When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 257

Through the thick mist and the myriad of branches, a clutch of figures looms out from the gloom…

“This way,” Asocrates calls in a panicked tone, cantering back around on his horse to round us both up, as though he feared he might have lost us in the thick gloom of the forest. Though mostly likely he was concerned for losing something else in that moment, something a little more important than losing two people temporarily in the darkness of the eternal starlight.

Grimacing, I duck my head low into the mane of the horse to hide the darkness of my expression.

If he doesn’t manage to show us both evidence of the soul’s existence, Asocrates is going to lose his life. And no matter how greatly I would rather Azrael didn’t murder him in cold blood, there is simply nothing I can do about it. If Azrael wants Asocrates to die, it will happen.

“Imbecile,” Azrael mutters with an arrogant roll of his eyes, whipping harder on the reins for us to pick up the pace. Ignoring the alarmed squeals of the horse and Asocrates (who is very much in earshot), he adds:

“As if we could lose him anyway. Ignorant peasant.”

To this I only duck my head lower, shivering, though not from the cold. Keen to avoid Azrael’s ever brewing wrath, we continue to trip on in silence, past looming shadows and towering dead trees until at last we stop when a glimmer of light hits the track a few metres ahead of us.

Asocrates is quick to jump down from his horse, eager to be on solid ground and feel the sturdiness of land beneath his feet. Azrael and I, however, remain seated, for we have no wings that need stretching, and no obligations to travel on foot just yet.

As we pull up to the leather clad soldiers (notably conscious), an eerie echo resounds through the forest: hundreds of chittering voices, laughing and whispering in a wordless hum of noise. Strange, luminous figures swoop past the guards in a flurry of motion, almost to quick to capture with the eyes, and entirely hostile looking, if it weren’t for the knowledge that I already possess. They aren’t here to kill. They are here to play.

“Where are the rest of your men,” Azrael shouts down to them coldly, scanning the small handful of soldiers that waver before him, trembling in fear. Azrael barely even regards the spirits that swoop and screech past the faeries, or the screams of terror that reverberate around him. He merely looks on in silence, his fingers tapping at his side as he waits impatiently for an answer.

The bravest Faery takes a small step forward holding his shield up against one such spector who dances out and around him, obviously not caring. The creature merely zips through the shield, knocking it away as it does so, though admirably, the soldier manages to stay his ground.

“They went straight down this path,” he denotes in a wobbly tone. “The spirits haven’t stopped harassing us since, they won’t let us pass. I think she might have them, my Lord.”

Right on queue, the spirits dive down towards the faery folk, causing them to scatter and leap into the air as they leap after the luminous spirits in pursuit. Some of the soldiers’ swords- obviously heavily enchanted to be able to touch the spirits, manage to get a swipe at a few, sending them spiralling into the black abyss. But when one spirit vanishes, vanquished by the sword of one of the Folk, another only takes its place, maintaining the constant cycle of weaving and dodging between the soldiers. The spirits seem to be inflicting damage too: little cuts and gashes over the skin, and occasionally drawing a strange luminescence from the soldiers’ forms. It occurs to me then how pale and pasty they all look, sweat dripping down the sides of their heads, their eyes seemingly too big for their sockets.

They look as though they are on the verge of death.

“Help us, please,” they beg when the spirits have at last relinquished their attacks, falling to the ground.

When the soldiers are at last exhausted beyond recovery, their wings battered and bruised by the wind, faces paled from exhaustion, the spirits once again slink off into the shadows of the swaying trees. And there they lie without a rustle or a whisper, waiting with an eternal patience for the next soldier to try and test their fortitude.

But Azrael is no soldier.

“Move,” he says stonily, hitting down on the reins again to propel the stallion into a fast trot. I try not to look down as we practically crush the men below him beneath the heels of the horse. I try my best to muffle out the bloodcurdling screams from my brain- and the splitting crunches of fragmented bone. Azrael has no use for these men any more.

One might have supposed that being around the Scarlet King for weeks on end would have rendered me immune to such mortal sounds, for they are the weakness of flesh and blood, and ones that my husband has shown many times to have twisted. But through all of his neck snapping, and the removing of several vampires limbs, it was never without reason or purpose, there was always some motive behind his actions, however twisted it may be.

But Azrael… Azrael has no remorse. He crushed those men simply because they were there.

And that is where he differs from Soren. For while the two can be equally cold blooded killers when the time is right, Soren does not do so incessantly and without intention.

Azrael simply does not care.

“Pesky spirits,” Azrael mutters as they swoop down to swarm around our forms, biting and nibbling at our clothes and skin like fish in a pond, only these fish have rather sharp teeth and an unquestionably malicious intent. “They barely even hurt anyway,” he rumbles gruffly, flicking them away with his hand as they come close, a few sharp cuts gashing across his skin.

Mysteriously, however, every single one of their attacks seems to narrowly miss me by an inch, and as they pass I catch a glitter of eyes beneath the glow, and a wide, smirking smile.

They are simply playing a game, just as Ingrid had intended.

“Fucking leave us alone, you little brats,” Azrael spits at the spirits, flinging his hand down towards the ground, releasing a white jet of light that spirals up between us. It moulds and wreaths for a few moments- a corpse possessed by maggots, before finally its form renders into cognition.

And there stands before us in all its shining glory, a perfect replica of ourselves: a tall white haired vampire and an elegant, curvy woman, her skin gleaming under the stars as though it was her that had captured the wonder of countless poets, and not them. The white haired vampire looks confident, brave, and I could swear the horns atop his head are a fraction larger than reality, but perhaps that is merely a trick of the light.

“That is very impressive,” I murmur, reaching out to let my fingers graze the side of the alternate stallion as it passes us, the texture of its fur and exact replica of the one that heaves and growls beneath me. “Azrael you have outdone yourself.”

But he barely seems to hear my voice. Instead his eyes are focused on the path ahead of us, to where the darkness grows thick and the smell of death seeps into the cracks of reality. There, that is where he wants to be.

“That should keep them distracted,” Azrael grunts, as though the whole ordeal is rather bothersome to him. “Asocrates, keep their attention on the illusion, we are going through alone.”

“But I-” Asocrates starts, before Azrael flashes him a dirty look and immediately he quietens down. Fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves, Asocrates bows his head low, straining to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“Yes, Master Azrael.”

A cold sneer graces Azrael’s lips.

“My illusion should do most of the work. Just keep the men alive, send for a medic if you must. Otherwise, I will feed the corpses to Ulysses.”

“R-right,” Asocrates stutters, backing down as he brings his horse around to the remaining men who still wait, standing. The majority of them groan at the renewed vigour of the spirits, who promptly begin to surround the illusion. I expect they are anticipating yet another fight.

“I will not fail you, Master Azrael.”

And just like that one of the most powerful members of the Faeries becomes nothing more than a slave. I can see it in his face, in the manner of his speech, his defeat, his anguish. He has no honour left to lose. Better to be a slave than to lose your life entirely.

“You better not fail me, you know what happens if you do,” Azrael warns, before turning us both back around, and whipping the reins of our horse, sending us cantering off without another word.