Beautifully Unnatural: A Young Adult Paranormal Boxed Set (5 page)

Roseline drapes her bag over her shoulder and stretches up to remove the grate covering the well. She yanks her hand back at the sound of a footstep on the flagstones overhead.

From her vantage point, she can make out a broad back and long flowing blond hair. She does not need to see his face to know who he is — her best friend, Fane Dalca.

Tiny rocks, plucked from between the stone slabs, rattle in Fane’s hand. He tosses them into the depths of the well. Gravel patters against the tunnel floor, coming to rest against her shoes.

“What troubles you, boy?” a gruff voice inquires.

Roseline cups her mouth to conceal her gasp. Why is her keeper, Vasile Serban, speaking to Fane? Their lengthy history together usually ends in bloodshed and threats of beheading. Why would Fane go to him now? It makes no sense.

“How is she?” Fane asks. Roseline drops her head as guilt swells in her chest. She is the reason he risks his life tonight.

Vasile shifts, digging the toe of his boot into the ground. “You know you shouldn’t ask.”

“All the same, I need to know,” Fane presses. He pushes off from the rim of the well, turning his back to Roseline as he leans against the circular stone. “How bad is it?”

She can picture Vasile’s wild mane of marble-streaked hair, obnoxiously large nose, and the left eyebrow that perpetually twitches when he is nervous. Roseline learned long ago that it is a mistake to assume Vasile’s disheveled appearance carries over into his duties. He is Vladimir’s lapdog, through and through.

He is certainly not the person Fane should be speaking to about his master’s wife. Especially with such emotion laid bare in his voice.

“She will be able to walk by dusk,” Vasile shrugs. Roseline’s fingers clench into fists beside her leg at his emotionless response. “It could have been a lot worse.”

A growl rises in Fane’s throat. “You speak as if you do not care.”

Vasile approaches, his eyebrows furrowed. “And you care far too much.” The warning edge to his tone only confirms her fear — her friend is walking a thin line.

Fane crosses his hands over his chest; his black leather jacket pulls tight across his back. Roseline stares up at him, wishing she could reassure her friend, to find some way to tell him she is safe, but her escape will have to suffice.

“Have you looked in on her?”

Vasile says nothing. His silence unnerves Roseline. Is he delaying? Has her escape been discovered and Vasile is buying time? She glances back down the tunnel, expecting to see Vladimir creeping silently toward her, but it remains empty.

“Leave her be, Fane. You know what will happen if Vladimir finds out you have been to see her.” Vasile’s hand comes to rest on Fane’s shoulder. Fane and Roseline stiffen at the same time. “I will check on her when we wake. I am sure she will have healed by then.”

His grip tightens as Vasile steers Fane away. Roseline commands her lungs to hold fast until the door slams behind them. Still she waits. Precious minutes pass, but she cannot risk exposure.

One wrong move and her dreams of escape will come crashing down.

She reaches for the grate, praying Fane has made it to his room on the far side of the castle. Even then, he might hear her. His hearing is the best among her brethren.

Careful not to draw blood, she bites her lip as she inches the grate up onto the path. The groan of shifting metal makes her cringe. Her muscles coil as she waits for the inevitable sounding of the alarm but none comes.

She lifts her duffle bag up through the opening and quickly follows it. Kneeling on the rocks, she wipes away any trace of her presence. She tightens the strap over her shoulder and darts across the courtyard and out into the garden grounds.

Roseline flies over the grassy hills, past blooming fall flowers still damp with morning dew. She picks her way through rocky paths until she reaches the perimeter wall.

Without any hesitation, she leaps into the air. Her feet plant firmly on the wall and race upward. Pushing from the balls of her feet, she leaps to a nearby tree, grasps the worn branch, and swings back and forth. Her fingers release and propels herself easily over the top of the wall.

The landing is far from graceful as her right leg buckles under. She goes with it, rolling back to her feet before bounding across the road. She dives behind a tree and clutches her leg, wincing at the shifting bones. It is too early to move. She needs at least another hour before her femur will heal completely, but she does not have an hour.

Someone will eventually discover her empty room. It will not take long before Vladimir rouses her brethren to search for her. Roseline glances toward the human town, cringing at the thought of entering it, but she knows she cannot just sit here.

Digging through her bag, she pulls out her most recent wardrobe addition: a black trench coat. She tucks her long bronze braid into the collar and adds a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses to the outfit. They might help to mask her unusual eyes, but they can do little to hide her beauty. She and her family are well known in these parts. Her reputation, by association, is not the most appealing throughout the country and will only make her escape that much harder.

Over the years, Roseline has been called many things. A witch. A sorceress. Even a demon. The only name that has endured for over three centuries is vampire.

A fabricated name, as incorrect as it is vile, created to describe Vladimir’s insatiable thirst for blood. Now all immortals carry the tainted name, both the good ones and the evil, but vampires exist only in nightmares and on Hollywood screens.

She cannot really blame the humans for this mistake; even she struggles to find the good in some of her family. Apart from Fane, there are few in Romania who can pass for good. Most of her immortal brethren easily live up to the vampire lie.

Roseline keeps her face tilted away as she hurries into the town center. Small shops have begun to open. The baker whistles as he prepares his tables with mouthwatering baked goods. A butcher calls out harshly as a delivery boy stumbles over the curb, spilling an assortment of meats onto the street.

A young boy rides past on his bike, tossing newspapers with wild abandon. Most land well out of range. A handsome teen with vivid green eyes and unruly dark hair glances her way from the bus stop as she disappears around the corner. All around her, Brasov is waking.

The hunch of her shoulders becomes more pronounced as she forces herself to move at a human pace along the city streets. It is infuriatingly slow.

The train station sits about two miles outside of town. She picks up speed as she moves to the city outskirts and spans the distance in less than a minute, even with a limp.

Without acknowledging the sparse crowd that lingers in front of the station, Roseline hurries for the ticket booth. “One ticket to Bucharest, please,” she requests, working to make her voice sound grittier than it normally does.

The train attendant’s muddy brown eyes give her a onceover. Roseline turns her chin, fearing the man’s scrutiny. “You running away from something, Miss?”

She shrugs noncommittally and pulls the collar of her coat higher under her chin. He frowns, tapping the counter as she passes over her money. He stares at her for a moment longer before shrugging. He stamps her ticket and passes it through the narrow slot with her change. “Good luck to you.”

With her ticket in hand, Roseline slinks out of the room. A young couple sits nearby, sipping from steaming coffee cups, immersed in their morning paper. They pay no attention to Roseline as she sinks down onto a bench at the far end of the platform.

Her knees bounce anxiously as she waits for the train to arrive. She absently peels at the chipped blue paint on the wooden slats as she darts glances at the people lounging about the platform. Her nerves fray as the hands of the clock overhead slowly tick past.

The 6:58 AM train arrives five minutes early, much to Roseline’s delight. She boards and rushes into a vacant bathroom, locking the door behind. Roseline drops her duffle onto the sink and leans back against the wall.

Her fingers steady her as the train lurches away from the station, but she does not relax until the train has moved a fair distance from Brasov.

She has made it. Within twenty-four hours, she will be in a new country, with a new start to life.

She is finally free.

Two

“Psst.”

Roseline swats at the voice that has been calling incessantly for nearly five minutes. Can’t this girl take a hint?

“Hey, new girl. Wake up.”

After a swift kick slams into her chair leg, Roseline bolts upright. Her bag clatters to the floor, pens rolling in all directions. “Where am I?” she slurs in her native tongue.

“Huh?” A bright pink mohawk fills her vision; the scent of watermelon gum overwhelms her senses.

“Forgive me,” Roseline amends, slipping into an American accent. Even after her years studying the English language, her thick accent still comes through. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Mr. Robert’s class, and just so you know, he doesn’t take kindly to students drooling on his periodic table.”

Glancing down, Roseline spies the open textbook, slightly damp around the edge. She winces, rubbing her lip with the back of her arm. Her thoughts are fuzzy and the fluorescent lights overhead make her eyes water. She groans and buries her head in her hands. Jet lag is a killer.

The flights were mind-numbingly boring. Not even the bed in first class had eased the aches in her healing body as they flew over the Atlantic from London’s Heathrow airport.

An epidemic of night terrors have followed her to America. Dreams soiled by pain and blood. She wipes her eyes, wishing she could bleach away the images.

“I am sorry.” Roseline smiles weakly, struggling to focus on the girl across the aisle from her. “I am normally more polite when I wake.”

“No biggie,” the girl shrugs, pursing her lips to blow a small bubble the same shade as her hair. Roseline cannot help but wonder if the girl took a pack of gum with her to the salon as an example of what hair dye she wanted.

Amazingly enough, her obnoxious look does not stop at her hairline. Deep black circles the shade of artist charcoal ring her eyes, giving her a rabid raccoon look. Black lipstick—with nails to match—contrasts against her snow-white skin. Throw in the spiked neck collar and leather bracelet and this girl knows how to make a statement.

“Welcome to Rosewood Prep. Home of valley girl knockoffs. Don’t let the fancy name fool you though—free wedgies and swirlies are handed out by the football team each morning,” the girl says, leaning back on her stool.

“Are these friends of yours?” Roseline asks, amused by Mohawk Girl’s running commentary.

“Hardly.” The girl rolls her eyes; the ring in her upper lip rises as her lips curl to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth. Rich, but still an outcast, most likely by choice.

Kind of like me
, she muses silently.

No, she shakes her head. She is nothing like her classmate. Eccentric as the girl might be, she has nothing on Roseline’s dark past.

Mohawk Girl stares openly at her. “The name is Sadie Hughes. Lover of all eighties rock gods, purveyor of the right to freedom of dress, and one badass mini-golfer.” She grins. “What’s yours?”

Sadie’s voracious chewing reminds Roseline that she failed to eat, skipping out on lunch to avoid the crowds. In hindsight, that was probably a foolish idea as she has begun to feel a tad light-headed.

Roseline rubs her temples. “I appreciate your desire for small talk, but I am only here for the class.”

She turns her attention back to the tweed-loving science teacher at the front of the room. By the sound of it, he is adamantly preaching at his bleary-eyed class about why science is relevant to their lives today.

Like anyone cares.

Sadie stares hard at Roseline’s profile. “I get it, you know. The tough exterior, moody rejection. You’ve been hurt. Join the club.” She tosses her chewed pencil onto the desk, small chucks of pink rubber falling into her lap as she sits upright. “But at least I have manners.”

A smirk tugs at Roseline’s lip. The girl has spunk. She likes that.

“Alright.” She turns to face Sadie. “My name is Rose Danbry. I detest summer, adore ice swimming, can run faster than a bullet, and can easily kill a man with my bare hands.” She raises her delicate fingers, as evidence of the brute strength that miraculously lies hidden within her hands.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sadie’s mirroring grin is wide and toothy. “I’d work on your intro a bit though. It’s pretty lame. And that accent? Killer, by the way! Where are you from?”

“Romania.”

Sadie’s eyes light up. “Europe? Awesome. Your English is really good.”

“Thank you very much.”

“A tad formal though.” Sadie frowns. “We’ll have to work on that.”

Roseline turns back to the front of the room, berating herself for letting any info slip. She needs to remain focused and avoid drawing any attention to herself. She makes a mental note to focus on adapting to the local lingo.

Tilting her head to the side, Roseline listens to the whispered conversations floating around the room, barely audible over the gentle hum of the heat pumping through the vents in the ceiling. She notes each sarcastic phrase, lilting laugh, and clipped slang word. She studies the sentence structure and files it away for future use.

Several guys dart glances over their shoulders at her throughout the lecture. Some blush and turn away while others meet her gaze, openly leering at her. Roseline rolls her eyes and slumps low behind her raised textbook.

Just what she needs—a bunch of hormone-crazed teens following her around.

One of the things she hates most about being an immortal is how she naturally attracts human males. It doesn’t matter their age; they are all drawn to her. Some are more subtle, but others are downright obnoxious. She has been the source of more fights in her lifetime than she cares to count.