by Emily Inskip
Amara frowned. “No one’s ever asked for your name?”
The girl just dropped her gaze to the floor, suddenly finding the stone beneath her feet much more interesting. “No,” she murmured.
“That’s ridiculous,” Amara simply said, sinking down onto the velvet-covered chaise before her bed. “So tell me, what is your name?”
The servant girl was quiet for a moment, still tracing circles with her foot on the stone.
“My name is Nadia. Nadia Blackthorn.” She finally said, looking up.
Amara rested an ankle on her knee, the loose pale silk of her nightclothes hanging around her.
“Well, Nadia, it’s nice to meet you.” Amara only swallowed the rest of her tea before setting it down on the small glass side table.
“It is nice to meet you too, Milady,” was all Nadia said, offering Amara one last short smile before disappearing out of the room.
Honestly, Amara was impressed by herself. That was the longest conversation she’d had with a human in years. And, if she did say so herself, Amara believed it went rather well.
After all, she didn’t end up killing anyone.
12
The hunger was getting worse.
With each step Amara took, the bloodlust consumed a bit more of her every time. It was an effort to keep her chin held high as she strode down the busy halls of Winvaris. She couldn’t hear the people around her. Nothing could penetrate through the haze of intense hearts pounding in her mind.
Drink. She needed to drink.
Amara had seen it before, vampires going hysterical from thirst. Fassar had used it to punish his men from time to time. Amara had always made sure never to leave her room when that happened. Because a blood-crazed monster was not a pleasant sight. And she never really fancied becoming a human appetizer, either.
Amara forced her gait into a steady stroll as she neared the doors leading out to the castle gardens. Golden-clad sentries were stationed either side the open archway, watching as people passed onto the veranda just outside. People.
She balled her fists into the skirts of her cornflower dress as if resisting the urge to grab the next person she saw and rip out their throat. Amara willed herself to keep walking despite the thrashing in her mind, her vision swimming, blurring red.
She had never allowed herself to go without blood for this long, had never weathered the true effects before. But she knew how to resist. Had spent years learning how to restrain her instinct to kill. Even if her gaze did linger a little too long on the neck of the guard she just passed. Gods, she could practically see the bulging vein pulse beneath his skin.
Amara swallowed, her throat closing up at the thought of warm blood sliding down it, coating her teeth . . .
She shook her head, a small snarl rippling through her. Luckily, no one was close enough to hear.
Amara hurried down the shallow sweeping steps out of the palace and into the gardens of Winvaris.
As the mountain-kissed wind hit her, the pounding at her temples seemed to ease slightly, her vision cleared. Yet the voice inside her head, forcing her to feed feed feed, didn’t relent.
Amara clenched her jaw.
She studied the gardens, the rows of neatly trimmed hedges and carefully pruned rose bushes that lined the path. Amara stuck to the lattice of gravel trails, weaving through the bands of grasses and steering around marble fountains spurting crystal-clear water into the sky. She wasn’t sure where she was going, exactly. But Amara knew she needed to get away. Find somewhere quiet, where no wandering eyes could find her.
She advanced deeper and deeper into the mass of hedges and willow trees, losing herself within the maze of flowers and gently flowing streams. Her dress trailed behind her, scraping on the gravel, dirtying the pale gossamer fabric.
But there was nowhere to go. People were flocked in every corner of the garden and grove, gathering on the open grasses and lounging on gleaming iron benches, eager to enjoy the crisp morning light.
Amara rolled her eyes. Great.
Cheers and laughter erupted from where a group of people now gathered in the centre of the lawn. Amara spared a glance as she wandered past, trying to ignore the sharp talons raking down the inside of her stomach.
Through the gap in the crowd, Amara could just make out the glint of a sword, the figures of two men sparring. She froze, angling her head. Was it possible that something other than tedious courting and dining occurred here?
Amara studied the two muscled soldiers as they fought, watched as they ducked and whirled. A deadly dance.
She could tell, even from afar, that it wasn’t a fair fight. The man with his back to her was the stronger of the two. He anticipated the attacks, blocked them, then struck with such force, it even had Amara blinking in shock.
A worthy opponent, she considered.
The thrill of sparring seemed to have distracted her from the bloodlust . . . temporarily.
She watched, transfixed even, as the man skilfully parried, deflecting then sidestepping. A manoeuvre she used herself, had learnt through years of practice. Yet this man seemed to execute it seamlessly, without a single fault or misstep.
Amara hadn’t ever seen a human with such brute force before, such ability and cunning. His hair was tied messily into a knot, wisps of it escaping as he ducked, rolled and struck. The muscles along his back tensed and rippled as he continued his assault, never missing a beat.
The din of swordplay was a song in her blood, pushing out her consuming thirst, dimming the want in her veins. Amara hadn’t thought it possible. But her bloodlust was indeed ebbing away as she watched the men fight.
She smirked as the male forced down his opponent, kicking him to his knees before angling his blade for the killing blow. Except this was just a spar between fellow guards. No killing involved, to her disappointment.
Instead, he offered a broad, tanned hand to the man on the floor before tugging him up effortlessly. Amara had to admit, she was impressed.
But as the champion turned to face his cheering crowd, she swore beneath her breath.
It was Prince Aedric who now smiled at his people, the strong panes of his face flushed with colour. Amara frowned, swiftly ducking behind the back of a lord before Aedric had a chance to notice her. Carefully, she peeked over the shoulder of the bellowing lord as he whistled and clapped for his Prince. The champion.
Aedric took the time to greet his supporters, shaking their hands and waving away their flurry of compliments. The softness of his features took her by surprise. Gone was the wicked grin and swagger, replaced by the graceful, controlled manner of the Prince of Esteria.
Amara quirked a brow. It seemed she wasn’t the only one playing a game in this palace.
After he was finished thanking his people, Aedric spun back to his opponent, smiling as he spoke to the defeated guard. Above the shouts of the crowd, Amara couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but the guard only laughed, nodding his head before striding away.
Aedric sheathed the jewelled sword at his waist before walking over to command a group of sentries that had formed around him. Sweat slid down the planes of his bare chest, ridges of honed muscle glistening in the sunlight as he moved. Amara looked away.
The other swooning ladies, it seemed, did no such thing.
She huffed, rolling her eyes before turning away. She didn’t have the time for princes, no matter how well they fought . . . or how good they looked doing it.
She shook her head, beginning to march, not back into the gardens, but around, towards a shady courtyard nestled amongst a line of cherry blossom trees.
The cheers and yells seemed to fade as Amara scanned the forgotten courtyard. It was empty, save for a young gardener, busying herself with an unruly gooseberry bush. Perfect.
Amara could barely contain her wicked smirk as she eyed the gardener, and was upon her in a heartbeat.
“Excuse me,” Amara chimed, “You couldn’t help me with something, could you?”
&nb
sp; The gardener looked up, squinting in the sun as she shielded her eyes from the morning light. She took one look at Amara’s finery and gossamer gown before she shot up, straightening out her own simple tunic and pants.
“Of course, milady,” the girl said, her voice was thick with an accent Amara didn’t recognise. It didn’t matter. Blood was blood. And this person would do finely.
Amara narrowed her eyes, her face contorting into a lethal wrath. The gardener began to tremble. The colour drained from her face. But Amara ran a soothing hand across her forehead, brushing away strands of stray hair.
“Don’t move,” Amara breathed, pulling the gardener’s neck to one side, exposing the length of fresh unmarred skin.
As if by command, the girl froze. Her eyes were still wide with fear but her muscles grew taut, her arms ridged by her side.
She didn’t try to run as Amara marvelled at her neck, the artery throbbing just beneath the surface.
“Don’t scream,” she said with a glorious calm. “And I’d advise you to wear a scarf after today. It can get a bit . . . messy.”
Slowly, Amara ran her tongue along her teeth, snagging it on her extended canines. She grinned, wicked and unrestrained. But the gardener was like stone, like one of the statues in the Alley of Eyes. Amara grimaced at the thought.
The temptation to feed was almost too much. Amara could hear the girl’s heart race like a poor defenceless stag. Its contained pounding was a symphony she would never tire of.
But Amara tore her gaze from the gardener’s exposed neck to quickly assess the courtyard. Her eyes darted like arrows, senses on fire as she scouted for any unwanted observers. Nothing.
Amara’s smile grew.
She almost couldn’t think above the wild, primal hunger that now laced her veins. Her mind.
As if some dark, ancient power took over, Amara lunged forward, burying her teeth into the girl’s neck. Only a small gasp escaped the gardener’s lips as Amara drank and drank.
Amara growled at the sensation of the warm blood. Oh, how she had missed it. The metallic liquid danced down her throat, sparking her nerves into life.
Everything melted away into crimson smoke until all she could see was red and shadows and mist. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the stream of blood rushing through her.
Amara couldn’t get enough. She had been deprived for too long. Far too long.
But the girl in her arms gradually began to sway, her head lulled back, body growing limp.
Amara had to stop. She couldn’t afford to kill anyone. Not here. Not in the heart of the castle.
She had to stop.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t—
Amara ripped her face away, rallying her last kernel of restraint and let go of the half-lucid girl.
Amara’s breath was ragged as she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her dress, staining the pastel fabric dark with blood. Great, just perfect.
The gardener slumped to the floor, her face landing flat in the nearby flowerbed. If Amara hadn’t been recovering from her rush, the tang of metal still lingering on her tongue, then perhaps she would have laughed at that. She didn’t.
The girl was motionless, half-buried in the gooseberry bush but—Alive. She was alive. It was a small mercy, at least.
Amara threw a quick look behind her before hauling the girl up over her shoulder without so much as a thought. Her focus settled upon a forgotten bench, its metal arms rusting slightly through many years of weathering the elements.
After placing the girl down, half-draped over the seat, Amara set about clearing away as much of the blood as she could. It was a good effort. But there was no way of concealing the two delicate wounds that pierced her neck.
Amara considered it for a moment then shrugged. There wasn’t much more she could do. Besides, no one would ever come looking for a single, unheard of gardener. Even if the thought did make her chest hollow out slightly.
Fountains guzzled and gurgled in the distance as Amara turned her back, composing a sweet, placid mask over her features before walking back towards the main gardens. She ran a hand through her long dark curls, fixing it in place.
And as the birds flittered overhead, Amara smiled to herself, a new energy roiling in her blood. Not bad, she thought, licking the last remnants of it from her lips. Not bad at all.
13
Amara kept her bloodstained hands shoved deep within the skirts of her gown as she made her way back to her room.
The guards didn’t suspect a thing as she strolled down the marble-glass hallways. She trained her features into neutrality as she passed them by, back straight, chin upturned. The image of a perfect Lady.
Her unhurried steps were the only sound echoing along the bright ivory corridors as she moved. Buttery sunlight streamed in through the domed windows above, catching on the tiny pearls that adorned her hair. They shone stark amongst her onyx curls that flowed in loose waves, framing her narrow face.
Amara smiled. A thrum of dark power flittered through her newly-awakened veins.
She closed her eyes, remembering the sensation of blood as it rolled down her tongue. Gods, she hadn’t experienced anything more divine. No matter how old she was, she would never bore of that taste. The energy that surged through her body as she fed.
But she pushed the memory out of her head as she neared the end of the hallway.
Left. Then another left. Then right.
Amara had already learnt the structure of the palace, knew of all the passageways and exits, windows and doors.
It was one of the first things living in Valmont had taught her: know your surroundings . . . before they could be used against you.
So Amara took the time after feeding to familiarise herself with Winvaris’ glistening chambers and corridors. She must have spent at least an hour scouting the vicinity, learning the secrets and shadows of the castle. Anything the royals didn’t want her to see.
But everything seemed to be . . . normal. Well, as normal as places like this go. Even the servants and patrolling guards were unusually joyous as they made their way past her.
There was only one thing that snagged her attention. Made her look twice during her journey around the grounds.
She’d noticed whilst walking down a long stretch of crystal hallway that none of the doors were particularly guarded. Sure, some of the sentries patrolled along, their iron spears clinking in their hand. But none of them were specifically stationed outside a room.
Amara soon grew bored of the ordinary corridors, considering returning to her rooms when the hair on her arms stood on end.
She froze.
Her skin pebbled as she caught a glimpse of the obsidian door at the end of the hall she now found herself on. It was much larger than the rest. Shadows seemed to wreath the frame, where the light from above couldn’t reach.
Amara frowned, advancing towards it slowly. The two guards posted either side of the door, stiffened as she approached.
How strange, Amara mused to herself. Now what is the Queen hiding, I wonder?
She couldn’t stop staring at it. A barrier of black adamant. Her senses flared at the power that pulsed around it, the silence within.
“Can we help you, ma’am,” one of the guards said tightly, his fist flexing around the metal spear in his hand.
But Amara ignored him. She just angled her head, like an asp ready to strike. Interesting. So very interesting.
Amara cast an assessing gaze over the door, the silver handles curved up like talons.
“Ma’am,” the guard said again, tightening his grip on the weapon.
It seemed to be enough to pull Amara back into her body. She blinked remembering where she was. Who she was.
She gave them a sweet smile. “I’m so sorry. I must have got lost on my way to my room.” Amara batted her onyx eyes at them. An apologetic, fearful look. “Do you mind telling me where to go?”
She cringed at the lightness of her voice, so different from her usual grave
lly sound. But the act had worked, and the golden-clad soldiers seemed to relax slightly. It was an effort not to roll her eyes at them. Stupid fools. Yet she bit her tongue as she allowed the men to direct her.
When they had finished, Amara sighed. No more than a flustered woman in a foreign castle. “Thank you so much,” she said, shaking her head. “what would I do without you?”
She winced at the comment. And at the two guards as they shared a satisfied male smirk she knew all too well. But Amara only bowed her head, not letting her hands slip from within her dress before turning away and strolling down the corridor.
Amara made a note to return here.
Winvaris was hiding something. Something worth the protection of two armed guards. Something kept hidden behind a door that even light itself couldn’t reach.
She smirked as she rounded the corner. She would enjoy uncovering the castle’s secrets, one way or another. After all, what else was there to do?
∞∞∞
“How come you aren’t ready yet?”
Amara had almost made it back to her rooms when the high-pitched voice of a certain red-haired princess forced her to turn around.
Sure enough, Enid was stood behind her, cheeks freckled and rosy as she beamed up at Amara.
“Ready for what?” Amara forced herself to say as she looked at the princess.
She tried to remain calm, resisting the urge to stare down the guards that hovered a few steps behind.
Enid gasped. “No one told you?”
“Told me what?” Out with it girl.
“About the Ball tonight? Did you not hear? We won the war in the North! Everyone is coming home.” Enid said it as though it were common knowledge.
“No. No one told me,” Amara replied flatly. Come to think of it, it did explain why everyone she had passed on her way around the castle had been so happy. She wondered if Fenn would be celebrating, wherever he was in the world.
It was an effort not to turn her back on the young princess still smiling at her.
“You have to come,” she squealed, her auburn hair bouncing as she hopped from one foot to the other.