Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy Read online

I clutch the babe to my chest as we jostle down the road, passing through deserted villages. Has word spread that the lord of Castle Bran is passing through? Perhaps that would explain the closed shutters and overturned baskets of wares left rolling in the streets.

  The babe hardly moves in my arms, hardly makes a sound. Its chest rises and falls in halting, labored breaths. Its skin is pale, tinged slightly blue. There is something terribly wrong with this child.

  Drawing back the clothes, I search along the babe’s neck for any signs of teeth marks yet find none. I gaze along its legs and arms, turning it gently to inspect its back. There is not a wound to be found.

  As I gently wrap the child against the blustery winds, I find Vladimir turned in his seat, watching me. “Can you not smell it?”

  I instinctively draw back from his gaze, curling my shoulders inward to protect myself and the innocent child. Several moments pass and I realize that he demands an answer. With my focus fixed on the babe’s colorless lips, I respond, “I can smell the blood.”

  From the corner of my eye I see Vladimir shake his head. He turns his body so his knee presses into Lucien’s side in the narrow seat. I cringe, loathing the feeling of his rapt attention. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace! I silently scream as I cower against the wooden wall of the wagon.

  “The child is marked for death.”

  My eyes close against the tears I feel brimming along my lower lashes. I knew, though I did not want to see. “How do you know this?” I cling to the innocent child, praying that Vladimir is wrong.

  “Breathe deep and tell me what you find.” It is not a request. We both know this.

  My fingers tremble as I clutch the babe close to my nose and take a breath. I smell nothing, save the coppery scent of the blood that clings to its cheeks and forehead, no doubt splattered from its mother as he was torn from her bosom. “I smell nothing.”

  “Death smells rotten. It reeks of decay. Try again.”

  Like you, I surmise silently. His gaze is intense, demanding. I release a shuddery breath and close my eyes as I draw the child close once more. This time I detect new scents: the soiled linen that cocoons the child, the smell of his mother’s fear that lingers, and the scent of something dank and overripe, like an unseen wound festering with infection.

  I open my eyes and see Vladimir nodding with approval. “You will learn to recognize this scent well, Roseline. It will help you choose your victims.”

  “Do you only kill those who are already dying?” Did this family have some sort of illness, a plague perhaps, that I did not detect before? Is that why Lucien chose them?

  “No.” His grin sharpens with cruelty. “I am partial to children in their prime. Lucien is not so fastidious. He merely relishes the hunt.”

  Lucien chuckles. “You always did prefer youth… and beauty.” He glances back over his shoulder at me and I shudder. The holes in my shawl and dress make me feel as naked to his gaze as when Vladimir ravaged me before Lucien.

  The child does not protest to my tight grip as I press it against my bosom. I would give anything to save this life, yet I have nothing to offer. “Why spare this babe?” I whisper.

  “Spare it?” Vladimir’s expression freezes somewhere between incredulity and mockery. “Every immortal has to start somewhere. I assumed with the manner in which you fed from your sister that you would be hungry again.”

  “Adela?” I whisper. A tiny movement of protest in my arms makes me realize just how tightly I was clutching the child. Perhaps it still has a chance.

  Lucien sniggers as he tugs on the reins to steer us around a bend. The trees tower high overhead on either side of the road, blocking out the noonday sun. I do not know how much farther we have to travel. Nevertheless, a part of me despairs that we shall arrive much sooner than I am ready.

  “You were the fastest I have ever witnessed turn. I was sure we would have to drag your body from the ashes, yet you awoke while the moon was still high.” Lucien glances back over his shoulder at me. “You were ravenous when you awoke. I enjoyed the way you tore at your sister’s throat. You were delightfully animalistic.”

  A ball of acid forms in my stomach at the thought. How could I have done such a thing? Surely he is distorting the truth. I am no butcher. I could never mutilate my own flesh and blood.

  “You lie,” I spit back.

  “Do I?” Lucien scoffs, though Vladimir places a hand atop his brother’s arm. Lucien falls silent, yet as I lower my gaze, I can still feel his belittling smirk.

  A sickness begins to spread through my chest and settle around my heart. What if he is not wrong? Why can I not recall what happened to me?

  The events surrounding my birth, as Vladimir insists on calling it, are still hazy for me. Some clarity returned once I saw my slaughtered family. Other memories have yet to resurface.

  There were teeth marks upon her throat and Adela’s blood upon your lips, a voice whispers in my mind. I shake my head and turn my back on the two men. No. I could never have done such a monstrous thing.

  I ride in silence as the miles pass by. I have lost all bearings or calculation of how far we have come and am unsure of how much farther we must go. Lucien and Vladimir never seem to tire, though as the sun rises and the heat melds with the land, I begin to feel lethargic. My head lolls in time with the spinning of the wooden wheels. My eyes droop with exhaustion and I give way to the pain in my ankle for a time.

  My eyelids flutter open and I instantly sense danger. My arms and lap are barren. I bolt upright in search for the babe yet find that it has vanished.

  “Where is he?” I run my hands in a frenzy along the straw-covered floor beside me yet come up with nothing more than splinters buried deep into my palms.

  “He is gone.”

  I stiffen at the sound of a new voice and realize I am not alone in the back of the cart. A woman, with stunning waves of scarlet hair and a tiny button of a nose, sits across from me. Her skin is paler than a winter snow and her full lips are the color of freshly spilt blood. Metal chains drape about her neck and wrists, tinkling as she slowly licks her slender fingers.

  I stare at the droplets of blood that cling to her nails and feel my stomach fall away. “You killed him.”

  A wide grin stretches across her face and her green eyes narrow in such a way that it reminds me of a cunning mousing cat that once lived in my father’s barn. “His fate was already sealed. I only helped speed the process.”

  “You wretched woman,” I spit at her and toss the handful of hay that I cling to at her. My chest rises and falls with anger, yet I instantly subside at the raucous laughter from the front of the wagon. The woman’s eyes twinkle with delight and she leans forward to speak.

  “How delightfully naive she is, Vladimir.” She reaches out to trail a single fingernail down my exposed leg. I yank it back under the protection of my dress. She grins. “We shall have much fun with her.”

  Vladimir tsks and shakes his finger at her over his shoulder. “This one is not for playing, Alamesia. She is my new wife.”

  Alamesia hisses as she recoils. “This is the girl? Surely you jest.”

  “No.” Vladimir’s tone is suddenly laced with ice. “I never jest.”

  I watch as Alamesia grasps her mistake and pleads forgiveness for her misstep. Gone is the woman’s haughty confidence, replaced with simpering fear. Vladimir appears dispassionate to her apologies. However, Lucien speaks with calm reason and my husband finally relents. When Alamesia finally looks to me again, I notice she waits for Vladimir to turn forward before she casts a contemptuous glare in my direction, as if it were my fault she incurred Vladimir’s anger.

  I shall avoid this woman in the future, I silently vow as I turn to watch the trees as they pass, feigning a disinterest that is far from the truth. From the edge of my vision, I note the rigidity of Vladimir’s shoulders. Lucien’s tense grip on the reins feels as stifling as the cold silence from my riding partner.

  Does everyone fear Vladimir
? My father informed me when Vladimir solicited my hand in marriage that he was lord of a castle. He had failed to mention that Vladimir is also the executioner of any who irk him.

  The sun becomes blistering as the afternoon wanes, and I seek solace in the sparse shade my shawl can provide. Alamesia glowers at me as she is forced to endure the unseasonable heat without any covering. Neither Lucien nor Vladimir speaks of it. However, I notice the pace of the horses increases.

  Not long before sundown I spy light up ahead. I press my palms into the floor of the wagon and crane my neck to see.

  Tall torches, the height of a man, stand on either side of the road, winding through the forest and up a hill. I peer through the darkening woods and notice more light through the trees. The terrain slopes upward as the horses begin to lean into their steps. Their harnesses jangle as they attack the incline.

  Bits of hay tumble from the back of the wagon as I clasp onto the clapboards for support. I gnash my teeth at Alamesia as she shifts and connects solidly with my ankle, merely winking back at me. The throbbing pain does little to alleviate my curiosity as I turn once more to the view.

  The mountains rise up around us and a chill rides the evening air. It feels blissfully cool against my skin as I draw back the hem of my shawl. The trees have begun to shed their leaves, cushioning our path. I catch glimpses of white stone and red wooden shake shingles as we turn one bend and begin up another.

  A few minutes later, the trees fall away and I am enraptured by the sight before me. Castle Bran is no small feat of modern architecture. It rises above me to greater heights than I have ever glimpsed. Far greater than the church where I said my vows on the previous night. Before it burned to the ground, it was as the largest building in the town.

  Castle Bran gleams like an impenetrable fortress atop the hill in the fading sunlight. It steals away my breath. “It is beautiful,” I whisper to myself.

  “Beauty is only a fool’s disguise,” Alamesia mutters darkly, although I notice she too is captured by the moment.

  Vladimir turns in his seat to face me. “Welcome home, my dear.”

  SIX