by Keary Taylor
The woman raises a foot and kicks it hard into his chest.
He sails across the arena, skidding on his back. A wheezing sound comes across his lips, his head knocking backward, hard against the floor.
The woman raises her hands in the air, declaring herself the victor.
The last man standing.
I understand the rule now. The first to fall to the ground is eliminated.
I look over to Cyrus to see him leaning forward, a wicked gleam in his eye.
I told them they would deserve whatever punishment he gave them, for causing him so much grief and pain earlier. Was that a mistake? Was I wrong? Because I certainly didn’t understand the levels of brutality the man beside me would result to.
The next opponents step onto the bloodied stage. Two men, both huge in stature. Both with glowing red eyes.
“Fight!” Cyrus declares.
They rush forward, swords swinging.
Blood splatters onto the stage as they each take blow after blow. It’s incredible to watch, really. They move with such speed at times I can hardly even tell where they are. And they both take strikes that would lob human limbs from bodies, over and over.
Bloodied and weak, one of the men slips to his knee. And it’s a fatal mistake. He looks up at his opponent, just in time for him to swing a punch into his face.
The man sails back, landing flat on his back.
A cheer from the crowd sounds from a woman and another man.
I’m trying to understand the Houses. It seems they at least live in close proximity. I know from what Cyrus has said that at least some of them marry one another. They even have children sometimes. I would think they would be like family.
But these people, they swing swords at one another, and the look in their eyes, I swear, they really would kill one another to win. Even though there is no real prize.
“Do they not like each other?” I ask as the next set of opponents step up. “It certainly doesn’t look like it. If they’d just as soon kill each other, why do they all live with each other?”
Cyrus smiles as he watches the blood spray across the stage. “Each House has its own politics and inner workings. Some Houses band together for financial reasons. Like the House of Sidra.” The women on the stage pummel one another. “Others evolve out of manipulation, like your mother’s.”
I internally recoil at that.
“And others simply like to be associated with power,” Cyrus continues. “Like the House of Valdez. This is business and competition.”
A woman collapses to the ground after an exceptionally hard blow. She’s out.
“None of them are family, then?” I ask, disgust settling into my stomach. “None of them really care about each other?”
Cyrus’ eyes flick over to mine and he takes me in. “Just because there is money, manipulation, competition, doesn’t mean they aren’t family. What family is perfect?”
The next competition is over in one perfect blow that sends the man flat on his face.
Family. This is nothing what my family looks like. Nothing like what I envisioned my future family to look like.
By the time the first round ends, there isn’t a single inch of the stage that isn’t covered in blood. The losers sit on one side of the arena, bandaging wounds, hissing and groaning and casting dark looks at their King.
For hours, the fights continue.
A fist meets a face, the hit so fierce that a spray of blood splashes me across the face. Flecks of it spatter across Cyrus’ neck.
I was wrong before.
They don’t deserve this.
Cyrus is enjoying it far too much.
But he is the King of vampires, and I am just a little, human girl.
I can feel it, as the sunsets and the hour grows late. I’m tired, exhausted. But finally, the final two contestants step onto the stage. Edmond, and a man with long blond hair and a wicked scar down his face. Bloody. Battered. Exhausted.
They ready themselves. And even though they’re exhausted, I see the preparation in their eyes.
“To the last man standing,” Cyrus hisses.
Edmond takes the first swing, though the other man quickly deflects it, spinning with impossible speed, taking a swing at Edmond’s side, and landing.
The thud of metal on bone cracks through the arena.
Edmond twists, ducking low, kicking a leg out. The other man stumbles but with lightning speed, briefly puts some distance between the two of them.
On. And on. And on, they battle.
They are both covered in blood from head to foot. It drips down into their eyes, coats their teeth. They slip on the stage.
They are equally matched. And this could go on all night.
My fingers curl around the armrests. My jaw clenches. My blood boils too hot.
“That is enough, Cyrus,” I say. Not loudly. But with finality. “You’ve punished them enough. You have taken this too far. End this. Now.”
Every eye turns to me. Edmond and his opponent pause, though neither lowers their weapon.
They all keep looking at me like that. With shock. And maybe a little bit of reverence.
I look over at Cyrus, and slowly he looks back at me.
“I can’t take another second of it,” I say, looking at him with stone cold eyes. “The fact that you are enjoying this so much makes me sick.”
Dead. Silence.
Not a one of them breathes. No one moves a muscle.
I feel their eyes shift from me, to Cyrus, and back to me.
Cyrus stands but never once takes his eyes from me. He reaches out, taking my hand and pulls me to my feet.
Fear. I should be feeling fear. Being touched by the man who brought about so much violence without anyone questioning him.
But all I feel is determination.
“You are all dismissed,” Cyrus says, though hardly loudly enough for the giant space.
But one by one, they breathe in relief. They slowly trickle out that door.
Cyrus never once looks away from me though, never is distracted.
I raise my chin, determined not to cower under his penetrating stare. The House of Valdez might bow under his commands, but I am not one of them.
As the room empties, Cyrus looks at my hand. He turns it over, as if studying every inch of my skin.
“It has been a very, very long time since I have met anyone like you, Logan,” he breathes. His thumb brushes over the center of my wrist. “Someone who does not recoil when in my presence. Someone who dares speak their mind.”
He raises my hand, and brings his nose to trail along the inside of my wrist, slowly up the inside of my arm toward my elbow. His eyes slide closed as he slowly inhales.
There’s something wrong with my heart. It flutters. It stops. It sprints.
My stomach is full of fluttering beasts.
“I told you that I would give you four weeks to finish your human life,” he says, brushing his cheek along my skin. “I told you I am a man of my word.” Every one of his words sounds pained, full of absolute longing. “But Logan, please, I beg of you. Please do not make me wait.”
His voice actually cracks just slightly on his last sentence.
The agony in his words… A fracture splits in my chest and my breath catches.
“Why do you want me to die?” I ask. I raise my other hand and palm the side of his face. He presses it into my hand, still not opening his eyes. “Cyrus, what do you want from me?”
A pained breath rips from his chest and he turns to press his lips into my palm, cupping his hands around mine so that it does not escape.
Violent tingles spark in my lower stomach. I’m hardly breathing.
I can’t look away from Cyrus’ lips pressed against my palm. And I realize, I don’t want him to pull them away.
“I am so tired of waiting,” he whispers. He trails his lips, not kissing, just brushing them lightly against my skin, down to my wrist. “I’ve been so ready…” He continues dragging h
is lips along my arm. As he slides them up my bicep, it parts his lips and my body sparks in desire. I let my eyes slide closed just a little bit.
One of his hands wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. And slowly, slowly, those captivating lips of his slide across my shoulder, and rest against my neck.
“Please, Logan,” he begs.
And instantly I come back to my senses as I feel the tiniest prick of pain against my flesh.
Fangs.
At my neck.
Ready to end me.
“No,” I whisper, suddenly trembling.
I’m so confused. So conflicted. It’s agony, it takes everything I have in me to take half a step back. Cyrus’ eyes are foggy when they rise to meet mine. Filled with desire and lust and something I swear is love. But it can’t be love because…because it’s just impossible.
I shake my head. “There’s still so much I have to finish. Still too much I have to learn. Still far too much I don’t know about my future.”
Slowly, the pain returns to Cyrus’ face, and I think I die a little inside at the sight of it.
“Not yet,” I say quietly.
But the pain turns to sadness and resolve. He nods as his shoulders sag in defeat. He turns to go.
“Did I win?” I ask quietly.
“Win?” he says, pausing.
“The game,” I say. “You said I could see Eli if I won.”
There’s a little look of betrayal in his eyes that shatters my complicated heart.
“Yes,” he says, sounding tired as the ocean. “You won. You may visit Rath, just for a few minutes.”
Without another word and without any more begging, he turns, and walks out of the arena.
Chapter 13
I return to my room and change. It’s comforting wearing my own clothes once more. Just simple shorts, and normal t-shirt. Even though my entire world has been turned upside down. Even though my insides are all inside out.
It’s Rafael who waits for me outside my suite. To my utter shock, he looks perfectly normal once more, wearing clean clothes, no signs of blood, and no cuts all over his body.
“Vampires heal quickly?” I ask as I follow him to the elevator. I stand beside him uncomfortably.
“Yes,” he answers stiffly. I have a feeling the King growling at him earlier has put him on edge when it comes to his interactions with me. “Even more so with the aid of human blood.”
“Oh,” is all I say around the tightness in my throat.
We plummet through the belly of the casino. Down and down until surely we’re below ground level. Finally, the elevator slows, and then the doors open.
It’s nearly pitch black as we step out. It’s a long hall and only a single light is on the wall at the far end of it, probably fifty yards away.
Down the dim hall, I follow Rafael.
He walks to the middle of the hall and produces a set of keys. He unlocks a door, and holds it open for me.
A rush of cold air brushes over my skin as I step inside. If possible, it’s even darker in here. I barely make out the shape of stairs descending down into roughly carved earth.
Down and down we walk, until finally we hit level ground.
It’s a dungeon.
The space that opens up isn’t particularly large. There are five prison cells that break off from the central space. A man sits in a chair in one corner, but darts to his feet when he sees us.
“Take a five minute break, Harris,” Rafael says.
The man nods and sets up the stairs.
“Logan?”
Through the dark, my eyes search. They land on the furthest cell.
Eli climbs up from the ground, grabbing the bars.
“I’ll just be at the top of the stairs,” Rafael says, tucking the keys into his pocket. “Not that you can, but don’t try anything.” He turns and walks back up the stairs, leaving Eli and I alone.
Hesitantly, I take a step forward.
“Why are you here, Logan?” Eli asks. His voice is concerned, confused.
“Cyrus…the…the King,” I say. My thoughts are a swirling, racing, confused mess. “He wanted me to understand. To show me what all of this…what it really means.”
He shakes his head, letting it drop. “I’m so sorry, Logan. This shouldn’t have happened. It should have been so much further down the road. I failed you, and I’m sorry.”
I finish crossing to the cell, grabbing one of the bars. “What…what does that mean? Eli…Cyrus has said these things, and now, I don’t think I really even know who you are.”
Eli looks up, and there’s pain and regret written all over his face.
“I was sent to Colorado sixteen years ago,” he says. He hesitates, and I can see him debating this, telling me the truth. But he swallows once and then says, “By your mother.”
My brows furrow and my hands are ice cold.
“She wanted to protect you,” he says. Something softens in his voice when he speaks about my mother. “She knew that one day Cyrus would go looking for you, would find you, but she sent me, so that I could delay that day for as long as possible. And I failed. I am so, so sorry, Logan.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Why would she think Cyrus would come looking for me? Cyrus is crazy and scary, but why would she be so worried about him finding me?”
Rath, because I realize now, that’s who he’s always really been—this entire time—shakes his head and lets it fall once more. “It doesn’t…it doesn’t even matter now. You’ll die, and everything you were will probably be gone and your mother and I will just have to accept it.”
My chest hurts. And I’m angry. I feel betrayed.
“None of that makes any sense,” I say through clenched teeth. “Everyone just keeps speaking in riddles, being vague and so damn mysterious.” I smack the bar in my frustration, but all it does is hurt my hand. I turn away so he won’t see the angry tears rushing into my eyes.
“I want to protect you from this life for as long as I can,” he says, resolved. Even he hardly believes his words. “To keep that weight from your shoulders until the last possible moment.”
I shake my head, as one of the tears breaks free. I wipe at it angrily.
“I’ve thought of you as family for years, now,” I say. “You were always there. Always had my back. Were always so caring.” My voice grows hoarse. “But it was all a lie. Family doesn’t keep secrets. Especially not of this scale.”
His mouth opens and closes, but still, he won’t tell me the truth.
“You know,” I hiss. “You know exactly what is going on. But you keep your mouth shut. You keep Cyrus’ secrets. You keep Alivia’s secrets. You just let me run around with the King, looking like a complete fool.”
I turn and head toward those stairs.
“Cyrus will kill me,” I say, pausing. “He’s incredibly anxious to do so. So, you’ll be released, I promise. But I can tell you this.” I hesitate, because the words are going to break me. “I won’t bother you anymore once you’re out. I realize now that sometimes you can’t even trust those closest to you. You can’t trust someone you don’t even know.”
I turn, and I walk back up those stairs.
Chapter 14
No one bothers me for the rest of the night, other than a worker who knocks, leaving a dinner tray.
I take a few nibbles, but my stomach is in too many knots to eat.
So, I take a shower, washing the blood sprays from my skin and hair. I crawl into bed, too tired to even dress, and fall fast asleep.
A baby cries.
Over and over.
Howling, rushing wind blows all around, unrelenting with its strength. It’s cold. So bitterly, deathly cold.
“Here,” a gentle voice says, and something that smells like animal, but is warm, wraps around my shoulders.
The baby cries again, wailing. Inconsolable.
“He’ll die if we don’t do something,” the words breathe over my lips. The baby screams again, and tears prick in my eyes.<
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“There,” the voice says. A hand raises, pointing across the valley. To the other side of the lake. Dark spires rise into the night air. “We will go there.”
My eyes slide open, my teeth chattering. I pull the blanket tighter around me to fight off the cold.
Only my room is plenty warm. There’s no wind. No first signs of snow.
I’ve always had strange dreams. Imagined things I can’t really explain. Images of landscapes I’ve never visited. Flashes of faces I’ve never seen before. Had feelings of family and friends I know don’t exist.
It’s why I firmly believe in reincarnation.
I’ve lived other lives. It sounds crazy. But I can’t come up with any other explanation.
My imagination isn’t vivid enough to come up with this on its own.
The door to my bedroom opens and Mina walks in, pushing another meal cart.
“The King wants you to eat a good breakfast and enjoy the services he will soon be sending up,” she says without hesitating or even looking up at me. She parks the meal cart close to my bed. I scramble, sitting up, but being careful to keep myself covered, considering I slept in the nude last night.
“The party will begin at two o’clock,” Mina continues. She moves to my closet. She grabs another garment bag, this one huge. “You’ll wear this. Head to the great hall, and he will meet you there.”
She turns on her heel, and exits the bedroom.
I shake my head.
My life is so weird now.
I wrap a sheet around myself and sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the silver dome off the plate.
It’s a large spread, far more than I could ever actually finish. Eggs, fruit, French toast, bacon. I can’t think of any breakfast item that isn’t there.
Almost as if on cue, as soon as I finish my breakfast, there’s a knock on the door, but before I can even get up to answer, it opens and in walks a strong-looking man, carrying a massage table.
“Good morning, Miss Pierce,” he greets me with a warm smile.
So much for any semblance of control over my life, or privacy.