Chapter 60 Origins/The Cure
❀ Maeve/Lyssa ❀
‘The stars blink lazily, the chill registers but does not bother me.
“Lyssa.” A woman croons. “You are summoned.”
I sigh, buffing my long nails. “Whatever for?”
“You know what for.” Drusilla sneers, but on her, a sneer is part sensual, part threat.
Wait. How do I know she’s Drusilla?
Wait. How could I not? She’s my sister. Annoying. Hovering. But my sister.
I remember now why Mother would summon me. Ah, yes.
I rise. My dress rustles like the leaves against my bedroom window. Like the low hiss Mother reserves only for me.
Drusilla walks beside me. She follows me everywhere, not because she likes me, but because she enjoys pointing out my weaknesses and savoring my punishments.
Her dress is black, flowing over her lithe body like liquid silk. The corset cinches her nonexistent waist, pillowing her ample bosom.
We look identical, but she is older. We wear identical dresses, but mine is crimson.
Fitting.
As the chosen future heir and matriarch of Veilmoor, I must wear crimson in all attire, or nothing at all.
We stride into the grand throne room, high heels clicking like the bringers of doom. The hush is palpable. All eyes are on us.
The female heirs. One to lead. One to follow. Even though the one to lead is younger.
Drusilla hates that, I assure you.
Our brothers are missing, as usual. They have no obligations, and so they can traipse in and out of Veilmoor freely. Meanwhile, Drusilla and I must hang on the walls like the fat, giant spider in the top ceiling corner.
Mother’s pet. Fhahiza.
Her hundred eyes blink at us while she sucks on her snack… an adult goat.
“Lyssa, child.” Mother’s voice is like the soft bells in human churches.
“Mother,” I bow.
Her smile is suspicious. Shouldn’t she be glaring? Preparing to punish me for my transgression?
Mother rises from her throne, sweeping toward us. “I have found a solution to your failings.”
Drusilla snickers beside me.
“Pray tell, Mother. How will you cure my ailing mind?” I ask, my tone sarcastic.
You wonder what my failings are?
Well, Mother deems me the kindest vampire she has ever seen. She would have killed me for that disease, if only the Crimson Stone hadn’t chosen me to rule Veilmoor in her stead.
“Bring the mortals.”
My heart flutters. I know where this is going.
Our guards drag two human girls to the center of the throne room, depositing them before my sister and me.
The gems on Mother’s dress are blinding, but the glint of hunger in her eyes eclipses them.
“Drusilla,” she purrs, “strike.”
Blood splashes across Mother’s face from the force Drusilla uses to slaughter the mortal girl.
Mother’s lips curl fondly. Her tongue lashes out to lick blood from her lip.
Her eyes turn to me. “Lyssa,” her voice is hard, but hopeful. “Strike.”
The room quiets even further. Hundreds of eyes bear down like lasers.
My fingers tremble, hidden in my skirts. My heart stutters, but my mind hardens.
“No.”
Gasps.
Drusilla chuckles. I don’t look at her. I don’t look at anyone, only my mother, the Pale Requiem of Veilmoor.
“Very well,” do I imagine the sadness in her tone? “seize her.”
I trace.
Drusilla flashes within a split second and topples me to the ground in my room. She traces me back to the throne room.
“We’re doing this for you!” she screams.
“I don’t want anything from you! Not even the throne! Take it… take it!”
Tears of blood stream down my face, my breaths burning in my throat.
Mother sighs. She’s back on her throne.
“You were chosen by the Crimson Stone, my love. But you cannot serve as you are. You will betray your kingdom, your people, if you do not stoke your hunger and wickedness.”
“Maybe the stone chose me for a reason! To be better than all of you. To be kinder. I do NOT see it as a failing.”
Drusilla is still perched on me, her knee digging into my back, arms restraining mine. She has always been stronger.
“It is my strength,” I rasp. Then panic surges. “What are you going to do to me?”
It is common knowledge that death is a mercy with my mother. That she will not kill me, but seek to cure me, is terrifying.
She waves a hand to someone unseen. “Do it.”
Do what?
Light footsteps approach from my right. I turn my head to see a slight human man. He is balding, but young. A pristine coat swallows his wiry frame. Spectacles adorn his pinched, soulless face.
In his hands is a large, truly large, syringe.
He stops beside Drusilla and me. He shows no fear. Despite my kindness toward humans, I hate that this one stands over me, looking down his nose.
He must know I could kill him with the tip of my pinky claw.
But I can’t. Drusilla restrains me as the mortal crouches.
A thick black liquid swirls in the glass syringe. Blues and greens streak through it. I would call it beautiful outside this context. But here, knowing what he intends, my heart thunders. Ice washes down my spine.
“What is that? Don’t fucking touch me, mortal. You will not live to witness the worst of my wrath.”
The mortal… smiles.
It unnerves me.
“Mother! Don’t do this!”
I hate the fear in my voice, the tremor betraying me. They know I’m afraid.
Vampires are never afraid. Vampires are wicked. Evil.
Maybe it’s poison?
“It’s a gift, my love. I birthed you defective, I admit my part of the blame. But I will inject wickedness into you before I let you destroy yourself… and your name.”
Inject wickedness?
The needle pierces my flesh. The liquid streams into my veins.
I don’t react. The pain is negligible.
But the words… inject wickedness.
My lids grow heavy. My heart slows.
It all goes dark.
I heave. Awake again.
But this time I am not on the floor with Drusilla on my back.
I’m on my feet, with Drusilla at my side. She holds me like a weakling in need of support.
Rage courses through me as I wrench my arm free with a hiss.
My vision is tinged red. Since when?
Footsteps.
The guards drag a mortal girl before me.
She cries, her face red as a plum, irises blown wide in terror.
“Princess Lyssa, please. I will leave Veilmoor. You don’t have to do this!”
I remember her. Ophelia. My favorite feeder. My only bloodbag.
Mother punished me for a kindness I’d shown her, smuggling her family into the keep to protect them from predators. From my kin.
A vicious hiss tears from my throat.
Sorcery.
That wasn’t me! Kindness toward a mortal? She had ensorcelled me!
My claws fly before Mother finishes her order.
“Stri—”
The girl hits the floor. Her throat is shredded, flesh in ribbons amid spurting blood. A waste.
Drusilla inhales sharply beside me. “It worked.”
An innate instinct bids me crouch over the still-spurting throat, but no.
I am Lyssa, the Crimson Wraith of Veilmoor.
I do not drink dead blood.
“Bring me a fresh one.” The words slur around my protruding fangs, itching for sustenance, for strength, in the wickedest possible way. “Bring it with its family. I need them to watch.”
Mother’s face splits into a grin.
My veins burn—with wrath.’