Chapter 74 Origins/The War
❀ Maeve/Lyssa ❀
The drip, drip, drip of blood is the only thing that lulls me.
Day after day, night after night, to prevent me from lashing out at any and everything, humans entertain me with a blood show.
The one in front of me shudders with terror. His doe-brown eyes are shot, hooded with dark circles.
The glinting razor draws my gaze, and my claws lengthen at the promise of entertainment.
But the human stalls. The razor trembles in his loose grip.
The irritation that always precedes rage flares up.
“You exist to die, now, or in a few days’ time, it matters not to me.”
Mother gracefully paces off to the side, her unusual behavior irking me even more.
“Do it,” I bark, and in a stroke of luck, the human jumps, nicking his vein by accident.
Works for me.
With a whimper, he holds his arm over my chalice.
“Hold it still.” My voice is a whisper, as I’m already riveted by the dripping blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
This is the only way to appease my volatile wrath. Even Mother had been on the receiving end just last week.
There’s been crazy talk about preserving the humans. A new age where we drink responsibly instead of to the death.
I remember snorting when the topic had been broached.
The human sways. He’s getting weak.
I glare at him, hissing my displeasure. “Hold. Still.”
Then I go back to viewing. The low fire in the hearth deepens the red color, giving it a rich, glossy sheen.
I almost sigh at the beauty.
The human totters harder this time, almost a stumble.
Unimpressed, I grab him by the bloody arm and pull him into my embrace.
He’s too weak to struggle. There’s no fun in it, but I’m not one to waste good blood.
When he’s a dry husk, I push him to the ground, sipping from the filled chalice as our guards spirit the body away.
The air wraps like crumpled paper, and in its place appears Drusilla.
A dozen leather-clad guards accompany her.
She gives me one unreadable glance, then turns to Mother.
“The line has been crossed. The wolves have signed their death sentence,” she hisses with such vitriol, even I sit up.
Mother turns to face her, brows furrowed with interest.
“Let me guess. They’ve trespassed the mountain range? I do so love a good hunt.”
“Worse,” Drusilla snaps.
Had her voice wavered?
This time, Mother straightens, all humor gone. “What?”
Drusilla thrums with… grief.
“Ivaris. Murdered in a sordid corner of Blackbridge like an alley rat!”
Time stops. The flames still, even as the heat continues to blast.
Mother tilts her head as though still interpreting Drusilla’s words.
Ivaris is her lastborn. Her favorite child.
My immediate younger brother.
Vladis. Drusilla. Myself. Ivaris.
The four pillars of her dark heart. She loves us all in different flavors.
She loves Ivaris the most.
The carefree child. The funny one. The pleasure-indulging one. Always present where wine, naked sweaty bodies, and art abound.
“What?” Mother repeats softly. She even frowns in confusion.
She can’t comprehend it.
But I do.
My claws flare, fangs dropping like hot coals in my mouth.
They dared?
The fragile truce between wolves and vampires has prevailed for thousands of years, and no one ever understood how.
Maybe because Veilmoor is shielded by colossal, cloud-choked mountains, and Ironwolf Pack is sequestered somewhere in the east.
Mother starts forward toward Drusilla. Her steps stutter.
“I felt it,” she rasps. “I felt the pang of his death. But I mistook it for the pulsing of the Crimson Stone—its demand for the next heir.”
They look at me.
I was chosen. But Mother hadn’t deemed me ready until after my treatment. She also liked ruling too much and delayed the transfer of the crown.
The Crimson Stone is unforgiving, insistent. It would kill her if necessary, just to experience me on the throne.
“No,” Mother wails, blood-tears streaking down her porcelain face.
Vladis traces in. One look at his family and he knows what has transpired.
No time to waste.
I rise from my fur-padded gold seat.
My dress whispers as I twirl in circles, a wide grin on my face.
Then I stop abruptly, right in front of what’s left of my wicked, wicked family.
“Does this mean I can play now? No holding back?” My voice is high with excitement.
Mother smiles, looking ghastly with the blood tears.
She leaves Drusilla’s side, her arms rising to the crown on her head as she approaches me.
My heart thuds.
I’d never coveted the crown. But if it was necessary to enact the carnage I had in mind, I would gladly accept it.
Mother presses the emerald-and-diamond-studded gold crown onto my head.
The tiny barbed combs dig into my scalp, drawing blood.
Every time I took it off and put it on, I would experience the pain, to forever remind me of my responsibilities.
Embracing pain for the sake of my kingdom.
Immediately, blood runs down my face. Every single being in the throne room bows to their new queen.
Mother curtsies before me.
My blood sizzles with power, importance, hunger.
“Avenge him, my love. Show them how thick blood can run.”
Only Crimson vampires can trace. Crimson vampires can only trace to places they’ve seen before.
To deliver pain to Ironwolf, we’d have to sweep through Blackbridge, a city with a mostly human population.
My lips curve.
Not a problem. Unlimited supply for the road. Unlimited sustenance on the ground.
All through the preparations, whispers reach my ears whenever I pass through the grand halls of Veilmoor.
Staff, human and vampire alike, carry my title on their lips.
Queen Lyssa, the Crimson Wraith of Veilmoor.
Whoever coined the name has my most heartfelt thanks.
Now, let’s show those wolves how thick blood can run.