Chapter Eleven
Samara
Five hundred and forty-eight paces.
That was how far I could go from Raphael’s chambers before the pain started. Another half dozen steps and the pain went from uncomfortable to unbearable.
Each gloaming, when I woke, I tested the distance and then made myself wait an entire two minutes before retreating. Night after night I paced, waited, and returned, with no increase in the perimeter I could tolerate. It didn’t bode well for me escaping Damerel with the grimoire anytime soon.
And that was only the beginning of my troubles.
Raphael wasn’t satisfied with knocking me to the ground a hundred times the first day.
Apparently, this was to be a daily occurrence.
There had to be breaks at some point since despite his talk about how important it was that I train—after all, he still had to oversee a kingdom.
It’s not like he could devote every waking hour to dealing with me.
For the sixth day in a row, however, he’d once again put my training at the top of the list.
“Again,” he ordered, when my steel sword was once again knocked from my hands. “Think before you lunge. Be strategic about your moves.”
“I’m trying,” I growled. I was in a foul mood, between the leash this bond put on us, and the fact that while my body could move faster, my mind wasn’t used to moving that fast. He led me through drills to start, and I’d managed to avoid jumping out of my skin when he grazed my arm to adjust my form.
But now that we’d moved to sparring, it was utterly frustrating.
It felt like I was fighting against myself half the time instead of Raphael.
“This isn’t about defense, but discipline. Control.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I turned back to Raphael, stepping into the fighting stance that had been drilled in me.
I felt like crap. The thirst was still present—and might be there forever, according to Raphael. I hadn’t felt so much of a twitch of magic, unless I counted the grimoire, my magical birthright, burning my fingers when I touched it. And I was damned tired, perspiration dripping down my neck.
Meanwhile Raphael hadn’t so much as broken a sweat. His white shirt was loose-fitted, buttoned only halfway up. The sword was a casual extension of his arm, his forearm bulging as he moved into position.
“If you’re done looking, you can attack me again.”
“I thought I’m supposed to keep my eyes on the enemy,” I growled.
“Opponent,” he corrected.
Same thing. I lunged, fueled by all the anger I felt. Strategic and analytical had disappeared again.
Once more, I landed squarely on my back. I crawled up from my knees, out of what was becoming muscle memory, despite the fact the wind was still knocked out of me.
“We don’t have all day,” Thea called from over by the bench. She was sorting through some of Raphael’s correspondence rather than training.
“We have as long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?” I snapped. “You to stop winning? I appreciate the vote of confidence, but considering the skill difference, that’s not going to ever happen.”
“Stop underestimating yourself,” he chided. “And stop fighting two opponents, so you stand half a chance.”
“Two?”
“Me, and yourself. Once you’re only fighting one battle, you may be surprised at how well you can do.”
I had a lot I wanted to say to that—starting with a string of expletives—but Thea called over again.
“You can keep trouncing Sam—sorry, training her—tomorrow. We need to go dress shopping before daylight.”
Another dress meant one thing. “Another ball?” Suddenly spending the next few days sparring and losing against Raphael didn’t sound so bad.
Raphael frowned at the wary note in my voice. Could he blame me? The last one hadn’t exactly gone well for either of us. “She doesn’t have to attend.”
Thea rolled her eye at both of us. “It’s in her honor! You turned someone for the first time in the kingdom’s memory. Not to mention she’s your Chosen. In the eyes of the kingdom, that’s as big an event as the eclipse. No doubt they’re already wondering why there’s been such a delay.”
“Let them wonder. She doesn’t have to go if she doesn’t want to.”
Something stirred in me at Raphael’s assertion, a mix of contradictory feelings that didn’t feel like entirely my own—a desire to attend, which made no sense, for one.
And a strange sense of comfort that he understood how little I wanted to go to another ball, to be gawked at.
The logical part of me realized the ball was an opportunity to be around more vampires and see if that roused my necromancer abilities.
There would be hundreds in attendance, compared to the few dozen in the club before.
But mostly there was anger at being seen as just an extension of him.
His fledgling. His Chosen.
One of those things, I could change.
“I’ll go,” I said.
Both looked at me in surprise. Obviously, Thea had been ready to go back and forth on that argument another dozen times, as she usually had to.
“But I want one thing to be clear: I’m not your Chosen anymore.”
Raphael’s expression went carefully blank.
Thea gaped, before offering a conciliatory, “Sam…”
“It was only for appearances anyway. It didn’t mean anything.
” I kept my gaze on Thea but couldn’t help but watch Raphael from the corner of my eye.
Couldn’t help but mark the slight flinch with some satisfaction.
“And it didn’t keep me safe.” It just marked me as one of his belongings.
In the eyes of vampires, I would now always be his anyway—his turned human pet.
Unless I teach them to fear me as something more, a dark part whispered.
“I’m not going to be your Chosen anymore,” I repeated, when Raphael said nothing to acknowledge me. I would show them I was something else, something different.
“Fine,” he bit out.
That didn’t feel satisfying at all. Remembering the pain of the morning, I added, “And I want a new bedroom. At least four hundred paces away.” I needed space from the vampire king. Maybe that would help ease the cursed thirst in me. Help break the bond that tied me here.
“Whatever you require,” he said, sheathing his blade without looking at me.
That… I wasn’t sure even Raphael could give me.
The fledgling bond meant it was Raphael who pushed the dressmaker’s shop door open barely two hours later.
Everything halted when the vampire king arrived. Several seamstresses were fitting vampiresses throughout the space, each set on a pedestal. Bertha, the owner, gaped as Raphael stepped inside.
“Your Majesty!” she cried, falling into a curtsy before Raphael.
“How might I serve the Crown today? A dress for your newly sired progeny, if I may presume? Lady Amalthea, Lady Samara,” she added as a distant afterthought.
“It was such an honor to create your dress for the eclipse. I trust you were satisfied with the quality of the craftsmanship.”
I bit down a retort about the fate of that dress. Oh yes, the red fabric went beautifully with my abdominal stabbing.
“A gown for three days from now. I trust that’s enough time,” Thea answered on Raphael’s behalf.
Bertha bobbed her head with vigor. “Oh, of course. Right this way. We already have your measurements, so this will hardly take any time at all. Not that we’d dream of rushing your Chosen,” she quickly added. “What do you envision her in? Something like this?”
She pulled out a silk dyed such a deep purple it was nearly black. The weft was finely done, almost appearing liquid.
“Samara? What do you think?” he asked.
I sucked on my lower lip. “The fabric is suitable.” It was lovely. Dark too. Not something I would have picked before, but now it felt appropriate. I debated letting the Chosen comment slide, but I’d just made such a fuss. “But as it’s been decided, I am not the king’s Chosen anymore.”
Bertha blinked, the bundle of fabric hanging in her outstretched arms as she stared at me. The silver-tongued shopkeeper was at a loss for what to say.
“This fabric it is, then,” Raphael said easily. “My fledgling can instruct you on what she wants made.”
Bertha blinked at the clear change, obviously trying to process how to adjust her view of me. It lasted only a moment, though, before she returned to business as usual.
“Girl! Bring my shears!” she called around me.
I continued to glare at Raphael. I might have been able to break the Chosen bond, but the fledgling one… it was forever.
A familiar figure stepped out from the back carrying gold-plated shears. Josephine’s face split into a wide smile when she stepped around to the front of the stand and met my gaze.
“Oh, Lady Samara! Congratulations.”
She beamed at me, and I was struck silent, unsure what she was congratulating me for. I looked from her to Raphael, as if he might have answers. His jaw was tight, but unlike me, he didn’t look confused.
When her felicitations hung unanswered in the air, she added more hesitantly, “I knew there was something so special about you when you came before. I was hoping the king would gift you the eternal night.”
Oh. She was congratulating me on being turned into a vampire.
To them, this was a happy thing.
I swallowed down the immediate rush of anger. There was something so sweet on the seamstress’s face. Even though I hated what had happened, she was happy for me. She thought I’d been done a favor.
“I appreciate that you’re happy for me,” I managed.
That satisfied Josephine, at least. Bertha snapped her fingers, and the seamstress obediently handed the shears over while pulling a length of muslin.
The two worked to pin the fabric quickly, sketching a rough idea for the dress over my clothing.
Raphael watched. I expected him to look bored, or resentful, given that he had to wait around.
I wouldn’t have felt bad, per se. I was doing this for one of his balls, after all.
But Raphael didn’t appear bored. Instead, he leaned some distance away, arms crossed over his chest, an inscrutable expression on his face.