Page 25 of Blood & Bedlam

“You’re lying. It’s not safe for any of us, and losing a mate would rip you apart. You know what happens to others of our kind when they lose their Bond. You will be a hundred times worse, and unkillable. We won’t be able to stop you. You need to tell her, then turn her; otherwise, you’re both a liability.” She sounds so poised and diplomatic, fair and assertive. I can’t help the small smile that creeps over my lips at how strong she is. I bring my hand to her face and push a stray, white-blonde strand of hair back behind her ear.

“You’re ready to rule,” I say softly. Her eyes are steel as they bore back into mine.

“I know.”

Camille is sure and confident, her words full of deadly conviction, but there’s a small note of sadness to her tone, a tightness in the muscles near her lips that deepens her frown. It gives her away.

A small whimper from Reine’s room catches our ears, and before I can stop her, Camille’s giving me a tight hug before disappearing out the door. I listen again for Reine, count her heartbeats and breaths, hear the glide of her body over silk sheets as she twists and turns. She’s deep in her slumber, and before I settle in for a difficult talk with the very human girl down the hall, I make my way over to my desk and pull out a piece of stationery. The tip of the pen hovers over it, ink pooling as I search for the words to explain nothing and everything all at once, in case the correspondence is intercepted. In the end, it’s a simple sentence that flows from the pen to the page, and as I send it by messenger, I pray to the Fates that the Goddess of Witchcraft comes.

Draguta,

I hold in my hand a star. Come and see.

Vladi

Reine

CHAPTER 12WALLACHIA (TRANSYLVANIA), 1447

The carriage bounces over muddy, uneven ground, jostling Elisabeta and me against the dark wood in the enclosed space. I close my eyes and imagine that this is not the reality made for me, that this cold weather is not an omen for the work I have been sent to do. My fingers are buried beneath the rich furs the prince sent to me as a marital gift, as was the heavy, fur-lined cloak I have wrapped around me.

War is a cruel hell for most, but an opportunity for the most wicked, and I have been sent to do the devil’s work.

Elisabeta leans forward, adjusting the cloak more tightly around me, but I am not here in this place. In my mind, it is springtime, and instead of traveling through wastelands, we are readying to dance and sing. I am not the sacrificial lamb of my father’s political advancements. The sun is shining on my face, and I am simply Mina.

I try to pretend, but the cold biting through me does not allow it.

The wheels roll to a croaking stop, a death march of my freedom. Beta is more than ready to be done with this journey and the fortnight it has taken for us to cross the rugged terrain of Wallachia. Men outside shout orders to one another as our delegation comes to a stop, and I pretend the shake in my hands is from the cold and not as a result of my trepidation. A soft knock on the side of the wooden door warns us to brace for the bitter cold; however, there is no preparation for something so frigid. Even with my veil pulled low, it does little to keep out the bone-deep chill that lashes against my face.

I move as though in a trance, my feet obedient to their marching orders, but one step down has me slipping over wet snow. I bite back the urge to cry out as the fabric drenches, weighing me down with every step. There is nothing romantic about this coupling. It is detached, transactional, and cold as the winter raging around us. I vow to protect myself, to cling to that truth.

“My Lady!” Beta cries out, slipping herself in her haste to help me stand upright, but she is too late. In moments I am falling backward, one foot stuck in the snow in these ridiculous shoes that are the highest fashions of Venice but are death traps here. My dark blue veil sways around me as the ground rushes forward, and I let my head fall back, resigned to my fate, when strong hands grip me tight, arresting my fall. The air expels from my lips in a white cloud, the body beneath me warm as a hand pulls back the veil from my face.

A set of gray eyes, deep as oceans, stare into mine, piercing the breath in my chest. His cloak is well cared for, but practical in the weather, and on his face is a small smile that dazzles me, even in its shy display. Snow clings to the dark furs slung over his shoulders, tiny flakes flurry and dust long, dark lashes. Carefully, he straightens our bodies, righting me on my feet, but he makes no move to put appropriate distance between us, and I still cannot look away.

“My Lady?” he inquires, his voice low and deep. I follow the trace of his lips as he forms the words, and in this barren winter, warmth blooms in my chest for the first time since the snow fell. His eyes trace my face. I am stripped bare by his perusal.

Beta clears her throat, startling us both. Wind whips between where warmth once was, but the handsome man offers his arm to escort me to the castle behind him, rising high into the mountainside. Servants and handmaids mill about, shouting orders and organizing trunks, but I’m enraptured by the quiet elegance of the man escorting me through packed snow.

There is nothing to mark his station, as he is dressed in the same garb as the other soldiers. I feel a pang that he won’t be who awaits me at the end of the aisle. Flurries of snow wrap around us, but he eases the approach and I clutch the strong muscle of his arm. The monastery is beautiful, great swaths of black rock protruding from the snow-covered mountainside. If I were not about to martyr myself for my people, I would stop to admire it at better length.

“Are you excited for your nuptials, Lady Mina?” he asks, but does not shout. It is as if the wind bows to his voice, quieting around us.

“Overjoyed.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, to be the obedient daughter I was born to be, but there is a twinkle in his eye that makes me believe he hears the snark all the same, so I press my luck. “Tell me,” I shout over the wind, drawing the guard’s attention down, “is it true that my betrothed is as large as a bear? I heard stories of him fighting them for sport.”

A low chuckle reaches my ears, his smile growing wider as he shakes his head.

“I can confess he has fought a bear, but only once, and I assure you, it was not for sport but rather a very poorly timed exercise in drunken debauchery. He is tall, though no more than me.”

“Are you telling me that my future husband is a drunken degenerate?” I whisper, leaning in. We are close enough to see the stained glass of the monastery in detail, and I know this little game is coming to an end, but I cannot begrudge myself one final moment of defiance. There is a full smirk gracing the guard’s lips as he tips his head back to huff a laugh before leaning back down, too close to be decent, until the warmth of his lips skims the side of my cold ear.

“I feel it improper to speak on a prince of the land in such a manner. Surely a lady of your station will have no issues keeping him in line.”

We have mere steps, only a few paces to cross, and I wish more than anything to freeze this moment in time, to savor it and revisit it for the darkness to come.

“What makes you think I have any interest in taming him? Perhaps I like a bit of debauchery myself. I happen to be an exquisite judge of wine,” I retort, fixing my gaze straight ahead as the doors open to us, pleased with his bemused expression. Together, we step inside. My feet are ice, but that is not why I am shivering. I assume he will send me down the aisle on my own accord, but I am comforted when instead he helps relieve me of my cloak before passing it to Beta. The doors shut behind us, dropping us into darkness illuminated only by the candlelight altar ahead, and though I should not, I squeeze this stranger’s hand for strength. He does not know my burden, but he has been kind to me, and for that I feel endeared to him.

The priest waits alone at the end of the dark red carpet, the pews empty save for the first two on either side where diplomats and Royals of the Court make their witness. My eyes search for another, and for a moment fear and relief course through me as I march toward an empty altar. Perhaps the prince changed his mind? Perhaps he died, or it was custom for Transylvania to have the groom arrive after the bride?