48. Isolde
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ISOLDE
I solde watched as Selene walked over to Anselm and lowered herself to her knees before him.
“It’s time, my love,” she murmured, the knife held between them. “At dawn, our true life begins.”
The rest of the pieces of the puzzle had clicked into place in Isolde’s mind.
The food in Selene’s pack when she left to visit the Vampire coven, the way she’d eaten and drank like a human when they were in Wolf territory.
All those times she’d fed at the cabin, far more often than she should have had to, and the way she’d burned the bloodied pillowcases—hiding the scent of Anselm’s Wolf blood from Isolde.
She hadn’t fed on Asher Falgrave that night before they went to Wolf territory at all—hadn’t needed to, because they were going off to see her lover the very next night.
Lies.
Every day of the last ten years of Isolde’s life had been lies .
She’d loved Selene like a mother. She’d thought Selene loved her back. And the whole time, Selene had been raising her like cattle for slaughter.
Part of Isolde wanted to lie back and let the darkness claim her. What was the point in fighting when she’d already been living on borrowed time for so many years? When the only reason she was still here was so that Selene could kill her in the end?
Being a Vampire—it wasn’t a life. She couldn’t feast on holidays or bathe in the sun. She was always cold, consigned to the darkness, and every person she’d ever thought loved her had either betrayed her or disowned her because of what she was.
Except for Bastian.
Bastian loved so completely, so willingly. He loved Anselm, despite what his father had done to him. He loved Everett, even though his brother had nearly killed him.
And he loved her.
He should have told her that Everett and Anselm were white Wolves, yes, but Isolde forgave him.
She believed that Bastian hadn’t known either of them were involved with the killings.
He loved his family too well to ever suspect them of doing something so monstrous, and she couldn’t fault him for that.
Isolde loved him. God, she loved him, and even if she couldn’t walk in the sun or eat real food or really live like she had before she turned, loving him was enough. It was more than enough.
On the other altar, Bastian’s golden eyes had turned frantic. He shifted, managing to draw his uninjured foreleg beneath himself, but the movement was too slow. Painstaking. Whatever Anselm and Everett had done to him, it wasn’t healing fast enough.
Isolde had gotten her right arm free of her bindings, and her ankles weren’t far behind. If she could time it right, she thought she could get her remaining, injured wrist free in a matter of seconds, but she’d have to be quick.
But she was still bleeding, the nightsbane in her system preventing the wound in her arm from clotting, and she was beginning to shiver. With every drop of blood she lost, she grew weaker. More helpless.
And so did Bastian.
Would they be able to incapacitate Everett if they waited until Selene and Anselm had bled themselves to weakness? Would either of them still be alive if they waited that long?
Selene raised her dagger to Anselm’s foreleg and sliced along the length of it, just like she’d done to Bastian. Then she repeated it on the other side.
Anselm’s blood bloomed, bright red against the white of his fur. It poured onto the stone before him, rushing toward the center of the courtyard. It pooled against a curved lip in the rock, separate from the hole where Isolde and Bastian’s blood gathered.
Selene leaned in and pressed a kiss to the snow white fur between Anselm’s eyes. Then she rose, stepping carefully around his spilled blood, and went to take up her place across the circle.
Isolde watched as Selene reached into her pocket and fished out a small glass vial. Inside was an inky liquid, which she poured onto the flat side of her blade. With one finger, she spread the liquid to the edge of the dagger, coating its length.
Nightsbane. To stop her wounds from healing.
It would steal her vision, too.
Selene lifted the knife and, with no hesitation, slashed it down the length of her forearm. She sliced open the other arm, and then the blade clattered out of her hand.
Isolde saw the moment Selene’s vision went black. Her dark eyes lost their focus, her brows knitting together with an expression of uneasiness that Isolde knew all too well.
High above them, the moon turned slowly crimson, like a sponge dropped in a pool of blood.
Isolde gazed at Bastian, trying to convey every thought she couldn’t say out loud to him.
I love you. I’m sorry for doubting you before. We have to wait until they’re almost bled dry. One of us has to take out Everett.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Bastian blinked three times.
Isolde lay there, then, watching the moon turn bloodier with every shuddering breath she took. She could feel the trickle of blood from her arm begin to slow, the steady stream of it turning to a drip. Her trembling slowed with it, the cold in her bones so deep, she almost couldn’t feel it at all.
She was dying.
She knew, in her marrow. With every drop of blood, her life slipped away.
On the other altar, Bastian was slipping too. His blinks slowed, and Isolde could see him struggling to stay awake. To keep looking at her.
“Stay,” she mouthed across the space at him. “ Stay with me.”
Slowly, painstakingly, he lifted his head. He dipped his furry nose, just once, in a nod.
Isolde moved.
She yanked her right hand free of the last loops of her bindings. She fumbled with the knots on the other hand, her fingertips numb from the blood loss. When she couldn’t get it undone, she just pulled as hard as she could, until her thumb dislocated and her hand slipped free.
She had her ankles freed in the next instant, and then she was sliding off the altar, clutching the edge to keep from collapsing.
Out of the corner of her eye, Isolde saw movement. She ignored it, honing all her focus on staying upright. The world spun as she began to walk, as she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other.
As she staggered toward Selene. Toward the dagger lying on the stone beside her.
A Wolf barked a warning somewhere behind her—Bastian, Anselm, Isolde didn’t know. She crashed to her knees beside Selene, curled her numb fingers around the hilt of the dagger.
“Everett?” Selene asked, her consonants slurred from the blood loss. “Is it time? Give me the blood.”
“No,” Isolde whispered.
Selene’s sightless eyes widened, her lips parting in alarm. Isolde lifted the dagger.
Movement stirred the air behind her. Isolde spun, crashing into Selene as the stone seemed to shift beneath her.
A white Wolf sailed through the air toward her, his maw gaping wide. Anselm. Behind him, Isolde saw Bastian surging in her direction, but his movements were still too slow.
Isolde tried to lift the dagger, but Selene had her by the wrist. A scream wrenched its way out of Isolde’s chest, one of pure, undiluted rage. The heat of the Wolf’s breath seared her exposed skin as those razor sharp teeth grazed her throat. She refused to close her eyes?—
A snarling blur of white sailed over Isolde’s head and knocked Anselm away.
Everett’s jaws closed around the back of his father’s neck. There was a sickening crack, a yelp of pain, and Anselm went limp. He stared up at Everett from the bloody stones, his dark eyes wide with shock.
“Anselm?” Selene’s voice was shrill in Isolde’s ear. Her fingers dug into Isolde’s cheek as she tried to claw her way out from under her. “Anselm!”
“Shut up, Selene,” Isolde panted, wrenching their tangled limbs apart. She turned, seizing one of Selene’s wrists with her free hand.
“What did you do?” Selene demanded. Her fingernails raked across Isolde’s chest, but she barely felt the pain. “Where is he? What did you do to him? Anselm!”
“I will not,” Isolde panted, her limbs trembling as she forced Selene backward, “die for you.”
Isolde pressed the edge of the dagger to Selene’s throat, and the kiss of steel against her skin turned Selene wild.
“You little bitch ,” she seethed, surging upward.
Even blind, she was a much better fighter than Isolde.
Despite the blood loss, she was still much stronger.
In one swift motion, she flipped Isolde, slamming her against the stone with such force that Isolde’s vision winked out for an instant.
Isolde gasped as Selene’s hand closed around her throat, sharp fingernails digging into her jugular.
“How dare you? After everything I did for you?—”
But Selene didn’t get to finish her sentence. One minute, she was on top of Isolde, crushing her windpipe. The next, she was gone, plucked off her like she weighed nothing.
Isolde scrambled upright, her vision swimming, and found…
Everett, in his human form, his hands locked around Selene’s biceps. She thrashed against his hold, spitting like a wild animal, but he was immovable. Whole and more or less unharmed, and far stronger than her.
“Finish it,” he snarled at Isolde.
Isolde got to her feet. She wobbled, forcing back the weakness, the dizziness, the cold.
“ Everything you did for me? ” she repeated, dragging herself toward Selene.
“And what would that be, Selene? Turning me into a monster? Lying to me for ten years, pretending to love me? Making me this fucking cloak, calling it a reminder that no one could ever hurt me again, all the while planning to slaughter me in the end?”
Isolde reached up with her free hand and tore the ties of the cloak free. She yanked it off and hurled it at Selene, and the sight of that crimson silk only fueled her rage.
“Isolde, please,” Selene said, begging now. “I love Anselm?—”
“You’re a coward,” Isolde snarled. “And you don’t know what love is. You don’t deserve an eternity with him.”
Selene’s face twisted with something so dark, so hateful, Isolde almost couldn’t bear to look at it. “What the hell do you know about love? You think you know after a month with that bastard Wolf? Wait until ten years go by, until he starts to age. Then you’ll see.”
“If a mortal lifespan is all I get with Bastian,” Isolde whispered, “it will be a privilege to love him for whatever time we have.”
“Isolde—”
“Goodbye, Selene.”
Isolde plunged the dagger into Selene’s chest, and carved out her heart.