Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

I whimper at the creaking groan of the door opening above, though I am too weak to look up. As a lantern begins to descend toward me, I discover that my vision is heavily blurred. It takes far too much effort to breathe so I still my lungs and wait, conserving energy.

  It has not been long since Lucien left me. I spat out most of the blood that he tried to force-feed me, silently basking in his fury over having wasted blood. The effects of what little blood I did ingest have begun to take the edge off the pain, though not enough to do permanent healing.

  The gaping wound in my stomach has been cauterized, as have the flaps of skin along my legs and back. The bones in my arm have begun to reconnect, the sinew and flesh growing back together. Blood can heal most wounds, though nothing can remove the scent of charred flesh lingering in my nose.

  Lucien’s torture on this day was mild compared to what I have grown accustomed to. It was almost as if he were trying to mend my wounds instead of create new ones. Someone knows, chants repeatedly through my mind. The statement becoming more of a desperate plea rather than a fact as time ticks past with mocking leisure in the dark.

  My head hangs low, my chin resting atop the breastbone that protrudes from my chest. I have lost weight in this pit. Food has been scarce. What little Lucien left for me was stolen by the rats long before I could recover enough to consider eating.

  My hair drapes over my eyes, shielding me from the approaching person. My arms tremble in the manacles as I risk a small inhale, dreading the familiar scent of blood that clings to Lucien, although this time it is absent.

  I slowly lift my head and blink against the blurred light. A cloaked figure moves toward me. I can tell he is a male by the breadth of his chest, yet his outline is dark and muddied in my vision. His approach is slow and cautious as he sets the lantern down on the tabletop. I flinch at the tinkling of metal.

  “No,” a gentle voice says as I press back against the wall. “I have not come here to hurt you.”

  If only I could curl in upon myself and hide. I feel barren and exposed before his hooded eyes. His scent is unfamiliar to me. I have never met him before, though his voice sounds vaguely familiar.

  “Who are you?” I ask with a voice that quivers like a newly birthed fawn attempting to find its footing for the first time. I am deeply shamed however too weary to do more than hang before him, naked and soiled.

  “A friend.”

  A bark of bitterness leaves me in a fit of wracking coughs. Blood bubbles from my lips, escaping from what I fear to be a tear in my lungs. I spit to the side, repulsed by the metallic taste upon my lips. “I have no friends.”

  “That is only because we have yet to be properly introduced.”

  I hang heavily in my chains, feeling woozy. The floor rises up to meet me as he steps forward. There is nothing I can do to stop him from touching me. I do not even have the strength left in me to scream. “Your voice…” I trail off as his face swims before my eyes.

  Darkness encroaches along the edges of my vision, and when I blink again, I am sure I have lost several moments of time as he is now touching me. He gently pushes my chin up so my head lolls back against the stone wall.

  His touch is firm yet tender as he cradles my head and unlocks the manacle about my neck. The instant the restraints are gone, my head snaps back to my chest, crushing my nose.

  “My apologies.” He grunts as he fights to support my weight with one arm while battling with the chains with the other. He balances me awkwardly in his arms as he works to free my wrists.

  My arms feel impossibly weighted when they are freed. Pain sends explosions of color before my eyes as my broken arm swings sickeningly against his back. My cries are stunted as he hauls me over his shoulder and he works to unlock my feet.

  I stink of sweat, blood, and vomit. I am nude however veiled by a layer of filth. He shows no aversion to my state as he gently eases me to the ground. I see only a hint of deep compassion in his shaded features, partially hidden within the shadow of his cloak. “You are perished.” He tsks.

  Shifting me so he can disrobe, the man pulls his cloak from over his head and places it over my body, offering me my dignity. He props me against the wall and steps away. I blink, trying to clear my vision as he turns to the side and rustles about on the tabletop with his back to me. I recognize the sound of leather and realize he must have brought a bag with him.

  “Water,” I croak.

  “I have something to suit all your needs.” He moves swiftly and a strong hand comes to rest at the back of my neck as a flask is brought to my mouth. I splutter at the warm, thick liquid sliding between my lips.

  I spit out the offending blood. It splatters across his blurred face, yet he does not pull away. “You must drink,” the man urges as he tilts the flask higher. I buck weakly, my hands flailing at his arm as I attempt to resist. He holds me with a firm hand, tilting my head so I am forced to succumb to the blood.

  As the last few drops slide down my throat, I feel strength returning. The human blood feels warm in my veins as it gushes toward my wounds. The healing fires burn bright as I arch my back, my shrieks echoing from the walls as flesh begins to knit back together and wounds are cauterized internally.

  The man kneels beside me, waiting in silence.

  I do not know how long it takes for my wounds to repair. A few minutes. An hour. Perhaps more. All the while he stays with me, hovering on the edge of the shadows. I can smell his concern and am confused by it.

  Finally, the spasms in my back release and I lie completely still, my eyes closed as I listen for his movements. Anger ripples through me as I feel my thirst rising. He did his to me. He created this need.

  With each drop of blood that I taste, the craving mounts. It will take weeks for me to recover from this, to forget the heady feeling that blood gives me. If I am not careful, I too could be drawn into the bloodlust that my brethren so merrily adopt.

  “Where did you procure the blood?” I ask without opening my eyes. There is only a slight waver to my voice now, though it is not rooted in fear or exhaustion, yet in anger. I know if I open my eyes, I will be tempted to unleash my ire upon him. I do not wish to do so; however, the blood does strange, maddening things to my mind. It makes violence seem like a proper alternative.

  “I do not know.” The honesty of his words surprises me no less than the hint of regret that accompanies them.

  I ponder his words and the clipped tone in which he speaks. “We have met before, you and I.” His silence stretches on for a moment before he nods his assent. “You were the stranger who left me at the ball.”

  “I had other tasks to attend to that night,” he responds, shifting farther into the shadow, as if fearing I might take notice of his appearance now that I am healed. He is a clever one, I muse.

  “Was I one of your tasks, then?” I roll my head to the side and watch for sign of his movement. It is hard to make out his profile so I allow my eyes to fall closed to listen and familiarize myself with his smell. I have discovered that every immortal has a distinctive scent. Some are more fragrant and offensive than others. His scent is pleasant, though I am unsure if it is truly his. I can smell leather and rain with a hint of a spice that I cannot place my finger upon.

  “No. You were not a task.” He shifts and my ears perk up at the sound of the short three-legged stool shifting across the uneven stone floor. It creaks as he lowers himself onto it. “I was merely curious.”

  “Why?” I open my eyes and find him leaning forward, his face downturned and his hands clasped before him as his elbows dig into his thighs. Golden strands fall about his face, concealing him from my eyes.

  “I had heard rumors of your presence. I hoped to discover if they were true.”

  My stomach clenches at the thought of the horrors that could have been told to him from my brethren. Does he believe them? Would it vex me to not know his impression of me?

  “May I ask what is it that you uncovered from our brief conversation at the ball?”


  His breathing is steady, without hitch or hesitation. His silence is lengthy. I sigh, realizing he does not wish to answer this inquiry.

  “I suppose I should thank you for saving me.”

  He shifts yet again, though I do not look. “And yet you do not sound as if you want to.”

  I rise slowly to my feet, feeling healthy for the first time in many weeks. Perhaps for the first time since my wedding day. I uncurl my spine, feeling each bone slip into its rightful place. I am light on my feet and my head no longer remains trapped among the clouds. The sluggishness of exhaustion has gone, only to be replaced with such great vitality. Did I truly feel this well before Vladimir began beating upon me?

  No. I do not think so. This must be another effect of the blood.

  I can feel it pooling in my belly, reaffirming my muscles and strengthening my bones. I could race up those stairs and through the door long before this man could react. I know this now. It is an awareness that Lucien has given me. I am capable of accomplishing great feats, if only I believe them possible.

  Lucien took me to limits that I never knew existed. I endured a pain that no living being should be allowed to experience. He sought to unleash me. Instead, he taught me what despair truly is, and with that knowledge came a new realization. Desolation is not a thing held in the physical realm, yet in your mind. He tried to break me, and break me he did. It is a choice. Live and suffer or die and embrace endless, peaceful darkness. Perhaps this man would be willing to assist me.

  “I have no desire to live,” I say as I turn slowly to face the man who gave me my freedom. His face remains lost in shadow, his clothes too dark to discern. In the flickering light of the candle I think I can make out golden strands of hair falling about his shoulders as he sits up, though I cannot be entirely sure.

  Why does he not step into the light? Does he fear being seen? Is he afraid I will reveal his identity when Vladimir finds me, for find me he will. I know that if I run, my husband will come for me. Lucien is a skilled liar. No doubt cunning in ways of concealment too.

  I have no way of knowing if Vladimir has returned, though I suspect he must have. It would explain Lucien’s contradictory method of torture today. Perhaps my torture was about to come to an end even if this cloaked stranger had not come to my rescue.

  I am about to turn when he speaks, breaking the silence. “That is a pity, for there is much good that you could do.” His voice is deep and even. I cannot hear the lilt of madness in his tone or the giddiness that seems to control many of my brethren. This man is different.

  “Good?” Even I am shocked by the depth of bitterness that weighs down this word. Is such a thing even possible for someone like me? Am I not damned to a life of misery and evil?

  “Light and dark complement each other. You cannot have one without the other. In time, you will learn this balance.” He pauses so long I am sure he will not speak about it, yet when he does, his words are filled with such raw emotion they draw me back. “You are not alone, Roseline.”

  “How did you know to find me here?” I take a step forward, though I pause when he sinks deeper into shadow.

  I move back away from him, though he does not draw closer. He seems to prefer mystery rather than exposure. This frustrates me, though I discover that I also find his behavior to be appealing. My brethren prefer to be loud, boisterous, the center of everyone’s attention. This man is the opposite. I am drawn to this contrast. “I am familiar with this place. Lucien has a certain affinity for pain. This is his domain. When I heard of your flight from the castle, I knew to look here.”

  “How?”

  The chair creaks once more as he rises. He stands tall and rigid; his hands appear clasped behind his back judging by the way his shoulders roll back are lost to the darkness.

  “Fear,” he says simply. I wrap my arms about my waist as I glance back at the chains along the wall. Several sets of them hang motionlessly, each covered in dried blood. The rough stone paving below each is permanently stained by the blood of Lucien’s victims.

  How many of them were like me? Immortal? Does he bring humans here to play with as well? I cannot imagine they would be as much sport. Death comes so much easier for them.

  “I watched you that night at the ball. Timid. Filled with terror. You clung to the wall, watching wide-eyed at the death around you. I could see your horror, see the pain it caused you to see such senseless mutilation. You did not enjoy it as they did. It horrified you.”

  I find myself nodding in agreement. I need only to close my eyes to see it all again. Blood ran freely through the town center. No one was spared. Many were left in pieces. The bodies were piled after they had been fully pillaged. Lucien took great pleasure in setting them alight. As the scent of burning flesh stung my eyes, my brethren’s celebrations took on a more carnal nature. That is when Vladimir found me.

  I did not scream that night, though I dearly wanted to. I could not bear adding my pain to the echoes that still lingered from the slaughtered humans.

  “You watched what he did to me?” I ask softly.

  “No.” I see the broad expanse of his shoulders and back as he turns away. Muscle clings to his arm like strong rope, rigid and flexing as he closes his fists. “I could not bear to.”

  Tears well in my eyes and I waver on my feet. I have endured so much pain, so much humiliation and torture. How much can one person truly take before they break?

  “You could have stopped him.”

  “No.” He turns back. I see the strong line of his jaw as he takes a step toward the light and pulls up short. “It would have been far worse if I had done so. To do so would be to challenge him, and that is not something I am able to do.”

  “Why not?”

  His lips purse as he shifts his weight to his left side. I can feel his unease, his growing irritation, though I am unsure if I am the reason for it. “It was not the proper time.”

  I lower my head, fixing my gaze upon my feet. In the dim light, they are nearly black with dried blood and grime. The proper time? Does he mean to imply that there will someday be a proper time? If that is true, for what reason does he desire to challenge Vladimir? Only a fool would do so in open combat, yet the tremor in his voice betrays that this is indeed his intention. What terrible thing has my husband done to him? I wonder silently.

  Then another thought strikes me that I find alarmingly yet surprisingly welcome. What if this had nothing to do with Vladimir at all? What if he came to see me that night out of more than sheer curiosity? His advice that night was meant for my benefit. Even today he has come to my rescue. What if he is merely trying to save me, yet from whom? My husband or myself?

  “Have you ever been kept in this place?” I ask, raising my gaze to meet his; however, the space before me is vacant. I step forward, squinting my eyes to search the depths of the shadows for any sign of him, yet he is gone. His scent lingers in the air, although it is not potent enough for him to still be within the room.

  His lantern rests upon the table. His bag, though, has been removed.

  How did he disappear again with no hint of sound? I clasp his cloak tightly about my shoulders and feel the hollowness return. Perhaps he truly is a ghost.

  No. He was undeniably real. Here one moment and gone the next. A mysterious guardian with no face or name. Nothing more.

  SIXTEEN