Chapter 6 Golden Leash
There was no sunrise in the Citadel. The heavy, smog that blanketed the vampire capital turned from a charcoal black to a sickly, bruised purple. I watched the color shift from the tall arched window of the West Tower, my forehead pressed against the cold glass.
Below, the city was a sprawling nightmare of gears and stone. I could see the tiny figures of thralls, human servants scurrying through the streets, dwarfed by the massive obsidian architecture of their masters.
I turned away, hugging my arms to my chest. My legs ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm. The transformation from tail to legs was complete, but the muscles were new, untested, and furious at being used.
The room was vast and insulting in its luxury. A four-poster bed the size of a small boat, draped in silver silk. A vanity stocked with crystal bottles of perfumes I would never wear. A wardrobe filled with dresses that looked like cages made of velvet and lace.
It was a beautiful room. It was a prison cell.
The heavy iron lock on the door slid back.
I stiffened, backing up against the window, ready to fight. If it was Vespera...
But the door creaked open, and a creature stumbled in, nearly dropping a silver tray.
He wasn't a vampire. He was small, barely coming up to my waist, with skin the color of wet clay and large, bat-like ears that twitched nervously. He wore a tiny, ill-fitting butler’s uniform.
He froze when he saw me, his yellow eyes going wide.
"Oh," he squeaked. "You... you’re awake. Lord Klaus said you would sleep until noon. He said sirens are... sluggish."
"I’m not sluggish," I said, my voice hoarse. "Who are you?"
The creature straightened up, puffing out his small chest. "I am Rook. High Steward of the West Tower. Keeper of the Keys. Duster of the... well, everything."
He scurried over to the table and set the tray down. It clattered loudly. He winced, looking at the door as if expecting Klaus to materialize and punish him for the noise.
"Breakfast," Rook whispered, lifting the silver lid.
I approached cautiously. On the plate sat a piece of charred meat, a bowl of dark red broth, and a single, sad-looking pomegranate.
"What is that?" I pointed to the broth.
"Blood pudding soup," Rook said cheerfully. "Rich in iron. Good for... new legs." He gestured vaguely at my feet.
My stomach turned. "I don't eat blood."
Rook’s ears drooped. "But... Lord Klaus ordered it. He said you are anemic. He said if I didn't make you eat, he would feed you himself."
The memory of Klaus straddling me, his fingers in my mouth, flashed through my mind. Heat flushed up my neck not from desire, but from the humiliation of it. The intimacy of his control.
"I’ll eat the fruit," I compromised. I picked up the pomegranate. It was hard, stubborn.
"Suit yourself," Rook muttered, pouring water from a pitcher. "But you’ll need the strength. He’s coming."
"Who?"
" The Lord," Rook whispered, his voice trembling. "He’s in a mood today. The Emperor yelled at him this morning. Something about the Northern borders." Rook leaned in, conspiring. "When the Lord is in a mood, the air gets... heavy. Like before a thunderstorm."
As if summoned by his fear, the air in the room suddenly changed. The pressure dropped. The fine hairs on my arms stood up.
Heavy boots echoed in the hallway.
Rook let out a terrified squeak and scrambled under the table.
The door swung open.
Klaus filled the frame. He looked immaculate and terrifying. He wore a high-collared shirt of charcoal grey, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the pale, corded muscle of his forearms. He didn't look like he had slept. There were faint, purple shadows under his sapphire eyes, making the blue burn even brighter.
He didn't say hello. He didn't look at Rook. He walked straight to the table, picked up the bowl of blood soup, sniffed it, and then looked at me.
"You haven't eaten it," he stated.
"I’m not a vampire," I said, gripping the pomegranate like a weapon. "I don't consume blood."
"You are a biological organism recovering from a massive physiological restructuring," Klaus said, his tone clipped and clinical. "You need protein. But fine. Starve."
He set the bowl down.
"We don't have time to argue about your diet. The week has started. The clock is ticking."
He walked to the center of the room, pushing a heavy velvet armchair aside with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
"Stand here," he pointed to the center of the rug.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
I didn't move. "I am not your soldier, Lord Falkenstein. You can't just order me around."
Klaus turned slowly. He looked at me with an expression that was half-boredom, half-warning.
"Nerissa," he said softy. "Do you know what Vespera is doing right now?"
I stayed silent.
"She is sharpening a knife," he said. "She is picking out a jar. She is hoping, praying, that you fail. Every second you waste arguing with me is a second closer to her getting her wish."
The image of the rusty knife at my lips returned. My stomach tightened.
I walked to the center of the rug.
"Good," Klaus said. He circled me, walking slowly, like a shark inspecting prey. "Now. Show me what you can do."
"What?"
"Your voice," he said. "The Emperor wants a weapon. Prove to me you are one."
"I can't just... turn it on," I protested. "Siren song is emotional. It flows like the tide. It responds to need, to desire, to fear."
"Adapting is survival," Klaus countered. He stopped in front of me. "Sing. Break that vase."
He pointed to a crystal vase of dead black roses on the vanity across the room.
"That's stupid," I said. "It's just glass."
"If you can't break glass, you can't break bone," Klaus said coldly. "And if you can't break bone, you are useless to the Empire. Sing."
I glared at him. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to wipe that arrogant, detached look off his face.
I took a deep breath. I tried to summon the song. I thought of the ocean. I thought of the waves crashing against the cliffs.
Hummmmm.
A low, pathetic sound left my throat. It sounded like a dying cat.
Klaus didn't even blink. "Pathetic."
"I'm trying!"
"Try harder," he snapped. "The ocean isn't here, Nerissa. The tide is gone. You are on land. You need to find a new source."
"I can't!"
"Find it!" he shouted, stepping closer, his voice booming. "Find the anger! Find the hate! Use it!"
He was provoking me. He was pushing me.
"I said no!"
"You are weak," he sneered, leaning down, his face inches from mine. "Your father was right to throw you away. You aren't a savior. You're just a frightened little girl playing dress-up in a monster's coat."
Something inside me snapped. It was a hot, jagged shard of pure rage that tore through my chest.
I didn't think. I opened my mouth and screamed.
The crystal vase didn't just break.. The glass exploded into a cloud of glittering dust.
But the sound didn't stop there. It slammed into the mirror behind the vase, shattering it into a thousand shards. It hit the windows, cracking the thick panes from top to bottom.
Klaus didn't move.
The sound wave hit him. His hair whipped back. His shirt rippled against his chest. I saw him grit his teeth, his boots sliding backward an inch on the rug as he fought to hold his ground against the physical force of my voice.
I kept screaming. I poured every ounce of my hatred, my fear, my loneliness into the sound. I wanted to knock him down. I wanted to see him bleed.
Stop.
He didn't say it. He moved.
He lunged through the wall of sound, fighting the pressure like a man walking into a hurricane. He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in hard.
"Enough!" he roared over the noise.
I couldn't stop. The power was pouring out of me, a broken dam.
He shook me. "Nerissa! Look at me!"
I looked at him. His eyes were blazing. The blue light in his neck was pulsing violently.
He did the only thing he could do.
He covered my mouth with his hand.
The sound was cut off instantly, muffled against his leather glove.
Silence crashed back into the room, deafening in its suddenness.
I stood there, heaving, my chest rising and falling rapidly. My throat burned. My knees felt weak.
Klaus was breathing hard too. A lock of black hair had fallen over his forehead. He stared at me, his hand still clamped over my mouth, his eyes wide.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered his hand.
I gasped for air, tasting leather and his scent.
"I..." I stammered, looking at the destruction in the room. The dust of the vase was settling on the floor like snow.
Klaus looked at the shattered mirror. Then he looked back at me.
For the first time, there was no mockery in his face. No cold detachment.
There was respect. And something else. Fear?
"Better," he whispered, his voice rough.
He stepped back, adjusting his collar, regaining his composure. But I saw his hand flexing at his side.
"You have power," he said, his tone strictly professional again. "But no control. You are a cannon without an aim. You would have brought the ceiling down on us."
"You made me do it," I whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek. "You said..."
"I know what I said." He walked over to the vanity and picked up a shard of the broken mirror. He looked at his reflection in it.
"Anger is a potent fuel," Klaus said quietly. "But it burns fast. If you rely on hate, you will burn yourself out before the war even starts."
He turned to face me.
"We will practice every day. Until you can break a single glass without shattering the rest of the room. Until you can stop a heart without stopping your own."
He walked to the door. Rook poked his head out from under the table, trembling.
"Clean this up," Klaus ordered the goblin.
He paused at the threshold, looking back at me.
"The Emperor wants a monster," Klaus said. "You just proved you can be one. Don't let it go to your head."
"Klaus," I said.
He stopped.
"My father," I said, my voice shaking. "Was he right? Am I... am I the rot?"
Klaus stood there for a long moment. He didn't turn around.
"The rot destroys without purpose," he said. "You... you are simply a storm looking for a place to land."
He opened the door.
"Eat the fruit, Nerissa. Tomorrow, we work on precision."
He left.
I stood in the center of the ruined room, the smell of ozone and crushed flowers in the air. I looked at my hands. They were trembling.
I had broken the glass. I had made the great Lord Falkenstein slide backward.
I picked up the pomegranate. I dug my fingernails into the tough skin, ripping it open. Red juice ran down my wrist like blood.
I took a bite. It was sour. It was bitter.
But as I chewed, watching the grey smog swirl outside the cracked window.