by Billi Jean
Jacob’s dark brow furrowed. He shifted his silver eyes to the wall next to them and reached out as if to touch the stones. “There’s something here.”
Bryson couldn’t move. He could barely draw his hand up to lay his palm against the tapestry. A heartbeat, small and barely making a sound, pulsed every few seconds against his hand. A rush of awareness, along with memories he’d suppressed for centuries, erupted and paralyzed him. Isobel?
“What is it?” Christian asked. “We should go. This House sickens me.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Isobel. She is…here. With the realization, he switched his focus onto the ancients. Aquinas backed away from him. He grabbed the Vampire by his silk shirt and brought him in close to snarl, “Why do I suddenly want to rip your throat out, Aquinas? Do you know?”
The Vampire paled to a pastier white, but didn’t fight back. His gaze landed on the wall then back on Bryson so quickly Bryson almost missed it. He didn’t miss the faint, very faint heartbeat—in the walls.
Isobel.
She was here, entombed in the House. It was an old custom, one reserved for the most severe punishments.
“There is someone there.” Jacob indicated the spot where Bryson sensed the same.
Bryson dropped Aquinas.
Aquinas stumbled back and raised his hands. “No, you are mistaken. It is nothing. Rats, I assume.”
Jacob shook his head. “No. You have entombed a young Vampire here.”
There was no need for more. Bryson drew his sword.
“Bryson!” Christian shouted and grabbed his sword arm. “What are you doing?”
“Let him go, Christian.” Jacob dragged Christian backward.
“What’s going on?” Warren yelled, drawing his own blade.
Bryson ignored them all. Urgency pulsed along his limbs. He ripped the tapestry off the wall. Behind it someone had placed newer, different colored stones from the flagstone floor to shoulder height. The texture was still ancient. Six hundred, nearly seven hundred years ancient.
He punched into the plaster with his sword hilt. Stones fell at his feet, but he kept pounding until he broke through to another wall, this one of round river stones mudded together into a hastily constructed wall.
“Stop at once! We demand you stop!” Aquinas shouted.
Jacob, Christian and Warren subdued the other Vampires. He ignored them. All his focus was centered on the faint heartbeat.
“Holy fuck. Is that… Is there really a person in there?” Christian cried.
There was more shuffling behind Bryson but he was unable to think past the rage choking him.
“Stop! I demand you stop. This is our House! We do what we feel is right to punish offenders of our rule!” Gia grabbed his arm, digging her nails in his flesh. “This is our business, not yours, Bryson!”
Bryson cocked a brow at the woman. There was no way she knew how close he was to ripping her head from her body. Something must have come through because she gasped and dropped her hand.
“This is your House, but these punishments are banned. And have been for centuries.”
“Who is in there?” Christian muttered at his elbow.
“No one of importance. No one of…” Gia backed away from him.
It was spoken quickly, and was, he knew, untrue. The elder brushed her hair from her shoulders and straightened her pristine white gown. The high collar had her holding her head up, but Bryson believed she always had her nose in the air—the dress made no difference.
He seized her by her chin.
Her eyes flared wide, in outrage, he thought, not concern.
“Lie to me one more time, Gia, just once more, and I will end you and make it so your name is never uttered again. Not even in whispers.”
She trembled under his hand—finally, she seemed to realize that he was the one to make or break her. The fall would be hard, and he’d warned Aidan of the rage and hatred Vampires like this would feed to others. For now, though, her existence hung on a thread.
He tightened his hold. “Who is it you have entombed?”
Gia’s trembling increased. Her eyes widened so that he could see the telltale sign of her addiction to killing when she drank. The red glow was there, behind the contacts she wore to hide it, but the colored contacts slipped, revealing the bloodlust.
“Answer me. Name her. Now. Aloud.”
Gia paused only a moment before she said, “Isobel Katrina Fernandez-Augustine.”
A pin could have fallen and it would have shattered the silence. Gia’s whispered words sounded louder than battle drums. Isobel Katrina Fernandez-Augustine, King Killer. Gia left off the epithet but it was there, hanging in the hallway.
Warren moved closer. “How long has she been entombed?”
“For six-hundred and seventy-five years,” Bryson answered.
He dropped Gia. She staggered back, holding her neck. Aquinas wouldn’t meet his eyes, neither would his men. Christian had eyes only for the bricks holding the woman who had killed Aaron, Aidan’s father.
Jacob turned to him, frowning. “How did she get here? And how is it we were never told?”
“Does it matter?” he snarled past the pain slicing through the walls he’d built around his heart. “For her crimes, entombment isn’t enough. Dig her out, Jacob. When you do, take her to Aidan. He will decide her fate. Anyone that plots against the king will follow.” He faced the heads of the House. Both held themselves perfectly still. Gone was the arrogance of earlier, replaced with fear. “Do you understand me now?” he shouted.
He didn’t wait for the replies that immediately fell from their lips as they went to their knees.
He shifted, escaping to his home, deep in the highest mountain peaks of the world. There, he released his rage, shouting to the heavens. It didn’t ease the impotent fury. It rose to bury him underneath such renewed sorrow it even eclipsed the bitterness of what life had given him—a killer for a bride.
Isobel recognized the difference between living and dying. She knew the trap she was in, the long sleep that would keep her between these places—for an eternity if her tormentors so chose.
But she also knew that there, within the walls they’d built to hold her in, she was free. Free to dream and free to leave the world and its pain behind. Free to be someone she’d never been allowed to become. The ties of her obligations had been tight. The duty to her family, her lineage, had been far too heavy for her to shift even the slightest bit to gain a miniscule amount of independence. But here, in the in-between place, she spun dreams from the scattered memories of her life. She had once treasured the study of all that made the world beautiful—from the vast mountains, to the smallest flower sprouting up from the deserts’ harsh, unforgiving landscapes. To live again, to have a choice, that was the biggest dream of all. A family of my own…
But she knew, even as she floated on the highest, most freezing air above the tallest peaks that she was merely dreaming. So, even as she did, she carried sorrow with her, coloring the fiber of each moment with its painful brush.
A sound entered the existence she’d built. The walls of her mind shivered. There had been no break in the constant sleep in so long. Not even mice ventured near her now. No insect crawled along her still form, nor sought to nest in her long hair. She couldn’t recall the last infestation.
A sensation she’d nearly forgotten, air, touched her skin, prickling the long unused flesh with the shift of it along her bare arms before it disappeared. Tingles began again, so like the spiders that had crawled over her in those first few years. She tried to scream and yet no sound passed her dry, brittle lips.
Not again. Please, not again. I cannot stand the insects. Anything but not the insects, please. The vermin had nearly driven her madder than the constant struggle for freedom.
Ropes had once held her, woven in a pattern of spells she had been too weak to decipher. Over time those spells had wasted away, leaving only tattered bits of rope behind. But by then it had been too late
. With no food, no blood, and drained to the point of near death, she had wasted away. When the time came for the ropes to fall, freeing her, she had no means of lifting her hands, even if she could have beaten the stone wall down to gain her freedom.
Another odd sound filled her existence.
After a time, she realized it might be…shouting. Men cursing, and the sounds of battle, not sharp with the ring of swords, but harsh with voices she heard deep within her being. A man’s voice, rough with rage and loud with fury, drew her awake, fully, painfully awake.
No! Ignore it. Do not listen. Do not follow that path of madness.
No one will save you.
No one will hear you.
Even if you beg for release, no one cares.
Outside the warnings in her mind, the voice continued shouting. Other sounds intruded until it was too painful and loud to bear after so long with nothingness as her only companion. She raced for the deeper, blacker sleep that lay in wait under the third healing sleep and the fourth forgetful sleep. The fifth, it was named, and known only to a few of her kind.
It rose up like a lover to cradle her in its black arms. Dark, velvet dreams cocooned her, memories of walking through the woods at night, her brother a laughing, heavy shadow ahead of her as they raced over the lush, scented landscape.
Everything else fell away. Once again, she held her innocence without understanding how precious it was. Once again, she followed where her brother led. Once again, in her dreams, the world made sense.
When next she rose, sounds and sensations she’d gone centuries without assaulted her. Wind. Air. Lights. Voices. People speaking in murmurs near me. Whispering things I should know. Her skull ached. She dived down again, craving the soothing caress of her own mind, but was halted by a voice of command.
“Isobel. I order you to rise.”
The words rushed along her skin and dug deep into her long-forgotten muscles to her bones. She refused, clutching the darkness to her. I will not listen. I will not rise. I cannot. I am of no use. I can do nothing that I promised.
“Isobel! I order you to rise.”
Something warm, something rich, something loathsome was pressed to her lips. She struggled, fighting as hard to deny the offering of blood as she had the imprisonment. But it was not to be. Her heart beat faster, her body clenched, and she strained to gain more even as she refused the call. Her eyes flew open as blood saturated her parched lips.
As quickly as it was offered, she shoved it away and launched herself from it. Never drink from another Vampire. Never allow connections! The room was a bright, painful white. The floor was constructed of cold marble, too smooth against her long-unused bare feet. A man faced her, his terrible features set in rage, his eyes glowing silver-bright and filled with the authority she recognized on a cellular level. My king. To him I owe my allegiance, my life.
“Isobel. You will come to me. Now.”
Obey. She stood, unable not to, and began putting one foot in front of the other. Her strength was gone. Her limbs were weak and, even with his blood coursing through her, she stumbled several times. Memories, filled with faces and people she had once known, rushed up from the past and crowded in her mind for purchase. She couldn’t bear it. Each one wanted something from her. Each demanded she listen and obey. The inner torment continued as she walked to him, halting only when he raised his hand.
“Stop. Look at me.”
Her head rose on its own at his command. She stared into the silver eyes of Aidan, the king of all Vampires. The memories solidified into faces shouting at her, mouths gaping, spittle flying. They made their demands, their curses, and when she denied them, once again she felt the burn of their whips and weight of their heavy chains.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill every last one of his House. Kill them all and only then will our House be satisfied. Only then will we rise to where we should be. Only then will you be safe. Only then will your brother be returned to you!
She screamed silently even as she faced Aidan’s heavy gaze. Within her mind, memories dragged her downward, clawing, grasping in a battle for leadership. Brother! Aid me now! Aid me now so I may aid you. There was no response. Just as there hadn’t been all those nights before when she’d been caught and imprisoned. He is lost to me. It’s only my will that will save him. Is this my chance? Will he question me? I can save you, brother, if only they allow it!
Aidan’s gaze was strong, his mind as unbreakable as his control. No sound left his lips, no question was spoken, but she knew judgment had once again been passed. ‘No one will ever ask you, Isobel, no one will care to ask. They will see a killer and nothing more. Take care, for what you choose will decide your fate for all eternity.’ As if those hated words were a prophecy, she stood, helpless to defend herself as her king passed judgment.
“You have been accused and found guilty of crimes against your people. You will burn, Isobel, and your ashes will be spread throughout this land so that you may never rise again.”
Stillness settled in the room again. It spread, filling her with a sense of wonder. Is it this simple? Were all the silent years simply a torture leading up to this? This fated ending?
She lifted her hands, touching her mouth as a smile lifted her lips. My lips feel the same and, yet, they are not mine. Nothing of me is mine. Not even my mind. She laughed. All the years of suffering and hoping for a chance to save her brother disappeared, replaced by something so vast it overwhelmed everything else. The laughter built, spilling out, tripping and falling like the streams she used to play in as a child. Surely, I am mad now.
“Enough. Silence!”
His command was heard, but there was no stopping nature. She was a stream, flowing downhill to her death.
A sharp slap jerked her head to the side. Memories of more beatings surfaced, along with other, harsher punishments before her entombment. The laughter built, causing her pain, but spilled from her as all her dreams were crushed. What was left she didn’t understand but couldn’t control.
“Take her. She’s clearly insane. Tie her to the post and leave her for the sun.”
It’s almost over. It’s almost done. Soon, Jorge, soon, I, too, will be finished with this world. The pleasure at the thought diminished. I have failed, then. You will never be free.
Longings, hopes she’d once dreamed as a young Vampire sprang up like bright daisies in the fields she and Jorge used to run through. They had always pushed the limits placed on them from the night and waited, watching as the dawn had colored the sky. Jorge had always held her hand, smiling in joy at the colors of the sunrise.
The sunshine was always bright, but also deadly.
So too were the oaths she swore—oaths she would now be unable to fulfill.
‘Kill them, Isobel, only then can I join her.’
‘I will, Jorge. I vow it.’
And now, after all this time, I fail you, brother.
Pain, worse than any other, filled her mind, ripping into her chest and slicing deeply. Even as she allowed two Vampires to tie her in the Chamber of the Sun, it clawed at her.
It cannot end like this. Not after so many years. Not this way. More laughter bubbled up as she realized it could, in fact, end like this.
Chapter Two
Bryson paced his study. The wind whistled through the house, no doubt because he’d left the door to the outside open. He ignored the icy cold blast and focused on his steps. Twenty-seven to the window, twenty-seven back to the desk. Twenty-seven to the window, twenty-seven to the desk. To leave this room and walk back to shut the door would break the pattern, something he couldn’t manage.
His phone buzzed, but it had several times already. He ignored it as he had every other time.
She will be gone soon.
She will be burned in the sun making this life as empty as it has always been.
Will always be.
Aidan and Allie, Jaxon and Joey, Circerran and Jack, Sorcha and Alex, Elsa and Jamie… All have bonded and create
d happiness where there was never more than a slice or two at the most during this existence some called life.
Twenty-seven. One. Two. Three. Four—
“Why are you upset, Bryson?”
He spun and nearly struck the small boy, Faolan, before he realized it was Faolan.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he shouted.
The boy only smiled then slowly frowned, and did the oddest thing the kid had done yet. He walked up to Bryson and hugged him. Not knowing what else to do, Bryson stood still, allowing the boy to tighten his small arms around his waist and press his face to his stomach. His warmth reminded him that he’d left the door open, allowing his home to turn frigid.
“Why are you here, Faolan?” He nudged the boy, needing to close the door and perhaps light a fire in the hearth. Such normal ideas felt alien against the pain of losing Isobel—again.
“You cannot let her burn. You will always be alone.”
“Damn it,” Bryson cursed, but only under his breath. He gently removed the child’s arms from their death grip around his waist. If Faolan feared his size, he never showed it. From the first, the child had regarded him thoughtfully, with intelligence in his eyes that far outpaced his youth. Bryson felt protective toward the child, something that he couldn’t quite understand, but chalked up to the boy’s lack of fear in him. All his life, Bryson had been a warrior men feared, even the ancients. His strength alone was cause for some of this, but his rise to the top through his deeds on the battlefield had also caused it. He was also built like a warrior, not an elegant noble. Jaxon’s jokes that he should have played rugby weren’t far from what he’d heard all his existence. He would never be the thin, elegant Christian or Aquinas. He was built from common stock, solid, and thankfully, deadly. Faolan understood none of that. For some reason, Bryson found himself liking that about the odd little boy. “Faolan, what have I told you about reading my thoughts?”
“Not to, but sometimes adults don’t know when they’re not being smart. Jamie didn’t and I should have told him, but I didn’t. I thought with you, I should. Aidan will burn her. I heard Jamie discussing it with Jaxon.”