Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  “Thank you. My name is Libby.”

  “Of course, it is. You, my dear, need no introduction. We all know who you are. I, however, am a complete and utter nobody. The more so to you, I’m afraid. You may call me Kearney, Blaunet Kearney, as that’s my name.”

  She giggled again at the silly way he had of expressing himself, relieved that he seemed to want to charm her and put her at ease. When she smiled, he smiled back.

  “Our young king seems in fine form this evening, too. Happy, eager. Blighted as we all are, as we all have been, by the war, it is … refreshing … to see our king in such spirits.”

  “I think I know what you mean. I feel hopeful, too, when I look at Caleb,” she said, stumbling a little, completely unprepared for this character who walked up and said things she never expected to hear.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk with you all evening. As soon as I saw you were wearing the bands.”

  “The bands?” she asked timidly, tilting her head, unsure what he meant.

  “I’ve just been desperate to speak with you, to tell you that I think it’s marvelous. Marvelous. Absolutely,” he whispered conspiratorially. “In this sea of mourning, you appeared bright as spring and wearing the bands of the bonded wolf.”

  “Yes, the bands,” she agreed hesitantly, still unsure, but unwilling to alienate her only acquaintance.

  “It’s rubbish what they say. How could they be a sign of slavery, of bondage? They are the symbol of commune between a vampire and the wolf who serves him. Both are ennobled and aided by them. I can see you agree,” he finished cheerfully, smiling.

  The bands? The bands? What was — oh, God. Of course. The bands. Her face fell, unable to maintain its serene smile.

  Long ago, when her people still served vampires, all wolves who agreed to live among them wore leather bands around their wrists and neck so that if a wolf could not return to his human form due to injury or other causes, or if a wolf could not find her way home, others in the community might give aid. These leather strips were decorated with a symbol that represented an alliance between a particular pack and the vampire colony with whom they lived, and each group had different designs. But as the tradition developed and relationships deteriorated, wolves were forcibly branded, the marks which had once been worn by choice were then burned into their skin. The vampires referred to the wearing of the leather bands and the branding by the same name: Banding, because the leather band remained to cover the mark when the wolf was in his human form. Her people, though, called the later treatment the Collaring. This practice continued until, ultimately, her kind refused the yolk and started the war.

  And her jewelry … it wasn’t jewelry. She was wearing the bands, to all witnesses, voluntarily wearing them, happily wearing them. If her father could see her, he would kill her where she stood — and she would have let him.

  “I see I’ve taken you by surprise. I apologize for speaking so bluntly and so hastily,” he muttered sincerely. He had truly not meant it spitefully. He believed earnestly that this was the proper and happy relationship between their kinds. He was congratulating her without irony. And although she disagreed with him, she would try to bear this with as much dignity as she could.

  She glanced across the room, where Caleb stood among a large crowd. The pain she’d felt had reached him — he was rubbing his side, his mark. Understanding that his pain was connected to Libby, he glanced toward her, the mark succeeding in bringing her feelings to him. His face registered confusion, so she let him read her. If she let him feel it, she could question him. Tilting her head to the side, asking if the old vampire had spoken the truth, she watched as, unbelievably, Caleb nodded his head slowly up and down. Tears flashed behind her eyes, but she blinked them back before they could shame her. Her stomach knotted, and she fought the urge to lower her head.

  She could manage this rationally. She’d thought the clothes and the jewelry were gifts. They weren’t. It was as simple as that. Silly to be upset. Foolish, really. She’d marked him. Fair enough, now that he had marked her. Yet, she could not escape the painful fact that her mark had made them equals, partners, and his mark made her, at best, a second-class citizen and, at worst, a slave. And he had chosen this for her?

  If there was dignity in silent suffering, she did not bother to consider. There would be time enough for philosophy later. For now, she just wanted to get through this evening with as little pain as possible. The first thing to do was to climb these impossibly long stairs and leave the throng of vampire society that she had tried, foolishly, wastefully, vainly to enter. There was no need to be down here among Caleb’s people. Had she really thought she could join them, be one of them?

  She had played many roles in her short life — what was one more? Servant. Pet. Those were no more a lie than any other. The challenge would be in keeping her head held high, in not crying, in not going mad while calling herself an idiotic dreamer, in not killing Caleb right here, right now.

  Moving slowly and carefully up the stairs, Libby finally reached her place, which now she could see was clearly set behind the king’s — to his left, yes, but considerably behind him. How had she missed that earlier? Reaching the chair, she sat slowly down. Calmly, she rested in the seat, settling in, sitting as still as she could. She would remain there for the rest of the evening. Making herself more set piece than person, she would get through this night.

  • • •

  What a damned mess! He had ordered the placement of the chairs, the wardrobe, the jewelry, everything, months ago and then promptly forgotten about it. Months ago, soon after she’d arrived, knowing that she was something like his friend, but not understanding all that she would come to mean to him. He had agreed to the bands, thinking the symbolic gesture would signify nothing to them (they knew who they were to each other), but would appease the vampires. At the time, it had seemed a hopeful gesture, one that included the belief that she would eventually be released from her imprisonment and gradually accepted as a member of his household in a limited capacity.

  He tried to excuse himself. The slave days were behind him, behind Libby. He’d never even seen the bands except in pictures, and when he’d seen her earlier, he’d just been so shocked by how beautiful she’d looked, he hadn’t made the connection. Months ago, he had foolishly imagined that the bands — the empty gesture of them — would keep her safe, and now he’d hurt her in a way he couldn’t have imagined. Again.

  And now she was sitting there as regally as any queen. She looked like ice up there — calm, untouchable, certainly no slave. But he could feel her. She was falling apart. She felt betrayed, hopeless. Worse, she hated herself more than she hated him, which was saying something because she was nearly boiling with anger at him. If she didn’t leave him it would be a miracle.

  He should have properly claimed her when they’d entered the room, leaving nothing for interpretation. If she was bound to him, he was bound to her, as much her servant as she was his.

  • • •

  As soon as she could, as soon as her absence would not seem significant or suspicious, when her senses told her that most eyes had stopped staring at her, she left the room. As soon as she fled, Caleb, who had never ceased for a moment to think of her, followed her, hoping his absence would not be cause for concern or gossip, but caring little that it probably would be.

  He ran to their room as fast as he could travel, afraid of some nameless thing. Knocking on the door, he called out, “Libby, please answer. I am sorry.” Rapping on the door, he yelled, “May I come in? May I speak with you?” These were not the words he wanted to say, but he found he couldn’t speak as he wished with the door between them.

  “Caleb, I will talk to you tomorrow. For now, go away. Trust me. You do not want to hear anything I have to say.”

  “Then let me speak to you. I really do not want to leave things as they are. Let me in,
please.”

  “I am tired, Caleb. I am not in the mood this evening to play relationship tutor. You’ll forgive me if I tell you I am rather bored of the replaying the same scenes over and over again.”

  “Libby, please, I understand that — ”

  “Anger has a story, too, Caleb. Let it run its course. Now, if you don’t mind, leave. I will see you in the morning.”

  As much as he called her, she would not answer again. After many minutes of this, he decided to leave Libby in peace, to trust her instincts and her words. But as he turned and walked away, his feet dragged and he lingered, constantly looking back, his body seeming to know more about what was right, about what would happen if he left her side, than he did.

  Chapter 37: EVERYTHING THAT RISES …

  A werewolf. The werewolf clan heir. His best friend. His lover. Gone. Months ago — it seemed a lifetime ago now — he had been happy to imagine her dead and defeated, the beginning of the end of her kind. Now the idea that she might be gone tortured him. Where was she?

  The morning after the ball, a little later than sunrise, he had returned to their room. After having been banished from his own chamber, he thought it best to give Libby extra time to rest, yet when he returned she was nowhere to be found. Not in the room, not on the grounds. Hoping she had left the palace and returned to the mansion — which, impossibly, required her passing the gates and sentries between the Capitol and the palace without his presence or written consent — he had sent Nevan to the mansion to collect her. Yet she had not been there.

  Had she been taken?

  • • •

  She was in and out of the world, but her conscious moments confused her. Squinting against a stream of light, she blinked her eyes open. Relief. She was awash in it, but why? Daylight pushed through a few thin long windows, and she was grateful. A reprieve. The day brought her a chance. A chance to recuperate, to remember. Where was she? A cold stone floor was beneath her — moving her head slowly, dizzily, she could see a single wooden chair. Someone sat there. Usually a man sat there, every night. Who? His face was cast in shadows, blackness cast by her lack of memory. Who was it? She tried to remember a voice, a silhouette, a man’s face, talking in and out of the light, but she could recall almost nothing. Beside her, there was a small bowl of water. A pet. That’s what he called her.

  She struggled to look around, to search for answers. Her hands were bound unnecessarily; she was far too weak to move. There was nothing else in the room, no clues to aid her flagging memory. How long had she been here? How long was she going to be kept here? What did he want from her? Who was he? She tried to spread her memory open, but it was like reading a book with pages torn out. Dressing for the ball. What had happened after that? Had she been taken then? Dressing for the ball … was that when … her vision blurred, thoughts were lost, fading away.

  • • •

  Caleb shook his head, exasperated. He had questioned all of his staff and all of the Elders who supported him and they, in turn, had questioned others, but there was nothing to find.

  Opening the wardrobes, running his hand along her clothes, the movement stirred her scent around him. He closed his eyes. Everything here seemed merely paused, as if she might burst through the door any minute, laughing, having fooled them all. Libby had vanished, yet not a single thing of hers was missing. The shoes she had worn last night waited for her beside the bed, and the bands were left sitting on the bureau, stacked inside each other. She had packed nothing, taken nothing. Only the green dress was missing. Only the green dress and the woman wearing it.

  The elders insisted that she must have been a spy. Her exile and her timely exit from his city could be — and probably had been — planned. Her pack leaders had watched his response to the girl and discovered how to use the heir in a way uniquely suited to her. She was gone now because the time had simply come. He had told her all she needed to know about himself and his people. Some on the Council wanted to infiltrate her pack or abduct her before she could aid in any plots to harm their city, but he could convince no one to search the city for her.

  He was sure that she had been taken, that she was somewhere close, even now, suffering. She was in danger. She needed him, and he could not act.

  • • •

  Morning light sliced into the room, again, through the same windows at the same time of day. Again, she woke confused, but slowly, her spotty memory revealed that, at night, she would only be left alone for short periods of time, just long enough for her to wake up, just long enough for her blood to regenerate, allowing her to just gain consciousness. But always, before she was fully revived, before she could string her thoughts together, she would be drained again.

  She wanted, no, she needed to stay awake, to use these daylight hours to think. Who had taken her? Why was she here?

  Night after night he came to her, she was always tied down, always weak. She always saw his feet first. Boots, the boots of a soldier. Torin. Torin had brought her here.

  • • •

  His brother and Moiren had come. Moiren had said little, his brow creased with worry. But Conor had arrived full of questions: where had Libby been taken, how was she grabbed without witnesses, did Caleb have evidence that would sway his wolf-hating advisors, did he remember anything that would help him track her.

  Yet how could he answer? They had shared everything and nothing. They had been friends and lovers, connected in every way, but this was evidence the Elders would not hear. And he could remember nothing out of the ordinary the last few days. Her breath on the back of his neck. Her arms wrapped around him. These were things he could tell them, the things he remembered.

  After hours of talking, Conor and Moiren had left frustrated and concerned because, for all their conversation, only one thing that was said mattered: the truest words he had ever spoken, words he feared saying out loud, echoing through the room and through his mind: “Conor, I cannot be without that woman.”

  • • •

  At first she had been afraid, but the inevitable and inexorable routine was all she knew now. He was drinking her. Slowly. Steadily.

  She was dying, growing weaker and weaker; her body couldn’t survive this much longer. The soul was in blood; someone had taught her that.

  Day and night, repeatedly, she would slide into blackness again.

  • • •

  Libby. There she was, waiting for him. Lying on the floor in a small room he recognized. An old outpost from the Great War. She was sleeping. He ran toward her, running for what seemed like miles, worried she would disappear before reached her. As he neared her, he started calling her name, but she wouldn’t wake up. She wouldn’t stir. He grabbed, pulling her to face him. He growled, “Libby, wake up.” When she still didn’t respond, he shook her. “Damn you, wake up.”

  Her eyes finally opening, she said only, “Caleb.” She was disoriented, unfocused, almost as though she were drugged.

  “What’s wrong? What have they done to you?”

  She was crying. She whimpered. “Torin. Torin. Torin.” She kept saying his name, though it got softer and softer. Finally she was saying nothing at all, having fallen into a stupor again.

  “Wake up,” he said, shaking her, but nothing he said or did woke her again.

  Then, although he wanted to stay with her, he was walking away from her, as though he had no control of his legs. He pumped them, trying to run toward her, but still he moved backward, leaving her behind.

  He jolted awake, his breathing so fast it seared his chest and lungs. It couldn’t be possible, could it? His mind was playing tricks on him, giving him hope in a hopeless situation. That’s what his advisors would certainly tell him, but she had seemed so sad, so desperate, so in need. Crying out against Torin, she sounded as though she were … he couldn’t even stand to think the words. Even if this was just a dream, he had t
o act. For what they had meant to each other and for what they might still mean to each other — if only he wasn’t too late.

  • • •

  “Caleb, how can you possibly know you’re right? So you had a dream? That could mean anything. It could mean nothing.”

  “I need your help, Moiren. Are you coming or not?”

  “What I don’t understand is why they even took her. Why take one wolf captive? Who cares? Don’t give me that look. I know we care. What I’m saying is, how do they know we care?” Conor asked.

  “They know, Conor, because I was an idiot, parading her around without the slightest consideration that this could happen.”

  “Is that why they took her, to get to you?”

  “I don’t know. They are drinking her, Conor. It doesn’t matter right now why they took her. I am going to get her.”

  “They’re a militant faction, Caleb. This isn’t one lone kidnapper. Cummins has assembled an army with Torin as a convenient scapegoat. They want to fight you using Libby as bait. They want you to start a war,” Moiren warned.

  “Fine. I’ll start one. I’m the fucking king, aren’t I? I have my own army.”

  “The Elders won’t permit this. You know they won’t. If you try to gather any soldiers for this, they will have you dethroned. They may even have you killed,” Conor worried.

  “Fine. I’ll go by myself. I can’t leave her there!”

  “If you go by yourself, you will not save her. You will both die there. If you kill a single vampire in defense of a wolf, you will face the retribution of the Council. They will call your own army down upon you. You can’t save her if you must fight every vampire in the city to reach her. The army protects the blood of the race. They certainly won’t save a wolf or a traitor, king or not.” Moiren paused. “Why are you smiling? Caleb?”

  “You’re right. If I endanger myself to save her, they won’t help me. It will be the excuse the council has been looking for. If I try to save her, we’re both doomed. No question.”