by Elena May
“And you think the Prince would have fallen for that and agreed to rule as your consort?” Myra said, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. He would have never believed that nonsense.”
“If he figured out the truth, it would have changed nothing,” Armida said calmly. “I would have put him in a dungeon where my warriors would be safe from him, and he would be safe from them. I love him, but I love ruling more.”
Myra’s eyes scanned the ground for discarded weapons. She could do nothing for Tristan, but perhaps she could still save herself. If Armida was giving a villain monologue, she surely meant to kill her. But perhaps Myra could reach the narrow gorge first and guard her position until the sun came out.
She looked back at Tristan. His movements were growing slow and sluggish, and he slipped and collapsed to his knees. A vampire used the moment to grab him and sink her teeth into his neck. He pushed her away, swinging his sword, and stood up, his feet taking a fighting stance.
“And how did Tristan fit into your plan?” Myra glared at Armida.
“He was another part of the deal. Everyone at court hates the poor sugar cube, and Yong has even more reasons to see him destroyed.”
Myra gave her a sharp look. “Why?”
“Seven years ago, a delivery arrived from the Mainland,” Armida said. “A supply of domesticated humans to extend our Farm. Among them were a young woman and her son. Through her, Yong learned that the boy was his descendant.”
“But not the mother?”
Armida shook her head. “The boy’s father had been Yong’s great-great-something-grandson. Of course, Yong drank the mother to the last drop, so that the boy would be only his. He petitioned the Prince to allow him to raise the child in the Palace, outside the Farm, and to groom him to become a vampire once he was of age. The Prince was not keen on creating more vampires—he had already decided he wanted to destroy the Wizard one day…”
“Which Yong also knew, thanks to you,” Myra snapped.
“He did, but he hid his knowledge well. In any case, the Prince feared that if he granted Yong’s request, many others would ask for the same. Still, he recognized that Yong was an important ally and did not wish to push him away. As a compromise, he declared the boy would grow up in the Farm. Once he turned fourteen, he would contribute his blood, just like every other human. If he was still alive at sixteen, the Prince would allow Yong to turn him.
“But all this time Yong had been playing games of his own—trying to capture humans and torture them for information instead of bringing them to the Prince as ordered. He never completely believed in my plan and wanted to have a backup. Tristan had been onto him for some time and wanted to teach him a lesson. Your capture was the last straw—if Tristan had not found you, Yong would have tortured and killed you.
“This year, the boy turned fifteen and was healthy. Few vampires chose to drink him at feasts, afraid to openly antagonize Yong. But then Countess Izumi came with a request. She said a flu epidemic had decreased their Farm’s population, and the Prince agreed to send her a supply of young men and women. He left the logistics to Tristan… and Tristan made sure Yong’s relative was included in the delivery.”
Myra frowned. “The Prince didn’t order it?”
“He knew nothing of it, and he would have never allowed it. He knew better than to make enemies over petty disagreements. And Tristan thought he could play these games of his, but they were all over his head. He never understood the basic principle—if you wish to play court games, you need to make allies. And he never tried. In the past years, he has done nothing but irritate everyone and be mean and condescending. Besides the Prince, he had no friends at court.”
Myra clenched her fists and turned her attention back to the fight. Yong fired two more arrows, and Tristan sidestepped them. His arm and neck were bleeding, and yet he was standing firmly on his feet, and his grip on the hilt of his sword was strong. With a powerful blow, he thrust his blade deep into a vampire’s stomach and then swung it upwards, splitting his enemy in two, from navel to head.
This drove him off-balance, and a short vampire jumped nimbly on his back, biting his shoulder. He tried to push his attacker away, but then Yong ran to him, grabbed his shoulders, and forcefully bit his neck. And then, dozens of vampires approached, creeping upon Tristan like ants. They bit at his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his legs, his stomach. Myra choked back tears as she realized what was happening.
They were eating him alive.
“No!” she yelled with such force that she felt the air ripped out of her lungs and stomach, tearing at her vocal cords. “Leave him alone! Tristan! Tristan, hold on! I am here. You’re not alone. I am right here!”
She was shaking now, sobbing uncontrollably. “Stop this. Armida, stop them! I know you can. The Prince will ask about Tristan once he wakes up. What will you tell him?”
“The truth,” Armida said. “That Tristan died tragically in battle. I will, of course, attribute his death to one of the fallen vampires—I would not want to send my beloved into a revenge spree.”
“You’re completely delusional,” Myra hissed through clenched teeth. “How do you still have the nerve to claim you love the Prince? If you truly loved him, you’d never hurt Tristan.”
“Why?” Armida raised an eyebrow, her face calm. “What is Tristan to him? A bad influence—that is what he is. I have talked to Callisto. She told me the Prince used to be a different person before he met Tristan. I would love to see him return to his former self.”
“A different person, you say?” Myra said, brushing her tears away. “But it’s the Prince that had already met Tristan who fell in love with you. What makes you think the pre-Tristan Vladimir would have looked at you twice?”
Armida’s emerald eyes blazed with angry fire. “Careful, girl. I want to repay you for choosing my side, but my patience has limits.”
Myra frowned. “You don’t mean to kill me? I know your secret. Surely you realize I won’t keep it from the Prince.”
“Kill you?” Armida said. “You are my blood sister. And I wouldn’t worry about you talking to my beloved. You will never see him again.”
Myra swallowed her tears and stared across the pit as the vampires stood up and stepped aside, revealing Tristan’s body. She sobbed and pressed a hand against her mouth. He looked dead, with his eyes wide open and staring unseeing, mouth gaping, and skin pale as death. His bare chest, stomach and arms were covered in numerous bites, bruises and slashes, and so much blood. She was too far away to see if the wounds were still bleeding—if he was still alive.
Yong ran his sharp nails over Tristan’s face and throat, laughing. “Not so high and mighty now, are we?” He stood up and slowly and deliberately wiped his filthy boots on Tristan’s bloodied chest. “Not so perfect now. Not so pretty. I have always wanted to push you back into the mud, where you belong.”
He knelt down next to his fallen victim and swiped his hand across the ground, picking up dirt and gravel in his palm. “Dirt,” he said. “This is what you are. You see that?” He waved his hand in front of Tristan’s unseeing eyes. “Soon this will be all that is left of you. Dust to dust.” He poured the dirt onto his victim’s face.
Myra fell to her knees, retching. Her stomach had been empty; otherwise she would have surely vomited all its contents. She looked up and gasped—tears were rolling down Armida’s face.
“You don’t want this,” Myra sobbed. “You care about Tristan. Stop this horror.”
“Yong, you imbecile, stop playing with your kill!” Armida shouted. “Stake him and be done with it.”
Myra pressed her eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them again. This was not what she had wanted Armida to say.
Yong grinned. “As my lady commands,” he said and spat in Tristan’s face. He then stood up and slung his victim across his shoulder. Tristan’s body was limp as a rag doll, his head and limbs dangling as Yong walked away, disappearing behind the rocks.
“No,” Myra br
eathed. “Where is he taking him? What is he going to do?”
“He is going to finish the job,” Armida said, her voice shaking. She wiped her eyes and turned to the gorge. A smile appeared on her lips although her eyes still glistened.
Myra followed her gaze. William arrived, closely followed by Indira, who was leading a large mule by a rope in her hand. So William had been one of Armida’s henchmen all along? Had the scene during her escape from the Palace been a charade? Another vampire stood by their side, her short pink hair bright against the grey rocks.
Anne. That explained the false intelligence. Anne had worked for Armida from the very beginning and had led the other two scouts to a certain death. But why?
Armida knelt by the Prince and placed her hand over his. “I am so sorry, my love. I never meant for you to get hurt. But I will take care of you now. I will make sure you are well.” Carefully, she lifted him in her arms, and William helped her mount the mule.
Indira threw Myra a glance. “What about the human?”
“She lives,” Armida said.
“And may I ask why?”
“Just a whim of mine,” Armida said with a shrug. “I guess you could say she chooses her loyalties wisely.”
“If you say so,” William said. His eyes surveyed the battlefield until his gaze rested on Alex. “He is one of the bad guys, right?”
“Yes, he is one of ours,” Anne said and looked at Myra. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” Myra admitted and regretted it immediately as William walked to the fallen vampire and with a single stroke of his sword separated his head from his body.
“Now we know for sure.” He licked the blood off his blade. “Mmm, he had been alive until now. Too bad I didn’t drink him first before killing him. Tastes good for an herbivore.”
“William,” Armida said, her voice a low, stern hiss. “The girl is this close to turning to our side, and you are doing all you can to disgust her.”
Myra threw her an incredulous stare. If she had ever seen beauty and romanticism in the life of a vampire, Armida had done all in her power to destroy it.
“What about her?” William pointed at Ila.
Myra’s heart stopped beating. Ila lay in a pool of blood and rain, her clothes soaked through so that it was impossible to tell where her wounds were. “She is dead,” Myra said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“How do you know?” William asked.
“I killed her,” Myra said, her voice hollow. “I shot her, and then I ran her through with a sword, and then I staked her right through the heart. She wanted to kill the Prince.”
Armida laughed. “Well, well, well! Who would have thought? You are one of us now! William, dearie, stop interrogating the poor girl. We have no time for this.”
Without saying another word, she turned the mule and rode away, followed by the other three vampires. Myra collapsed to her knees, staring as they disappeared among the rocks.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Daybreak
“You shouldn’t be out here, you know.”
Myra looked up from her notebook and smiled at Thea. “The sun is almost up,” she said. “And I have a gun and a crossbow just in case.”
“Almost up,” Thea said with a grin.
Myra grinned back. “Most of the vamps were turned during the Nightfall. They’ve never lived with the threat of the sun hanging above their heads. Sunlight terrifies them. Only a week has passed since we destroyed the Wizard, and they’ll need much more time to get used to this. Until then, they’ll be hiding in their holes as soon as dawn approaches.”
“Most of the vamps,” Thea said. “Not all.”
“Come now, this place is safe,” Myra said and hesitated before she asked her next question. “Did you read my story?”
This was something she would never grow used to. No matter how many stories she wrote, every time her heart would clench in fearful anticipation, waiting for her readers’ reactions, terrified that she might have failed.
And this was not just another story. It was the first story she had written after the Wizard’s destruction. She had tried to apply all the tips Vlad had taught her, but she knew something was still missing. Only she had no idea what.
But she had to figure it out. How many humans in this new world would want to write? Probably many—hardship often inspired the desire to create. But this new writing would be raw and unrefined, like a diamond in the rough. She had to find these aspiring writers and teach them, but first, she needed to learn herself.
“Yes,” Thea replied. “I liked it a lot.”
Myra felt a shiver run down her spine. By all rights, she should have felt relief, even joy. And yet, all she felt was disappointment. I liked it a lot. And… that was it. Her story was all she had been able to think about in the past day, and she had been prepared to talk about it forever, and yet this was all she would hear.
“What did you like about it?” she asked.
“Everything.” Thea shrugged. “It was interesting.”
“Did you like the characters?” Myra asked. “Did you think Maria’s decision made sense?”
“Sure. It was pretty good,” Thea said, and Myra felt her heart sink.
But it was not good, was it? she heard the Prince’s voice in her head. You never showed why her line of thinking would take such a sharp turn. You never showed the motivations behind this. All you wanted was to surprise your readers, to shock them, but a surprise is no good if it makes no sense.
Ah, how she longed for him to read her stories and then take them apart, word for word. To show her that he was really reading, and really thinking and analyzing.
But the Prince was not here, and she had no idea where he was or if he lived still. Day after day had passed with no news, and her worry had grown. The other vampires had agreed to let Vlad go, but who was to say they would keep their word?
Vlad was not the only one missing. She had returned to the Peak, looking for Nimah, and Sissi, and everyone else she had hoped to find alive, or at least undead, but they had all been gone.
And, of course, there was the matter of Tristan. She had heard no news of him, and she was not sure she wanted to know the truth.
“How is Ila doing?” she asked, trying to think of something else, anything else.
Thea’s smile broadened. “Oh, she is recovering. She had a thing or two to say about you, though. You know, the kind of things a proper lady such as myself would never repeat.”
“I see,” said Myra. “I’m glad she is well enough to make comments. Did you at least try to remind her I saved her from William?”
“Of course. And she rightly pointed out she wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t shot her and run her through with a sword.”
“Fair enough.” Myra hesitated. “And what about Zack?”
Thea’s face darkened. “He hasn’t regained consciousness, and he’s still running a fever. We don’t know how to treat the infection.”
“I still think we need to stuff him full of whatever antibiotics we have,” Myra said, frustrated.
“But we don’t know how to use them,” Thea said. “We don’t know how much to give, and how often, and for how long, and what goes together with what.”
“And so we do nothing and leave him to die?” Myra snapped.
Thea reached out and grabbed her forearm. “I think Zack would have wanted to give a name to this new world, and to the day when we destroyed the WeatherWizard. You know, the way he liked giving names to everything.”
“Stop talking about him as if he’s dead,” Myra said, while another thought struck her: We did not destroy the Wizard. Tristan did.
“That’s not what I meant,” Thea said. “I was just thinking, we should brainstorm some naming ideas and then share them with him once he wakes up.”
Myra smiled despite herself. “I see. I think Zack would have called this day ‘Daybreak.’”
“Oh, very good,” Thea cried. “Sounds very Zack-esque.�
� She peeked at Myra’s notebook. “Are you writing another story?”
Myra blushed. “Kind of. It’s a more ambitious project. Kind of a novella. Or even a novel, although it’s less fictional and more like recounting events that really happened.”
“What is it about?”
Myra closed her notebook and turned it around so that Thea could read the title scribbled on the front page.
“Nightfall: The Story of Prince Vladimir,” Thea read. “Sounds good. The subtitle is crap, though. You need to come up with something catchier.”
“I see,” said Myra. “I’ll try.”
Her throat went dry. This was Vlad’s story. Although she had put the words on paper, he was the real author. And though everything had ended in flames, he had lived his life to the fullest, never letting history just happen. Always writing it himself.
Every person who fought to change the world, even in the smallest of ways, created a story. Anyone could be an author of history. Vlad had done it, and Myra had tried to learn from him. And it had already begun—in the last battle, she had saved Nimah, Vlad, and Ila. She was no longer the passive side character. But her tale was not over, and she had to keep on writing, chapter after chapter.
“I’m going back to the Headquarters,” Thea said. “Don’t stay here long.”
Myra had no desire to leave. She found it easier to write out in the open. She wanted to work on her new novel for a while longer and then spend some time editing Vlad’s book. These past few days she had been carrying it around, always tweaking a sentence here and there. It gave her some comfort, although she knew the book was as good as she could ever make it without help. “The sun will be up any minute now,” she said. “I’ll wait for it here.”
As Thea disappeared in the distance, Myra turned around. An empty field of stone stretched in front of her, with a single dead tree in the middle. A raven stood on the lowest branch, its beady eyes fixed on her. Woods rose in the background—gnarled, twisted branches, black against the indigo sky. Gleaming pink clouds floated above, smooth and fluid. Only the morning star shone, silver and bright.