have been used on me. Others I am sure it is only a matter of time before they are introduced. Each has been cleaned of any trace of my blood.

  “Yes,” I whisper, dropping my gaze. My body slumps with false submission.

  Think, Roseline! I silently scold. Discover a way to deter him.

  My body does not hold sway over Lucien as it does Vladimir. My husband would be wildly affected to see me in such a state. His love of pleasure mingled with pain became obvious on my wedding night as he took me behind the burning alter while I stared into the lifeless eyes of my beloved sister and each night after. He revels in my screams, indulges in his wildest fantasies. Lucien enjoys screaming, though it is a different sort.

  “Is it nearly night?” I ask, squinting my eyes to see past the lantern light. Neither sunlight nor the glow of the moon has ever filtered down into this prison, yet I stare up at the tunnel as if filled with longing.

  “It is.” I hear the clanging of metal and fight to still my rising panic. He has begun to stoke a fire in the sunken space at the end of the room. A great hollow pit has been carved from the castle’s foundation. A metal grate runs the length of the man-sized hollow, allowing a sizeable fire.

  Lucien dips low and blows on the embers. He rises as the flames flicker to life, feeble though present. Dipping a ladle into a wooden bucket, he pours black pitch over the flames and they instantly ignite. I fear the fire, not just for the flames however, but for the intense heat it releases. It is suffocating, even in this cavernous room where the heat trails up the walls and escapes through the tunnel overhead.

  Lucien begins to unbuckle his cloak and lays it over the top of a three-legged stool beside his worktable. Rats skitter along the base of the walls as they flee the heat roiling from the pit. I turn away my face, pressing hard against the cold stone to steal some of its coolness. I close my eyes as I hear metal shifting not far away. I begin to quiver as I realize that today will not be cutting. He is sorting through his branding irons.

  “Where is my husband?”

  The clanging stops. There is a long pause as I feel Lucien’s gaze piercing the dim light to search my face as he walks around the table to face me. “You seek Vladimir?”

  “I… I would like to see him.” The words feel like treason upon my tongue. Surely, Lucien can see through my lie.

  He lifts a spear-tipped branding iron and runs it along his cheek. It is dark and still cool to the touch, though I remember the agony of having it thrust upon my stomach, cauterizing my wounds. The memory of my own burning flesh makes the room spin about me.

  His skin feels unbearably warm to the touch as he snatches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Would you?”

  Callous eyes ensnare me as he searches my face. My chin aches under the intensity of his grip, though I dare not scream. Tears sting my eyes as I fight to evade the pain. “You are a clever one, are you not? Vladimir has underestimated you, though he always was a fool when it came to beauty. He thinks with what resides in his pants rather than the mind he was gifted with.”

  He shoves me back into the wall as he releases me. My head slams into the stone with enough force to split the skin along the back of my head. Warm blood seeps from the wound, oozing slowly down the nape of my neck.

  “Your husband would not approve of my actions.” He pauses as he turns to look at me. My throat clenches at the rabid look in his eyes. He stretches out his hand and grasps the end of a wooden-handled dagger, its blade serrated and deadly sharp. I close my eyes as the tears come. I cannot stop them.

  I whimper at the feel of the steel gently gliding down my cheek. His breath is hot against my ear as he leans in close. “I suppose I shall have to remain discreet.”

  I bite down on my tongue as the blade digs into the base of my throat, sealing off my scream. The tears fall hot and fresh down the curves of my cheeks, dampening my split lips. My head lolls to the side and my chest rises in halting, wheezing breaths.

  I cannot take any more of this. I have begged for death to find me countless times, yet my pleas fall on deaf ears. I am utterly broken… desolate.

  A poison has begun to seep into my soul, snatching away every hint of hope that I held fast. The darkness is mine. I claim it, cling to it. The light only brings pain now. There is nothing left, save torture, mocking laughter in the shadows, and anger.

  Someday I will make Lucien Enescue pay for this. I do not know how, though I vow he will die by my hand.

  FIFTEEN