Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

The tinkling of laughter calls from the festivities spread before me, stretching from one end of the town square to the other. The girlish giggles are far too high pitched to be genuine, evidence that the wenches are in their prime tonight. Men, both human and immortal, vie for their attention as they whip around the packed dirt ground, spinning around a crumbling fountain, more of a glorified pig trough than anything, in my opinion. Although the men’s intentions may be aligned in one aspect, I know all too well that there is a darker need wafting through my kinsmen on this night.

  The wagon ride to arrive at this village, nestled within the heart of the mountains, took nearly an hour. It was unbearable to be pressed in tight against Amadeus and Atticus, who both somehow managed to be seated beside me. I was grateful to arrive for no other reason than to be free of their company.

  I believe Lucien enjoyed watching my discomfort, making no move to save me from their attentions. With Vladimir gone, I was left to fend for myself.

  Now, as I stand in the shadows of this nameless town, a feeling of dread coils through my stomach. I know there is more going on here than a party. Why the humans do not sense it is beyond me.

  The scent of lust entwines with a darker, more animalistic thirst that seeps from my brethren’s pores. I stick to the background, present yet unwilling to join in as Vladimir wishes.

  Soon the blood will begin to flow and screams will replace the laughter.

  “This is no place for a lady,” a man whispers in my ear. I can feel the heat of his breath upon my bare skin, almost as if he longs to press his lips to back of my neck. Startled, I turn and search the shadows behind me and find them to be vacant.

  His voice is one that I am unfamiliar with. Perhaps he is one of the guests that arrived for the party.

  “Who are you?” I speak into the darkness; however, there is no answer. Nor is there any sign of the man.

  The fact that he managed to escape my inspection tells me that he is more than mortal. No human could scale the wall or leap to such a great height to hide from view.

  I turn back to the town center in search of the stranger, though I know not what to look for. The crowd before me is a swirl of color, dazzling rainbows of blues, yellows, and purples. Skirts swing high and men bow low as the band strikes up another song. I can see no hint of the man who spoke to me. I search for several minutes, my ire mounting with each tick of the clock. He plays games with me, I silently conclude, not happy in the least to be made a mockery of.

  I rise up onto my toes, sweeping my gaze from left to right until I discover the mystery man and realize with a start that I noticed him only because he intended to be seen. He stands within the very heart of the dancers, unmoving, his gaze riveted on me with as much curiosity as I am consumed by.

  He is immortal, that much is obvious by his flawless face peeking out beneath his mask, which sits high on his cheekbones. The polished silver of great war stallions rides the crest of his brow, a stark contrast to the long golden strands of hair beneath. The etched metal curves the side of his face, while a plume of black feathers runs the length of the top of the mask, blowing in the winds.

  His vivid eyes are stunning to behold within the shadow as lantern light flickers all around, brilliant and unwavering as they stare at me. His clothing is fine, boasting great wealth and excellent design. His pants are black and form fitting. His black leather boots are knee high and shined for the party. His white shirt has a sheen to it that makes me wonder if it might not be made entirely of silk. His suit coat, with its gleaming silver buttons, is tailored perfectly to fit his physique.

  A sense of awe grips me, the likes of which I have never known before. He is tall and broad shouldered, a warrior by the looks of his stance. He is cunning as well. I breathe deep, searching for his scent. I frown, realizing I cannot pinpoint him.

  His lips peel back into a knowing smile and a flush burns in my cheeks. He knows I’m trying to discover his true identity.

  I am unsure of what it is about him that speaks so loudly to me. Perhaps is the fact that his gaze is not glazed with lust and his actions are mysterious rather than blundersome. I clutch my hands against my maroon corset, no longer pondering about the way the boning digs deep into my ribs, rather on how revealing it is. My bosom is pushed so high I fear a single breath would have me popping straight out of this infernal costume.

  My skirts are long and tastefully drawn to give them fullness, my shoes hardly seen as I step forward. My hair has dried and is coiffed elegantly, clipped up with a fine pearl comb that Vladimir presented to me earlier in the week as a gift. My bronze hair falls in one full spiral over my shoulder, leaving the other side, the one the stranger spoke to me on, completely bare to the elements.

  When he stares at me, I feel as if he can see right through my mask. It is a fine cover, made of shiny gold, lace, and a towering single crimson feather adorned by a row of smaller white feathers that look as if they have been plucked straight from a snow-white dove.

  The wind rustles my skirts and droops my feather into my eye. I frown, batting it away. When I look up, the man is gone. I step forward once more, my heart thundering in my chest. Surely he is a ghost, I think as I scan the faces of the townspeople

  Vladimir glances up from his seat, perched upon a stack of crates across the square. He has a woman under either arm and one knelt before him, her hands splayed across his upper thigh as she works. His grin is broad, his gaze intense as he searches for me.

  I step back into the shadows, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. I do not care what vile things he does with those women, only that he enjoys it enough to leave me be when this night is over.

  A whisper of breath against my neck alerts to a presence. I inhale, steadying myself, and realize his scent is still lost to me. “I cannot place you, sir.”

  “I am downwind from you,” he murmurs against my ear. His voice is deep, soft yet demanding.

  I swallow as the lively song ends and shifts into something slower, the beat melodic and beautiful. The whirlwind of silk softens as men and women couple together. The symphony of heartbeats grows to maddening heights as they press up against each other. The scent of their combined desire makes me feel a bit hazy.

  “You should not watch,” the man whispers, this time on my right.

  How does he move so silently? I wonder as I turn to follow his movement. “My husband will know if I do not,” I say.

  “I think not. He seems to be rather preoccupied. Look there.” An immaculate white-gloved hand rises beside me. I resist the urge to turn and face the stranger as I follow his gaze.

  Vladimir now has his face buried in the neck of the buxom beauty on his right. Her cheeks are flushed and her skirts hiked high. Vladimir snakes his hand up her leg and I turn away, sickened by his actions.

  “Is it is not wise to speak to me so openly,” I whisper and lean back into the shadows, only to find myself pressed against a solid chest. The buttons of his coat are cold against my upper back. I can feel the others pressing through the lace cinches of my corset. He does not draw back, nor does he attempt to step aside.

  “I do many things that are not good for me,” he mutters.

  His words intrigue me further. Is he some sort of rebel? Was he even invited to this party? He seems to show no desire to join in with the dancing. A small smile tugs at my lips, despite knowing that I should no doubt fear this man. I have yet to meet a kind immortal. “Am I to guess who you are, then?”

  “You could try,” he muses. I can hear the smirk in the lilt of his voice. “Though you will fail.”

  My fingers flutter imperceptibly against the ribbons that dangle along the front of my dress. The purr of his voice against my ear makes me forget that I loathe all immortals. I turn my face to the side and feel the plume of scarlet feathers rising from my temple brush against him. “You are not from this place.”

  “An obvious guess.” He responds without moving away.

  “I was not finished, sir. Your
accent speaks of distant lands. Perhaps you are a refuge from the Austrian Empire.”

  He is silent for a moment and the urge to turn around swells within my chest. Who is this mystery man? Why has he singled me out when he has his choice of maidens to drink from on this night?

  “I am impressed.” The admiration is his voice both is both enthralling and frustrating. Does he take me for a simpleminded ninny?

  “So I am correct?” I press.

  I feel the rumble of his laughter against my back before he steps away. “I did not say that.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “Perhaps I do.” He sounds distant now, though I know there is little space to move behind me. This section of the town comes to an abrupt end, unlike the other streets that all lead away into the dark of the forest. A wooden fence wall rises less than five feet behind me. Could he be perched upon it? I long to turn and look, yet I do not. I cannot or risk admitting that he has captured my full attention. “Perhaps you are simply asking the wrong questions.”

  The scuff of his boot directly behind me betrays his location, yet I cannot help but wonder if he did this on purpose. He knows how to be silent when he wants to be. Heat kisses my neck as I realize he intended for me to know.

  My nostrils flare as a new scent rides the air. I turn unconsciously toward it as the spicy bouquet makes my stomach growl. Vladimir’s harsh gaze rises to meet mine as I step forward, drawn instinctively closer. His black leather mask, its sleek design fiercely portraying a stag with great horns, drips with blood. His thirst-blackened eyes demand me to join him.

  The white ruffles of his shirt are a sheet of crimson as he shoves aside the wench he so eagerly accosted only moments before. Her stiff body tumbles over the other two that cower at his feet. The screams begin near the end of the town center and crash through the crowd like a wave against rocks. My vision blurs with red as splatters of blood dapple the courtyard.

  Vladimir closes his eyes and lifts his hands overhead, his head tilting back as he snarls at the moon. My heart clenches with fear as I realize how purely animalistic he looks in this moment. Never before have I seen him feed. Not like this. Not in the open, where smoke and dim lighting shade him from sight as they did after our wedding.

  His bellow falls away as he lowers his gaze. I shrink back, my hands trembling against my waist, as he smiles and grabs the two girls before him, digging his nails into their necks so a fountain of blood spills over his hands.

  “You must go to him,” the man whispers behind me. A chorus of shrieks rises and falls as the music continues to play. Laughter turns to snarls, dancing turns to spasms and writhing upon the ground as the immortals begin to feast.

  “I cannot.” The tremor in my voice leaves little doubt as to the extent of my fear. I am paralyzed. I know these men and women are monsters. I could hear the screams of the blood slaves as they performed their nightly bloodletting from other parts of the castle, yet I was always safe within the walls of my room. Now I have nothing to save me from this moment. Nothing to cling to or hide within.

  “You must.” His tone has changed, become more insistent. “You will be punished if you do not.”

  A bitter laugh slips between my lips. “That will happen either way.”

  I nearly cry out as a hand clasps around my elbow, firm and demanding. “If you want to survive, you must learn to play their games.”

  His words sicken me and I try to pull away. He holds firm. “I am not like them.”

  “No.” The silence in this small hideaway feels palpable as I listen to his heart beat in time with my own rampaging pulse. He is unaffected by the scene before us. Neither drawn to the blood nor disgusted by it. He appears to be maddeningly indifferent. “You will soon learn that you must draw your friends near and your enemies nearer.”

  My lip curls into a disgusted sneer as I watch Vladimir tear out the throat of a shapely beauty. Her blood squirts nearly five feet, splattering Cassius in the back of the head. He turns as Vladimir tosses the girl aside and then leaps upon her, accepting his lord’s discarded offering.

  “And which are you?” I ask, feeling him shift behind me.

  I wait for him to answer on baited breath. The silence seems to stretch on for an eternity and I begin to fear he will not answer me at all. “I will be watching.”

  I turn on my heel and stare into darkness. He has vanished.

  TWELVE