by Amy Miles
Fane does not return the next day nor any of the ones following that. Days turn into weeks, and still he does not come. Sitting with my forehead pressed to the cold windowpane, my knees tucked into my chest as I cradle my legs, I begin to ponder if somehow Vladimir intended Fane’s absence as a form of punishment.
How cruel it would be to offer the tiniest hint of compassion only to strip it away again. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Fane’s visit was nothing more than a vision from my pain-riddled mind.
Yet there was evidence of his visit in the small, shattered-glass bottle beneath the bed when I awoke two days later. I carefully cleaned up every tiny sliver of glass and placed them within a wooden box on a table beside my bed. From time to time, usually after Vladimir leaves me, I will open the box and stare at the glass shards, fearful they may have vanished.
My husband never speaks of Fane, nor do any of my unseen brethren in the far reaches of the castle. It is as if he is a ghost in the mists, vanishing as fast as he came. I have heard tales of such apparitions appearing on the moors of the English isles, where rain and fog play tricks on your mind. Perhaps that is all he ever was.
The dreariness of winter has become tiresome. I spend my days beside the window, staring out of a white world of snow and ice, wondering if I am slowly going mad. It would not surprise me. A part of me would even seek to embrace it.
One thought circles through my mind with increasing frequency with each day that passes: if Fane is real—and at this point I am not entirely certain that he is—he was sent to me for a reason. He said he was charged with my personal care and training. I have no need for him to oversee my personal care, yet the training aspect… this gives me reason to pause.
The man who rescued me from the dungeon was obviously skilled. He managed to evade Lucien’s detection, which in and of itself is impressive. He is a ranger from beyond the walls. From the tales I have heard told around the feasting tables, these men are highly trained. Warriors of a different caliber from the men and women living within the plush halls of Castle Bran.
Rangers are spoken of with a hint of awe, a fact that I find rather odd considering nothing seems to impress the savages I live beside. If Fane truly is one of these men, I can only conclude his form of training will stem from combat. The very thought of that spreads ice through my veins faster than any winter storm that breaks against this castle.
I do not know how to fight nor do I have any desire to. Perhaps Vladimir is concerned that Lucien will push the issue of sharing me with the other men. Would he really seek to train me to defend myself against his own brother?
I look down upon my arm and place a hand over the bruises Vladimir left the night before. I can easily make out each individual finger that gripped me until my tears fell freely. There is another matching pair of bruises to be found about my throat and along my side. Would a man so eager to inflict pain hire a man to teach me to protect myself? I cannot fathom how it would make sense.
Perhaps I misunderstood his intentions. I was in a grave amount of pain that day. Yes, that must be it.
Sure that Fane was incorrect in his task, I slowly peel my fingers away from my arm. Vladimir did not cut me this time. He used me and went on his way with hardly a word spoken. Somehow this utter dismissal feels all the more cruel, though I should be grateful for his lack of attention. I have become used to the pain. The fact that it has lessened gives me cause for concern.
I do not try to repress the shiver of apprehension that weaves its way down my spine. Vladimir’s eyes appeared less black than normal, almost a charcoal gray, slick with veiled hatred. Normally, he does not bother to hide it.
He did not hound me about joining him at the feast tonight, nor did he offer a cutting remark about my lack of decorum as the lady of the castle. New guests have begun to arrive to pass the winter, and I have hidden away in my tower. Not out of fear, though out of self-preservation.
Something has changed. Perhaps he has changed his mind about sharing me with the other men. I shudder at the thought, knowing nearly thirty now reside here at any given time. I do not know if I could bear to be tossed aside to this pack of salivating dogs. Vladimir’s cruelty is paramount, though at least I only have him to fear. If I were dismissed completely, I would have reason to fear everyone.
I know my mind is not right. The days blend together, leaving me miserable and alone with my thoughts. They wander as far and wide as the mountains that surround this castle.
Cassius lurks outside my door through the night, pacing the steps of a man driven mad by a denied right to revenge. He believes me to be the one who murdered his sister. Lucien’s lies seem to have no end.
I can smell him sometimes in the early hours of the morning. He never speaks, never attempts to enter, though he prowls out there like a caged wolf, rabid and hungry. It would do little good to inform Vladimir. He would only mock my weakness.
I have not seen Lucien since the night Vladimir flogged me, and for this I am grateful. Rumor had it that he left the castle for a time. A month, perhaps longer. I do not know where he could have gone in such foul weather, though I breathe a bit easier knowing he is no longer scheming for my demise.
For a time I wondered if Lucien’s sudden departure had anything to do with Fane’s disappearance. I would sit in my windowsill and stare out over the dismal castle grounds as they slowly mounted with snow, wondering if Fane was punished for being kind to me. I would not put it past Lucien, though if what he said about Vladimir charging him with training me is true, why would Fane just vanish?
Too many questions bounce about in my head, wearying me with the lack of answers. I rise from my window, sickened by the never-changing view. I am disgusted by the never-ending ice storms and blistering winds that howl through the castle halls. I long for spring, when winter will retreat and the earth will come alive once more. That is still a short way off.
It hurts to walk this morning. My gait is slightly labored by the bruises that curl around my hip from my backside. These are from the wooden vanity that Vladimir shoved me into when I raked my nails down his cheek. The whelps along my back are from the wooden pole that once hung suspended over my window. The curtains now pile upon the floor below me, trampled and forgotten.
I take several turns about my room before sinking back onto the window seat. There is no place else for me to go. With each day that passes, these four walls grow narrower. I cling to my legs as I begin to rock slowly, my tailbone protesting against the hard wooden window seat. What if Vladimir intends to show me off tonight at the feast?
There have been countless new voices coming and going through the castle these past few days. There is talk of a gathering, though I have tried not to listen to the details.
Emory and Cyra have taken up residence in the room below mine to allow space for immortals arriving from the northern territory near Hust. I hear the two of them battering the walls and rattling windows each night. Her screams are as shrill as they are obnoxious. His cries of pleasure redden my cheeks. Although I have never seen them together in public, they do seem to get along rather well in private.
I heard Alamesia whispering with Emeline about their ardent lovemaking in the stairwell just outside my room. The women’s jealousy is plainly obvious even from afar. I suppose with Lucian gone, Alamesia’s bed has grown rather cold.
I would not propose that Emory and Cyra are in love. From what few whispers I have dared to listen to, love shared between immortals is stronger than the finest steel. It binds completely. Nothing can separate them, save death, and even then the remaining immortal will be forever wounded by the loss.
No, Emory and Cyra do not share this bond. They share a need. Nothing more. They are no different than the rest of my brethren. They live for the thrill of the hunt, for blood and wild fornication, both done as publicly and as often as possible.
I envy any immortal who can find true love. The sort of love that would cause you to whisper together in bed as you prep
are to sleep the day away in each other’s arms. The serenity of knowing you are fully someone’s to love and cherish.
The fates chose differently for me.
I know little of the ones who have arrived from the north. They seem no less beastly than the immortals already living here. Soon the castle will be crowded. I can already feel the additional people pressing in upon me.
Vladimir informed me to expect these guests. His previous threats relating to my duties as lady of the castle were not veiled, though I wonder if they have been temporarily forgotten. I would have thought he would have pushed the issue of my willful exile sooner, yet he seems distracted. I only hope this distraction is willing to lift her skirts for him long enough to allow me to heal.
The solstice rapidly approaches, and with it comes a rise in hysteria. Some call it the Devil’s night, and I feel that to be an appropriate description. It is as if my brethren are driven to greater heights of cruelty, debauchery, and blood lust the nearer we draw to the solstice. I stay behind my door, terrified to exit. If Vladimir wants me to be at the feast, let him come drag me from my room.
My mother warned me never to go out on the Devil’s night. She claimed it was a time for the undead to roam the lands. When demons escape the shadows to snatch young girls from their beds. When dark magic is most powerful. I suppose now I understand why she took such pains to look our doors and douse the lanterns. If only she had been wise enough to fear evil on other nights as well.
In three days’ time, the moon will bring the longest night of the year. I fear what Vladimir will do to celebrate this event.
Staring out over the castle grounds, shrouded within a heavy fog of ice that seems to permeate even the thickest of stone walls, I tremble. I have been force-fed blood several more times in recent days. My throat burns with a thirst that I cannot bring myself to quench and a need that plagues my soul.
I do not want to kill. I do not want to be driven by blood lust. I am not sure I will have a choice.
With a weighted sigh, I rise from my seat and hesitantly approach the mirror that rests atop my dresser. Its frame is old and faded, the glass showing hints of age marks and slight warping. It is new to my room, the fourth of its kind. All of the others have been smashed to bits.
Even after all this time, my breath still catches when I glimpse my new image.
My skin is smoother than before, my bronze hair falling in glossy waves nearly to my waist. My eyes have shifted from deep blue to the aqua color of the sea. My body has lengthened, sharpened, perfecting itself into something entirely different from the girl I once was.
Raising a hand to the bruise along my cheek, I note how even the swollen, purple flesh cannot hide the flawless skin beneath. My sister Adela was the beauty in our family. To be fair, I did have nice hair and high cheekbones before, though that was the full extent of my appeal, in my opinion. I was plain, yet I was content with that.
I no longer recognize the girl staring back at me. Roseline Dragomir is truly dead.
The sad fact is that no one is still alive to mourn me. Everything I have ever held dear is gone. I sink down onto the edge of my bed and weep for all that I have lost and all that I will never have because of Vladimir Enescue. How many more lives will be destroyed by his hand?
I would not wish my fate, my immortality, on any living soul… for I am in doubt as to whether I have a soul left intact at all.
TWENTY