The train whistle pierced her ears again with a high-pitched shrill. Amelie leapt over a pile of brush and a fallen tree trunk. Her footing was so nimble, they easily carried her across uneven terrain. She climbed higher up the mountain.
Amelie’s footsteps matched the sound of the train wheels that chugged along the tracks.
Rushing water pounded in her ears even though she was a long distance from the raging river that rolled through the valley.
Nearly there.
With each step, the anticipation made her fearless, and her fangs extended on their own.
The terrain traveled upwards.
Amelie jumped up and over a hill. The narrow river was swollen with melting snow. Whirlpools sprang out at the river’s bend where white water bubbled and flowed.
Stepping back, Amelie took a running leap, flying across the eight-foot-wide river. Her toe slipped into frozen water. She dragged her foot through the mud. Her strength and the tautness of her muscles held her upright; she maintained her balance and continued running without missing a step.
The whistle rang again through the trees.
Amelie’s eyes never stopped darting across the landscape. She sniffed the air.
The embankment!
Amelie grabbed the branch above her head and swung upwards. Dropping back down, the vampire continued to climb the steep hill. She reached another low-hanging branch and flew upwards, much like swinging on the monkey bars at the park, something she had never done before. She rose higher without breaking a sweat, without her lungs burning with exertion. At the top of the hill, she swung one last time and dropped within feet of the tracks.
The vampire hid behind the nearest tree. The train shrieked through the forest and echoed off the mountains. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.
She stood at the top of the mound where the train sped by; her clothes rustled around her. When the train whistle blew, she held her hands over her ears, protecting them from the loud shriek.
Closed cars rolled by, shaking and sputtering against the track. She stepped closer to the train as a car with an open door rolled beside her. Amelie ran matching its speed. Reaching for a hand rail, she pulled herself upward, slid inside the car packed with boxes and waited for her return home.
*
Scenery flew by in a green blur.
Amelie’s memories flowed. She let them envelope her, seep inside. She stared at the ring she wore on her left ring finger, a large gray pearl, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. It was the only piece of her former life that she carried with her. She had no idea why they buried her with it. It held no precious memories now; it was just a thing, given to her by her mother.
Mother had been so proud of the gift. Amelie hated it in life and in death; it was a reminder of that hate—for the ring, for her mother, for the life that made her a prisoner.
She twirled the ring around her finger, took it off, and stared at the silver band. It would take no more than a second to toss the ring out the open train car, to be done with it forever.
She couldn’t let go.
Just like she couldn’t let go of the fury toward her mother, toward the life she represented.
She placed the ring back on her finger, stood, and held onto the metal handle at the open door.
Hanging out of the door, she felt the wind batter against her body; her hair flew wildly about her. “Woo-hoo!” she shouted, caring little if anyone heard her or saw her stealing a ride in the train car.
Until the train slowed.
Amelie ducked behind the boxes as the brakes squeaked and sputtered and the train glided to a stop.
A din of voices descended on the train as employees began to unload several of the cars. She heard grunts as heavy boxes were hauled into carts, which squeaked and bounced against the hard earth.
As she smelled blood wafting in the air, saliva covered her extended fangs. Workers passed the open door, back and forth as they unloaded and loaded cargo. Bored, and growing hungry again, Amelie snuck to the edge of the door and listened intently to the jovial sounds of the employees.
“Help me! Please help me!” the vampire cried out.
Someone came running. A flashlight lit up the inside of the car, roaming across the boxes and along the walls before a man jumped aboard.
“Is anyone here?” he asked, his accent thick.
Amelie ran her fingers through her hair, tussling her long locks. Using a long fingernail, she scratched her cheek deep enough for blood to drip from the wound.
“Here. I’m in here,” she cried out.
The railway worker, turned toward the voice, his eyes widened. “Princess Amelie?” he asked, his confusion plainly visible across his face. He crossed himself and stared to the sky just as Amelie’s fist made contact with his mouth. He crashed to the floor of the car, and the princess dragged his limp body behind the large storage crate.
“What…” he drifted off, his nose bleeding.
Amelie sniffed wildly as she smelled the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The scent of iron wafted to her.
She yanked his head backwards.
“No. Please, Princess,” he pleaded.
Amelie sunk sharpened fangs into the soft flesh of his neck and sucked as the train rolled away from the station.
“No, please, Princess Amelie…”
She writhed and groaned as she drained his body. No longer able to hold onto life, he fell limp. When he was drained, she dropped his lifeless corpse on the ground and stood beside the open door, letting the wind rush through her hair and ruffle her clothes.
Estimating the train was twenty miles from the last station, she dragged the dead man to the door and tossed his body. It rolled from the track toward the steep side of the cliff. His jacket stuck on a tree root, suspending him over the embankment.
Amelie wiped her mouth of excess blood, sniffed her fingers, and licked them clean before settling in for the rest of the trip.
*
Growing impatient, Amelie punched and kicked the crate.
When the train finally rolled to a screeching stop at Maxillian Center, the heart of Amborix, she stopped, standing still in the corner and waiting for the right time to leave the train.
Outside, the most populous city in Amborix bustled and teemed with visitors, countrymen, and employees. The west side of the station was packed with a steady stream of people disembarking and boarding the train. Several employees were pushing carts as they unloaded and loaded the train cars.
To the east, the tracks were nearly empty. Only two employees guided a cart down the narrow patch of dirt. Amelie swung her backpack across her back and jumped from the train.
So close!
Amelie jumped from the train, leapt over a second set of train tracks, and lunged into the dense forest to the east. Once inside the cool trees, she turned, took one final look at the train that brought her home, and headed away from the train station, from the people who worked there, from her subjects, from visitors to Amborix.
Chapter 12
“They gave us permission to leave.” Spencer glanced out the door before closing them inside. Annie was packing the last of her things; she waved her hands inside her bag to shrink items and create additional room before closing the bag. She worked the straps, making them lose and easy to carry.
“Albert will hold the room for us?” She turned toward Sturtagaard, who was still tied to the wooden chair. He no longer pulled against the restraints and had for most of the morning remained still, glaring at them.
He’s creeping me out.
“I promised we’d be back tomorrow night. Slipped him some cash.” Spencer positioned himself against the window wall and observed the street below. Of the people that walked past the hotel, very few glanced up at their room; the rumors were finally dying down. And to the rare person who glanced up at the window, Spencer offered an easy, friendly wave, leaving the onlooker embarrassed and rushing away.
“You’re leaving me here to hold down the f
ort?” Sturtagaard asked sardonically. He attempted to adjust his lanky body, but the restraints were so tight he couldn’t move.
“You’ll only slow us down. Think you could stay out of trouble?” Spencer closed the drapes and glared at the vampire.
“What? You don’t trust me?” the vampire jeered.
“We’ll feed you now and secure you. And then we’re off. Try and stay out of trouble.” Spencer held out a dead rat, released the vampire’s good arm, and handed him the creature.
Sturtagaard grimaced.
When he finished the last of the blood he already had, Annie and Spencer refused to obtain more. They wouldn’t waste human blood on the vampire and ignored his leers and cantankerous grumblings. Catching the rats in the basement was a compromise. They needed Sturtagaard healthy should they need his assistance. The fact that dead animals caused him discomfort was a bonus.
“You realize if you draw attention to yourself we’ll stake you,” Annie reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before,” Sturtagaard sneered. His right fang, longer than his left, gave him a lopsided grin. Annie chewed her lip to keep from laughing at it.
Sturtagaard, grabbed the rat, bit into its matted fur, and slurped. He gagged at the taste of the wild rat, yet he kept sucking the creature.
Annie’s stomach lurched with every slurp. She turned away, played with the straps on her bag, and waited for the vampire to suck the creature dry.
Ugh, gross.
Once he finished with the rat, Sturtagaard tossed it to Spencer, who ran a palm across the fur until the creature shimmered away. With a rough grasp, he pulled the vampire’s hand behind him and secured it to the back of the chair.
“Is this necessary?” Sturtagaard grumbled, but Spencer ignored him, placing the heavy muffle bag over his head and securing it in place.
“Let’s get out of here. I’m afraid we’ve waited too long and she’s already there,” Spencer said. He threw his backpack over his shoulder.
“We should call the Amborix Witches Council and warn them,” Annie suggested as she fluttered her palm across the lock, leaving behind a basic hex in hopes that no one would enter their room.
Dinan was quiet as they headed out along the road, out of the sight of those who distrusted them, away from prying eyes.
*
Before leaving, they set Sturtagaard’s chair inside the armoire with the door slightly ajar and the window opened, just enough for him to hear, to smell, to draw conclusions. But today, there was little movement on the street below.
Not many vampires had walked the earth as long as Sturtagaard. Eventually blood lust made them stupid and they found a way to perish without ever having truly experienced all that being a vampire had to offer.
But Sturtagaard was smart. He understood there was a simple give and take with the magical community and he used it to his advantage. He forged relationships with the Wizard Council in which they would leave him alone as long as he gave them what they wanted when they wanted it.
Back then they wanted something big and soon it will be time to pay them back.
A woman walked outside the hotel. Sturtagaard knew as she passed the opened window because the perfume she wore was strong and smelled like lavender. He could almost picture her sashay as she walked. He licked his lips and leaned against the back of the chair, listening to her footsteps until she turned a corner.
Surrounded by quiet again, he searched for something else to fill his mind. It was in those moments of complete solitude when he could reflect on the thirteen hundred years of his life. Most were lost in his long-term memory, hidden by too many years. But there were some memories he couldn’t forget even if he tried.
Annie so reminded him of a girl named Anaise.—both were smart, infuriating, and cocky, and both he wanted to kill, to suck dry. Thinking of her bought back images of that time in North Umbria, working for the king, fighting the unkillable demons of the coven he had to work with to survive.
It made Sturtagaard uncomfortable thinking of whom he had lost and what he had needed to do to leave that life. He squirmed on the chair and pulled against the restraints that dug into his chilled skin. The armoire surrounded him, trapped him, swallowed him whole. He twisted and he kicked out, his boots crashing against solid wood wall of the only closet in the room.
Thud… thud… thud…
He kicked harder. The armoire shook. In that moment he hated Annie more than he ever had. She had him trapped and was no longer frightened by him. He could no longer push her buttons. She had put him here, long ago, by a secret deal he couldn’t undo, and she had yet to know existed.
As quickly as he had grown agitated, he calmed and returned to his thoughtful state, alone with his memories. As much as he loathed Annie, he found that she intoxicated him as he tried to figure her out.
He sat upright and closed his eyes, renewing his focus on his surroundings. Scents humans rarely recognized wafted to him from the street: oil, butter, sugar, salt, vinegar and… iron. The thought of the richness of warm blood made Sturtagaard shudder in delight. His fangs sprung from his mouth, which watered in anticipation. Spit dribbled down his chin.
He ignored the discomfort as he heard footsteps creak across the floor.
That was quick!
The room door handle rattled. If Sturtagaard breathed, he would have held his breath when he heard knuckles rapping against the old wooden door.
Receiving no answer, the person scraped keys inside the lock. The door’s hinges squeaked as the door was pushed open. Cautious footsteps entered the room, soft and careful as they crossed the creaky floors. Sturtagaard sniffed a familiar scent and was desperate to place a face or a name to the smells.
The intruder was definitely a man by his smell. He patted down the bed coverings with delicate hands. The otherwise soft sounds boomed in the vampire’s ears, forming a picture as clear as though he could see through the muffle bag over his head. He recognized the mental image of a man of slight build and strong cologne. The man, Sturtagaard now realized, was the day manager of this hotel.
Albert moved to the dresser beside the bedroom door, pulling out the first drawer, then the second—none of which had been used by Annie and Spencer, who carried their belongings in their field packs, shrunk for ease and carried in their back pockets.
Finding the drawers empty, the manager dropped to the floor, his knees creaking as he searched under the bed.
Finally, Albert stood. In that moment, Sturtagaard knew the man was glancing around the room, assessing the situation, and realizing there was only one more place in this small room to look. The day manager crossed to the armoire.
Sturtagaard very rarely felt scared, but explaining his presence in the armoire, tied to a chair with a bag over his head, would be most difficult. He tugged on the ropes binding his wrists together. Unable to remove the magically enhanced ropes, Sturtagaard twisted his body in the chair, which jumped and scraped against the floor of the closet.
He could sense Albert’s blood pumping with adrenaline—the scent of iron mixed with the cologne in an unappetizing combination. Albert’s hand shook as it held the door handle that rattled at his touch.
Sturtagaard took one last pull on the rope; it slipped to the floor.
A voice called out from the hallway.
“Yes, madam,” Albert said as he let go of the door handle. His loose-fitting clothes rustled as he bowed in the direction of the door. Finally, he walked away, his footsteps growing softer until door was shut and the key turned in the heavy metal lock.
Sturtagaard threw off the muffle bag, and lunged from the closet, setting the chair against the door handle. He sat on the middle of the bed and decided to wait until the two humans returned, though he wondered if Annie was worth the trouble.
*
Amelie remembered every inch of the castle grounds. For years, she had traversed these paths through the forest to reach the once-charming town, where she would hide from her over-scheduled lif
e, blending in with the townsfolk and dancing with the boys. She could feel the narrow path beneath her feet, leading from the castle to her private hiding spot where she’d whittle away the hours with Henri, lying in his arms on the dirty cot, proclaiming their love for each other. They had made divine plans for their lives together—and yet even with his well-bred life, he was, to her mother’s chagrin, just not good enough for the princess.
She seethed at the memory of her mother telling her no, of the memory of her last few moments with Henri, when she had said goodbye for the last time. The memories burned in her mind from the train station all the way to the small town at the edge of the royal property. By the time she made it there, she was consumed with fury at the loss of the life she had wanted to claim only to be denied by the life she was forced to live.
Amelie leapt across the undergrowth, sidestepping muddy paths, and ran through overgrown trails. She was assaulted by the scent of wet grass from the clearing where she should have been lying in perpetual peace for all of eternity. Hit hard by the recognition, she stopped short and took precarious steps toward the five-acre plot of land housing her gravesite.
Prior to her death, she had learned all she needed to survive in the years holed up here. She knew the schedules of the security teams, whom she could count on to say nothing, those she needed to bribe, and those who were better off left alone lest they squeal on her.
At the tree line, she closed her eyes, relying on her hearing and her smell to place the location of the security team. They were prompt and efficient and would do whatever necessary to keep the royal family safe. They wouldn’t be in this part of the property for another forty minutes.
Amelie glanced around the clearing, the manicured lawn, the large oak tree at the center. Its gnarled branches protectively stretched across her resting place.
Seeing the headstone gleaming in the sunlight, Amelie suddenly felt as though she were back in the coffin, overwhelmed by the rabid fear for her survival, panic at her inability to escape from her prison, fury over waiting to be freed, and the hunger that she couldn’t quench. The stillness in that coffin had nearly driven her mad.
Wizard War Page 12