Page 63 of Ravished By the Revenant

I haven’t left Blackthorn Keep and its surrounding land in hundreds of years. This is the first time I have truly been free in longer than most nations have existed. And yet, I am not thinking of my freedom. Freedom is Clara. The world without her in it is a prison far worse than the one I’ve endured all this time.

The drag marks end at a logging road two kilometers past the lake, where tire tracks bite deep into soft mud. A modern vehicle, a heavy one, turned east. Her scent ends there too, but the road only goes two ways, and I can see the direction of their travel by the mud spatter.

I run.

The forest becomes a blur in the dark, and my legs do not tire, will never tire, and for the first time since the crone poured her dust into my wine, I am grateful for what she made of me. A living man would have to stop. A living man would fall gasping in the bracken while Marco poured himself a drink.

I am not a living man.

The cabin sits above the valley, glowing like a lantern. A wall of glass faces the slope, golden light spilling out onto a wooden deck, and behind that glass men move back and forth like soldiers who believe the war is elsewhere, their postures relaxed.

The wind shifts, and I smell elderberry and basil and the copper tang of Clara’s blood.

My hands clench into fists at my sides.

He made her bleed.

I do not bother with a quiet approach from behind. I was never that kind of conqueror.

The front door is oak, iron-hinged, and it holds against my boot for less than a second. Apparently, they no longer build things as they once did. It leaves its frame entirely and takes a coat rack with it, and I step over both, drawing the greatsword as I come.

A man with a tattooed neck reaches me first. He is fast for someone so big. He is not too fast for me. He swings a weapon I don’t recognize toward my chest, and I take his wrist and introduce him to the nearest wall with the full courtesy of my strength. The wall wins. He slides down it and does not resume our wordless discussion.

The shouting begins then. Italian, fast and surprised, accompanied by stomping boots.

Another man comes at me, raising what I now recognize is a small pistol. I’ve seen drawings and schematics of such weapons since their inception, but in these modern times, they seem obscenely small in a grown man’s hand. His expression is blank and steady… right up until the firelight reaches me. Until he sees the eye. The glow bleeding through my shirt. The sword taller than his employer.

“Che cosa⁠—”

Whatever I am, he decides to shoot it. Sensible man.

I’m already moving when the muzzle flashes. The bullet hits my left shoulder, going straight through with a bite of pain. This wound will not close. None of my wounds do anymore.

“You should feel honored,” I tell the man. “That is the most lasting thing you have ever made.”

He does not get a second shot. I thrust my greatsword, impaling him on it straight through the chest. I carry him backward on the blade, three steps, right into the wall of glass and a view of the valley I must admit is impressive. It shatters around him, and I withdraw my blade, leaving him in the ruin of shards.

The last man is standing by the cold fireplace with a pistol in his shaking hand.

I know him at once. His clothes are tailored out of expensive fabric, and his hair is cut with a barber’s precision. He has the face of a man who has purchased everything he has ever pointed at. I must admit he is handsome, and for a moment, I feel irrational jealousy. But Clara did not choose to be with this man out of love or even desire. And she surely didn’t choose to be with him now. No, he took her, and he hurt her.

“Stay back.” His voice doesn’t shake as much as his hand. I’ll grant him that. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what family I⁠—”

I cross the room and close my fingers over the pistol and the hand holding it, then twist until the gun drops. He screams through clenched teeth, and I grab him by the throat, pressing him against the mantel.

Somewhere in the cabin, fists hammer against wood, accompanied by Clara’s voice demanding answers.

She’s alive.

The relief nearly undoes me, but I don’t let it show.

“Dio mio, what are you?” Marco rasps. His eyes are wide and terrified, and I can see the reflection of mine in them.

“Hers,” I answer, a simple truth.

He tries to claw at my hand, but I barely feel it.

“C—Clara? She’s my fiancée⁠—”