CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
43
Elara
Xulin Vimic.
If I had you cornered right now, I wouldn’t hesitate to rip your fucking eyes off their sockets.
But these are just empty threats, words I know I’ll never get to utter.
Still, the sentiment lingers.
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to focus on the present. Two storms brewed around me: a maelstrom of chaos threatening to engulf the world if the Brothers of Sin shattered the seven-hundred-year truce, and the infuriating rebellion brewing within their ranks.
It was as if the law meant nothing to them – or perhaps it never did.
If they held any respect for it, wouldn’t they have honored the treaty? Instead, Draven, or should I say Lord Draven, broke it first by indulging in true blood.
That, apparently, was the catalyst the others needed, the excuse to rebel against a leader they never truly liked.
I sighed.
Here I stood, the lone bastion of reason amidst this impending pandemonium. It seemed the burden of upholding the law now rested solely on my shoulders. The impossible task of proving the Fates’ dire prophecies wrong. While defying their pronouncements seemed a fool’s errand, I couldn’t simply accept this fate. I had to act. Do something.
But I, Elara Vance wasn’t entirely without resources.
A raven, dispatched earlier, was already en route to the other estates, tasked with discreetly observing the movements of the remaining Brothers of Sin.
Today, of all days, was their chosen date for a clandestine meeting.
A strategy session for their rebellion against Lord Draven, to be held within the formidable walls of Vorax’s castle.
Not exactly a location for the faint of heart.
Reaching it involved navigating a labyrinth of skulls, a perilous journey reserved for the bravest souls.
The raven I’d dispatched wasn’t just any raven; it was the Eyes, a gift from Bethany. Its unique ability allowed me to see through its vision, wherever it flew. And right now, the Eyes were soaring daringly over the very ramparts of Vorax’s castle. So far, so very good.
Correction: The raven was in (though stealing all the credit would be awfully tempting).
Now, perched strategically within the castle, the Eyes granted me access to their latest machinations.
Apparently, this was supposed to be “stage four” of their nefarious plans. I’d somehow missed the first two acts, but the Eyes had kept me apprised of the third and, thankfully, this fourth one. Knowledge was power, they say, but what good was power without a plan? A gnawing uncertainty gnawed at me.
Relief flooded me as the Eyes settled within the grand hall. The opulent table, a stark juxtaposition of gleaming mahogany and intricately carved obsidian, held the princes in a tableau of simmering tension.
Even from afar, Vorax’s leadership was unmistakable. He sprawled atop the table, a posture that screamed arrogance even to the most obtuse observer.
Aric sat with an air of studied nonchalance, his legs crossed, while Malek and Rafael mirrored each other in their boredom, arms folded and gazes distant. Cassian, true to form, was… well, let’s just say he was availing himself of a servant’s dubious “talents.” Honestly, the man couldn’t go anywhere without a parade of willing flesh or the constant thrum of his own desires.
Pushing that image aside, a disquieting realization hit me – Viktor was missing.
I scoured the scene through the Eyes, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I distinctly remembered him in attendance at their third meeting, but today, there was no sign of him.
Just then, Vorax’s voice cut through the tense air. “One brother seems to be against us…” his words trailed off, but the implication hung heavy. Could it be Viktor? A sliver of hope pierced the darkness. Perhaps, unlike his war-hungry siblings, Viktor craved peace, just like Xulin. But surely even he wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to reason with this viper’s nest of a family.
Vorax’s booming voice could have curdled milk. It was the voice of a man who could make a crackhead reconsider their life choices, and his face – well, his face belonged to a psychopath in a lurid novel.
He didn’t bother dressing the part of the Prince of Gluttony. His attire – rough, scattered, yet undeniably powerful – was a constant reminder that the Brothers of Sin exuded power even in their most casual moments.
A quick scan through the Eyes confirmed the attendance pecking order: Prince Aric (my own infuriating master), the ever-volatile Vorax himself, the perpetually pleasure-seeking Cassian, and the inseparable twins, Malek and Rafael. All five sat in a circle around the long, curved mahogany table.
The twins’ expressions, however, were a picture of studied boredom. Loyalty to Vorax, it seemed, wasn’t strong enough to overcome their shared disdain for their eldest brother, Lord Draven.
“The attack commences at this border!” Vorax declared, gesturing towards a map sprawled across the table. The raven, perched strategically out of sight, couldn’t quite make out the specific location.
Frustration gnawed at me. It was all right there, the key to their plans, yet just beyond my grasp.
Just as I strained for a better look, a sharp crack echoed through the air – PANG! The raven plummeted to the ground.
Damn it all. I should have known better. Vorax’s castle was a death trap for anyone attempting espionage. The arrogance of the man. Even engrossed in the map, he’d managed to sniff out the intruder. My mind raced. Telepathic commands wouldn’t work. The raven, its wings clearly disabled, wouldn’t be taking flight anytime soon.
A flustered servant – one I recognized from Cassian’s entourage – scurried forward at Vorax’s barked command. She retrieved the fallen bird, her movements stiff with fear as she returned to the table, bowed low before the Brothers of Sin, and deposited the raven in their midst.
Whispers erupted among them as they examined their fallen prey.
The servant scurried back to Cassian, resuming her… duties.
I forced myself to look away. The immediate crisis was far more pressing. The bird was caught, and through it, so was I.
“Well, well, Elarabeth,” Vorax’s voice oozed like molasses, thick and raspy as he bore down on the raven. Aric, on the other hand, sported a look of utter shock, likely fearing my capture signaled a betrayal of his own.
“Elara? You mean to say this… bird… is her?” Aric stammered, disbelief coloring his tone.
“Indeed,” Vorax confirmed with a cruel smirk. “Seems your little pet has been playing a rather curious game of espionage.”
Malek, ever the inquisitive one, chimed in, “Impressive, Vorax. How did you deduce it was Elara?”
That was a good question. How did the brute figure it out? Just as I pondered this, a light bulb flickered on in my mind. Vorax must have known before the others, except for maybe…
A sickening realization slammed into me. A single, brutal slash across the raven’s eyes, delivered with a sharp object – a knife? – robbed me of my sight. Not my physical sight, of course, but the vision I gleaned through the raven’s own.
The pain, however, was agonizingly real. My vision mercifully returned to my own surroundings, leaving me with a fresh wave of curses. Not only had my elaborate spying scheme gone bust, but I was now well and truly caught.
Aric. What would he say? How would he react? He’d specifically requested I stay away. Perhaps he’d allow this transgression to slide. Maybe. And there went my precious raven, its life forfeit in Vorax’s callous hands.
Mercy was a word absent from the Prince of Gluttony’s vocabulary, especially when it came to anything even remotely resembling feathered witnesses.
My plan lay in smoldering ruins. Worse, I had no backup plan, not even a rudimentary notion of where to start. “Think, Elara Vance, think!” I mentally barked at myself. Should I be radio silence like Xulin and Viktor? Or play the peacekeeper and warn Lord Draven about his conniving brothers? Or perhaps… maybe I should seek out Mother first.
Mother.
It had been a while.
The Witches’ Council was the most likely place to find her.
Steeling myself, I ventured out of the separate quarters that housed me, ignoring the restriction against entering Aric’s domain.
The recent feeding from Xul had left me jittery and restless, clouding my judgment. Hunger gnawed at me, a primal urge demanding satiation. “No, Elara,” I muttered under my breath, a fierce internal battle raging. “Fake blood. Find some artificial blood, that’s all you need.”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t rely on spells to quell the craving. Mother’s grimoire, the source of my usual bloodlust-soothing spells, was nowhere to be found.
I’d searched my quarters high and low, every nook and cranny. She must have taken it with her to the Council, wherever that might be. And my memory, especially for spells, was notoriously fickle at times.
One option remained, a repugnant one I’d sworn off – blood.
Artificial blood, to be precise.
With that unpleasant decision made, I drew a deep breath and channeled a vanishing spell. Picturing Aric’s private chambers – a much more fitting destination than his throne room – I whispered, “Poof!”
In a blink, I found myself… in his alcove. Thank heavens, not the throne room, where my teleportations often deposited me most inconveniently.
The alcove, a small, intimate space adjoining his chambers, housed a collection of personal items, including, I hoped, a stash of artificial blood.
It was a long shot, but desperation fueled my resolve.
The alcove bustled with Chimeran servants, their movements momentarily arrested by my arrival. Bows dipped in a flurry as they acknowledged my higher standing, a status I often felt undeserving of.
The unmistakable scent of artificial blood drew me in, leading me to a circular table adorned with a solitary cup.
Just as I reached for the heirloom Vimic jug – a personal possession that cleverly disguised itself as a blood vial – to fill the cup, a servant stepped forward, eager to assist.
With a polite wave of my hand, I declined her offer.
Filling the goblet with the synthetic crimson nectar, I raised it to my lips.
The sweet, metallic tang flooded my senses, a decent substitute for the real thing, but never truly satiating.
The primal urge for human blood, that forbidden elixir, flickered at the edges of my mind. I banished the thought with a fierce shake of my head. A killer I was not, and wouldn’t be, no matter the gnawing hunger.
As I drained the cup, a flash of recognition struck me.
The servant who’d offered assistance – Morwenna’s sister, Theresa. Her emerald eyes shone beneath a messy bun of chestnut hair, and a smattering of freckles dusted her cheeks, were unmistakable.
I’d seen her flitting about Aric’s chambers, always offering a silent bow to me when our paths crossed.
Seizing the opportunity, I called out, “Wait!”
She halted immediately, turning to face me, the air crackling with a sudden tension. I placed the now emptied goblet on the table, a silent offering.
“You’re… Theresa Petrova, Morwenna’s… sister,” I ventured.
“Step-sister,” she corrected gently, inclining her head in a brief curtsy. Her voice, though polite, held a subtle edge when I mentioned Morwenna’s name. It seemed the Petrova sisters weren’t particularly close.
When I remained speechless, fumbling for the right words, she spoke again, this time with a formality that surprised me.
“Would you care for an offering of my blood, madam?”
Madam? Blood? My mind reeled. “Oh, no,” I stammered, recoiling from the unexpected offer. “There’s no need for that.” My fangs ached with an insistent hunger, a primal urge to sink my teeth into Morwenna’s sister. But I shoved the desire aside.
As I understood it, a vampire’s bloodlust thrived on invitation. Here, Theresa Petrova, unwittingly, was offering herself. Prince Aric, bless his bloodthirsty heart, wouldn’t hesitate to drain her dry. But me? I wrestled down the ravenous beast within. To hell with it.
Just as Theresa opened her mouth to speak again, I interjected, my voice firm despite the tremor within. “How long have you been working for Prince Aric?”
“Since I was sixteen,” she croaked.
Sixteen? Damn, that’s an eternity. From the way she held herself, I guessed she was somewhere between thirty-one and thirty-five.
“Do you yearn for freedom, Theresa Petrova?” I inquired, fully aware that any other servant here wouldn’t hesitate to seize the offer. Who wouldn’t crave escape from these gilded bars? Yet, here she was, hesitant.
Before she could answer, a small, almost defiant, “No,” escaped her lips. Then, as if correcting herself, she tacked on, “Ma’am!”
“No?” My voice echoed hers, bewildered. How could someone reject freedom?
Her expression however, held a flicker of doubt, like she didn’t quite believe my words. “Do you not yearn to be free, Theresa? To reclaim your life, unshackled from these walls?”
“No, I don’t!” she interjected curtly, cutting me off before I could finish. Realizing the potential rudeness, she backtracked swiftly. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. To answer your question about freedom,” she continued, honesty coloring her voice, “I do crave it. But I’m unsure if I truly need it.”
“My entire life has been a tapestry woven with judgment. When I came to serve Prince Aric, I encountered a different kind of… compassion. One expressed through torture, through absolute submission. It might sound bizarre to you, but it’s my reality. I find a twisted pleasure in the agony Prince Aric inflicts upon me, a pleasure in being his submissive. He offers a twisted form of protection. He eradicated those who mocked and tormented me in the past. In return, my presence serves as his liberation. I don’t require freedom because Prince Aric embodies it for me.”
Her words painted a picture clear as day – a classic case of a servant falling hopelessly for their master. But Aric? He was hardly known for noticing anyone.
While he treated his servants well at times, others witnessed his cruelty firsthand.
Now, with the whispers of his brother Vorax urging him to indulge in human flesh, I wouldn’t be surprised if Theresa became another plaything, offered up for his twisted desires.
And she, in her warped devotion, wouldn’t hesitate to submit. Poor woman. If only she knew the depths of the darkness she craved. Aric’s affections, if they existed at all, were likely a fleeting fancy. The man was a narcissist, consumed by his own desires. Even his declaration of me as a “friend” still left me reeling.
Theresa, her posture defeated, bowed her head, her chin nearly scraping her chest. My voice cut through the quiet. “So, you choose Prince Aric for your... freedom?”
She swallowed audibly, the sound a dry rasp. “My freedom,” she whispered, “was bartered a lifetime ago.” A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes, then dimmed as quickly as it flared. “So, yes, my freedom lies with him.”
Love, according to my observations, manifested in two distinct forms. The first, a cruel mistress, was the “never love,” a sentiment born from unrequited devotion.
In Theresa’s case, her affections for the Prince were a one-sided affair, a path leading only to an inevitable and heartbreaking demise.
“Don’t you still want to return home?” I pressed gently, though her expression remained resolute. Undeterred, I ventured further, invoking the name of her sister. “Don’t you wish to see... Morwenna?”
Her answer was clear in her demeanor—she had no desire to see her own sister. “I believe she doesn’t require me, and in all honesty,” she confessed, her voice barely a tremor, “neither do I. But I need him, my master, Prince Aric.”
The air crackled with unspoken desperation. It was clear that appeals to freedom would fall on deaf ears. Theresa clung to Aric with a desperate tenacity, as if her very life depended on it.
My senses, ever keen, sharpened. I stalked towards her, the measured steps perhaps misinterpreted as a predator’s approach.
Her head dipped further, anticipating a violent feeding frenzy.
But I halted a hair’s breadth away, the intoxicating scent of her blood a potent temptation.
Resistance, however, was a muscle I had honed to perfection.
Leaning closer, I spoke in a hushed tone, the rhythmic thud of her heartbeat a counterpoint to my words. “Prince Aric,” I murmured, my breath warm against her ear, “does not reciprocate your affections. This infatuation, this yearning, will remain unfulfilled.” I paused, letting the weight of my pronouncement sink in. “Take it from one who knows.”
With a measured step back, I returned to the table, the untouched goblet of synthetic blood an unwelcome reminder of my true desires.
I poured myself a generous serving, the crimson liquid a poor substitute for the primal rush of real blood.
Draining the goblet in one swift motion, I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, the metallic tang a bittersweet sensation.
My attention returned to Theresa, her posture unchanged. Her fists were clenched so tightly that the knuckles shone white. “Reconsider your path, Theresa Petrova,” I advised, my voice firm but laced with a touch of empathy. “This devotion, I assure you, is a fool’s errand.”
With that, I strode out of the alcove, the clatter of cups and hushed whispers resuming their symphony as soon as my back was turned.
Even at a distance, I could hear the murmurs swirling around me.
The synthetic blood, while palatable, lacked the power to fully satiate my vampiric needs. It was a mere stopgap, a pale imitation of the true essence.
But for now, with my thirst sated, I could focus on the pressing matter at hand: quelling the brewing chaos. It was a Sisyphean task, being the sole advocate for peace amidst a sea of bloodlust.
If I were to pose the question, “Peace or chaos?” the answer from my brethren would be a resounding roar for the latter.
A sigh escaped my lips.
It seemed the burden of responsibility once again fell solely on my shoulders. And worst of all...
Where was Mother in all this? Lost in the labyrinth of her own absent duties in my life, no doubt.
As always, it was just me.