Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

I can hear voices up ahead in the dark, hundreds of them chattering away with an air of excitement. It makes my stomach knot painfully, yet I keep my spine straight and my head tall with a confidence I am sorely lacking.

  Fane walks ahead of me. He has not looked back at me once. This rejection, no matter the reason, hurts far more than that blasted stick Barrett insists on prodding me with from time to time.

  Why is Fane treating me so coldly? Is it to protect himself, or is he trying to separate himself emotionally because he knows I stand little chance tonight?

  I pause as we reach the far wall of the castle grounds. It rises high over my head, far taller than I had imagined it to be when leaning out my turret window. A tangle of vines and branches weave across the stone as far as I can see. Rusted spikes line the top of the wall, some of them still bearing the blood and feathers from the last foolish pigeon to land upon it. “We are going out there?”

  I loathe the way my voice cracks with uncertainty. I have never been beyond this point. It is foreign and terrifying territory for me.

  “You did not think we would spill blood within our own home, did you?” Barrett laughs. “That is just poor form.”

  With a curt nod to his large companions, beefy hands release my arms only to be replaced by Barrett’s long, thin fingers. The softness of his hands makes me shudder. He grips my arm and leaps soundlessly over the wall.

  I gasp as we soar over the top of the wall and land on the other side. I wish I could say I land with as much grace and poise as he does, yet that would be a terrible lie. The only reason I am standing is because of his grip on my arm.

  “I can walk well enough on my own.” I jerk out of his grasp and march ahead, trying desperately to ignore the taunting laughter behind me. I really do hate those men.

  I feel naked without the thick layers of my dress and corset about me, though I take comfort in the familiarity of the leathers. I attribute them with battle. Fane was right to give me a warrior’s outfit. It helps steady my mind, to focus.

  I can feel Barrett’s eyes upon me, though I refuse to acknowledge his gaze. There is only one pair of eyes I long to meet, and he walks ahead of me with fierce determination in his stride. If only he would give me some sign that he is still the man I thought him to be, though his expression when he glances back is cold as stone.

  I wrap my arms about myself, feeling a chill that has little to do with the night air.

  My thoughts begin to take on a darker tone as I think upon my coming death. It is sure to be painful, though I have learned to endure far more agony than most. My only prayer is that Vladimir does not permit them to defile me before the end.

  “Move faster.” Another jab with the stick. I grit my teeth and increase my pace.

  Barrett will be the first to go, I vow to myself.

  I hear the crackling of flames long before the bonfire comes into view. It sends smoke spiraling up into the cloudless sky, masking the twinkling stars above. I was incorrect about my earlier assumption of how many people have gathered. As I scan the wide clearing that opens up before me, I quickly surmise there to be at least double my original count. Possibly more.

  “Many have come,” Fane says to no one in particular, though I know he is speaking to me.

  “I had the pleasure of capturing the last girl. She was not very sporting,” Barrett crows proudly as he lifts his blade from the leather sheath at his side to run his finger across its smooth surface. A line of blood appears along his fingertip and he quickly licks it away. “You should have heard the girl beg for her life as I opened her throat. It was sheer bliss.”

  Images of my sister’s death darken my vision. Does he know this was my sister’s fate? Is he playing games with my mind?

  I do not give him the satisfaction of a response as I follow Bellamy and Alamesia down the small hill and into the heart of chaos. Ruckus, hooting, and the clang of swords greet me as I step into the light. Women giggle as they writhe atop men’s laps, their skirts held immodestly high. Mugs of blood clash together as men cheer and sing loudly out of tune. They remind me of the old pub that housed most of the working men after the sun went down and the wenches came out. My father frequented the tavern from time to time to my mother’s stern disapproval, though he was not a man to be told no.

  I turn away and search for the one man who holds my fate in his hands. I spy his white-blond hair from across the clearing and feel nothing as I notice a woman straddling his lap. Her hair is piled atop her head, spiraling around the curve of her heart-shaped face as she nibbles on my husband’s neck.

  The low cut of her dress does nothing to conceal the wares she is trying to sell to Vladimir. I know of this woman: Lavinia Ardelean. She was one of the wenches my father used to frequent in my village. My mother said she was evil, that her beauty would fade and God would seek his vengeance on her for her sins.

  I suppose my mother was not all that far off. Perhaps Vladimir found her not long after he purchased me from my father. I shudder at the thought that my father may have suggested her company while Vladimir took up residence in Brasov, awaiting my answer to his marriage proposal.

  I feel nothing for Lavinia Ardelean. A whore, yes, though a survivor as well judging by the way she gropes my husband. Perhaps she will warm his bed while my ashes are burned on the pyre before dawn.

  Slowly people begin to turn in my direction as I come to a halt. I widen my stance and grip my swords, attempting to appear ready to face my fate. Fane gives a nod of approval and moves away, melding seamlessly with the crowd.

  I feel alone and exposed before the eyes of my brethren. Many appear eager, though most are drunk on blood.

  Too much blood will change an immortal. They become far more violent, aggressive, and deadly. It also makes them stronger. I will be at a severe disadvantage.

  I wait in silence for Vladimir to acknowledge me, though he does not. His focus is too rapt on the barely concealed bosom of Lavinia. “I have come,” I shout above the din of laughter.

  Vladimir peers around Lavinia’s bare arm and tenses, his pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight. His lip curls into a sneer as he shoves the girl aside and rises. Her gaze searches the crowd until she meets mine. Her lips peel back as she bares her teeth at me, a growl rising in her throat.

  Her eyes bulge as Vladimir snatches her into the air, his hand clenching her throat. “That is my wife, wench. You will never show her such disrespect again.”

  With a snarl, he tosses Lavinia over the heads of those sitting behind him. Her crimson skirts flutter as she tumbles over the back row and plummets to the ground. I hear a crunch of bone and smile.

  “Silence.” Vladimir turns slowly in a circle, his arms raised high over his head.

  Lucien pushes aside a black-haired beauty that mews with dissatisfaction. Her lips are red from the blood that rises from a new knife wound on Lucien’s bare chest. I feel ill as she licks her lips, closing her eyes to the sensation of his blood slipping down her throat.

  Of all of my brethren, I fear Lucien the most. Vladimir is evil, though he hardly compares to the dark and malevolent glint in Lucien’s gaze. He has proven to be cold and methodical in his tortures. I plan to be the same when his life dangles in my hands.

  A hush falls over the crowd as Lucien rises. He is dressed for battle. Gone are the fine clothes and polished boots. Tonight he is dressed all in black leather, just as Fane. Like a ranger.

  Many of the immortals clamber over each other to get a look at me as I walk past. I force myself to take slow, smooth steps. The blades at my sides threaten to topple me as they dig into the earth, though I place my hands upon the hilts and feel a sense of calm fall over me. I may not be the best swordsman of the lot, though I am cunning when I need to be.

  Vladimir raises his hands high over his head until the crowd finally falls beneath a blanket of silence. Only the winds whipping through the trees can be heard. He turns slowly, smiling at each of his guests. “Tonight we celebrate the union o
f my marriage. Tonight we stand as testimony of our love.”

  The urge to spit at him is nearly overwhelming, though I keep my expression vacant.

  “This is tradition and it shall be upheld!”

  His voice rises toward the stars, among the great plume of smoke. A cheer swiftly follows and the ground beneath my feet rumbles as they stomp. Vladimir turns to look at me. “Come forth, my love.”

  I approach slowly, careful to keep my swords held aloft. The space between us feels lengthy, though I appear at his side in the blink of an eye. His hand falls upon my arm and a new hush seizes the crowd. “Tonight you will all bear witness to this hunt. If my love survives until dawn, she will prove her worth and take up her rightful place at my side for all eternity.”

  He does not speak upon what happens if I do not. Instead, he grasps my hands and yanks me toward him. His lips crush against mine, his tongue darting across them one final time. When he pulls back, I see lust billowing in his gaze, and for a moment I fear he will take me right here in front of all of his guests.

  Lucien clears his throat and the moment passes. “The night grows long, brother. Might I suggest we begin or risk questions arising about your sincerity of this grand event?”

  Vladimir licks his lips and releases his grasp on me. “Of course. I would not want that.”

  I glare back at Lucien as Vladimir steps between us, his gaze bright. “Although these look lovely on you, they are not permitted.”

  Before I can react, Vladimir snatches both of my swords from my sheath and tosses them aside. My mouth gapes open as he steps back, the torn scabbard dangling from his hand. “I am not permitted a weapon?”

  “Not this time.” Lucien sneers, kicking aside my swords. “Though I am sure they would have done you little good.”

  I grit my teeth to hold back my biting remark. Vladimir nods his approval and turns. “Hunters… come forth.”

  I hold my breath as the crowds begin to part to let men pass, though men is hardly an appropriate term. Many of them stand well over a foot taller than myself. They carry great clubs over their shoulders, boasting spikes the length of my forearm. Some have shaved heads, others bushy beards grown to their chin. All look eager to taste my blood.

  Lucien joins the group, as do Barrett and my two beefy guards. One man stands at the end, his head bowed low.

  I gasp and take a step back. “Fane?”

  “He did not tell you?” Lucien inquires, his voice high with laughter. “Oh, that is cruel.”

  I turn to look at Vladimir. “You would allow this?”

  He shrugs, though there is a tightness around his eyes that betrays his disapproval. “It is the way of things. Fane is a hunter so he must hunt.”

  I stare at the veil of blond hair that hides Fane from my sight. His words echo through my mind. Only one may live. He knew! That is why he was so quiet this morning and so withdrawn tonight. He knew he was selected to kill me.

  The pain of this betrayal is staggering as I fight to still the quaking in my hands. The hunters before me shift, sniffing the air, memorizing my scent.

  Vladimir turns to face me, placing himself between me and the men who will do everything in their power to end my life on this night. “You will have a head start. I suggest you use it wisely.”

  THIRTY-THREE