When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 224

Angrily, Azrael runs his clawed fingers through his hair, his form shifting in an instant to reveal the marred face below the façade he put up. There is no doubt about it, in his rage, he is losing control. Silently, I stash away that morsel of information for another time. At least now I know if I want to worm my way under Azrael’s skin I can do so by electing some sort of emotional response- now that is a field I can work with.

As he breathes a heavy groan, Azrael points a finger at me with a bitter and unassuming expression.

“You just couldn’t make things easy for me, huh brother?” he growls through clenched teeth, running his fingers once more down the valley of my breasts before tearing himself sharply away (although that action in itself seems to take a rather large amount of effort).

“Stupid Soren and his fucking blood binding,” Azrael mutters bitterly under his breath, rising now as he dusts of his blood stained hands. Just to play the act, I give him a little pout, reaching out to him, as though the draw him back like a fish on a string.

“You are leaving?” I whisper, horrified.

Azrael does not answer me directly.

“Just stay here,” he orders, spit flying from his mouth at every word. But between that and the mess that the blood has already made of the carpet, he hardly seems to care. “I have matters to attend to, and would like to find a way to surpass this frivolous blood binding business. So while I do that, stay in your room.”

Irritably, and obviously fuming at the result of my brother’s actions, he crosses the room in one long stride, lifting my chin up to meet his gaze with a gnarled, bony finger. So I look up at him, doe eyed and woeful, so pitifully helpless in the eyes of the big strong vampire who lingers before me.

But inside, my mind is snarling with disgust, juddering as his fingers move round to cup my cheek- the brazenness of him- as though I belong to him and not Soren. But instead of saying all this, I merely plea:

“Must you go?” like a weak and wearied damsel under the thumb of her prince. For that is what I am now, or at least for the time being.

For the first time in a long time, I see his will waver. Taking a step back, he almost seems lost for words, his mouth moving silently, eyes furrowing with a fleeting state of confusion. He seems almost entrapped in the vision I have put up for him- one of innocence and childish misunderstanding.

Then he puffs out a breath, hardening his features to a rocky granite, chiselling his face out of stone once more as he resumes that immovable unfeeling cold façade.

“I am sending in some servants to clear up this mess. You will be summoned for dinner when I see fit, understood?”

Blandly, I nod as he releases my chin from his grasp, before quickly adding after:

“Yes master,” and Azrael’s body relaxes, sinking back into itself like a bird nesting after dark, as if all at once everything is right with the world.

“Good,” the wicked prince states simply.

He doesn’t spare me another word as he leaves, which I’m rather grateful for as only an hour in and I am sick of hearing the incessant growl of his voice. But as he shuts the door behind him with an audible bang, it is all I can but to sink into the silky covers of the bed, screwing my eyes shut as I attempt to steady the pounding of my heart that hammers ruthlessly in my chest.

Holy shit, I mutter inwardly to myself, knowing now that words like that are too perilous to be spoken aloud. I knew that pretending would be stressful, but I never anticipated just how  stressful it would be. It is as exhilarating as it is terrifying, the wonderous race of spinning a lie without being caught in one yourself. But I had not anticipated how blazon Azrael would be to begin with, how much he wants from me. If this continues…

I can only hope Soren will forgive me.

Desperately, I try to put aside the tingling sensations that blur my skin to numbness, but upon finding them too potent to dismiss, I jump up from my bed, searching for something to sooth my anxieties.

A sink in the corner of the room does well- so as quickly as I dare, I scoop up pooling rivulets of water from the open faucet, splashing my face, my arms, and attempting with my best endeavours to strike away the blood that stains my skin. The memory of it all, however, remains. A dirty stain on my conscience, pure disgust seeping into my gut as I feel my stomach churn once more, before I vomit up the last of the contents of my stomach into the sink.

So much for cleaning up.

When at last I have worked up enough redness on my skin to consider myself clean, and the blood that lingers on my skin as been washed away from my conscience, I reside, slinking back down onto the bed with a heavy flop.

Knowing it is dangerous, but seeing little other choice, I sink down into the covers, content merely to be enveloped in the silken sheets and furs. My mind slides into blackness as I rest there, my heart aching with a longing that I suspect will not leave me for a long time now.

Please be alright, my friends, I whisper into my mind, baselessly hoping that somewhere, someone will hear.

But my calls are greeted with nothing but silence, and the steady drip drip of water that bleats itself into nothing. And so blackness consumes my vision in a heavy blanket of sleep, pulling me down into the void until nothing is left but a rocky silence and a figure in the darkness, calling out my name.

***

“Serena,”

A voice whispers, barely even audible, muffled in the chasms of my tired mind. So I ignore it, turning in my sleep, dismissing it as little more than a whisper of the wind coming from the open window that is boarded by silver bars. Sleep has a way of playing tricks on the mind- foul and cruel as a fox. I have no doubt this is merely one of those times.

But then I hear the voice again, louder this time, more insistent:

“Serena.”

I groan in my sleep, batting away the voice that lingers so close to my ear it seems almost real. Then my hand catches on something, soft skin, warm- but only just, the tickling brush of tousled hair against the back of my hand…

And my eyes snap open.

Blinking back the halflight of the room, my eyes bleary and blurred by sleep, I observed the figure who is steeped in blackness as they clamp their hand over mine. There is a faint glow around them, dull and blue in its hue. I do not see their face, only a smell: putrid, deathly, as they lean down to whisper:

“He is coming. You must help her,” Before the door crashes open and the vision vanishes, as if it were never there to begin with.

Bolt upright, head spinning, I narrow my eyes to the person at the doorframe, attempting to make out any sort of familiarity to the shape of their form. But there is none to see, only a luscious array of skin, dark as roasted coffee, a bountiful frame and long curling black hair, tied up in two buns on either side of her head. Silken wings trail down her back, delicate and light, almost translucent in the half light of the room, but not quite.

Faery wings, I think to myself, slowly slipping off my bed as the woman comes towards me, a wide smile on her face which almost seems a little too wide. We must be somewhere far north, perhaps northwest, at least miles away from the palace of Sezeria, that is for sure. Faeries aren’t usually found so openly in courts and established cities, they prefer to be more recluse, to stick with their kind- aside from the all famous Fairy Queen Kagura, who married a vampire many years back. To see one wandering around a palace so unfazed is a good indication that we are in their territory- or at the very least, close to it.

Sceptically, I wonder why Azrael chose such a location to begin with. Out of all the places to storm, palaces to take… to choose a Faeries kingdom is a risky business to take, even with a soul.

“Serena,” the woman calls, her mouth moving monotonously, like a robot, her eyes glazed, as though she doesn’t even recognise the words that are coming out of her mouth, as though the tongue is foreign to her. “Lord Azrael is expecting you for tea. He has arranged for me to bring you a dress. I shall wait for you outside.” She says, placing a few reams of fabric at the end of my unmade bed, before stalking out with clacking heels and long legs.