Chapter 3
3
T he house was bathed in the yellow glow of the lamps when I walked in, glad to leave the blue-black darkness of the early hours of the night behind me. A decadent smell of birthday cake hung in the air. Smiling, I followed it to the kitchen, expecting to find my mother there. When I didn’t, my brows knitted in confusion. A chocolate cake, which was my favorite, sat on top of the small kitchen table, but my mother was nowhere to be seen. I knew I’d stayed out later than usual, but I’d still expected her to wait up to celebrate with me. Besides, my father wasn’t even home yet, and she’d always waited up for him.
My skin prickled with a strange sense of awareness as I walked out of the kitchen and into the short hallway in the middle of the house. Something told me not to call out for my mother like I normally would as I paused and listened. My childhood home was quiet as if it were a living thing holding its breath. An ugly feeling I couldn’t quite place began to rise inside me. It started in the pit of my stomach, slowly bubbling up as my legs moved as if of their own accord, carrying me through the hushed space in the direction of my mother’s study.
“Mom?” I wanted to say, but once again, some inner sense of self-preservation told me to be silent as I reached the study and pushed the slightly ajar door open. My chest rose and fell with short breaths as the oily, dark feeling inside me reached my lungs, filling them with cold sludge. I knew. Somehow, I knew that my life was about to change. That this house full of bright childhood memories would turn into a place of my worst nightmares.
At first, I couldn’t comprehend what I was looking at when I fully opened the door to the study. There was a mass of blackness, of shadowy darkness, and in it was my mother. Except, she didn’t look like herself. She looked like a shell of a person, utterly empty and lifeless. She was already dead. The ugly feeling inside filled me completely and overflowed, spilling into the world around me. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I just stood there, frozen, as my mother’s killer gathered her in his arms and fled, his dark, cavernous eyes meeting mine for a brief second before he disappeared.
With a gasp, I bolted upright in the bed, looking frantically around the dimly lit room. My skin was slick with sweat, and my heart thrummed in my chest. Memories from the night when I’d found my mother dead didn’t haunt my dreams as much as they’d used to, but once in a while, they still crept into my subconscious, filling me with dread.
Willing my racing heart to slow, I reached under the pillow and pulled out the dagger, instantly feeling more at ease. Then, Henry’s words invaded my head, “Now that I know you have it, you will not be able to catch me off guard.”
My cheeks heated with shame when I thought about last night. I couldn’t believe I’d almost failed at my mission because I couldn’t control my volatile emotions. No matter. I was still here, and it was a new day. At least, I thought it was day. The drawn cream-colored curtains were so thick they didn’t let in even a sliver of light, which was to be expected in a place inhabited by vampires. They were creatures of the night and could not walk in daylight without decaying until nothing was left of them but ashes.
Setting the dagger on the bedside table, I left the bed and walked toward the window. When I opened the heavy curtains, early morning light greeted me, and I squinted before my eyes adjusted to the brightness. The window was not stained glass like the ones on the front of the mansion, allowing me to see the outside clearly. The house sat on a hill overlooking the rest of New Haven, and my gaze grew distant as I conjured up images of the familiar city streets in my mind. I wondered if there had been another attack last night and if the members of the Order had been able to fight off the Ravager and save the life the vampire was trying to take.
The attacks had started shortly after my mother’s death. We called them Ravagers—feral vampires driven by bloodlust to attack humans in the middle of the night. They were not like the refined vampires of the ruling clans. We didn’t know where they came from or where they scurried off to if they managed to escape our wooden stakes. We hadn’t been able to capture one for interrogation. Perfect predators, vampires were faster and stronger than humans. Always at a disadvantage, we had to act fast when we came across an attack—the element of surprise our only hope of prevailing. We also didn’t dare ask the ruling clans about the Ravagers. After all, they had to be the ones turning them. Since vampires couldn’t procreate, they had to be made. I wasn’t sure who was making Ravagers and for what purpose, but the number of attacks had been increasing.
My friend Waylon had been the first to come across an attack. As one of the human guards on the border with the Black Forest, he was a skilled warrior and had been able to fight the Ravager off but couldn’t save the poor soul who’d fallen prey to the vampire. If I’d found my purpose upon discovering the note about the Tear, Waylon had found his that night with the Ravager victim dying in his arms. Gathering a few of his closest friends, who were also guards, he’d created the Order of Light—a secret organization to patrol the streets at night in hopes of preventing the attacks or stopping them when they occurred. Once I’d become a confident fighter under Waylon’s tutelage, I’d often joined him on the nights when it was his turn to patrol.
My heart thumped heavily in my chest as I shook my head to clear my thoughts. What I was doing here was important. I needed to focus on my mission and trust that the Order could take care of the horrors lurking in shadowed alleyways at night.
With a heavy sigh, I turned from the window and walked to the adjoining bathing chamber, my bare feet stepping softly over the cream-colored rug on the floor. My hand blindly grazed the wall until I found a switch and flipped it. Bright light filled the space, glimmering off a porcelain soaking tub. A shower sat in the corner, and a marble counter with a sink lined the wall immediately to my right. Turning on the water, I splashed some on my face. Born and raised in New Haven, I was used to electricity and running water, but the amenities became scarcer and more expensive the farther one traveled away from the capital.
As I stared at my reflection in the gilded mirror, the events of last night replayed in my head. My brows pinched as I once again wondered why Lord Duval had made that deal with me and let me keep the dagger. I was not going to question it, though, not when I was one step closer to finding the amulet.
Turning off the water, I gave my reflection a nod of encouragement before walking back into the bedroom, where I retrieved a change of clothes and a brush from the bag I’d brought from home. Donning a simple blue dress, I quickly dragged the brush through my hair, letting it fall in soft waves around my shoulders, and righted the locket on my chest. I then slipped into a pair of worn but practical shoes I’d brought with me and, last but not least, strapped the dagger to my thigh.
When I opened the bedroom door and poked my head out, the hallway was quiet. I tentatively stepped out of the room and waited, expecting someone to stop me. After another beat of silence when no one did, I closed the door behind me with a soft click and set out to explore the mansion.
For a while, I wandered the empty halls undisturbed, discovering an ornate ballroom, an extensive library, and a formal dining room. All rooms were spacious, had decorative ceilings and were filled with elegant mahogany furniture and lavish artwork. The dark wood paneling, velvet drapery, and gilded elements created a refined atmosphere, but the crimson-hued accents scattered throughout left a bad taste in my mouth because they reminded me of blood. The curtains were drawn throughout the entire house, and the soft glow of several lamps did little to banish the shadows from all the nooks and crevices of the estate. The mansion was the epitome of luxury and excess, highlighting the insurmountable gap between the ruling clans and the humans who lived in the Empire.
My steps faltered once in a while when I ran into servants, but they didn’t acknowledge me, so I continued to roam the quiet house, wondering where Josephine’s Tear might be hidden if it was on the estate. If it wasn’t at the mansion…Well, I wasn’t sure where I would go from here. I would have to find a way to search the other clans’ estates. My throat dried at the thought.
One step at a time, I told myself as I continued exploring the mansion.
When I turned down yet another empty hallway on the first floor, I noticed a slightly ajar door leading into a study. I peered through the narrow opening, but the room appeared empty. Opening the door wider, I slipped inside and took a sweeping glance around.
The space was dominated by a large mahogany desk with a stately leather chair behind it. A low credenza lined the opposite wall with several crystal bottles half-full of amber liquor and some glasses sitting on top of it. I’d read before that vampires didn’t eat human food but judging by the selection on the bar, they didn’t shy away from human drink, unless the liquor was for the vassals.
My gaze glided over a map of the Empire on one of the deep crimson walls to two crossed short swords hanging above the unlit fireplace. With blades honed to fatal sharpness, and sides serrated to cut through flesh and muscle, the swords were clearly for more than just decoration, and my fingers itched to reach for them. I wondered if this was Henry’s study and if there would be repercussions if someone found me in here. Swallowing, I glanced at the door I’d shut behind me when I’d walked in, trying to listen for any footsteps outside in the hallway, but all was quiet. It was daytime, and the vampires were probably asleep, which meant less chance of being discovered. Slowly, I came around the oversized desk and looked down at the large piece of paper lying on top.
What I saw on it reminded me of the family tree I’d helped my father with when I’d been a little girl. We’d been able to trace my father’s lineage all the way back to before the Red War, but my mother’s side stopped at my Grandmother Celine, who’d died years ago before I’d been born. The design on the paper looked similar to a family tree, except it depicted the seven ruling clans and the relationships within each clan. Miniature portraits of the clan members with names and dates written underneath mapped out the vampire history.
I was familiar with the names and the faces, having poured over records similar to this one many times before in the past year, looking for the one who’d killed my mother. It had to be someone from the ruling clans because the vampire who’d killed her had not been lost in the frenzy of uncontrollable bloodlust like a Ravager. Though reliving my mother’s death was always torture, I’d done so many times, focusing on every tiny detail. Still, my mind had been unsuccessful at conjuring up an image of the vampire I’d seen that night. All I remembered were the eyes, so dark and bottomless, and even that memory was hazy as if it were hiding behind a sheer vale—so close, yet out of my reach.
My gaze swept over the depiction of the Duval clan, and my brows knitted when I saw two additional members I’d forgotten about. One of them was a stunning female with thick, loose curls the color of red wine. The other one was a male with short dark hair and warm, beige skin. Rosalind and Gerard Duval. The female had been Vincent’s wife, and Gerard had been Henry and Isabelle’s brother. The two had perished during the Red War.
The dates written underneath the portraits were something I’d never seen before, and my eyes widened when I realized they must be dates of birth. All the ruling clans had been alive during the Red War one hundred years ago, but I hadn’t known that some of the vampires were that ancient. According to the dates, Vincent Duval had been over three hundred years old when he’d disappeared a year ago. Henry was almost two hundred years old, while Isabelle was the youngest of the Duval clan—she was one hundred and fifty.
I lifted my gaze from the desk, lost in thought. It was difficult for me to fathom living for so long. No wonder vampires were so cold and detached. I thought I’d be jaded, too, if every day was nothing more than a drop in the ocean of eternity. How could anything truly matter to them when they’d been around for so long and would carry on for ages to come? My brows knitted at the thought. It was pointless to try to understand them. They were monsters, and if I succeeded at finding the Tear, they would be destroyed. Every last one of them. Provided we could figure out how the amulet worked. My mother hadn’t left any instructions on how to use it once we found it.
One thing at a time, I reminded myself.
My heart was heavy when I turned away from the desk and faced the large oil painting on the wall behind me. It depicted the final battle of the Red War—the battle of New Haven. Similar renditions could be found at different establishments throughout the city. This version was by far the bloodiest and the most terrifying I’d ever seen. In it, Vincent Duval was portrayed standing on a hill, holding a severed witch’s head in his clawed hand. His expression was not one of triumph as one would expect. On the contrary, deep sorrow was etched into his striking features.
Frowning, I searched the painting for the other Duvals. Henry was not difficult to find because of his staggering height and large frame. He was holding a witch by the throat; his fangs bared in an animalistic snarl. His hair disheveled and his eyes wild, he looked drastically different in the painting than in real life—a killer through and through. A shudder racked me when I remembered him towering over me last night. There was a part of me that found it difficult to comprehend how I was still alive. Swallowing to relieve my dry throat, I forced my gaze away from Henry and found Isabelle tearing out a witch’s throat, blood spraying everywhere. I cringed at the violence but didn’t look away. Instead, I picked out the Dark Witches scattered throughout the canvas.
With eyes entirely black and skin as pale as vampires’ but marbled with dark veins, they were something straight from a nightmare, sending my pulse into a frantic pace. Like vampires, Dark Witches were creatures of the night. They could walk in daylight without turning to ashes but preferred nighttime for their nefarious acts, drawing power from the shadows. It was in the darkest hour of the night when they’d sneak through the border and snatch women and children to take back to the Black Forest for sacrificial rituals. Sometimes, they didn’t make it past the border, settling for one of the border guards.
The painting was so realistic that I felt the urge to back away from it to escape the horrors it portrayed. With a heavy sigh, I turned away from it and noticed another smaller painting closer to the window. It was a portrait of Vincent Duval, I realized, recognizing the long blond hair and piercing amber eyes. Coming to stand before the painting, I studied it for a few moments as if it held the answer to the question of why my mother had written “Vincent Duval” on the note about the Tear.
“How are you connected to the amulet?” I murmured, searching the vampire’s stoic features.
I tilted my head to the side, thinking. My father had a secret compartment in my mother’s study, hidden behind her portrait. What if…I reached out and carefully lifted the portrait off the wall before peeking behind it. My pulse quickened when I saw a safe.