by Kelsey Quick
Breathe. Don’t faint. Pretend it’s fine. Pretend it’s fine.
More moments pass. I move forward again. And again. And again. The fourth unit in Zein’s line makes her way down the hallway toward the Distribution Room.
Un, deux, trois, quatre...
I try counting in French to quell my nerves as I edge ever closer.
Quarante-trois, quarante-quatre, quarante-cinq…
Eventually, all familiar faces have gone, leaving it to me and two others. Both the girls ahead of me are visibly shaking and, every now and then, whimpering out stifled exhales.
Finally, I step up to the front. My dorm mothers grip each of my arms fiercely and before long, I see them. The two guards that have been walking back and forth to signal next in line for the entire evening.
“Move,” one barks at me and it takes every inhibition I have ever entertained to not retaliate. I do move, but my building fear collapses.
To hell with all of this…
Under the force of the dorm mothers, I walk unsteadily toward, and eventually past, the soldiers. Slowly and stealthily we travel down the long, dark corridor. Never before have I felt that a hallway was longer than a quarter-morning run. Our surroundings change from eerie silence to muffled chatter as we near the double doors—I can imagine Cain’s military leaders on the other side, lightly laughing over the humans they condemned to the fallen and warbling about the ones they are eager to exploit. My jaw tightens and all of a sudden, everything around me is red; all I am is vengeance.
I focus on the beautifully carved door handles to try and ease my raging nerves when we stop outside the entrance. Beyond this five-inch barrier awaits the five rulers of the Stratocracy of Cain. One, in particular, is Lord Anton Zein, of whom I haven’t seen in ten crippling years. He’s the one who not only stripped me from a premature death, but also stripped me of my freedom. The one solely responsible for my decaying quality of life, and yet so oddly tolerant of my rebellion—leaving me without the slightest clue how to rightly feel. But right now, all I want is for him to see how sickened I am by him and his kind; to feel this very real pain of being nothing more than an object used at someone else’s disposal. A unique sense of pride wells up inside of me and I decide. He’s taken everything else, I won’t let him take my pride.
Today, I control my fate.
No sooner do I obtain my resolve than do the doors open to welcome me to the dreaded Distribution Ceremony.
chapter 4
The vampire used one of his many robes to clean his sullied hand, never taking his eyes off of me. The long, stiff coat of dark, iridescent red swayed in the wind as he shifted his weight, showing an obvious intent to approach.
I turned and sprinted with everything I could muster. Only two steps and he stole me from the gracious earth, pulling me to his face. I wailed and kicked and screamed until he spoke softly. “Saath su veastra.”
I didn’t know vampires could speak without snarling, nor did I know what manner of language they spoke.
“Look at me,” he then said in French.
They can speak French?
I did, and his appearance shell-shocked me—not at all monster-like as I had always imagined. He looked more like the teenage boys from the marketplace than a monster.
“Interesting,” he muttered as I studied his cool, silvery eyes, which were one of the few inhuman things about him.
How were vampires able to be so horrible if they looked this normal? It made no sense to me.
“I won’t hurt you, don’t be afraid,” he assured me, pulling me out of my stupor. ”Do you have a name?”
How could I possibly trust a vampire with my name? The gentleness in his features gave me hope in the chaos. He was different than the rest, I could see it. I could swear on it.
“W-Wavorly,” I replied.
“Wavorly.” He nodded as he lowered me back to the ground. “Where are your parents?”
The look on my face must have been answer enough as his features softened further. “...Such an ill fate. Come with me, and I will see to your safety from here on out.”
Like I could believe him. I knew better than to trust a vampire. Castrel had always told me to never trust them—if I were to ever see them, although he was certain I never would.
But this vampire had to be different. He had to be if he wasn’t trying to take my blood, right? No one was left. Where would I go? For everything that just happened—for all the bloodshed witnessed and family lost—it was enough to not feel the need to run. At least, for now.
“Okay.”
✽✽✽
“Keep your eyes down and follow all instructions when they are given to you, are we clear?” the more serious of my two dorm mothers says to me.
I nod and lower my head as the doors before us open with a dreadful screech. We enter and in these last few moments of suffering suspense, I latch onto the sound of my still-very-much-alive heart. All noises from within the chamber cease, leaving me to grow uncomfortably self-aware amidst what I can only assume to be silent scrutiny.
They can see me now. All of them.
Even Zein.
I continue to slide my feet across the floor, one in front of the other, as difficult as balancing on a taut rope. My dorm mothers motion for me to stop and I exhale with relief. Although, standing perfectly still becomes the next great challenge.
The moon’s night-time reflection is the only trace of light that this room permits, only slightly, too, as the trees from outside the tall, stained glass windows absorb most of it. I try to focus on the shadows of rustling leaves that dance upon my feet, courtesy of the windows.
“Z29734...,” a familiar voice booms across the dark room. “...Please step forward and present your blood willingly to the honorable general of the Western Sabbanthian province, Lord Anton Zein,” the voice demands of me.
I recognize it now. That male vampire from the holding cells, Narref. That short time ago already feels like an eternity.
As told, I step forward and ready myself in the offering position. I outstretch my arms, crossing one wrist over the other, and present them underside up. While doing this, I dip my head even lower—in accordance with many past practices—to signify subjugation. Usually this stance would cause me to clam up with bitterness, but right now everything is numb, minus the looming anxiety. This degrading stance is a symbol of my pathetic life. Something that I would be expected to do for the rest of it if I somehow make it past this day.
“Dorm mothers please step back, and Messima... the kortrastet, please,” Narref instructs, and the two, foul grips on my arms instantly release. The clack-clack-clack of Mettingskew’s basten-skinned heels plod down nearby stairs. A secret hope that she trips and face plants shamelessly crosses my thoughts.
Soon, Narref is beside me. The glinting, carved piece of metal he now holds catches my eye. The kortrastet. An intricately designed needle, secured to a plastic siphon, leading up to what is usually an empty blood pack, but today, it’s a goblet.
Narref reaches out and grabs my arm with a hot towel, serving as a buffer between his skin and mine. I have half a mind to make my move now and slap him, spit in his face, put on the show that they all would love to see before I get sentenced. However, I’m genuinely curious as to what Zein will think of my blood, and to be truthful, I’m just not ready.
Narref skillfully injects the large needle into my arm, a sharp pinch followed by an especially cold and numbing sensation. I blink away the discomfort and wait, watching peripherally as the dark red liquid drips into the goblet. The sound of it sloshing as it spills is enough to make me queasy.
As quick as it began, it stops. Narref leaves me with a thin arument bandage and walks out of my lowered line of sight, his footsteps ascending the stairs, growing fainter until they stop.
“My lord, your unit’s blood...,” he says out of offering. My heart lurches. Narref is speaking to Zein.
For yet another moment, nothing but ringing silence. An en
dless moment of pins and needles, until a regal and nostalgic voice commands the attention of the auditorium.
“Ah, how surprising, this one’s blood...”
My eyes widen as the deep and ominous notes that illustrate his voice permeate the air. A sound characterized by cordial, rich, and vibrant malice. It’s the voice of the only vampire that has ever called me by my given name. My body shakes near uncontrollably.
“Quite the troublemaker, wasn’t she? Is this the one that I kept getting reports about, Gemini?”
Another masculine voice pipes up, “Uh... Tch, tch, yes. Two, nine, seven, three... four? Ah, yes, she has had two reports in the past, and then the uh… the escape attempt yesterday, my lord.”
My shaking becomes even more violent as judgmental chatter rings about the room, revealing that there are so many more spectators than what I thought. However, the noise eventually dies down enough to make things even more uncomfortable. So many eyes are on me; probably all of them—Zein’s included.
“Surely you can’t be thinking about keeping her?” a noble female voice penetrates the mindless talk. “I know you don’t believe in wastefulness, Anton, but the greater waste here would be your mercy.”
I bite my lip to stifle a snide response.
Zein’s chuckle ignites the heavy air. “Thank you for your sentiment, Marina, but I can decide for myself.” A moment of pause lingers until he speaks again. “You see, this blood is definitely of the better that I have tasted, this evening. It’s rich and austere. One of a kind.”
My heartbeat quickens. He can’t be serious. My blood should be the foulest thing to ever touch his lips.
“But, I also cannot simply discount the inane will of its owner…,” he trails off. “You, look up at me.”
His voice ricochets across the room and it takes me a second to realize that he’s talking to me. My heart lunges into my throat. Do the leaders normally ask their supply units to do that? I was taught to never look my owner in the eye… would this count? Amidst my doubt, I do my best to swallow my heart back down into its proper place as I raise my head.
The first things I notice are identical stair-stepped rows, each landing is the foundation for one long station for sitting and leaning, like that of a classroom, and a seemingly important vampire fills each segment. They all eye me warily as I continue to scan, ever so gradually, upward in the direction of his voice. My sight finally reaches the top row of stations, where there are five prestigious vampires backed by one or two lesser vampires. They are intimidating with their fierce wardrobes and malignant auras, each represented by a colored triangular tag that sits in front of them upon their shared desk. Sapphire, Emerald, Gold, Amethyst, and ...Ruby. My heart skips a beat, and my eyes drift one inch more, focusing on the vampire representing the brash color.
Dark stone-grey eyes, only detectable by the cascading moonlight, capture mine with an essence so sharp and demanding that I can’t help but drop my gaze.
“I did not say you could look away.” His tone stiffens beneath his words, leaving me with no other choice but to attempt round two.
This time, I focus on his remarkably familiar traits. So platinum it’s silver, Zein’s hair cascades to his clavicles, caressing a thin scar that spans from left eye to right ear, highlighting lifted and crafted cheekbones—a symmetry paired with something so dreadfully imbalanced. His perfection contradicts the innate, imperious aura of a killer—one that can petrify thousands with fear. He has not changed even a little. Nothing in his appearance has altered from the last time that I saw him. Not a wrinkle present, nor blemish added. Youthful, as if he were no older than myself, no older than the memory I have of him. And it makes sense. Zein, like every other vampire, outlives humans by an astronomical amount of time.
“Ah, yes.” He concludes with a hint of a smile. “Your eyes give away your disloyalty. Tell me, are you not grateful to be receiving yet another chance at life?”
My eyebrows twitch with annoyance, though I’m sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by the room. Numbness and fear ebbs away to accommodate rage.
How very like vampires. To think living while enslaved is something to be appreciated.
When I don’t respond, he continues. “Even if I were to permit you into my castle out of pure and unearned mercy, I am certain you would still find something to be ungrateful about.” His voice is deep and acidic. He leans on one arm, mulling over my fate as if trying to decide which fabric to don. The atmosphere in the room lightens, while the void in my heart desaturates to pure black.
“All right,” he says, “I will spare your life, human. I will take you to my castle. But first you must beg for the forgiveness of myself and my colleagues for all the trouble you have caused.”
My eyes widen and my limbs waver with shock. This guy... I wish I could drive a stake through his heart. Luckily, I have enough control to refrain from trying, but it does take every ounce to prevent myself from telling him and every other vampire in this room what I truly think.
As if an unquenchable flame of defiance reignites within me—filling every pore and coursing through every vein—I recall, and dwell upon my dorm mother’s words.
If all you have left is your pride, leave this world with your pride...
My arms gradually lower from their submissive position.
“Too frightened to speak? Must I send you back to Nightingale to relearn Acclevin?” Zein toys with me and the room erupts with laughter.
Giomar, represented by the amethyst tag, calls out almost drunkenly. “If you won’t keep ‘er, mate, I will. I personally like it when they don’t talk. Their screamy pitches ‘re so bloody annoying.”
Zein offers a smirk as Giomar continues. “Yes, yes. Maybe we should put in a request for Nightingale to remove their vocal cords before sendin ‘em to us.” The room laughs again.
It snaps.
Something within me snaps and I can’t hold it back anymore.
“Well!” I proclaim as every head whips toward me. For a second, I doubt myself. I could play the sudden octave off as nerves and beg for forgiveness. I could claim to have hiccups or I could try and hang it behind the tapestry…
...but I don’t. I don’t want to. My mouth opens, and it refuses to close.
“Since you so clearly don’t like to let things go to waste, why don’t you—all of you—do each other an immense favor and stop wasting your time?”
Everyone, aghast, looks to Zein whose playful smirk has since fallen to a taut line. Every hint of humor has left his face, mild horror replacing it. His expression is nothing short of intimidating, but I can’t help myself. The feeling of openly unbinding years of pent up anger is too addicting.
“You’ve already cost everyone enough time and headache keeping me alive, so why keep it going? There’s no way in hell I’ll ever apologize to you or to anyone else for my suffering.”
His face. That same smug face that promised me safety, and that made me feel like the worst was over back then; the one that manipulated me and locked me within the cold walls of Nightingale to mold me into his blood slave. That face now offers me only an expression of disappointment, maybe even a hint of concern, or distress. I knocked him off his pedestal, and it feels so good that I can’t stop.
“If you think for even a second that I have any intention to beg you for my life, you’re wrong. Because I would rather be torn to shreds by the fallen than be forced to serve you!”
I look to Giomar, the bastard, and then to the rest of them. “That goes for all of you, too!”
Dead silence.
There she is. There’s the Wavorly that scaled the walls of Nightingale yesterday. The same Wavorly that is apparently hell-bent on dying, but she is brave and unrelenting. I would rather die with those traits than remain alive as a subservient, mindless idiot. What was life anyway, without the freedom to decide?
Everyone turns, looking from me to Zein. My dorm mothers hunker back—one trying hard not to grin while the other nudges her forcefull
y. Narref stands off to the side on the right set of stairs, glaring at me, while the other four military rulers of Cain whisper among themselves. Reluctantly, I return my eyes to Zein’s, dreading the same, antagonizing smirk that he started wearing again. It takes one gulp and my heart shoots into overdrive. For the longest time he sits there, leaning his face upon his knuckles, until—
“You make a very persuasive argument.” His tone turns cold as ice as he expertly re-ascends his pedestal. He side-glances the vampire who stands complacent on the stairs.
“Narref. I’ve made my decision.”
“Y-yes, my lord?” Narref responds, a bit taken aback, apparently still in shock.
Zein looks me over, the line of his mouth finally stoic before he announces, ”Feed this girl to the fallen, if they will even take her. She holds no greater value within Cain.”
Everything crashes down; all of it becoming real as Narref makes his way over and pulls me by the arm, forcing me left toward another set of doors. I throw one last look up at Zein, who is already refocusing his attention elsewhere, likely trying to think of how to put out the fire on his reputation that I just started.
Despite my desire to cover up such weakness, I can’t help the tears that brim when he shoots me one last glance; a result of betrayal. Betrayal because for the longest time I didn’t hate Zein. For the longest time, he was the only being who gave me a sense of purpose in this cruel world. Every day for the first two years, I thought that was the day he’d return.
Back then, he promised he would come back for me when he left me at Nightingale and that everything would be okay. That I would be okay. I thought he was different from the other vampires who slaughtered my parents. Not once did he say anything about me becoming a part of his infantry supply, about how I would be treated like an animal, or about how I would eventually have no motivation to live. And because of my crushing naïveté at that point in my life, I actually, deeply cared for him. But it was all an illusion. One that I was forced to see through on my own.