Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (19 page)

“I was
downwind from you. It would have been impossible for you to smell the
blood upon me that night.”

“True, though
I doubt you would have wasted your time speaking with me if you had
attended the ball for a more carnal need.”

Fane watches me, his
brow furrowing with an unknown emotion. If I were to hazard a guess,
I would say that there is anger simmering behind his carefully
guarded gaze, yet I am unsure why.

No one has shown me
an ounce of sympathy since I arrived. In fact, I have only been
greeted with barely restrained lust from the men and blackened
jealousy from the women. Mockery and cruel jest has been my
companion.

“I do not
think you forgot to eat at all,” I say weakly as my cheek
presses heavier against my pillow. The weariness of my efforts is
starting to take its toll on me, though I dare not sleep while he is
near. Even an animal will not slumber when threatened, though am I
becoming confused as to whether or not I am truly being threatened?
It is hard to say.

I know what it is
that my eyes see, though the mind and men can play tricks. Fane
appears innocent enough, and perhaps even overly polite, yet I know
not to let my guard down.

My limbs grow
heavier, my thoughts slightly muddled, as Fane rises to his feet and
for the first time I notice a small glass bottle in his hand. The
cork stopper appears to be slightly ajar. My shoulders tense as he
approaches and sinks down beside me, low enough that I can make out
each distinct feature of his face.

His hand rises to
meet mine. His touch is delicate as he slowly uncurls my fingers and
places the bottle within my grasp. “It will not work as well as
the blood, though it should ease some of your pain.”

I try to look down
at the label on the brown glass surface, yet I already know what it
is: a draught of herbal medicine that tastes worse than maggoty
apples on a fall morning. Fane is right; it will help with the pain,
though only to the extent of sedating me enough that I no longer feel
anything at all.

Therein lies a grave
danger. I watch him, searching for any hint of malice as he leans in
close. “I am not here to cause you harm, Roseline. I spoke the
truth before. I am a friend. Nothing more.”

“How can I
extend trust to a complete stranger?” I ask, clutching the
bottle in my fist as if it were a lifeline. After three days of
little sleep and more pain than I care to withstand, I am nearly
willing to give it a shot.

“I suppose you
will have to take a leap of faith. When you wake, I will endeavor to
prove to you that my intentions are pure.”

“And if you
fail?” I ask, unconsciously wiggling the cork from the lip of
the bottle. It is not easy singlehandedly. The cork drops to the
floor and rolls away.

Fane lowers his
gaze, and for a moment I sense a profound sadness within him. “Then
my life will be forfeit.”

I hesitate a moment
longer, my pain mounting to dizzying heights. When he looks down upon
me, I realize his eyes are the purest blue I have ever glimpsed
before. Clear and vivid.

“I will hold
you to that,” I whisper. My hand quakes terribly as I bring the
bottle to my lips.

“One sip
only.” He rises as I tip back the bottle, then crosses to the
fireplace where he stacks the remaining logs into his arms and moves
toward the door. I grimace at the thick, sludgy herbs that trail down
my throat, making me green with nausea.

“I will see to
it that you get your rest tonight and will return on the morrow to
check on you.” He turns back to look at me, nodding his
approval as my eyelids begin to droop. The medicine has never worked
so quickly on me before. I realize only after it is too late that
there was another scent mingled among the strongly scented herbs:
poppy.

My mother used to
crush this flower and create a draught that could ease pain and
riddle the mind with lethargy the likes no man can resist.

My fingers tremble
around the narrow bottle, my need for oblivion growing by the second.
Soon I will not be able to keep my eyes open or even care to try.

“Rest,”
he whispers as beads of sweat along my brow begin to cool as the
temperature of my skin begins to diminish. I sink into the pillow,
feeling cocooned by softness.

“Why do you
aid me?” My words are heavily slurred.

“I believe you
and I are far more alike than you know, Roseline Dragomir.”

The room begins to
spin about me on an uneven tilt as I hear my human name echo through
my mind. Fane closes the door behind him and I slip into a dreamless
slumber.

Fane does not return
the next day nor any of the ones following that. Days turn into
weeks, and still he does not come. Sitting with my forehead pressed
to the cold windowpane, my knees tucked into my chest as I cradle my
legs, I begin to ponder if somehow Vladimir intended Fane’s
absence as a form of punishment.

How cruel it would
be to offer the tiniest hint of compassion only to strip it away
again. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Fane’s
visit was nothing more than a vision from my pain-riddled mind.

Yet there was
evidence of his visit in the small, shattered-glass bottle beneath
the bed when I awoke two days later. I carefully cleaned up every
tiny sliver of glass and placed them within a wooden box on a table
beside my bed. From time to time, usually after Vladimir leaves me, I
will open the box and stare at the glass shards, fearful they may
have vanished.

My husband never
speaks of Fane, nor do any of my unseen brethren in the far reaches
of the castle. It is as if he is a ghost in the mists, vanishing as
fast as he came. I have heard tales of such apparitions appearing on
the moors of the English isles, where rain and fog play tricks on
your mind. Perhaps that is all he ever was.

The dreariness of
winter has become tiresome. I spend my days beside the window,
staring out of a white world of snow and ice, wondering if I am
slowly going mad. It would not surprise me. A part of me would even
seek to embrace it.

One
thought circles through my mind with increasing frequency with each
day that passes: if Fane is real—and at this point I am not
entirely certain that he is—he was sent to me for a reason. He
said he was charged with my personal care and training.
I
have no need for him to oversee my personal care, yet the training
aspect… this gives me reason to pause.

The man who rescued
me from the dungeon was obviously skilled. He managed to evade
Lucien’s detection, which in and of itself is impressive. He is
a ranger from beyond the walls. From the tales I have heard told
around the feasting tables, these men are highly trained. Warriors of
a different caliber from the men and women living within the plush
halls of Castle Bran.

Rangers are spoken
of with a hint of awe, a fact that I find rather odd considering
nothing seems to impress the savages I live beside. If Fane truly is
one of these men, I can only conclude his form of training will stem
from combat. The very thought of that spreads ice through my veins
faster than any winter storm that breaks against this castle.

I
do not know how to fight nor do I have any desire to.
Perhaps
Vladimir is concerned that Lucien will push the issue of sharing me
with the other men. Would he really seek to train me to defend myself
against his own brother?

I look down upon my
arm and place a hand over the bruises Vladimir left the night before.
I can easily make out each individual finger that gripped me until my
tears fell freely. There is another matching pair of bruises to be
found about my throat and along my side. Would a man so eager to
inflict pain hire a man to teach me to protect myself? I cannot
fathom how it would make sense.

Perhaps I
misunderstood his intentions. I was in a grave amount of pain that
day. Yes, that must be it.

Sure that Fane was
incorrect in his task, I slowly peel my fingers away from my arm.
Vladimir did not cut me this time. He used me and went on his way
with hardly a word spoken. Somehow this utter dismissal feels all the
more cruel, though I should be grateful for his lack of attention. I
have become used to the pain. The fact that it has lessened gives me
cause for concern.

I do not try to
repress the shiver of apprehension that weaves its way down my spine.
Vladimir’s eyes appeared less black than normal, almost a
charcoal gray, slick with veiled hatred. Normally, he does not bother
to hide it.

He did not hound me
about joining him at the feast tonight, nor did he offer a cutting
remark about my lack of decorum as the lady of the castle. New guests
have begun to arrive to pass the winter, and I have hidden away in my
tower. Not out of fear, though out of self-preservation.

Something has
changed. Perhaps he has changed his mind about sharing me with the
other men. I shudder at the thought, knowing nearly thirty now reside
here at any given time. I do not know if I could bear to be tossed
aside to this pack of salivating dogs. Vladimir’s cruelty is
paramount, though at least I only have him to fear. If I were
dismissed completely, I would have reason to fear everyone.

I know my mind is
not right. The days blend together, leaving me miserable and alone
with my thoughts. They wander as far and wide as the mountains that
surround this castle.

Cassius lurks
outside my door through the night, pacing the steps of a man driven
mad by a denied right to revenge. He believes me to be the one who
murdered his sister. Lucien’s lies seem to have no end.

I can smell him
sometimes in the early hours of the morning. He never speaks, never
attempts to enter, though he prowls out there like a caged wolf,
rabid and hungry. It would do little good to inform Vladimir. He
would only mock my weakness.

I have not seen
Lucien since the night Vladimir flogged me, and for this I am
grateful. Rumor had it that he left the castle for a time. A month,
perhaps longer. I do not know where he could have gone in such foul
weather, though I breathe a bit easier knowing he is no longer
scheming for my demise.

For a time I
wondered if Lucien’s sudden departure had anything to do with
Fane’s disappearance. I would sit in my windowsill and stare
out over the dismal castle grounds as they slowly mounted with snow,
wondering if Fane was punished for being kind to me. I would not put
it past Lucien, though if what he said about Vladimir charging him
with training me is true, why would Fane just vanish?

Too many questions
bounce about in my head, wearying me with the lack of answers. I rise
from my window, sickened by the never-changing view. I am disgusted
by the never-ending ice storms and blistering winds that howl through
the castle halls. I long for spring, when winter will retreat and the
earth will come alive once more. That is still a short way off.

It hurts to walk
this morning. My gait is slightly labored by the bruises that curl
around my hip from my backside. These are from the wooden vanity that
Vladimir shoved me into when I raked my nails down his cheek. The
whelps along my back are from the wooden pole that once hung
suspended over my window. The curtains now pile upon the floor below
me, trampled and forgotten.

I take several turns
about my room before sinking back onto the window seat. There is no
place else for me to go. With each day that passes, these four walls
grow narrower. I cling to my legs as I begin to rock slowly, my
tailbone protesting against the hard wooden window seat. What if
Vladimir intends to show me off tonight at the feast?

There have been
countless new voices coming and going through the castle these past
few days. There is talk of a gathering, though I have tried not to
listen to the details.

Emory and Cyra have
taken up residence in the room below mine to allow space for
immortals arriving from the northern territory near Hust. I hear the
two of them battering the walls and rattling windows each night. Her
screams are as shrill as they are obnoxious. His cries of pleasure
redden my cheeks. Although I have never seen them together in public,
they do seem to get along rather well in private.

I heard Alamesia
whispering with Emeline about their ardent lovemaking in the
stairwell just outside my room. The women’s jealousy is plainly
obvious even from afar. I suppose with Lucian gone, Alamesia’s
bed has grown rather cold.

I would not propose
that Emory and Cyra are in love. From what few whispers I have dared
to listen to, love shared between immortals is stronger than the
finest steel. It binds completely. Nothing can separate them, save
death, and even then the remaining immortal will be forever wounded
by the loss.

No, Emory and Cyra
do not share this bond. They share a need. Nothing more. They are no
different than the rest of my brethren. They live for the thrill of
the hunt, for blood and wild fornication, both done as publicly
and as often as possible.

I envy any immortal
who can find true love. The sort of love that would cause you to
whisper together in bed as you prepare to sleep the day away in each
other’s arms. The serenity of knowing you are fully someone’s
to love and cherish.

The fates chose
differently for me.

I know little of the
ones who have arrived from the north. They seem no less beastly than
the immortals already living here. Soon the castle will be crowded. I
can already feel the additional people pressing in upon me.

Vladimir informed me
to expect these guests. His previous threats relating to my duties as
lady of the castle were not veiled, though I wonder if they have been
temporarily forgotten. I would have thought he would have pushed the
issue of my willful exile sooner, yet he seems distracted. I only
hope this distraction is willing to lift her skirts for him long
enough to allow me to heal.