Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (9 page)

He
moves with the stealth of a cat, low and deliberate. I can see him
taunting Emory, forcing the bulkier man to lumber after him as Marcus
leaps upon a tabletop.
So
this is the one whom Emeline has her sights set upon
,
I muse silently.

Not
far away, I spy a stunning woman with shiny black hair piled atop her
head in a beautiful fashion. Her neck is graceful, her hands primly
folded in her lap. The bodice of her sapphire dress dips low enough
to hardly give her any decent support for her ample chest. A wide
string of jewels, inlaid in yellow gold, rings her neck. A matching
jewel nestles within her hair.

She
is beautiful even from this distance, but there is something cold and
calculating about her appearance. A man sits beside her, his features
of similar appearance, though he looks a tad kinder. A shadow of
stubble clings to his strong jaw. His eyes are a startling blue, wide
and alert. “Who are those two?” I inquire again.

“That
is Verity and her brother Cassius, twins, though their personalities
are as far apart as the sun trailing after the moon. Cassius is a
follower, eager to please his sister. Fiercely protective as well. He
has proven to be of great entertainment over the years.”

The
deep chuckle in my husband’s voice leaves little wonder as to
what dark things these siblings are capable of. I stifle a cry as
Vladimir places a hand upon my arm. “I would steer clear of
Verity for a while, my dear. She can be rather… passionate.”

He
does not elaborate on the matter, though I doubt he needs to.
Watching the hawk-like intensity of Verity and the fervor of her
growing lust for Cassius leaves me in stiff agreement with Vladimir.
She is a woman who gets what she wants.

The
fight ends swiftly as Marcus lands a blow that slices Emory’s
right hand off completely. It flops onto the floor. Blood pools from
the severed limb. Even from where I sit, I can see bone protruding
from Emory’s wound.

“How
dreadful.” My stomach churns once more with bile as I fight
against the need to be ill.

Vladimir
laughs. “Do not turn away, my dear. You will spoil the fun.”

I
turn back only because he watches me. I know I need to prove myself
tonight, though to what extent he will force me to do so is unclear.

Emory
lumbers over to a table and grabs a flask of blood, downing it in a
single go. The thick crimson that escapes his lips spills over his
beard. He swipes his arms across his chin, smearing it into a
horrific stain. He retrieves his hand and spits the dregs of his cup
onto it before holding the severed hand up to his wounded arm.

My
mouth gapes in disbelief as I watch his skin begin to shift around
the wound. It bubbles and stretches, sealing over the injury. Within
minutes, only a small red circle gives evidence to the damage Marcus
inflicted. With his head lowered, Emory offers his sword to Marcus
and returns to the party. Verity claps with delight and rushes to
Marcus’s side to congratulate him on his prize.

“All of that
for a sword?” I ask with a mixture of disgust and awe.

“It
is the way of things.” Vladimir shrugs.

“His
hand… how did it heal so swiftly?”

Lucien
casts an irritated glance in my direction, as if the answer should be
obvious. I do not see how it could be. A day along my life was
normal. I had never glimpsed such dark magic before.

Vladimir
leans closer and gently brushes the loosely curled bronze strands
from my shoulder. The scent of blood on his breath is pungent and his
need to touch me seems to be growing by the minute. My own goblet
remains untouched and will remain so if I have any say in the matter.

“Human
blood can heal nearly every wound. Remember this, for it may someday
save your life.”

A
dark foreboding falls over me as he turns and cheers for the next
round of entertainment. A man raises a bow, his arrow poised and
aimed across the length of the great hall. His arm shows no sign of
quiver despite the vast size of the bow.

The
arrow takes flight. I close my eyes as the arrow lands below the
target, striking a man in the throat instead of the apple perched
atop his head. Blood seeps from the wound, gushing from a darkened
hole as the wounded man yanks the arrow free. I cannot bear to look,
even as he too grasps a flask of blood.

“Your
aim is improving, Clement,” Vladimir mocks as the man lowers
his bow. He tosses it aside and storms from the room.

These
people are barbaric
,
I muse silently as I cradle my arms about my waist.

The
contests go one for nearly an hour. None of them ends in less than a
fatal wound, only to be healed within moments. As disturbingly
gruesome as it all is, I begin to realize just how trying it would be
to kill one of them.

No
wonder the rumors of vampyres have spread across the land. With such
evil contained in one room, I dread to think of what they would do to
an entire village. Fire and pitchforks would hardly be enough to take
down a single immortal, let alone a group of them.

Music
begins to spill through the room, though I cannot say from where it
comes. I see no musicians, yet the melody is present nonetheless. The
mood of the room begins to shift as men and women come together in
the center and begin to sway together.

I
spy Emeline casting furtive glances at Verity as she winds herself
around Marcus, leaving hardly any chance for the man to breathe.
Emeline selects a man at random. His face is pleasant albeit dark,
with a look that can only be described as a haunting beauty. His name
escapes me, though Vladimir gave me a running commentary on most of
the attending guests.

Vladimir’s
laughter steals away my gaze. His head is dipped low in private
conversation with Lucien at his side. He raps his brother on the
shoulder and sinks back into his seat as Lucien rises and jumps from
the raised platform. He weaves through the revelry, appearing to
search for someone.

I
watch, mesmerized by the dancing before me. With the tables pushed
against the walls, a wide open floor space has appeared, easily large
enough for the men and women to writhe together, moving in ways that
make me blush with deep chagrin.

Vladimir
seems to be taken with my naivety. I can feel him watching me, though
I dare not avert my gaze toward him.

A
fight suddenly breaks out among two men, each finely dressed and
wielding handsome swords. I rise slightly in my seat and see Emeline
cheering them on. Her dress has become unlaced, her sleeves draping
off her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed with a fetching rosy
tint. Her dance partner is locked in battle with a man with a
stunning head of red hair and a mustache that curls slightly at the
ends.

Emeline’s
hair now spills over her shoulder and her lips appear reddened and
bruised. I realize with a start that she is the reason for the fight.

She
sways back and forth, swishing her skirts as she giggles. Her eyes
are alight with excitement at the clang of swords as she slowly
slides her hands along the curves of her body, her desired tryst with
Marcus apparently long forgotten.

The
two men circle each other, crouched low. They never break eye contact
as they move with fluidity and grace. “Will they kill each
other?”

Vladimir
laughs beside me and I realize that I spoke out loud. “No, my
dear. They may take a limb or two. However, no one will die tonight.
I will not allow it.”

I
sink back in my chair and draw my gaze toward him. My husband looks
stunning in his fitted coat of gold and black. The collar rises high
along his neck, making him look regal and every bit the lord of this
castle.

“You
have much control over your men, my lord,” I say with as much
respect as I can muster. The words feel like treason upon my lips,
yet I have learned that Vladimir demands complete submission and
respect. He thrives off flattery. Perhaps if I speak the damning
words now, he will delay any desire to abuse me.

His
gaze narrows a fraction. “They are not my men. They are my
brethren, your brethren now too.”

“My
apologies.” I lower my gaze and fold my hands into my lap.

He
places a hand upon my arm and I bite the tender flesh of my lower lip
to force myself not to pull away. “You have much to learn,
dearest. I will teach you.”

His
words feel weighted with far more than a simple desire to teach me
swordplay or proper etiquette. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I
realize the deeper meaning behind his words.

Oh
no, please no!
I
still ache from the night before. He cannot possibly think to ravage
me again so soon.

My
heart is troubled as I glance back at the floor to avoid Vladimir’s
piercing gaze.

Lucien
captures my stare. My mouth drapes in open shock as I find him
mounting Alamesia in the corner. Although there is little bare skin
to be seen with Alamesia’s skirts billowing around them, there
is little doubt as to what is happening. Her mouth hangs open and her
eyes are rolled back into her head as it lolls from side to side. Her
back arches atop the table as she presses up into Lucien.

I
quickly glance away only to find similar scenes occurring all around
me. Swords have been forgotten and fine garments have been tossed
about in great haste. Men and women writhe together, some in groups,
while others are off on their own. Emeline seems to have calmed the
fight, having chosen to see to both men instead of just one.

Vladimir
watches me intently as I take in the shocking scene before me.
Screams of pleasure and masculine grunts begin to replace the
laughter. Heat rises from the neckline of my dress as I turn away,
sickened by the open fornication.
How
can they do such ghastly things in front of so many people? Have they
no shred of honor or decency?

When
Vladimir’s hand falls atop my arm, I fail to hold back a tiny
squeal of panic. His eyes are darker and his pupils are dilated. I
can smell his lust leaching from his skin, bold and nauseating. Fear
returns like a battering ram against my chest, making it difficult to
breathe.

His
grip is strong as he pulls me to him. “This is the way of
things,” he says in a deepened voice as he slips his hand
around the back of my head and crushes his lips against mine.

The
arm of the chair digs into my side as he pulls me tightly toward him.
Terror floods through my veins as his tongue seeks to part my lips. I
want to bite him, to scream for help, yet I know none would come. The
harder I push back against him, the tighter his hold becomes.

A
growl rises deep in his throat as he rips at the sweeping neckline of
my dress. The fabric tears effortlessly, baring me from neck to
waist.

I
cry out, attempting to cover my nakedness. He grasps my hands and
with a single yank on my arm sends me crashing into his chest as he
rises, toppling my chair. I gasp, fighting to suck in a breath as he
presses on my shoulders, forcing me to the ground.

Tears
stream down my cheeks as small whimpers escape my lips. Vladimir’s
hands skim under the folds of my dress, tearing them away. I close my
eyes as I feel him against my inner thighs.

“Please,”
I weep. “Do not do this.”

Vladimir
leers as his weight comes to rest heavily upon me. He grips my hands
over my head, pinning me. He does not listen to my pleas, nor is he
swayed by my tears. Instead, he seems to bask in my fear.

I
close my eyes and grit my teeth as the pain comes again, burning and
deep. A sharp slap to my face makes me cry out. My eyelids burst open
and I find a new horror buried in his eyes: excitement.

“Scream for
me,” he demands.

Vladimir
clasps my hands together with one hand and then balls his other into
a fist. He slams it into my side and I cry out as I feel bone
splinter. He growls in appreciation as he makes me shriek again and
again. My head slams against the leg of my fallen chair, beating
against the wooden floor. Darkness begins to eat away at my vision
and I give in, pleading for an escape from this nightmare.

I
cower in the corner, my head buried against my knees. My hair drapes
over my face, hiding me from the outside world. The flood beneath me
is cold to the touch, soothing the growing bruise that stretches
around my backside and up to my hip. Tears fall unheeded from my
eyes. My nose runs, though I do not make any effort to clean myself.

Warm
late afternoon sunlight spills through the window upon my toes. I
curl them, realizing that even they ache. I have lost count of how
many bones have been broken and reset over the past few days. One
week. That is all I have managed to endure since my wedding, yet it
feels as if I have suffered an entire lifetime of torment at
Vladimir’s hand.

He
comes to me each night, penetrating the safety of my room, only to
leave me a few hours later, broken and desolate. These walls offer me
no protection, the door no barrier from the evil that walks these
halls.

My
only solace is that I have been allowed to remain in my room instead
of forced to attend another nightly feast. I can hear their swordplay
and catcalling from below. No matter how deeply I bury my head in my
pillows, I always hear.

What
Vladimir does to me in private is abhorrent, though far more
tolerable than being ravaged in front of a room of people. Curling my
arms about my knees, fresh tears come as I think on my first night.
Of the men who watched as Vladimir took me over and over again, I
could feel their lust, their desire. They are waiting for Vladimir’s
attentions to wane, and when they do, I will be turned over to them
like a bone tossed to dogs.

I
cannot bear this.

My
only reprieve comes in the day when they pass out in various reaches
of the castle in a lust and blood-drunken haze. It is these moments
that I fight to remind myself that there is still good in the world…
somewhere.