The Canary Club
Page 29
It had taken all my will not to retch on his golden slippers.
I cried into my pillow all night when Mother told me he asked for my hand in marriage. I screamed, raged, and begged— something that did not bode well in her eyes. When the letter arrived from Empress Elizabeth of Russia, we had both been deeply relieved to say the least. I cling to that feeling now, as we trek across the tundra, snow falling all around us.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I sit forward. I’m so desperate for conversation that I ask the only question that I think might appeal to my stoic mother.
“Mother, tell me, how long do you think we are to remain at the Winter Palace?”
Her eyes flicker up to me, sparkling. She is beautiful, for all her flaws of character. Her hair is brown like mine, and perfectly smooth. Her skin is a pale crème like fresh milk, and her eyes are wide and dark blue like a storm at sea. There is absolutely nothing that makes her happier than planning what, in her mind, will be a fine royal union, and that happiness makes her even lovelier. As she answers, I would swear she is actually glowing.
“If I have my way, you will never step foot on Prussian soil again,” she answers confidently. “Empress Consort,” she muses wistfully, “just as I should have been.”
I wish I could share her enthusiasm. Gretchen’s warm smile and twinkling laugh invade my thoughts once more, and I have to force them away. It won’t do to dwell on those childhood memories now. Not when my mother has made my options very clear.
“It’s not an engagement,” I say softly. “Not officially.”
Empress Elizabeth’s letter had been vague at best. A simple invitation for my mother and me to join her at Russian Court. There was not even a hint of what my mother longed for so desperately—a marriage between myself and Peter, once heir to Sweden and now the future King of Russia. Still, Mother packed us up immediately and we made for St. Petersburg even through the blistering winter, hoping to make our arrival by Peter’s sixteenth birthday.
“Not yet, perhaps. But the empress favors our family—my family, that is—and she knows the best way to secure her throne is by securing her bloodline. And for that, she needs not only Peter as heir, but for Peter himself to have an heir. And for that, she will need you.”
Or another princess. I don’t say the words, but they buzz in my head like honeybees. The prince’s birthday celebration is sure to be filled with eligible ladies from every corner of the kingdom, each vying for a place beside him. I myself have met Peter only once, when we were ten years old. He was bratty and insufferable as all boys are, but even at that age, he had subtle nobility about him, a tilt of the chin, and a confidence in his gait that only royals possess.
Deep in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of man Peter had become. Is he kind? Handsome? Strong? Wise? In my mind, I allow a vague image of him to form. Surely, he would be handsome, as were the other men in his family. And even in the remote area of my home, word of his skill in the hunt and his predilection for archery were well known. Certainly, he will be a good husband and a fair and just king.
While I daydream, Mother begins to drone on about the lavish balls that we will attend, and the frivolous and silly-sounding customs I will be expected to learn to fit in at Royal Court. I lay my head back gently as she speaks, the sound of her voice soothing after such a long silence. The sled bucks and I fly forward into her lap, spilling the contents of her sewing basket.
“What in the world?” she demands as I right myself. “Why have we stopped?”
I draw back the curtain and our escort, General Pitankin, rides past the window, his chestnut mare jerking the reins skittishly.
“Stay inside,” he commands.
My mother grabs a dainty, blue fan from the seat beside her and begins fanning herself despite the cold.
“I’m sure it’s just beggars. I believe these woods are filled with them,” she offers as if to console me.
Outside, the general yells something in Russian. I curse myself mentally. If only I had thought to learn Russian along with French and German, I wouldn’t feel quite so foreign now. Still, if Mother is successful in her ambitions, I will learn the language soon enough.
There are sounds of a scuffle, and the unmistakable ring of a steel blade being drawn from its sheath. The sled rocks sideways as someone knocks into it. Mother lets out a startled squeal. I lean forward, peeking out the curtain, and see the general and another of our guards on the ground, unmoving. Quickly, I lift the hem of my brown, wool gown and slip a knife from my boot. Mother opens her mouth, I’m sure to chastise me for such an unladylike thing as having a knife hidden on my person, but I silence her with a finger to my lips. While my mother had been determined to groom me to be a proper lady, my father was content to let me join him in hunting, fencing, and even knife throwing. The small blade in my hand is one of many he’s gifted me over the years, and the hilt is warm and comforting in my palm.
The sled rocks again, and I hear the stomp of boots as the thieves begin pulling our trunks from the back. They won’t find any riches, only recently altered dresses and sturdy undergarments we’ve brought with us. Any jewels Mother might have brought are most likely hidden down the front of her corset—and there would be few of those at that. Despite being the ruler of our province, my father has no kingly riches. Our wealth lies in our title alone—a fact Mother never allows him to forget.
Soon, they are muttering in disappointed tones. I know they will come for us next; there is nothing left for them now but to amuse themselves with us. Nodding to Mother, who looks like she’s about to faint, I quietly slip out of the opposite side of the sled and slink around its wooden bow, knife in hand. Snow crunches beneath my boots, but the restless stomping of the horses obscures it. I know I’m no match for them on fair terms, but if I can surprise them, then we have a chance of escape.
I see two pairs of legs standing beside the sled. Then I hear the door fly open, and my mother screams. Lunging forward, I slice into the first thief’s thigh, high up where I know the blood will flow too quickly to stop. The knife is sharp enough that it takes him a moment to realize what’s happening. Climbing to my feet, I lunge at the next man, who is much quicker than I hoped, and he waves off my attack. I spin, a move I’ve practiced more than once with the butcher’s children when we used to play wooden swords, and crouch below his grasp, slicing a line through his gut. The smell is thick and sour as his innards spill out, sloshing to the ground as he falls. I gag, and bile rises in my throat. My eyes water immediately, and it’s all I can do not to collapse to my knees.
I’m so busy trying to get myself together that I don’t see the third man coming. Before I can think to fight him off, two strong arms coil around me as my mother continues to scream. He squeezes, and I can’t breathe. The knife falls from my hand as I thrash wildly. He’s yelling at me in his foreign tongue, but I can’t even draw breath to tell him that I don’t understand. Just as my vision begins to explode with light, I manage to kick the side of the carriage hard enough to topple us both into the new-fallen snow. He falls flat to his back, and I crash on top of him. I hear the air violently rush form his lungs, and he releases me. Rolling to my feet, I scoop up the knife and run as fast as my numb feet will carry me.
The woods are thick and blanketed with snow. I’m light enough that I don’t sink too deep as I fly through the forest, but behind me, I hear the crunch of the snow as my attacker pursues, each step slow and labored.
Good. Let him chase me. I can get him away from my mother, then, hopefully, double back and grab her. We will unhitch the sled, and she and I can ride on to St. Petersburg with just the horses. The sky is grey and the air frigid in my lungs. Each breath burns, and then expels in a ball of steam out of my mouth. Still, I run. Turning to spare a glance over my shoulder unbalances me and I fall, slipping down the slope of a hill, tumbling into a deep snow bank. I lay there for a moment, trying to catch my breath and staring at the sky above me, and I listen for
his footsteps.
There’s nothing.
Rolling onto my side, I peek up. The snow is deep, well over my knees, and I struggle to get back to solid ground. A patch of pine trees offers respite. The snow around them is shallow, and I take a minute to brush the ice from my hair. It has fallen free from its elegant braid and dangles in wet clumps around my face. Still, I have somehow managed to hold onto the knife.
In the distance, I hear a gunshot. The sound echoes through the bleak forest like cannon fire. I turn without hesitation and run back toward my mother, cursing my stupidity. What had I been thinking leaving her alone like that? The bandit must have doubled back to her, thinking me long gone. As I make my way up the steep hill, I slip and fall to my knees in something slimy and wet. It isn’t snow but mud, a small spring of warm water bubbling up from the ground. Somehow, the snow had hidden it from my sight, but now, it’s all down the front of me. The water and mud pulls down on my already-ruined gown, as if trying to hold me to the earth. I frown at the sight. Poor Mother. She’d paid the seamstress what little money we had to refashion this dress for me. It had been one of her old walking gowns but the seamstress had added lace and a beautiful yellow sash, all of which was now covered in muck. With haste, I untie the sash and slip the bulky gown over my head. The chill is immediate, but still, I feel lighter, light enough to run once more. I run my hands over my corset and decide to rid myself of it while I’m at it. Using the knife, I quickly cut the strings and discard it. Not only can I take a real breath, but also my petticoat is clean and white as snow, helping me blend in. Scrambling back to my feet, I press forward. As soon as I appear over the ridge, I see a man standing at the edge of the cliff not five feet to my left. He looks over, his eyes locking with mine.
He doesn’t look like a bandit, I realize. He wears a long, black brocade jacket with golden embroidery; a black, fur hat stuffed on his head makes his blue eyes glow like azure. He’s clean, calm, and holding a rife—which is pointed at me for only a moment before he lowers it, a confused expression on his face. I hold out my tiny blade in front of me, as if it would do any good. He cocks his head to the side curiously before addressing me in perfect German.
“Princess Sophia? I’m Sergei Salkov of Her Majesty’s Imperial Court. I’m here to rescue you.”
Just as the words leave his mouth, something moves in the corner of my eye. The bandit who has been chasing me rushes forward from behind a thick tree, right toward Sergei. The tall, scruffy man is draped in heavy furs and even at full speed, he’s moving too slowly to cross the distance between them before I turn the knife in my hand and throw it. It lands with a dull thud in the center of his chest. He swears loudly and then falls forward, the snow around him turning to crimson slush.
As gently as possible, I wrap my arms around my waist and hug myself, rubbing the exposed skin to stave off the frigid cold. I glance up and see Sergei has his rifle lowered at the ground and is staring at the now-fallen bandit. Then he’s looks back at me with his mouth twisted into a funny grin.
Not sure what the protocol is for meeting a stranger in my undergarments, I dip into a formal curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, but I think perhaps you are a bit late for that.”
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Isabel Stone wanted a normal life. But when the unexpected death of her father leaves her at the helm of the family business, things quickly go from weird to worse. Vampires are on the loose and out of the coffin, and only Isabel can walk the fine line between the world of the living and the world of the undead. Read Sherry Ficklin's CHASING DAYBREAK today. (Written under the pen-name Ranae Glass.) CHASING DAYBREAK is currently free!
CHAPTER ONE
I cussed under my breath as the ropes binding my wrists tore at my raw flesh. The closet was dark, except for the flickering light beneath the door. Rancid-smelling smoke assaulted my nose and singed my throat, which was already raw from screaming. I bucked wildly against my restraints, fighting against the panic trying to seep into my brain.
Shane lay across from me in a crumpled heap, still unconscious from the dart full of animal tranquilizers the arsonist had hit him with. I had to admit, I was impressed. It took skill and planning to take down a vampire, even a newbie like Shane. As he slumped in the corner with his thin face slack, I watched his eyes moving restlessly behind their lids and wondered if he was dreaming. Could the dead dream? And if so, what did they dream about?
I didn’t have to see his eyes to remember their exact shade of blue; I didn’t have to hear him talk to remember the exact timbre of his voice. These things were burned into my mind, scars written across my heart that would never fade. As I grew old and time stole away all my other memories, those would remain. Seeing him lying there, looking so completely helpless, only fueled my slowly rising panic.
Despite my yelling and kicking, he lay useless in the corner of the closet as the house blazed around us. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic pulse of my heart. It was beating so loudly that it drowned out all other sound.
It was my second mistake of the day.
Immediately, I coughed and gagged, places deep in my stomach clenching against the scorching hot air. The Victorian house was burning, hot and fast like dry tinder.
We’d been hired by one seriously ticked-off landlord to investigate the mysterious infernos that had left the fire investigator scratching his head. He’d been stumped by both the intensity and apparent lack of accelerant. We discovered quickly—well, in fairness, Shane had discovered quickly—the source of the problem. The arsonist was using the one thing that would burn faster and hotter than gas, kerosene, or propane. Vampire blood. You didn’t even need a match, just a little direct sunlight and… whoosh. Instant firebomb.
Not exactly an easy thing to get your hands on, vampire blood. The daylight-challenged folks tended to eat people who poked at them with sharp things—go figure. We’d narrowed it down to the handful of workers in the hospital’s blood bank—the ones who had direct access to the vampire donors—and the rest was easy.
Well, maybe not exactly easy.
Recently divorced and fired from his job at the hospital weeks prior for tampering with the donations, Billy Young might as well have had a bull’s eye painted on his forehead. Depressed, angry, and abused as a child, Young had decided to re-visit his own misery on the foster homes he’d lived in as a child. Once we were able to connect him to the houses, everything fell into place.
I never thought he’d be here today, never imagined we’d catch him in the act. And I sure as hell never figured he could take on Shane.
That was my first mistake.
Now I was trapped in a closet in a burning house with a living corpse and my hands tied behind my back.
Great. Just another relaxing Sunday afternoon.
Yet, ironically, it still wasn’t the worst day of my life. Hell, it wasn’t my worst day this month.
I wedged my back against the wall and kicked out with my legs. The door held fast. Stupid early Colonial construction. These houses were built like Sherman tanks.
“Shane Brooks, you wake up, you stupid, useless, unreliable vampire!” I tried to scream, but it came out in a strangled whisper. Smoke burned my eyes and tears streamed down my face from the acrid air.
Frantically, I rummaged around the bottom of the closet for something—anything—I could use to free my hands. The corner of the carpet had been torn up, exposing a long, jagged, tack strip. If there was one thing that could wake even a tranqued vamp, it was the smell of blood. The question was—would being locked in a closet with a groggy, drugged, possibly hungry vampire be better than being locked in the closet with a useless, sleeping one? Crap. I hated having to choose between the lesser of two evils. Holding my breath, I pushed my hands down onto the rusty tacks. The pain was sharp and immediate.
I wiggled until my back was to Shane and squeezed my hands together, making the blood flow freely down my fingers. I’d always been good at bleeding, at least according to the way-too-chipper brunette at the donation van. I’d just never figured it would come in handy. Silly me.
I managed to flop onto my stomach on the floor. Shane lunged awake, his icy hands tearing at my restraints. I heard the snap before I felt it, before the circulation started to return, bringing with it the stinging needles of pain from the puncture wounds and the return of circulation.
Flipping swiftly onto my back, I prepared to brace my feet against his chest to fend off the coming attack—like I had any hope of holding my own against him. As it turned out, the maneuver was unnecessary. Shane shook his head and blinked rapidly. Hints of color returned to his cheeks.
“Are you all right, Isabel?” he asked after a second.
I sighed, part in relief, part in exasperation. The concern in his voice rang through my body, reminding me of the person he’d been before he died.
I was taken with another fit of coughing, and then gasped, “Just get us out of here, okay?”
Shane stood, utilizing his large frame to push open the closet door. It ripped off the hinges like it was made of tissue paper rather than solid oak.
The heat of the fire hit us full force, pushing us back into the closet. With my arm raised in front of me, I could barely see the layout of the room through the gray smoke. As my eyes adjusted to the intense light, pieces of falling timbers hit the floor a few feet in front of us. Shane let out a long, unnatural hiss as glowing red embers fell from the ceiling like aberrant snow.