Blood Prophecy

CHAPTER 8



Solange


I had no idea how long I’d been trapped inside Viola’s memory but when I returned to myself again, I was back on the spiral stairs. I was disoriented and confused, gripping the uneven stone wall to ground me. I was back to being a spirit in Viola’s subconscious parallel dimension while she was controlling my body in the real world. Any wonder I was confused?

I wasn’t sure what kind of a human-vampire spirit-thing I was in this place. I knew I didn’t have to feed on blood and I couldn’t feel my heartbeat but I was still panting. Psychosomatic. I was freaking out so I was hyperventilating because I’d been a human girl for a lot longer than I’d been a vampire, freaky or otherwise.

I needed more information. I’d have to open another box.

I didn’t exactly relish the thought. There was something seriously disconcerting about being a faded copy of yourself in your body, never mind traipsing about someone else’s memories. It would have been easier to take her on with a weapon in my hand. Instead, I was going to have to be sneakier than that.

First, I had to find a better hiding place before someone found me just standing there like an idiot. The tapestry pouch was still slung across my chest and it bumped heavily against my hip when I moved. I peered out of the murder hole. Twilight painted the sky blue and orange between the trees in the distance. Smoke rose from a small hut I assumed belonged to the blacksmith. The glow of the fire leaking out of the open door was fierce. On the right, a tall ash tree rose from cracks in the courtyard ground. Green leaves fluttered, partly obscuring the view of the stables along the wall of the inner bailey. Hay lay in piles outside and drifted between the loose wooden boards of the upper story. If I could swing into the tree and then jump onto the roof of the stable, I could hide in the hay loft.

Big if.

I crept up the stairs to the next floor, darting between torches to hide in the shadows of the corridor. The first arched oak door I came across was locked. The second opened onto a windowless room full of the sound of scurrying feet and claws. I slammed it shut again as quickly as I could. There were no tapestries on this floor, just a cold draft that snapped at the torches and the hem of my dress. It wasn’t until the next room that I found a window just big enough to fit through. The chamber itself was empty except for the smell of smoke. There was nothing here to threaten me but it still just felt wrong.

I hurried to the window, pulling open the wooden shutters. There were knights above me on the ramparts but they ought to be looking beyond the walls, not directly down into the heart of the castle compound. And it was dark enough that if anyone looked up, they shouldn’t be able to see me. The tree waved cheerfully from a few feet below. I swallowed. It was a lot farther than I’d thought, and the window was narrow. Almost too narrow.

I took off the tapestry bag and hung out of the window again. I swung it carefully, wincing at the light clinking of boxes as they shifted against one another. I swung it again, and again, until I had a good arc. I let go and it skimmed the outer twigs, catching on the tip of a heavier branch, and dangling precariously. I waited for a cry of alarm. When there was nothing but the steady strike of the blacksmith’s hammer, I straddled the stone sill.

“If I die I’m so going to kick Viola’s ass,” I muttered.

And then I let go. I wasn’t jumping, I was falling.

I grabbed at the tree, leaves slapping at my face, branches scratching my arms and yanking my hair. The air rushed at me. I finally got hold of a branch but it wasn’t strong enough to support my weight. It broke and dropped me onto the next branch, nearly putting my eye out. I clung there, cursing.

I could smell smoke and horses and hay. I reached out, straining muscles I didn’t know I had to grab the tapestry bag. When it was safely wrapped around my wrist, I crawled along the branch like an inchworm while the tree creaked warningly.

When I hit the roof of the stables, I was grinning. Aching all over and bruised, but still grinning. Mostly because no one had seen me and I wasn’t lying in broken pieces on the ground. I dug through the bug-infested thatch and wiggled inside, landing on a soft mound of hay that made my nose itch. The horses below me nickered and snorted. I lay still in the darkness for a long moment.

And then I did the only thing I could do, despite the nerves firing in my belly and along my spine. I reached into the bag and pulled out a random box. It was wooden and set with colored enamel pieces in a mosaic of a lady with a dragon curled up beside her and a knight kneeling to them both.

I opened it, thinking of Kieran.


1198


Viola waited for Tristan on the hilltop, the wind blowing her woolen cloak behind her, revealing glimpses of her green surcoat. Ice glinted on every blade of grass, crunching like broken glass under her horse’s hooves. A hawk circled overhead with a high-pitched shriek of warning to mice, rabbits, and all small huntable creatures below.

“You came.” Viola smiled, sliding from her saddle. As always, she felt her entire body sing, just to see him.

“Of course,” Tristan replied, dismounting. The indigo blue of his tunic matched his eyes. He didn’t say anything else, only walked her backward until her body pressed against the trunk of the tree and the leaves sheltered them from prying eyes. Her long blond hair caught in his silver cloak clasp.

When he kissed her it felt as though there was lightning striking off her, as if she could set the whole world on fire and watch it burn with a smile just as long as they were together. There was no cold wind, no ice dripping down the back of her neck; there was nothing but him. His lips were teasing and desperate but no more so than hers. He kissed her throat and she tilted her head back, inhaling the scents of him: smoke, iron, and the rare oranges Lord Phillip had just received for Christmas. She remembered dancing with Tristan in the hall, wearing a crown of holly leaves. No one had suspected them.

He pulled back slightly but they stayed locked together, breathing as one. When she smiled, he smiled. When he leaned in, she leaned in. The last of the russet oak leaves clattered like bones around them.

When her horse shifted closer to nibble at the thawed grass, Tristan finally noticed the pack on her saddle and frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going home.”

“You’re leaving Bornebow Hall?” He seized her arms, his eyes searing into her like ice. Her breath caught, as if she were in a runaway cart. “Without me? Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Does Richard know?”

“Not you too.” Viola made a sound of disgust. Her horse tossed her mane, recognizing the sound and impatient to run across the fields and moors. “I’m going to talk to my father. I’m fifteen years old. That’s old enough to know my own mind. My own heart.”

Tristan was only a few years older than she was, and had been a knight for less than a year, but he felt positively ancient at the thought of losing Viola. It was one thing to recite poetry like a troubadour, and sneak roses onto her pillow, but another thing altogether to challenge her father. Her betrothal to Richard was made on the day she was born. But he knew the set of her jaw and what it meant. There would be no stopping her. She was like the hawk above them, hungry and wild.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly, stepping close enough to smell the amber and lavender of her hair, to brush his mouth over her cheek.

“Nor I you,” she whispered, melting into him. “So come with me. Fight for us.”

“Viola, I would die for us.” He touched his brow to hers. “But you know what they’ll say.”

“My mother might listen,” she insisted stubbornly. “She wants me to be happy. She is always asking if Richard treats me well.”

“And he does,” Tristan felt honor-bound to remind her. He considered Richard a brother. It seemed a poor way to repay him by falling in love with his betrothed. But there was a reason they called it falling in love—you couldn’t choose your landing. Fate chose for you. “He’s a good man.”

“But he’s not you.”

She jerked out of his grasp and vaulted into her saddle. “Are you afraid to prove yourself?” she asked, looking down at him, temper making her cheeks red. “Because I’m not.” She kicked her horse into a gallop, churning dirt and dead leaves in her wake.

Tristan swore and leaped onto his own mount, chasing after her. They kept to the edge of the forest until it was time to follow the river, crossing the fields. They passed villages with their creaking mill wheels and goat pens. The shorn fields glittered in the fading light and it was dusk when they finally left the empty howling moors to approach Viola’s father’s castle. The stone walls and the keep above them were silhouetted against the pink-and-orange sky.

“Lady Viola,” the guard at the gatehouse greeted her with a bow of the head. She nodded back and then they were in the outer bailey, their tired horses picking their way up the path to the inner courtyard.

Viola slid out of her sidesaddle, her legs aching from being wrapped around the pommel. Her cheeks stung from the constant onslaught of the cold wind. The courtyard was quiet, as it always was this time of day. She’d chosen her arrival carefully. She knew her father couldn’t be bothered with visitors until well after supper. She might have a chance to win her mother over to her side by then.

“Mother will be in her solar,” she said as Tristan handed their reins over to a stable boy. Saying the words out loud made her realize that in all her visits over the years, her mother was always buried under a pile of blankets. “She’s unwell,” she explained as they headed up to the old hall. Improvements had been made since she was a girl, including a new stone tower that threw the old timber hall in shadows. “She never leaves.”

Until now.

Viola froze, stopping so abruptly Tristan had to take her shoulder to stop from crashing into her and knocking them both off their feet.

“I don’t . . .” She trailed off, horrified.

Tristan followed her shocked gaze. A woman waited in the cold twilight of the bailey. Her long braids were bound with gold cord and her fine gown and embroidered surcoat, along with her jeweled girdle, marked her as a noblewoman. She wore a fur mantle. Anyone would have thought her the lady of the castle.

Except for the fact that she was hanging from a post by her chained wrists. There were scars on her neck that her linen wimple could not hide.

“Are you under attack, my lady?” Tristan asked, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Fury and bile burned in the back of his throat. “Who is that?” he whispered to Viola. “Do you know her?”

“That’s my mother,” Viola replied before bolting out into the open courtyard. Swearing, Tristan followed, searching for possible threats from the ramparts. When no arrows or hot oil poured over their heads, he risked a glance at Viola. She was clawing uselessly at the chains, her fingertips bleeding. Her mother stirred, blinked at her, confounded.

“Viola?”

“Who did this to you?” Viola asked. “Where’s Father?”

“Viola, it’s really you.” Lady Venetia smiled as her daughter tried to slip an arm under her shoulder to support her. Her smile died, trembling with fear. “You’re really here. No,” she moaned. “No.”

“Help me!” Viola shouted at Tristan. She glared at the servants who gathered at the doorways, watching her mutely. “What’s the matter with you?”

Tristan had the same sharp, uncomfortable feeling in his belly that he’d had the time a gang of outlaws had surprised him in the woods. He’d nearly lost his head that night. He saw the flash of torchlight glinting off chain mail from along the battlements. A dog barked in the kennel.

“Viola, come away.”

“No.” She slapped at his hands.

Lady Venetia was as wild-eyed and desperate as her daughter, but for different reasons. “Viola, you have to leave. You have to run!” She tried to clutch at Tristan’s arm, but the chains stopped her short, rattling with a cold, awful sound. “Please. They can’t know she’s seen me like this. It’s not safe. Protect her! Run, damn your eyes!”

The clack of boot heels on the cobblestones near the tower seemed louder than the blacksmith’s hammer. Lady Venetia went paler than she already was and then flung herself at the end of her chains like a wild animal. “Not my daughter!”

Viola just frowned at her grandmother who approached them, strange and pale as she always was. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”

“Tristan Constantine of Bornebow Hall,” he replied with a bow, though his sword was still naked in his hand.

“I see.”

Viola crossed her arms. “We want to marry.” She stepped closer to her mother, trying to keep her safe even though she wasn’t entirely sure what the danger was.

“You’re already promised to Richard Vale,” Veronique replied briskly. “Return to him at once.”

“No,” Viola said. One of the servants gasped from where she was pressed against the dog kennel. Venetia began to weep. Tristan wondered how the hell he was supposed to fight an old woman. Viola just narrowed her eyes.

“You will do as you’re told.” Veronique’s voice was sharp and strange. It was like nails inside their skulls.

“I won’t,” Viola insisted, gritting her teeth against the inexplicable pain. “I’ll run away first.”

“My husband is not here to mediate,” she said dispassionately. “And my son has been troubled enough. But believe me when I tell you, I shan’t let you further dishonor our family name by breaking a perfectly good marriage contract.”

Viola could not understand how her grandfather or her father could know about this and not be filled with righteous fury. Her grandmother had always been inscrutable and cold, but Lord William had a laugh that could shake a barrel of ale out of its hinges. Her mother was baring her teeth like a bear protecting her young.

“Further dishonor?” Viola asked. “What are you talking about?”

Tristan grabbed her hand before she could get a reply, and dragged her behind him. “Run,” he shouted. She turned back to stare at her mother but Tristan’s hold would not break, nor his pace slacken in any way. He tossed her onto his horse and scrambled up behind her, shielding her back so she wouldn’t be vulnerable in their escape. Her mare was already in the stables being rubbed down. They thundered out of the first gatehouse and down the path to the main gates.

“Never mind,” Veronique said to the guards waiting for her order. “This is best done away from prying eyes.” Her eyes glittered as Venetia began to wail. “It’s time to rid my son of this embarrassing problem.”

Tristan and Viola made it out of the castle grounds and across the field before the horse stumbled. Tristan reined him in, casting a baleful glance at the sky, which was moonless and so dark he could barely see the gleam of the river in the ravine below. He could barely even see the glint of Viola’s golden hair inches from his nose. He slid off the mount. “We’ll have to go on foot,” he said grimly. “He could break a leg over the moors.”

“I don’t understand,” Viola said, shivering under her thick cloak.

Tristan tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

She swallowed, looking more frightened instead of comforted. Dread clawed at his spine as he turned around, expecting a dozen knights, a rabid wolf, a rain of spears.

Anything but a strange old woman.

Veronique crossed the field, quicker than anything he’d ever seen. Her hair streamed behind her under the white linen of her wimple. Her face was pale and perfect, even at a distance. And then she was suddenly standing right in front of them. Her teeth were too long and too sharp.

“Grandmother, why are you doing this?” Viola asked. “And what’s wrong with your teeth?”

“Don’t call me that,” Veronique snapped. “You are no bloodkin of mine. But your father has a soft heart and he loves you as though you were his own.”

“But . . . I am.”

“Christophe cannot father children.” Veronique smiled for the first time, but there was no humor in it. “For the same reason I move faster than you can imagine, for the same reason that I died over thirty years ago and yet still, here I stand.”

Viola began to wonder if age had addled her grandmother’s mind.

“Vampire.” Tristan didn’t wonder. He saw the teeth, the pale skin, and reacted as he would have reacted to any other monster. He swung his sword.

“Don’t be absurd, boy.” She sighed, breaking his hold with a single twist of her hand. His sword fell into the frost-tipped grass. He felt a primal ancient fear such as he’d never felt before. “Your mother tried to foist her bastard on my son,” Veronique said. “And still he will not kill her. Because of you.” Before Viola could blink, her grandmother had her by the throat. She forced Viola’s head back even as she drove Tristan to his knees with a careless blow to the temple. Viola screamed.

And then her father was suddenly there, just as pale in his fury as his mother.

“Maman, you promised,” Christophe snapped, breaking her hold. Viola couldn’t say a word, though a thousand clammered to be spoken.

Veronique’s fangs were fully and viciously extended. Hunger lined her gray irises with red. She snapped her attention on Tristan, who was pushing to his feet, pressing his palm to the bloody gash on his head. Blood dripped onto his tunic. Christophe’s fangs lengthened as well and Viola squeaked.

“I promised I wouldn’t kill your wife’s bastard. I made no such promise about her lover.”

Viola went cold and brittle inside. She might not have been able to save her mother but she could save Tristan. She didn’t shift position, knew it would only betray her. She whipped her arm out, locking her elbow tight and catching Tristan in the throat with her fist. Already dizzy, he flew off hisfeet and tumbled down the ravine to the river.

Veronique turned hard gray eyes toward Viola.

Toward me.

It took me a moment to realize this wasn’t the Madame Veronique of Viola’s long ago. I was back in my own body, back in the real world without castles and dragons anywhere.

I was Solange again.

But Madame Veronique was still trying to kill me.