CHAPTER ELEVEN
11
Morwenna
“Here’s your new room,” Lady Jen announces as she pushed the door open with a creak, revealing a room so grand it stole the breath right out of my lungs. Compared to my tiny room back home, this was like a palace chamber.
I wanted to twirl about like a princess, reveling in the moment, but Lady Jen’s disapproving gaze held me back. Not only had she forbidden me from making a mess, but Draven’s generosity – a room ten times finer than mine – clearly irritated her.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she warned. “Just because Lord Draven bestowed upon you the former mistress’s chambers doesn’t mean you’re exempt from work. Duties await, and trust me, they’ll be far more challenging than you imagine.”
Her words danced on the wind as my curiosity piqued. “Lord Draven had a mistress?”
“Wife, actually,” Lady Jen snapped. “But she’s gone now. Don’t get any ideas about inheriting the room or your place here. A thousand years wouldn’t elevate you to royalty, and you certainly won’t be ordering me or anyone else around. You’re still a servant, and a servant you shall remain.”
A thousand years? The thought stole my breath for a moment. Before I could dwell on it, Lady Jen shut the door, only to fling it open again.
“And,” she added, a saccharine smile stretched tight on her face, “if Lord Draven mentioned being rude to you, please disabuse him of that notion. My every interaction, including assigning you chores, has been steeped in pure benevolence.” The smile faltered, not quite reaching her eyes. “Get some rest. Tomorrow promises to be another demanding day.”
I sighed. As if “demanding” wasn’t a euphemism for the unending drudgery that awaited me as Lord Draven’s servant.
Lady Jen closes the door with a heavy thud, leaving me to release an exhausted sigh. My eyes sweep across the room, taking in every detail.
Wow. This room has endured for a thousand years, yet it maintains its old-fashioned charm without showing any signs of wear and tear.
Drawing nearer, I admire the floral paintings adorning the walls, each stroke telling a story.
Lost in contemplation, I spin around to take it all in, hoping to catch my breath amidst the whirlwind of emotions.
Mid-twirl, I notice a large mirror concealed beneath a black cloth.
Pausing, I wait for the dizziness to subside before approaching it.
As I remove the cloth, a thick layer of dust is revealed, a testament to its age.
The cloth slips from my grasp, fluttering to the floor as I begin to sneeze uncontrollably.
Shielding my nose, I study the mirror. Despite its age, it remains remarkably round and intact, matching the room’s vintage aesthetic. It wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated.
Curiosity piqued, I extended a fingertip towards the cool glass. An inexplicable pull seemed to emanate from the mirror’s surface.
But then, a strange sensation washed over me, as if an unseen hand held my finger captive within the depths of the glass.
I jerked my fingers away from the mirror’s surface, a strange sensation coursing through me, like a faint electric current.
Even with my finger removed, I still felt a pulsing sensation, though not too painful.
Instinctively, I sucked on my finger, a childhood habit to alleviate discomfort, but my thoughts drifted to Draven.
Fuck.
This is my fault. Why did I allow him to take control, to dominate me once more, to make me succumb to his seduction?
Every time I try to conjure up reasons to hate him, I end up fantasizing about him, about his seductive prowess. I shouldn’t be falling for him again.
I pushed my finger deeper into my mouth, cursing myself.
I’m falling into old habits, imagining it’s him, either his finger or his entire length plunging deep into me, ravishing me until I lose all sense of time and space.
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I realized I had gone too far.
I looked like a wanton, a slut, and I recoiled in disgust.
God, I’ve let myself sink too deep, allowing Draven to penetrate not just my body, but my mind.
Now, I could only imagine him using his powerful manhood to dominate every inch of me, especially my most intimate core: my pussy.
“No, no, no,” I whispered to myself as I withdrew my finger from my mouth. I couldn’t believe I was succumbing to thoughts of him, to the opposite of what I should be feeling.
I shouldn’t be craving him, longing for him like this.
I’ve always despised him, so why now do I find myself yearning for him?
It’s so hard to push him out of my mind, to forget what he’s done to me, both mentally and physically.
I had hoped he would respect my boundaries when I mentioned I had a boyfriend, but instead, he dismissed it, taunting me that he doesn’t detect any scent of a relationship. It’s as if he knows me too well. Right? I directed the question to my reflection in the mirror, searching for answers in my own eyes.
My gaze shifted to my bag lying on the bed, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I found it. I approached the bed and retrieved my bag, finding my notebook, camera, and laptop inside. Thankfully, there were no scratches, but wait... shouldn’t there be? Especially after they were scattered on the ground. The absence of any damage could only mean one thing: witchcraft.
I picked up the camera, hoping to find the pictures I had taken of vampires in the blue room. To my dismay, all I found was a blur of blue smoke, nothing discernible. I strained my eyes, desperate for any sign or clue, but there was nothing. Just the same blurry image. Fuck.
Frustrated, I slid my trusty camera back into my bag with a heavy sigh. I wasn’t surprised, considering the Vimic family’s ties to magic, witchcraft, and witches. Could it be them? Or perhaps him? Do the Brothers of Sin possess magic like Draven? Dwelling on these thoughts would only lead to a headache.
With a sigh, I turned to the next item in my bag: my notebook. It contained all my “I hate yous” directed at the Vimic family, especially the vampires. Everyone was fair game in my writing, as I detailed plans to expose them.
This notebook was my sanctuary, where I could pour out my thoughts without fear of being labeled crazy, unlike what others had said before.
With a pencil in hand, I flipped to a fresh page, contemplating what to write. Ah, yes. I could continue expressing my disdain for the Vimic family, including Draven Vimic, just as I always had.
So, I wrote:
“I am not yours,
and you’re not mine.”
“Really, Morwenna? Is that the only line you could come up with?” I questioned myself, slightly disappointed.
Yes, I thought, twisting the words that Draven had implanted in my head seemed like a good starting point.
Closing my notebook, I tucked it back into my bag and zipped it shut.
With a sigh, I sank into the bed completely, my head finding the softness of the pillow. Exhaustion washed over me, and I craved rest.
My gaze drifted to the ceiling, a habit I’ve always had. There, an old drawing of a flower adorned the surface, its intricate details captivating me. Whoever had once occupied this room must have had a deep appreciation for art.
Studying its faded beauty, I felt my eyelids grow heavy.
Soon, the darkness behind my closed eyes swallowed the world whole, silencing every sound.
Then, within that inky blackness, a mirror materialized.
Identical to the one in my room, it pulsed with the same eerie energy I’d felt before – a jolt akin to a bolt of lightning striking my finger.
Drawn by an irresistible curiosity, I inched closer, the familiar urge to touch it warring with the buzzing electricity. It was just a dream, right? No harm could come of it.
The pull intensified, a magnetic force tugging at me.
Ignoring the escalating crackle, a single fingertip brushed the cool surface.
The electricity flared, a stark warning to stop.
Yet, an invisible hand seemed to hold me captive, urging me forward. And then, I touched it.
“Morwenna, you’re going to die. You’re going to die,” I whispered aloud, the strange, compelling energy pulling me closer.
With a slight gasp, I braced myself, expecting the electricity to zap me to my demise.
But as the tip of my finger made contact, the surrounding energy vanished instantly, leaving behind nothing but a plain mirror.
That was strange. Nothing happened.
Suddenly, I felt full control of my body return, and a sigh of relief escaped me.
Then, I noticed a flash of lightning on the mirror’s surface. Was it supposed to be there? I reached out to wipe the glass, thinking it looked blurry and needed cleaning. But as I tried, a strange force seemed to pull me inward.
I was sucked into the mirror by an unknown force, feeling as though I were sinking into water or an ocean.
Panic surged through me as I struggled to swim upward, but my body remained immobile, as if paralyzed.
I fought against the current, but it was futile. I sank deeper and deeper, my breath growing shallow.
Turning my head, I saw another body drifting in the water, just like me, drowning with no one to save them. I doubted anyone was nearby to help. As I looked closer, I realized it was…me.
What?!
The body shared my original traits but with a slight difference: her hair was a pure dark brown, devoid of any streaks of white, and her eyes, open as if drowning like mine, held a vibrant green hue, a stark contrast to my own purple shades.
I had been born with heterochromia, one eye ember green and the other a purple shade, but an amulet forged through witchcraft had tempered the color, leaving me with eyes of purple.
Despite this, people often remarked that I bore no resemblance to my parents; my mother’s eyes were green, like Theresa’s, while my father’s were a warm blue.
My hair, which grew quickly, always sported a stubborn white streak that even special dyes and portions couldn’t fully conceal.
I had always felt different, and my appearance only reinforced that belief.
Now, it was this body, with its natural brown hair and green eyes, that was drowning alongside me.
As my vision blurred and my breath grew shallow, I realized how far we had sunk, the surface seemingly unreachable.
Just as panic threatened to overwhelm me, a surge of electricity coursed through my body, jolting me awake.
My skin grew cold, and I struggled to breathe, but instead of sinking further, I found myself floating upwards, towards the surface.
Finally. Air.
I held on for as long as I could, watching helplessly as my doppelganger sank deeper and deeper into the abyss of the water until darkness enveloped it.
Desperate to save it, I tried to swim down, but my body stubbornly floated back up to the surface.
Meanwhile, my other body continued to sink until it disappeared into the depths, leaving only its shining green eyes visible in the dark reflection of the water.
My own body was propelled upwards by an unseen force, and I broke through the water’s surface, gasping for air as I finally regained control of my movements.
My breathing came in ragged gasps as I surveyed my surroundings through the reflection of the water.
There, staring back at me, were two amethyst eyes and hair that was purely white, a stark contrast to my usual dark brown with a stubborn streak of white.
It was strange, and a chill ran through me as electricity seemed to course through my body. I tore my gaze away from the reflection, unsettled by what I saw.
With a sense of unease, I turned away from the water and glanced around, noticing that my surroundings had changed.
The scene around me transformed.
I was in a village, an old one, untouched by the whirring contraptions and flickering lights of the modern world. Crumbling houses huddled together, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of time. Chickens clucked and scratched in dusty alleys, their squawks echoing off the weathered wood. A stray dog, ribs poking through its matted fur, watched me with wary eyes.
Suddenly, a commotion drew my gaze.
A knot of villagers had gathered in the center of the square, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Barefoot and strangely detached, my legs propelled me forward.
A bead, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, adorned my ankle.
Glancing down, I gasped.
My usual attire had vanished, replaced by a flowing white gown with long sleeves and a corset that cinched my waist. Around my neck, a raven pendant dangled, the very same one that had brought me nothing but accusations in my waking life.
The strangeness of the situation left me questioning whether I was in a dream or some altered reality.
Despite feeling like a dream, I could recall fragments of the present, leading me to wonder if dreams were meant to feel like reality or if this was indeed reality playing out like a dream.
As my feet carried me closer to the crowd, I found my view obstructed, but my movements continued unabated. In a surreal moment, I seemed to have merged with another person’s body, an act that left me bewildered. Witchcraft.
And then, I witnessed a sight that filled me with horror.
A woman, covered in dirt, lay on the ground before me.
Her hair, strikingly white like mine but brighter, framed her face, and her eyes mirrored my own shade of purple.
I questioned my sanity, believing I must be hallucinating in this dream-like state.
She struggled on the ground, coughing up blood, her face flushed with effort as she attempted to rise.
But before she could, someone spat on her, and another shoved her back down into the dirt.
A primal scream clawed its way up my throat, choked back by the sheer horror unfolding before me. What in God’s name was happening?
“Mrs. Victoria du Saint-Clair, you married the devil himself, and you think the church will grant you happiness with such a union!” The voice belonged to a stout Reverend Father clad in all black, a large rosary hanging from his chest. He made the sign of the cross. With one hand, he gripped a wooden crucifix, and the other he sprinkle holy water on the woman’s back, where deep bruises marred her skin, causing her to whimper in pain.
The crowd began to chant in unison, “Witch! Witch! Witch!”
From another corner of the gathering came a thunderous cry, “Kill the witch! Kill the witch! Kill the witch!”
A dark smirk spread across the Reverend Father’s face as he observed the woman’s agony.
Behind him, other priests resembling him sang hymns, their voices echoing through the air.
“Ten years ago,” the lead Reverend boomed, his voice dripping with sanctimony, “this witch cursed our fertile land! The very plague that ravaged Egypt, a divine punishment inflicted on Pharaoh, now descends upon our village. Her doing, this curse!” Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, finding its mark on the parched earth.
“Father Matthew,” Victoria rasped, a fresh cough sending a spray of blood from her lips, “I didn’t curse the village. I had a dream… a terrible vision of the plague’s arrival.”
“Liar! Witch!” Reverend Father Matthew, his face taut with righteous fury, pointed a trembling finger at her. “Heed not her lies, good people!”
The crowd, a churning sea of fear and suspicion, roared its agreement. “We won’t listen to her!” they bellowed.
“Aye,” Father Matthew continued, his voice rising with each word. “Not only did this woman believe she could curse our blessed land, a gift from the Lord Himself, but she dared consort with the Devil himself! She married the beast, forming a pact with evil, urging us to worship him!” He paused, his gaze flickering over the cowed faces before him. “But fear not! Through the grace of our almighty God, this witch shall be our sacrifice. Today, her dark curse ends!”
A burly priest stepped forward, a gleaming sword held aloft. Father Matthew reached out, his touch reverent as he drew the weapon from its scabbard. He raised the blade high, its polished surface reflecting the harsh sunlight. “Victoria,” he pronounced, his voice heavy with condemnation, “you have married the Devil. Your death shall send you back to the fiery pit from whence you came. Our holy land shall be cleansed of your sin, your demonic taint!”
Just as the blade began its descent, Victoria’s voice, laced with a chilling urgency, pierced the air. “Don’t, Father! My husband... he’ll come for you!”
A collective gasp ripped through the crowd. Some flinched back, fear etched on their faces. Others clutched at rosaries, murmuring prayers under their breath. Even Father Matthew faltered, his hand tightening around the cross dangling from his neck. He reached for a vial of holy water, his movements jerky.
“Demon, be gone!” he roared, sprinkling the woman with the blessed liquid. Victoria shrieked, the sound raw and agonizing. The crowd recoiled, their faces contorted in a mix of horror and morbid fascination.
Seeing their fear, Father Matthew rallied. “Fear not her words! The Lord will protect us, as He always has! He provides, He sustains, and He will deliver us from this witch and her infernal minions! He will—”
He couldn’t finish his words as a horrifying sound, laced with pain, that sent shivers down the spines of the onlookers shuffled back in fear. Through the crimson bloom staining her ragged clothes, she pointed a finger, weak but accusatory. “The plague is coming,” she rasped, her voice barely audible over her own hysteria. “But none of you will live to see it! You’ll be dead before it arrives, leaving no legacy, no descendants. He’s coming,” she shrieked, another chilling laugh erupting, “he’s coming for me, to take my vengeance! He’s com—”
The rest died on her lips as a glint of steel lanced through her back, erupting crimson from her chest. Blood frothed on her lips, expelled in a ragged cough. Father Matthew stood behind her, the sword still buried deep.
A final whisper escaped her bloody lips, “Draven...” Her finger remained outstretched, pointing towards something unseen. Then, with a last shudder, her eyes glazed over, and her heart stilled.
“Burn in hell, witch!” Father Matthew spat, his voice tight with loathing. He tore the blade free, the corpse slumping lifeless to the ground. He circled her body, his gaze sweeping over the stunned crowd. “The ten-year plague she cursed upon us is broken,” he declared, his voice ringing with authority. “The witch is dead! Celebrate!”
A joyous cheer erupted from the crowd, a stark contrast to the chilling scene that had just unfolded.
The woman lay motionless, eyes squeezed shut.
Then, a flicker of life. They fluttered open, weak and slow, before she rose, reaching for the bloodied sword at her feet. The crowd, caught up in their own elation, barely noticed. Their “witch,” Victoria, rose to their cheers, momentarily forgotten.
But their jubilation was short-lived. As Reverend Matthew turned his back, a horrifying scene unfolded.
Victoria lunged forward, plunging the sword into his chest.
A choked gasp escaped his lips as his heart pierced through his back, visible for all to see.
A chilling smile spread across Victoria’s face as a bloody whisper left Matthew’s lips, “Impossible!”
With a sickening yank, she ripped the sword free.
The heart plopped to the ground alongside a collapsing Matthew.
Her work wasn’t finished. With a practiced swipe, his head separated from his body.
A tremor ran through the crowd as she pressed the blade against his eyes, a grotesque smile twisting her features.
One brave priest raised a vial of holy water, momentarily weakening Victoria. But her reflexes were sharp. Her blade flashed, silencing the priest forever.
Panic erupted. The crowd scattered in terror. All that remained was a macabre tableau: Matthew’s heart, his disembodied head, and loose eyeballs. It seemed she intended some unholy ritual, but exhaustion claimed her.
She stumbled, clutching her chest, a bloody cough escaping her lips.
Her head hit the ground with a thud. Was she dead, or merely succumbing to her wounds?
But her fate uncertain.
The metallic tang of blood filled my senses, the crowd scattering in panic.
As her eyes fluttered closed, she glimpsed me, a stranger in my own body.
“Morwenna!” she whispered, her voice barely audible, sending a shiver down my spine. As her eyes shut, my breath caught in my throat.
Suddenly, my body jerked backward, and I saw Draven, his eyes ablaze with a red fury.
The next moment, screams pierced the air, accompanied by the sickening sound of swords slicing through flesh.
Red smoke clouded my senses until I felt a sharp pain in the chest of the body I unknowingly inhabited.
Draven had pierced not just the body I didn’t recognize, but me.
My breath hitched as my eyes snapped open.