Blood Prophecy

CHAPTER 6



Solange


Vampire princess or not, bats are just creepy when they’re flying at your face.

I stumbled back, covering my head as they dipped erratically around me. There were so many of them, the sound of their wings was raspy and loud. I’d controlled more bats than these in the field with Lucy and then again at the camp when the Chandramaa guard had tried to kill Constantine for saving me from the Furies. I wondered briefly how he was doing. And then one of the bats squeaked and got tangled in my hair. Wondering about Constantine and Kieran and my entire family was going to have to wait until later, when there weren’t dozens of rodents freaking out around me.

Because clearly Viola didn’t want me in this room.

Which is why I knew it was exactly where I needed to be.

The bats froze, as if they’d hit an invisible wall between us. I blew hair out of my eyes, just as frozen. I couldn’t stand here forever but if I moved my hand, the bats attacked me again. And the knights were bound to come along again. With my luck lately, it would be sooner rather than later.

Fine.

They could deal with the bats. I crouched slowly, keeping my arm extended, hand out. Leathery wings flapped harder. I pressed against the rough wooden doorjamb, then twisted and flung my hand out toward the hallway. As if I’d deployed a slingshot of bats, they flung past me, catching strands of my hair, careening into the wall where they crowded together. Once they were out, I pushed the heavy door shut and bolted it.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. A room full of dragon eggs or bottles of blood or torture devices, like the dungeon.

Instead the room was full of boxes.

They ranged from small, pewter, circular boxes that could fit into the palm of my hand to a giant hope chest with iron studs. They were piled everywhere, carved from amber and bone, made of beaten gold, oak, and ivory, decorated with enamel, rubies, pearls, and silver inlay. They reached the ceiling, glinting in the light from the torches set into the stone wall. If they toppled, I could be buried forever.

“Okay, this is just not getting any less weird,” I muttered.

I had no idea why they were important or what was in them. It could be blood or coins or dried rosebuds for all I knew. It could be anything.

Only one way to find out.

I was reaching for the nearest one, covered in garnet and peeling gilt paint when the alarm sounded. The clang of a giant metal bell thrummed through the castle.

“Prisoners escaped!” A knight shouted from the ramparts.

I wasn’t sure if they meant the prisoners in the dungeon or me. I didn’t really want to hang around to find out. I had to get out of here, but I couldn’t lose the tiny advantage I’d gained by finding the hidden room full of boxes. So I’d just have to take them with me. Well, maybe not the chest nailed to the floor.

I grabbed the end of an embroidered tapestry and yanked it off the wall. I tied it over one shoulder like a sling and then stuffed as many boxes as I could into it. Men shouted on the ramparts and down in the courtyard. The bell continued to ring, shuddering the metal torch brackets, shaking my heart as if it were also made of iron.

Boxes slipped from my damp palms, bruising my shins and toes. The tapestry pouch got heavier, cutting into my skin. Faceted diamonds, jagged hinges, decorative pewter scrollwork bit into my fingertips, drawing blood. When I had as many boxes as I could possibly carry, I opened the door, peeking through a sliver of the hall that I could see. It was quiet for now, empty.

I couldn’t head back down to the tunnel since the entrance had caved in. I’d have to find another way out. I hurried down the spiral staircase, stopping at every curve to listen for footsteps. There was shouting all around, so it was difficult to pinpoint exact sounds. But I could smell burning lavender from the great hall, where the lady in the fine dress and scarred skin was still flinging embers around.

The knights circled her, drawing closer with their swords unsheathed. Small fires burned, scattered everywhere. Smoke thickened the air. I crept closer, using the smoke as a shield. Her eyes flared once, like bits of broken mirror. I could have sworn she looked at me, before flinging herself right into the fire in the pit in the middle of the hall. The flames licked at the hem of her gown. She screamed as they ate higher and higher, up to her wrists and arms and throat, all scarred with bite marks. The smell of seared hair and flesh made me gag.

Everyone stopped to stare at her.

She’d sacrificed herself so that I could get free.

So I’d damn well get free.

I kept my hand to the stone wall behind me as the smoke billowed into eye-stinging curtains. I followed it to the door and eased outside, where more smoke wafted out of the windows. The horses in the nearby stables panicked, kicking their hooves through their stalls until the sounds of splintering wood and frantic neighs drowned out the screams inside.

I kept to the clutter of the stalls and dovecotes and assorted sheds along the inside of the wall. I made good time, but it wasn’t enough. A glance over my shoulder showed at least five guards tearing across the courtyard after me. The boxes clanged together, slamming painfully into my elbow and hip bone with every step. If I dropped them I could run quicker, but without them I was also running blind, with no idea of what to do once I found a safe place to hide.

The back of my neck prickled. They were getting closer.

I ran until I was gasping, until my sides cramped and my legs hurt. I ran until there was nothing but the adrenaline in my veins, the slap of my boots on the ground, the rush of the air in my eyes. A box studded with rubies tumbled out of the sling, ringing against the stones. The lid popped open as it rolled away. It was empty. I kept running.

I ran until I was falling again.


1192


“Papa!” Viola hurled herself off her pony and into the arms of a tall bearded giant. Her nursemaid sniffed from where she waited for a stable boy to help her off her palfrey. The white linen of her wimple glowed in the torchlight.

“Child, you must not be so informal. You must address him as ‘my lord.’ “

Viola rolled her eyes at her father, who grinned back despite the fact the nursemaid had the right of it.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked her, swinging her around so that her feet dangled. It was her favorite thing in the world. It made her feel as if she were flying, but without the fear of falling, because she knew her father would always keep her safe.

“I pinched myself to stay awake,” Viola answered. When he set her down she showed off the bruises on her arm with pride. “And I didn’t cry once.”

“My little warrior.” He laughed.

She slipped her hand into his, rubbing the smoothness of his palm. She knew other men got calluses from swinging swords and spears at their enemies, but not her father. He was invincible. Stable hands led their horses away and servants came out of the shadows to unpack the trunks from the wagon. “Why must we always travel so late at night?” she asked curiously as they crossed the bailey to the hall.

“Hush now,” her nursemaid said crossly. “Don’t be a pest.”

Viola pouted, clinging more tightly to her father’s hand so he wouldn’t send her away. Golden torchlight glowed at the windows, secured with thin horn shutters. It was like sunlight and honey. It was a smaller and more ancient keep than Bornebow Hall where she lived, but it was much nicer. She preferred the smoky fire in the center of the hall and the dark wooden timbers above, the steep valleys, and the lake on the other side of the wall where fish leaped in summer.

“I miss you, Da! Couldn’t I stay here with you? I’d be a good girl, I promise.” When her nursemaid snorted, Viola shot her a narrowed look. “I know how.”

Her father let go of her hand. “You know you can’t, child. You’re betrothed to Richard and they want to raise you to be a good wife to him.”

She crossed her arms, suddenly feeling tired and peevish. “Why can’t he live here with us and be raised to be a good husband?”

“Because that’s not the way of the world,” he replied, grinning down at her.

“I run faster than he does,” she confided with a loud sigh. They passed a wooden post set into the courtyard behind the side door into the hall. Chains dangled from hooks set into the top. The dirt all around was packed down and sprinkled with dark spots that looked like dried blood. Viola frowned. “What’s that for?”

Her father’s cheerful expression flickered and died. His blue eyes went to stone and Viola shivered.

“Don’t question your father,” her nursemaid snapped, yanking on the back of Viola’s dress.

Viola didn’t know what was going on but she was suddenly aware of how little she was. Her nursemaid only snapped like that she was frightened. She stood very still. Viola’s father could have been carved out of stone, unyielding and pale in the dark courtyard. He didn’t speak, which was a relief, only turned on his heel and stalked toward the main hall.

Viola followed meekly. The uncharacteristic meekness lasted from one end of the hall to the other, until she lay on her pallet behind the carved wooden screen. Her nursemaid blew out the candles, leaving Viola lying in the shadows, bored and agitated.

She stayed there until her heart stopped racing, until the confusing fear had faded away and she was restless. She listened to the sounds of the servants in the hall, dragging in the wooden trestle tables and sweeping out the floor rushes to be replaced with more fragrant herbs. At Bornebow Hall they settled to sleep by the fire, but in her father’s castle, they kept later hours. She could just make out her father’s booming voice in the courtyard, but not his exact words.

Sleep refused to come. She counted her breaths, counted the spiders on the wall, even the embroidered leaves on the ribbon of her nightshift. When sleep still refused to be caught she pushed out of her warm nest of woolen blankets, bare toes curling over the cold stones. She’d find her mother, who always told her thrilling tales of giants and ancient kings. She’d just have to be careful not to disturb her nursemaid or her father, since they were both so cross.

She crept out of a small window, swinging easily over into the lilac hedge. It concealed her movements until she felt brave enough to dart around the back to the outside staircase leading to her mother’s private solar. The oak door was locked, as usual, but Viola had long ago learned the trick of opening it. She used her hairpins and remembered the one time she’d asked her father why the door was always locked. He’d looked so sad, running a big hand over her pale hair and telling her it was so that no one would steal her mother away. Viola liked the idea of her mother always being safe, even though she herself could never have slept all locked up like that.

She pushed the door, opening it only enough to give her space to slip inside. The room was warm and lit with candles in iron lanterns. It always had a curious unused smell, like burning dust. A fire crackled in the hearth, too big and too hot for such a fine evening. But her mother was always cold, shivering when others were sweating. Viola crept closer, watching the flickering light gild Lady Venetia’s face.

Lady Venetia shifted, opening her eyes. She smiled slowly, as if she’d forgotten how it was done. “Viola,” she said hoarsely. “You’ve grown so tall.”

“I can get on a horse all by myself now,” Viola bragged, scrambling onto the bed. “Even though Richard still needs help.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a great and mortifying secret. “I’m taller than he is.”

“He’ll outgrow you soon enough,” Venetia murmured, touching the end of one of her daughter’s braids. “Is he kind to you?”

“Sometimes. I still want to set fire to his tunic.” She bounced on the bed until her mother winced. “Mama, are you ill again?”

“I’m afraid so, poppet.”

“You look pale,” Viola said. “But you have a sunburn on your nose.”

Venetia just smiled wearily. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Viola told her about the beehive she’d found, about the baby bunnies in the gap in the orchard wall, and the way Richard thought he was better than she was. Her mother listened attentively, and when her eyelids flickered, Viola didn’t take offense, though she would have shrieked herself blue in the face if her nursemaid had behaved that way. Everyone knew Lady Venetia was delicate and distracted. Viola snuggled closer when her mother shivered violently.

“I’ll keep you warm,” she promised, sleepily.

She pulled the blankets up, frowning at what looked like bloodstains, like tiny red beads. The firelight caught the strange scars on her mother’s arms, some raw and pink, others faded and shining like silk embroidery. They were puncture marks, clustered in pairs like berries and scattered over her arms, along her collarbone and even under the laces of her neckline.

The image flickered, leaving me disoriented. I knew exactly what those marks were.

Bite marks.