Chapter 19
19
T he rain had set in early, soaking the wooded countryside with cold and wet. Sleet mixed in every so often, and Sylvana kept her shawl up against the relentless pelting of both ice and wind. She travelled at dark. The road was far too dangerous during the day. Too many people knew her, had heard of her, had shunned her.
Night was her only protection against the whispers. She cloaked herself in it, hiding from the women who would curse her or the men who would do far, far worse. The trees were barren, fall coming early and threatening a particularly brutal winter. One she wouldn’t survive. Not in her tiny shack in the woods. She had nowhere to go, no one who would help her. Her death was a certainty if she stayed where she was.
Sylvana did the only thing she could—she set out on the long, treacherous road that led to the black castle. The place the locals avoided, where unwary travelers disappeared, and screams could be heard in the wee hours when ordinary folk were abed. It was a cursed place, one that held many terrors for her. It had almost claimed her life once. She had no guarantee that it wouldn’t try again, but this is how small her world had become. There were no other options, no chance at life unless she took the stony road to the dark keep.
She climbed over rocks and slid along the muddy wheel tracks, moving ever onward despite the howls of wolves and the yellow-eyed owls that watched her from the skeletal trees. This was about survival. If anyone could understand that, it was the animals looking for a meal.
Lean and hungry, she ached with each hard footfall, her ankles turning on the slippery ground. On she went, shivering in her wet clothes as she kept her back hunched, her shoulders taking the brunt of the icy wind and water. Tired, so tired. But that was why she had to do this, to go back to where it all started. Back to him .
Just the thought of it makes her stop. She bends over and dry heaves, nothing in her stomach. Still, she retches until the feeling passes. Until she can push the emotions down and focus on her need. Her raw need to live, no matter the cost.
The hill of crosses and religious shrines rises to her right. A dead goat rots on the stone altar, an offering for the monster who lives in the castle. The villagers think that killing a goat or hanging up trinkets can keep the nightmare at bay. Nothing can. He will take their children, their young and their old, their weak and their hardy. No one is spared from his scythe. Sylvana certainly wasn’t.
She keeps trudging for another hour before she reaches the black gates. They’re open, welcoming anyone foolish enough to venture inside. Her skin crawling, she soldiers on past the stone wall and into the courtyard. A broken carriage sits off to the side, the doors ripped away long ago.
Nothing stirs. Only the wind and the rain that seem to drive her onward, pushing her through the portcullis and into the castle. Drafty and dim, bats swoop overhead, some of them flying out into the night despite the weather. She knows the way. Each step harder than the last as she descends into the bowels of the castle, the air here dank and tinged with rot. The last time she was here, she crawled up each step, struggling to be free, to get home to her village where she would be safe. Where the nightmare couldn’t touch her anymore.
But that’s another story. One that leads right back here. For her, all roads have led to this cursed place. The land gone dark and barren because of the monster that lives within the stone walls.
Shaking, she reaches the bottom, her gaze slowly growing accustomed to the gloom. Only a few tapers burn along the black corridor, the flames nearly guttering as she passes.
Raucous laughter echoes down the hall, and she has to stop. To breathe. Her hair stands on end, her scars somehow burning. It’s as if they remember this place, too. Remember him .
Taking a shuddering breath, she continues, her steps never faltering as she enters the throne room. A horde of monsters lounge throughout the room, some of them talking, others blithely sinking their teeth into one of the shepherd boys from her village. She remembers him. Ivan, she thinks, that’s his name. Part of the posse that forced her from her home, he’d made the sign of the cross when he’d last seen her, then threatened her with his shepherd’s hook. Using it as a weapon instead of leading her to safety.
Ivan’s screams are weak, barely heard over the hum of conversation. He must’ve been out past dark, herding too close to the black castle. His shepherd’s hook is long gone, probably still in the field where the devils found him.
“What’s this?” A vampire rises from her seat on one of the ratty cushions. Topless and filthy, she’s still lovely. Her eyes too green, her lips too red. Their beauty is a lure, a trick. “A treat just wandering in?”
“I’m here for Gregor.” Sylvana’s voice doesn’t shake.
The strigoi pouts. “But I’m hungry.”
“I came for the king of your kind. Not you. He would be displeased if you took what is his.”
Sylvana keeps walking, brushing past the vampire who growls low in her throat. More of them notice her now, and Ivan does too. He holds out a bloody hand toward her, silently beseeching as his cries have died away. She keeps going, leaving him to his fate as he left her to hers.
The king of the monsters lounges on his throne, one leg thrown over an arm as he stares at the ceiling. Listless and bored, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. Then he turns his head at an owl’s angle, his neck twisting as his eyes glow like a wolf’s.
“You’ve returned.” He smirks and sits up, then his brows draw together with confusion. “You’ve returned?” he says again, a question in his words this time. He laughs, the sound low and dark. Beautiful, almost. Sylvana realizes she would’ve thought him beautiful if she didn’t already know what lurks beneath his handsome disguise. Her body bears the scars of it.
The room is quiet now. Not even Ivan’s labored breath sounds in the darkness. Dead. Just like everything else in this castle.
“This is … unexpected.” Gregor stands, a boyish smile on his face as he drops down the steps to her. He plucks a strand of her hair and inhales, then wrinkles his nose. “You smell like filth and poverty and something else, something different. Not the innocent maiden I spent ever so much time with.” He grins, his fangs growing long. “I had quite a bit of fun with you, didn’t I?”
Though it hurts, though it galls her beyond measure, she slowly sinks to her knees.
Gregor’s amusement only grows. “You want my cock that badly? Then you shall have it.” He unbuttons his trousers.
“I’m not here for that,” she says softly, her heart pounding, her fear a live thing that whips around inside her, searching for a way to be free.
Gregor has the nerve to feign disappointment. “No? But we had such amazing times, you and I.”
She grits her teeth.
“Did you come to die?” He stares down at her. “Or do you think I’ll turn you?” He shakes his head.
“No.”
He crosses his arms and adopts a puzzled expression. “You say you didn’t come to die, but of course you did.” With snake-like quickness, he grips her throat and lifts her until she’s dangling in front of him. “You know what happens here, what happens to silly little humans like you.”
“I came for Valen,” Sylvana forces out.
“Who?” Without another word, Gregor flicks his hand, breaking her neck.
Her eyes go wide, her mind flaring in bright white light as he releases her. She falls, her body twitching, her eyes still open, her hands grasping weakly at the small, warm lump strapped to her chest. In seconds her hands still, her breath stops.
Only then does her child give a small cry.
Gregor stops, his gaze fixed on the dead woman’s chest. Kneeling, he rips away the fabric and finds the babe tucked against its mother.
The others gather around, some of them openly salivating when they realize it’s a child.
“A snack?” He snatches the child into his hands and stands, then holds it up, staring into its eyes. The faintest connection, weaker than his bond with Theo, springs to life, pulsing in his veins. Power. His power shared through blood.
His mouth drops open, his pupils blowing as he realizes this child is his. Diala reaches for the babe.
He slashes her throat, sending her stumbling backwards.
“My lord?” Nialen asks, his gaze on the child.
The child cries. Big, whooping wails. Gregor laughs, hoisting the child even higher and turning it around so everyone can see the pale skin, the icy eyes, and the tiny fangs of his progeny.