Fury : The Kresova Vampire Harems: Lyra

by Graceley Knox

  "So this is the offer," I say as Aura finishes. "Join us. Not as Dakvahar or Aspen but as Kresova. Take back this castle. It's yours! It was Morana that stole it from you to begin with. Our concern is ending her, not conquering castles. But if you stay here, you're Kresova, understand? One of the clan. And the clan is at war. You won't be forced to fight, but you'll have to help."

  I let that sink in, hoping I'm saying the right thing, still high on adrenaline and the power coursing through the pendant around my neck. Everyone stares at me, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  "Or," I continue, looking every one of them in the eye, "if you're a coward, if you're a faithless son of a bitch who won't join your clan in standing up against a tyrant who sacrifices elders, murders children, and threatens us all, then fuck you. You don't have the right to call yourself Kresova anymore. Every minute that we let Morana do as she pleases, knowing what she is, we are denying our responsibility to our clan. This is your last chance to accept that responsibility. Refuse now, and you've abandoned it entirely. You're clanless. You can go follow Morana and her mutants for all I care. No one will stop you. But you won't stay in this castle or sit at my table or ever call yourself Kresova again. If the name so much as touches your lips, I swear I will find you and personally kick your ass."

  I stare them down as they process this, waiting. I'm expecting at least a few to leave, if only to avoid being pulled into a war. But no one moves.

  "So, what'll it be?" Aura asks, backing me up. "Are you Kresova? Or are you not?"

  We wait, tense, a beat longer. Then the older vampire who'd spoken before steps forward.

  "I told you I would rather die than leave this castle," he says loudly, chin high. "But I would leave this castle—I would see it ground to rubble—before I let anyone take the name Kresova from me. I am Kresova, to the end of time."

  For a moment I think he intends to leave or to fight us. Instead, he falls to one knee, his arm across his chest in a Roman salute.

  "If you intend to guard and preserve the honor of that name," he said, "then it is my honor to serve you!"

  I smile, relieved, and share a grin with Aura. When I look back, more and more of Morana's old court join the old man, kneeling before us. My heart in my throat, I watch them all kneel, not a single one choosing to leave. The Aspen kneel with them and then, to my surprise, so do the Alder and Blackthorn, the Daks and even the werewolves. The Fae don't kneel (swearing fealty to a vampire clan would probably be a problem for them), but even they bow their heads in respect to Aura and me. Bloody and ragged as we are, we've never felt more like queens.

  "Welcome to the family," I say.

  There is nothing left but to deal with the aftermath of the battle. Doors are unbarricaded, weapons are put away, injuries are treated. The dead are counted up.

  There are many dead, mostly thanks to the mutants. As soon as some of the euphoria of victory wears off, I'm hit by an anxiety that doesn't ease off until I find Damon and Seamus unharmed.

  "You were worried about me?" Seamus scoffs playfully. "Over this little snowball fight? I wasn't the one running off on suicide missions. When Damon came back without you, I was sure I'd never see you again."

  "Ah, tough luck," I tease him back. "Guess you'll have to put up with me a little longer."

  "Shouldn't be too long if you keep it up like this," he says, shaking his head. But he smiles at me, brushing my hair from my cheek. "I really am glad you're safe. If something had happened to you, love . . ." His gaze turns dark for a moment, then he laughs. "Well, you know what that old man was saying about grinding the castle to rubble?"

  "You think you could pull that off?" I ask, amused, though I can tell he's serious, in his way.

  "Oh easily," Seamus confirms. "Fine enough to sieve. And then I'd feed every stone of it to Morana. Through a funnel."

  "A funnel?"

  "Like a Christmas goose."

  Damon is less talkative. He holds me for a long time, his face buried in my hair.

  "I need you to promise me something," he says, his words slightly muffled.

  "Anything," I say at once.

  "Never, ever, ask me to leave you that way again," he says. He pulls away. "Never again."

  I hesitate.

  "I don't know if I can promise that," I tell him honestly. "If it's a situation like that . . . if I think I might die–"

  "Then we die together," Damon says firmly. "And in the meantime, I'll do every damn thing I can to make sure you never get put in a place to make that choice again. But I won't ever leave you to die again. I can't."

  I remember the fear I'd felt when I thought we were both going to die down in the basement. I couldn't think of much worse than the idea of watching him die. But the thought of walking away in that moment and leaving him came pretty damn close.

  "I promise," I say, and kiss him, soft and brief, to seal the deal.

  I find Emmett next, and he hugs me almost as tight as Damon, though not for as long.

  "Fantastic speech," he says, grinning. "You're good at those."

  "You think?" I ask, not convinced, but he nods with sincere conviction.

  "The Blackthorn leaders are already talking about going forward with the alliance as we keep hunting Morana. They really believe in you."

  I smile, but it turns bittersweet as I remember one leader they no longer have.

  "I'm sorry about Sioban," I say. "If I'd been faster—"

  He holds up a hand to stop me. "It's not your fault," he says. "The blame belongs to Morana and no one else. Sioban was a mentor to me. I'm not sure what we'll do without her. But we'll manage. And we'll grieve once Morana is dealt with."

  I almost say something about the pull I feel toward him . . . the prophecy . . . but I stop myself. It isn't the time. I listen to him talk excitedly about the Blackthorn leader's plans for a while longer, then move on.

  I find Callahan and the rest of the werewolves near where we'd been laying out the bodies for burial. We lost a good number of werewolves, their bodies returned to human shame in death. I feel responsible. This had never been their fight, and I put them on the front lines. But as I approach Callahan, there's a shout from one of the doors into the house. As I watch, several werewolves emerge, carrying children. The other wolves gather around immediately, laughing and crying with joy. Callahan runs to help, eyes wide.

  "Where did you find them?" he asks.

  "One of the Kresova told us where Morana was holding them," a werewolf says, passing off the little girl in his arms to Callahan. The children are all pale and subdued, but at least they're alive. "She had them in cages hooked up to IVs, bleeding them slow. We found a few of the changelings, too."

  "Is it all of them?" Callahan asks, staring at the girl in his arms like she's the most miraculous thing he's ever seen. The other werewolf shakes his head, smile falling a little.

  "But it's most of them. Most of them get to go home. That's got to be worth something, right?"

  Callahan nods, tears in his eyes. I decide not to interrupt, leaving them be. But I haven't gone far before I see another familiar face . . . among the bodies.

  Maeve and Moira lie alongside the other corpses, still and silent. At first glance I think they're both dead, but then I see one is still breathing. She's lying next to her sister, still as the corpses around her, just staring into the sky.

  "Maeve?" I say quietly, not sure if I should approach, my heart stopped in my chest.

  "Could be," she answers, just as quietly. "We traded names so often. Who could keep track? Maybe I was Moira. I don't remember."

  "What happened?" I ask, tears burning bitter in my throat. I can't believe it. It can't have happened. They're too strong, too smart, too fast. So how?

  Maeve doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. It doesn't matter. I sit down in the dirt when my legs give out, looking out at all the bodies whose blood is on my hands, among them one of my best, oldest friends. It's almost a relief when tears blur my vision. I cover my mouth
to stop the sobs. I am crushed by the loss and guilty for intruding on Maeve's grief. I can't possibly understand how she feels. I shut my eyes, trying to control myself, when I feel a touch on my hand. Maeve sits across from me.

  "I'm sorry." It's all I know how to say when there's too many things to apologize for. My army, my war, my fault. Her sister.

  Her face goes the wrong shape the way it does when you're trying not to cry, twisted and strange until she barely resembles the woman I know.

  "I don't know who I am without her," she says, and the tears overcome both of us.

  I hold her for as long as it takes for us to run out of tears, not done grieving, merely emptied, and too tired to continue. I stay with her as the Daks and the werewolves make their way back through the portal to home. I don't leave her until Brenna pulls her into her arms, and I know she won't be alone.

  There is equal measure of joy and grief among the wolves. The parents whose children have been returned weep, celebrate, and shower praises on me that I don't feel like I deserve. The parents whose children will never come home watch every reunion with increasing desperation, hoping there has been a mistake and at any moment their child will come through the portal into their arms. Or else they begin the long, slow, terrible process of acceptance, beginning with a terrible hollowness in the eyes. I want to do something for them, to tell them how sorry I am, how responsible I feel. More than anything, I want to put their children in their arms. I want to bring Moira back. And all the other people whose loved ones paid the price for my choices. Mine and Morana's. But I can't do any of those things. I stand aside and watch and awkwardly accept the thanks of the lucky ones.

  When things have settled down a little, I find Aura. I want to go curl up in Damon's arms and never leave, but I need to talk about this first, and she's the only one who might understand.

  "How are you holding up?" she asks, precisely because she can see the answer is not well.

  I sit down across from her at a table in the main hall that we've been using for locating the families of the children and the dead. There are still a few bodies yet to be claimed, but Callahan knows all the wolves. He'll ensure they are taken care of. Worse are the one or two parents still waiting, unable to yet give up hope. They stare blankly past this hall with no more children in it, their eyes on a future that is now out of their reach. I should talk to someone tomorrow about making sure the remains are found and brought home, whatever Morana did to them. It's the only thing I can do for these people now.

  "I'm fine," I lie to Aura, who doesn't believe it for a second. She gets up and finds us both a stiff drink.

  I swear and try not to choke as I take a swig from the flask and hand it back to her.

  "Holy shit, where did you find that?" I wheeze, my throat stinging and my nose full of peat smoke. "A car engine?"

  There's nothing like the smack of strong alcohol to knock you out of a funk, if only momentarily.

  "The Blackthorns," she says, taking a sip and going rigid for a moment. After a second, she shudders and passes the flask back to me. "It's a real good quality Scotch, apparently. Traditional for victories. I was just going to try and find a beer, but they insisted we take it. I think it'll insult their honor or something if we don't finish it."

  "Well, we can't have that," I say, and take another mouthful, which hits me in the face like a sack full of mossy hammers. I blink until my eyes refocus and hand it to Aura. "It isn't so bad the second time. Once your mouth goes a little numb you can really taste the vanilla, oaky thing."

  Aura takes another swallow and shakes her head.

  "Nah, still just smoke and pain."

  "Maybe you just need to drink more of it," I suggest, taking another sip for myself. It's only like getting punched by a smoke-scented brick this time. "Yeah, I could get used to this."

  "That's just what we need," Aura laughs, taking the flask back. "We finally get rid of Morana and replace her with a Scotch-loving alcoholic."

  "Hey, still an improvement." I chuckle but that brings my thoughts back to where we are. Aura forces down another sip.

  "Christ, it's like being kicked by a horse," she complains. "A really Scottish horse. Like a horse with bagpipes."

  "Do you blame yourself for any of it?" I ask her, the question falling out of my thoroughly Scotch-lubricated lips before I'd meant it to.

  "Any of what?" Aura asks, offering me the flask back. I take it but don't drink any more. I fiddle with the metal cap instead.

  "Nothing," I say. "Never mind."

  Aura gazes at me for a long time while I avoid looking at her, spinning the cap of the flask instead.

  "Yeah," she says at last. "Yeah, I do. I try not to think about it."

  "Damon says it's right for us to blame ourselves," I say, picking the words out slowly. "That we'd be shit leaders if we didn't. Like Morana."

  "Did he have any suggestions for dealing with the guilt?" Aura asks.

  I shrug. "This seems to be working." I take another swig. I swear it turns to smoke in my mouth. I hand it back to Aura, who contemplates it for a long moment.

  "I figure we have to focus on the good," she says. "We did a lot of good today. We brought those kids home. That has to be worth it, right? To make up for the rest of it?"

  "Does it?" I ask, remembering Maeve's face crumpling into unrecognizable brokenness.

  "It has to," Aura says, "or what's the point of anything? This prophecy thing, it says we're queens. So, we've gotta be in charge. And that means everything's our fault. So shouldn't we at least try to make as many good things our fault as we can? It's better to try and fail, then do nothing and get blamed anyway. That's what you said before, right?"

  It's difficult to take her words to heart when I can still see those parents across the room, alone, waiting. Maybe Scotch would help them. It's definitely making me feel better . . . loose and floating, unmoored from my heavy, tired body. I lay my head on my arms, staring out into the middle distance.

  "How do you balance it?" I ask Aura. "How do you let yourself be responsible for all the bad stuff and not let it drag you down? And if you ignore all the bad staff and focus on the good you're trying to do; how do you keep from becoming a monster? What happens when you start thinking anything is worth it for whatever good you think you're trying to do? What if it wasn't worth it, Aura?"

  She considers it for a long time. She takes another drag from the flask, the cap clinking against the side. I run my fingers over the rough grain of the wooden table. Callahan is talking to one of the parents, quiet consoling words that I can't make out, just echoed murmurs drifting like moths around the high rafters of the hall. This is such a big place to be alone in.

  "Maybe that's why there's supposed to be three of us," Aura says at last. "And the point of the consorts. Maybe that's why the prophecy wants it that way, because, maybe the way you balance it is just surround yourself with good people who love you."

  I sniffle, but I'm too tired to properly cry again. Aura pushes the flask into my hands and wraps her hands around mine.

  "Lyra," she says, then louder when I don't look at her. "Lyra."

  I meet her stare, which is too intense for how raw I feel right now.

  "I promise I'll never let you become a monster," she says. "I swear it on this stupid Scotch. I'm here for you."

  I smile at her around the lump in my throat.

  "You promise, too," she demands.

  "I promise," I tell her. "I won't let you become a monster."

  "Swear it on the Scotch!"

  "I swear it on the stupid Scotch."

  "Good." She nods, satisfied, and relaxes but doesn't let go of my hand, still cupped together around the flask, warm and reassuring. We're quiet for a long moment. I hear the first birdsong of the dawn chorus outside. It's been a long night.

  "What happens next?" Aura asks, sounding as lost as I feel.

  "We keep fighting," I say without needing to think about it. "Morana is stronger now than anything I've ever
heard of. But she feels like she lost. She's going to come back with a vengeance. We have to stay on her. Can't give her time to regroup. She's going to be like a cornered animal now."

  "We still haven't found the third queen," Aura says, worry in her tone. "Or all our consorts."

  I think about Emmett and my stomach flips.

  "Yeah," I say. "And we nearly beat Morana without 'em. Think about how thoroughly we'll kick her ass once we have found them all."

  Aura laughs under her breath, dropping my hands from hers.

  "Yeah," she says, taking the flask for another sip. "Definitely."

  Silence lingers between us for another long moment.

  "I should go to bed," I say. "I feel like that horse with the bagpipes dragged me all the way from Cardiff to Dover."

  I hadn't really felt the Scotch too much, just a pleasant floatiness. When I stand, it hits me all at once like an anvil on the head in a Saturday morning cartoon.

  "You okay?" Aura asks, worried.

  "I'm fine," I lie, from the floor.

  "I'm going to go get Damon," she says, standing up, bracing herself on the table, and then very slowly sitting back down. "I'm going to ask someone else to go get Damon."

  "Good idea."

  "And some water."

  "Water is also a good idea."

  "Definitely."

  "Hey, Aura?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks."

  "No problem."

  Later, Damon carries me back to my room and I think about how lucky I am. All of this, everything that's happened, and the people I love are still alive. If anything, I have more people to love than I did before this all started. That has to count for something. But as I lay in bed, curled up next to Damon, relishing every second that we're both alive and together, an ugly little thought creeps in.

  They're all still alive so far.

  But there is still so much fighting left to do.

  Continue Reading Lyra’s story in FEVER! Coming soon!