Roseblood

by Emily Shore

  We’d delayed long enough. Given that most high school elites had their gowns custom designed and delivered by this time, it was unusual not to have my Masque ensemble. But Mom had assured me she had it covered. After all the upheaval, I needed to spend more time on my classes. Perhaps the biggest change to my routine was my acceptance on the training fields of Le Couvènte High. Much to Skip’s chagrin even if we still kept our nightly training routines. I don’t think he appreciated sharing. But ever since the battle, no other challenges save for on the training grounds presented themselves. Those did not challenge my blood claim. And I’d risen to conquer each one with Skip waiting in the wings, ready to persuade my body to heal.

  Our own trainings were…unique with him using his ability against me. Even lending a few bruises and at one point…broken ribs. Only to end with healing each time. My own attempt to mimic such an action resulted in another broken rib. I needed more familiarity with anatomy and how to distinguish muscles from bone before embarking further. Knowledge was the key to all my abilities. Or at least the ones that didn’t come naturally.

  Every time training ended, Skip kissed, casting star dust into my heart. I always needed to shake off the glittery feeling before returning home. Whether it was just him or part of his persuasion or both, I still didn’t know.

  Shopping with Mom was a welcome reprieve ― especially when we did it outside Le Couvènte. Not a day had passed that I refused to take her for granted. Or how we could only do this because of Skip. Even if it all came with a great cost, the reminder tiptoed on the edge of my thoughts. More so today since the Queen’s funeral was tonight.

  This gown needed to be fit for a queen.

  Teenagers at Le Couvènte High spent weeks if not months preparing for this Masque. Gowns were custom made, masks were hand-designed, molded to fit precise facial features. We were in San Francisco because it was rare to find any Le Couvènte designer who didn’t have their hands full. If Heath wasn’t the school play’s costume designer, he would’ve been more than happy to design a dress.

  After several gown stores, the last place we embarked was a shoppe on the outskirts of San Francisco, tucked away between a few series of Victorian row houses. Opening the car door, I removed my sunglasses to check out the shoppe. Simply titled Marie. Sweeping arcs and curves for font. If I appreciated the shoppe’s outside this much, I could only imagine how much I would adore the gowns inside. The display window dripped with elaborate lace gowns of full tiered skirts and a diamond-encrusted cake draped in fondant, pearl strings, and gold flecks.

  It all reminded me of my mother. During her reign, as much as my father bristled, she was known for her high society and penchant for balls and rich gowns. The life of the party. While I didn’t have her crowning social status, her magnetism, I could still appreciate it all. Like my father, I preferred literary, intimate gatherings. Like my mother, I would dress to impress, the gathering only starting when I arrived.

  We entered, stepping onto the lush rug of pastel colors and rosebud designs. On each side of the entryway were arched openings into the various display rooms. As soon as we arrived, I understood why my mother had selected this place last.

  “Aurora!”

  If the owner was human, she would’ve been meager with her petite body. A delicate frame. Her pale skin, almost translucent thanks to spacious windows shedding sunlight, angular eyes, and rich, sable hair harked of nothing but vampire. Enough lace curtains and I assumed filtered windows for protection. Also, I caught the steady blush in her pupils: human blood drinker.

  Her plump, affectionate lips pecked each of my mother’s cheeks. “Years, Aurora, we haven’t seen one another in years!”

  “Good to see you again, Imogen.” Mom leaned in to accept the near air kisses, touching her fingers, light, upon Imogen’s shoulders.

  “My, my! What is that fine scent?” Imogen’s eyes flicked to mine. Perusing one glance at my mother, she advanced toward me, hands open, fingernails long and manicured with frosted swirled designs. “For many years, I believed you would someday honor me with your legendary daughter’s presence. Now, that day has arrived.” Even if her words addressed my mother, Imogen’s eyes didn’t retreat from mine.

  She reminded me of an anemone flower ― its oyster white petals unfurled with fine, black nectary-strands leading down the black eye of its center. Her hands were those petals fanning out to embrace me, and it was not lost on me when she breathed deep the scent of my hair and skin. “Reina Elizabeth Caraway in the flesh.”

  “And blood,” I hastened to add, hoping my smirk seemed whimsical. Raising my hands, I proudly displayed my silver veins, sparking fire and lightning within my palms. She flinched and my smirk spread.

  After the startle ebbed, laughter followed. The ends of Imogen’s hair swung back and forth like a pendulum to her laugh. Not a sparkly laugh. A satin laugh, a veil lifted to exhibit priceless art.

  “Your sense of humor and gumption, Aurora?” Imogen cupped my shoulder while her head slightly pivoted to peer at Mom.

  “Rin has managed to inherit a couple of my qualities. But the charm she gets from her father. And his simple rationality for the most part. Her passion is her own.”

  I beamed at my mother. Even if we didn’t share much in common and were more like fire and gasoline, she was still my mother and knew me better than most.

  “A rare trait when living with our kind,” remarked Imogen. “I assume you are here for more than a social call,” she wagered, fluttering her hand to the gowns on display.

  Against the walls, dozens more hung in clear garment bags, preserved for customers. Above them, artwork mirrored everything confectionary — cupcakes and petit fours — along with photographs of dolls dressed in tutus and frocks, their puffed, white hair billowing toward the frames like cottony clouds. Some other details I noticed were the ruffled white canopies with their twinkle lights and hand-painted feather designs on the pale blue, pink, and gray walls. Plus, the great mural depicting an Eiffel Tower-embellished Paris skyline.

  “Le Couvènte High has a Masque every year, and Reina needs a gown. Something…what was the word you used earlier, darling?” inquired Mom as I strayed toward one of many frilly display gowns.

  “Earth-shattering,” I replied without hesitation, glancing over my shoulder.

  “You have certainly come to the right place.” Imogen flaunted herself. “I just so happen to specialize in earth-shattering. Walk with me.” She invited me but swooped her hand around my shoulder, drawing me toward a mannequin display.

  Next, she touched the ends of my hair and swung my body toward her. “Now, let me have a look at you for a moment. What hairstyle have you selected for this soiree?”

  I opened my smart phone to show her the picture of a girl with sections of her curled hair twisted into rose-like swirls at the back of her head with the rest pinned to the side and tumbling over one shoulder. If the Rose Killer intended to watch everything, culminate it all on Masque night, I intended to give him a proper show.

  Imogen approved of my choice.

  “Excellent. You have a neckline in mind?”

  “No preference.”

  “You have a lovely neck. Best to show it off. Give our kind a challenge for one night. Own their temptation. And what colors do you prefer?”

  “Purple,” I stipulated without hesitation. I’d allow for some black. My original color was red, but again…there was no point in pulling punches. It was time to pull out all the stops.

  “Perfect.” She nodded, her gaze lighting on my hair. “Black undertones to compliment the red in your hair.”

  The first selection was unsuccessful. As she helped me out of the flawed gown in the spacious dressing room, I looked over my shoulder and wondered, “Do you have any corset bodices?”

  Kneeling behind me to gather up the chiffon skirts of the first dress, Imogen grinned up at me. “With your price point and because of Aurora, yes.”

  “How do you know my mother?�
�

  Imogen’s hands paused on the ruffles. “Your mother and I met when she was a teenager. You see, I once lived in Le Couvènte back in its early days before they introduced their new lifestyle. Unlike others, I had difficulty abiding by the new laws. Unbeknownst to the Council at the time, I kept a human familiar in my estate at the time, but merely drinking human blood wasn’t enough for me. A vampire’s baser instinct is to hunt. And so, I did.”

  Changing back into my street clothes, I listened to the rest of her story from inside the fitting room, intrigued by this part of my mother’s history.

  “If your mother wasn’t hunting that night, I would’ve drained my human familiar, Ember, and brought disgrace upon Le Couvènte since I am a descendent of a Founder. Your mother fought well that night. Growing up in a household of werewolf brothers had developed her from a young age.”

  Mom often discussed her brothers. A love/hate relationship. Early into Le Couvènte’s founding days, they’d branched off to the Yosemite region and helped form the Sierra packs. It was why Brian exploring them was such a sore spot. In essence, he would join our uncles over our mother. I didn’t want to believe any of them were responsible for Skip’s father’s death. The packs had grown considerably throughout the years.

  “But while Ember escaped, Aurora lost a fair amount of blood and was near death,” Imogen continued. “I donated some of my silver blood to help her survive. When she awoke, I vowed to seek a mentor who could help me with my thirst. That mentor became my husband, who designed this very building.”

  “But you still—” I started to point out, but she interrupted me.

  “Yes, purchased human blood, but I have not kept a familiar since that night. It’s a temptation I cannot afford. It requires much control. Not just for their bloodlust but over knowledge to maintain their secrecy. Vampires in these sanguinarine societies take great risks. I supplement my purchased human blood with hunting animals once a month or so. It is a safer option. I wish more vampires practiced Le Couvènte’s animal farm way of life. But I am grateful to your mother her understanding my present lifestyle. I will always be in her debt.”

  Code: be understanding, too. I followed Imogen to her ‘rarities’ as she titled them. Perhaps my humanity made me a harsher critic. My father was stricter than most. His beliefs had influenced me throughout the years. But I always knew more about his past than my mother’s. Today was like the cracking of a painted carnival doll. Scars I never knew etched into my mother’s heart. Those scars had strengthened her. How had I only ever seen the good parts — her childhood relationship with her brothers, the first memories she shared with my father, the house he’d bought for her? I knew the reason: I’d shut the door to others. I didn’t want to hear about how the Sierra Packs included Lycans or how they used compulsion on humans for blood sport or for procreation. My insides squirmed at the thought. Especially with Brian’s interest in them.

  I refused to stay in the dark any longer.

  Heath, Brian, my father — their shoulders were stronger than mountains. Mine had grown stronger. Even now, I felt a thrill from knowing more. My blood cells grew plumper. Fattened. Vessels pumping harder. Perspective was changing. I was changing. My blood waking all the more.

  And I was high on the feeling.

  When my fingers lighted on one of Imogen’s rarities, it was an instant connection ― girl and dress. Perfect harmony. A dramatic ash gray, strapless corset bodice adorned in lace, pearls, and roses with diamond bud centers. Laced up in the back by purple silk string. Fanning out from the lower stomach were plush, grandiose amaranthine purple ruffles ― full-bodied and sinuous, forming winnowed rose patterns and swelling into a chapel-length train. From the Marie Antoinette-inspired, handmade lace detail-work to the small black rosettes flirting along the edges of the sweetheart neckline, the bodice alone was a masterpiece. My fingers hushed along the ruffles, skimmed the silk strings.

  “Try it on,” my mother appeared behind me to whisper in my ear, recognizing my infatuation.

  As I slipped into the dress with help this time from my mother, I stepped back in time. With every tug from the silk strings, with every brush of the inner skirts against my skin, I was treading on the extravagant paths of the Rococo Era but without the pastel colors and beehive hair sporting bird cages. The bodice hung low enough to reveal a little amount of cleavage but stopped short of being obscene. The puckered skirts gushed far behind me, but Imogen said that’s what bustles were for. Heath had plenty of time between now and the Masque to construct one for me.

  “You look absolutely stunning.” My mother eyed me as I stood in front of the three-way mirror. “Add a mask, some lace gloves, and a teardrop necklace and the outfit will be complete!”

  I pressed a hand to my neck and nodded. “We should see if we can find the gloves and the necklace, but I agreed to let Heath do the mask. He said he had some big surprise in mind, and I told him that was fine as long as it was black and purple.”

  “Color me intrigued,” Mom tapped at her upper lip. “But I think I can help with the necklace and the gloves.”

  “Mom…” I swept my neck to the side to stare at my mother from the circular platform I stood on. “This dress…” I lowered my voice to a whisper when I mentioned the price.

  Mom approached and didn’t hesitate to take my hands in hers and peer up at me, her smile mirroring mine. “Not another word about the price. Think of it as your birthday gift if you want, but you are my only daughter, and it’s been too long since we had a special day together.”

  I turned to face myself in the mirror again. “The roses are perfect, too.” I inclined a hand to the rose-themed ruffles of the gown.

  “The roses do suit you. I know they’re your favorite flower.”

  I shrugged. “Ironic considering recent events.”

  “Well, you prefer them dead and dry more than anything. I remember whenever your father came home with roses for me, you always said you couldn’t wait for them to die, and you’d never let me throw them out.”

  “Oh, yes…” I considered the notion. “I still have a chest filled with them in the closet. You know roses…they die so quickly, but they just happen to be that one flower that doesn’t look so miserable after.”

  “Ugh, yes like tulips…” Mom rolled her eyes and waved a hand. “I banned your father from ever bringing home those depressing, little beasts. Now, remind me the Masque theme?”

  I stepped down from the platform onto level ground with her. “The Phantom of the Opera.” Convenient. Le Couvènte High would be saturated in masks and skulls to lace and roses.

  “Then, your dress will fit in splendidly. That is… if you change out of it so we may buy it.”

  Stored in the backseat, the priceless treasure still beckoned to me even as I closed the door, fingers pausing on the door handle, but I feared if I touched the dress again, the roses would shrivel into nothing more than purple strings and bits of chiffon.

  One more week. And I still had to choose: Skip or Raoul.

  In the car, I squeezed my shoulders together and posed the question to my mother, “Who are you voting for?”

  My mother shook her head. “Nice try. They’re both good men. Raoul saved your life long ago and is a dear friend. Skip has saved your life and now mine. Ultimately, this is your choice,” she verified, placing her trust in me as my father had done. “You may take other’s opinions into consideration ― you know Heath’s opinion and your father’s ― but I insist on remaining neutral. I think it would be best if we let the topic rest and continue to enjoy mom and daughter time.”

  She was right. Tonight, we would attend Queen Caroline’s funeral. And I spent the rest of the day harnessing my powers and stoking my blood. If the Rose Killer disturbed this funeral, I’d be ready.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Vengeance

  All the colored-glass windows of Le Couvènte Cathedral seemed more like blood stains. I saw the church as a black hole with red blots al
l along the sides instead of roses. Heath sat beside me in the pew as I tried not to recollect the events of that night. How Queen Caroline died while the Guardians and the Council came to the call of my family…to protect a mere mortal such as me. I felt cold. Treading water in a half-frozen lake. Because I could do nothing. No fire left. Nowhere to direct it. No attacker. No suspect. Now, I raged inside with numb skin outside.

  On the night I learned of her death, my rage was palpable. Tonight, something inside me had snapped like my heart had turned into a phoenix, spitting cinders and flaming ash into the rest of my body. It grew when they opened the casket for us to pay our respects. As former monarchs, my family was first in line along with Council members. Skip’s family was second only to us.

  When I approached the casket, I winced at the sight of the drained vampire. Despite how the embalmers had tried their best, she didn’t look like she was sleeping. From her lackluster cheekbones, high and elegant as the crests of cliffs to the absence of that knowing smirk creasing one corner of her mouth, Caroline’s death sucked all my fire to the surface. Silver veins quaked and I was forced to clench my hands into fists. But I could already feel the fire budding. Heath did his best, but his hand on the small of my back only stoked the fire more.

  Then, Skip and Raoul appeared. One on each side. Skip with his persuasion and smoldering eyes, willing the fire back inside me, to save it, to nurture it. And Raoul with his hand drifting across mine tempered it, smothered it, chilling my fiery revenge to cool liquid gold.

  As soon as I finished paying my respects, kissing Queen Caroline’s forehead, the heat returned, mushrooming inside me. I wanted to get out of here. But I couldn’t retreat.

  Several hundred eyes from the base pews to the balconies tracked me as my family took their rightful place in the front row. I would not shrink from them. Instead, I held my head high. I owned this moment to respect a great Queen. A great mentor. A good friend. To grieve for the time that was lost. In more ways than one.