Transcription
The pale moon hangs low over the archipelago, bathing the waves in a soft white as they crash around my feet. For a moment, I feel almost human again and dig my toes into the wet sand. I've never been to the beach, but growing up in the city, I had my fair share of vivid dreams, spending a romantic evening with a beautiful woman on the shore.
Sorche steps out from the shadows of the palm trees behind me, still wearing her black armor and the massive claymore strapped to her back. "Aren't you supposed to be keeping watch?"
"Well, at least a part of my dream has come true."
"Hey, I can do both," I say with mock innocence. "It's called multitasking. Queen Levvenia and her wife Cara are asleep in a nearby hut. The sun out here is deadly, and so I offered to take night watch and let her human guards have a break. The only threat out here are the blood sucking mosquitoes, and they know better than to try anything with me."
Sorcher keeps her distance from the water, arms crossed across her chest and her beautiful face set in a perpetual scowl. I let out a sigh and approach her. "You seem agitated. It's okay to let loose a little. The war is over." I place my hand on her shoulder and she flinches back as if my very touch burned her.
"Is it really?" she snaps, turning away from me. "You signed a piece of paper, Eva. We'll see how long the Lychans managed to adhere to it."
"It was the right thing to do," I counter. "We have to give them a chance if we ever want to stop the cycle."
"You did not ask the queen," Sorche says, her voice tight. "And you didn't ask me. We set out to end the war. I am the princess of war." Sorche spins around, her golden eyes blazing. "That is my burden, Eva. My responsibility. You made a pact with the dogs without consulting me."
"I saved lives," I argue, stepping closer.
"I do not need saving," she roars, the sound startling a flock of birds from the trees. "I have fought the lychans for 80 years. That is all I know. They killed our people, burned our villages, and nearly killed us all. And now I am supposed to sit at a table and break bread with them. I am to pretend that Cara didn't take part in the assault of the citadel."
"Cara is honorable. I say she is like you, a protector."
Sora looks away, her jaw working. The anger drains out of her, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place. "He left me," she whispers.
I pause. "Who?"
"The king," she says. "The day he marched out to fight the Lychans. The day he died, he ordered me to stay behind. He told me to guard the citadel, to guard the queen." She looks down at her hands, encased in black gauntlets. "He wore the finest armor and took the best soldiers we had. But he left me behind." Her voice cracks. "If I had been there, Eva, if I had been at his side, the alpha would not have touched him. He would still be here."
I stare at her. I realized I never truly understood the depth of her hatred for the wolves. It wasn't just ancient prejudice. It was guilt. She blames the Lychans for her father's death, but she blames herself more for not being there to stop it.
"Sorcure," I whisper. I step into her space. I wrap my arms around her armored waist, pressing my cheek against the cold steel of her breastplate. "You followed orders," I tell her firmly. "You protected the queen. You did your duty so that he could go into battle without worrying for all of your safety."
She stands rigid for a moment and then she crumples. Her arms come around me squeezing tight. "I miss him," she mumbles into my hair.
"I know," I say. "And I am sorry I didn't ask you about the treaty. I thought I thought you would be happy to put the sword down."
"I don't know who I am without the sword," she confesses.
I pull back, looking up into her fierce, beautiful face. "You are sort," I say. "You are my wife, and I know I didn't marry a sword." I kiss her. She tastes of salt spray. She kisses me back with a desperate intensity, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, seeking reassurance. Her hands grip my waist, pressing me tight against her. The kiss deepens, becoming hungry. The tension of the argument bleeds into desire.
I pull away, gasping, and look at her. She is so serious. A mischievous thought strikes me. "You know," I say, stepping back and reaching for the buckles of my own leather quiras. "You are overdressed for the beach."
Sort blinks, confused. "We are on watch."
"The crab is not a threat," I say. I undo the side clasps. My armor falls to the sand with a heavy thud. I am left in my silk tunic and breaches.
"Eva," Sorche asks, her eyes tracking the movement of my hands as I unbutton the tunic. "What are you doing?"
I shrug the shirt off, revealing my pale skin in the moonlight. I feel the night air against my chest. "I'm going for a swim," I announce. I turn and run toward the water.
"Eva, Sorra shouts. Wait, there could be sea monsters." I ignore her. I splash into the surf. The water is warm around my waist. I dive under a wave, washing away the politics and the pain. I surface, shaking my hair back. I glance back toward the shore. Sora is standing at the water's edge, looking furious and panicked.
"Get out here," I call to her. "It's beautiful." She hesitates. She looks at the dark water. Then she looks at me with a growl of frustration. She doesn't even bother to take off her armor. She charges into the waves.
"I am coming to retrieve you," she yells. She gets about waist deep. Then a wave hits her. She goes down. She doesn't come up.
"Sort." I wait a second. Nothing. I dive. I swim to where she went under. I find her on the bottom. The weight of her plate armor is holding her down like an anchor. She is flailing. Her arms thrashing at the water. Bubbles escaping her lips. She isn't swimming. She's fighting the ocean. And the ocean is winning. I grab her breastplate. I plant my feet in the sand and heave. Vampire strength is a useful thing. I haul her to the surface. She breaks the water, gasping, coughing up brine. She clings to me, her heavy armor dragging us both down.
"I—"
"She chokes. "I do not float."
"I noticed," I laugh. Kicking hard to keep us afloat. "You never learned to swim."
"We live on a mountain," she sputters, wiping water from her eyes. "There is no water."
I tow her toward the shore. We reach the shallows where the water laps gently against the sand. We collapse into the surf, the water washing over our legs and waists. Sorche lies back on her elbows, water streaming off her armor. She looks ridiculous and beautiful.
"You are a menace," she pants.
"And you are sinking," I tease. I crawl over her. The water slushes around us. I straddle her armored lap. My wet breaches clinging to my skin. "Let me help you with that," I whisper. My hands go to her puldrons. Click. I toss the heavy metal aside. I undo her gorge, her breastplate. Piece by piece, I strip the war from her. I throw the black steel onto the dry sand until she is left in her soaking wet undertunic. She watches me, her golden eyes darkening.
"Better?" I ask, running my hands over her now exposed arms, tracing the white scars that map her life.
"Lighter," she admits. She reaches up, grabbing the back of my neck. She pulls me down. We kiss as the tide comes in. It is wet and messy and hot. Her hands slide under my wet breaches, finding the cold skin of my hip, gripping me tight.
"You scare me," she whispers against my mouth.
"I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'm right here." I kiss her throat, tasting the salt. I slide my hand under her tunic.
"Eva," she moans, her hips bucking up against mine.
"Forget the war, sorter," I command softly. "Forget the treaty. Just feel this." I grind down on her.
"Yes," she hisses. And there, in the moonlight, with the ocean lapping at our shoulders, the princess of war finally surrenders.
The governor's private office in Oak Haven is a stifling box of velvet drapes in the heat of late spring. The sun is setting, painting the harbor beyond the window in bruised purples and reds. But inside, the heavy curtains are drawn tight to protect my skin. I stand to the left of the queen, sitting on a high-backed leather chair commandeered from the displaced governor. I am dressed in my formal midnight blue uniform, the braiding gleaming in the gas light, my saber resting heavy at my hip. To the right stands sort, my wife encased in black plate armor, her helmet removed, her face a mask of stoic, lethal boredom, but I can hear the rapid, agitated thrum of her fingers tapping against her thigh.
"This is a power play," Cara growls from behind the queen's chair. The wolf consort is pacing, her boots heavy on the plush rug. "Why else would a merchant prince cross the sea with a fleet at his back?"
"The merchant guild has ties across the whole world," Levvenia says, her voice steady, though her hands are twisting a silk handkerchief. "Let's not assume ill will before having even spoken to him. We must be patient."
The double doors swing open. The Herald doesn't even have time to announce him. Prince Dominico Vcaro of the southern merchant guilds enters with a confident stride. He is a peacock of a man. He wears silks of iridescent purple and gold. His fingers are heavy with rings, and he carries a cane topped with a large, uncut emerald. He looks soft. He looks like a man who has never known a day of hunger or a moment of fear. He stops before the desk and sweeps into a bow before Queen Levvenia.
"Your Majesty," Valaro purrs, straightening up and smoothing his silk. "It is a profound honor." He looks Levvenia up and down, his eyes lingering on her face, her hair, the cut of her gown. It feels less like admiration and more like an appraisal. "You look lovely, my dear," he says with a smile. "Truly radiant, the crown suits you."
"Prince Vcaro," Levvenia nods, cool and regal. "Welcome to the Dominion. And congratulations are in order."
Valaro continues, ignoring the chill in the room, he gestures expansively. "To ascend to the throne so young and to end a brutal war so quickly. Why, the markets are a buzz with the news to unite the wolves and the night folk without shedding rivers of blood. It is a masterstroke of efficiency. The guild sends its best wishes."
"We did what was necessary to save our people," Levvenia says. "But you did not sail a war fleet into my harbor to complement my diplomacy. Why are you here?"
Vcaro sizes her up, the smile slipping just a fraction to reveal the shark beneath. "Always to business," he laments, taking a seat in the guest chair without being asked. "Very well, I'm here, your majesty, because of a worrying trend that now that the war has ended, we might be able to address and resolve." He snaps his fingers. A clerk who had scured in behind the prince rushes forward and places a heavy ledger bound in black leather on the desk. Valkcaro opens it.
"Under the previous administration," he says, tracing a line with a manicured finger, "debt servicing was timely. Chancellor Vain understood that the flow of gold is the lifeblood of nations. But in the months since your glorious revolution, the payments have well stalled."
Levvenia frowns. "Debt payments? Have any recent shipments not been paid?"
He spins the ledger around so Levvenia can see the final figure. "This isn't about trade, your majesty. This is the outstanding balance of the Dominion's loans," Varuso says softly. "Principle and interest. These were accumulated over the past 8 years, and we have been more than happy to assist a friendly nation in such dire need."
Um, I look at the number over Levvenia's shoulder. 9 million duckets of gold. It is a number that could buy a kingdom. Levvenia pales. "This is impossible. What could he possibly have bought with this victory?"
Varo replies. "All the attempt at it. Industrialized warfare is not cheap, your majesty, and I'm sure you know better than me how much it costs to field an army."
"I cannot pay this," Levvenia whispers, looking up at him. "If I taxed every citizen in the Dominion for a 100red years, I could not pay this."
"A predicament," Valaro agrees, looking genuinely saddened. "It is a harsh lesson in governance and fiscal responsibility. Vain is dead."
"Sorche rumbles, her hand resting on her claymore. "Collect from his grave."
Vcaro glances at Sorche, then back to Levvenia. "The debt belongs to the crown, not the man. However, we anticipated this difficulty." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "When Chancellor Vain took out the final tranch of loans, the victory bonds, he called them. He offered securities. Collateral."
"What collateral?" Levvenia asks sharply.
"He assured us that upon the conclusion of the war, the Dominion would hold absolute control over the continent," Varo explains. "He pledged resources and exclusive rights in exchange for the funding." He snaps his fingers again. The cler unfills a map of the continent over the ledger.
Vcaro stands and points. "Here," he says, tapping the dense green of the Blackwood, "exclusive timber and fur rights to the northern forests."
"Car snarss, that is sovereignty land. You touch one tree and we will bury you beneath it."
Var ignores her. He moves his finger north to the white peaks of the mountains. "And here the mineral rights to the caves beneath the citadel, including the subterranean access tunnels." My hands curl into fists. He wants the mines. He wants the roots of our home.
"And finally," Vcaro says, tapping the coast, "the exclusive taxation rights to the ports of Oak Haven, Salts End, and Orum for no less than 100 years."
"I cannot give you this," Levvenia says, her voice shaking with rage. "I do not own the Blackwood. I do not own the Citadel. Those belong to my allies and are not for me to give away."
"A tragedy," Varo says. "Vain was so confident. It is a shame he fell." He looks at me then. His eyes are cold, knowing. "I heard it was quite the tumble," he says smoothly. "Out of a parliament window. Perhaps you should invest in better railings, your majesty. Accidents are always a tragedy, and I would hate to see someone as lovely as you fall victim to the same fate." He turns back to the map. "The contract is clear. If the gold is not paid, the securities are due. We are merely here to collect what is owed."
"I cannot hand away that which is not mine," Levvenia says firmly. "And I will not starve my people."
"Then you leave us no choice," Barcaro says, picking up his cane. "We prefer good trade relationships, your majesty. But we are equipped for active asset recovery."
"Is that a threat?" Sorger asks, stepping forward.
"It is a means to an end," Varo corrects. "You have one week. After that, the guild navy will collect, but alas, the effort needed in actively collecting is in itself an additional fee I would wish to spare you." He bows again, mocking and low. "Good evening, your majesty. You look tired. Do get some rest." He turns and sweeps out of the room, his clerk scuttling after him.
The door closes. Levvenia slumps in her chair. "He wants everything. He wants to carve us up and sell us for parts."
"We fight him," Sorcher says immediately. "We sink his ships."
"With what?" Levvenia asks despairingly. "Fishing boats?"
"Sort?"
"Those are dreadnots. They have cannons that can level this city from the horizon. If we fight, Oak Haven crumbles."
"So, we pay?" Cara asks, disgusted.
"We can't pay," Levvenia whispers. "But I cannot drag you into another war. I cannot ask the vampires and lychans to bleed for a human debt." She looks at the map.
"Maybe, maybe if I let him tax the docks, he won't stop at the docks," I say quietly. "Men like that, they never stop."
A sharp knock at the door interrupts us. A messenger enters, looking pale and terrified. He holds a scroll sealed with black wax. "Thor for Princess Sorche," he stammers. "From the citadel."
Sorche steps forward and takes the scroll. She breaks the seal with a snap of her thumb. I watch her face. I see her eyes scan the lines. I see her stoic mask crumble into something raw and terrified.
"Sorcher," I ask, stepping to her side.
Sorcher looks at me. Her golden eyes are wide, filled with a panic I have never seen in her. Not even when faced with a thousand swords. She grips my arm. "It is Valyriana," she chokes out. "The queen has fallen ill. We ride the horses to ruin."
Sorcher and I leave the carriage at the base of the mountain, swapping for fresh mounts from the border outpost and ride through the night. We reach the citadel gates just as the sun begins to threaten the eastern horizon. The guards do not challenge us. They see the black armor of the princess and the blue uniform of the champion, and they throw the gates open, but they do not salute with their usual snap. They look worn and exhausted. We do not stop to speak. We abandon the horses in the courtyard and run. The citadel is quieter than most mornings, as if even the human staff are wary of what's going on indoors. We sprint up the spiral stairs to the royal wing. Sora is faster than me, fueled by panic, but I am close on her heels. We burst into the queen's private anti chamber. Two figures are in the room. Princess Beatatrix is seated at a table covered in alchemical equipment, vials, burners, microscopes. She looks worn and moves slower than usual. Her creamy pale skin is a translucent gray. Dark veins web across her neck like cracks in porcelain. She holds a pipette with a trembling hand. Princess Lysandra is slumped on a velvet chase lounge near the fire. The beautiful diplomat, who never shows weakness, looks shattered. Her head rests against the back of the chair, her eyes half closed.
"Sorche," Lzandre whispers. Her voice is a dry rasp, devoid of its usual bell-like melody. "Eva."
Sorcher crosses the room in a blur. She drops to her knees beside Lysandra, taking her sister's cold hands. "Liss," Sorche chokes out. "What happened? You were fine when we left."
"It creeps," Lysandra says, trying to squeeze Sorch's hand, but failing. "Like Frost."
I go to Beatatrix. I place a hand on her shoulder. "Be," I say gently. "What's going on?"
Beatrix looks up. Her eyes are glassy behind her spectacles. She blinks slowly, as if processing the image of me takes immense effort. "My love," she murmurs. "I don't know how to stop it."
"Where is the queen?" Sorche demands, looking at the closed door to the bedroom.
"She is sleeping," Beatatrix says.
"Is there a plague?" Sorche commands, standing up. "We must consider moving the queen and containing this ailment."
"You cannot wake her, Sorche," Landre whispers from the shayes. "She's been asleep for 3 days."
Sorcher freezes. "3 days."
"She fell ill two weeks ago," Lysandra explains, her breath hitching. "It started as lethargy, then the greyness, then she just stopped moving. She breathes, but she does not wake."
I walk to the bedroom door and push it open. The room is dark. The curtains drawn tight. The air is thick with the smell of dried lavender and incense smoke. Queen Valyriana lies in the massive bed. She looks like a corpse laid out for burial. Her skin is ash gray. Her lips are colorless. Her white hair is spread out on the pillow like a halo of frost. She is perfectly, terrifyingly still. I walk to the bedside. I touch her cheek. It is like touching stone in winter.
"Valeriana," I whisper. Nothing. Not a twitch or flutter of eyelashes. I feel a cold knot of fear tighten in my chest. She is the elder. She is my life and love.
Sorreer appears beside me. She stares down at her mother. Her queen. Her hand goes to her mouth, stifling a sob. "Who did this?" Sorche growls, the sound vibrating with a terrifying rage. "Who touched her?"
"No one," Beatatrix's voice comes from the doorway. She is leaning against the frame for support, clutching a sheath of papers. "It is not an attack, not a blade or a spell."
We turn to her. "Then what is it?" I ask.
Beatatrix walks into the room, her steps heavy. She sinks into a chair by the vanity. "It is poison," she says. "But not the kind you put in a cup." She holds up a vial of dark red liquid.
"Blood poisoning?"
"Pathogenic necrosis," she states. "The blood wine?"
"Satcha asks, her eyes narrowing. "Yes."
Beatatrix sets the vial down. "I analyzed the queen's last meal, the vintage she consumed before the collapse. It tested positive for a necrotic agent, a biological contaminant that targets the vampiric physiology. It attacks the magic that binds our cells. It unmakes us."
"Poisoned wine," Sorche hisses. "The kitchen staff. The sellers. I will tear them apart."
"It is not the staff," Beatatrix interrupts, her voice gaining a shred of its old clinical strength. "I tested the stores. I tested the barrels delivered a month ago. Clean and pure." She picks up another paper. "Then I tested the deliveries from two weeks ago. The shipment from the western provinces. Contaminated."
"A bad batch?" I ask.
"No," Beatric says grimly. "I tested the shipment from the southern donors. Contaminated. I tested the emergency reserves from the eastern province. Arrived yesterday. Contaminated." She looks at us, fear stark in her eyes. "It is not a single bottle, Eva. It is everything. Every shipment entering the citadel for the last 14 days carries the blight. Different regions and suppliers, the same sickness."
I look at Landre, weak on the shays in the other room. I look at Valyriana, comes in the bed. "It could be the guild," I realize, horror dawning on me. "They might be poisoning the supply chain."
"But how?" Sort demands. "The donors are human. If they were sick with something that kills us, they would be dead."
"Not necessarily," Betri says. "If the agent is dormant in humans, if it only activates when it reacts with vampire enzymes," she trails off, rubbing her temples.
"Is there a cure?" I ask the question that matters.
Beatatrix looks at the floor. "I have my best alchemists working on it. We have tried filtration, magically purifying the blood. Nothing works. The pathogen binds to the iron in the blood to remove it. It's to destroy the nourishment."
"So, we starve," Sorcher asks.
"Or we sleep," Beatric says, gesturing to the queen. "The body shuts down to protect the core. Valeriana consumed the most. She is the strongest, so her metabolism processed the poison fastest. That is why she fell first. Lysandra and I, we drank less." She looks at me. "But you, you and Sorcher, we have been gone."
"I say, we have been drinking from travel rations packed a month ago. Clean blood."
Beatrix nods. "That is why you are standing. Will she wake up?" Sorcher asks, her voice small. She reaches out and takes Valyriana's hand.
"Theoretically," Beatatri says. "The vampire body is resilient. It constantly regenerates. If the poison supply is cut off, if the system is flushed with pure, clean blood, the pathogen should eventually starve out. The body will cleanse itself eventually."
"Weeks," Beatatrix admits. "Maybe months, depending on the concentration."
"We don't have months," I say. "Valaro gave us a week before the guild attacks."
Sorche turns from the bed. The grief in her face hardens into cold, diamond-hard resolve. "Then we find the source," she says. "We find who is poisoning the wells and we kill them."
"It is widespread," I point out. "If it's in the west and the south, that suggests a coordinated effort or a contagion spreading through the human population. We need to separate the stores," I command, slipping back into my tactical mindset. "But that is a holding action. We need a fresh supply. We need to find a clean source. And we need to find the origin."
"I will go," Sorche says. "I will go to the villages. I will drag every donor into the light until I find the truth."
"You cannot determine purity with a sword, Sorcher," Beatatri says, standing up unsteadily. She pushes her spectacles up her nose. "You need a scientist. You need me."
Sort frowns. "You are ill, be. You can barely stand."
"I am functional," Beatatrix corrects, grabbing her travel satchel and shoving vials into it. "The pathogen affects my physical strength, not my mind. I can test the donors in the field and identify clean blood immediately. If you go alone, you are guessing. We do not have time for guesses."
"She's right," I say. "And you?" Satcha asks, looking at me.
"Someone must guard the queen."
"Lzandra will stay with the queen," I say, nodding toward the doorway, where Landre is watching us with tired but alert eyes. "I can hold the citadel," Lzandre whispers. "I can lock the gates, but I cannot help you in the field. You three, you are going to have to go on without me."
I turn back to Sorche. "We go together." So hesitates, looking at her six sisters, then at me and nods. "Pack your gear," So commands. "We leave before dusk. If there is clean blood in this kingdom, we will find it. And if there is a poisoner," her hand drops to the hilt of her claymore. "I will make them bleed."
The village of Miller's Hollow is still waking from the long winter. The snow has finally receded, leaving behind a world of slick mud, swollen creeks, and the pale, hesitant green of new buds on the trees. We have commandeered the simple wooden village meeting hall. Inside, the entire population of the village of 80 souls are lined up. They look terrified. They clutch their shaws tight against the damp spring chill, eyes wide as they watch the vampire princesses moving among them. Sorcher paces the perimeter, her boots squatchching slightly on the damp floorboards, her hand never leaving the hilt of her claymore. Beatric sits at the elers's table, surrounded by her glass vials. She is exhausted, her skin gray, but her hands are steady as she pricks the finger of a burly wood cutter.
"Thank you," she says, her voice flat. She drops the blood into a solution while I watch. The liquid swirls pink, then turns a violent, curdled black, contaminated, beatric size, marking a ledger. "Step aside, and do not offer tithe until further notice."
The woodcutter looks confused. "But I feel fine, highness, strong as an ox."
"I'm glad for your health, good sir," Beatatrix explains without looking up. "It hurts us. Next, please."
I stand beside her, watching the line. My new senses are a curse here. I can hear the murmur of their blood, the thump thump of 80 hearts. It's been days since I last drank blood wine, and I can already feel myself uneasy around them. I can only imagine how the other vampires are fairing.
"How many?" I ask quietly.
"60%," Beatatrix whispers, rubbing her temples. "More than half the village, and the concentration is higher here than in the wine from the south."
"This is the source," Sorch growls from the shadows. "Or close to it."
I walk to the front of the line where the village elder, a man named Thomas is ringing his hat in his hands. "Thomas," I say. I try to keep my voice gentle, but the hunger makes it drop an octave. "We need to know what changed. Have you changed the feed for the livestock, the water source?"
"No, Champion," Thomas stammers. "The spring melt is high but clear. The planting has just begun."
"Think," Sorche snaps, stepping into the light. "The villagers flinch. Has anyone new been here? Travelers? Merchants?"
"Only the usual peddlers," Thomas says trembling. "And well, the physician."
I freeze. "What physician?"
"The royal physician," Thomas says, looking confused. "A woman. She bore the seal of the citadel. She came a few weeks back just as the thaw began."
I look at Beatatrix. Beatatrix shakes her head. "There are no roving royal physicians. Our medical corps is stationed at the citadel."
"What did she do?" I ask, stepping closer to Thomas.
"She she gathered us," Thomas says. "She said there was a fever in the lowlands, a bad one brought by the trade ships. She said the queen long may she reign had sent her to administer a preventative tonic to keep the people healthy."
"A tonic?" Beatatrix breathes. "Ingested orally? Now I know how she is administering it."
"Did everyone take it?" I ask.
"Most of us," Thomas nods. "It was free and she had the seal. We thought the queen was looking out for us."
Sorcher lets out a sound that is half snarl, half scream. She kicks a heavy wooden bench, shattering it into splinters. The villagers scream.
"They used our seals against us," Sorche hisses. "They used their loyalty to poison them."
I put a hand on Sorch's arm to steady her. "Thomas, this woman, where is she now?"
"She came back," Thomas says, eyes wide. "just yesterday to check on us. She asked if any of the dare the lords had visited recently, if anyone had fallen ill. She was checking the efficacy of the poison."
"I realize she wanted to see if the bait was working," I say. "She left this morning," Thomas points out a window to the west heading toward Willow Creek. "She rides a grey mare."
"Willow Creek is 10 mi west," I say. "I will hunt her down," Sorcera vows. "I will drag her back by her hair."
"We go together," I say. I turn to Beatatrix. She is swaying slightly in her chair. The effort of the testing draining her reserves. "Be." I say. "Can you finish here?"
"I must," Beatric says, straightening her glasses. "We need to identify the clean donors. We need to fill the casks for the queen. If I stop, the citadel starves."
"You are weakening," Sorche says. Concern waring with rage.
"I am fine," Beatatrix corrects. "Go catch the poisoner. I will do what I can here."
I look at my scholarly wife. She's brave in a way that has nothing to do with swords. "Be safe," I tell her.
"Go," she commands. I turn to Sorcher. "Ready?"
Sorcher grins. Her fangs glint in the lantern light. "We do not take the horses. The mud on the path is too deep. The terrain too slick with the spring thor. We run along the treeine. We move through the forest like ghosts. My vampire speed is exhilarating. The trees blur past us, the new leaves creating a canopy of pale green. I can hear the wind whistling through the pines, the squaltch of mud under our boots, the beat of a rabbit's heart in a burrow 10 ft underground. Sorcher runs beside me, a shadow in armor. She doesn't speak, but her anger is a palpable heat radiating off her.
We catch her, so says after a mile. But we do not kill her. Not immediately. I want to know who sent her. "Is it Varo?" "It has to be," I say, leaping over a swollen stream. "Who else has the resources to poison half the kingdom?"
We reach the ridge overlooking the road to Willow Creek. The sun is high in the sky. I feel the prickle on my skin, the discomfort Beatrix warned me about. It isn't burning, but it feels like wearing a wool coat in a sauna. My eyes water against the glare. I pull my hood up.
"There," Sorra points. Below us, on the winding cart path, a lone figure rides a gray horse. She wears a brown heavy traveler's cloak. A large leather satchel hangs from her saddle. She moves with a leisurely pace, watching the birds flit through the budding branches. She is calm, I note.
"Do you really think this she could be the one responsible?"
"There is only one way to find out," Sorche says. We drop from the ridge. We land in the thick mud of the road, 10 yards ahead of her, and wait. The horse smells us first. It wickers, pinning its ears back, dancing nervously. The rider pulls on the res.
"Easy girl. What is it?" She reaches up and pulls back her hood. She is young, shockingly so. No more than 24 winters. Her hair is a cascade of dark, glossy waves that falls past her waist. She is undeniably beautiful with high cheekbones and lips painted a deep crimson. As she shifts, her cloak falls open, revealing exotic silks in shades of emerald and violet, cut to reveal a scandalous amount of skin. The fabric clings to a slender, willowy body, accentuating a chest that heaves with the fervor of her breath. She looks like a dancer, not a killer. Pinned to her cloak is the crest of House Valerius. The royal seal stolen or forged.
Sorche steps forward, blocking the path. Her hand hovers over her hilt. "Could we be of some assistance?" Sorche asks, her voice silky and dangerous.
The woman freezes and looks at Sorche. Then she looks at me. She doesn't scream. She smiles.
"Princess Sorcher," the woman says. Her voice is melodic, youthful, and the champion. "I knew you would come. The rot draws the flies."
"You poisoned my mother," Sorche says, her voice trembling with rage. "You act on behalf of the guild. Tell me where Varo hides his alchemists."
The woman laughs, a bright, chilling sound. "The guild, those coin counters. I do not serve them. I serve humanity." She straightens in her saddle. "I found the power myself in the ruins of the old world. A power you could only dream of, but I I use it to cleanse."
"You call murder cleansing?" I ask.
"I am saving them," the woman counters, her eyes blazing. "Look at you. You call yourselves protectors, but you are leeches. You will always be parasites requiring human blood so that you may live." She looks at me, her expression shifting to pity. "You cannot resist forever, champion. You think you are noble. Eventually, the hunger wins. One day you too will take advantage of the humans you claim to love. You will drain them. I have simply ensured that when you do, you will choke on your greed. I made their blood a trap. I made them the weapon."
I look at her. There is a dark aura around her. A sense of wrongness that makes my skin crawl. "Sort," I say, stepping back. "Wait. Be cautious. She is not just an alchemist. She is a dead woman talking."
Sort growls. "I urge you to wait."
"I press sensing the magic throming in the air. Something is not right about her."
"I am done waiting," Sorche snaps with a roar. Sora draws her claymore. The sound of steel rings through the valley.
"Get off the horse," which the woman size. "So be it." She reaches into her saddle bag. She pulls out a rough, dark stone amulet that pulses with a sickly green light. A shockwave of green energy explodes outward. The mud of the road churns. It bubbles. Skeletal hands claw their way out of the muck. Dead men. Ancient soldiers buried in this valley centuries ago. They drag themselves up. Bits of rusted armor clinging to bleached bone. Green fire burns in their empty eye sockets. Five of them stand between us and her horse. The woman reaches behind her saddle. She pulls out a long curved handle. "A side the." The blade is jagged and dark. "Kill the parasites," she commands.
Sorcher charges. "For the queen." The skeletons intercept her, swinging rusted axes with unnatural speed. I draw my saber and follow Sorche into battle. The sound of shattering bone breaks the quiet. Sorche does not slow down. She is a battering ram of black steel and fury as she barrels her way through the skeletons blocking her path. She slams into the first two. Her claymore flashing in a brutal arc. The ancient rusted armor of the dead offers no resistance against vampire steel. Rib cages shatter into dust, skulls are severed from spines. Her eyes are locked on the woman in the silks and steps over the heaps of dust and rust.
I am not so lucky. The remaining three skeletons turn on me. They move with a jerky, unnatural speed, fueled by the green fire burning in their sockets. One swings an axe at my head. I duck, the wind of the swing, ruffling my hair. I thrust my saber into its chest. The blade passes through empty space between ribs. "Damn it!" I hiss. I kick the skeleton back, using my vampire strength to send it flying into the mud.
Ahead of me, the battle has paused. Sorter has cleared the line. She stands 10 paces from the necromancer, but she does not charge immediately. She begins to circle. The necromancer matches her. They walk a slow counterclockwise circle in the middle of the muddy road. The woman has dismounted, her gray horse trotting nervously to the treeine. She holds the scythe loosely in one hand. The jagged dark blade humming with green energy. Even from here, fighting off the relentless dead, I can feel the power radiating from them. Sorche feels like a stormfront. But the woman, she feels like a void, a cold, empty spot in the world where the light goes to die.
"Sort," I shout, parrying a rusty sword strike. "Wait, we need a plan."
"My plan is her head," Sorcher growls, her eyes never leaving the woman's face.
The necromancer smiles. It is a playful, indulgent smile. "So eager," she teases. "Is this how the princess of war fights? So impatient and rushed when the thrill comes from drawing out the inevitable release. No wonder you had to sue for peace."
Sorter roars. The taunt lands exactly where it was meant to. She charges. I have sparred with Sorche. I know her speed and that when she moves, she is a blur of kinetic energy that the human eye barely track. She swings the claymore, a killing blow meant to cleave the woman in two. The necromancer does not block with a motion as subtle as a leaf falling on the wind. She steps to the side. Sorch's blade shears through the air where her neck had been a microssecond before. Sorche recovers instantly, spinning for a backhand strike. The necromancer ducks, her silk cloak swirling around her. She is smiling and hasn't even raised her size.
"Fight me!" Sorter screams, frustration bleeding into her voice. She unleashes a flurry of blows overhead, side, and thrust. The woman evades them all. She weaves through the steel storm with a dancer's grace, her feet barely seeming to touch the mud. Behind me, a skeleton I thought I had destroyed begins to rattle. The bones on the ground shake, drawn together by invisible strings. The skull rolls back to the spine. It clicks into place. They're reassembling. I gasp, kicking the reforming pile apart again.
"Sorcher, the magic is too strong. We have to leave."
Sorcher doesn't hear me. She is lost in the red haze of the fight. She lunges again, overextending. The necromancer side steps, but this time she moves. She hooks her foot behind Sorcher's ankle. It is a simple, childish trip. Sorcher, carried by the momentum of her own heavy armor, crashes face first into the muck.
"Oh my," the woman says, covering her mouth in mock concern. "Please do mind your step." The necromancer stands over her, looking down with pity. "Can you feel it?" the woman asks softly. "The weakness growing inside of you. The hunger will get to you and then the poison will do its work. You are heavy and slow."
Sort scrambles to get up. Mud coating her black armor. "Enough," I scream. I abandon the skeletons. They are a distraction. I sprint toward the circle, my saber raised.
"Eva, stay back," Sorcher yells, spitting mud.
I ignore her. I launch myself at the necromancer. I am faster than I was as a human and aim a strike at her shoulder. My blade slashes through empty air. She pivots on her heel, her body bending backward at an impossible angle to let my sword pass over her.
"A threesome," she laughs, straightening up. "How delightful."
Sorcher is on her feet again. We attack together. It should be overwhelming. Two vampire warriors attacking from opposite sides. But the necromancer treats us like children holding wooden swords for the first time. She finally uses the sythe. She spins the staff. The dark wood blurring clang. She parries sort heavy claymore, then spins the blade to deflect my saber. The necromancer is dancing. She is humming a children's rhyme under her breath as she fights.
"You rely too much on the blood," she lectures, ducking under my swing. "You think it makes you gods."
"But blood is finite." She parries my next strike with a flick of her wrist. Then she moves. She lashes out with a kick. Fast, precise, and unnaturally strong. Her boot connects with my chest. Crack. The force is like a cannonball. I am lifted off my feet. I fly backward 20 ft through the air before crashing into the trunk of an oak tree. I slide to the ground, gasping. My ribs are knitting back together, but the pain is blinding.
"Eva," Sorche cries out, her head turning. Eyes on me.
The necromancer chides. She strikes. She brings the butt of the sythe into Sorch's ribs, right where the armor plates join. Sorcher grunts, stumbling sideways. The necromancer spins the weapon, bringing the flat of the blade down hard on the back of Sorcher's knee. There is a sickening crunch of metal and bone. Sorcher cries out and drops to one knee in the mud. She tries to rise, but her leg gives way. She looks up, panting, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and mud. She looks across the clearing at me, and for the first time since I have known her, I see uncertainty in her golden eyes. She is the princess of war. She has never lost. She does not know how to lose, but she is losing.
"On your knees," the necromancer says with a dark, satisfied laugh. "That's more like it." She walks behind Sorche. Sorche tries to turn to bring her sword up, but she is too slow. The exhaustion, the magic weighing down the air. The necromancer raises the sighthe and looks at me slumped against the tree.
"Would your friend like to watch?" she asks pleasantly.
Terror, cold and absolute, floods my veins. No, I don't think. I don't feel the pain in my ribs. I move. I scramble to my feet and run. I pour every ounce of strength I drank from Valyriana. Every drop of power I have into my legs. I blur. The necromancer pulls the scythe back. I dive. I don't try to attack her. I throw myself over Sorch's back. I bring my saber up in a desperate two-handed block just as the scythe sweeps down. Clang. The impact shuddters through my bones. Sparks fly. My saber holds, but only just. The force drives me down onto Sorch's puldrons. The necromancer looks surprised. Then, annoyed.
"Rude?" she mutters. She draws back for another swing.
"We are leaving," I gasp to Sorche. "I can. I can take her."
Sorcher wheezes trying to stand. "No, you can't."
I grab Sure by the back of her breastplate. She is heavy armor, muscle, and pride, but I am filled with terror strength. I heave her up. I don't wait for her to get her footing. I throw her arm over my shoulder and run. I run away from the road. I run into the dense trees, crashing through the brush, dragging my warrior wife with me. We are retreating, running like rabbits from a hunt behind us. The necromancer does not give chase. She does not need to. Her voice carries through the trees, chilling the marrow of my bones.
"Run and skip and prance all you like," she calls after us, laughing. "It won't last much longer. This kingdom will fall. All the queen's horses and all the queen's men won't be able to put Sora back together again."
The return to the citadel is a blur of panic and speed. I do not remember the run back. I only remember the weight of sauteer on my back, her armor digging into my shoulders, her breathing shallow and wet. I remember the terrifying slackness of her limbs, the princess of war reduced to a burden I had to carry. We burst through the infirmary doors.
"Help her," I roar, my voice cracking. The medical core, usually so composed, scramble into action. They swarm us. I lay srture on a gurnie. Her face is pale, even for a vampire. The black veins of the necrosis are spreading from the wound on her leg, creeping up her thigh like ivy.
"Clean blood," I command, grabbing a physician by the collar. "She needs clean blood immediately."
"From the reserve stock," Beatatrix identified. "We have it, champion." The physician stammers, his eyes wide. "Please let us work."
I let him go and step back, my hands shaking. I watch as they cut away her armor and insert the needle into her arm, starting the transfusion of the precious, untainted blood we have left. I want to stay. I want to hold her hand, but I am in the way. I turn and walk out of the room, my boots leaving muddy prints on the pristine stone floor. I lean against the wall in the corridor, sliding down until I hit the floor. I bury my face in my hands. The image of the necromancer, that smiling woman dancing around us is burned into my retinas. The way she broke sort the way she swatted me aside like a fly.
"Eva." The voice is soft. I look up. Landre is standing there. She looks stronger than she did this morning, though still pale. She is wrapped in a heavy shawl, her dark eyes filled with concern. I scramble to my feet.
"Landre, I heard the shouting," she says, reaching out to touch my arm. "Is it? Is it Sora?"
"She is alive," I say, the words catching in my throat. "But she is hurt badly."
"Hurt?" Cassandra frowns. "By a poisoner?"
"It wasn't just a poisonerless," I whisper. "It was something else." I tell her about the green mist, the skeletons clawing their way out of the earth, the size that hummed with death, and the young woman, beautiful and terrifyingly powerful. "We couldn't touch her," I confess, the shame burning hot in my chest. "Sorcher and I, we are skilled warriors. And she..."
played with us. She broke Sorch's leg with the flat of a blade. A human woman.
Lysandra stares at me, her hand covering her mouth. Necromancy. I thought it was a myth, a story to scare children.
It is real, I say. And she is coming for us. She said the kingdom will fall.
Landre shivers. She steps closer, wrapping her arms around me. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her scent, trying to ground myself.
We must tell the queen, Landre says against my chest. Is she? I hesitate to ask. Is she awake?
She woke. Lisandre says, a small smile touching her lips. An hour ago, the clean blood wine we've been giving was enough to rouse her.
Is she well? She is weak, Lisandre warns, frail as glass. It will take weeks of clean blood and rest for her to return to her full power.
And we do not have weeks. No, I agree. We don't.
I kiss Landra. It is a desperate, seeking kiss. Needing to feel the life in her, the connection that the necromancer tried to sever, Lzandra melts into me, her hands soothing the tension in my back.
"Take me to her," I say, pulling away.
The queen's bed chamber is dim, lit only by the low embers of the fire. Valeriana is sitting up in the massive bed, propped against a mountain of pillows. She looks terrifyingly fragile. Her skin is translucent. The blue veins visible beneath the white. Her hands usually so strong rest limply on the duvet. But her eyes, her violet eyes are open. They are dim, lacking their usual fire, but they are watching the door.
"Evangeline," she whispers. Her voice is a dry leaf skittering on stone.
"Majesty," I breathe. I cross the room in three strides. I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. I reach out and take her hand. It is ice cold.
"I am here," I say. "I returned."
"And sort," she asks, her eyes searching mine.
"She is resting," I lie. "She is in the infirmary, but she will recover."
Beliana squeezes my hand. Her grip is weak. a ghost of her former strength.
"Your voice carries a layer of fear," she says. "What did you find?"
I look at Lisandra, who stands by the door, keeping watch. Then I look back at my queen. I cannot lie to her. Not about this.
"We found the source," I say. "It is not the guild. It is a woman, a necromancer."
Valeriana's brow furrows. "Here?" She raised the dead. Valeriana, she controls the rot. She has poisoned the blood supply to weaken us, to starve us out. She beat sorcerer in single combat."
"Describe her," Valeriana commands, her voice gaining a sliver of steel.
"Young," I say, "maybe 24. Dark hair, long and wavy, and carries a sythe. And she wears your seal. It's how managed to operate undetected for weeks."
Valeriana goes still. "My seal."
I nod pinto her cloak. Valeriana closes her eyes. She lets out a long shuddering breath.
"Show me," she says. She lifts her hand. It trembles as she reaches toward my face.
"Valyriana, you are too weak," I protest. "Magic will drain you."
"I must see," she insists. "Open your mind to me, Evangelene. Let me see the enemy."
I nod. I lower my head. Valeriana places her palm against my forehead. Her skin is freezing.
"Push," she whispers in my mind. I close my eyes. I summon the memory. The muddy road. The green mist. The woman on the gray horse smiling as she held the amulet. The way she danced around Sorch's blade. Her face beautiful, cruel, and fanatic. The memory flashes between us, a shared lightning bolt.
Valeriana gasps. She jerks her hand back as if burned. She falls back against the pillows, her chest heaving. A single tear tracks a line down her cheek.
"I know her," Valeriana whispers.
The silence in the room is heavy.
"You know the necromancer?" I ask, stunned.
"Her name is Moana," Valeriana says. She opens her eyes. "They are filled with a sorrow so deep it looks like an ocean."
"5 years ago," Valeriana begins, her voice distant. "She lived in the village of Black Creek when she came to my court. Beautiful and full of life." Valeriana looks at the ceiling. "She fell in love with a woman, a physician. They were married in the spring. It was a sweet thing to watch. Simple human happiness."
"What happened?" I ask.
"One of my kind happened," Valeriana says bitterly. "A young vampire new to the blood. He lacked control and fancied her. He was hunting in the wrong territory and was told off by her. He broke into their home and drained the wife, drank her dry in front of Morvana."
I flinch. It is the nightmare every human fears.
"I caught him," Valeriana says. "I hold my subjects to the law. Killing a human is a capital offense. I executed him myself, beheaded him so Morvana could see justice done." She looks at me. "But justice does not bring back the dead," she whispers. "Morvana, she screamed at me. She spat on my boots. She told me that my laws were a joke, that we were all monsters, and that killing one did not change the nature of the coven."
Valeriana sighs. She left the kingdom the next day. She burnt her house down and walked away. I assumed she had gone to the Dominion to forget about us.
"She didn't forget," I say, remembering the hate in the necromancer's eyes.
"No," Valeriana agrees. "It seems she went looking for a way to fight back. She found something terrible, something that turns grief into power."
"She said she wants to save humanity," I recall. "She said we are parasites."
"To her we are," Valeriana says. "She is not fighting a war. Evangelene, she is exacting a vendetta. She believes she is the hero of her story." Valeriana looks at her hand. The one that touched my mind. "She has come back to finish what that boy started in her kitchen." Valeriana says softly. "She has come to kill us all."
The news arrives with a wet, ragged breathing of a dying scout. He collapses on the threshold of the war room, his uniform torn, his skin gray. A jagged wound tears across his chest, festering with a sickly green light.
"Blackwatch!" he gasps, clutching at the carpet. "Black Watch has fallen."
Sorcher, leaning heavily on a crutch by the map table, her legs splined and bound. Curses vividly.
"The Western garrison. 50 good soldiers. Dead?" Beatatrix asks, looking up from her charts. She looks exhausted. The circles under her eyes dark as bruises.
"Worse," the scout whispers. He looks at me, his eyes wide with a terror that transcends death. "She killed them and then brought them into her fold."
A chill sweeps through the room.
"She raised the garrison," I say, the realization landing like a stone.
"They are marching," the scout chokes out as his arm turns to dust and begins to dissolve. "A legion, dead men, skeletons, and creatures that should not be moving. They are coming for the citadel. They are maybe two days march away." He shudders once and then crumbles to the ground.
Silence fills the room.
"We cannot hold a siege," Sorche says, her voice tight with frustration. She strikes a table with her fist. "Not like this. The poison has weakened the main force. If we sit behind these walls and wait for her to starve us out, we die."
"We have to meet her in the field," I say. I look at the map here in the flats. It's open ground which she has to cross on her way to the citadel.
"You cannot go alone," Sora argues, her golden eyes blazing. "You saw what she did to me. She is fast, Eva."
"I won't be alone," I say. "I'm taking every able-bodied vampire in the citadel. Every knight who can still hold a sword. Every rifleman who can still aim. We end this now."
"I should be leading them," Sorche snarls, looking at her broken leg with hatred. "You can't go and leave me behind. You can't do this to me again."
"It'll be all right, my love," I tell her gently and unclasp my earrings, placing them in the palm of her hand. "Keep these safe for me until I return." I turn and leave the war room before she can argue further.
If Morvana thinks she has already won, then that will provide me with just the opportunity to prove her wrong. All I have to do is put my mind to it and exploit her weakness when she reveals it.