by Ali Winters
What is he doing?
Alaric’s eyes slide closed and I don’t know if my heart thunders in my chest from anticipation or fear.
I open my mouth to protest as he leans against me. He’s heavy. The warmth spreading through me seconds ago dissipates.
“Alaric?”
When he doesn’t respond I know something is wrong.
He slumps and I manage to wrap my arms around him before he falls. There is a wet, sticky, warmth where my hands touch his back.
He’s hurt.
Struggling to keep him from dropping, I lower him to the ground, positioning him on his side. I crouch and carefully examine his back, moving the scraps of material to get a better view. Several long, deep gashes cover his back.
His face is pale in the firelight and he’s unconscious. For a moment, I don’t know what to do. There is no way I’ll be able to drag him up to the third floor to his room. I should pull the dagger from my boot and end him now.
It’s the perfect chance to free myself from our bargain.
I reach my shaking hand toward the hilt and slowly withdraw it. One swift movement and this world will be rid of another vampire.
I stare at him, holding the dagger above his chest for a long moment, willing my arm to obey… but I can’t bring myself to do it.
He saved me…
He had saved me from the higher demons in the forest, and he was hurt for it. The mournful cries of demons grow louder from outside, sending shivers over me and driving the point home.
I owe it to Alaric to keep him safe now.
I stand and look down at him, curled up on his side, features contorted in pain, and I feel the need to do something.
The demons won’t come inside… they can’t unless given permission. Still their sounds fill me with a fear of them I have never known before.
I bite down on my bottom lip, not wanting to leave his side. Even with him unconscious, I feel safe in his abilities to keep them at bay.
I waver. What I need to help him is down the hall.
The demons can’t enter here. The demons can’t get me.
Pulling in a deep breath, I bolt out of the room, running to the kitchen. It’s completely empty. He had said the servants were not available at night, but I had assumed that was a rule meant to punish me. I quickly grab a kettle of water, a towel, and a small bowl.
When I return, Alaric hasn’t moved. I set the kettle in the fireplace kettle holder then kneel at his side. I didn’t even know he’d been hurt at first. I reach out and brush his hair back off his forehead.
Plucking up the towel, I tear it into strips as the water heats. I dip one rag in, ringing out the excess water once soaked.
His shirt clings to his back, sticky and wet with blood.
I will have to tear it open so I can clean his wounds. Once more I pick up the blade, the polished metal gleams in the light cast by the fire.
With my other hand, I reach forward. Alaric’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“No,” he growls. There is confusion, hurt, and perhaps a little fear in his eyes. “You would cut me down… now?”
I pull my wrist from his grasp. He’s still so strong, even as hurt as he is. I could kill him in his weakened state, I’d already thought about it. But hearing him say that makes my stomach churn.
“I will not hurt you,” I say with as much calm and confidence as I can muster, grateful my voice doesn’t waver.
Alaric narrows his dark blue eyes that almost look completely black now. He doesn’t trust me, and why should he?
“Leave me, I will be fine,” he says his voice guttural.
He looks as if he will try to push himself up off the floor to protect himself from me. Alaric doesn’t trust me. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either.
We hold each other’s gaze for several seconds before his energy fades. His eyes close again—either in defeat or exhaustion—and his head lowers back to the floor.
I brush his hair from his forehead and smooth my fingers over his pinched brow. I wait another moment to make sure he is unconscious this time then reach over him and grip the edge of his shirt, dragging the edge of the dagger across it. The cloth falls away with ease.
Setting the dagger on the floor, I fold the ripped edges of his shirt out of my way.
I dip the ripped rag back into the heated bowl of water then look at the horrible wounds on his back and let out a hiss. I focus on the task and try not to think about the fact that it doesn’t look like he’s even begun to heal yet, and what that could possibly mean.
With one hand on his shoulder, I pull him closer so that his chest rests against my thighs. I press the wet cloth to his back and his whole body goes ridged but he doesn’t wake again. I do my best to clean the area around the wounds first, moving carefully then covering a small patch of skin at a time.
Slowly, he begins to relax against me as he grows used to my touch.
Once the area has been cleaned, I rinse out the rags and soak them again, laying them over the deep slices in his back.
I sit back on my heels and wipe my brow.
It’s not the best, but it’s the best I can do for now. Shifting, I straighten out my legs and rest his head in my lap. And then, I wait. For what, I’m not sure. I suppose I am waiting for him to wake or for one of the housekeepers to arrive in the morning so they can take care of him.
A fluttering sound from within the manor startles me, and I reach for the dagger and grip it tightly, holding it out.
The sound moves closer as my mind goes back to all the demons from the forest.
Seconds tick by, punctuated by the ticking clock on the mantle. Then to my relief, Cherno flaps into the room. The animal’s movements grow more erratic than normal at seeing us on the floor, its master injured.
I drop my arm and watch the creature. It swoops down and lands a foot away then crawls over to him. It climbs up his leg and his arm, eventually settling against Alaric’s chest.
Something about that touches me. This creature loves him.
Alaric’s breathing seems to deepen, evening out some. The grimace of pain on his sculpted face has faded.
I watch him for a long time. My fingers find their way to his thick, silken hair, running through it in slow, soothing strokes before I realize what I’m doing. I pause briefly but don’t stop.
Asleep, he looks youthful and sweet, with no trace of the monster in sight. His skin is warm, and he’s very much alive, down to the beating of his heart. The tales I have heard all my life claim vampires are like the dead. Cold, with no pulse.
He seems to lean into me as I stroke his hair, though that’s most likely just my imagination. The movement seems to comfort him, so I continue.
I stay like that even when the demons grow louder then quieter as the night wears on, and even when the heavy tug of sleep pulls me down.
The next thing I know, something smooth and warm caresses my cheek. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t manage more than the smallest opening. My vision is blurred by exhaustion and my lashes weigh my eyelids down. Try as I might to fight it, sleep has wrapped me in its embrace.
The warmth that surrounded me vanishes before returning. My world shifts. I want to fight, but for some reason, I don't because I feel safe. Or perhaps I’m too tired to know to feel fear.
My body feels as though it’s floating, the gentle sway lulls me deeper into my slumber until I’m placed on something cool yet incredibly soft.
As the warmth leaves me once more, I try to protest. Don’t go, but I can’t summon the energy to speak.
There’s another shift, and the warmth returns, this time at my back as a heavy weight settles over my waist. I roll over and curl into the warmth.
Once more I attempt to open my eyes and speak, but the comfort does me in and sleep takes me.
By the time I manage to force my eyes open, the evening sun is setting through the window, and the warmth that had earlier surrounded me is gone.
I roll to
my back and blink up at the ceiling.
My hand skims over the cool blankets behind me. Had I imagined Alaric here with me as I slept?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alaric
A dull ache tugs on my back. I shift, realizing the skin on my back is tight, still healing, though the worst has passed.
I blink my eyes open. My head rests on something soft—a leg. My gaze travels up the leg, up the feminine torso, to Clara’s face. One hand is tangled in my hair, bringing vague memories of her running her fingers through it. Her other hand rests on my chest, clutching Rosalie’s stolen dagger.
I am a little shocked to discover it’s not pointed at me, but rather toward the door.
She had run to get away, but when she had the chance to draw blood and earn her freedom—she didn’t take it.
She was protecting me. There was nothing in this house that could have harmed me, and I would have healed on my own, a fact she must have been aware of, yet still she tended to me and stayed by my side.
She is fast asleep. I lift a hand and cup her face. The high demon of the Otherworld must have sent this woman to torture and confound me. As hard as I fight it, there is something about her that softens my heart.
Cherno’s had pops up under my arm. “I thought you would never heal.”
“Thank you, my friend, you have helped a great deal by lending me your power.”
“What happened?” Cherno crawls up onto Clara’s lap as I sit up. My powers will need several more hours to heal properly, and I will need blood.
“We shall speak of this shortly,” I say quietly. “Wait for me in the study.”
Cherno flits off without another word. I must have been in poor condition for them to obey without discord.
Clara’s breath comes in soft sighs, though her expression is tight with worry.
I kneel and scoop her up into my arms, then pick up the dagger. She shifts and buries her face in my chest, one hand clinging to front of my ruined shirt.
Otherworld take me. I should leave her on the floor, but I don’t. I can’t after she stayed with me.
I carry her to her room as she holds tight to me.
Setting the dagger on the night table, I lay her down on the bed. As I withdraw, she makes a pitiful whimpering sound and murmurs something that sounds like, “Don’t go.”
Leave, I tell myself. Leave now. But her frown deepens as her fingers reach out toward me. I run a hand down my face, unable to believe I am about to do this.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stretch out against her back. The moment I am settled, she shifts to face me. I will give her this, only for a while. I lay my arm across her while attempting to keep some distance between us, but—demons and saints—the woman curls into me.
Yes, she was definitely sent from the Otherworld to torture me.
Time passes slowly and I am acutely aware of every inch of her pressed against me.
What am I doing holding this woman I should hate? I should want to kill her, not touch her.
Too long have I lived striving to hold on to my humanity, to be the person Rosalie believed I was.
Now hate is too foreign an emotion to hold on to. Boredom, disdain, neutrality—yes but Clara has made it impossible to feel such paltry emotions toward her.
I understand now why she hates me, and why she killed the first vampire she came across. I do understand. It is the same reason I lived by Rosalie’s rules.
“You are not at all what I thought you were, my dear Clara,” I whisper.
Eventually dawn breaks, lighting the room with a soft glow. I inch away as gently as I can and place a blanket over her.
In the study, I find Cherno hanging before the fireplace. Their large shadow is thrown across the room.
I pour a glass of blood from the carafe set out on the desk as I sit. Cherno drops, swooping up just before hitting the floor, and lands on the desk before me.
“I believe I have found the cause of the increase in lesser demon activity,” I say. “There was a higher demon in the forest—”
“That is impossible,” they say.
“I was able to fight it off and get Clara and myself away before it did much damage.”
Cherno flaps their wings, sending papers everywhere. I make an attempt to catch a few but give up quickly. “You would have died without my help, you fool.”
I glare at the insult but instead of responding, I take a sip of my drink.
“Who was it?” they demand.
I set my glass down and run a finger along the rim. “I don’t know. They shifted constantly, refusing to take their true shape.” Standing, I pick up the scattered papers Cherno had made a mess of and pause when I get to Elizabeth’s letter. “You don’t think the Queen Bitch sent it, do you?”
Cherno hisses. A strange sound coming from something that looks like a bat. “No, but she will want to see the first human you have decided to claim. Though if you leave the girl as she is, Elizabeth will kill her.”
My hand tightens around the letter, crumpling it. “I will not force that on Clara. She will make the choice herself.”
If it were anyone else, Elizabeth wouldn’t give two shits about the human claimed. But since the day I was turned, she has attempted to dig her claws into me, and now Clara will pay with her life because I had thought I wanted revenge.
“They still don’t know about Rosalie… no one does,” I admit after a long silence.
“Then it is even more imperative that you mark Clara. Unless you wish to see her dead.”
I pace the room. After several strides, my muscles feel weak, threatening to give out on me. I almost say I wouldn’t mind seeing her dead—but that is no longer true.
Stumbling, I manage to catch myself against the wall. My breathing grows ragged and labored.
Healing, even with Cherno’s added power, has drained me to levels I have never felt before.
Cherno flies over and lands on my shoulder. “I am sorry, Master. I gave you what I could, now you must feed and rest.”
I nod. “Find one for tonight, bring her to the atrium, and make sure she is willing. And,” I add as an afterthought. “Clara’s ankle is twisted—if you could take care of that. It shouldn’t require much power.”
With that, I straighten and head out of the office to my room down the hall.
The matter of Clara has grown complicated. I feel as though I am losing my mind when I am near her. Even after knowing what she did, I still can’t seem to keep my distance. Touching her is like a drug. Though my heart and body are at war.
When I first traced Rosalie’s blood to her, I thought she was nothing more than another cold-blooded killer, trying to justify her crimes so she could feel vindicated. But then she had saved that human girl, a child she didn’t even know… and last night.
There were a thousand chances for her to cut me with that dagger and win her freedom, or outright kill me as she claimed was her want so many times. And yet she had my unconscious form and used that very blade to protect me.
Clara must be marked… I’ve thought to let her draw blood so she can leave, or just breaking our bargain and sending her away, but even the thought of doing so is impossible. I am too selfish, too weak.
I don’t want to let her go.
And despite the roaring fire along the far wall of my room, making shadows dance as it warms the air, it feels cold and empty in here.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Clara
I pull in a deep breath and let it out, stretching my entire body. My legs are tired and a little sore. I sit up and look around, unsure how I got to my room…
A dull ache thrums behind my eyes and I press the heel of my palm to my head. I need water. The last thing I remember was being in the drawing room with Alaric…
My hand flies to my mouth, he’s hurt.
I slide off the bed, pulse pounding in my veins. I have to find him.
Still dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday, I race through the hall and d
own the stairs, nearly running into the doorframe to the drawing room.
The fire burns. But the bowl of water and bloodied rags are gone. There is no evidence that we were ever there.
I walk in and look at the wall next to the hearth where he had slumped against me, the spot where I had held him until I lost the battle to my own exhaustion.
I know I didn’t imagine it. I had run and been attacked by a lesser demon. Alaric had come and somehow chased them off. I know he fought a demon and was injured. Though they both moved impossibly fast, I had watched them fight. I know I had.
My leg… I was hurt. But since I woke up, I’ve been walking on it. It’s not even sore. I reach down and pull up the last of my trousers and look at my leg. There’s no sign of bruising or swelling.
But that isn’t right—I had felt the pain as that demon grabbed me and dragged me across the forest.
I make my way to the dining area to find it empty, not so much as a single cup set out. Then I make my way back upstairs to check the library, only to find that it, too, is empty and cold for the lack of a fire. I don’t even hesitate, going to the third floor. Two rooms are locked, the first, which I assume to be his, and the mysterious room from before. I knock on each and wait, only for no reply to come.
His study is all that is left. The door is ajar and there is a fire going, but Alaric is not there.
He couldn’t have died—but I would know… wouldn’t I?
I feel as if I am the only one in this large manor. Not even the servants are around… they have probably already left for the evening as the sun will set soon.
Returning to the bottom floor, I venture to the back, only to discover what I thought was a servant’s area is really another hall leading to a massive music room, fit for entertaining as many people as one could want.
Much like the rest of the manor, the floors and walls are a dark mahogany wood. Windows cover the two outer walls. They are grouped into sets of three with pointed arches at the top and the center window being the largest.