Rage

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

“ F ifty pieces of gold for every vampire we gather in a week’s time.” Declan jabs the table with a finger. Only the two of them remain, the hall long emptied by Stilton’s demand. After hours of their back and forth, I understand why. The man is an abysmal negotiator and has spent more time pushing ale into Declan’s hands and peppering him with questions about his weapons, tactics, and training than discussing terms. It is clear he wants to use Declan for his knowledge, no doubt planning to form his own hunting party and attempt to handle the matter of my night siblings himself.

It is also clear that Lord Stilton is not only cruel but a fool as well.

Weak men and all.

“And what happens after a week?” Stilton counters. “You continue to rob me blind, dragging your feet as you ‘handle the matter’?”

Declan’s face remains calm, and a sharp, knowing grin curls his lips, a suggestion of the capabilities he possesses. It reminds me of the many reasons I keep finding myself in this cage.

“If we haven’t cleared your lands of the vermin by then,” he says, “we can negotiate a lower rate for the remaining pests.”

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t draw this out?”

“I’ll sign a contract if you are so inclined, and if you find me in breach, I’ll accompany you to whatever passes in these lands as a court.”

His bravado only angers Stilton. He casts a toad’s gaze around the hall, watery pale eyes landing on my cage. The man is repulsive, his cheeks mottled red and fleshy lips permanently pursed. Even if I had not noticed his treatment of Lady Stilton, my loathing for this lordling would remain. The wooden beams transversing the hall’s ceiling are rotted and darkened by mold, and his servants skitter along the edges of the room, heads ducked and shoulders stooped, all of them winter lean in the flush of summer.

He is a poor lord forsaking the care of his people and the weed-ridden, wild lands I viewed around his manor.

My fangs itch, and as offensive as I find Stilton, my hunger rises.

I need blood if I am to escape. Trapped in silver with unhealing wounds, I am weak, like the men arguing at the table. Any warm body would do, but my sights are set on the putrid lump festering at the table.

Him first, and then I will seek out Declan.

“And what about her?” Lord Stilton’s voice booms across the emptied hall. He stands at the bench, a fist against the table and a meaty arm stretched in my direction. “You cannot expect me to house that vile bitch in my hall.”

“Put her in the stables for all I care.” Declan shrugs. “We need her for bait.”

Bait.

What a waste of my abilities. He’s right, however. We undying, my night siblings and I, we can scent each other on a windless night. Curiosity draws us like moths to flame. It is dangerous knowledge for a hunter like Declan to hold.

“And have her scare the horses?” Stilton spits three times and glares at Declan. “If she’s bait, string her from the yew tree like we do with the pigs.”

Calm settles over Declan’s features. The smile he wears now is cold and distant, absent all emotion or cunning. A thrill trickles down my spine as he sheds the mask of a jovial hunter, showing Lord Stilton the terrible man who so often puts me in this cage.

He rises to match Stilton’s height, places his hands on the table, and leans forward, lowering his voice to a threatening level. “Fifty gold pieces for every vampire my men capture in a week’s time. After that, my men and I will leave you to your troubles.” He pounds his fist against the table and points at my cage. “And she remains indoors.”

Stilton blanches, eyes darting from Declan to me, and his mass deflates. He needs Declan. Vampires have ravaged his lands for weeks, and his tenants and the villagers are scared and growing angry. Many of them witnessed Declan’s little performance earlier and gawked at me in my cage, still covered in the remains of my night sister. They know help has come, and if Stilton does not accept Declan’s terms, he will leave this wastling lord to the pyre that will no doubt be built for him.

“A week, then,” Stilton attempts to keep his voice steady, but I catch the tremble in his words.

Weak.

Five cages line the far wall at dawn, just beyond the light’s reach, and by midnight, seven of my night siblings sit within their bars. They wait, calm as I am, knowing this will only get worse. We are not resigned to our fates as much as we are aware of what happens next.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Stilton bursts into the hall. A red velvet dressing gown flutters as he charges toward Declan, cleaning his nails with a knife blade on the edge of the dais.

“We raided a nest,” Declan says without looking up. Mud stains his trousers, and blood cakes his arms and vest, streaking down his cheek. I inhale, picking him out of the other scents in the room.

Not his blood .

“Lost a good portion of my men in the doing,” he continues. “I’ll need to take some of your guard when I go out next.”

“To do what? Parade the empty wood?” Stilton stops before Declan, his fist pressed against his side. “You were supposed to slaughter the vermin. Instead, you’ve brought me a nest; what the hell are they doing in my hall?”

“Marinating.” Declan shoots to his feet. He twirls his knife by the hilt and slides it into a sheath at his hip. “You let this go on too long, Stilton. Where there’s one nest, you will find half a dozen more. These things breed like rabbits; it is a wonder your entire county isn’t overrun.”

A blotchy red crawls over Lord Stilton’s cheeks. He huffs and jabs Declan’s chest with a meaty finger. “Answer my question, boy.”

It takes all I have in me not to roll my eyes.

“Was I not clear?” Declan crosses his arms, the leather sleeves of his riding coat creaking. “You let this go too long. Every person in this hall last night witnessed your failure to protect them.”

“You have no proof?—”

“Don’t I?” Declan tilts his head to the side, a jester’s grin stretching his face while his eyes remain hard and cold. “Half the villages came out to see us raid that nest. Your tenant women gifted us their garlic, and your men offered their pitchforks. You have a mutiny on your hands, Stilton.” He sweeps an arm at the cages against the wall. “They require proof that their lord is not weak. That he is a man who defends his people.”

With an easy sweep of his leg, Declan steps over the bench and strides the length of the hall, his eyes fixed on my cage. The flask he pulls from his coat pocket sloshes menacingly. I shrink away, but there is nowhere to run from the holy water. I am trapped, and the monster is walking directly toward me.

“I have seen this dozens of times,” he continues. “Weakling lords who wait until a tiny problem becomes a catastrophe. Lucky for you, I have developed a … performance, shall we say, sure to rid you of their mutinous behavior.” He thumbs open the silver flask and dangles it over my cage. A quick twist of his wrist pours a stream of holy water through the bars. It splashes on the ground, and droplets land on my foot and ankle. The searing pain is immediate, sizzling my skin and burning to the bone. Tears burst in my eyes, and I barely strangle the scream in my throat.

Declan huffs and stares down at me, his stony gaze assessing how I cower, trying to make myself small. The smile he sends me then is no performance. He knows he has enraged me, as he has done time and time again.

“Invite them to your hall at the end of the week.” He spins, facing Lord Stilton. “Host a feast, open your cellars, and let them see with their own eyes how terrible the vampire threat was to their lives. Let them see how you care for them. Men are weak, Lord Stilton; remind them of this with a show of your strength.”

Lord Stilton’s puffy lips flatten, his watery eyes darting from Declan to me and back. His chins wobble as he nods his agreement, and I bury my face in my knees to hide the expression that crawls over my face.

Declan and his borrowed men fill the cages. They build more from scrap wood and silver stripped from Stilton’s walls or melted from his goblets and cutlery. The week passes, and I watch their progress from my cage, which is now in the center of the hall. I am covered by a tapestry during the daylight hours, safely hidden from the sun while my body takes its needed rest, and each sunset, I am rewarded with the sight of my night brothers and sisters sitting quietly in wait.

We are unliving; we are undying. We are patient.

I see it written on their faces and in the steadiness of their stares. They wait, watching me, following my lead. Rumors of Declan have spread across the Northerlands, and with them come the stories of me. Captured, escaped, a terror in the night chased across the moors and highlands by a man with a silver-tipped stake. We are creatures of legend, crafting a warning tale for mortals and immortals alike.

It is a dance, mine and Declan’s. We are bound together on the wheel of fate, tipping in his favor as easily as the cards deal my success. I am caged now, but I will not be caged forever. No silver bars can hold me, not when the weakness of men serves my purposes so well.

Not when there is always one .

Lady Stilton haunts the hall in the small hours, her wide-set, dark eyes large on her pinched face. New bruises darken arms she no longer hides from my night siblings and me. A limp hitches her step, but with every night that passes, she draws on her courage to come closer.

On the sixth night, I wake to the tapestry torn away and Lady Stilton’s face pressed against the bars.

“He will kill you,” she hisses, her voice barely above a whisper. “He has had the priests blessing barrels of rainwater all day. Tomorrow, after the feast, the guards will drag your cages into the courtyard at dawn and drown you.” Lady Stilton’s pulse flutters in her neck, her heartbeats loud enough to deafen. Her eyes skitter over my face, my filthy dress, and the dried, crusted blood on my arms and legs. “He wants to watch you burn before you burn.”

In the sun, I assume. What a terrible fate.

“A grand plan for a worm like your husband,” I rasp. Each word saws up my throat, and hunger claws in my belly. Six days is a long time to go without a meal, and I was hungry when Declan threw me into this cage.

Lady Stilton’s mouth twists in a sneer. “My husband can barely think beyond his next meal. This was the hunter’s idea.”

Of course it was.

“Please.” I press a hand to my mouth, making my eyes widen in fear. “Please help me.”

A silence descends over the hall, quieting the mice in the corners and the swallows nested in the rotting beams. As one, my night siblings fall still and face my cage, ears pricked as they listen intently to our exchange. Their silent focus is as loud as the rush of blood in Lady Stilton’s veins.

“How?” she asks. Pale, twig-like fingers curl around the bars of my cage. Several are crooked, bones broken and healed, and she is missing the thumbnail on her left hand.

I shuffle across the cage on my knees, hands clasped in plea. “I heard them speaking. Lord Stilton is going to open the cellars. Tell the servants to pour heavy. Get them drunk and?—”

“He’ll water down the wine.”

“They will not notice?” I stop, lowering back onto my heels.

“They never do.” Lady Stilton grips the bars, eyes darting as she thinks. “But perhaps … perhaps if I drug the wine with bergamot and elderflower?” I blink, surprised at how easily she offers to do this. Bergamot and elderflower are a druid’s tools, and that knowledge has me eyeing her pale, pinched features and dark, haunted eyes anew. “The taste of the wine would be strong; they will think it fortified and consider him generous. They’ll drink more heavily and?—”

“And when they succumb, you steal the keys from the hunter.” Greasy hair falls in my face as I nod. “Let me out, Lady Stilton, and I will ensure you never have to suffer another night at the hands of your husband.”

Her skin blanches the color of the moon, a white so pale she could be one of my night siblings. Blue veins pulse in her throat and along her jaw, and she steps away from my cage, fingers pressed to her tiny mouth. For a moment, murderous druidic tendencies aside, I fear I have overstepped and made one too many assumptions about the caliber of woman before me.

Then she nods. A tiny, tight dip of her chin that bobs and grows into a strong affirmation.

She will do it. She sees the wisdom. Free me and be freed. Her husband drained and discarded—all of his lands, all of his wealth, hers for the taking. I do not care whether she will be a good shepherd of her lands. I only care about escaping my cage and tipping the scales in my favor.