Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

Fane’s pace slows as we near the center of town. A bonfire has been lit, casting its light upon the wide area. Nearly one hundred humans have been herded together at the far end of the space, nearest the tanner’s shop. Men clutch their wives, fighting to show bravery that I know they do not feel. Women cry as they cling to small children clutched about their skirts.

  Their clothes are simple and worn. Many of them do not even have shoes to protect them from the elements. Several of the little girls hardly have more than a slip of cloth covering their little bodies.

  My heart clenches at the brutality of it all. Six of these townspeople will be taken from them on this night. Five to their grave and a sixth to endure immortality. The lone survivor will be lost to this village, just as the others will. They will be feared, cast out. I am unsure which fate is worse.

  Fane reappears at my side as I hesitate, my gaze riveted on a small boy and girl who hold hands and shiver from the cold. “I cannot do this,” I whimper. “I cannot bear to watch these people slaughter each other for mere sport.”

  “You must. If you leave, it will send Vladimir into a rage and more innocent people will die. Consider the children.”

  “I am!” I shout back, blanching as the brother and sister send terrified glances in our direction. I turn my face aside, unable to look at them. “I will stay… for them.”

  “And I will remain at your side.”

  “You will?” I lift my gaze to see him standing before me now, blocking my view. His jaw clenches as he nods. I can see the tension in his own stance and know that I am not the only one disturbed by these events. I consider thanking him for his offer, though I find myself unable to speak the words.

  “Roseline.” Fane turns at the masculine voice that calls from over his shoulder. He lowers his head in a partial bow and steps aside as Vladimir sweeps in. He winds an arm around my waist, holding me close.

  “I thought for a moment you had run off.” I release a nervous laugh, knowing all too well he did not fear this. I can see the glint in his eyes as he surveys Fane with barely restrained jealousy. “I see you two have been acquainted.”

  Fane dips his head, though he remains silent. He clasps his hands behind his back. “I felt it only best to remain at her side for the festivities.”

  Vladimir strokes his beard. “And why, pray tell, do you think that?”

  “What better opportunity to show Roseline the reality of death than with a demonstration such as this? There is much that can be learned from watching sheer desperation.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are correct.” My husband’s hand flinches against my hip. I can tell he is displeased by Fane’s logical answer. “See to it that she remains safe in your care.”

  Vladimir seizes my chin and lifts my face. Crushing his lips mercilessly upon mine, I feel my lower lip split. He growls and deepens the kiss, licking his tongue across my open wound before he thrusts me away and storms off to see to his guests. My fingers tremble as I touch my bruised lips.

  Fane’s approach is cautious, his gaze guarded. I lower my hand and press back my shoulders. “Why do you bow to him?”

  “Why do you allow him to assault you?” He counters.

  A feeling of helplessness settles over me as I look toward the well nearby, longing to wash the vile taste of Vladimir’s tongue from my mouth. “Because I must,” I whisper.

  Fane nods, silently answering my question in kind. I look to him, noting the tension has not eased from his shoulders. “You loathe him.”

  “No.” He shakes his head and offers me his arm. I step forward and tentatively slip my hand through the space provided. He draws his arm toward his side, sealing me into his grasp. “There is no word strong enough to describe the wrath I feel toward Vladimir Enescue.”

  I walk alongside him in silence, musing over his words. Fane is a man of mystery. He is strong, yet I have seen his vulnerability. He is fearless, yet I saw terror in his eyes when he spoke to the little girl only moments ago.

  Someone was taken from him, I surmise, watching him from the corner of my eye. Someone very dear to him.

  As we approach the crowd of spectators, Fane easily maneuvers us to the front of the row. Seats have been removed from the various homes and businesses surrounding the town center. Those in the front have high backs and soft cushions. The rows behind are less comfortable, though judging by the rabid calls and hollering, there will hardly be a time when these immortals choose to remain seated once the battle begins.

  With a single glare from Fane, a tall man with gaunt cheeks and eyes sunken deep into his face rushes to vacate his seat for me. I find that I take great pleasure in assuming my new seat as the man is forced to the back of the crowd. One less person to enjoy the show, I think silently.

  As Vladimir raises his arms out to the side, stepping out to turn and face the crowd, I let my gaze flit back toward the villagers. My husband’s words blur as I stare into each of their faces. They already know what is coming, I realize with a start.

  “This is not the first time.” I lean to my right to whisper into Fane’s ear. He kneels beside me, choosing to remain without a seat. Part of me knows he could easily scare out the occupant of the chair beside me, though I suspect he prefers to be in the dirt. Low and prepared, as a warrior should be.

  Fane nods and places a finger over his lips to silence me. I try to focus on Vladimir’s eloquent speech, though I do not have the heart to stomach it. The scent of fear pulls at my senses, making me feel sluggish and weakened. One glance around me reveals I am the only one who suffers from this ailment. If anything, the frenzy has grown as Vladimir ends his speech and walks toward the villagers.

  My fingers curl into the wood of my chair as he makes a show of pausing before a mother no more than twenty summers past. A babe cradles in her arms and tears well in her swollen eyes. The crowd behind me pounds their feet and pumps their firsts, yet Vladimir moves on.

  Fane was correct. No one volunteers for the fight. Men with haunted eyes cling to their wives, offering them the only protection they are capable of now.

  Three men are selected. Two women as well, though I suspect they were chosen for their appeal rather than their skill with a blade. The final selection is a small boy, no older than perhaps twelve or thirteen summers. His tawny hair is unkempt, falling into his eyes.

  “He cannot do this,” I mutter, pressing my hands against my chest.

  “The boy has as much chance of surviving as the others,” Fane says. I turn to look at him as two men part from the crowd and usher away the distraught mother. Her screams tear at my heart. When her shriek cuts off abruptly, I know that her end was mercifully swift compared to what her child will endure.

  “He is no more than a boy,” I hiss, twisting in my chair. I do not wish to look, though I know Vladimir’s eyes remain fixed upon me. I hear the creaking of a wagon approaching and turn to see men leaping from the back. A large sack hangs over their arms as they walk toward Vladimir. They kneel before him and unveil a pile of weapons.

  Double-headed axes, sharp-ended pikes, a mace with spikes the length of my forefinger, and swords. All of them gleam brilliantly. No doubt they are forged specifically for this night.

  “Choose your weapons carefully. Only one shall live to join us into an eternal night.”

  The men move first, clutching the heavier weapons with uncertainty. The women choose the pikes, unable to swing a blade. I watch as the small boy paces before the selection.

  “Hurry along, boy. We do not have all night,” Lucien growls from my left, farther down along the center of the front row. The boy seems to ignore the laughter that follows. He dips low and runs his hand across the blade of a finely engraved sword. He shakes his head and moves on to the next.

  Fane shifts, and I turn to look at him. “These are no warriors. They are farmers who wield pitchforks instead of axes.”

  He nods. “Yes, though if I were a betting man, I would place my money on the boy.”

  This surprises m
e. I start to ask him to explain his reasoning, though I am cut off by a sudden hush that falls over the crowd. I turn to see the boy has risen without a weapon in his hand.

  Vladimir smirks as he approaches. “You will not survive long without a weapon, son.”

  The boy nods and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small wooden branch that has been hand carved. A bit of leather dangles from the end. “This is my choice.”

  My husband throws back his head in open mockery. “That will hardly keep your head attached to those small shoulders of yours, boy.”

  He purses his lips and clutches the small slingshot to his chest. There is defiance in his eyes despite his silence. I notice Fane smile and begin to realize what it is he sees in the boy.

  “Very well.” Vladimir turns to face the crowd. “Shall we begin?”

  I watch as the men and women glance at each other with uncertainty and no small amount of fear. Some of them are most likely kin. Neighbors for generations to be sure. I cannot begin to imagine the thoughts and emotions they must be experiencing.

  The villagers press in together as a circle is formed around them. I realize now why so many of my brethren chose not to find a seat, for they have become a wall of flesh, sealing in the warriors. The circle is small, barely more than the height of twenty men across. Hardly enough space for six mortals to fight for their lives.

  “Will they fight?” I ask.

  Fane nods. “They know the consequences if they do not.”

  I follow his gaze and am startled to see that barrels of pitch have been rolled off the wagon and placed beside the villagers. Immortals stand on either side with torches lit. “They would not burn the village to the ground,” I say in horror.

  “No.” Fane shakes his head. His eyes look bleak as he stares up at me. “They would burn the children alive.”

  “Oh.” I gasp. Will the depths of my husband’s debauchery find no end?

  A clash of steel draws me back to the beginning of the battle. The first woman falls within the first breath, an axe buried into her side. She drops to the ground, the dirt dampening with her blood. A girl with straw-colored hair and a splash of freckles across her cheeks makes a wild swing with her pike and loses her balance. I close my eyes as she stumbles and lands upon her own weapon.

  A cry rises through the crowd as the spike-tipped weapon protrudes from the back of her neck. I turn away, sickened. “How can you watch this?” I ask Fane, disturbed by his rapt attention.

  He darts a glance toward me and I see the glint in his eyes dim. “There is much that can be learned from death. For some it is swift. For others, it is born from mere foolishness. The girl tripped over her own skirts. Her death was of her own violation.”

  “It is still a senseless loss.”

  Fane nods in agreement. “Have you noticed the boy?”

  I glance back at the center of the circle and realize he has vanished. “Has he fallen too?”

  “No.” Fane smiles and points. I crane my neck to see over the fallen women and spy a swatch of his dark-brown shirt peeking out from behind the fountain.

  “He hides out of fear,” I muse, finding myself drawn to the edge of my seat.

  “On the contrary. He watches.”

  I lean forward to observe only the boy. The men grunting as they battle each other does not capture my attention the way he does. He crouches instead of sits, as I first assumed. His hands brush along the dirt, sweeping about his feet, as his gaze focuses on the men.

  I blink as a spray of blood douses the villagers. Shrieks rise as they turn away, wiping the foul liquid from their eyes. The boy does not move, does not show any emotion, as a man drops before him. Lifeless eyes stare at him, yet he does not flinch.

  “He is brave,” I whisper.

  A loud bellow of pain captures my attention as one of the men stumbles back. Blood pours from a head wound, trailing down his cheek to pool in the hollow of his neck. He limps backward, his hands raised to shield himself.

  “Finish him,” Lucien roars over the cheering of the crowd.

  The injured man is defenseless and terrified. I can smell his despair leaking from his pores. His chin trembles as he silently mouths a prayer. His opponent advances, bloodied sword drawn. With a mighty swing, the blade buries deep into the injured man’s neck, the blow not strong enough to severe the head from the body.

  I cry out as memories of my sister’s slit throat flash before my eyes. Fane’s face swims before me. I can see him trying to speak to me, yet all I can hear is Adela’s screams.

  A hand strikes my cheek and I blink. The memory fades and I am once more present in the circle. “Thank you.”

  Fane’s brow furrows as he sinks back onto his heels. “It is not in my nature to strike a lady, though I am pleased it helped.”

  A shudder works its way rapidly through me as I wrap my arms tightly about myself. “I saw my sister.”

  He shifts besides me, his arm resting against my leg as he nods. “I assumed as much. Are you all right?”

  I offer him a small smile. “I am.”

  “Good, I was—” He cuts off at Vladimir’s cry of outrage.

  “Pick up your weapon or I will end your life myself,” he screams, leaping into the center of the circle.

  The boy remains crouched low, his hands no longer searching the dirt. He stares up at the one remaining man, his gaze unwavering. Why does he not act?

  Vladimir grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him to his feet. The man’s jaw clenches, though he makes no attempt to move toward Vladimir. “You have had your fun. Let the boy go.”

  My husband’s lips curl back into a sneer that would make my blood run cold, yet this man does not flinch. I realize I am looking at a man with nothing left to lose. Death stands at the doorstep, though only one is capable of returning.

  “That is not how this game works,” Vladimir says, dragging the boy after him. The man shifts to keep an even distance between Vladimir and the crowd. His back turns to face me so I lose my ability to see his expression. “You kill when I command you to. If you survive, you are rewarded with immortality.”

  “I do not wish for your immortality,” the man spits, backing up four paces. I watch as he draws near, my mind scrambling to decipher his escape plan. There is nowhere he can run that will bring him peace.

  “Whether you wish it or not, one of you will be granted it. The only question you must answer is are you willing to give your life for this boy?”

  I watch as the man rises slightly onto his toes. His balance is impressive despite his labored breathing and the obvious weight on his axe pulling at him. For a moment, I think he will not answer, though when he does, I am too startled to react.

  “You will have neither of us.” With far more strength than I would have guessed the man to possess, he flings his axe straight at the boy and turns on his heel. He dashes straight toward me, his eyes wide with anger. His cheeks are reddened, his arms splattered with blood. The instant before he leaps for me, I catch the scent of sweat mingled with urine.

  A blur of motion startles me. I rear back in my seat as my attacker’s mouth falls slack. The life within his eyes vanishes as he plummets to the ground. Upon impact, his torso splits in half and the man’s body rolls in opposite directions.

  The feel of his blood upon my skin sends me into a panic. I begin to shriek, beating at my arms and chest. My vision blurs and I fall backward in my chair, frantically scrambling away from the human.

  “Peace, Roseline,” Fane’s soothing voice calls to me, though my vision blurs. “You are safe now.”

  My head feels far too light as I turn to find the voice. My eyes roll back into my head as I plummet to the ground. Pain flares along my ear before darkness sweeps in to steal me away.

  TWENTY-THREE