The White Lily (Vampire Blood series)

by Juliette Cross

  One thing Friedrich knew for certain. While this bloody war may have begun by Arabelle and her peasant army of Sylus near the Glass Tower, it was no longer a war of humans against vampires. It was a war between justice and tyranny.

  Grant remained at the entry, keeping watch in the shadows. While he didn’t have the speed of vampires, his skill with a blade was unparalleled. Even Mikhail had remarked on it. But it was best he remained in a fixed position and watch their backs as they swept through the camp.

  They split, Friedrich and Mikhail skirting behind rudimentary log buildings with thatch rooves staggered toward the front of the fortress. There were no windows but the slats were loosely aligned, constructed roughly and quickly, allowing them to peer in at certain points. There were three vampire Legionnaires playing a game of dice-and-daggers in the first. In the second, the moans of a woman and grunts of a man echoed through the thin walls. Only silence from the third, but the slow, rhythmic heartbeats told him there were many vampires sleeping inside.

  They maneuvered more swiftly toward the back of the fort. Torches burned in braziers along the front path. As they crossed between two barracks, the stench of death wafted in their direction. Rank and putrid. He gripped Mikhail, who had already frozen as they peered through the narrow break between the buildings.

  Beyond the row of barracks was a line of five stakes in the ground. Impaled through five men. All of them disemboweled, their clothes in tatters, their mouths and eyes wide in ghastly death with the distinct carving of the word “traitor” on their chests. They appeared to all be human.

  So this is what happened to those caught in service to the Black Lily. He and Mikhail exchanged a furious look. It was an old tactic. Torture your traitors publicly, give them a gruesome death, then display them for all to see, instilling deep-seated fear to keep the other prisoners obedient.

  Friedrich looked beyond the dead men where there was line after line of windowless shacks. They were similar in construction to the barracks, except they were much smaller and the door was made of wooden bars. They extended far back into the keep. Prison cells.

  Without a word, they crept along the perimeter. There was little to be heard within the thin walls. Women and children whimpering, shivering, crying. Some making no sound at all to avoid notice from any passersby. Fury lashed at Friedrich with a stinging whip. They couldn’t free these people. Not even one more than Helena. They needed her disappearance to look accidental. They couldn’t take the chance to free others without a larger force. But now that they knew where this hellish pit was, they’d be coming back. With the army of the Black Lily.

  Slinking along the periphery and ducking when a night watchman came close, they moved with agile grace from one rudimentary cage to the next. And the next. But nowhere did he scent Helena.

  Mikhail stopped and grabbed his forearm, pointing with the other hand. Three rows of cages over, Friedrich could just discern the figure of one of the Bloodguard giving a signal behind him. Within a minute, they’d slipped through the shadows to join him near the southern wall. Their man pointed. Six more Bloodguard suddenly appeared at his side.

  When most vampires moved in hyperspeed, they disturbed the air and wind with a rushing sound or sudden gust. Not the Bloodguard. When they arrived to their destination, it was as if they’d emerged out of thin air.

  Behind the ramshackle cages were a second set apart from the others flush against the stone wall. And these were heavily guarded. They needn’t exchange words to know that these were special prisoners. They could house no other but those suspected to be affiliated with the Black Lily. Or the White Lily, thought Friedrich with a shiver, thankful Brennalyn would already be leagues away with Dmitri by now.

  Mikhail made silent hand gestures to the vampire who’d killed one of the guards at the gate. The other whose name Friedrich had never learned held up eight fingers. Mikhail pointed to him and three others. In less than a minute, Friedrich heard blades slicing flesh, blood spurting, and the cracking of bones, then the long slide of the dead Legionnaire guards being pulled into the shadows.

  No more guards, Friedrich moved swiftly, scenting the open doorways down the row. He ignored the soft feminine smells of the women beneath the dank, fetid odors of bodies living in cramped quarters. Fighting the urge to scream in impotent rage at the travesty of this place, he surged on until he finally smelled it. A whiff of honey and morning dew. Faint, but there.

  Peering through the wooden slats of the cage, he saw an insubstantial lump laying in the corner beneath an animal hide. Grabbing the door, he wrenched it from its hinges. The lump in the corner didn’t move.

  Kneeling, he pulled back the animal skin to find it was indeed her.

  “Helena,” he whispered, brushing her dark hair away from her face.

  Mikhail growled low in his throat behind him. She had puncture wounds at her neck. Several. And more along her frail arm. So thin. Her cheekbones cut sharply where her skin sagged. Her pulse was slow but strong. He swallowed the rage at her captors, his heart swelling with pride for this young girl and her strength to survive. Brenna would be so relieved.

  Wrapping her in the animal hide and lifting her in his arms, he said not a word as he ducked his head and shouldered his way out of that fucking nightmare of a prison cell. Then he sped lightning swift along the wall to the open gate. He stopped for only a moment. Grant immediately stepped from the shadows, a pile of three dead men behind him. Mikhail walked toward him. Knowing his brother was taken care of, he fled across the field, moving so fast the icy wind blowing in howling gales off Mount Noch cut into his face. But he never slowed down. Not even to see if the Bloodguard was with him.

  Soon enough he felt their presence like dark ghosts shifting in the draft around him. He stopped only within sight of the black spires of Izeling. One by one, they materialized at his side. Mikhail and Grant stumbled to a stop. Grant stepped close and placed his finger on the pulse in Helena’s neck, scowling.

  “Her pulse is strong,” he finally whispered, “but we’ll need to—”

  Mikhail and four of the Bloodguard whipped around, long daggers drawn the split second three vampires appeared among them. Friedrich’s stomach plummeted.

  “Dmitri,” he growled with slicing vehemence. Gavril and Yuri at his side. “Where the hell is Brennalyn?”

  The man’s pale, horrified expression scraped him on the insides. “I don’t know. We looked everywhere. Her room was empty, and she wasn’t in your room or the parlor.” He spilled his words in rapid succession, his pulse a thrumming hum in the air.

  A cold icicle of dread pierced his chest. “She didn’t just fucking disappear.” Friedrich practically tossed Helena into Grant’s arms and spun to flee back to the Tower.

  “Wait,” Dmitri grabbed his forearm before he could blur away. “I realized the same thing. There had to be another way out. It took us a while, but we found it.”

  “Where?” Friedrich didn’t even recognize his own voice, a malevolent growl from a dark place inside.

  “The mirror. In her bedchamber. The passage led down a flight of stairs. It opened into a library from behind a painting of the king’s sigil, a black dragon. But there was no one in the room.”

  Friedrich’s fists balled and cracked as he stared at the knife-like spires stabbing into starless night.

  “Dmitri,” he said evenly, the words flowing out in a monotonous stream. “You take Helena and two others and go to Winter Hill. If I don’t return within a day, take her on to the Silvane Forest near Hiddleston. A vampire named Nikolai lives there with his woman, Sienna. He’ll pay you handsomely for getting her to safety.”

  His countenance fixed and heavy, he vowed, “I will ensure her safety. With or without pay.”

  Mikhail pointed. “Gavril and Yuri, you go with him. Take the west road. Don’t stop.” His orders harsh and clipped.

  Friedrich faced the Bloodguard. “Your mission wasn’t to take on the King of Izeling. Whoever wants to leave may leave
. No questions asked. Keep the coin I’ve paid you.”

  Mikhail scoffed with a sinister gleam in his eye. “Not on your damn life, Your Grace. Every man here owes the crown a slice of vengeance. I say we take it tonight. Aye, men?”

  A rumbling “Aye” echoed back.

  With a tight nod, Friedrich stepped out toward the castle. “Then let’s go get a slice together.”

  Chapter Thirty

  As they crept back through the servants’ halls, few were up and moving. It was well past three o’clock as Friedrich led them directly into the main corridor near the grand ballroom. Not a sound. No music. No noise from guests frolicking about.

  Friedrich had attended balls here in his younger days, and many lasted all night long. But the throne room was unusually quiet. And yet, the room beat with the electric energy of vampires. No one need say a word as they marched as one toward the arching entrance. Friedrich knew the tactic of walking directly into his uncle’s line of sight wasn’t the smartest, but at this point he didn’t care.

  King Dominik had Brennalyn. And the man was as sadistic as he was powerful. Friedrich had to take the most direct course to free her from his hands. No matter what the cost. For he was sure this had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. The damn tyrant knew Friedrich loathed him. Knew that Friedrich detested every fucking thing about him. And for that, he’d punish him.

  Friedrich only hoped his punishment would be beating, torturing, and imprisoning him. Even killing him. As long as he set Brennalyn free first. Nothing else mattered.

  Upon entering through the arch of the grand ballroom, he noted the full square of red-and-black bedecked Legionnaires all the way around the room. One hundred strong. They stood at attention but with their broadswords drawn for close combat. The candlelit chandeliers had burned down to almost nothing. The tripods of braziers, even the ones outside the stained-glass windows, had guttered to nothing, casting the room in dim light and long shadows.

  Flanked by Mikhail and Grant and the rest of the Bloodguard, Friedrich marched through the columns toward the front. The guests were all gone, the chairs and tables in disarray. The orchestra gone. The Blood Harem gone. Even the queen and her Legionnaires, all gone. Everyone except the king sitting atop his black throne, watching his approach. And his best fighters.

  Brennalyn sat on her knees at his feet, head bowed.

  A jolt of relief shot through him, and then fury. Not faltering, he met King Dominik’s smug expression. Tension stretched tight as a bow string. By the time he’d reached the front of the ballroom and squared himself to face the king, he’d clenched his jaw so tight something popped. The king’s large hand rested on Brennalyn’s slender nape, the braid of her long hair over one shoulder, his black claws extended. He’d called his beast forth, though he relaxed on his black iron throne like a sovereign at leisure.

  She was dressed and ready for her escape. An escape that had never come. Clenching his fists, he waited for the king to speak, trying like hell to quash the galling fear rising in his gut.

  “Nephew. So good of you to come,” bellowed his mocking, barbed voice. “You and your lovely lady left the party too soon.”

  “What do you want?” Friedrich didn’t recognize his own voice, so full of malevolence and strain.

  “What I always want. The truth.”

  Friedrich snorted in disgust. “That is never what you really want. And we both know it.”

  He smiled in response and leaned close to Brennalyn. “Eyes up, little rabbit. Time for your inquisition.”

  Friedrich flinched when he caught her gaze. He saw no bite marks or bruising on her exposed skin or signs he’d even handled her roughly, but the stark terror in those haunting brown eyes gored him deep.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Nephew. In the meantime, my lady has learned the importance of answering every question and obeying every command with the utmost honesty and obedience.”

  Tears streaked down her face though she didn’t make a sound. Friedrich tried to convey with his expression that it was all right.

  Dominik pulled her long braid across her back and wrapped it twice around his forearm and wrist, fisting his hand at the base of her neck. Friedrich was going to fucking kill him.

  “What is your real name, pet?”

  “Brennalyn Snow.” Her voice shook, but she kept her chin high, even as it trembled.

  “And what is your occupation, Miss Snow?”

  She closed her eyes. “Schoolteacher of Terrington.”

  “Do you know the whereabouts of the one who goes by the name of the White Lily?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me,” he ordered, leaning forward on his throne, holding her hard.

  A slight hesitation. Her brow pinched together in pain. “I—I am the one called the White Lily.”

  He grinned, sparing a glance down at her. “I thought you might be, my pet. You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear you say so.”

  True fear—stark and harrowing and chilling to the bone—raked Friedrich from head to toe. A sheen of sweat dampened his skin. For he’d seen that look on his uncle’s face before. Countless times when he’d honed in on a treat he planned to savor with pain and sadistic pleasure.

  “Dominik—” he started, using neither the affectionate title of uncle or his sovereign one.

  The king sliced his hand in the air. “You’ll wait, Nephew.” He tightened his grip on her hair. She gasped and winced.

  Friedrich went rigid, every muscle tight with strain. A droplet of sweat trickled down his temple.

  “Did Friedrich know you were the White Lily?”

  Here’s what he wanted to know. Was Friedrich truly a traitor to the Varis Crown?

  Her eyes shot open, her entire frame trembling as she bit her lip, refusing to answer. Her back bowed. She screamed, the piercing cry reverberating off the ballroom walls.

  “Yes!” yelled Friedrich. “I’m a traitor!”

  She continued to writhe and cry, but the king kept his grip in her hair. “That’s not how it works, Nephew,” he said calmly over her. “She must answer.”

  “Brennalyn!”

  Her gaze shot to his, excruciating pain contorting her fair face.

  “Answer him!” he ordered. “Now.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she murmured, crumbling against the king’s throne and his leg on a sob, for he wouldn’t release his relentless grip. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  She’d endured the razor whip of Dominik’s pain, all to try and protect him. To keep him from harm. Friedrich gathered his love for this woman and let it settle in his chest, fortifying his armor against the evil bastard holding their fates in his hands.

  “Brennalyn,” he said with coolness and calm. “Answer whatever he asks truthfully.”

  His uncle laughed. “There’s nothing more to ask.”

  He stood, abruptly dropping his morbid humor. Brenna gasped and went up on her knees as he pulled her head against his thigh. Every wince, every gasp of pain gouged out another chunk of Friedrich’s heart.

  “I knew you were a disloyal bastard. Betraying your own kind. Your own blood!” The king sniffed in disgust. “Just like your mother.”

  The room crackled with sinister energy, roiling like waves on a violent sea. The soldiers at arms awaited the signal from the king. The Bloodguard and Grant appeared at ease, but their grim observance of this sickening display had charged the air. Every time he pulled at her, hurt her, Friedrich sensed a cataclysmic shift within himself, like notches falling into their dark place where they belonged. His canines, top and bottom, protruded with wicked sharpness, ready to draw blood, to chew through sinew and bone. Claws pricked and unsheathed from beneath his nails.

  And now the mention of his poor mother.

  “That’s right,” he finally said, voice guttural and thick with loathing. “I am just like my mother. I despised the likes of my father. But not nearly as much as I hate you, Uncle.”

  Dominik’s ey
es narrowed, but Friedrich went on quickly.

  “Still,” he emphasized, drawing his uncle’s icy gaze. “I know what you want of me.”

  “And what is that?” Disdain dripped from his tongue.

  “You need another Varis to populate your vampire army. And though it disgusts you, I am a descendent of your bloodline. I’ll stay. I’ll help you transform all the men you need…” Grant shifted behind him. Mikhail, too. They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what his uncle was truly capable of. “As long as you release her right now. Let the Bloodguard take her safely away.”

  Brennalyn tried to shake her head, but the fist in her hair kept her still. She whimpered then bit her lip again, sinking into silence.

  “I don’t need you,” sneered his uncle.

  “Yes, you do. There’s only so much blood you and the queen can spare at one time. Your brothers obviously aren’t assisting you in your venture of wiping out entire villages. Perhaps King Grindal is helping, but no one knows, for he hasn’t been seen in quite some time.”

  Dominik huffed, narrowing his gaze. Transforming a human to a vampire could only be done by drinking the blood of a pure Varis descendant. And there were only so many of those with that power.

  “All that is left is the son of the sister you despised. And while you may believe you have enough soldiers already, you don’t. The Black Lily grows daily.”

  The king grunted with disdain. “And you would betray Marius? The resistance? All for this girl?”

  He’d betray the whole fucking world for her. That should’ve struck fear into his soul, marked him with sorrow, regret, but it didn’t. At that moment, he knew one thing above all others. A truth that burned brighter than the nearest star. There was no world without her in it.