But Roderick had learned over his decade as a Ranger that other kind were just as varied, just as interesting as any human. More so, honestly, since they often were very careful about how they interacted with mortals. And when enclaves of their kinds began to spring up over the centuries, it was part of a Ranger’s job to ensure they had as much freedom as anyone else.
But born vampires were tricky. They were rare, first of all. The story told over and over again, usually in hushed tones by fearful humans, was that you were born a vampire of mortal parents if - and only if - someone in your bloodline had committed a heinous crime. It had to be something so terrible that it left a mark on one’s genetics, forever tainting the blood. “Marked by memory” some said. A born vampire literally carried the memory of their ancestor’s foul deeds on their bodies.
Sin marks. Tattooed under their flesh like scars gone smooth and white with age, a born vampire’s body was littered with indecipherable rune-like symbols that some believed were keys to prophecies foretold in ages past. It was a harrowing thought, in Roderick’s opinion, that disastrous events could be written upon a being’s body like a brand.
After her confession, he’d caught sight of the barest edge of a sin mark on the side of Octavia’s neck, a few faint lines above the high collar of her deep red velvet jacket. He’d never seen sin marks in person, but every Ranger knew that was how you told a feral vampire from one born as such at a glance. Aside from the potential for having your face chewed off by a feral in a bloodlust, of course. But ferals like Corbin Luther knew how to walk among mortals without gnawing on them freely, so it wasn’t always obvious to the untrained. Hells, even to the trained eye.
That was why you looked for sin marks. Born vampires typically hid them, but you’d usually catch a glimpse or two. And if not, a Ranger’s charms would detect the particular energy a born vampire gave off. He was grateful to Octavia’s diverted attentions to allow him a peek at those marks above her collar; his charms might as well rest at the bottom of a lake for how useful they’d proved to be so far.
“You got something on your mind, Ranger?” Gregory’s deep voice interrupted Roderick’s swirl of thoughts. “I know that look. Seen it a few times on Eislen’s face. You mortals get your heads all fussed up about something and off you go, staring into the distance.”
Abashed, Roderick chuckled. “You caught me, Mr. O’Malley. I admit to a….curiosity about this Eislen. I haven’t bumped into another Ranger for a few years, not since my partner was taken.”
“Taken?”
“Murdered.”
“Shit.” Gregory’s face had gone a bit red under his beard. “I mean, I -“ The glint in his eyes turned keen. “Got something to do with this feral you’re hunting?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
The werewolf leader rolled his thick neck from side to side. “Then I suppose a bit of justice is in order. You’ve already got Octavia’s promise but my clan’s ready to serve, Ranger. Just say the word.”
Roderick sighed without meaning to; it was a breath of relief that left him in a sudden rush. “I...I deeply appreciate that. This creature is dangerous and I mean to end him permanently.” He looked down at the ground. “I owe Yasmin that much.”
With a quickness Roderick’s eyes couldn’t track, Gregory flung a hand out to stop their forward movement. “Hold up.” His gaze was now alert, scanning the grey horizon without a twitch of emotion on his face. Face lifting to the sky, Roderick saw Gregory’s nostrils flare. “Blood. Old blood.”
Instantly Roderick swung his crossbow off his back and flicked the silver bolt with a finger. It hummed, the vibration of its magic setting his hair on end. “Where?”
***
I do not know how this came to be, but the temporary portal through which I’ve traveled has closed. My job, to deliver a favor to the Fae Queen, has now become embroiled with a game of survival. She sent the hounds after me at first; great slobbering beasts that mostly resemble a hunting dog, entirely common in our countryside. But these hounds are faster, nimbler, and quicker to catch onto a scent. Dodging them is no easy feat. Losing them completely nigh impossible.
Today’s pack caught me on the wrong side of a massive river and I feared it would be the end. There was nowhere to go but in the water, or over the cliff. Neither prospect good. Then there was a flash of light, and the hounds fled. Once my eyes cleared, a fae man stood before me, tall and proud but wearing ragged clothing. His jet-black hair was long and unkempt, but those eyes….bright as a robin’s eye, but hard. Brittle.
“The Queen never tires of her little games. It’s despicable.” He held out a hand. “Come. I’ve a camp nearby and the hounds won’t find it. You can join us for a meal and perhaps we can come to an accord.”
What choice did I have but to follow?
—From the journal of Bellemy Eislen, year unknown
It was the lunch hour and yet the common room of The Drake’s Rest was curiously empty.
A prickle of awareness stung the back of Eislen’s neck as they descended the stairs from their room. Tomas had left long ago, fussing over….everything before leaving Eislen to get some rest. But they weren’t completely addled; they knew Tomas would tell Gregory and then she would know.
So that was likely what this was about. The Drake’s Rest was as close to neutral ground as one might find in Wilderwood. The town square was too public, the bookstore too familiar. And Wilderwood Manor too intimate. The threat of too many memories looming large in many of the rooms. Including the ones they used to occupy together. Theirs had been a love affair that happened in no pining ache of angst or long, lingering looks across a room followed by frenzied caresses in the dark.
Theirs was a denial of what had simmered just below the surface near the moment they’d met. Though how it came to a head was never up for debate. A cave, a frozen winter night and a raging blizzard, and Octavia injured.
A lone viedezan had managed to track them even in the middle of winter. Eislen had first thought it a stray, but even then, it was still a predator. The Fae creatures typically traveled in swarms, making them deadly in such groupings; their pincers and razor-sharp claws could easily tear through leather armor, let alone flesh.
Octavia had thrown Eislen out of the way as a matriarch viedezan leapt at them from above, hissing and spitting acid, pinchers clicking. The creature was at least three times their size and fueled by rage at their destruction of its clutch of eggs. Eislen had hit a boulder hard enough to rattle their skull, unable to do anything but watch as Octavia and the viedezan struggled. Octavia’s eyes were bled black with battle lust, her needle-sharp teeth elongated and aimed to strike.
And then the creature got in a lucky hit and Octavia went flying, shattering through a tree as if it were made of glass. Eislen had struggled to their feet, dispatched the creature, and then helped Octavia limp into a nearby cave. Or tried to.
Octavia shied away as soon as Eislen came near, whirling to face away from the Ranger. “Don’t.”
That single word, uttered like a dire warning, brought Eislen up short. “You’re injured.”
“Yes.”
“Octavia -”
With a growl of frustration, Octavia stomped off to the cave where they’d made camp and sat on a low rock shelf. In the dark. As far out of reach as she could get.
Still on an adrenaline high from the fight, Eislen made camp as best they could, given the frigid cold and their shaking hands. What little magic they had left lit the fire; its gentle pop echoing in that dark, dry space. Eislen drew their pack close, digging for the dried jerky and trail rations always stored within.
“Do you want some?” they asked, staring into the dark at Octavia’s faint outline.
“No.”
Something was wrong. The air around them was thick, despite the snow and cold, and Eislen could almost taste it. Foul, bitter, and sickly.
And then they remembered that viedezan matriarchs carried more poison than a typical one of th
eir kind and it smelled just like that - like a bog or a swamp, where vegetation decayed by inches and bones melted after years. Immediately they were on their feet, a hand offered to Octavia. “It bit you.”
“Don’t.” Octavia crushed herself to the wall, huddling in a ball. “You can’t.”
“I can’t check your wound? Mitigate the poison? Octavia, please.” Undeterred, Eislen stepped forward. “I brought you out here to hunt the viedezan and you were injured in the process. It is my duty, as a Ranger, to ensure you survive.”
Octavia scoffed, the sound muffled by her scarf. “I’m almost three hundred, Eislen. Poison won’t kill me.”
“But it can stop your healing.”
The air around them went still. Deathly, like a mausoleum. Eislen was pinned by a russet-red gaze that stared unblinking at them. “You shouldn’t know that.”
Octavia’s voice did not stutter. She did not gasp in shock or curse in frustration. Eislen had been around vampires before, both born and made. Stripped of all civility, a born vampire was a terrifying sight, but it was never a question of whose side they were on.
Those hazy red-orange eyes, and that voice, chilled Eislen to the bone. When they finally found their voice, they said, “You are not my first vampire.”
Now Octavia blinked. “Do you mock me, Ranger?”
No. Absolutely not. But out of the fire’s warm embrace, so near a being as cold as the wind that blew outside the cave, Eislen couldn’t find the words to answer. They shook their head and backed up.
A mistake.
Octavia was there, suddenly, faster than any human eye could track, and Eislen was penned in, shoved against the wall of the cave near its mouth. Octavia was leaning into them, not touching, not even brushing her body against theirs. Their Ranger senses went on alert, fighting with the deep desire to shrink away from the very wounded, very angry vampire. Eislen wrestled that instinct back under control.
The smell of poisoned blood, thick and suffocating, filled Eislen’s nostrils and they coughed. Her wound was bad; they could see the black veins creeping up Octavia’s neck and curling around her delicate jawline. The ungloved hand by their head bore the same ichor-filled lines. “I am not well controlled in the moment,” Octavia said softly, still not meeting Eislen’s eyes. “You are a source of temptation, Ranger. I only show you this to warn you before I leave. A younger vampire wouldn’t be able to stand it.” A rare, needle-fanged grin showed as Octavia said, “I doubt they cover that in your training.”
She was in pain, badly wounded, and yet Eislen didn’t fear for their life. No out-of-control creature would warn someone before trying to cause them harm. Despite all that she’d suffered, Octavia was no real source of danger. “Octavia,” Eislen said, putting a hand on her cheek. “You are wounded. Let me help. I can neutralize the poison, I have the antidote in my pack -”
And just like that, Octavia flung herself away. “It won’t work,” she growled. “There is a tree blind just beyond here. I will stay there and make sure nothing finds your cave.”
Without thinking, Eislen caught Octavia’s arm as she stalked away, and the movement brought their bodies together. Octavia shuddered against them and the truth Eislen always knew but had spent precious hours ignoring reared its head and waited, maw open to receive. “Let me help,” they said softly, returning their hand to Octavia’s cheek. “If the antidote won’t work, then we need to heal you.”
“I can’t ask that.” Octavia still wouldn’t look at them, gaze drawn down even as Eislen turned her face with their hand.
“You can. Please. Octavia.” Eislen turned their head, baring their neck to the starving, injured vampire. “Take what you need. I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” Octavia rounded on them, let them see the black veins and cat-slit eyes. Let them feel all that coiled strength as she pounced, pushing Eislen into the rough rock wall. Their feet left the ground and as Eislen stared at the vampire pinning them bodily into a rock shelf, they felt no fear.
They’d written Octavia off as a distraction at worst. She was the keeper of Wilderwood and its inhabitants. She was a source of information on the rogue fae energy that lingered in the forests on the village’s edges. And she was a quick, dirty fighter who had helped Eislen dispatch creatures on two previous occasions. But every time they returned to Wilderwood, Octavia called to them, and they’d kept their distance.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that.
Being a Ranger was more than a job. It became one’s life. A calling. Fused to one’s blood and bones, embedded in one’s soul. Rangers tracked, fought, and hunted that which would threaten human and other kind alike. Rangers did not lust after their born vampire allies.
And yet….
“Take what you need,” they repeated, ripping at their collar, casting aside their weapons. “Do not die from stubbornness, Octavia.”
Octavia’s eyes flickered to the column of flesh they’d bared. With a shaking hand, she slid her fingers into the thick black hair at Eislen’s nape, drawing aside their braids until the right side of their neck was left vulnerable. That hand rested lower then, forcing Eislen’s neck into a gentle arc; her thumb stroking the hollow of their throat. “I know you offer this freely, and yet I cannot help but feel guilty,” she said softly, those deep brown-orange eyes never leaving Eislen’s. “It will only hurt for a moment.”
And she was right. Eislen watched, fascinated, as Octavia leaned in and pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to the side of their neck, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. A wet tongue brushed their skin and Eislen shuddered, gripping Octavia’s arms hard. “Do it,” they bit out, feeling as if their skin would leap from their body from the ache of want pulsing through their veins.
With a sharp intake of breath she did not need, Octavia slid her fangs into Eislen’s neck. Their vision went white with fiery pain but only seconds later it dissolved into heat of a different kind. The slow, pulsing churning in their gut roared to life and they bucked into Octavia, one hand flying up to clench on her shoulder, the other sliding into the loose bun of brown hair and setting it free. Octavia’s hair cascaded down her back and she moaned her pleasure into Eislen’s neck.
The slow drip of blood spilled through Octavia’s lips, running into Eislen’s collar, and they were lost to the sensation. Octavia held them both up, buoyed by that which she took from the willing human beneath her. Eislen closed their eyes, sucking in deep breaths against the wild flare of need coursing through them. A knee was pressed between theirs, sliding up and parting their thighs.
They may have whispered Octavia’s name, or they may have pressed her face harder, deeper into their neck. But something drew the vampire out of a blood-engorged reverie, and she pulled free but did not pull away. Eislen’s head spun, their vision swimming, but before their knees locked up and they hit the ground, Octavia was there. “Stay with me,” she said in their ear, gentle fingers stroking their temple.
Then Octavia was kissing them with blood-slick lips. The tang of copper - their blood - was licked into their mouth and they groaned, overcome. Something tumbled in their stomach, a near chaotic energy that made them want to cast aside all dispersions and let Octavia do as she pleased. They clutched and clung, trapped in a tidal wave of sensation.
And then Octavia was pulling away again, licking her lips as the black veins skittering over her skin slowly faded and she was, once again, whole. She shivered against Eislen, face twisted into an expression of regret. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have -”
Eislen grabbed her face and kissed her, moaning against Octavia’s lips when the vampire gasped. Octavia was everywhere all at once, tugging loose buttons and undoing clasps and even as the wind blew bitterly into the cave, Eislen was overheated, overstimulated.
Octavia nudged them away from the wall and over to Eislen’s bedroll, her touch gentle but demanding. How could Eislen not obey their own desires? Octavia was looking at them like she wanted to devour them completely a
nd they had no objection. As Octavia crawled over their body, wound tighter than a bowstring, they undid the last few buttons on their shirt, baring themself to her gaze. “You are a temptation,” Octavia growled through the fangs that now poked over her lips. She kneeled over them, thighs on either side of Eislen’s hips. “Do not offer any more to me than you are willing to give.”
Eislen’s answer was to grab her hand and drag it over their chest. Octavia hung her head with a groan. But as Eislen’s body pulsed with desire, their skin was more than aware of the cold and when Octavia caught them shivering, she quickly rebuttoned their clothing. “But, Octavia -”
“You’ll freeze,” she said, smiling softly. “If you want to actually be….like that with me, I won’t have us in a cave in the middle of winter. That’s not appropriate.” And Eislen let her pull them up and into a tight embrace.
Wilderwood Page 5