Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
Fourteen
In a burst of sparkling glass, bats swarm into the chapel.
Hundreds of furry black bodies flood through the broken stained-glass window.
Every prayer candle and lantern is snuffed out under the rush of their wings, pitching the chapel into darkness.
The screeching that fills the space is so loud that Sindra thinks for a moment her eardrums will burst in her skull.
Tiny claws and teeth catch in her hair and prick at her skin; dozens of wings bat at her body.
She nearly draws Brightmorn, but what good would that do?
In the darkness of the swarm, she’s just as likely to kill Mortimer again as she is to kebab any of these terrible creatures.
She drops to the floor with the others, folds her arms over her head, and crawls to the druid’s side.
“Moss!” Sindra hisses.
“What?” Moss’s head snaps up from where she huddles on the ground under the protective arms of Vera, who darted over to shield Moss with her body.
Sindra tucks that interesting piece of information away for later.
“Can’t you calm them down?” Sindra pants. “Talk to them or something?”
“Oh!”
Moss snaps her fingers, emitting a spark of green light into the darkness of the swarm. When she starts to shriek, Sindra’s sure something went wrong—until she realizes that the druid is simply speaking the bats’ language.
Through the gaps between beating wings, Sindra watches as Moss’s eyes screw shut and her jaw goes tight.
“They—they have a message for us,” she says through gritted teeth.
As the bats continue to screech, Sindra can only imagine the way their speech must overwhelm Moss.
“They come with a message for all of Zaska—all of Moros.”
The shrieking rises in pitch until it’s one unbroken, inharmonious note. Suddenly, they go quiet, making no sound other than the rush of their wings as they surge out the way they came, an undulating ribbon of shadow winding its way up toward the sky.
For several long, fraught moments, all Sindra can hear is the frantic thump of her own heart in her ringing ears.
Mortimer summons a tiny flame to his fingertips and gingerly relights the nearest candle with a shaking hand. As flickering light illuminates the drawn faces of the party, Sindra sees the message Moss spoke of.
The floor is littered with tiny scrolls.
As the others each pick up a handful and break the blood-red wax that seals them, Sindra moves to stand defensively in front of the broken window, for all the good that will do.
“They’re all over the ground outside,” she reports.
“Hundreds of them.” Already some townspeople have warily stepped out of their houses to pick up the scrolls from the muddy cobblestone streets.
Priests, rebels, and refugees sheltering inside the chapel study the text, their faces creased with warring emotions; bright spots of anger turn Antoni’s neck red, and Vera’s expression grows grim. Moss and Mortimer look at each other, their eyes wide with shock.
“Perhaps he’s solved the issue of the crown after all,” Mortimer murmurs.
Sindra whips her tail restlessly behind her. “Well? What does it say?”
Vera frowns, her fury cutting deep furrows into either side of her lips. “It’s an invitation to Vadrien’s coronation,” she says stiffly, “in a week’s time.”
The party’s arguing continues late into the evening, until Sindra slaps her palm against a wall and begs for them to stop and resume the conversation after they’ve all had time to think and—gods willing—actually sleep through the night.
At Antoni’s request, Zevor leads them back downstairs, through a series of tunnels that must surely lead to catacombs at some point, and shows them to a few rooms with neatly made narrow beds.
Now, on the opposite side of their shared room, Moss snores cheerily, having slipped into sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
For Sindra, sleep is harder to find, and she spends hours replaying the events of the day in her mind.
The memory of waking up to the warmth of Vadrien’s lips on her neck, and the cold horror that followed…
Only Antoni’s assurance of the chapel’s barrier against all undead—Vadrien included—gives Sindra enough comfort for bone-deep exhaustion to finally carry her under.
But she should have expected that bad dreams would haunt her in a place as cursed as Moros.
Sindra stands shoulder to shoulder with a handful of strangers on a raised platform in a town square, the scattered crowd spread out below watching them.
It takes a long time for her to recognize the town as Zaska, with the way the sweltering sunlight from a cloudless blue sky fills the square.
Sweat trickles down her forehead, and she reaches up to wipe it but freezes at the sight of her hands tightly bound before her—hands she does not recognize.
The skin is pale and missing the hard-won calluses she earned through years of training.
She raises her bound wrists and feels at her face.
Overgrown stubble covers her cheeks, and her oily hair is bound in a matted knot at the back of her neck.
Her clothes are filthy and ragged and match the bland uniforms worn by the others arranged on the platform.
Who am I?
Several guards stand before the platform, and one with thinning ginger hair holds out a scroll.
“You are accused of plotting conspiracy against your king, Ursan Callaster the Second. You have been tried and found guilty.”
“Conspiracy,” the man to Sindra’s right scoffs under his breath. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Just trying to feed my family?”
Sindra tries to dig into the memories of this body that’s not her own.
But thoughts slip through her fingers like water, impossible to catch hold of.
Only a few flashes surface: Images of a nobleman stealing from her shop, of her arrest when she tried to protest. Of her father, shivering on this very same platform not even a year ago—the last time she saw him.
Not her father, of course—but her bitter resignation and rage toward the memories that are not hers feel real enough.
The dozen or so other so-called criminals standing beside her range in age.
An elderly woman at the end of the line rests her head against the shoulder of a hard-eyed young tiefling.
A preteen boy scowls resolutely at the crowd, his shoulders thrust back to make him seem taller, while the middle-aged man next to him weeps into his beard.
“As is custom,” the guard continues, “you will be banished from Moros and sent out of the valley through Frozenfang Pass.”
Knowledge spikes into Sindra’s skull with painful clarity.
The king keeps a tentative peace by calling it banishment, but everyone in Moros knows what it really is: a death sentence.
Frozenfang is dangerous enough on its own, with a brutally steep climb and little to offer in the way of shelter.
But if the elements don’t kill you, then the creatures that crawl the pass certainly will.
Bears and wolves are known to make their homes deep in the mountains, but it’s the darker tales of dragons or worse that strike fear into the hearts of Morosians.
As the criminals are escorted off the platform and down the street, Sindra numbly shuffling behind at the end of the line, they are met with the stony silence of the townspeople in attendance.
There is no booing or vitriol, only the quiet disappointment and fear of a crowd wondering who among them will be next.
As some guards begin to bracket the sentenced while others follow on mounts in their wake, Sindra considers running. She scans the crowd and the emptying streets, looking for alleyways she might slip down. But when she glances at a glass window, she stumbles to a stop.
It’s him.
In the window’s reflection, a younger version of Vadrien’s face stares open-mouthed back at her.
Sindra stands frozen, her fists clenched at her sides—and then the dream begins to warp. The reflection strides toward her, Vadrien’s expression darkening into a glower as he approaches.
The voice comes from behind her. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She spins and sees his reflection again in a different window, lips pulled back in a snarl that shows off his very white—and fangless—teeth.
The hollows in his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes make him look older than he is, but underneath the layers of grime and resentment, Sindra is struck by how terribly youthful and alive he looks.
Human. He was human.
In the reflection, blood rushes to his cheeks in an angry flush, and his chest rises and falls in a quick pant. His eyes are narrowed distrustfully, though they’re not the same blood red she saw the evening before—rather, they’re a dark brown.
“Why do you sneak through my memories, outsider?” Vadrien hisses, this time from a window in a separate alleyway. Sindra jerks her head to either side, catching sight of his face in every window.
“Believe me, it’s the last place I want to be,” she snaps. Her feet itch with the need to run—but where would she go? Ahead of her, the line of exiles is frozen in place. Time stands still, feet paused mid-step before they drag through the mud.
Sindra turns again as steady clipped footsteps echo down the street, and a single figure approaches.
Vadrien advances toward her, a mirror of the body she inhabits now: lank blond hair, tanned arms, bloodshot dark eyes.
But with each step he takes, Sindra witnesses his vampiric transformation in real time.
His hair pales to a sleek wave of white, and the color leaches out of his skin.
His eyes begin to glow their signature red, and he doesn’t blink once as he comes to stand before her.
Sindra balls her fists at her sides and realizes that she’s returned to her own body. Her hand flashes to her hip, where she keeps Brightmorn, but whatever magic brought her to this dream failed to arm her.
Vadrien tsks. “You couldn’t kill me here if you wanted to.”
Sindra tosses her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her chin. “That wouldn’t stop me from trying.” But if he’s telling the truth, she doesn’t want to waste her time—especially when there are answers to be gained. “Why am I here?” she demands.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” His gaze touches on different points of her face, lighting on her slitted eyes, sharp horns, and even sharper scowl. Lastly, his eyes lower to her neck. “But I imagine it has something to do with that.”
His hand darts out to grip her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. She tries to jerk away, but he holds her fast, his supernatural strength pinning her in place. With aching slowness, he tilts her face so that her neck is exposed—still dotted with two puncture marks.
Sindra bares her teeth as she hisses, “This connection hasn’t happened to your other victims?”
“My other victims,” Vadrien says mildly, “have never lived to find out.”
Sindra swallows. “Mortimer did.”
Vadrien shakes his head. “No, he did not. In his research, he came a little too close to uncovering something I wish to keep hidden, so I made sure there wasn’t a drop left in his body. Trust me, he died in truth. I simply did not account for him having another body for his soul to flee to.”
Vadrien reaches up then to press Sindra’s bite wounds with the pad of his thumb. Though his skin is cool, Sindra feels a numb warmth throb under the pressure.
“So, no, Sindra. Our connection is unique,” he muses.
“When I was turned into what I am, it took three bites to make the transformation stick.” He taps thoughtfully at the bite marks.
“Perhaps it will be the same with you. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never tried.
” His eyes flash up to hers. “I suspect that is what binds us together. Just one taste, and you are nearly half mine already.”
“I am no one’s.” Sindra wrenches her head away and stumbles back.
Vadrien laughs then, and the sound echoes through the streets. She sees his reflection—every version of him in every pane—cackling.
Sindra screams and shoves her fist through the nearest window.
Finally, the dream shatters.