“You have all made a grave mistake, as there is a witch in our midst, and she has unleashed havoc and betrayal,” Father Cyril shouted and turned toward the king, who sat off to the side watching and waiting for the execution of his decree.
I focused on the king’s slightest of movements. He sternly stared, unblinkingly, at Father Cyril, with his jaw set, he nodded. The executioner pushed Father Cyril’s head down onto the block, to where his head rested over the deepened stone bowl, already red from the prior executions of the day.
Men, women, and children looked on. Some sold their wares, apples, and such, while others tried to lighten things up with a bawdy joke or two. But all activity ceased once Father Cyril took his position.
“May God curse your souls,” the priest said, and the executioner raised his sword.
I clenched my eyes shut only hearing the loud thud as his head must have rolled and dropped into the waiting basket.
“At least this one seems skilled, dear sister,” Philip said, and I gazed upon him. Ever the proud aristocrat, but now stripped from everything, he was still just as prideful as ever. Torn between sisterly love and complete hate and blame, I cast him a look of sorrow. It was all I had to give. “Until we meet again in the next life. Sorry for this debacle.”
A loud cheer went up, and my entire body trembled. I hated to see Philip perish like this. I watched him follow the path of Father Cyril, but Philip did not cower. Instead, he pulled his shoulders back and stared straight at me, unflinching.
This would be our moment of goodbye and there would be no grace, no mercy. Tears welled, blurring my vision, and my chin wobbled.
The executioner raised his blood-soaked sword and slashed it once through the air. It was almost like slow motion. But this time, the crowd, those in the front rows, rushed forward with raised mugs and their mouths open as if to catch droplets of rain.
“My god, what have these people become?” I sighed to the jailer.
“Nothing, you bonny lass, need to worry about. The blood blesses, it does. Plus, sure many can get a pretty penny for it.”
“To sell?”
“He isn’t no regular man, but one who sought something for the people.”
A long groan passed over the crowd, all gaiety long gone.
The jailer pushed my shoulder and led me up to the scaffold, and I watched the men hurriedly pull Philip’s body away, place it into a coffin, while the executioner raised his head.
There was no cheer from the crowd.
“Be thankful John is here today. He is quite quick, exactly one swift blow. Plus, it is the king’s pleasure for you not to suffer too much. Mind you, think of the other options.”
I didn’t wish to consider what those options might be. Death by any other name is still death.
On my knees, I placed my head where Philip’s neck had rested and gritted my teeth.
“Try not to move,” the executioner said, and I gulped down the large wad of mucus stuck in my throat. It wasn’t enough to tremble in fear. No one would understand if I told them Leif wasn’t alive, but undead, a draugr, a vampire. Nor would they believe the Prince Regent had physically raised the second army from the dead. They definitely wouldn’t accept that a dragon, who’d nicknamed me Tink, had soared in the open skies and burnt the revolting army to a crisp. No…those were the words of a madwoman, what they had made me out to be.
I tensed, waiting for the signal to be given, holding my breath, when I felt the air move.
“Off with her head,” someone yelled and careened a cabbage at me. Someone else threw an apple core. When the booing then picked up to quickly end.
The thunderous gallop of two men entering the square, with their horses neighing loudly, and time seemed to cease, along with what felt like the beating of my heart. “Do her no harm.” Prince Leif sat there proudly atop a white steed. “For she is innocent of these crimes, Papa.”
The king rose from his seat. “Leif, son?”
“A life for a life, and she is innocent.”
The crowd gasped, as the sword had just sliced the back of my neck.
Chapter One
Tink
1570, Thule
No one wished to marry a traitor…or rather, the traitor’s sister.
With neither husband, nor children, neither wealth nor land, only an idea of penance remained.
Personal happiness, I left at the altar of disdain.
Tears watered the chalices of the deceased, but did nothing to release me from the weight of the invisible bonds placed on me by the gods. Neither the number of sacrifices, prayers, begging, or asking what equated to an ounce of happiness. Instead, my cracked skin, bowed back, and hardship were my own making.
Within the inky darkness of the charnel house, death’s hands reached out, but there was only one hand of whose remains I sought. The good opinion of those who once called me friend rested confined in these stone walls. Their graves uprooted and their remains moved to yet another final resting place, to then be used by another. For the plots of land were needed by the respectable, the wealthy, or those with a shiny enough coin to secure earth instead of stacked on top of other remains like here in this house.
The stones blocked out the bitter wind from outside, but not the cold which still made my bones ache.
Moving through the charnel house, I located the human skull on the third shelf fourth from the right, and rubbed my index finger against my brother’s polished head. Death had long ago embraced him and the others. The fallout of his treason, he’d paid for by the removal of his head from his neck. He’d been ungrateful for his lot in life. It was the one thought that plagued me every time I visited. If I stood just right, I could hear his unkind voice whispered in the slight eerie breeze.
The hallowed out planes bore my touch, and although it had been fifty years since his death, I still persisted. Over the years, my fingers curled and withered, and my face, once filled with youthful elasticity, was now wrinkled. I still thought of him daily, my Leif. To me he was my enigma. Even now, he was an untouchable, wild dream. Sometimes my dreams were the only place where he still existed.
The musty stench of death seemed to gather, as if required pittance to those who sought out to pray their loved ones from the Christian purgatory to their heaven.
I’d not yet gotten used to the thought, even with the threat of the Inquisitors ever on the rise. Their coffers required coinage, and those of wealth and of pagan belief were often on the chopping block, which frequently resulted from the unkind cunningness of friendly acquaintances.
A shudder coursed through me. I glanced over my shoulder.
Time. It was deeper than the ocean and unable to be tamed, and memories of what had once been, didn’t so easily lessen.
The skull’s sockets now empty, where his selfish eyes once rested; his brow smooth, where his face scrunched up in a furious smile.
The door swished open behind me, and a chill entered mixed with the scent of cinnamon-tinged magic: sweet and old.
“Have you prayed enough, Lady Abele?” the woman asked. Her golden locks flowed and billowed around her, like beautiful clouds.
I bowed my head in submission. It seemed as though I’d been paying for my transgression for years, waiting on my penance to be served.
“Yes, my goddess,” I acquiesced. She looked as breathtaking as when I’d first seen her. Sometimes she appeared as a mother, other times as a warrior queen, readying those under her banner to fight. I sought to raise my hand, this maiden, wrinkled hand.
“I have an opportunity for you,” Freyja said. Her voice filled with an almost angelic melody. Her beauty I couldn’t describe, her voice pulled at me, like a hypnotic spell. She reached for my hand. “Your love is like no other: not one, two, but three shall vie for your love. You will love, but only one shall claim you as his. For through their love, shall you ascend to the great pinnacle where your help is needed. But we warned: first must come heartbreak.”
Freyja’s piercing
sea-blue eyes took in every nuance of me, as if she sought to read what rested deeper within than even I knew.
“Have you heard of the Valkyrie?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“The Valkyrie are those who lead the dead on to Valhalla, the resting place for the dead who have died courageously in battle,” I said. It was like school, and the teacher paced before me. With a wrong answer, she’d also swat my hand with a stick.
“Hm, such a safe answer, but what do you know of them?”
“They are often referenced as corpse goddesses.”
“And with whom are they referenced—which god?”
“Odin,” I whispered.
She shook her head. “It is I who lead them, though, their charge, and it is I who decides which maiden or princess may join our ranks.”
My heart sputtered. I could be useful, and a faithful servant. But Freyja didn’t like weak women. She didn’t like those who could neither lift a sword nor a finger. A godly shield-maiden, which is what she’d wanted.
One ready to fight.
She nodded her head and leaned it to the side. “Why do you come here every day to be surrounded by the dead?”
“For my penance,” I said.
“The dead are no longer here, just their earthly remains. Your prayers do nothing for them, only for yourself. Are you a selfish girl?”
My shoulders slumped. “I’m many things. This is my way of correcting my mistakes.”
“No, it is a way of placating a drowning man, a drunkard’s way of being besotted with a fool’s drink of guilt.”
Touching him and hoping his time in purgatory would do him well, my fingers caressed his cranium, along the edges and bumps which once mapped out his personality, charisma and lack of genius.
“Are you not going to ask me why I’m here?” Freyja asked and moved closer. I caught a whiff of her sweet, fresh rain scent comparable to a promise of nectar to an otherwise empty stomach.
“’Tis not proper to ask such, my Lady.”
“True, but I have plans for you dear, Belle. “
All actions came with consequences. For years, I’d been playing second fiddle to do as I thought the gods wanted, even in secret as the worship of the Norse deities were now frowned upon, their old ways practically wiped out, and the threat of the Inquisition drawing ever nearer. Only little remained from the rumors: books burned, writing of the traditions as fact forbidden, only the names of Odin, Freyja, and Thor remained. And their faithful, experiencing the worst of purges, through physical torture, all based on an alleged witness’s testimony.
Ragnarok came in many different shapes and forms, and not only as the great Trickster’s betrayal, but even more, the old tales weren’t to be interpreted as literal happenings. There was a bigger picture indeed.
My life was my routine, where I knew what to expect and when.
“I’ve appeared to speak with you for a reason.” Freyja paused. “Life has a lot in store for you, and I’ve come to call you forth to embrace what I require you to be.”
I didn’t understand. She moved her hand into her cloak, and removed a golden apple. Even in the darkness I recognized the glint. “Biting this apple will do two things: grant you your youthfulness again and divine purpose.”
The idea of biting into the apple, with all of its repercussions, both said and unsaid, was inviting.
“You have given me much to consider,” I said.
“You are here alone, besides your books and spells, you have nothing.”
I nodded. My silence displayed my willingness.
“As such, I decree that you must go forward and be of assistance, for if you are unable to save the Dragon’s Warrior, then the Dragon seed shall not be protected.”
It would mean the end of everything, even the freedom I now endured.
I nodded my head, and bowed. “Where would you like me to go, my lady?”
Freyja moved forward. Her dress swayed with every slight movement. She took her index finger and raised my face upward until our eyes met.
“Not where,” she smiled and placed a golden necklace around my neck, on which a tear-dropped amber gemstone rested, “but when. Death shall not touch you, for you will be blessed to live several lifetimes.”
“Several?” I asked. “Yes, but what for?”
My stomach clenched, and my hands shook. For the past fifty years, I’d lacked all sense of levity. My transgressions snowballed, creating a war, and after the smoke plumes wafted away, and the dead rested on the fields picked over like carrion, my life shattered, and only my name remained.
Or a version of it.
“Because the future needs you, and I need you to have the knowledge to deal with it all—so you must live it. A simple portal will ruin our plans.”
“How long? How long shall I live?”
Freyja leaned toward me. “Forever, my vampire hunter. You shall protect the dragon and hunt those who might do her harm. Kara, my Valkyrie, shall begin your training.”
I sucked in a breath through my teeth and tried not to worry about the one vampire I hoped still lived: Leif.
Light quickened my flesh, and shocked me, as if eternity had reached forward and scorched me.
There was never enough time to do it all, but I hoped I’d be able to get a second chance, one day.
To right those mistakes.
And save the one I’d damned to be the vampire he was.
LEIF
A monster? A monster is what Leif was now.
Gone was the lightheartedness he’d so easily exuded, replaced with a coldness that immortality brought with it.
Admittedly, his bed had been warmed by many, but this delicate and now-aged and- haggard flower, he’d not been able to forget. He shook his head and tried to erase the memory of her brilliant smile, and what could have been.
Even now, as he stood across from the charnel house next to his valet and watched Lady Abele shuffle away, her head bowed, her back curved, he desired her.
Mine. The thought formed without summoning it. But she was and had always been untouchable.
Abele pulled a thin cloak tighter around her frail shoulders. Every week he found himself back at the cemetery in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. He knew everything about her: still unwed, no children, alone, and living off of the pittance of what remained of her family’s once-held wealth. All she had was her name, which still provided her with some semblance of comfort, but not much.
Anger anew, washed over him. The dragon had taken away any happiness he might have had, and left him without even a mate. Although he’d once met Lady Hel, she’d not returned to assist him with his change. Instead, tossed into life’s new chaos, he had to find a roundabout way home, which first led to Wallachia, and the powerful Vlad.
But it was the dragon that’d caused him to lose it all: position, family, the crown. But nothing was as it seemed.
For the longest time, he stripped away everything associated with his past. He ran away from the throne, losing his blood-born right to rule. But the only one who remained of importance from the kingdom was Abele. Despite it all, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“Warwick, dear man, please go and give these to the elderly woman there.” He pointed at Abele.
He watched his man race behind her, and Leif eavesdropped. “My Lady, you appear to have dropped a parcel.”
“I did no such thing, as I wasn’t carrying one.” He heard her respond.
After all these years, she still stirred something in the remaining sliver of a soul he had. That first drink from her, it had grounded him.
“Please take it, ma’am,” his servant said.
“I’ve told you. That does not belong to me.”
“Consider it a donation.”
“I’m not a beggar.” She rubbed her hands together as if warming them.
“His lordship does not wish pride to keep you cold, hungry, or without.”
She then stopped walking.
“Your lord
has sent you.”
“Yes, but he asked me not to tarry long.”
She took hold of the package, turned around and, for a moment, Leif thought she saw him hiding behind the tree’s trunk.
From this distance, he could see as her eyes welled, her chin jutted out, and her jaw clenched. Forever stubborn, but also in need. She glanced around, and he knew she looked for a glimpse of him. In the package, she’d find his banner, what should have meant something way back when, and even now it would mean she’d never be without—just without him.
True love kept him coming back, while his being an immortal vampire kept him from her side. When Warwick returned, they headed to the waiting carriage.
“Return me to the inn so we may gather our things. We must return to Wallachia posthaste.”
“And what of the woman?” his valet asked.
“There will always be other women.” He bared his teeth. As long as he could stay away, she would be safe from his anger, and he would be safe from admitting what would always be there: love.
Chapter Two
Tink
The Present
Following orders. Always following orders.
In the beautifully decorated reception hall filled with crystal-stemmed glasses, bone-china place settings, tall square taper vases held Nosegay bouquets, while tea lights flickered around the room. Warm music from the live band filled the reception hall.
Surrounded by family and friends, the room was filled with gaiety, all except one: me.
The wedding cake towered: all eight tiers of different varieties of decadence, hadn’t yet been cut. The first dance still needed to happen; the toast to the happy couple hung in the air.
Weddings suck.
Those were not typically the words of the bride. Nor were they the usual thoughts hidden under a glued-on gummy smile. But that was me. Especially not the words of a proper lady.
A Dragon’s Witch Page 2