Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

I hardly touch the food placed upon my plate as the feast drags long into the night. A roasted pig, smoked over a fire pit, was a fine fatted hog when it arrived in the dining hall, yet now it is nothing more than bone and skin. Bowls of steaming vegetables and mouthwatering pastries have vanished, with only a few spare crumbs to remain.

  The table manners of many in the room would have been enough to horrify my mother. Men dug into the flesh of the pig with fingers still cloaked with blood and other foul bits burrowed into their fingernail beds. Splatters of blood lined cloth and wood as several cheers and rousing chants filled the room, mugs sloshing to and fro as men raised from their seats to join in song.

  Flagons of blood have been consumed. Spirits are high and wild as servants rush forward to clear the table. A young girl reaches over my right shoulder to take my plate. Her sunken eyes fly open wide as Vladimir grabs her arm. “You did not ask permission,” he growls.

  The girl mewls in pain. I turn to give the girl aid, yet I am caught speechless by the overwhelming scent of blood that clings to her skin. It is sweet. My mouth begins to water as my gaze focuses on the steady pulse at her neck.

  Vladimir smirks at my horrified gaze and releases the girl. “Be gone with you, girl.”

  She whimpers and grabs my plate quickly, though not fast enough for me to fail to notice wide slits across her wrists. The skin that rises along the wounds is slightly discolored and appears hardened.

  The girl trips and tumbles to the ground as she reaches the stairs. Raucous laughter rises all around me as I too find myself staring at the poor girl. Terrified, she gathers the bits of food that fell from my plate and rushes away, her head lowered so far I can easily see the scars along her neck, under a mop of mousy brown hair that hasn’t been properly cleaned in ages—teeth marks.

  “She is human,” I whisper to myself, clutching my hands so tightly in my lap that my nails pierce my flesh.

  “She is a blood slave.”

  I turn to see Vladimir staring intently at me. When I say nothing, he continues. “Where do you think our blood supply comes from?”

  “I had not thought of it,” I whisper again, feeling what little food I managed to eat begin to churn in my stomach. He is using human slaves as food. No, not food. As living fountains.

  “She has wounds…” I trail off, closing my eyes to the thought of someone cutting into the girl, repeatedly by the looks of her ample scaring.

  Vladimir smiles and leans back in his chair. His legs part as he sinks low, his boots crossed at the ankles. He looks perfectly at ease. “There is healing power in blood, my dearest Roseline, and also in our bite. It is true that the sweetest blood comes easiest from the neck. The mortals have labeled us as blood drinkers, as murders, yet our bite does not kill. A wound will seal over naturally, leaving no trace of our plunder.”

  “If it were only a single bite,” I amend.

  “True, which it hardly ever is.” Vladimir smiles. “Blood is more than life, Roseline. It is a drug and need. The more you succumb, the more you will thirst for it.”

  I fail to suppress my shudder, which seems to heighten Vladimir’s pleasure. “You long for it,” he muses, trailing his finger idly around the lip of his goblet. I saw your reaction to her nearness. It is natural.”

  My lips peel back with disgust as I shift as far from him as the arms of my chair will allow. “It is an abomination. A thing of devils.”

  Vladimir laughs, nodding. “Indeed.”

  I fall silent as a clash of steel captures my attention. The sound of clattering dishes is drowned out by the rising shouts and cheers. Benches and tables are shoved out of the way as two men come together in the center of the room.

  One man appears older, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His beard is neatly trimmed, his sideburns left slightly bushy to match the thickness of his wavy brown hair. His nose is pointed, giving him an eagle-like intensity to his face. “Who is the man on the left?” I ask as he lunges toward his opponent.

  “That is Emory,” Vladimir responds though does not embellish any further. My husband’s gaze is wide with amusement. “The other is Marcus.”

  Marcus is tall and thin, though I suspect there is lean muscle buried beneath his fine evening coat. Even within the great hall of Castle Bran, he still wears a black felt top hat. It perches upon his head, making him appear taller than he really is. His skin in pale as alabaster, his lips unusually red. His face is handsome yet in a different sort of way. His beauty comes from a sense of elegance rather than physical features.

  He moves with the stealth of a cat, low and deliberate. I can see him taunting Emory, forcing the bulkier man to lumber after him as Marcus leaps upon a tabletop. So this is the one whom Emeline has her sights set upon, I muse silently.

  Not far away, I spy a stunning woman with shiny black hair piled atop her head in a beautiful fashion. Her neck is graceful, her hands primly folded in her lap. The bodice of her sapphire dress dips low enough to hardly give her any decent support for her ample chest. A wide string of jewels, inlaid in yellow gold, rings her neck. A matching jewel nestles within her hair.

  She is beautiful even from this distance, but there is something cold and calculating about her appearance. A man sits beside her, his features of similar appearance, though he looks a tad kinder. A shadow of stubble clings to his strong jaw. His eyes are a startling blue, wide and alert. “Who are those two?” I inquire again.

  “That is Verity and her brother Cassius, twins, though their personalities are as far apart as the sun trailing after the moon. Cassius is a follower, eager to please his sister. Fiercely protective as well. He has proven to be of great entertainment over the years.”

  The deep chuckle in my husband’s voice leaves little wonder as to what dark things these siblings are capable of. I stifle a cry as Vladimir places a hand upon my arm. “I would steer clear of Verity for a while, my dear. She can be rather… passionate.”

  He does not elaborate on the matter, though I doubt he needs to. Watching the hawk-like intensity of Verity and the fervor of her growing lust for Cassius leaves me in stiff agreement with Vladimir. She is a woman who gets what she wants.

  The fight ends swiftly as Marcus lands a blow that slices Emory’s right hand off completely. It flops onto the floor. Blood pools from the severed limb. Even from where I sit, I can see bone protruding from Emory’s wound.

  “How dreadful.” My stomach churns once more with bile as I fight against the need to be ill.

  Vladimir laughs. “Do not turn away, my dear. You will spoil the fun.”

  I turn back only because he watches me. I know I need to prove myself tonight, though to what extent he will force me to do so is unclear.

  Emory lumbers over to a table and grabs a flask of blood, downing it in a single go. The thick crimson that escapes his lips spills over his beard. He swipes his arms across his chin, smearing it into a horrific stain. He retrieves his hand and spits the dregs of his cup onto it before holding the severed hand up to his wounded arm.

  My mouth gapes in disbelief as I watch his skin begin to shift around the wound. It bubbles and stretches, sealing over the injury. Within minutes, only a small red circle gives evidence to the damage Marcus inflicted. With his head lowered, Emory offers his sword to Marcus and returns to the party. Verity claps with delight and rushes to Marcus’s side to congratulate him on his prize.

  “All of that for a sword?” I ask with a mixture of disgust and awe.

  “It is the way of things.” Vladimir shrugs.

  “His hand… how did it heal so swiftly?”

  Lucien casts an irritated glance in my direction, as if the answer should be obvious. I do not see how it could be. A day along my life was normal. I had never glimpsed such dark magic before.

  Vladimir leans closer and gently brushes the loosely curled bronze strands from my shoulder. The scent of blood on his breath is pungent and his need to touch me seems to be growing by the minute. My own goblet remains untouched and will
remain so if I have any say in the matter.

  “Human blood can heal nearly every wound. Remember this, for it may someday save your life.”

  A dark foreboding falls over me as he turns and cheers for the next round of entertainment. A man raises a bow, his arrow poised and aimed across the length of the great hall. His arm shows no sign of quiver despite the vast size of the bow.

  The arrow takes flight. I close my eyes as the arrow lands below the target, striking a man in the throat instead of the apple perched atop his head. Blood seeps from the wound, gushing from a darkened hole as the wounded man yanks the arrow free. I cannot bear to look, even as he too grasps a flask of blood.

  “Your aim is improving, Clement,” Vladimir mocks as the man lowers his bow. He tosses it aside and storms from the room.

  These people are barbaric, I muse silently as I cradle my arms about my waist.

  The contests go one for nearly an hour. None of them ends in less than a fatal wound, only to be healed within moments. As disturbingly gruesome as it all is, I begin to realize just how trying it would be to kill one of them.

  No wonder the rumors of vampyres have spread across the land. With such evil contained in one room, I dread to think of what they would do to an entire village. Fire and pitchforks would hardly be enough to take down a single immortal, let alone a group of them.

  Music begins to spill through the room, though I cannot say from where it comes. I see no musicians, yet the melody is present nonetheless. The mood of the room begins to shift as men and women come together in the center and begin to sway together.

  I spy Emeline casting furtive glances at Verity as she winds herself around Marcus, leaving hardly any chance for the man to breathe. Emeline selects a man at random. His face is pleasant albeit dark, with a look that can only be described as a haunting beauty. His name escapes me, though Vladimir gave me a running commentary on most of the attending guests.

  Vladimir’s laughter steals away my gaze. His head is dipped low in private conversation with Lucien at his side. He raps his brother on the shoulder and sinks back into his seat as Lucien rises and jumps from the raised platform. He weaves through the revelry, appearing to search for someone.

  I watch, mesmerized by the dancing before me. With the tables pushed against the walls, a wide open floor space has appeared, easily large enough for the men and women to writhe together, moving in ways that make me blush with deep chagrin.

  Vladimir seems to be taken with my naivety. I can feel him watching me, though I dare not avert my gaze toward him.

  A fight suddenly breaks out among two men, each finely dressed and wielding handsome swords. I rise slightly in my seat and see Emeline cheering them on. Her dress has become unlaced, her sleeves draping off her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed with a fetching rosy tint. Her dance partner is locked in battle with a man with a stunning head of red hair and a mustache that curls slightly at the ends.

  Emeline’s hair now spills over her shoulder and her lips appear reddened and bruised. I realize with a start that she is the reason for the fight.

  She sways back and forth, swishing her skirts as she giggles. Her eyes are alight with excitement at the clang of swords as she slowly slides her hands along the curves of her body, her desired tryst with Marcus apparently long forgotten.

  The two men circle each other, crouched low. They never break eye contact as they move with fluidity and grace. “Will they kill each other?”

  Vladimir laughs beside me and I realize that I spoke out loud. “No, my dear. They may take a limb or two. However, no one will die tonight. I will not allow it.”

  I sink back in my chair and draw my gaze toward him. My husband looks stunning in his fitted coat of gold and black. The collar rises high along his neck, making him look regal and every bit the lord of this castle.

  “You have much control over your men, my lord,” I say with as much respect as I can muster. The words feel like treason upon my lips, yet I have learned that Vladimir demands complete submission and respect. He thrives off flattery. Perhaps if I speak the damning words now, he will delay any desire to abuse me.

  His gaze narrows a fraction. “They are not my men. They are my brethren, your brethren now too.”

  “My apologies.” I lower my gaze and fold my hands into my lap.

  He places a hand upon my arm and I bite the tender flesh of my lower lip to force myself not to pull away. “You have much to learn, dearest. I will teach you.”

  His words feel weighted with far more than a simple desire to teach me swordplay or proper etiquette. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I realize the deeper meaning behind his words.

  Oh no, please no! I still ache from the night before. He cannot possibly think to ravage me again so soon.

  My heart is troubled as I glance back at the floor to avoid Vladimir’s piercing gaze.

  Lucien captures my stare. My mouth drapes in open shock as I find him mounting Alamesia in the corner. Although there is little bare skin to be seen with Alamesia’s skirts billowing around them, there is little doubt as to what is happening. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are rolled back into her head as it lolls from side to side. Her back arches atop the table as she presses up into Lucien.

  I quickly glance away only to find similar scenes occurring all around me. Swords have been forgotten and fine garments have been tossed about in great haste. Men and women writhe together, some in groups, while others are off on their own. Emeline seems to have calmed the fight, having chosen to see to both men instead of just one.

  Vladimir watches me intently as I take in the shocking scene before me. Screams of pleasure and masculine grunts begin to replace the laughter. Heat rises from the neckline of my dress as I turn away, sickened by the open fornication. How can they do such ghastly things in front of so many people? Have they no shred of honor or decency?

  When Vladimir’s hand falls atop my arm, I fail to hold back a tiny squeal of panic. His eyes are darker and his pupils are dilated. I can smell his lust leaching from his skin, bold and nauseating. Fear returns like a battering ram against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  His grip is strong as he pulls me to him. “This is the way of things,” he says in a deepened voice as he slips his hand around the back of my head and crushes his lips against mine.

  The arm of the chair digs into my side as he pulls me tightly toward him. Terror floods through my veins as his tongue seeks to part my lips. I want to bite him, to scream for help, yet I know none would come. The harder I push back against him, the tighter his hold becomes.

  A growl rises deep in his throat as he rips at the sweeping neckline of my dress. The fabric tears effortlessly, baring me from neck to waist.

  I cry out, attempting to cover my nakedness. He grasps my hands and with a single yank on my arm sends me crashing into his chest as he rises, toppling my chair. I gasp, fighting to suck in a breath as he presses on my shoulders, forcing me to the ground.

  Tears stream down my cheeks as small whimpers escape my lips. Vladimir’s hands skim under the folds of my dress, tearing them away. I close my eyes as I feel him against my inner thighs.

  “Please,” I weep. “Do not do this.”

  Vladimir leers as his weight comes to rest heavily upon me. He grips my hands over my head, pinning me. He does not listen to my pleas, nor is he swayed by my tears. Instead, he seems to bask in my fear.

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth as the pain comes again, burning and deep. A sharp slap to my face makes me cry out. My eyelids burst open and I find a new horror buried in his eyes: excitement.

  “Scream for me,” he demands.

  Vladimir clasps my hands together with one hand and then balls his other into a fist. He slams it into my side and I cry out as I feel bone splinter. He growls in appreciation as he makes me shriek again and again. My head slams against the leg of my fallen chair, beating against the wooden floor. Darkness begins to eat away at my vision and I give in, pleading
for an escape from this nightmare.

  TEN