Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (10 page)

A
pounding at my door sends me scuttling back between the table and the
side of my bed. It is a small space, the only that I can draw comfort
from.

I
glance to the window, terrified as I see that my thoughts have
tricked me out of hours of freedom. The sunlight has faded and with
it my brethren awake.

“Go
away,” I whisper, knowing whoever stands on the other side of
my door will hear me.

“I
have a gift for you,” a man calls.

Goose
bumps rise along my arms. Why would Vladimir send a man to my door?
He has made it clear that I am not to be touched.

“I
have no need for gifts,” I manage to say. My throat bobs as I
swallow against the parched sensation.

The
door opens and Atticus crosses the threshold into my room. He pauses,
his gaze sweeping the dimly lit room. A smirk tugs at his lips as he
finds me cowering in the corner. “Vladimir insists.”

I
press back against the wall, frantically clearing the stringy strands
of hair from my eyes to watch his approach. He moves swiftly yet
makes no movement to come near. Instead, he pauses at the end of the
bed and drapes a long bag of some sort over the edge and backs away.

“You
have until sunset to prepare.” He turns back at the door and
casts his gaze over my unkempt appearance. “I will send Cyra to
help you bathe. I dare say Vladimir will be none too pleased to see
you in this state.”

That
is precisely why I do not bathe,
I
think bitterly as the door closes behind him. Long after his
footsteps descend the stairwell, I emerge from my hiding place. The
floor creaks beneath my hands and knees as I crawl forward. Using the
bedpost for aid, I pull myself upright, wincing at the myriad of
pains that needle at me from muscles I had not known I possessed.

With
a trembling hand, I reach out and draw back the cloth and gasp. Lying
atop my bed cover is the most beautiful dress I have ever glimpsed.
The deep crimson fabric is silky beneath my fingers, the gold
embroidery delicate and simply breathtaking.

“You
will soil it,” a girl cries from behind me. She rushes forward
and slaps away my hand, bushing the fabric as if I had rubbed dirt
into its threads. She turns in a huff, her hands planted upon her
narrow waist. Vivid violet eyes scrutinize me. “Atticus was
kind in his description of you.”

I
feel my ire rising as I open my mouth to protest. She holds up a
hand. “We have much work to do and little time. I, for one, do
not plan to miss this ball.”

“A
ball?” I ask, horrified at the thought. Would Vladimir really
open the doors to the castle to allow hundreds of people to enter?
Would any human be crazy enough to entertain the idea?

She
grabs my hand and yanks me to the corner of the room where a
washbasin has been left. The water is warm to the touch, having sat
beside the fire all day. Cyra hisses as she dips her hands into the
water and shakes her head, tossing the cloth at me. “You do it.
I will tend to your dress.”

In
a flurry of black silk, she bustles away. I watch as she leans over
my bed and begins picking at the dress, removing invisible threads.
At
least she is giving me some privacy
,
I muse as I disrobe with my back turned to her and rub the heated
water over my body, cleansing myself for the first time in four days.

It
feels good to be clean. However, along with that comes the fear that
once I am, Vladimir will find even more reason to come to me.
Perhaps
he will not do so tonight. Not with a party to attend to.

Wishful
thinking, yet I must cling to it.

A
few moments later, I sense Cyra standing behind me. I look over my
shoulder to find her staring at my back. Her gaze is narrowed,
intense and probing. A fan of black material rises to encircle her,
stiff and reaching nearly to the top of her head.

“You
are marked,” she says.

I
press my lips into a thin line and turn away. “Vladimir has a
way of doing that.”

“Foolish
girl,” she snaps, and I cry out as her palm connects with my
neck. I raise a hand to rub the wounded skin. “It is not those
marks I speak of. Have you not seen it?”

Lowering
my hand, though my neck still tingles with pain, I glare at her over
my shoulder. “You speak in riddles.”

With
a roll of her eyes, Cyra moves to snatch a small mirror from the
vanity. It is rounded and inlaid with beautiful silver. She holds it
up and waits expectantly. I attempt to peer over my shoulder into the
glass yet can see nothing. “It is no use,” I say and give
up.

I
flinch as I feel her fingers graze over the top of my hip. Terror of
being touched roots me in place and though her touch is not unkind,
it is probing. “I have never seen a mark of this sort before.”

Her
voice sounds far off and the look in her eyes seems to be filled with
awe.

“What does it
look like?”

She
blinks, appearing to come back to the present. A scowl instantly
curls her lip. “It does not matter.”

Tossing
aside the mirror, she grabs me by the arm and I hardly have time to
fling the cloth back into the bowl of dirty water before she is
rubbing me down. My skin grows pink under her merciless attentions.
She takes great care to make sure every part of me is dry. I breathe
a sigh of relief when she finally slips the silken fabric over my
shoulders.

She
tugs on the lacing of the dress, forcing me to suck in a breath as
she places my ribs in a bind. Stepping back, she tilts her head,
fluffing the dress here or there. “It will have to do.”

As
the final wisps of sunlight are devoured by night, Cyra places the
finishing touches on my hair and then begins on my face. I have never
worn powder or color on my skin before, like the harlots that wander
the streets at night in Brasov. No true lady would wear such a thing,
yet Cyra seems intent on forcing me to do so.

She
dabs at my eyes, rubbing something thick and black against my lashes
until they are clumped and weighted. Finally, she steps away,
finishing with her administrations. “There. One last thing.”

Cyra
turns and pulls something from the cloth bag, and I feel my breath
catch. A beautiful plume of feathers rises from a crimson mask. It
looks dainty and yet perfectly suited to match the dress that graces
the curves of my body. “Put it on.”

I
take the mask from her and slip it over my hair and into place. A
small strap winds around the back of my head, holding it in place.
Cyra holds up the mirror and my breath catches as I see that with her
mastery of power, she has made my eyes look wide and fierce beneath
the guise.

“It is
beautiful,” I whisper.

“Yes.”
She agrees. Her gaze lingers a moment too long and I grow
uncomfortable. It seems intimate somehow. I frown, curling my hands
about my waist. “I do not remember having seen you before.”

Cyra
blinks and raises her gaze from my neckline. A faint blush appears in
her cheeks. “I have only just arrived with the others.”

“Others?”
I swallow roughly.

She
smirks and hands me a pair of shoes. These boast heels, much like the
pair I wore the night of the feast, and I am forced to stifle a
groan. “You cannot have a party without guests. For what is a
masquerade without a ball?”

I
have heard of the term masquerade only in passing, from travelers
arriving from distant lands, although to my knowledge no such party
has been held in Transylvania.

“Come.
We must not be late.” She turns and rushes toward the door, not
pausing to see if I will follow as she dashes into the hall. Though I
feel none of her excitement as I exit my room, counting each tap of
my stiff-backed shoes as I descend, I do feel a sense of anticipation
on the air.

Clusters
of voices echo up through the stairwell. I can pick out Verity and
Cassius’s voices easily enough. Atticus’s deep tone rings
out loud and clear, as does Emeline’s laughter, no doubt trying
to overshadow Verity.

“Ah,
there you are,” a voice calls from a room I just passed. I turn
to find Amadeus leaning against the frame of his door. “I
wondered where you were hiding.”

“My
whereabouts are none of your concern,” I respond in a clipped
tone as I turn and hurry away. He follows behind, though not closely
enough to be improper. To an observer he would merely appear to be
going in the same direction, yet I know better. He is stalking me
from a proper distance.

The
instant I reach the final step, I am inundated with unusual smells
and sights. A flurry of color surrounds me, dresses of every shade of
the rainbow with masks to match the finery. Men wear dark-colored
trousers and three-quarter-length jackets. Their masks are more
manly, many sporting antlers, horns, or some other form of
animalistic depiction.

Emeline
looks stunning with her snowy hair falling in delicate curls about
her silver mask. Verity’s plum dress pales in comparison to the
black mask that has a wide plume of narrow feathers along its crest.
Cassius looks very regal and protective as he stands beside her.

I
rise onto my toes in search of Vladimir and find him to be absent. I
lower to the floor and breathe a sigh of relief.

“He
has gone ahead to see to the preparations,” a low voice
whispers into my ear.

I
cry out and turn to stare into the most hideous mask I have ever
seen: a devil. Blackened eyes lie beneath, lifeless and void of
emotion. The mask depicts another emotion, one of anger and evil. Its
surface is black and painted crimson. The full-face disguise is
twisted into a pained grimace. The man draws the mask away from his
face and I take a step back, terrified to be standing so close to
Lucien.

“The
beauty of a masquerade is in not knowing to whom you speak,” he
says dully. When he turns his gaze away, I note the hint of malice in
the twist of his lips. “Though by now you should be familiar
with my scent.”

With
a curt nod, he turns on his heels and disappears into the crowd,
leaving me breathless and shaken.
If
I allowed him to sneak up on me, what else might happen tonight?

The
tinkling of laughter calls from the festivities spread before me,
stretching from one end of the town square to the other. The girlish
giggles are far too high pitched to be genuine, evidence that the
wenches are in their prime tonight. Men, both human and immortal, vie
for their attention as they whip around the packed dirt ground,
spinning around a crumbling fountain, more of a glorified pig trough
than anything, in my opinion. Although the men’s intentions may
be aligned in one aspect, I know all too well that there is a darker
need wafting through my kinsmen on this night.

The
wagon ride to arrive at this village, nestled within the heart of the
mountains, took nearly an hour. It was unbearable to be pressed in
tight against Amadeus and Atticus, who both somehow managed to be
seated beside me. I was grateful to arrive for no other reason than
to be free of their company.

I
believe Lucien enjoyed watching my discomfort, making no move to save
me from their attentions. With Vladimir gone, I was left to fend for
myself.

Now,
as I stand in the shadows of this nameless town, a feeling of dread
coils through my stomach. I know there is more going on here than a
party. Why the humans do not sense it is beyond me.

The
scent of lust entwines with a darker, more animalistic thirst that
seeps from my brethren’s pores. I stick to the background,
present yet unwilling to join in as Vladimir wishes.

Soon the blood will
begin to flow and screams will replace the laughter.

“This
is no place for a lady,” a man whispers in my ear. I can feel
the heat of his breath upon my bare skin, almost as if he longs to
press his lips to back of my neck. Startled, I turn and search the
shadows behind me and find them to be vacant.

His
voice is one that I am unfamiliar with. Perhaps he is one of the
guests that arrived for the party.

“Who
are you?” I speak into the darkness; however, there is no
answer. Nor is there any sign of the man.

The
fact that he managed to escape my inspection tells me that he is more
than mortal. No human could scale the wall or leap to such a great
height to hide from view.

I
turn back to the town center in search of the stranger, though I know
not what to look for. The crowd before me is a swirl of color,
dazzling rainbows of blues, yellows, and purples. Skirts swing high
and men bow low as the band strikes up another song. I can see no
hint of the man who spoke to me. I search for several minutes, my ire
mounting with each tick of the clock.
He
plays games with me,
I
silently conclude, not happy in the least to be made a mockery of.

I
rise up onto my toes, sweeping my gaze from left to right until I
discover the mystery man and realize with a start that I noticed him
only because he intended to be seen. He stands within the very heart
of the dancers, unmoving, his gaze riveted on me with as much
curiosity as I am consumed by.

He
is immortal, that much is obvious by his flawless face peeking out
beneath his mask, which sits high on his cheekbones. The polished
silver of great war stallions rides the crest of his brow, a stark
contrast to the long golden strands of hair beneath. The etched metal
curves the side of his face, while a plume of black feathers runs the
length of the top of the mask, blowing in the winds.

His
vivid eyes are stunning to behold within the shadow as lantern light
flickers all around, brilliant and unwavering as they stare at me.
His clothing is fine, boasting great wealth and excellent design. His
pants are black and form fitting. His black leather boots are knee
high and shined for the party. His white shirt has a sheen to it that
makes me wonder if it might not be made entirely of silk. His suit
coat, with its gleaming silver buttons, is tailored perfectly to fit
his physique.