Book One: The Girl (The Sanctum)

by Blaylock, Madhuri

  Dev cried for help, knowing none would come but calling out anyway. She was well hidden in the backwaters, just as her parents intended when they found the perfect location for their home, miles away and glamoured from the nearest human and warded from most Magicals.

  Help was not on its way.

  Gathering herself the best she could, silent tears streaming down her face, Dev continued with her plan. It was Wyatt's only hope. She pulled his damaged body into her arms, ignoring the multiple broken bones and collection of gashes and bruises he amassed as they traveled through the portal, pushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed him softly. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, sick to death of crying, Dev hardened her resolve, held tightly to Wyatt and channeled Rinshun Palace, Qi’s ghostly Ramyan residence.

  The first step in her training as a Ramyan warrior had been to "see" like the warrior, which, in large part, meant learning to realize the Palace and physically channel oneself in and out of it. What she had never learned, and figured there probably existed a sacred prohibition against, was how to bring along a guest.

  But Wyatt Clayworth was not just any guest. He was a Class A Warrior for The Sanctum, descended from a long line of distinguished and celebrated warriors. He was Founding Family, his parents were members of The Circle of Ten, heads of the New York Academy and friends to all Magicals.

  And he was hers.

  That had to count for something. At least entrée beyond the front gate.

  Dev held her breath and prayed Qi was on the premises, for he was her only hope.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The clearing in the park still hummed with magic. Her magic. And her scent. It was why he kept coming back to the same spot every night, just for a whiff. Then he could go about his business, whatever that might be.

  Darvin Lucius Jefferson was one hundred and ten, going on seventeen. He was a wealthy, bored teenager who became a wealthy, somewhat bored vampire. There were a few things in this life that brought him joy, piqued his interest: from the very first day he saw her, Jools Clayworth, and as of nine days ago, that stunning thing her brother was running around with before he died.

  Of course, Darvin had no idea whether or not Wyatt perished subsequent to his ministrations, nor did he care. He simply assumed the too-good looking, sanctimonious warrior was dead, for his wound was hideous and he seemed to be breathing on borrowed time. Darvin had told the pretty thing as much that night, then he'd returned to his perch atop the Dakota and watched her strap the warrior to her back and escape into nothingness.

  What a feat that had been.

  One moment she was there, in all her stunning beauty and tortured agony, the next she was gone.

  Poof.

  As if she'd never been there at all.

  Darvin went to the spot that night, less to follow her than simply explore. It was glamoured to avoid human detection but he found it easily, having watched the warrior and his beautiful best friend, Ryker Morrison, comb the area many a time over the past year. But try as he might, Darvin could spot nothing to hint at an escape hatch or portal. Whatever the pretty thing had used to vanish into thin air, it was long gone, hidden from prying eyes. All that lingered was her scent, that hypnotizing, intoxicating essence of her that Darvin wished he could bottle and keep hidden in his pocket. Away from Darby.

  Darby Winthrop.

  The one and only.

  The dark queen of New York.

  The southern belle from hell.

  His maker.

  He cringed as he thought of her. He knew he needed to check in with Darby, especially after everything that happened in the park, all that he witnessed and yet, Darvin spent the last nine days making every excuse in the book to avoid her.

  And now he had been summoned. God only knew what she wanted but Darvin knew one thing for certain: she would take one look at his face and read him like a book.

  Darvin still remembered his first encounter with Darby like it was yesterday, despite having known her more than a full century. She came to party at his parents’ upper East Side mansion, waltzing into the foyer as if she owned the place and proceeding to terrify and electrify every single person in attendance.

  Except him.

  He had found her performance excruciatingly painful and tedious. The brutal Southern accent, the wicked humor, the I’m-a-petite-firebrand nonsense. Darvin just wanted her to go away. Or shut up.

  Darby had spotted him as soon as she walked into The Vine Mansion House, the grand home originally owned by the LaValle family, but passed to Darvin’s family, via marriage, generations ago. He was young, seventeen at most, brooding and sullen, with dark eyes, full lips and beautiful hands. His hands caught her attention, with their long, graceful fingers and perfectly buffed nails. She appreciated a man who took care of his hands. It meant he paid attention.

  Throughout the night, Darvin went out of his way to avoid the tiny vampire, detesting the sound of her voice, oblivious to the effect she had on those around her. She finally cornered him after dinner, sauntering up and sitting on his lap as if it was no big deal. As if he invited her attention.

  “Darvin Jefferson, I believe I detect some derision in those pretty eyes of yours.”

  Darvin leaned away from her, understanding exactly what she was and that she could kill him if she so chose in a matter of seconds.

  “Miss Winthrop,” Darvin began politely, “you are one hundred percent accurate in your analysis. I find almost everything about you to be abhorrent.”

  The shock registered on Darby’s face made having to listen to her voice the entire evening almost worth it. Not quite, but close.

  “Well shut my mouth,” Darby hissed, “you are a piece of work, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “Call me Darvin,” he insisted, his voice tinged with tedium.

  “I will call you whatever I so choose, little boy,” Darby replied coldly, “thank you very much.”

  Darvin met her icy stare with what one could only assume was his version of a glare, full of apathy and boredom.

  “Miss Winthrop, I am sorry if I have said something to distress you,” Darvin began, “but you set yourself up for it, coming over here and sitting on my lap like some two cent whore on the Bowery.”

  It was that moment precisely when Darby decided to turn him. She could have slapped him for the lack of respect he displayed, made a scene, played the woman-wronged card, but she suspected he expected that behavior, invited it even with his actions and words. And Darby despised doing the expected. Instead, she smiled sweetly at him, hypnotizing him momentarily with her vampire charm before leaning close to whisper in his ear.

  "You insolent little bastard. No one, and I mean no one, speaks to me that way. Your insufferable parents might ignore your horrible manners and the lack of respect you show your elders, but I will not," she hissed as she dug her nails into the back of his neck, drawing blood, all the while smiling as if engaged in the most pleasant of conversations, "you will change that attitude. Trust me, young man."

  Darby stood up and smiled down at Darvin, wiping her bloody nails on his handkerchief which she tossed in his face as she made her departure, swearing to herself to kill him and make it plenty painful.

  Which was precisely what she did two weeks later, spying him down by the docks, too late at night to be up to anything good. She followed him for a moment, grew bored quickly and attacked, making sure he saw her face before she ripped his throat open and fed on him in a most vulgar manner, certain to cause inordinate amounts of pain.

  Darvin cried out, tears streaming down his face, his heart constricting with the effort to pump blood through his body. Darby was going out of her way to make his experience horrendous, determined he remember how hideously evil she could be when pushed.

  Then suddenly she stopped, shoving Darvin away from her like a piece of trash. He crumpled to the ground and lay still, nearly all of the life drained from him. The last thing he remembered was Darby searching his pockets for a handkerchief, clean
ing herself up and then grabbing him by the foot and to drag him east to her townhouse.

  She buried him in her cellar, deep in the cold earth; hours later, Darvin rose, languidly pushing through the dirt, looking almost as bored undead as he appeared in life.

  "Pardon me, Miss Winthrop," Darvin addressed her flatly, "pray tell you have something for me to eat."

  That felt like another lifetime, Darvin thought to himself as he took the longest route possible downtown, walking leisurely, slinking around corners and through alleyways until finally, he was at the bottom of Darby’s stoop on East Fourth Street. Gazing up at the doors, Darvin dreaded his meeting with her, knowing it was unavoidable, hoping the affection she felt for him played in his favor.

  "Git your scrawny butt inside, Darvin," Darby came up behind him, silent and deadly, "now."

  Darby marched up her steps, unlocked her door and disappeared inside, never once turning back to see if the younger vampire was following, expecting he was, fully confident he wouldn't dare defy a summons from his dark queen.

  1 “Hello, Goodbye”, Friday Night Lights, season 3, episode 4.

  2 Knife anatomy, www.jayfisher.com

  3 Apple, Fiona. “Criminal.” Tidal. Columbia Records, 1996.