Creche (Book II of Paranormal Fallen Angels/Vampires Series)

by Karin Cox

  I shivered at the word. He believes it then, I thought. Whatever this Cruor is, he believes it to be me.

  “Forgive me, Shintaro,” Daneo interrupted, one hand on the Speaker’s arm. He glared at me. “Samea has asked that we meet with her before the festivities.”

  Shintaro nodded and mumbled, “I ask your pardon, Amedeo. Duty calls.”

  “By my leave.” I spread my hand before me, gesturing to Daneo. “Duty should never be ignored.” Yet it is, my mind followed, my eyes locked on Daneo’s glower. Even this feast is frivolous if the time has come to smite them. Our duty is to put an end to Vampires, not to dance like swans. My wings gave an involuntary flap at the thought, propelling me forward slightly.

  “Be calm, brother.” Kisana laughed by my side, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “The dancing does not begin until after the formalities.”

  “It is nothing, sister.” I smiled as Daneo and Shintaro moved away, a smile as false as the smile my sister wore. I was not surprised. Today she would watch other couples unite in love, while she and Daneo were united only in loss.

  “It is a lot to live up to, trying to be Calira.” Kisana’s thoughts filled my head. I mentally berated myself for not masking my thoughts again.

  “Whatever they say about her,” I whispered, “whatever else she was, Mother knew how to love.”

  My sister sighed and glanced over at Daneo. “I fear you alone have inherited that trait.”

  “Sister,”—I embraced her—“you are wrong in that. You love too well. He deserves less than what you give him.”

  Skylar, listening, said nothing.

  “Let us make our vows,” Kisana changed the subject. Taking my arm in one of hers and Skylar’s arm in the other, she led us down a petal-strewn path to a stone fountain. Skilled hands had chiseled the white marble bowl of it into the outstretched, upturned wings of a swan. Each tiny groove and plume was so well defined that the polished stone seemed alive. From the fountain’s center, the slender neck of a stone swan curled upward, its eyes glittering with precious stones. Each part of the bird’s open beak was of silver, polished as thin and sharp as a blade, and from its mouth gushed a cascade of blood, which pooled in the bowl of the fountain, stark against the marble’s whiteness. The basin drew into a funnel, and several stoppered vases nearby indicated blood had already been removed.

  “The blood-troth is begun,” Kisana said. “For Crux,” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest. “And Crèche.” She slipped back the sleeve of her gown to expose her wrist. Reaching up, she then smoothly slid her bare wrist across the blade-like beak of the swan. Kisana made no sound as the first stream of blood left her wrist. She held her arm beneath the crimson shower that gushed from the swan’s mouth for a minute or two, biting her lip slightly as her own blood fell into the fountain and mingled with that of others.

  Skylar nudging me forward. “All who celebrate the Cygnus Amoratus must bloodlet. You too must make your troth.”

  My sister moved to the tail of the swan, where a crystal chalice sat in the curling tail feathers. As my sister drew out one feather, I noticed they were not stone but carefully folded strips of ivory linen. She pressed one to her wrist until the bleeding stopped, then she took up the chalice and dipped it deep into the swirl of blood. When she had finished drinking from it, and her lips were crimson with the tribute from her Crèche-mates, she set the chalice back and stepped aside, smiling.

  I stepped forward and rolled the sleeve of fringed feathers back from my forearm, making a fist until the vein stood out blue and thick. I glanced back at Skylar, uncertain.

  She nodded, her eyes shining. She must have been hungry too, I noted. Her tongue wet the shining tips of her fangs.

  The blade was scalpel sharp, but I did not feel its bite, rather the gnawing teeth of hunger. The blood that spurted over my wrist filled me with ravenous desire. How long had it been since I had fed? Since Piraeus. I was suddenly glad for the rites, for the Haemil I would drink tonight at least.

  My blood had barely streamed into the fountain when Skylar hurried forward to clasp my forearm. “It is enough,” she said, pushing me in the direction of my sister. She looked flushed, unlike herself, her stare fixed on the blood that streamed from my wrist. When I moved, I found myself dizzy with the loss, or was it with hunger? It was all I could do not to plunge the chalice in again and again, to drink my fill, but I set it back, concentrating on watching blood from Skylar’s sliced wrist flare into the fountain. I felt my groin tighten, seized with a sudden urge to fasten my lips to her wrist, as I might to a Vampire’s neck. It was so strong, so consuming that it forced me to look away.

  Soon after Skylar had dried her wrist and taken up the chalice to drink, the merry tune of a reed pipe sounded from inside the tent, accompanied by a timbrel.

  “We must find our place at the feast table.” Skylar directed me to the tent. “Kisana, will you join us?”

  My sister shook her head. “No, go on. I should wait for Daneo to make his troth also.” She kissed Skylar’s cheeks. “You look beautiful,” she whispered.

  Skylar smiled her thanks. I had noticed her shake her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, at my sister’s equally cryptic nod.

  I thought I heard her thoughts, but they were so faint I could not be sure. “He is not trusted enough yet. Nor, perhaps, am I. Maybe now, after the blood-troth.”

  “They trust you more than you know, Skylar. As do I, for you have returned my brother to me.” Kisana’s expression was blank, but her eyes gleamed, as if she believed their discussion to be private. I did nothing to convince them otherwise. Whatever Skylar planned, she had brought me here, garbed in feathers, and I had offered her my blood and, for a moment, a journey to my heart. For today, that was enough.

  She led me through the tent, nodding and smiling at Cruxim, addressing them by name as we passed. All of them wore white, flowers or feathers in their hair, although some were dressed in what I had come to see as the standard military garb of Silvenhall: a pale linen tunic, or soft kidskin trousers with a loose overshirt and silver chainmail, feathered helm and leather or silver wristbands. Some wore the casual attire Skylar usually favored, a loose white shift of silk or linen embroidered with an intricate cross of silver thread, with smaller crosses adorning the sleeves and the neckline.

  We wound between tables decorated with snowy ribbon and feather lace. Platters of venison and fruit, nuts and cheeses made centerpieces. Although I was hungry, it was not for them. Goblets were set for the Haemil to follow.

  “I see no infants here,” I said to Skylar. “No Cruxim with child. You said betrothals were made early.”

  A strand of pale hair slipped forward over her shoulder and she pushed it back. “Cygnus Amoratus is celebrated only by those who have reached adulthood.” She hid her eyes with the flutter of an eyelash. “It is only then the nesting begins. It is an exciting day for a Cruxim. Most girls have spent decades collecting for their nest, and some have spent centuries.”

  I thought of the enormous pile of feathers in Skylar’s Eyrie and realized what it was: so much more than just a place to sleep. “Are they all yours? All of those feathers?”

  Her wings were full and flapping, gently circulating the evening air, wafting the scent of wildflowers.

  “All but one.” She smoothed the feather necklace at her throat.

  Despite my status as a curiosity, the feast was merry. The brooding stares that had earlier followed me around Silvenhall were replaced with inquisitive semi-tolerance. Skylar was popular here—beloved, even—and her serene demeanor, rarely touched by easy emotion, was tonight all smiles and the dimples they brought with them. Several times, I found myself concealing the turmoil of my thoughts or realized my gaze had paused too long on her face as she chatted to Illysia, who sat beside her. It was only when the subject of Jania was raised that her mood fell again.

  After the haunches of venison, wheels of flaky, thyme-rich goat’s cheese, and rustic bread of oat and seeds ha
d been washed down with flagons of Haemil, a female Cruxim rose to a stage at the front of the tent.

  “Crèche of Silvenhall,” she began in a resonant voice so earthy that for a moment I thought it had come from the mountain itself. “This night, we celebrate the Swan.”

  Cheers of approval drowned her words until she put both hands up in protest. Her palms were a whorl of patterns tattooed in silvery gray.

  “Twelve cygnets today make their vows.” The woman’s violet eyes searched the room for the betrothed. She nodded knowingly when she saw them. “Rise as they come to stand before us.”

  One by one, the Cruxim of Silvenhall rose from the tables and made their way to a center aisle. On the left, the males formed a line, with the females on the right. Only those Samea had motioned to remained seated. When she nodded, the coupled “cygnets” rose. Taking each other’s hands, they walked together to the far end of the tent.

  I found myself in line, facing Skylar, focusing on the feather at her throat. She raised her hands above her head, palms out, just as the other Cruxim had formed an arch of their arms. Warmth radiated from her palms as I pressed my own against them, resisting a sudden, unbidden urge to coil my fingers through hers. Instead, I turned my eyes toward my feet as the first of the betrothed pairs glided through the arch towards us.

  Their bare feet whispered against the floor as they whirled together down the aisle. Each female, I noted, wore a bobbing feather, like Skylar’s, at her throat.

  I envied them their happiness. Was this what the Swan knew that I did not: a love eternal?

  “No. Not eternal, Cruor,” came Skylar’s thoughts. “Not yet. There is still the Crux.”

  When the dancers reached the stage where Samea stood watching, they aligned themselves in pairs. We lowered our hands to our sides and turned to watch them. Skylar’s wings brushed mine; we stood so close.

  “Cruxim of Silvenhall. This night we celebrate our commitment to Crèche and to Crux, for this eve of the Cygnus Amoratus, we join forever those who will bear the full burden of love—its joys, its pains, its losses.”

  The crowd was watchful, drinking in each couple’s smiles.

  Samea spoke their names aloud, nodding to each pair in turn, and then raised her hands again.

  “Step forward.” She nodded to the first two, a dark-eyed, dark-haired boy and a girl whose pale beauty was eclipsed only by Skylar’s.

  “Galeo,” Samea addressed the boy. “On love’s wings shall you fly henceforth. Your oath shall be her oath; your blood, her blood; and her Crux, your own. What is it that you offer Nemelia?”

  The boy bowed to one knee and took his betrothed’s hands in his. Gazing up at her, he said, “My oath shall be her oath. My blood shall be her blood. Her Crux shall be my own. My love for Nemelia shall shine on countless dawns and shall outlast moons. My arms and my lips and my love shall be hers alone, to hold her and to kiss her and to safeguard her, for now and forever more. Her nest shall be my hearth until my spirit seeks its home in her heart and in the living love of our child. In this truth I trust.”

  The slight movement of Skylar’s wings tickled my own. I was surprised to find even her expression taut with emotion.

  “Nemelia.” The Sibyl turned her violet eyes on the girl. “On love’s wings shall you fly henceforth. Your hand shall be his, and your nest his too. Your blood shall be his blood, and his Crux, your own. What do you offer Galeo?”

  She dropped Gaelo’s hands, but her eyes were trapped in his black-eyed gaze. Slender arms shaking, she unfastened the feather at her throat. With a single solemn kiss upon his brow and another on his lips, she hung the feather around his neck, stroking it with a trembling hand.

  “Galeo, my oath shall be your oath. My blood shall be your blood. And your Crux, my own. Before birth was it promised and beyond death shall it endure. My feathers shall warm you, and my arms and my lips and my heart shall cherish you beyond all the day’s hours and through the longest of all nights. This single feather called you to me and bade me love you, and its Swan’s song shall sing you and its purity protect you for now and forever more. My nest shall be our hearth, but my love shall make its home eternal in your heart and in the living love of our child. In this truth I trust.”

  “It is true,” Samea said. “The Swan has sung it.”

  The two lovers stepped back, away from each other. Necks arched, they circled each other gracefully, spiraling closer until they met and nestled together like necking swans.

  “May happiness bless your nest,” Samea decreed. To the cheers of the crowd, Galeo and Nemelia walked hand-in-hand to the field of flowers, and began to dance.

  We watched Samea preside over eleven more couples, the vows changing for each. Afterward, the “nested” danced in the fields, whirling beneath watchful stars amid the bobbing flowerheads. They moved with the grace of dancers, eloquent and natural, and when all of the rites were finished, other couples rose and began to join them.

  “None have decided to clip the Swan’s wings and join Milandor.” Skylar smiled, watching them. “It is a good sign. Will you dance?” She offered me her hand.

  It was so small, so slender, paler than the delicate, fluffy love-in-a-mist the dancers had set blowing in the breeze.

  Skylar waited, one hand over the feather at her throat, the other extended to me.

  I knew I could not take it.

  I could not join the enraptured dancers, not for all that it meant.

  Each day here, Silvenhall’s radiance had leaked into my darkness, illuminating it with dreams of peace, healing the hole inside me, obscuring the pain of Joslyn’s loss and of Sabine’s absence, eroding my need to hunt and kill or to do anything but to live. Each day, the sad freaks of Gandler’s Circus of Curiosities, the cramped cages, and the degrading sideshows slipped from my memory. The tortures and threats, gone. The scars and scattered feathers, healed. But the promise of peace itched at me, niggled. It was a dream within a war. Here alone was there safety, but it was the safety of a shell that could be cracked open easily enough. Chestnuts. Buds cut before they bloomed.

  I wanted to let her light in, but the thought tormented me. I wanted to take her hand, to taste her lips, to see what lay beyond the feathered dress and the beating wings. But it shamed me how much I craved her serenity. How much I wanted to forget not only Sezanne and Gandler, and his horror, but Sabine and Joslyn both.

  And I could not forget.

  “I am sorry.” I put my hand on her arm instead, squeezed it consolingly.

  She flushed more fully but still stood waiting.

  “Skylar,” I murmured. “Too many loves have already been lost to me.”

  With a curt nod, she withdrew her arm completely, raising it above her head like a dancer and spinning off alone into the field. How beautiful she looked. How like a swan. Love-in-a-mist formed a halo around her.

  “So many that you would choose to lose another.”

  I sat against a tree trunk, watching. Long after midnight, I realized that the smooth, circular motions of Skylar’s hips, the curlicues of her arms, and the tender incline of her neck as she danced had mesmerized me, and that neither Joslyn’s ghost, nor Sabine’s stone, had interrupted my thoughts of her—and I wept for what Skylar’s peace had turned me into.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We left the field at sunup, turning west towards the Eyries along a corridor of Greek firs.

  It was cold inside the antechamber, the chill of early morning creeping in over the balcony.

  Skylar still had not spoken to me. She led me to the nest chamber, where she busied herself lighting a brazier of cones fragrant with the sticky scent of pine. The flames dimmed the light of the fireflies but made the nest glow rosy as the sunrise.

  “Sleep.” She nodded to it. “You must be tired ... although you danced less than I.”

  I had seen her watching me; she knew I had not danced at all. It was in her nature not to bear a grudge.

  “I will take the floor tonight,”
she said. “Two nights on the floor is enough.”

  I did not tell her that, in my forty years trapped in Sezanne Tower, I had become accustomed it. Besides, she was right, I realized: I was tired—centuries tired. I was tired of so much and of so many things.

  So tired that I knew I would welcome the nest’s warmth. Must I live forever in the cold?

  Others do, my mind warned me. Danette, Joslyn, Evedra and Sabine all sleep cold for you, Amedeo, and may forever.

  For once, I did not heed the bitterness of my head. I chose warmth. Nodding my thanks, I climbed over the feathery wall, marveling at its softness, the careful arrangement of down that left only the softest quills to stroke the sleeper.

  Skylar gestured to my clothing. “I won’t look. Undress if you wish. I will turn my back, but I must not leave you alone.” She averted her gaze.

  I remembered her nakedness two nights before and how she had offered to join me in the pool. Hers was a false modesty. My laughter, so strange a sound in the confines of the Eyrie, matched the strangeness of the night as I slid from my clothing.

  I had laughed more here in days than I must have in years, more than in all of the years since I was captured at Sezanne. Again, I had the feeling that Silvenhall was seeping into me, turning whatever brittle bone was in me to fluid silver.

  “Why do you laugh?” she asked, and I heard a tinge of hurt in her tone.

  I propped myself on one elbow to see over the nest, half-hoping that she, too, might be undressing. She was not. She stood, her face as tranquil as ever, brushing away the cinderberries and elfskiss tangled in the feathers of her gown. A mist of fine pale hair stood up on her arms, and she shivered, shifting closer to the brazier.

  “You are cold.” On a whim, I put up a hand to beckon her. A dust of feathers curled into the air where I patted the nest beside me. My voice rasped in my own ears, “Come. You must not leave me alone, remember.”

  Some unreadable emotion made the eyes she lifted to mine huge and silvery. Hope, I guessed as I watched her unpin the rosette and let her hair swing, bright as gossamer, to hide her face. Or fear?