Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

I cower in the corner, my head buried against my knees. My hair drapes over my face, hiding me from the outside world. The flood beneath me is cold to the touch, soothing the growing bruise that stretches around my backside and up to my hip. Tears fall unheeded from my eyes. My nose runs, though I do not make any effort to clean myself.

  Warm late afternoon sunlight spills through the window upon my toes. I curl them, realizing that even they ache. I have lost count of how many bones have been broken and reset over the past few days. One week. That is all I have managed to endure since my wedding, yet it feels as if I have suffered an entire lifetime of torment at Vladimir’s hand.

  He comes to me each night, penetrating the safety of my room, only to leave me a few hours later, broken and desolate. These walls offer me no protection, the door no barrier from the evil that walks these halls.

  My only solace is that I have been allowed to remain in my room instead of forced to attend another nightly feast. I can hear their swordplay and catcalling from below. No matter how deeply I bury my head in my pillows, I always hear.

  What Vladimir does to me in private is abhorrent, though far more tolerable than being ravaged in front of a room of people. Curling my arms about my knees, fresh tears come as I think on my first night. Of the men who watched as Vladimir took me over and over again, I could feel their lust, their desire. They are waiting for Vladimir’s attentions to wane, and when they do, I will be turned over to them like a bone tossed to dogs.

  I cannot bear this.

  My only reprieve comes in the day when they pass out in various reaches of the castle in a lust and blood-drunken haze. It is these moments that I fight to remind myself that there is still good in the world… somewhere.

  A pounding at my door sends me scuttling back between the table and the side of my bed. It is a small space, the only that I can draw comfort from.

  I glance to the window, terrified as I see that my thoughts have tricked me out of hours of freedom. The sunlight has faded and with it my brethren awake.

  “Go away,” I whisper, knowing whoever stands on the other side of my door will hear me.

  “I have a gift for you,” a man calls.

  Goose bumps rise along my arms. Why would Vladimir send a man to my door? He has made it clear that I am not to be touched.

  “I have no need for gifts,” I manage to say. My throat bobs as I swallow against the parched sensation.

  The door opens and Atticus crosses the threshold into my room. He pauses, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit room. A smirk tugs at his lips as he finds me cowering in the corner. “Vladimir insists.”

  I press back against the wall, frantically clearing the stringy strands of hair from my eyes to watch his approach. He moves swiftly yet makes no movement to come near. Instead, he pauses at the end of the bed and drapes a long bag of some sort over the edge and backs away.

  “You have until sunset to prepare.” He turns back at the door and casts his gaze over my unkempt appearance. “I will send Cyra to help you bathe. I dare say Vladimir will be none too pleased to see you in this state.”

  That is precisely why I do not bathe, I think bitterly as the door closes behind him. Long after his footsteps descend the stairwell, I emerge from my hiding place. The floor creaks beneath my hands and knees as I crawl forward. Using the bedpost for aid, I pull myself upright, wincing at the myriad of pains that needle at me from muscles I had not known I possessed.

  With a trembling hand, I reach out and draw back the cloth and gasp. Lying atop my bed cover is the most beautiful dress I have ever glimpsed. The deep crimson fabric is silky beneath my fingers, the gold embroidery delicate and simply breathtaking.

  “You will soil it,” a girl cries from behind me. She rushes forward and slaps away my hand, bushing the fabric as if I had rubbed dirt into its threads. She turns in a huff, her hands planted upon her narrow waist. Vivid violet eyes scrutinize me. “Atticus was kind in his description of you.”

  I feel my ire rising as I open my mouth to protest. She holds up a hand. “We have much work to do and little time. I, for one, do not plan to miss this ball.”

  “A ball?” I ask, horrified at the thought. Would Vladimir really open the doors to the castle to allow hundreds of people to enter? Would any human be crazy enough to entertain the idea?

  She grabs my hand and yanks me to the corner of the room where a washbasin has been left. The water is warm to the touch, having sat beside the fire all day. Cyra hisses as she dips her hands into the water and shakes her head, tossing the cloth at me. “You do it. I will tend to your dress.”

  In a flurry of black silk, she bustles away. I watch as she leans over my bed and begins picking at the dress, removing invisible threads. At least she is giving me some privacy, I muse as I disrobe with my back turned to her and rub the heated water over my body, cleansing myself for the first time in four days.

  It feels good to be clean. However, along with that comes the fear that once I am, Vladimir will find even more reason to come to me. Perhaps he will not do so tonight. Not with a party to attend to.

  Wishful thinking, yet I must cling to it.

  A few moments later, I sense Cyra standing behind me. I look over my shoulder to find her staring at my back. Her gaze is narrowed, intense and probing. A fan of black material rises to encircle her, stiff and reaching nearly to the top of her head.

  “You are marked,” she says.

  I press my lips into a thin line and turn away. “Vladimir has a way of doing that.”

  “Foolish girl,” she snaps, and I cry out as her palm connects with my neck. I raise a hand to rub the wounded skin. “It is not those marks I speak of. Have you not seen it?”

  Lowering my hand, though my neck still tingles with pain, I glare at her over my shoulder. “You speak in riddles.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Cyra moves to snatch a small mirror from the vanity. It is rounded and inlaid with beautiful silver. She holds it up and waits expectantly. I attempt to peer over my shoulder into the glass yet can see nothing. “It is no use,” I say and give up.

  I flinch as I feel her fingers graze over the top of my hip. Terror of being touched roots me in place and though her touch is not unkind, it is probing. “I have never seen a mark of this sort before.”

  Her voice sounds far off and the look in her eyes seems to be filled with awe.

  “What does it look like?”

  She blinks, appearing to come back to the present. A scowl instantly curls her lip. “It does not matter.”

  Tossing aside the mirror, she grabs me by the arm and I hardly have time to fling the cloth back into the bowl of dirty water before she is rubbing me down. My skin grows pink under her merciless attentions. She takes great care to make sure every part of me is dry. I breathe a sigh of relief when she finally slips the silken fabric over my shoulders.

  She tugs on the lacing of the dress, forcing me to suck in a breath as she places my ribs in a bind. Stepping back, she tilts her head, fluffing the dress here or there. “It will have to do.”

  As the final wisps of sunlight are devoured by night, Cyra places the finishing touches on my hair and then begins on my face. I have never worn powder or color on my skin before, like the harlots that wander the streets at night in Brasov. No true lady would wear such a thing, yet Cyra seems intent on forcing me to do so.

  She dabs at my eyes, rubbing something thick and black against my lashes until they are clumped and weighted. Finally, she steps away, finishing with her administrations. “There. One last thing.”

  Cyra turns and pulls something from the cloth bag, and I feel my breath catch. A beautiful plume of feathers rises from a crimson mask. It looks dainty and yet perfectly suited to match the dress that graces the curves of my body. “Put it on.”

  I take the mask from her and slip it over my hair and into place. A small strap winds around the back of my head, holding it in place. Cyra holds up the mirror and my breath catches as I see that with her mastery of
power, she has made my eyes look wide and fierce beneath the guise.

  “It is beautiful,” I whisper.

  “Yes.” She agrees. Her gaze lingers a moment too long and I grow uncomfortable. It seems intimate somehow. I frown, curling my hands about my waist. “I do not remember having seen you before.”

  Cyra blinks and raises her gaze from my neckline. A faint blush appears in her cheeks. “I have only just arrived with the others.”

  “Others?” I swallow roughly.

  She smirks and hands me a pair of shoes. These boast heels, much like the pair I wore the night of the feast, and I am forced to stifle a groan. “You cannot have a party without guests. For what is a masquerade without a ball?”

  I have heard of the term masquerade only in passing, from travelers arriving from distant lands, although to my knowledge no such party has been held in Transylvania.

  “Come. We must not be late.” She turns and rushes toward the door, not pausing to see if I will follow as she dashes into the hall. Though I feel none of her excitement as I exit my room, counting each tap of my stiff-backed shoes as I descend, I do feel a sense of anticipation on the air.

  Clusters of voices echo up through the stairwell. I can pick out Verity and Cassius’s voices easily enough. Atticus’s deep tone rings out loud and clear, as does Emeline’s laughter, no doubt trying to overshadow Verity.

  “Ah, there you are,” a voice calls from a room I just passed. I turn to find Amadeus leaning against the frame of his door. “I wondered where you were hiding.”

  “My whereabouts are none of your concern,” I respond in a clipped tone as I turn and hurry away. He follows behind, though not closely enough to be improper. To an observer he would merely appear to be going in the same direction, yet I know better. He is stalking me from a proper distance.

  The instant I reach the final step, I am inundated with unusual smells and sights. A flurry of color surrounds me, dresses of every shade of the rainbow with masks to match the finery. Men wear dark-colored trousers and three-quarter-length jackets. Their masks are more manly, many sporting antlers, horns, or some other form of animalistic depiction.

  Emeline looks stunning with her snowy hair falling in delicate curls about her silver mask. Verity’s plum dress pales in comparison to the black mask that has a wide plume of narrow feathers along its crest. Cassius looks very regal and protective as he stands beside her.

  I rise onto my toes in search of Vladimir and find him to be absent. I lower to the floor and breathe a sigh of relief.

  “He has gone ahead to see to the preparations,” a low voice whispers into my ear.

  I cry out and turn to stare into the most hideous mask I have ever seen: a devil. Blackened eyes lie beneath, lifeless and void of emotion. The mask depicts another emotion, one of anger and evil. Its surface is black and painted crimson. The full-face disguise is twisted into a pained grimace. The man draws the mask away from his face and I take a step back, terrified to be standing so close to Lucien.

  “The beauty of a masquerade is in not knowing to whom you speak,” he says dully. When he turns his gaze away, I note the hint of malice in the twist of his lips. “Though by now you should be familiar with my scent.”

  With a curt nod, he turns on his heels and disappears into the crowd, leaving me breathless and shaken. If I allowed him to sneak up on me, what else might happen tonight?

  ELEVEN