Blood Prophecy
Page 54

“Leave it,” he said curtly. “I’m not hungry.”
“But I am,” she whispered.
He froze. “Viola?” His voice cracked. He clenched his hands in his hair. “No. Away with you, spirit.”
She glided forward, closing the small distance that still lay between them. “I am no spirit, my love.”
He looked up, eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadows. There was stubble on his jaw and his cheekbones looked more prominent. She smiled gently. “Won’t you kiss me?”
“Vi?” Tears clogged his voice. “It’s not possible. The massacre ...” He blinked, finally looking hard at her. She knew her hair was tangled with leaves and that there were unmentionable stains on her best gown. And she knew it didn’t matter, not when they were together. “You’re hurt.” He got up so fast the bench flew backward, hitting his pallet.
“No, I survived.”
He gathered her up into his arms, tears turning to a wild choked laugh. “I thought you were dead with all the others. No one knew where you were. It’s been weeks. Weeks.” He kissed her desperately, lips moving from her mouth to her temple to her hair and back to her mouth again. She kissed him back, laughing with him. She could restrain herself. She’d fed on a group of outlaws who’d thought to surprise her in the woods. And kissing him made her feel whole again, sane again. She could almost ignore the hot pulse of his blood under his skin, his scent making her head spin.
He ran his hand over her hair, pulling out the knots. “What happened to you?”
She burrowed into the circle of his arms, her cheek against his chest. His heart echoed in his chest and reverberated through her head, like the bell in the churchyard. “Men with crosses and stakes.” She shuddered. “They think I’m evil just because I survived.”
He looked down at her. “You’re Lady Viola Drake,” he said darkly. “And they will not touch you.”
“There are hunters still after me,” she said. “My own family sent them. I am a Drake no longer.”
His face hardened. “I won’t let them hurt you. Any of them.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Nor I, you.” Her fangs cut through her gums like knives, but Tristan was already turning away to take up his sword. He didn’t see her face change, her eyes gleam. “We can be together forever now,” she said.
I woke up in the damn stairwell again.
Which meant Isabeau was alone in the courtyard with the bleeding tree and Viola’s knights. I flung myself down the steps even though I wasn’t steady on my feet yet. I crashed into the wall and kept going, using the stones to hold me up. I tripped on my hem and nearly knocked my own fangs out. The hall was smoky and warm as I dashed through it. The dried flowers and rushes on the dirt floor were covered by half-eaten chicken bones and dog droppings. The veneer was starting to peel off Viola’s inner sanctuary.
Grimly satisfied at that small triumph, I almost ran into a sword. The knight had his helmet’s visor down so I couldn’t see his face. He was just creaking armor and flashing weapons. I dodged, rolling low. I popped back onto my feet behind him. I didn’t stay to fight, just kept running.
I broke through the top gate just in time to see the knights closing in on Isabeau. She swung her ax in a wide circle, keeping them at bay. The tree wept blood, the white wood scarred and ragged. Isabeau leaped over a sword strike and cut off the arm that was attached to it as she landed. She was holding her own. But she didn’t see the little girl with long blond hair coming up behind her, weeping pathetically in her embroidered dress, looking lost. Looking innocent and sweet.
She wasn’t.
But Isabeau might not know that. “Behind you!” I yelled, half running, half sliding down the hill. “Not a little girl! Not a little girl!”
I was sliding too fast.
“No!” I yelled, frustrated as everything spun. The stars smeared on the dark canvas of the sky. “Not again.” I held on tight, digging my fingers into the grass, willing myself to stay where I was.
The guards crossed their lances together, preventing Viola from entering. She didn’t even pause, just whipped both arms out so fast and hard the knights flew into the wall and slumped, unconscious. She marched into the chamber, the candlelight flickering in the draft she created.
Tristan lay in the bed, his chest bare except for a bloody bandage around his ribs. Cuts and bruises marked him from head to toe. Blood trickled slowly from a gash in the back of his head. She stifled a sob, flying to his side. He didn’t stir.
“One of my guards found him,” Veronique said, stepping out of the shadows. Her servant cowered in the corner like a trapped rabbit, eyes wide.
Viola crawled into the bed, touching his face, his arms, his chest. He had no heartbeat.
“Hunters did this,” she wept. They’d burst into the tent before she could turn Tristan and the fight had gone on too long. Dawn crept over the horizon and she’d had to crawl into a chest and lock it. When she woke she was alone.
And now she was truly alone.
“And yet you’re the one bringing shame to our family,” Veronique snapped. “We can’t keep cleaning up your mess. You have no discretion. Even animals dispose of their kill with more grace.”
“I don’t care about that.” Her tears soaked into his bandages.
“That is apparent.”
“Do you even have a heart?” she shouted bitterly, her lover’s blood on her hands, and on her lips.