When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 220

Azrael stands in the doorway, broad frame blocking the light as he surveys me over a few times, narrowing his two red eyes. In the half light of the room, he appears no more than a phantom, a menace whose ghostly presence has come to linger through my dreams and haunt my waking hours with visions of ghostly figures in the corner of my vision. He is, in that moment, what every vampire had strived to be, a creature of the shadows and night who haunts the minds of the lesser Folk and drives even the sturdiest creatures to the irretrievable brink of insanity. But this is a man whose presence to me has become less of an uncertainty to me, but more of a sleepless, never-ending nightmare, and one I have come to despise with the entirety of my being.

Fortunately, I have no obligation to show any kindness to this abomination.  Not yet.

“Get the fuck out of my room, you dick” I snarl, flashing him the finger as my fingers begin to tap impatiently on the side of the wooden desk.

In the darkness around me, little else of his form is visible, just the crimson glow of burning lust, but even then I can sense him smiling.

“Your  room?” he chuckles, still not moving from the doorframe, continuing to block the entrance- and my escape. I do wonder how much of a hassle I would cause him if I bolted straight out the doors. “I was the one who brought you here, Serena. This is  my Palace. And last I checked, you were the one who latched onto me when we went through that portal. But no matter, I have you now,” he chuckles, straightening up at last.

Stubbornly, I purse my lips, knowing he is absolutely right, but I am not going to tell him that. That is far too much of a boost to his already ginormous ego.

“There are lights in here you know,” he chuckles darkly, stepping into the room with such a stance of authority one might assume he owns the place- and perhaps he does. Wherever this so called ‘Palace’ is.

But against his comments, I remain stubbornly silent- having no intention of making a fool of myself in front of the vampire prince.

Noticing after a short delay that I have no intent on responding to him, Azrael rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers as the room transforms around us with a sickly, pale luminescence, casting grim shadows against the walls that make my skin crawl with an unearthly shiver. Initially, I thought Azrael to be likened to more of a phantom or a ghost, pale, but still gleaming with some unnatural elements of superhuman beauty.

But under the shivering light of our surroundings, Azrael only looks even worse. His face is gaunt and pale, sucked in at the cheeks as though someone had taken a hammer and chisel and tapped away at his face, leaving nothing but stark bone and dark bruising patches under his skin. His hair is, for once, dishevelled, the immaculate, pristine attire that he always strived for wiped away by his fight with Soren, and the likely toll of having to drag me places. The bones in his body seem to gut in places, as though he has not had enough to eat, and in the faint light above us, Azrael’s eyes appear dull with hunger.

From last I can recall, he certainly didn’t look this bad, in fact he appeared rather well put together. Which only begs the question, how long have I been asleep?

Apprehensively, I glance over Azrael once more, searching for answers, before finding with a shiver of unease that something is off about his appearance.

Strange, I think dubiously to myself. I could have sworn that I scarred his whole face- not that he looks any better without it. In fact, I believe it was an asset to his appearance, an improvement no doubt. When he sees me looking, Azrael only smirks.

“An illusion, my dear Serena,” he growls with a pleasurable hiss, his hips dancing as he circles his way around me, putting enough distance between us to ensure that I will not, for whatever compulsions that befall me, bite.

Unfortunately for Azrael, there are far, far worse things that I can do to him.

“Don’t call me that, I am not your ‘dear’. In fact, I am not even yours,” I snarl, quick to scramble out of my chair, my fingers glowing with magic, and then quickly add: “Besides, I think the scars suit you. It really captures how monstrous you are on the inside.”

Azrael’s mouth twitches.

“Thank you, dear,” he says, snarling in a manner that makes it sound more like an insult than a thanking. Nothing short of what I expected, however. “And anyway,” he adds, clearly disturbed by the lack of respect I have shown him in my previous statement. “This is  my  Palace now. And you just so happen to be in it. Therefore, you are mine. Just like everyone else here.”

To this statement, my gut twists in a cold, unrelenting fear. Swallowing down the acrid bitterness in my mouth, I spit:

“You wish.”

It isn’t hard to express my distaste towards this arrogant blood sucking hedonist, to ‘pretend’ that I don’t like him, for no acting is needed to get that view across. I loath Azrael with a passion more fiery than a thousand suns, the product of my anger for him is barely able to keep itself contained on a good day.

However, I am quick to remind myself that blowing this place to smithereens will only be counterproductive on my part (since as I am likely to be living here for the next however long it takes for Soren to find the other soul). Making a mess of the place and an immortal Azrael would only serve to make things more painful and far less bearable, considering that whatever he is to do to me I will be entirely conscious and very un-glamoured.

Even the notion sends shudders down my spine. What Azrael will do to me… I don’t want to think about that.

With a painful slowness, Azrael draws up a seat, the heels of the chair scratching along the floorboards as he sits himself down, eyes narrowing, hands clasped under his chin as he surveys, waiting, eyes scanning my every move. Then he says something, something that surprises me.

“Why can’t I hear your heart?”

The question jolts me so much that I can feel my actual heart leap a mile through my chest. Subtly, my eyes flicker down to my wrist, where the golden cuff remains strapped around my wrist, blocking each thrum and beat of my heart from cognitive existence. Elris’ magic sure is something, but telling him about it might just be detrimental to my health. If Azrael could hear my heart when I am supposedly under his glamour, then it would be game over, I’d be given away.

Lie, whispers a voice at the back of my mind. Don’t tell him the truth. Lie.

And so I feign my confusion, stopping still as I place my fingers to my wrist, face dropping in mock alarm.

If there is one thing that I have always been good at, it is playing pretend.

Shaking my head, my eyes grow wide as I stutter out the words in a voice barely more than a whisper:

“I’m… not sure,” I lie, my voice dripping with a falsified confusion. Azrael only watches intently, his eyes never leaving my form as I add:

“I think… I think Soren said that my transformation may take a while to complete, and that my heart would be the last thing to stop beating.”

Giving me a sideways smile, Azrael adds:

“That is true. The heart is the last to stop functioning after a transformation.”

Then I look up, narrowing my eyes. “What’s it to you, anyway? It is hardly like you would care!” I growl, clutching my arm in towards myself as my back presses up against the wall. Inwardly, however, I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful to whatever gods there are up there that a miracle such as this has occurred. In reality, I have Fangorn to thank for passing over such miraculous items to us, but the outcome is still the same.

If Azrael can’t hear my heart, then I do not need to worry about my body betraying me, showing fear, excitement, other than in my outward facial expression. Just like a vampire- for I suppose that is what I am now, I shall be cool, calm and collected, icy on the outside just as much on the inside, my body a frozen pillar of unfeeling. The façade I have planned, created, is growing stronger by the second, more pronounced with every revelation. Azrael will not stand a chance.

Silently, Azrael rises from his seat, limbs graceful and swaying as he glides over to me, his red eyes piercing orbs of twin rubies, illuminating the darkened air before us with a crimson glow. In response, I raise my hands, two glowing fists of golden flames, fire licking the air with each motion of my hands. Azrael does not seem fazed.

“I had hoped,” he begins, sighing, each step forward only serving to further close the gap between us. “That by now you would have come around to the idea of being here with me. But it seems I was wrong…”