by Elena May
“And you.” Tristan pointed a finger at Vlad, his eyes blazing. “You always get to ride off under the moonlight, your mantle and raven hair waving in the wind, looking cool. And in the rare cases when you do get injured, it’s just a few aesthetically placed scratches, which make you look even more rugged and manly. How is that fair?”
The Prince sighed and fired three arrows at a group of vampires. “All right, then. I promise to get the next major injury coming our way. Would that make you happy?”
“Very much,” Tristan said, ducking to avoid an arrow. “But it has to be a real injury, nasty and ugly, and not one of your manly scratches.”
“Understood,” Vlad said, firing a last arrow before he reached for his swords as another group of attackers swarmed them. “No manly scratches.”
Tristan grabbed Myra and pushed her behind him. Vlad stepped to her other side and swung his blade down. An arm, severed just above the elbow, dropped at Myra’s feet, the pale hand still clutching a stake. Myra stared at the fingers, thin and delicate. A slender silver ring with a white gem around the pinkie. Long nails polished a soft pink.
Myra’s grip around her own dagger tightened and she peered in between her protectors, waiting for an opening to help. But they gave her no chance, blades clashing, parrying, slicing in a blur of movement and blood. Myra felt useless, caught in the middle of this dance of death, not knowing the steps. She exchanged her knife for her gun and fired into the dark mass surrounding them. Her bullet hit something, and a thin spray of blood mixed with all the other blood that flowed around them.
Vlad’s gaze fixed on something in the distance, and without warning, he ran off, disappearing into the thick fog. Myra stared after him. What would make him abandon them? Perhaps his disappearance was not in poor judgment—only a single vampire remained, and Tristan appeared to have no problems finishing her off. But still, this was so unlike the Prince, always overprotective of Tristan, to the point of smothering.
She threw Tristan a last glance, assuring herself that he would be fine, and ran after Vlad. She climbed atop a boulder that gave her a better view. And when she saw what he had seen, her blood ran cold.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Shattered
Thomas stood there, his back pressed against the rock face, clutching a bloodied dagger in both hands. Four vampires were closing on him. If they wanted to kill him, they could have done it already. They were toying with him, as if they wished to devour his fear first before they fed on his blood.
Myra rushed forward, her heart heavy. Even if she was stronger, or faster, or a better fighter, she was still too far away.
But Vlad was not. And before the vampires could comprehend what had hit them, he was among them, his swords slashing in a blur of silver and blood.
Myra watched the short-lived fight, her mind reeling. What had just happened? Vlad had abandoned Tristan to fight alone and had run all this distance with unmatched speed, only to save Thomas?
When she reached the scene, the four attackers were already on the ground in a heap of severed legs, heads and arms. Vlad stood up straight, cleaning his swords with a piece of fabric torn from the clothes of the slain, and Thomas was panting, his back pressed against the rock and his eyes wide.
“Thanks, Vlad,” Myra said, giving Thomas a pointed glance. You should thank him too, you fool. But Thomas stood there, pale and silent, and she sighed. “Thank you for saving my friend.”
“Spare me your thanks,” the Prince said, and coldness crept inside Myra’s heart. “I didn’t do it for you. And most certainly not for him. None of these vampires had the right to kill him.” With those words, he placed one hand on Thomas’s head and the other on his shoulder and twisted them in opposite directions. “That right was mine alone.”
Thomas’s body dropped to the ground, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. For a long moment, Myra could only stare before understanding dawned on her. And when it did, she could no longer breathe. She raised her head, locking tear-filled eyes with Vladimir.
“You monster,” she choked. “You twisted, heartless, cruel filth!”
He looked at her, his face a picture of calm. “Myra, I made the rules clear. Anyone who hurts Tristan dies.”
“This has nothing to do with rules or justice,” Myra snapped. Her entire body shook, and a red haze descended before her eyes. “You’re a depraved, hateful fiend.”
He finished cleaning his swords and sheathed them. “I have killed many humans, and you had accepted that. Some were innocent.” He gestured at Thomas’s body, lying twisted and broken. “He was not. He tortured a helpless prisoner for enjoyment. Why is he different from those I have killed before? Because you knew him? Perhaps you should reevaluate your own morality.” He removed his bow and fired an arrow towards the top of the hill. It found its mark, and the single approaching vampire fell, rolling down and creating a small avalanche of gravel, dust, and smashed mushrooms.
Myra’s eyes were blazing. “I hate you,” she spat. “I hope you die! I hope you burn in the hottest fires!” She trembled, glaring at him, as he stood there calm as a stone statue. “No. I hope you live and watch everyone you love die. I hope you get to see Tristan and Armida tortured and killed. And I hope that once humans have taken over this world, they put you in a zoo so that people can come and gawk at you and mock you and throw rotten eggs at you.”
“You do have a vivid imagination,” the Prince said. “I see why you want to be a writer.”
She wanted to break his calm. To make him suffer, to make his heart bleed, just like hers was bleeding. “You know what?” she said. “If I had the power to go back in time and change one single event in history, it wouldn’t be the WeatherWizard or your conquest. I’d only change the fact that you weren’t there when Roxana and Asmara were slain, that you didn’t hear their screams…”
His face changed. Fire burned in his eyes, and he raised his hand to strike her, but at the last moment, his fingers curled into a fist, and he lowered it. The fire left him, and his expression turned serene once again.
“Go on, hit me,” she sobbed. “You can’t hurt me more than you already have.”
He shook his head. “I never hit women.”
Her eyes widened. “What the hell? You murder your allies, but you don’t hit women? But, seriously, what? Many of the vampires you killed today were women. So staking them and chopping off their arms, legs, and heads is fine, but hitting is a step too far?”
“Killing warriors in battle is one thing,” he said. “But to hit you in anger as a punishment for your thoughtless words would be ugly and distasteful. Neither a man nor a monster would do such a thing. Only a spineless cockroach.”
“Is that supposed to win points with me?” Myra asked, her voice cold.
“Myra, nothing I ever do is meant to gain or lose any points with you. I am not doing anything to please you or disgust you. I am doing what I like.”
“Burn in hell,” Myra snarled and turned around, running as fast as she could. She knew it was stupid. The hill was swarming with vampires. Vlad was her only hope of escaping alive, but at that moment, she could not care less.
The battlefield became a blur around her. Black wings pierced the dark fog, fresh blood mingled with the dry, and the smell of iron soaked the world. She had no idea how long she had been running, or where she was going. Someone was calling her name. Again and again. Tristan. She ignored him and continued running, her eyes focused straight ahead, into the blackness ready to swallow them all.
Tristan caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “Myra, come, please! It is Sissi.”
She turned around, wide-eyed. “What is it?”
His face twisted, and a flash of pain crossed his eyes. “Come.”
Myra followed, heart pounding. The consequences of her mad run were catching up with her, and she struggled to bring her breathing back to normal. She walked on, careful to step over all the bodies that littered the ground and not on them. Her boots were drenched
in blood and gore.
They went around a rock, and Myra stopped in her tracks. Sissi was half-seated, half-lying on the ground, her upper back leaning against the rock. Her face was pale as death, and her braids had come undone, letting her fiery hair spill haphazardly around her narrow shoulders. Her hands pressed against her stomach, covered in blood. Myra sucked in a sharp breath. Perhaps in a sterile hospital and with the technology of the Old World, Sissi could have been saved, but not here. Not now.
“Stay with her,” Tristan said. “Protect her. I will go and get help. I will not be gone for long.”
“Help?” Myra frowned. “You think the wound is treatable?”
“I do,” Tristan replied and disappeared.
Myra drew her gun, a finger on the trigger, and crouched down. “Hold on,” she said softly. “Tristan said he’d be back shortly.”
“But it’s all useless, isn’t it?” Sissi choked. “Tristan kept telling me that I’d live, but I could tell he was lying. And I—I feel so cold.” Her voice broke, and her composure melted away. “I don’t want to feel cold. It hurts so much. I don’t want to die!”
“Tristan wouldn’t have gone away if he didn’t think he could save you,” Myra said with confidence she did not feel. “He’s lived for centuries. In all this time, he must have learned how to treat a wound or two.”
“I don’t think he spent much time being friends with humans,” Sissi said in a small voice. “Or treating human wounds.”
“But Ila and her people did,” Myra said. “They’ve dedicated their lives to helping humans. And the Prince mentioned they used to steal blood from hospitals—perhaps some of them were even doctors and would know what to do. Tristan must be looking for one of them.”
But then she looked up at the sound of soft footsteps and realized she could not have been more wrong. “You must be joking,” she muttered as Tristan arrived with the Prince by his side.
Vlad knelt by Sissi and gently placed his hands on hers. “Let me see,” he said and lifted her hands, exposing the gaping wound.
Myra winced at the sight. “Can you save her?”
“Of course I can,” the Prince said.
Myra watched him through narrowed eyes. Yes, he had saved Andre when she had thought it impossible, but that had been back in the Palace, in a clean room and with proper surgical tools. But if he could indeed save Sissi, perhaps it was worth tolerating his presence for a while longer.
“It will hurt for a bit,” the Prince said, locking eyes with Sissi. “Are you ready?”
Sissi’s eyes widened. “No, no, please no!”
A clang of steel sounded nearby, and Vlad threw Tristan a glance. “Go and stand guard!”
Tristan nodded and disappeared, his face grim.
Myra’s finger slid along the trigger. “Vlad, you don’t mean to turn her?”
“I don’t want this,” Sissi said, her voice barely above a whisper, her lips blue and cracked. “I don’t want to hurt people. Please, don’t!”
A clang of swords sounded from behind the rock, then a scream. Then all was silence. A deep crease formed between Vlad’s eyes. “My child, you would not need to hurt anyone. This choice is yours to make. But if I do nothing, you will die.”
Sissi shook her head. “I don’t want to die.”
The gun felt heavy in Myra’s hand, as if made of lead. “Vlad, you’re not turning her against her will.”
He looked up. “Of course not.” His eyes turned back to Sissi, his gaze softening. “Which is why I hope to get your permission. This world is a beautiful place. There is still so much you need to see and experience. Don’t let fear stop you.”
Myra glared at him. “Fear has nothing to do with not wanting to be a monster.”
Tristan reappeared from behind the rock, the sword in his hand dripping blood. “The area is clear,” he said.
Vlad nodded at him. “I suppose we can start, then.” His eyes fixed on Sissi’s. “Perhaps I am a monster. But you don’t have to be one.”
Sissi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, a tear slid down her cheek. Her brow creased into a slight frown, but her gaze remained focused, her eyes slightly narrowed. “No.”
Tristan gasped. Vlad placed his arm underneath Sissi’s back and neck and lifted her up. “Forgive me,” he said, bending down towards her. A startled sob escaped Sissi’s throat.
“Stop!” Myra cried, her finger stiffening against the trigger.
Fast as lightning, Tristan grabbed her gun and yanked it out of her hand. She turned to glare at him, but her eyes widened when the golden-haired vampire’s arm stretched forward in a straight line, pointing the gun at the Prince’s head.
“Have you lost your mind?” Tristan’s voice was a low, feral hiss.
Vlad raised an eyebrow. “You should have let Myra hold the gun. Am I to believe you are more likely to shoot me?”
“You better believe it.” Tristan’s perma-frown deepened. “She doesn’t want this.”
The Prince turned to Sissi. “Do you truly wish me to let you die?”
Sissi’s lip trembled, and she shook her head.
“Then you will let me save you?”
She shook her head again. “Not like this.” Her voice was a mere whisper but never broke. “I don’t want to be like you.”
Vlad’s eyes turned to the stony ground. “I made a grave mistake once. I will not repeat it.”
Tristan took a step towards him, his aim never faltering. “Not turning me was not a mistake. Don’t. She will hate you.”
“Perhaps.” Vlad looked up to meet his eyes. “But she will live.”
Tristan took a deep, shaking breath. “I will hate you.”
Vlad stiffened. “But she will live.” He bent forward and bit Sissi’s neck.
With a snarl, Tristan hurled the gun to the ground. It fired, the bullet hitting the rocks. Myra rushed to pick it up and reload it and then turned around to glare at Tristan. If the imbecile had been bluffing, the least he could have done was restrain himself from attracting other vampires’ attention. But once her eyes fell on him, all thoughts of reprimanding him left her mind.
Tristan’s lips curled, revealing his fangs, sharp and glistening. A low growl escaped his throat, beastly and savage. A flash of lightning split the clouds behind him. His scattered hair looked almost white under the cold, bluish glow. His eyes grew so pale, like polished silver.
Myra blinked. For a moment, he looked like a white wolf against a full moon. Had the spirit of the wolf Vlad had sacrificed so many centuries ago returned to punish him?
She blinked again. The lightning was gone, and he was back to normal, his hair pale blond, his eyes stormy skies. But his fangs were still bared, and his face still twisted.
“The night you refused to turn me against my will…” His words rolled off his tongue like blood dripping from his heart, drenched in centuries-old sadness. “This was the last night in my life when you treated me like an equal. When you showed me respect and acted as if my wishes mattered. Have you learned all the wrong lessons?”
Vlad continued drinking, never looking up. Myra’s eyes watered. In a way, she understood him. She also wanted Sissi to live. Somehow. In whatever way it would be possible. But she understood Tristan better.
The Prince drank on and on as Sissi grew paler. Then he pulled back. “You still have some strength left, don’t you, my girl?” He unsheathed a small dagger and made a deep cut along his neck. “Drink. Do not be scared. It will come naturally.”
Myra’s eyes fixed on his blood, gleaming against his skin. Invisible tendrils of magic, dark and forbidden, rose up and stretched towards her, pulling her in. Soft whispers caressed her cheeks, promises of worlds beyond the one she knew. Power. Knowledge. Immortality. Green fields and snowy peaks. Blue seas and stormy skies. She could have it all if she just reached out and took it.
She wanted to drink his blood.
Myra gasped and looked away, biting her lip. Was it because a v
ampire had tasted her blood before? Or because his blood had been spilled as a part of a turning ritual? Her heart pounded, and her grip on her gun grew slick with sweat. Taking a slow breath of the blood-drenched air, she returned her gaze to the horrific scene.
Sissi stared at the blood for a moment, finally giving it a cautious lick. Could she even resist at this point? Could anyone? A spark appeared in her eyes, and she sucked at the Prince’s neck, burying her hands in his hair with a newfound strength, drawing him closer. But then she went limp in his arms, her blue eyes wide and unseeing. He kissed her forehead and brushed his hand across her brow, closing her eyes.
Myra was shaking. “Is she… is she dead?”
“She is undead,” the Prince said. “She will rise at next nightfall.”
Tristan took a step back, pressing himself against the rocks. “She worshipped you. You were her hero.”
The Prince remained kneeling, staring at the body in his hands. “And now she will live, with her hero’s image shattered, instead of dying, believing her hero was real. Which one would you choose?”
“The choice was not mine to make,” Tristan spat. “And neither was it yours. Go to hell.”
Vlad raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps one day I will. But today we have work to do.”
Tristan bared his fangs. “Get out of my sight.”
The Prince pressed his lips together and looked up, examining the rock face. As he stood up, he held Sissi in one arm and used the other to climb up the rock, fast as a mountain goat, and disappeared inside a small alcove high above the ground.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Breaking Free
Myra stared at Tristan’s tense face, turned upwards towards the dark alcove Vlad and Sissi had disappeared into. Did he feel guilt? He had been the one to bring the Prince here, perhaps thinking Sissi would have welcomed him as her sire. Had he never anticipated Sissi’s change of heart? Did he not know what his master was capable of?
Vlad reappeared, and his face was pale. “She should be safe there. Until next nightfall, she will appear no different from a dead human. No vampire would think to stake or decapitate her.”