by Emily Inskip
Amara didn’t usually run from death. She thrived in it. But Tanya, with her warm heart and soft doe eyes— They’d only met a few times when Fenn was on leave, but even for the few days she’d come to know her, Amara knew there was not a bad bone in her body. Her body that was now probably decaying six feet beneath the soil-
Amara was sure that if her heart could beat, it would be hammering against her chest. But she felt it. Felt the aching within her as she met Fenn’s stare, his eyes the epitome of pain.
But even as the horrific image of Tanya’s death flashed through her mind, Amara knew that there was something even more terrifying that knotted tightly within her. She was going to be sick.
“The Valkrane . . . you’re sure it was them?” she said, feeling the cords of muscle in his leg tense, his whole body bristling at the name.
“Yes,” he replied grimly.
The room suddenly felt so much colder than it did before, the shadows so much darker. She swallowed.
A chill ripped down her spine as she quickly rose from the bed and began pacing across the floor.
No. No, this couldn’t be right. The Valkrane were a thing of the past. A distant memory. She hadn’t felt this sort of fear for two centuries. But—but they have found them and they were coming.
“I left as soon as I could,” her brother said, “but it won’t be long until they find me again. Until they find us.”
Amara remained silent. She blinked once. Twice. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. The Valkrane. The things of nightmares. The cult of ancient deadly vampires. Their power was unmatched, faultless, their speed breaking the boundaries of sound itself. God knows how she and her brother escaped them all those centuries ago, had been running from them ever since. They were lucky . . . yet it appears as though their luck was running out.
Amara let out a shaky breath before squaring her shoulders and facing the fire.
Two centuries was a long time ago. If they couldn’t catch her then, she certainly wasn’t going to let them now. No, not after her years of training, of honing her strength and skill until she no longer needed to be afraid. They want a fight? Then let them come. Because she was ready. And she would never yield.
Fenn seemed to read that on her face as she turned towards him, his eyes lighting with panic . . . he knew all too well how her mind worked. And it probably scared him just as much as the Valkrane themselves.
Not wasting a second, Amara set about rummaging through her weapons chest. Knives and daggers of all shapes and sizes glowed in the firelight. She sheathed them, sliding one after the other into her boots, behind her back. Every place she could think of- a blade was there.
“I’m not going to run anymore,” she simply said, that cool calmness flooding over her once more. She would never yield.
“They’re too strong, Amara—”
“Well, so am I,” she cut him off before he could finish.
After looting everything she could find of use in the chest, Amara whirled towards her brother, her lips pressed into a thin line. As their eyes met, everything suddenly dimmed, even the constant drone of crickets outside seemed to dull.
“I can’t lose you too,” he said quietly.
She tried to ignore the screaming pain in his eyes. Tried to ignore his scarred face that had seen too many years of suffering. But even the emotions she had learnt to deny, seemed to wrench at their restraints.
“We face this together,” she managed to say. “We’ll get through this together.” They had done so before and they will do so again. But he only shook his head, his long dark hair falling across his face.
“No, we won’t.”
She blinked. What did he mean no? It took everything she had not to fling the dagger in her hand very hard at his face.
What did he mean no?
As if reading the question in her mind, Fenn replied, “The Prince of Esteria is holding an event, inviting all the nobles and princesses from across the continent to be guests at Valmont Castle. Rumour has it he is looking for a potential bride.”
Amara scoffed, the fire from the hearth matching the blaze in her onyx eyes.
“And what, exactly, does that have to do with any of this?” she spat. But to his credit, Fenn didn’t so much as flinch at his sister’s rage.
“You are to attend.”
She let out a sharp howl at that, sending the crows that nested on the beams above shooting into the air and into the night. But he just ignored her, his face showing no hint of amusement. No sign that he was joking. She stopped smiling.
“You will attend, Amara,” he continued. “What better way to stay safe than to live within the most well-guarded fortress in the world? You will attend, you’ll pose as a noble Lady and you will survive.”
She honestly couldn’t believe the words were coming from his mouth.
“Are you delusional?” Maybe Tanya’s death had toyed with his mind. Or maybe he really was going insane. “And what about you? I don’t see you playing the part of a foreign princess.” Each word was as sharp as the blade in her palm. Lethal. Meant only to wound.
“I’ll go on the run,” he snarled through gritted teeth and she could have sworn the wooden barn trembled in its place.
“It’s not going to happen,” Amara said, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “You’re a fool if you believe I’ll happily parade around the palace sipping tea with the Prince whilst you’re out there . . . with them. Do you really think I would ever agree to this?”
“Please, Amara.”
His voice broke. Fenn slid to his knees, the thin wood creaking beneath him as he clasped his hands together. Begging. He was begging her.
No. It was too much. It was all too much.
Amara frowned, looking down at her brother, a crumpled heap on the floor. A soldier in his prime. A six-foot wall of honed muscle, nothing more than a whimpering child. She couldn’t see this. So Amara turned her back on him and began moving towards the balcony.
“Amara!” he called after her, half yell, half cry, “Amara, wait!”
She didn’t know whether it was the pure torture in his voice or the way her name rang through the mill, but she stopped, turning slightly to look over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he asked weakly, eyes wide with a mix of desperation and panic.
“Out.” She merely said as she tugged her hood up, whirling back to face the glowing labyrinth of the city. “Don’t try to follow me.”
And then she was gone.
4
No one questioned the woman who swaggered into the tavern not too long ago. Nor did they question the shining silver beneath her cloak, or the clink of metal as she moved. In fact, no one so much as batted an eye in her direction as Amara slouched onto a bar stool, face veiled by the shadow of her hood.
Amara hid her smirk. No, not one of them dared to look at her. Because no woman had ever strolled into the sailors’ inn alone in the middle of the night . . . Well, not until now.
“Ale. Now.” She didn’t bother with being polite. Not when all that her brother had told her was still racing through her mind . . . the horror, the death.
Later. She would think about that later.
A chill licked down her spine but she only flexed her fists as they rested on the bar.
She would never yield.
The barkeeper didn’t ask questions as he quickly set about pouring her a jug of their finest ale. Gods, the place reeked of the stuff. That, and the silent men who slouched drunkenly around the room. Amara didn’t have to turn around to know that dirt was plastered thick upon their brows or that sweat-stained their dull tunics.
A general murmur of conversation flittered through the tavern, but she could still feel the pairs of eyes on her back. Scent the sweat that beaded from those sailors temples. Hear the race of their mortal hearts, no better than swine awaiting the slaughter. Amara grimaced.
She barely acknowledged the barman as he set down a tankard of ale before her. In
stead, she reached for the jug, tilting her head back before gulping it down. Amara ignored the burn of it as it slid down her throat, ignored the gaping-mouthed sailors as she slammed the empty tankard back down, letting out a satisfied breath.
“You have to pay for that, you know?” the barkeeper only said, jerking his chin towards the glass jar that sat beside her on the bar.
A low, soft laugh escaped her as she met his gaze. Amara sketched a brow at the man across from her, cocking her head to the side.
“Oh, do I now?” Her voice was nothing short of wicked.
The barkeeper’s face grew taut, redness crept into his cheeks. Good. Amara flashed him a grin that she knew would make his skin crawl. And it did. Honestly, she enjoyed aggravating men. But not as much as she enjoyed killing them.
She felt the air shift as the men behind her began to rise. But Amara had picked this place for a reason.
She’d spent the last week scouting out this tavern from the rooftops opposite. Silently, she had hidden in the shadows of the chimneys, had studied the men who visited this wretched place. And the sort of things they did to women. Things that made even her own blood boil. She’d managed to stop a few of them, the ones stupid enough to prey on women down the unchartered side streets that she carefully monitored. It was safe to say their blood still painted those bricks.
But it was those vile acts that made Amara savour what she would do next to the sailors that now closed in around her. Why she would enjoy slaughtering every last one of them.
“I’ll give you one last chance, girl,” the barkeeper sneered, “Pay up. Now.”
But Amara didn’t lift a finger. Only offered him a lazy grin that didn’t meet her eyes.
“Have fun in hell,” she smirked before lunging for his throat.
It all happened so fast, a whirlwind of darkness and metal. The barkeeper let out a strangled scream and she tore through his jugular, her extended canines finding their mark on his neck. The sailors behind her froze in place. Their faces blanched as they stared in pure, undiluted horror at the girl before them. At Amara as she whirled around and let out a ragged growl.
Quivering, some of the men grabbed for their swords. Some tried to flee. But they were dead before they even passed the threshold. Amara took her time strolling towards the terrified sailors, making sure to upturn any tables in her way. The splinter and crash of wood ricocheted through the old tavern as she finally drew her dagger.
“So, which one of you fools would like to go first?” she asked, shooting them a saccharine smile, well aware of the dark blood that still stained her teeth. They didn’t respond, quietly shaking in place against the far wall. “No one?”
“How dull,” she muttered before releasing the blade from her grip. It flew through the air, a flash of silver before burying itself into the first man’s chest. The surrounding sailors let out cries and whimpers as their friend slouched to the ground. Good. That was the least they deserved.
“Come on,” she moaned, dragging her eyes over the line of men who now stood before her. Some were twice her size, with large, broad chests and heads that craned just to stand up straight in the cramped tavern. Yet still, none of them moved.
“At least put up something of a fight,” she hissed, her onyx eyes gleaming as the candlelight danced in them, “You weren’t this quiet when taking those girls in the alley outside, were you?” Amara spat, watching them all flinch at her words. Cowards.
But just as Amara was going to finish them off completely, all ten of the men started towards her, rough yells escaping their lips as they charged.
That’s more like it, she thought, the ghost of a smile now tugging at her features. She didn’t like hunting stunned prey. What would be the fun in that?
Like lightning, she met their swords with her own, the clash of metal shaking through her bones as she whirled, slicing through flesh and cloth and whatever was unfortunate enough to get in her way. One man, older than the others and with a scar across his eye, swung at her. But she ducked easily before bringing her own blade up, slicing his chest open from navel to sternum in one clean swipe. His ribcage butterflied open, spraying blood on the rest of the men, but Amara was already moving again.
Swing after swing they all went down, no more than carrion left to rot. There was only one moment where Amara lost control, where she let her guard down, became lazy, and forfeited with a sword through her back. She barked in pain as she twisted towards her opponent. The man smiled grimly before sending a blow against her jaw that she was too absorbed in rage to block.
The world spun. She heard something crack as her head slammed into the floor. Bastard. Her blade skidded across the blood-soaked floor, too far away to reach. But before the man had time to strike again, Amara was already on her feet, rolling into an easy crouch.
“Swords are boring anyway,” she spat blood onto his boots as she met the man’s stare.
A new hunger roared through her veins as she savoured her own metallic blood on her lips. Before the sailor knew what was happening, Amara had snapped the leg off a nearby stool and driven it through his unguarded chest. He clasped the wood embedded in his flesh, desperately clawing at the wound as he fell to his knees. The crack of bone echoed through the room as the final sailor’s life drained out of him.
Amara panted, her hands braced on her knees as she assessed the wrecked tavern. Blood. Blood stained almost every inch of the room, furniture lay strewn and upturned, not to mention the shards of glass that glinted amongst the pools of deep red. Beautiful, wonderful havoc.
The wound on her back had already clotted and healed, only a smooth patch of new skin remained. And just as Amara was about to make her way out, she stopped still, her boots slipping in the thick blood.
A single heartbeat.
Someone remained in the room. Her brows narrowed as she scanned the bloodshed. Nothing. But she knew her senses never betrayed her. This person was hiding, behind the bar no doubt. Stupid . . . cowardly humans.
She shook her head before reaching for the sword discarded by her feet but then froze again. The heartbeat was too fast, too delicate to belong to a man. This was a child.
Indeed, the boy’s soft whimpers could be heard even from where Amara was stood by the door. A child.
But there were some lines even Amara wouldn’t cross. Call her a monster, call her a sadistic beast for all she cared, but she would never harm a child. Not even if she was crazed by bloodlust. So Amara let the sword in her hand clatter to the ground, hearing the boy’s breath hitch at the sound.
Like a whisper of smoke, she whirled towards the door again and began to stroll out, leaving the butchery and the boy behind her. But Amara paused on the threshold, flicking her gaze behind her shoulder.
“Oh, how could I forget?” she mused, shoving a hand deep inside her pocket and fishing out a large golden coin.
“Thanks for the drink,” was all Amara said before flipping the coin behind her and striding out to the sound of the coin landing perfectly into the glass jar.
5
When dawn broke, Amara was already safely inside her small rickety windmill alongside the riverbank. Thick muslin curtains were draped over all the windows and doors until not even a bar of golden sunlight could slip in. It was almost ironic, really, how something of such beauty could be so very deadly. Of course, people could say the same thing about Amara, with her dark alluring eyes, long hair of liquid midnight and lithe figure that sent men both yearning and cowering all at once.
But Amara couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep, even when the sweet calling of her bed seemed so inviting. Every time she closed her eyes, the same haunting images of her past managed to taint her mind.
The Valkrane.
They were back. Maybe mere miles away from where she was, no doubt already sharpening their Firebirch stakes, preparing to bury one deep in her heart.
Firebirch. The only material powerful enough to kill a vampire, especially one as old as herself. The thought alone was
enough to send a chill skittering down her spine.
Amara paced frantically for what seemed like hours. She’d found the message Fenn had left for her whilst she was . . . busy.
I’m staying at the Old Boars Head for the next couple of days, please rethink what I said.
I love you, my dearest sister.
- Fenn
But Amara couldn’t. Couldn’t even contemplate going to the palace if it meant leaving her brother to fend for himself against the Valkrane.
They had always been together when it mattered. Even the day when . . .
No. she wouldn’t think about that. Not now. Not when her own mind was threatening to shatter into a thousand pieces.
So, Amara clenched her fists and continued her pacing. As if that would do anything against the shadow which now crept upon them all.
The Valkrane were here. And they were coming.
And there was nothing she could do within her power to stop them.
∞∞∞
Bright, golden light streamed through the stained-glass windows of the entrance hall. The midday sun was high in the sky as the men strode in, cloaked in black as though it were a second skin.
They didn’t talk as they prowled down the hall in perfect unison, their muddied boots gliding over the newly polished floors. Nor did they pay attention to the girl who cleaned those floors, still hunched upon her knees, a grey dress hanging from her too-frail body. A body that slaved and laboured whilst no one batted an eye.
Her calloused fingers worked quickly and quietly with the soaping cloth as she doused the floor in water from the bucket beside her.
But she knew that no one noticed her. And she would use that in her favour. The great wolf never bothered to hunt the simple field mouse. Mistake.
Her keen ears pricked as the men halted in the centre of the hall, their iron swords swinging at their hips. Before them stood a male much taller than the rest, his dark hair like a midnight sea with streaks of silver as it fell around his face. A face that was hardened with age and cold, peppered with scars and a jaw that could snap bone. He towered over the rest, eyeing them each slowly as if assessing his prey.