She thought, though, with a glance at Lara and then at Julian, that perhaps living among these people wasn’t nearly as horrifying of a prospect as she’d feared.
**
*
*
Lysander says my quest for revenge will consume me, if I do not end it now. What does he know? What does he know of familial honor? He does not honor our vows. My faith in him is dead. I have but one purpose left to me, and I no longer care how long I survive when it has been fulfilled.
I know Hecate will come for me. She will want the same thing I want, and it will consume her, as well. I have taken everything from her, just as Artemis did from me.
Why did Artemis never seek me out? After everything I have done to the Johanssen line, I had hoped to draw her out and win justice for Jacques at last. Perhaps mages care less for their blood than the Born.
I know not who will find this, but I hope that by the time someone does, both the Johanssen line and Lysander’s crusade will be at an end.
*
Final entry in the diary of Elisabeta Sturm
Dated 3 October 2001
*
The Vendetta
*
2001
“If you don’t stop this now, it’s going to consume you. Is that what you want?”
Lysander’s words still echoing through her mind, Elisabeta turned over between her fingers the silver ring she’d pulled from the charred body of Agrippa Johanssen.
“I don’t recognize you anymore.”
She recognized herself clearly enough in the ring’s tarnished surface. Her dirty-blond hair hadn’t changed, nor had her blue eyes, which were the same shade her brother’s had been before he’d been slaughtered by the eldest surviving member of the Johanssen bloodline.
That woman—Artemis—should’ve been the one to face Elisabeta and atone for her sins, but Elisabeta knew the scent of the witch trailing her. Hecate. Artemis’s distant descendant. Agrippa’s daughter. The de-facto head of her family, now that she was very nearly the only one left and Artemis was too busy fighting for her position on the mage Council to clean up the mess she’d set in motion. Were Artemis brave enough to come after Elisabeta on her own, the crusade against the Johanssens could end, but as it was, Elisabeta would find her retribution however she could.
“I don’t recognize you, either.”
The words had burned the tip of Elisabeta’s tongue, but she’d been unable to stop herself from firing them back at the man who’d promised to love and honor her and who had, instead, refused aid in her quest to avenge her brother and had only grown more distant as his own desperate need for power had twisted him beyond her ability to comprehend.
“You don’t think I know about that woman, Lysander? The only reason she’s still breathing is that I have more important things to deal with than your infidelity. Go on and build your army. Take on Magekind and the humans and whoever else you’re foolish enough to think you can handle. But do it without me.”
Elisabeta drew in a long breath, tasting the air around her.
The woman’s blood gave away her presence before her footsteps could.
“It took you longer than I expected. I’m a bit disappoint-ed.”
She heard the knife slice the air beside her and feinted to the side, dropping the ring to the floor and watching as the blade stuck between two boards in the wall.
Elisabeta whipped around in time to catch the wrist of the red-haired Hecate, who had nearly shoved another blade into Elisabeta’s back.
“Why?” Hecate snarled. “Why did you take them?”
“Because this is all I have left!”
Elisabeta lunged, her teeth bared, and cried out as Hecate’s knife scraped across her stomach. She charged forward. With a flick of Hecate’s wrist, the hardwood beneath Elisabeta crystallized into a thick sheet of ice, and she slipped, her head colliding with the ground before the rest of her body.
Hecate hovered over her in an instant, and as the knife approached her, Elisabeta understood the truth of what she’d just spoken.
This is all I have left.
If she moved now, she could block the blade.
This is not life.
Elisabeta stared unflinchingly into the face of her attacker as the knife pierced her heart.
**
*
*
She hasn’t moved in over a day. I’ve never watched someone transition into immortality before, and I have no idea it will take her body to repair itself. Is there something I can do? I’ve concentrated my magic on healing her almost constantly, only taking breaks when I was too physically drained for my magic to continue having an effect. I feel completely useless sitting here unable to do anything effective while she’s in so much pain.
Our children are in hiding with my parents, for now. I can’t stand being away from them, and they’re too young to understand what’s happening. Ariel can barely speak, for the gods’ sake. How long do we have to wait to find out if Lysander plans to carry on Elisabeta’s fight against the Johanssen line? What do we have to do to end it?
*
Letter addressed to Margaux Lemieux from Magnus Johanssen
1 December 2003
*
The Immortal
*
2017
Evangeline guided her hand over the wooden banister, barely letting her skin graze it. She wanted to grasp the railing and hold tight in the hope that she could hold onto her old life, when she’d been certain of who and what she was.
When she’d been completely sure of what had kept her heart beating.
Her dark hair brushed the wood as she turned on the steps to face the foyer below, her gaze landing on a charred outline on the dark wooden floor—that of a body.
Her own.
Evangeline stared at the spot where she’d lost her life and transitioned into an immortal witch. Closing her eyes, she tried to force the images away, but she couldn’t stop them from breaking through the cracks in her resolve.
*
Her head was swimming, aching, and probably bleeding from the force with which she’d been tackled from the steps to the floor below.
Her attacker was young, probably near Evangeline’s own twenty-one. Her eyes were cold, their green filled with the flecks of red that signaled one who’d ingested far more blood than necessary for her age. Evangeline had faced vampires whose eyes had been completely consumed by the redness, but they’d all been centuries older than this woman.
The vampire’s hand closed around Evangeline’s throat and squeezed. Gasping for air, Evangeline focused what remained of her will on summoning fire. Warmth surged over her palm as the flames materialized and flickered upward, and she gripped her attacker’s arm.
The vampire let out a sharp cry.
She released Evangeline’s throat and reached instead for her hand, snapping it backward with a sickening crack. Evangeline screamed—she knew her wrist was broken.
Before she had time to think, a second scream burst from her lips as the vampire’s teeth broke the skin of her neck. Evangeline struggled violently and summoned as much energy as she could into her hands.
The vampire anticipated the attack.
In one fluid motion, she leaned back without loosening her jaw, ripping the flesh from Evangeline’s throat and releasing her blood onto the floor as she ceased to see the arched ceiling above her.
*
A hand on Evangeline’s arm pulled her back to reality, and she jumped. She clutched the bannister to keep her footing, and she turned away from the place where she’d died to meet the worried gaze of her brother Tristan. He’d barely left her alone since the day she’d been attacked; she could tell he blamed himself for being unable to save her.
“You don’t have to be here,” he said. “The matriarchs will understand.”
“They need my help to plan a counterstrike.”
“I’m not asking you to stop fighting, Evie. Just to sit this one out.”
&nb
sp; Evangeline reached out to clasp her brother’s hand between both of her own. “I’m the head of our line—I have to go.” Drawing in a deep breath, she released his hand, rolled her shoulders backward, and ascended the steps.
Together, they wove through the ruins of what had once been a pristinely kept corridor. Engravings had lined the wood-paneled walls, and here and there, their images were still discernable—the goddess Artemis with a bow slung over her shoulder and ball of magical energy hovering above her outstretched palm; seven family crests arranged in a circle—but most of them had been charred beyond recognition in the fire. Evangeline was thankful that she had not, at least, witnessed the majority of the school’s burning.
Tristan turned into a room on the left side of the corridor, and Evangeline followed. Apart from a few shelves nearest the door, the library was untouched by the flames that had demolished much of the school. Between the shelves at the back of the immense, arched room, a circle of chairs had been pulled together. These were occupied by six women, all of whom Evangeline had been acquainted with for most of her life, and each of whom represented one of the Alliance bloodlines, chosen by the rest of their kind to serve as its primary line of defense. Johanssen, Lemieux, Borden, Silva, DeMornay, Laurent, and Pike. Only for the last few years had Evangeline been considered the equal of each of the women seated before her—she had inherited the position as matriarch of her line upon the murder of her mother. In the back of her mind, a small voice whispered that she had not truly been their equal until four days ago, when she had joined them in what the mages falsely labeled as immortality.
“Evangeline.”
Margaux Lemieux stood and bowed as the Pikes approached, Tristan walking several paces behind his sister now that they had entered the library, and Evangeline returned the bow.
“Your brother will have to wait outside,” said Margaux, and as she spoke, Evangeline’s eyes were drawn to the four faded, parallel scratches running along the other woman’s neck. Though Margaux possessed the ability to heal, the marks left by vampires were not easily discarded.
“Is that really necessary?” Evangeline glanced from Margaux to her brother, certain that her frayed nerves would be much more capable of handling the return to Alliance duties if she had an ally in the room. She had known the matriarchs to be secretive, but they generally permitted other members of the seven lines to be present when they assembled, especially in times of crisis.
“We believe so,” said Hecate Johanssen, glancing to Evangeline without rising from her chair. Evangeline couldn’t see her face past the curtain of her red hair; Hecate was staring across the circle and hadn’t bothered to look at Evangeline. “He can guard the door, should he be so inclined. We’ve sent everyone away but the matriarchs.”
Evangeline inhaled deeply and sighed, forcing herself to nod. She turned her head to meet the gaze of Tristan, who bowed and departed, closing the library door behind him. When he had gone, Evangeline took the only remaining seat in the circle, between Hecate and Hippolyta DeMornay. On either side of them sat Margaux and Dahlia Borden, respectively. Beside Margaux and to the left from Evangeline’s perspective sat Serena Laurent, and to the right, Guinevere Silva.
“I apologize if I kept you waiting,” said Evangeline, her cheeks filling with color as she realized she was the last to arrive.
“Not at all,” said Margaux, shaking her head. “We know this is a difficult time for you.”
Evangeline nodded once, stiffly. She was tempted to direct her focus to the floorboards and resign herself from the proceedings, but she didn’t want to be viewed as weak by these women. While she believed Margaux’s tone was one of under-standing, Evangeline didn’t expect a few of the others to be quite as willing to forgive weakness. Not with what she knew of them.
“Now that we’re all here, we should get to business.”
Evangeline glanced to Dahlia Borden, whose smooth tone would have seemed innocuous without the narrowing of her dark eyes and the sharp lines of her face that gave her a look reminiscent of a tigress. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her nails were painted the same maroon as her lips. These were the only bits of color she wore apart from a silver ring on her right hand; otherwise, she was clothed completely in black. Evangeline had studied thoroughly the history of each witch in the room, and she knew that Dahlia was one of the oldest. She had ceased to age in her late thirties and in the late-eighteen hundreds.
“Who,” continued Dahlia, “are we sending?”
“I think it should just be the seven of us,” said Hecate, crossing her ankles as she glanced among the faces of her colleagues. “That way, if something goes wrong, we can contain it.”
“You’re afraid we’ll be ambushed again,” said Guinevere, her green, silver-ringed eyes wide as she watched Hecate closely. Evangeline shifted slightly in her seat, aware of what was happening and hoping Guinevere’s focus would not shift to her.
“Just because your line was blessed with empathy,” said Hecate sharply, “doesn’t mean you should use it when it isn’t welcome, Gwen.”
“Sorry.” Guinevere glanced to the floor. “Ever since the attack here, it’s been difficult to stop myself. I sense things without meaning to. I think it’s because there were so many conflicting emotions surrounding me at once. I can’t turn it off, and my daughter’s furious with me.”
“Tell her to deal with it,” said Dahlia, shaking her head. “You’re the matriarch. Besides, she has the same gift, yes?”
“She does.” Guinevere said nothing further, and Evangeline believed she understood why. As severe and rule-driven as most of the matriarchs were, none could compare to the lengths to which Dahlia had gone to preserve the laws and integrity of Magekind. For a moment, Evangeline allowed herself to wonder what it would have been like to be the vampire-bitten daughter Dahlia had deserted, and then she pulled her thoughts away before they could betray her.
“Does anyone else believe we should meet with the vampires alone?” asked Margaux. As she turned her head to survey those seated before her, the silver pendant around her neck glistened in the torchlight, and Evangeline caught sight of the Lemieux family crest emblazoned on its surface. Evangeline knew Dahlia’s ring bore the symbol of the Borden line, and her own locket bore that of the Pikes—a lioness clutching a lit torch between her teeth. Each bloodline possessed its own talisman, passed among matriarchs throughout the centuries. Evangeline had received hers when the Council had identified her mother’s body and removed the locket from what had been left of her after the fire that had destroyed her.
Evangeline despised the vampires for turning fire against her mother even more than she hated them for stealing her own life. Fire was supposed to be a friend to the Pikes, not a weapon used against them.
“I think we should limit it to the seven of us,” said Evangeline, forcing herself to focus on the conversation at hand. Her thoughts had been horribly scattered over the last few days, but she needed to keep them together. “I don’t believe we need to risk any further loss of life. We don’t know for certain if the vampires at large are in league with Lysander, but still, it’s better to be safe.”
“While I agree that we shouldn’t unnecessarily risk our family members,” said Dahlia smoothly, “I don’t believe this instance will involve much risk. The vampires wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack with all seven matriarchs present, and if they are, they deserve the deaths they’ll receive.”
Hecate rolled her eyes. “Your bravado won’t do a damn thing against them, if they decide to turn on us. When was the last time you used a knife?”
Dahlia’s lips twitched into a sneer.
“I believe it should be the decision of each matriarch whether she wishes to bring someone else of her line,” said Margaux. “Does anyone object to the decision being made individually?”
Silence followed. Though she didn’t want to let him endanger himself by going with her, Evangeline knew Tristan would not allow her to say no.
Aft
er a few moments, Margaux smiled. “Then it is done. We leave tomorrow.”
**
*
*
Our people were blessed by Apollo with incredible strength, stamina, and longevity. Two of these were gifts to aid us in the hunting required for our survival, as we are the Race taken under the wing of the Hunter, and the third was his greatest gift, which would allow us to flourish when left to our own governance and build a society as strong as those of older cultures even with our smaller numbers. Since the birth of our Race, the Born have consumed the life-energy necessary to sustain ourselves. We have done as our bodies require, but we are not destroyers. We do not kill because we hate humanity or Magekind or any other Race upon which we feed; we kill because we must in order to survive, and for that, we have been asked by our kindest enemies to be apologetic and by our most ruthless to die instead.
*
Excerpt from a Speech Given at the Defense Hearing
of Elisabeta Sturm
Jacques Capulet
5 September 1789
*
The Heiress
*
2017
The ballroom was packed with Born—vampiric aristocrats whose gifts were innate, unlike the Changed. Vanessa smiled and spoke quiet greetings to people she knew and to those she didn’t, shaking hands and having her own kissed now and then by men near her own age. One of these held onto her hand, and she noticed how very chilled his was. His hazel eyes were nearly as cold, and though his face was handsome and his dark hair was combed back neatly, Vanessa wanted to be very far away from him. She knew his dignified demeanor was only an act.
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