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punkandsnacks · 4 years

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Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Thirteen; Delirium.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

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Trigger Warnings: !!! illness and swooning again in this chapter !!! Fever type dreams that get spooky and deathy

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Kylo was losing his mind.

It’s been known to happen to vampires of certain ages. Possibly ones even older than him, if any such do exist. Alive so long they start to rot and fester in their own bodies.

Brains blown and shattered apart from all the violence of things they’d done. Drifting and flaking apart like much too dried clay. The horror of the acts some vampires committed to feed. Not everyone could face or stomach it for so long. Drove them cackling into the worst sort of madness.

He’s seen men fall apart too. Mortal men. He’s seen entire armies and countries of men perish. Losing their heads to the last breath, infected with illness, or pox or the plague.

Deformed and rotting away already, before death had even come to them. Life clung on to them like some leeching disease. Decaying their bodies before their spirit had left their flesh.

He’d seen scores of roguish men who’d dallied with pox ridden girls. Perishing with no control nor use of their bodies and no eyesight to help them. He’d seen many many men succumb to it for some cheap penny’s worth of indulgence with some infested whore up against a tavern or brothel wall. Those men end up as dribbling and demented fools. Turned into deformed madmen.

It was hell. It was as close to any hell as he’d seen. The Black Death. He can remember that aswell. That rot.

How it bittered the air of every rust red Italian street. He’d been in Italy, in when it first struck. The hacking wet of sloppy coughs until blood comes frothing up.

Bloated bodies of peasants - men, women, children and infants - swelled green with festering flesh, dumped in the river, clogging up the Arno. Crows pecking at the bobbing corpses, ripping off flesh and eyeballs like wet peeling paper.

So many bodies-

Worse than ever, Kylo remembers the stench of plague. Rotting meat writhing with maggots, but candied with something of the human flesh, somehow. He’ll remember it for eternity. That cursed stench of putrefaction cloying the rivers and streets. It would stay seared into him for all his time still to come.

He recalls how some walled themselves into their own homes. They stayed inside to fester. Or drink themselves to death. Or pray. The illness took all of them before too long - faith or no faith. He could hear the wails of the nearly dead bleed through the thick red walls.

Blackened fingers, the fever and the boils, the salty sweat of rot and the reeking decay of death in every house. Everything the sick body excreted, be it sweat, spittle or breath, exuded an overpowering stench that he will never forget.

Whole towns emptied. Abandoned. Their population now lay rotting in the swallowing of the soil.

The doctore de la peste roamed the streets with their unseeing round glassy-eyes. In their beaks packed with sweet dried roses, mint leaf and carnation petals. The sickle of it trailed behind them like smoke cutting through the gloom. The ripe perfumery of plague.

By the end. The river was overrun with corpses. Couldn’t see the water for the rotting swill of flesh and bones. Rats scampering over them feeding. Gnawing. Birds plucking out what they liked to feed on.

It’s enough of a sight to make a man want to put out his own eyes with a red hot poker after seeing such illness, pestilence and misery.

It’s happening to him right as of now; in fact. Losing his mind. He’s certain.

They could mark this, 1816, as the year that he relaxed his firm hold on his sanity. It only took a thousand and twenty seven years.

It only took the sight of his sweet dove, in his bed, writhing and sweating with fever. Delirious and dangerously ill.

She collapsed after dinner and he swept her upstairs right away. Mrs Jones sent a note for the local doctor. Sent their bravest rider out on Erland, into the storm by the safest road. Jomar fetches her a cold cloth from the anteroom. Kylo can’t leave her side. He won’t.

He sits on the bed and watches over her diligently. When Jomar returns with a bowl of icy cold water, stands it on the bedside and wrings out the cloth. Kylo takes it from his offered hand without even casting an eye in his direction. He takes the sopping linen and pastes it across her clammy brow.

She’s splayed back in his bed, weak and insensate. To hell with liberties. He took the gown and shawl off her himself, and bundled the white cotton and red velvet sheets over her. She sank back onto his pillows. Sprawled limp.

Her lovely pale face sheened in sweat. Whole body shivering and her breathing was shallow. Brow creased and wrinkled up in pain.

Kylo’s sitting near. Pulling sticky strands of hair off her cheeks. Hating the sight of her like this. He’s banked the fire and had extra blankets put on the bed. But he’s unsure. He’s never sat at a sick bed for a mortal before. Well- not like this. He’s attended a death bed. But here? He doesn’t know what to do. How to act.

Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see him. He’s certain she can’t see him or anyone else in the room. She’s dazed. Lost to sense.

And he’s frantic. He’s mopping her brow but he doesn’t know what good that might do. She keeps twisting her head away from him. Fingers twining into the sheets, fisting them in her hands. Gasping and shuddering breath. Her chest is moving up and down so fast it hurts him to see this.

Mrs Jones timidly knocks on his bedchamber door. Kylo’s voice is strained when he answers the knock. She comes in. Her face pinched and the very sight of it hurts Kylo’s nonexistent heart.

“The doctor can’t attend her, my Lord. He’s trapped a county over delivering a baby.” She says breathless and pink from running up the stairs. Her skirts still picked up in her hands.

That was Kylo’s last hope. He dismisses her with a curt nod. Not ill tempered at her news. Merely overshadowed by this whole room. All this grave pressing silence and illness.

The very air in here feels tense. Made dry and hot by the fire. Stale with human exertion. And Still. So still with anticipation and uncertainty.

Jomar returns with another icy bowl of water, a fresh cool cloth. Kylo reaches and swaps it for the clammy warm one. She groans and tries to twist away.

Kylo soothes her. “Dove. It’s alright it’s alright.” He hushes her as she fidgets and tosses around. Knees tugging under the blankets. Hands still fisting in the sheets. She’s whining. She’s pleading with him. The hysteria has gripped its nasty hold tight.

“No... no. Ugh. Please. No.” She gasps. Head looming far back. Neck stretched out. Dewy, and by the darkened light of his room, her long supple neck and throat is now shimmering amber. Kylo’s hand take the cloth away and she sighs a lungful of a groan in response.

“She’s not talking to you My Lord.” Jomar insists. “It is the fever.” He assures Kylo.

His butler is now washing his hands in the water jug across on the dresser. Scrubbing soap and his nails with a harsh scratching brush that sizzles at his skin. He dunks his hands under the cloudy milk of the water and washes away the soap suds.

“What do I do?” Kylo’s pleading to them both. To Jomar and Mrs Jones. He looks like a little dark haired boy. An infant. Helpless and terrified.

Sat there, teetering on the edge of his bed, starry silver tears in his eyes. It might be the only time they’ve seen him truly weak or scared. Wracked with agony with something even he can’t control.

Powerless to help the woman he loves.

Mrs Jones knows of that look. She sees the russet sparkle in his Lordships eyes. And it aches her. Sees the pain in his creased brow and displayed in the openness of his face. He is used to having power over so many things - this is not part of his influence. It does not share in being intimidated by him as most things and people usually do.

This vampires one weakness; terror for the frailty of mortality. That she could and might slip away to a place beyond his mighty reach.

Jomar crosses back to the bed, takes her wrist and feels for her pulse. His clever kind hands were cool on her feverish skin. Still she shivers in his grasp. He fixes his gaze downwards as he holds her frail arm. Returning it gently to her side when he’s done.

“Her heart rate is very fast.” He says with veiled emphasis. He then leans up and peers over her face, gently cupping it to see her eyes. “Her eyes are unfixed also.”

“I think it may be an affliction on her lungs. A chill caught from the rainstorm.” He suggests to Kylo.

“How do we treat her?” Kylo’s demanding with every note of his voice laced with hope.

Jomar shares an anxious look with Mrs Jones. “We don’t. Your lordship.” Jomar tells him gravely.

“We can only wait now for the fever to break. But we can do everything within our power to make her comfortable.” He insists to his Master and friend. Laying a kind hand on his shoulder.

Lord Ren looks up at him. Lost in his gaze. His silver bangle catches the light. A darting glimmer. Like a silver scaled fish swimming in dark inky waters. His butlers hope and goodness always shone great through the darkest of times.

Jomars bronzed eyes melt for him like crushing gold honey and warm cocoa. Tries to bolster him kindly for this devastating news.

“Is there truly nothing I can do?” Kylo chokes out. His voice hadn’t the bravery to rise beyond a whisper. He just had to watch her suffer like this? Twisting and delirious and unconscious with fever.

“I’m afraid so M’lord. In the meantime-“ Mrs Jones says. Crossing the wide dark room to the window. Batting away the crimson drapes. The battle axe she was is on the warpath. She’ll see this right. Kylo wouldn’t trust anyone else.

“We might try to keep her cool. Fever burns you up something wicked. So I won’t have her stifled. Loose blankets are best. And we are to mop her brow and her neck every hour. On the hour.” She commands. Jomar nods in agreement.

“I’ll see to some laudanum for her relief, from the medicine cupboard.” He insists. Bowing his head to Kylo before slipping away.

Off out the door. Picks up the lit candle holder in his hand from the side. The long ivory taper of it flickers a warm marmalade in the dark of his Lordships crimson room. Kylo watches the glow of it, and him, disappear down the dark hall. Swallowed up into the blackness of the house.

The treads of his boots crushed silent and dead on the rug in the corridor. The hazy fog of champagne yellow coated the walls of Hellford like thick gold dust. Shining off every polished wood door and dark floorboard. Grows fainter and fainter as he moves away.

Kylo turns back to his dove. Takes the cloth away. Re-wets it. Puts it back on her brow. He takes it away again once the cool is gone. Replaces the cloth with his own cold hand. All of his fingers dwarfing most of her head. He slips around and cups the nape of her neck and she rolls her solid head onto the arch of his arm.

She’s so warm it almost burns his hand. His chest aches to feel her that way.

She protests at the cold. “Leave me.” She sobs. “Leave me alone...” She cries. Eyes shut. Denying him the alluring cloudy grey gaze of those eyes he admires so much.

“I will do no such thing...” Kylo says lowly. Stroking wet tamped hair off her forehead. Looking at her flushed cheeks which burn hot. He presses the back of his hand to them. To soothe them. The crinkle in her brow lessens a little at his icy touch. The only time his coldness has ever come in handy.

Mrs Jones grabs the bowl of water from next to him but before she scurries downstairs to replace it she offers. “Your Lordship, I can send for a maid to sit with her. If you need some rest.”

“I will stay.” Kylo presses. “I won’t leave her side until this wretched thing breaks.” He insists with stony determination.

He looks back to Iris. Cupping her cheek in his hand. Watching her breathing pant rapid. She leans into his touch.

With no clear action before him, other than to comfort her. His mind, denied of a task, emptied of all things, now fear began to fill it.

Mrs Jones says nothing. But she gives him a trembling look of affection that attempts at bolstering him. She takes the bowl and she too pads softly out the room. The creaking whine of the door being softly shut was the final announcement to their being availed of company.

Kylo turns back to her. A terrible weight squeezing down on his chest. He’s sat at a fair number of deathbeds in his life. He’d watched some human friends fade away. But that was certain. War or disease took them from him.

This is not certain and it’s killing him all over again.

It’s that night on the battefield in the snow again and again again. Draegan finding him. Coming across Kylo as he lay dying. The burning dripping searing blood leaking down his side. His wound was by the abdomen. The worst way to die. It could take days. The white hot agony searing his bones in acid all over again. Scarlet snow. Scarlet wet snow everywhere.

He can remember cool slender fingers cupping his neck. The whisper across his cheek like a kiss of the icy north wind. “You know you will not survive this.” He explained. Unsticking Kylo’s leather gloved hand from the wound that ran along the entire side of his stomach. Silver eyes, like precious moonstones, looking at the blood laying black and thick on his palm.

To the very last. Kylo fought like a warrior. When he often had resolved, as a Viking soldier, of pondering his own death. He had envisioned a glorious end. Sword in hand cutting down his enemies until his very last breath.

He never imagined in his wildest dream that death would smile handsomely at him first. Never believed he’d be side by side with the devil - and that he would love him with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Never thought he’d love again - until he laid eyes on this beautiful creature. He lusted for her first of all. That instant carnal attraction. But that had masked how she truly made Kylo’s soulless body ache to love her.

She brought him to his knees. And now he’s choking on his grief.

“Please don’t leave me, Little Dove.” He begs in a whisper as she writhes and sweats into his bedsheets. Gasping and dulled.

“Don’t go to the one place I can’t follow.” He begs. Laying his big hand over where hers was limp and stretched out atop the velvet covers. His hand dwarfed hers utterly. But his touch was so gentle. Unsure.

“I told you if anything happened to you. It would kill me.” He says. Looking at her earnest face. So dewy and flushed.

“I meant my words. Iris, If I have to spend an eternity without loving you then, I-“ His throat claws up. Suffocating his words. He shakes his head.

He brings her limp arm up. Back of her clammy hand pressed to his mouth. Nuzzles a kiss to her skin. Tastes the salt of her sweat. Tastes her agony. He’s certain it reflects his own.

“I won’t leave you.” He vows solemnly. A silky whisper that he speaks into her skin. He always takes his vows seriously.

Treads rattle louder in the hallway. Coming back to the room. Jomar enters again with the bottle of laudanum and a spoon to hand.

Kylo will be the one to feed it to her. He gently cups her face and slips the silver spoon to her lips. An oddly intimate act. He feeds the opiate into her mouth, she twists her head and some of it runs down her chin. Kylo wipes it away with the cloth. Taking up the task of the lowliest maid. Seeing so tenderly to her in her illness.

He’s calmed a little by the fact of the laudanum taking away any pain she might be feeling. Her breathing settles. As does his worry.

He retires to the chair by the fireside across the room. The same deep wine red velvet as covers his bed. He pulls it close to the end of his huge four postered bed. Drapes hanging heavy down all four mahogany posts. Protecting the pale infirm form of her within. He’ll watch over her from his bedside. Cradled in the comfort of the chair.

Some ineffectual matronly mama of the ton may argue that this was most improper. A single man watching over the bedside of an unmarried girl. Worst still- an unmarried girl on the brink of an engagement.

Kylo snorts to himself. Wondering if the deuced snotty boy of a Sergeant would even care that his intended was gravely ill. Probably only cared that she had fallen ill in Kylo’s manor.

It didn’t matter that she was unconscious and insensate. She was in the very room with a man who compromised her honour, and Hux’s. Making a fool of him. In in Lord Ren’s very own bed, no less.

Well. Not that either of them were in any fit state to be compromising the hell out of each other. But he doubts strict society will see it that way. This was enough impropriety just being within touching distance.

One thing that does prevail upon him a tiny shred of bright happiness in all this darkness. Is the fact that he knows how desperately fuming this whole situation would make Iris’s mother.

Him protecting her. Rescuing her. Keeping her safe. He’s sure the old harpy would be frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog knowing where her daughter was. She’d likely spout out nastiness, how it was all a concoction for the dashing dark Lord Ren to seduce and spoil her eldest daughter. To ruin their hope of an advantageous marriage.

Little did that termagant know, but it was far too late for that.

Iris was worked her sweet steady way under his skin from every outing they’ve shared. Every look across a crowded ballroom. Every touch of their hands, gloved or not. Their dance. Their kiss. It was the inferno that brought their affection and regard for each other to a fever pitch.

She trembles whenever he comes close. When their eyes meet he always feels the delighted shiver that runs the full length of her spine. The blush that prettily decorates her cheeks. Finer than any jewellery he could bestow on her gorgeous body.

Funny how such a thing as her blush made him think of so many things.

It made him want to whisk her away in the dead of night. Back to Bavaria. Install her there as the Lady of his castle. Sharing his land. Sharing his title. Lady Ren. He’d have her dresses tailored by the finest Dressmaker in Bavaria.

Dust off the family jewels and then bedeck her in them. Head to toe. Nothing less would do for her. She’s suffered such a life of penury and scraping together to make her as bait to men for marriage. He’d see to ending that sad facet of her life. He’d let her choose what she wears. Whether or not she had to pay calls or deliver baskets to the infirm.

He’d let her lounge in a boudoir parlour, reading books, and accomplish nothing in her day apart from having a sumptuous oiled bath if she so desires. He just wants to see her happy.

He’d open the whole castle for her to explore room after room. Every tapestry. Every oil painting and marble statue. Every suit of armour he’d fought in over the years. Stood proud and polished silver on display. All of it he’d let her have.

How he misses it... his home. Ranlor Castle.

He misses the way the castle feels to step into. The scent of it. The edifying old thick stone halls of musty brick and how the smell of green and pine like the forest surrounding it, seeps in every window. Hanging upon the very air.

He misses the warmth of the fur pelts on his bed on a stormy night. The sky flurrying with snow, wind howling at tiny lead crossed windows. He was so used to hearing the wolves cry out for the moon in the woods at night, as he fell asleep in his big soft bed. Missed the way flame and shadow danced up the thick exposed golden-bricked walls. It lulls him to sleep.

The locals rightly call Ranlor the ‘devils rock.’ A dark superstition has long lingered over the land ever since Kylo had been in residence there.

Named because of the way the - many - turrets either end of the castle rear out the landscape like two sharp pale fangs. Looking over all the local villages and tenants. The shadows of those turrets reach far and wide. Everything is eclipsed in it’s shade. Grisly things were said to happen too, in his woodlands. Strong men go missing and not even so much as their bare bones are ever recovered.

Local folk legend blindly believes when the moon is full, that devils roam the woods. Black wolves turn into foul hungry demons with claws, ready to hunt upon the flesh of men. When the moon is its full eye of pearl in the sky, people are warned to stay off the forest. And stick to their homes. Bolt the doors and draw the shutters. Cower in their beds and listen to the wolves howls rise faintly over the snowy horizon. Piercing through the snow.

Kylo’s work providing for his lands and Ranlor’s tenants so ably puts shame to most of the rumours.

He is a generous Lord and master of the lands. Nothing is beyond his notice. He holds a ball for the local villages every year, near Yuletide season. Amidst the bitter winter. The staff bring in great log garlands made from the holly in the forest to decorate the hall. They serve brandy and punch and Kylo mixes among everyone to see how their year has been as his tenants.

If families struggle, too many mouths to feed. He absolves their rent. Ensures they are kept stocked with food from the castles own kitchen to tide them over- He has no need for it after all. His servants eat handsomely too, Kylo makes sure of that.

If bouts of illness flourish among his tenants and among those less fortunate than him, he puts up the money for the doctors bills. He takes care of his own. Even if they are not his kin. They are under his protection on his territory.

He is remarked on being a very gallant and fair man. No one on his land would dare observe that he was frightening and cruel.

Only if he is gotten on the wrong side of that is. If poachers steal from his lands and steal the food supplies belonging to his people. Or if he sees any drunken men take advantage where they shouldn’t with a passing maiden, outside the taverns. If a violent and ill tempered brute of a man who drinks his families wage away, so much as dares to raise a hand to his suffering wife or children- then does Kylo reveals his nasty side.

He’s sure there are still gossips that believe the superstition of his home. In local taverns at night over pitchers of ale, some men lean in, to whisper and wonder and gossip if he is entirely as human as he seems.

He rarely eats. Never drinks to excess. Had never taken a wife and he doesn’t dally with whores. He stalks the forest alone most nights. They sometimes remarked that he was not human. There was little humanity about him. But they never suspected for a moment that the bloodthirsty demon unleashed by the full moon, was in fact him.

The reason some of the bones of missing men were never found? Because Kylo drains them of the blood and leaves the drained corpse for the hungry wolves to tear apart.

Kylo ruminates on memories of home as he watches the firelight kiss across her pale form on the bed. Her breathing still shallow.

“I’d so much like for you to see Ranlor. Little dove. You’d adore it.” He says. Speaking to her as if she were awake to hear him.

He tells her about the forest. About the bitter winter gales that blow through. And how it thaws so prettily in spring. Woods full of blue hyacinths and pink scented stocks. Sugary and sickly perfume of them in the warm pine of sun-baked air.

He tells her how she’d like the wildflowers and the baby roe deers and the lake when it’s warm enough to swim in. To dip into the fathomless sapphire ink of water. The graceful swans that dance across the blue waters surface.

He tells her she’d like the local life. Much like here, people were humble and simple. Salt of the earth. People who make no pretence to be more than they are. How refreshing he finds that compared to all the Janus faced civility. Velvet draped over daggers, and dripping censure that falls from lord’s and ladies mouths, in a savage English country ballroom.

He describes the villages nearby. On the road to Ranlor. The tall narrow houses built of walnut timber and smothered in white paint. Closely set together on cobbled grey streets. Some of the neighbouring villages were walled cities also. Keeps from medieval times. Set high up in the rocks.

Quaint little hamlets were dotted along the Bavarian alps near his castle. He tells her of the nearest one to Ranlor.

Brimming with taverns boasting the most excellent beer and joints of game, roasted on a spit, a flagon and a hunk of meat for no more than a half a gold florin. Cafes and shops there were, a florist also. He recalls the waxy punchy-coloured tulips and how they always always always caught his attention in the window. The striking eye-catching scarlet of them. He likes seeing it, as he often rides past on Erland. Or in his rattling big coach.

There were coffee houses, bakeries and patisseries selling Austrian cakes and puddings. Butchers or other general stores selling the local cuisine of smoked or cured meats and sausages and cheeses.

The spectacular wares always for show in the haberdashers window. Great voluminous hats with sprouting great feathers and dripping trimmings galore. Her silly sisters, he fancied, would adore to see such fine frippery. And most of all, there in that precious little village that somehow has found a warm place in his heartless chest, there are always vendors with their braziers, hawking roasted or candied nuts around the town square.

He tells her how touched he was in her gesture of giving him a paper bag of roasted chestnuts, the day after they first met.

He admits something to her then; of how he doesn’t often indulge in human food. But those he did eat. The buttery sweet burn of them reminded him of home. Lifting his nose to the bag to smell the smoky nutty scent sent him ricocheting right back to thoughts of that little Bavarian village. It touched him profoundly in more ways then he could say. She could barely spare the capital to buy them and she bestowed on him, such a gift.

She bought it with her last penny and that truly astounded him. He was a veritable stranger to her then. He is so much more than that now. She’s so much more to him. And him, to her.

Kylo will see out this lonely frightful night. He watches over her. Hopes the morning will bear better signs. Hopes that the tumultuous storm passes.

It dies well enough. By the pale pink of a wet lilac and gold dawn, shining over the windowpane and into his chamber. Shrouding his sickbed in rosy gold, she is unfortunately in much the same state. Unchanged. Not progressing nor worsened.

He sits and keeps a diligent eye on her. Had done all night. He requires little sleep. And so he talks to her. Mops her brow when she starts sweating again. Jomar and Mrs Jones flit in and out. Bringing provisions. And fresh cold water. More laudanum.

Mrs Jones brought him a plate of roasted meats and a glass of wine. It went untouched. She takes it away without saying a word. Gives the scraps to the hounds.

Jomar checks on her every few hours. With his slight grasp of medical knowledge. They try sending for the doctor again. But he is still unavailable. Fixing broken bones from men caught up in last nights storm. Kylo curses the inflexible man every name under the sun.

He doesn’t even retire from her side to take luncheon. Mrs jones had tried to tempt him with a grilled chop at breakfast. And still he refused. Tempted him with roast capons and a carafe of wine now, and still he declined. He’d gone longer without food before in his time. It wouldn’t hurt him. Three years he’d once gone without indulging.

“You need to keep your strength up. My Lord. You’re no good to her if you starve away to skin and bone.” She chides as she carries out another bowl of water. Refreshing it.

“Hardly likely.” Kylo’s insisting. Tugging at the rumpled linen of his shirt.

Sleeves rolled and cuffed. Waistcoat he shrugged off some time in the night. Just in black braces, dull boots and dark breeches now. He’s sure he’ll be a malodorous wretch in need of a shave and wash. But he won’t leave her in this crisis. He won’t so much as go to splash cold water on his face. He’s not leaving this room.

Hellhounds with glowing red eyes and slobbering gnashing teeth, couldn’t drag him away.

Mrs Jones makes a move to put a matronly hand on her hip and chastise him some more. But there comes a groan from the bed.

Kylo leaps from his chair and bolts across to her. “Dove?”

He seeks for her hand. He listens to her breathe.

It was now a shallow drag accompanied by a slight rattling wheeze when she breathed. The affliction had spread to her lungs. And he knows the opium will have suppressed her lungs as a result.

A trickle of blood leaves her mouth and smears on the pillow. A wheezing hacking cough comes from her. It’s such a weak sound it hurts to hear it. He mops it away with the damp cloth. Smears at her pale cheek in its wake.

“Oh no. God no. Iris...” He seeks louder. Trying to see if she responds. She’s limp as ever. Lost to him. Blood leaking from her lips.

“Fetch Jomar.” He orders urgently to his housekeeper. She runs for the door and brings back the Butler. He checks her over and his face is grave.

“Your lordship. Her temperature is rising and I believe it appears as if the infection is worsening.” He says softly.

Kylo’s face falls. His throat bobs with worry.

He knows she’s strong. She can temper the foul spitting words of her mother. She can temper this. She must. Or he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Will she die?” Kylo asks outright. Face like steel. Eyes wet.

“I’m not a doctor. My Lord. I cannot say. But she needs a miracle to fight this affliction that’s taken hold. It looks like consumption.” He tells honestly.

Kylo nods. “I’ll call you both if you are needed again.” He dismisses them.

They file out the room with sorrowful faces. Such a sweet girl. And their Master is clearly so cut up by seeing her in such a state.

Kylo wraps his fingers around her hand.

“Fight it little dove.” He urges her. She was shivering earlier. But now she’s stilled. Sweating and clammy. Burning up more than ever. She was getting worse.

“Please. Please fight. You’re so strong Iris. My god, you don’t know how strong...” He begs as he cups her hand and one hand cradles the side of her face.

“The first time I saw you, I saw your strength. Your resilience. You held your head high even though you didn’t want too. I felt your pain. I felt your back breaking under all that strain.”

Her head stays limp on the pillow. Eyes blind to anything. Shut in unrest. He wishes more than anything that there was something he could do to aid her before this got even worse.

She looks pallid. Ashen. More so than before. Sweating buckets and more blood leaks out her mouth. He wipes it away with the fresh handkerchief Jones left by the bed. He looks down in his hand and sees the sticky red staining the white cloth.

Like a bloodied paw print in the snow. It doesn’t even call out to his hunger. He’s too beyond it. This is too perilous. Too serious to measure his animal instincts.

Blood.

The room grows cold. All warmth drops as if the sun had been snatched out the sky. Kylo feels the chill pinned along his skin as a ghost of a phantom breeze sweeps over him.

His cool blood turns to prickling ice. The candles on the bedside flicker, the fire wanes. He knows what comes next. He hasn’t felt this in centuries. He hears the voice, as crisp and as sharp as frost in his head. The voice like silver coins and honey dances into his ear. Notes as fine as a dark deep concerto.

“Your blood, My fierce one. Or have you forgotten. All life is in the blood.” Comes Draegan’s soothing mellow voice.

The tone that was like feather down and silk to listen to the way he crooned. Every part of his manner was charming. The deep of his sharp eyes was piercing. Intoxicating.

Kylo’s not been alongside mortals as Draegan had. He was a healer. Though he was a demon, he always conceded that there was no death without life. All life as such, is therefore to be treated as precious. Humans fascinated him. And he moved freely and happily among them. Whereas Kylo scorned most all of them.

He strides from the bed to his unused escritoire across the room. Situated by the window for light. Not that he had any letters to write or close acquaintances to send them too. He considered leaving notes for Iris but there’s always a risk his letters would be discovered. He’s got a stack of them all written - tied up with a grey silk ribbon and hidden away.

He rifles through his drawers until he finds it. A knife. A silver dagger with a weighted carved handle. He rounds the bed again, crosses to her and sits near her hip. He holds out his left hand and rips the knife across his index fingertip.

Crimson beads up. He holds his hand aloft and watches it drip. Looks back to Iris and gently cups her face.

“I know this won’t be pleasant. But it will help.” He tells. He doesn’t even feel the sting of pain. It’s nothing to him. Nothing to the pain of seeing her suffer like this.

He gently holds her cheeks and rubs his bloodied fingers across her dry lips. Smearing crimson onto her tongue. She frowns and tries to move her head away, mumbling in distress. But Kylo doesn’t relent until he’s sure his ichor coats her tongue. Slips silken down her throat.

He takes his hand away and rubs the blood from her mouth that spilled down her chin. Leaving her as pale as she was before. The rose of her cheeks still glares awfully bright.

He bunches the cloth around his hand. He’ll heal up in no time. He wishes he could say the same for her. Only time will tell...

He holds her hand. Strokes over her dainty little clammy knuckles. “Twice now he’s saved you.” He remarks to her.

“If I didn’t know him any better....” He sighs, trails off in his words. The very breath gets punched from him. To what end could Draegan be saving her? Whatever for?

One idea occurs - it’s because he’s felt all that she means to him.

That tears agony at him like animals claws tearing down his chest. Shredding flesh. When he thought how he turned his back on him, and scorned his love. And here he was, centuries later, calling out to keep her safe. To protect her.

Kylo lets himself feel shamed.

Ashamed for the ways he bypassed his feelings for Draegan, and let anger fill him so completely up instead. Now he’s met Iris? He understands what he put Draegan through when he left. Because she might leave him now, and he thinks he might just wither away to ash, to nothing, for agony of loving her so much. Unable to help her through this pain.

Though now, perhaps he’s given her the catalyst to help her fight what ails her. He can only wait. And pray.

He paces the room. Paces and then sits. And then he’s treading worn holes in the floorboards again.

Before he knows it, night falls again. He watches out the window as the sun bleeds into blue.

Night washes a filmy indigo over the landscape. Trees turn to dark gnawed fingers of branches. The grass shimmers with evening dew and the pond out front in view of his window, turns to gloopy blue ink.

He stands with his back to her. Surveying the view out the window. Arms folded behind his back. He’s listening to the fire crack and the wind groaning outside on the cold glass, splashing hard against the house. And suddenly she speaks. Gasps out. Cries out.

“So cold.”

He whips around fast. She’s twisting from side to side and he sees the fire sheen off her brow. She repeated herself “It’s so cold...” He hastens to the bedside and takes her hand again. “Iris?” He asks.

She’s still dazed. Still delirious. Twisting her head on the bed.

“Snow. And blood. Why is there....so much blood...” She frowns. Her face all contorted. Her palms knot her fingers into her pillow. She’s writhing again.

Kylo looks down at her. Puzzled.

Her reality had became quickly spliced with odd fevered dreams.

Snippets of actuality broke through the haze. She felt herself fall after she stood up from the armchair after their intimate dinner. She dropped but her body didn’t hit the floor. She’s moving again. And those lovely strong arms of his, are around her.

She’s burning. Was she on fire? That’s what it feels like. She’s dripping sweat and trying to claw at her dry throat. Loosen her strangling clothes. Get some blessed sweet cool air on her skin.

A cold chest she’s cradled into again. Widest muscled chest she’s ever beheld. And she’s moving. Her eyes are shut, it’s all dark, yet she feels weightless. Being carried.

Then it all goes soft. She’s laying on velvet as gentle hands guide away clothes from her body. She’s aching so much her bones ring with it.

She tries moving but she feels cemented. Every word she tries to croak is difficult. Making speech is like trying to let thick hot syrup drip off her sticky tongue.

There’s this pain in her lungs. A thousand knives stabbing in when her chest expands. Kind hands touch her arm and her head. Their warmth scorches her already blazing skin. She tries to wriggle away. But she’s too weak. Her body won’t comply to the requests of her mind.

There’s feather and down at her back. It crinkles and crumples, and she’s relieved the bed is so cool. Something bittersweet is dropped down her throat. Trickling down her melting tongue. She barely feels the rest. She drifts in and out.

And the thing is, she’s not entirely sure she’s alone. She hears voices. A voice. Dark, deep, like a granite walled cave.

She can’t feel much. But she feels cold thick fingers wrap around hers. She knows who those might belong too.

The fire in her blood doesn’t stop. It doesn’t wane. She feels like she’s drowning and she’s not even in the rain anymore. Prickles and knives and all manner of horrible sharp things stab at her chest. Spears, lances, thorns and needles.

It feels like her lungs rattle with poison and shards of broken glass. She wants to cough but it’s too much for the infirm state she’s in.

In between her swimming head and trying to crack open her heavy eyes. Between bleeding crimson and a blazing twitching flame she can make out very little.

Time and sensation are lost to her. But she feels how someone diligently holds her, cups her face, cool on her cheek, feeds her spoonfuls of water so she doesn’t dehydrate. Dribbled water and laudanum - spiced with honey and saffron to cut the bitterness - down her neck with a cold silver spoon perched on her lips.

The dreams are the worst. She dreams about rain. About rivers and heavy crushing things, tar, black and rotten, squirming on her chest. Crushing her.

Of fangs ripping pale flesh off bleeding necks, how that haunts her. Wine red blood and she’s laying in a sticky hot pool of it. Unable to move.

Foul black demons with claws and leathery black wings and red eyes, drooling maws with gnashing teeth rip at her nubile skin. She screams but no sound comes. They throw her screaming into hell and brimstone, and the flames lick higher around her.

She’s dying. She must be dying. She can see it. Lying under a chiffon veil draping her body. Dried white flowers, rustling and dead sweet, are placed on her chest. Hands crossed over her chest. A figure in hooded cloaked black looms over her.

She squirms. She tries to bat them away. Tries to twist out their reach of these monsters. She calls and begs them, but to no avail. Cold splashed on her again. On her brow and on the back of her neck. She sighs and gladly welcomes it.

A low melodic buzz murmurs in her ears like a thousand bees zipping and bobbing about her head. She can’t understand what it is. But it’s somehow a nice sound to listen too.

It causes a gentle hum to seep into her aching bones and calms her heavy head. It’s like a balm. Salve on a wound. She doesn’t realise that it’s Kylo talking to her.

When the fire in the hearth across the room crackled and spit sparks up the chimney, it felt like splits opened in her skin, forming like cracks in stone, and insects crawled out. Black scurrying beetles, She started itching at her arms. Clawing. But nothing was there.

The cold soothe of her harbinger of peace is there to hold her hands and stop her nails raking her flesh away.

More voices move around her. Tumbling around the air in the room. Cracking and snapping like zapping silver lightning and thunder. The mumbling grows in volume. Slithering along her spine. One of her arms feels like it’s been left in ice water - it’s where he’s holding and kissing her. Begging her to fight it. Pleading with her.

She’s so tired. So wrung out. She just wants all this pain and fevered madness to stop. She’s soaked through to the sheets and her skeleton grates with ringing hot agony whenever she dares to move. She’d cry if her brain would grant her that meagre request.

Her lungs have worsened. She knows it. Filled and clogged with dry sand, and salt. Sluggish and wet like a briny beach. It rattles when she breathes, and something she can’t name dribbled out her mouth. Drooling onto the pillow. She doesn’t know that it’s blood.

She only knows that she’d quite like to fall away to her fever dreams and never come back.

Iris so wants the lingering darkness to take her.

However, one tiny shred of her feels cheated; she would’ve so liked to kiss Lord Ren again. One last time. The nicest thing that’s ever happened to her. She’d have liked to have tasted his kiss and drown in his loving attentions just one more time. Just one.

It didn’t seem like a lot to ask of fate. Seeing the crummy hand it had dealt her in her wretched little life, thus far.

Time passes. She’s not sure if it’s seconds, or minutes. For all she knows she may only have been lying insensate for an hour. Or it may have been days. Weeks. She can’t focus. She could have been lying stretched out there for Methuselah’s lifetime. She’s none the wiser.

Then something else happens, something unexpected. Something wet is pushed past her lips. Only it isn’t water. And it isn’t the bitter saffron alkaline of laudanum.

She doesn’t recognise this taste; it’s salty sweet. Hot metallic, and a blend of sour-saccharine burst. She doesn’t recognise it. It’s not unpleasant. But it’s not what she’d describe as palatable.

She tries to twist. But her head is thumping and those flames are curling at her toes again.

And then some distinctly odd things begin to happen. Even more odd than demon dreams or the bugs crawling out crevices in her skin.

Where she swallows, the substance dropped in her mouth starts rolling down her throat. Carving away the pain in its path.

Before long it reaches her swollen lungs. Slowly. One by one, each knife and needle, shard of glass, spear and lance is dragged out of her. Pulled away. Tugged out her pinching flesh. Relaxing her ribs.

Gradually, all her pain lessens. Stickiness in her lungs, grating of her shallow heavy bones. It all fades. Agony slowly dies like a starved candle flame.

The unknown liquid rolls through her like milk and crushed honeycomb. Ambrosia nectar. It tastes like gold. Like sunshine warming her bare skin after feeling nothing for months, but cutting winter frost.

Fever dreams start to come back in full force. And they feel more real than before.

She opens her eyes and there’s suddenly snow. It’s cold. It’s so very cold she’s shivering. Standing there, looking around a milky snow blotted forest.

The trees around her reach vast, thick and tall. Trunks wider than her body. She cranes her head and she can’t even judge the tops of them. It’s just foggy grey up above. Heavy snowfall closing in.

But all around her there are splotches of dark seeping in the snow. Dark jagged shapes lay misshapen in the thick thick icy drift.

She feels it all. The squishing shift of the powder beneath her feet. Cold little stings of flakes melt onto her cheeks and eyelashes. Turning to tears that rain dewdrops down her skin. Her breath spirits silver out her mouth.

There’s no stars up in heaven. No moon. Not tonight. Nothing to cast over this glum gloom and darkness.

Noises patter and clang in the distance. Metal scrapes and hollow clashes. She peers around her and that’s when she comes to realise what all those shapes are...

Bodies.

Laying dead and still in the snow. As far as her eye can see. Men lay broken and scattered across the forest floor. Clad in simple dark armour. All wearing the same crimson coat of arms: blood and death litters them. That is their uniform.

Crimson is still shimmering down the bark. Splashed there from the slash of swords across parts of anatomy she didn’t want to think about. She cannot imagine how her brain can conjure up such carnage. Such mayhem and suffering.

Seeing a thousand, or more, dead men, pulled and carved to pieces. Violently separated from limbs, or heads or legs. Bleeding into the snow. Slumped sat against trees or piled on each other. Some studded with arrows. Some not.

Splayed where they’ve fallen. Viscera exposed, stubby limbs chopped in half. Throat slit. Holes punched in their chests and bloodied organs tumbled out. Some men held it in their arms like dirty washing. It’s an awful thing to witness. Such savagery.

What kind of beast could cause this? Could leave men dying and dead in this horrific way?

She scans around. Unable to fathom it. These poor souls. Mouths gaping. Eyes wide and staring, unseeing, at the clouded heavens. Like sticky pearls shimmering in the dark. Death hadn’t been long in taking them. The blood leaving them is still warm. She can feel the blaze of it under her feet. Melting the snow.

She sees no movement in the trees. Save for the snow heading down from high above. Settling like natures own confetti on all these fallen soldiers. Weeping over them, yet nothing else can be done but show them to their graves.

Then she does make out something.

A tall, lean, and strong figure moves through the trees away from her. Strong trunks of long legs. Sinewed arms. Even in his dazzling armour. Slender. So slender and elegant for a man. Most men lumbered. This one practically glided.

Though he is scarcely standing out amongst them. Silver and white. Clad in brilliantly kept armour. The only thing that stands clear is the crimson splattered across this soldiers body. Gleaming down his silver armour. He comes to a standstill.

If he was the last man standing; she suddenly realises with horror exactly what that means in odes to all the death surrounding them.

She moves slowly towards this destination. Somehow desperate for a look. In the dim, she steps carefully and slow over the slaughter of mangled bodies and crimson hot snow. He has his back to her. Now she can’t see his face.

She crosses this battlefield. Comes closer and closer. As if stalking a cautious stag.

He was devastating in his height. Lean but not a man to be mistaken as being powerless. A long bloodied sword drips from his left hand. Even in this suffocating slim darkness, the curtain of white hair spilling long down his back is entirely obvious. Like a silk curtain. It’s braided too. Twisted into intricate plaits. Fixed with silver cuffs and wound with jewellery.

There are silver coiled serpent decorations wound around some of his braids. They gleam in the night like far off stars. He moves as devastating as a supernova.

If his hair moves like silk, so does he. Movements so supple yet languid. Certain. A great degree of confidence.

He turns his head. She hopes to catch a glance of his profile. Wanting to see if his face is as handsome as his hair, or his impressive built frame.

She’s curious. Somehow this is familiar for her; this white haired stranger.

He turned only a fraction. Not enough for to show her anything. Not his face. Not his eyes. Though it seemed he was looking in her direction. She’s been caught.

She freezes entirely and a smooth voice dances like honey wine and satin across the butchered dead and the snow.

“Go back to him. Little spark. He’s waiting for you.... this isn’t how we meet.” He tells her.

She cannot contest. She can’t even fight. Or speak. White fog swallows her up. Clouds her eyes. The blood and the soldiers and the snow falls away. Like she’s being dropped out of a white haze and sent tumbling down to mushy blackness. Spat out of heaven.

She falls. Jolts. Her heart leaps in her chest as adrenaline spikes through her body. She gasps...

And then, miraculously, she finally wakes.

She stumbles back to life with a rattling gasp. Kylo didn’t even hear it. It was nearly ten at night. He’s sat by the fire in his bedchamber, watching the logs within crackle and sinking and burning to amber and ash. Unaware that she’d opened her eyes until;

“Kylo?” Comes a weak little voice from the bed. Her voice.

He stands and turns so fast his head swims. “Dove?”

He strides so quick for the bed it makes her dizzy. He frets about stupid things, like the fact he hasn’t washed and shaved. He’s been too occupied in his avowed duty of sitting and watching over her sickbed.

He kneels by her side. Happily cups the cheek closest to him. Her eyes are clear, hooded, but clear. No longer shimmering bright with fever. And her cheeks have calmed. Less glaring red heat, now just a kiss of pink.

He places his knuckles on her forehead and had never been more relieved to feel her cooled. She shuts her eyes and smiles. Appreciating his touch. Savouring it.

“My god. I thought I’d lose you.” He insists quietly when she opens her eyes again. He takes her dear sweet hand and kisses it.

She takes a lot of energy to swallow and unsticks her dry cracked lips to answer him. Smiling. “Might I trouble you for some water?” She croaks. Her voice a strained crackle bleeding out her throat.

He pours it himself. Hands it to her. Helps her sit up a little and tip the glass to her parched rosebud lips. She takes dainty gulps of it. Drains the glass and has enough. It’s not overly cool, but Iris swears it’s the best thing she’s ever drunk.

He mops her brow again when she’s finished. Wipes the wet coils of hair away off her brow. It feels awfully nice and even though it’s shockingly intimate. She relaxes back onto the damp pillows and lets him comfort her.

“How long was I?-” She seeks.

“Two days, little dove.” He tells her gently. Placing the linen cloth down where it belongs. She swallows again. Refinding her lost voice. “It’s almost eleven at night.” He answers.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a dreadful imposition on you.” She starts. Picking nervously at the covers.

Kylo’s smiling again. Yesterday everything had been so grim he thought he’d never crack a grin ever again.

“Think nothing of it. I’m merely happy to see you so well recovered.” He says as he squeezes her hand tighter.

She casts her eyes for a second over the way his chin is flecked in onyx stubble. The way shadows linger under his eyes like heavy saddle bags. His hair doesn’t look unkempt. But his shirt is rumpled and faded cologne lingers around him. He’s been worried about her, than his appearance.

“You need rest and sustenance. Fevers leave you weak. So I’m told.” He reaches for the head of the bed and pulls the bell cord. The hidden crimson panel of fabric that called down to the kitchens.

“I wouldn’t turn down a cup of tea.” She sighs weakly. Beaming gently. No self respecting English woman would dare seek after anything else so fortifying.

“I imagine my housekeeper will furnish you with a banquet.” He suggests.

“How do you feel?” He seeks. It hasn’t escaped her notice his hand still twines through her own. It feels awfully nice. Cold. But not repulsive. She felt his touch even in her fevered state. It’s calming.

“Like I’ve been kicked by a horse.” She sleepily admits.

“Jomar said the affliction was on your lungs from the sound of your breathing. Do you need anything for pain?” He asks.

“I Thank you. I am well. I cannot deny the fever was.., draining. But, it was the vivid nature of the dreams I couldn’t stand. It all felt so, real.” She confesses.

“Delirium can be an odd beast.” Kylo agrees. He’s suffered blood delirium before. And that was like his own skin trying to willingly crawl off his own bones. It was beyond dreadful.

“The most odd one was... wandering through a forest. After a battle, I think it was. Horrible. Such death and slaughter. And then I saw this man through the trees. A tall man in silver armour...”

Kylo’s eyes are glistening dark. She carries on.

“He spoke out to me. I could never forget his voice it was-“ She searches for a word. “Melodic. Nearly. Utterly enchanting. And he had this hair, very long hair. It looked like white silk.” She explains.

“What did he say to you?” Kylo’s asking. Knowing full well what she saw.

“Told me that someone was waiting- And it... wasn’t how I would meet him?....” she declares. Finding the whole thing bizarre. Then again; what sense could be made out of perplexing dreams?

She looks bewildered. But Kylo knows the truth in it. He knows the various demons and reasons behind her channeled thoughts. His blood had taken its toll too.

“Dreams are confusing at the best of times.” He states in comfort. She nods in agreement. But she looks like she barely has the strength to hold up her own head.

She clasps his hand back. Her fingers and little strength she possessed, held onto him. “I’m very glad you were here.”

“I’m always there for you. Iris. And I always shall be.” He promises.

“What I did, scampering out into the rain like that. It was so foolish of me. And I don’t like to think of myself as acting like a fool.” She starts.

“I thought I was going to die it hurt so much. But I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to leave this earth - without kissing you one more time.” She explains.

“I know I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t even think it.” She swallows weakly.

Twines her fingers through his. Clutches onto him all the more. Showing him the depth of her affection that she had always smothered deep down. She doesn’t want to suffocate it anymore.

Kylo sees the wet of tears in her eyes.

“I’m very glad of your improprietous wishes. They well reflect my own.” He admits. Kissing the back of her hand. He wouldn’t throw himself and his passions upon her whilst she’s recovering in a sick bed. He’s not that much of a letch.

The door creaks open across his chamber and Jomar is the one to answer his summons. Kylo twists around where he is knelt. And when his butler sees his smile, and the calm of his expression. He hears his sigh all the way across from the door.

“Might Miss Ashton have a tray of tea and some of that broth Mrs Jones had cook prepare?” Kylo asks.

Jomars smile lightened up the whole room. “I shall fill the kettle myself. Your Lordship.” He beams. It makes Iris smile wide too.

“Thankyou. Mr Jomar. You’re very kind.” She rasps across to him. He nods a grateful smile.

“Ever your attentive servant. Miss. You got his Lordship to crack a smile for the first time since the dark ages. I feel like we ought lay roses at your feet.” He insists.

“Just the tea. For now.” Kylo reiterates.

“And might I ask you keep an eye on Miss Ashton whilst I retire to my washroom for a moment?” He informs.

“Yes of course. Your Lordship.” Jomar steps into the room and aside so Kylo may pass.

He squeezes her hand in comfort before he slips away. Off to go shave and wash himself and redress in a clean pressed shirt. And new breeches and small clothes. He felt quite rumpled in his current dress.

The kind butler lingers by the bed. Handing her some more water even though she hadn’t requested it. She needed it. He could tell.

“You all like his Lordship a great deal...” She comments.

Jomar can’t deny it.

“We love him. Miss. Though he may be stubborn and pigheaded sometimes. And most think him to be arrogant or savage. We are, all of us, so very proud to serve his house and his title.” He insists with not so much as a hint of false note to his tone.

“He depends on you a great deal. It’s nice to see a man and his butler on such friendly terms.” She states.

“We do make fun of one another. But it is enjoyable in its own way. He teases me. I rib him. And demand a payrise if he steps too far over the line. I have to remind him of his place...” He jokes in detriment. It draws a laugh from her.

“If I may speak candidly. Miss Ashton. And do censure me if it is above my place to say so; but he admires you a vast vast deal. In a way I have seldom seen of him.” He openly admits.

Iris’ heart feels like it wants to burst. So crammed full of potent emotion. It made her chest glow warm.

“I could never censure anyone for such a admission. Mr Jomar.” She gives him a wobbly smile so full of love. Moved by his plea.

“And I feel you should also know he hasn’t left your side these past two days. Hasn’t left this room. He administered medicine. Water. All himself. He didn’t even take the time away to eat or bathe.”

Her eyes water. “So you see? He really is the most stubborn man. I doubt he’d have let that illness take you either.”

“Most stubborn.” She agrees. And she cries happily. Heart so bursting full at the seams, of love for him.

Seeing how much his staff admire him. How he’s surrounded and inundated by people he warmly regards. How respect from either party cuts both ways.

He’s the most honourable man she’s ever had the good fortune to meet. She can’t ever imagine how or why she had once considered Lord Ren a monster.

For her heart is quite sold to him.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

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whatdoyouexpectthistime · 4 years

Text

Blood Spatter - Part 7

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4: Part 5 : Part 6

________________________________

In the past I have felt like a bit of a grandma for carrying a handkerchief, but right now I’m glad to have it. If I could, I’d be sitting in Jazz’s lap. I want to curl my arms and legs around her and never let go, but I actually feel pretty weak with relief that she’s still… alive.

That’s the other thing isn’t it? Kiril and I talked about the possibility, but now the reality is squeezing my hand almost painfully.

Jazz is a vampire now.

Even in my ugly crying state, I can tell Konstantin is highly apprehensive. He’s not letting Kiril out of his sight, like maybe he thinks Konrad sent us here to kill them both, but at the same time he wants to comfort Jazz who is clearly struggling with the moment.

No one really knows who should talk first, but eventually, I cough something out – the biggest question of them all.

“Why?”

“How did you even find us?” Konstantin scowls, ignoring me.

Kiril’s response is curt.

“I didn’t, she did,” he points out, indicating with his thumb in my direction. “Now answer her question.”

“Why what?” Konstantin glares, and I have to fight not to shrink back.

“And watch your tone,” Kiril snaps icily, and Jazz places her hand on my knee before leaning toward the two men.

“Cut it out, both of you,” she growls, then looks to me with such an apologetic shadow in her beautiful blue eyes I nearly forget how mad I am at her. “I’m sorry, Miho, really. It was never my intention to hurt you. Things just got… complicated… really quickly.”

Her hand is cold.

“I didn’t even know,” I sniff, “you were serious… but becoming a vampire serious?”

Jazz winces.

“We didn’t plan it like that,” Konstantin replies. “And it is my fault.”

“Not just yours,” Jazz quickly adds. “I didn’t say no.”

“I just got… carried away,” Konstantin frowns, looking into Jazz’s face apologetically.

“That is usually my line,” Kiril snorts, perhaps an attempt to lighten the mood in his own way, but it falls flat.

“It is what it is,” Jazz rationalises. “And I don’t regret it, not the vampire part anyway.”

Though Konstantin is still peering at her, Jazz’s eyes return to Miho and rest there.

“I can’t go back to London, Miho, or the UK even,” she goes on, and instantly both Miho and Kiril are shaking their heads.

“I honestly do not care what you do,” Kiril declares, pointing at Jazz, “but he is going back, unless he wants Konrad’s finest hunting him down and killing anything that gets in their way.”

Konstantin winces, so it’s clear he knows the truth in that statement.

“I won’t be leaving him,” Jazz announces forcefully, and I feel as much as see the tension in her hand, the creep of her fingers toward a fist.

“Do you even understand the predicament you have put yourself in?” Kiril presses, and I – at least – feel as if he has grown ten feet. “Konstantin is Konrad’s golden child, the one upon whom he pins his legacy because he is purportedly the elusive perfect mix of blood powers.”

It’s a surprise Konstantin doesn’t interject; he shifts uncomfortably, for though in another tone Kiril’s assertion could have been a compliment, even to my ears it sounds like a terrible and oppressive yoke.

“He has spent centuries breeding for a vampire like Konstantin,” Kiril snorts, and there is bitterness there. “Many women and many children slain because they did not meet his standards – he will not let his hard work run away with a turned for something as foolish as love.”

“You only say love is foolish because you lack the capacity to feel it,” Konstantin spits, and I cannot help the flit of my focus between the two brothers.

And in a split second that doesn’t go unnoticed by either Jazz or Konstantin, Kiril and I meet somewhere in the middle.

“No way,” Konstantin blinks, and Jazz goes that little bit further, snatching both my hands and nudging me sideways, putting her legs between Kiril and I.

“No way,” she reiterates, but Kiril is unfazed.

“Do not project your foolishness on me,” he derides, a dark, jaded sound that hits me far more solidly than it should. “At least in my own pursuits I have the good sense to keep clear of Konrad’s zone of absolute destruction.”

“This wasn’t planned!” Konstantin charges, rocking to his feet, and Kiril is standing beside him that same instant, an intimidating obstacle between Jazz and I, and his brother.

“It does not matter how or why,” Kiril grates through his teeth, so low I physically feel his words. “As your reckless lady friend said, it is what it is, and what it is is a mess no amount of running will mediate.”

“You are the mess mediating expert,” Konstantin snaps back, and I’m finally at my limit, leaping to my feet and placing a hand against both their arms. Tingles spread up through my fingertips, but my annoyance overwhelms it.

“Enough!” I bark, taut and pointed. “This stupid circular bickering is getting us nowhere.”

Silence fills the space vacated by my patience.

“You want him to go back, Kiril - he needs to or Konrad will send Narumi and others after him,” I go on quickly, before I lose my steam. “Jazz won’t leave him, but going back for her is suicide - so what now?”

Licking his lips and looking slightly destabilised, Kiril takes my wrist and slowly lowers it away from his body.

“Konstantin needs to return post haste,” he says, evenness returning to his demeanour. “For now, until Konrad is appeased, he comes back with me, and Miss Mann here can take refuge at one of my estates on the outskirts of London.”

“Hide?” Jazz exhales.

“Bide your time,” Kiril corrects. “If there is any suspicion - and to be frank I would not put it beyond Arno or any of his people to attempt garnering Konrad’s favour by divulging what they discovered here - then there must be distance between you that leaves none.”

“And then what?” Konstantin huffs, sliding around his brother to sit on the arm of Jazz’s chair.

“Then I cure cancer, end war and solve world hunger,” Kiril sneers. “You be a good boy and play Konrad’s foot-stool until it is safer, but make no mistake - her life will always be in jeopardy if you continue this… relationship.”

“Could you say it with any more disdain?” Jazz glowers, and Kiril’s self-confident grin only grows.

“You hooked up with the nice brother,” he leers, and I’ve had enough of the snarkiness.

“Will you come back?” I ask Jazz, but of course I’m caught between wanting her back in my life, and keeping her safe.

Biting her lip, I can see she too is in the grips of indecision, and it’s not one she wants to make without Konstantin’s input.

“I hate you, you know that?” Konstantin drops acerbically, the comment definitely meant for Kiril.

“Because I am right?” Kiril sniffs.

“Because you’re only ever right at the most infuriating of times!” Konstantin spits back, and Jazz takes this as the signal to move.

There is absolutely no way I’m letting her out of my sight, so I follow without so much as a glance back at Kiril, though the brothers remain glaring at one another.

Jazz and Konstantin had been travelling light, so there wasn’t much for them to pack up before they were ready to go. Miho, on the other hand, had far more luggage.

Though there was still so much to say, a weighty silence – a storm cloud on the very brink of breaking – followed their progress all the way to the airport where they boarded Kiril’s jet. They had encountered no problems – nothing from Arno and nothing from Konrad, and arrived back in the U.K to nothing but a limousine with heavily tinted windows. And still the thick tension persisted, all the way through the city, glancing over their shoulders, until it all gave way to much greener scenery.

But the rolling hills the farthest thing from Miho’s mind. She took very little in about the grandeur of Kiril’s sprawling estate, focused instead on trying to put all her questions and statements about everything that had happened since Jazz’s disappearance in some sort of order.

In a bedroom fit for a queen, the two men left Miho and Jazz sitting on either side of the bed. Both of them look down at where their hands were folded in their laps until Miho lifted one to rub fingers against the slowly increase throb of her temple.

“When did you know?” she asked quietly. “About the vampires?”

“Not right away,” Jazz answered, staring across the room at the balcony doors. “But, before…”

“Before what?” Miho pushed, rocking to her feet and turning around, though that only aggravated the ache in her skull. “I mean, I knew he’d been at the club, that you’d seen him outside a couple of times, but we used to share everything… I’d have thought the existence of supernatural creatures would count as pretty important to tell your best friend.”

“I think you’re well enough informed now to know why I couldn’t say anything,” Jazz frowned, tipping her chin toward the door in a gesture meant to indicate somewhere in the great manse, Kiril and his brother were no doubt having their candid own discussion. “I wanted to protect you.”

A noise something akin to a snort punctuated Miho’s incredulity.

“Did you expect me to accept you’d dropped off the face of the Earth and just get on with my life?” she questioned rhetorically, kneading the back of her neck. “Because that’s the only explanation I can think of that might have led you to think I wouldn’t do everything in my power to find you, and in doing so, put my nose in vampire business anyway.”

There was little for Jazz to do but cringe, because Miho was right.

“It was a difficult choice to make,” Jazz began awkwardly.

“You chose him, Jazz!” Miho exclaimed, the thundering in her skull doing little to aid in the containment of her sense of betrayal. “And I would never stop you from seeing someone you loved, but you actually chose to be with him, to keep his secrets, to become one of them, rather than stay with someone you’ve known practically your whole life! You just, threw me away.”

Cringing for the twisted expression on Miho’s face, Jazz finally tried to approach, but the wild slashing motion of Miho’s arm warned her not to get too close.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz sighed, and she’d lost count of how many times she had said it. “I fell in love with him and he with me, and when he confided his secret…”

“You couldn’t have told him there is nothing we don’t share?” Miho snapped, her eyes losing focus. “You couldn’t have told him we’re practically sisters and nothing can… nothing should have come between us?”

“Miho, be reasonable…” Jazz tried again, but she had seen Miho lose her cool enough times to know a temper like that was beyond reason and logic.

“You’re a fucking vampire!” Miho shouted, her whole face scrunching up as she backed away, the animated nature of her expressive hand movements causing her to wobble. “There’s no coming back from that, and what’s worse, if Konrad finds out his favourite son has gone and given his heart to a turned, you’re dead, dead!”

Breathing heavily against the boiling emotions in her chest, Miho leaned against the sideboard. Oh she was angry, no two ways about that, but now her fingertips felt as if they were burning away from the bone and her skull was cracking from some inexplicable pressure that distorted her vision.

Obviously, Miho was very angry, but it became clear when she blinked away large tears rolling red ribbons down her cheeks, that something else was very very wrong.

“Miho!” Jazz gasped, dashing forward in time to catch Miho before she hit the floor.

“Everything’s on fire!” Miho panted through teeth tightly clenched, and Jazz wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but blood was now dripping from Miho’s chin, and within Jazz a dangerous hunger called.

“Konstantin!” Jazz shrieked in panic, laying Miho gently against the carpet and moving swiftly to throw open the bedroom door. “Kiril! Help!”

She didn’t know where either of them were in the spacious mansion, they could have been in another wing entirely, but as Jazz took a necessary step onto the landing – away from the scent of blood that taunted her – two blurs flashed toward her at great speed.

“Jazz? Are you o…” Konstantin began, but his sentence broke off when he too was reached by the sweet smell of Miho’s distress.

“Take her down stairs, now,” Kiril barked sharply, and with eyes flashing an uncompromising warning, he spared neither a second more before disappearing into the bedroom. “Miho,” he hissed, pulling her gently into his lap.

And instantly the razorblades that had been digging through his veins were somehow dulled.

The beast within him paced irritably as Kiril weathered the tantalising spectacle of Miho’s blood-smeared face, but he hoisted her into his arms and carried her whimpering to the bed.

“What is this?” he whispered coldly, not to her but to himself, as he gently wiped her face clean with a hastily acquired pillowcase, before tossing is as far across the large room as he could. “Miho?” he breathed again, and finally she seemed to rouse from her agonised state enough to focus on his face.

And her mind was clear, her skin prickling pleasantly in the wake of each soft pass his fingers made down her cheek.

“That was…” she croaked thickly, reaching out to take his other hand and draw it down between her breasts, pressing his cool palm over the rapid pulsing of her heart. “I thought I was going to die.”

“What happened?” he soothed, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

“Nagging headache just, got worse and worse,” she murmured, savouring the sensation of his fingers sliding through her hair and the pressure of his hand that ensured they were connected. “Then it just, erupted… but…”

The last few tears fell, but this time they were clear.

“The moment I touched you,” Kiril continued, his brows knitting, “the more I touch you, the pain subsides.”

“You too?” she exhaled, examining his face as it drew closer.

Less than a minute ago it had felt as if she was being torn apart; but now she wanted to taste Kiril’s tongue, ravenously claw away his clothing and bury him so deeply within her the memory of that pain would be erased completely.

“Just relax,” he instructed, lips brushing lightly against hers with the promise of more, but to her disappointment he then sat up. “There is something I do not like about this.”

“Bleeding from the eyes was sort of traumatic for me too,” Miho piped up, shifting his hand over to her right breast. “But…”

Her pause was filled with puzzlement.

“… all I want now is to feel you,” she finished finally, frowning. “Kiril…”

“I know,” he admitted, but it was through gritted teeth.

He was fighting himself, Miho could see his struggle.

“Why am I not freaking out?” she exhaled, clutching his hand more firmly. “I should… see a doctor.”

“Liana will examine you,” he asserted, rocking back and standing, but Miho dug in her fingernails.

“Don’t leave!” she gasped quickly, a reflex, and Kiril’s gaze narrowed on her grip.

“I will return momentarily,” he told her, strain tightening his voice. “But until Liana has examined you, your friend will have to stay away. She is still young, and if you bleed again she may not be able to control her primal urges.”

“But not you,” she stated, rather than questioned, not removing her grip.

“No, not me,” he smiled with a gentleness Miho had not yet seen from him, and she allowed her hold to fall away.

True to his word, just minutes later Kiril returned, a woman a step behind him.

Though she again found relief in Kiril’s presence, this did not detract from the sharp, clear blue of the other woman’s eyes, and her instantaneous study of her new patient. And there was something old-world about her – from the modest ankle length of her skirt, to the well-loved leather doctor’s bag she carried to the bedside and opened.

“You may leave now, Master Kiril,” Liana said softly, placing a stethoscope around her neck.

“I shall stay,” Kiril responded, much to Miho’s relief, but Liana turned to frown at him – and when she spoke it was much more crisply.

“Master Kiril,” she began, firmly, the tone of an uncompromising woman. “I should like to begin my examination of your lady friend, however, I shall not do so without the requisite privacy necessary to uphold her dignity and confidentiality.”

Miho blinked; people generally did not speak to Kiril in such a manner. She expected a storm to break in the room – gale force winds and lashing rain, but Kiril simply looked annoyed.

“She is…” he began, but Liana cut him off abruptly.

“In capable hands,” she finished for him. “I shall call for the young master if I require assistance.”

This made Kiril ruffle, but Miho lifted her head a little.

“I’ll be okay,” she forced out, though she honestly didn’t want him to go.

Wordlessly he ground his teeth for a few seconds, while Liana simply peered at him expectantly.

“Fine,” he huffed, then stalked out, closing the two women into the room alone.

If she was pleased, or felt any form of satisfaction over her victory, Liana’s expression showed none of it. There was an intensity of focus about her, a stare that told Miho she missed very little, and practiced hands that spoke of experience.

There was little talk between them, save for questions and answers, and when Liana had determined Miho’s basic physiological details were normal, she requested more comprehensive tests to be performed… in the basement.

“So,” Miho quipped, much of her strength returned as she walked beside Liana out of the elevator into the incongruously sleek and sterile décor of the basement. “Kiril really is Batman.”

“He has considerable wealth, if that is what you mean,” Liana nodded, guiding Miho past various rooms before urging her to enter another.

“He doesn’t have a mask wearing fetish?” Miho quipped, settling into the indicated chair before a piece of medical equipment.

“Not to my knowledge,” Liana replied, taking her time to calibrate the machine. “However, what Master Kiril does outside the estate is his own business.”

There were still so many unanswered questions – like who this woman really was, and what her relationship to Kiril was, but Miho didn’t want to just blurt them out. She felt suddenly, acutely aware of his age, and what that meant for his relationship history – not that she was all that clear on his relationship at present either.

“Just relax, and look straight ahead,” Liana instructed with a small smile, indicating the chin rest, and Miho complied.

What followed was a gamut of tests, at the conclusion of which, Liana showed Miho back to her room wherein Kiril arrived shortly.

“Well?” he prompted impatiently, but Liana seemed completely unfazed by him.

“She has no evidence of clinical conjunctival hyperemia, periorbital or palpebral edema, and maintains normal vision and extraocular movement,” Liana explained. “The young master is currently examining pathology for some underlying cause of the hyphema, though there are no visible indications of infection.”

Miho caught a handful of the medical jargon, and surmised what Kiril then vocalised.

“So you have no idea what happened,” he dropped, clearly displeased.

But the hand he had on Miho’s shoulder was light, warm.

“As yet, no,” Liana responded, and appeared more than a little irritated by the fact.

Konstantin had been the one to contact Konrad: Kiril’s idea. Since he and his father didn’t get along - to put it politely - and to increase the chances of distracting the king from his rage – however unlikely.

Eyes followed the pair as they made their way silently through the lobby of Konrad’s primary place of business, but no one questioned them. Kiril strode with his typical air of self-confidence despite the derisive daggers shot his way.

Oh, if only they knew.

Better that they didn’t.

“When was the last time you were here?” Konstantin asked as they reached the elevator.

He was not so practiced at hiding his discomfort.

“A year or so,” Kiril shrugged. “Daddy dearest is not especially welcoming.”

“Like you ever tried to make peace with the guy,” Konstantin snorted, stepping into the gilded cabin of the lift.

Very conservative.

“What, drawn, and talk of peace?” Kiril smirked.

“Yeah, yeah, you hate the word, and he started it,” Konstantin huffed. “But you can’t tell me you’ve done anything to try and appease him.”

“No, I cannot,” Kiril agreed with mirth, not the slightest bit repentant. “That is what happens when you kill a man’s mother.”

“That’s your excuse?” Konstantin snorted. “Really? Because yours is not the only mother he’s killed.”

“So I should not hold him accountable because he has a full complement of victims on his ledger?” Kiril retorted.

“And I suppose your hands are clean?” Konstantin challenged. “Perfectly clear conscience?”

“Do not be absurd,” Kiril sniffed. “But by comparison…”

“Bad is bad, Brother,” Konstantin argued, looking up as the elevator chimed.

“I will keep that in mind as I’m bailing you out of the grave you have dug yourself into,” Kiril smirked, and was first to saunter out into the plush antechamber.

“Hmm, new carpet,” Kiril noted flippantly, causing several chatting in the large room to stop and stare.

As if it was his house, a crown upon his brow, Kiril strode unaffected by the attention he had drawn; in fact, Konstantin noted he seemed pleased and entirely unsurprised.

The way he pushed through the double doors was anything but subtle. Indeed, he announced his arrival like a performer: exaggerated, confident movements, boldness, and an aura that drew and held gazes.

“Father!” he exclaimed in an overly affable tone, clearly intending to mock the poor relationship they shared.

Konrad did not turn from the conversation in which he was engaged, though two other bodies in the room inched away from the king.

Not only unaccustomed to being ignored, but already looking to stoke the fire of opposition, Kiril filled the hall with his presence. As much as Kiril clashed with his father, this magnetism was what had allowed him to build his own empire despite the king’s enmity, and Konstantin had to admire that.

When there was no reaction after a few more seconds, Kiril’s upper lip began to curl, and Konstantin saw all the theatricality recede.

“You have ten seconds to acknowledge my presence, or your favourite and I return to our fun and games,” Kiril growled.

Challenge accepted.

It was the sudden slamming of the doors they had entered through that drew Kiril and Konstantin’s focus, and there they found Narumi with arms crossed over her chest.

“I am listening,” Konrad stated, his voice reverberating most unnaturally. “But not for long. You have already kept me waiting.”

“Drop the drama, Konrad,” Kiril dismissed, hands deep in his trouser pockets and looking completely relaxed. “We are here of our own volition at your most insistent behest.”

“And yet it was not you I called for,” Konrad dropped, only now turning to rest his unsettling scrutiny upon his children.

Kiril, however, he looked right through.

“Explain,” he added, cold and commanding.

“I sent Konstantin to address sensitive interests in Europe I could trust to no one else,” Kiril answered, and that more directly drew Konrad’s ire.

“And who are you to send my son, anywhere?” Konrad glowered, Kiril’s demise swirling in his eyes, his disdain carving his mouth in jagged lines.

“You would not question the contributions my business assets make to this kingdom,” Kiril replied calmly. “Because you would notice a significant decline in both revenue and influence were I to transfer my operations to say… Australia?”

“Do not overestimate your worth,: Konrad retorted, approaching his elder son with a predatory gait.

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m worth,” Kiril chuckled, and the two vampires who had skirted to the edge of the room began their way toward Narumi, perhaps for protection from the oncoming affray. “But I stopped measuring myself by your skewed standards many years ago. After all, when you’re that small…”

Knowing he was playing with fire and brimstone, Kiril made a ‘tiny’ gesture with his thumb and index finger.

While the eyes of the three who were not important enough yet to be given names froze in absolute shock, Konrad began forward. It was Narumi, however, who took firm hold of Kiril’s chin and forced him to look at her.

“You owe your king the truth,” she hissed into his face, eyes boring into his, and he knew her power would catch him in a lie if he attempted to tell one. “So I suggest – for once in your life – you do not lie.”

“Konstantin was working for me,” Kiril told Narumi confidently, and instantly her nose wrinkled.

“As much as it surprises me, my Lord, Kiril is telling the truth.”

With his full focus on Kiril, Konrad didn’t notice the most unsubtle double-take Konstantin performed.

“It is truly touching how much you trust your children,” Kiril sniffed. “Now, if there is not anything else, there are a great many other things I would like to be doing.”

“Konstantin, remain,” his father ordered, and Kiril made no quarrel.

IF he dropped himself in it now, both he and Jazz deserved to be hunted as far as Kiril was concerned.

Following his retreat, Narumi waited with Kiril for the elevator and stepped in beside him.

“And what did that little ruse just cost me?” Kiril drawled, working the ache of his jaw and touching the throbbing pain of one temple.

“The truth would be nice, but I know it’s unlikely you’ll give me that,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “So, for now I’ll keep that one banked. Need I tell you whatever game you’re playing is a most dangerous one?”

“No,” Kiril grimace, and this certainly did not escape Narumi’s notice.

“What is wrong with you? You’re paler than usual.”

“It was a long trip and I am famished,” he answered flippantly, but his tone was tainted by discomfort.

“Have you been feeding from junkies again?” she snorted in amusement, knowing full well his response was a falsehood.

“Best you mind your own business, Narumi,” Kiril warned. “You want none of mine, and if the king learns of your complicity in my deception there will be little left of you but dust in the wind.”

“I knew what I was doing, cousin,” she smiled. “And I know – whether you tell me or not – I will uncover what you’re hiding.”

As swiftly as inhumanly possible, Kiril returned to the estate. Blinding pain seared his consciousness, and so he feared Miho was in an even worse state.

He was directed to Liana’s infirmary by an anxious Jazz, but he left her alone upstairs to ponder Konstantin’s failure to return.

“I was forced to sedate her,” Liana reported, when Kiril showed alarm at Miho’s unresponsiveness. “She was thrashing about quite vigorously, in addition to the symptoms you described earlier.”

Sliding his palm up Miho’s arm, Kiril’s own anguish abated swiftly, and when he touched his lips to the warm of hers, a buzzing joy flooded his veins.

“This is most unnatural,” he exhaled in relief.

“I have been able to determine no medical explanation for Miss Fujiwara’s condition,” Liana admitted. “And could certainly not yet venture the correlation with your own afflictions, save – it seems – that it intensifies the longer you are parted.”

“Unacceptable,” Kiril snapped, but he was gentle in the brushing of Miho’s forehead.

“It is all very well and good you saying that,” Liana grumbled. “But at this stage I must consider the cause to be rooted elsewhere.”

“Such as?” Kiril prompted expectantly.

“Witchcraft, obviously,” came a rather impertinent voice from the doorway. “Clearly, both you and your visitor have been hexed.”

Carrying a tome almost as large as his entire body, the lean child moved effortlessly toward Liana.

“I’ve been reading,” he announced.

“That is all you ever do, Kai,” Kiril pointed out, but he was clearly listening.

“And a good thing too, since you do so little,” Kai snorted, though he sobered and straightened his shoulders when Liana looked displeased.

“Did you know,” Kai began again, “that the Cerchio di veli coven in Florence during the Renaissance were well reputed for their love spells?”

“Are you truly suggesting I am subject to a love spell?” Kiril scoffed.

“Wealthy families paid fortunes for political gains founded in love spells that caused infidelity and broke politically motivated marriages,” Kai elaborated, much to Kiril’s disdain.

“Have you upset any witches lately?” Liana queried. “Aside from me, that is.

“No more so than usual, and even if I had, they would certainly not be alive enough at present to curse anyone,” he asserted.

“Unless,” Kai piped up, “she is the primary target of the manipulation?”

Appreciatively, Liana nodded, and Kai smiled broadly.

That Kiril did not immediately shut down this concept, told Liana Kai’s postulation had some merit.

“So, who exactly is your little friend?” Liana asked, since Kiril was not forthcoming with the details.

“A hunter, I suspect,” he replied, and both Liana’s and Kai’s eyes bugged. “You have plenty of blood to test so I want it confirmed,” he added waspishly. “I need to be sure.”

“So, you’ve been out and about cavorting with a hunter?” Liana questioned, though it was obviously rhetorical.

“Unawakened, but yes,” Kiril confirmed, his top row of teeth scraping over the lower.

“Are you insane?” Liana hissed, leaning over Miho toward him.

“No, hexed apparently,” he retorted, glaring icily, and Liana moved back. “Return to the library, Kai,” he then commanded. “I want to know which spell and who I need to kill to break it.”

“And you’re going to be doing what meanwhile?”

For a second Kiril pursed his lips, his fingers paused mid-way through stroking Miho’s hair.

“I have a child to teach the ways of our world and a couple of nightclub owners to manage.”

“You’re going to leave here with her? With both of them?” Liana blinked. “If you are indeed connected by magic, it may very well be ill advised to kill her before the spell is broken, but to allow her out in public? Have you lost your senses?”

“Watch your tone, Liana; you know who you are talking to,” Kiril snarled.

“And it’s because I know, I think this is a terrible mistake,” she tried to reason. “Were the king to learn of this…”

“He shall not, unless some poor creature no longer wishing to live should tell him.”

Both fact and a warning Liana heard loud and clear.

I rouse to a melancholic piano melody drifting purposefully through the mansion. Though I picture the simple press of keys, the sound each makes is far more than that; there is a ubiquitous pain woven into the undulating tempo, a graceful, sorrowful longing in every hanging pause and a hand offered in my direction.

Wrapping myself in the satin robe hanging at the end of the bed, I pad out of the bedroom I don’t remember returning to, coaxed by the music’s sweet desperation, completely under its spell. And half way to the lower floor, I find myself unable to move – peering down into the lounge I discover the source of that beautiful distress.

Transfixed, unblinking, I watch Kiril’s fingers glide across the concert grand, the monstrous instrument of dark, varnished wood tamed by the skilful touch of his cold fingertips; and I wonder if it’s possible to be jealous of an inanimate object. Yet it seems so alive, the silver strike of each hidden string taking flight and fluttering upward to where I stand – and I can almost see those hazy wisps of sound shuddering toward me: fragile, hopeful, fervent but somehow laces with fine threads of irritation.

When the final reverberation gives way to silence, I inhale a sob and finally release the tears that have been swimming across my vision.

Clear at least this time.

Kiril looks up at me, his expression unreadable, his thoughts so shielded compared to the open emotion of his unguarded tune.

“You’re such a trope,” I declare, my voice still thick with a clinging sadness. “Sullen vampire playing broody music on his piano in the dead of night.”

“The pipe organ was taking up too much space,” he replies, and it might have been humourous had his tone not emerged so darkly from between those perfect lips I have kissed fervently and want to partake of again. “And it’s a little past noon.”

Impassively, he turns a couple of sheet music pages and begins again to play, ignoring my approach.

What am I supposed to make of that?

Have I irritated him by interrupting, offended him with my remark, or is there someone worse still than the wracking pain connecting our separation?

Persisting despite the ache in my chest, I complete my descent and tread slowly across the space until I am directly behind him. The swaying rhythm of his new malady causes me to frown; he is right there within arm’s reach and yet he somehow feels very far away. To reassure myself, I lightly place a hand against his shoulder, but immediately recoil when the piano shouts a single, dramatic discord and Kiril becomes still.

“What?” I scowl, with equal parts indignation and upset, and Kiril turns his whole body, suddenly trapping my legs between his, possessively drawing me close again with one arm around my waist.

I’m looking down at him, but the power is all his; not something I’m used to nor entirely comfortable with.

“Spit it out,” I huff, even as his hand floats downward over the curve of my backside.

“I am angry,” he answers finally, and as much is evident in the arctic sharpness of his eyes.

“I can see that,” I retort, trying to maintain my train of thought as he begins to gather up the back of my robe. “It’s not like we both don’t have plenty of reasons to be pissed off at the world right now, so what particular frustration has got your goat right now?”

“I want you beyond all reason,” he snarled, but hidden beneath it was a despairing purr. “I want to consume you entirely, but then you would be gone and that I simply cannot allow.”

This confession is so incredibly frightening, but at the same time the most mind-blowing statement I have ever heard – of this I am sure.

Expressing this is nigh impossible, however; emotions refuse to be converted into words. All I can do in response is climb into his lap, lock my fingers at the nape of his neck and drink that sweet affection from his lips. Fervently, he searches for the places about my body of greatest warmth, until he’s straining against my inner thigh.

“Wait,” he utters, incongruent with the insistent press of his fingertips. “Wait.”

“For what?” I rasp. “A written invitation?”

“This,” he begins again, swallowing his desire in a massive gulp, “this isn’t real.”

“You’re going to let witches tell you what is and isn’t real?” I challenge.

We’d spoken in the infirmary about the theory of a curse or spell binding us by lust, and at first I was outraged and sickened and frustrated. To be manipulated in that way, to be robbed of emotional freedom made me feel trapped, suffocated.

As Kiril kissed me good night, however, and left me alone I couldn’t reconcile what I knew of my desire’s falseness with how powerful and real it felt.

How it feels.

“I will let the facts do so,” Kiril clarifies, and the icy edge causes me to recoil, rock back and pull free easily because Kiril allows me to.

“Oh well, in that case I’ll just be on my way and waste your time no longer,” I bite back, the lashing of a wounded and confused animal.

“You are overreacting,” he says from his seat. “You know very well you and I cannot be apart at present.”

“Enjoy your headache, Kiril,” I spit, failing to resist the burning hurt of a knife twisting between my ribs.

“Are you a woman or a toddler throwing a tantrum?” he hisses, in front of me before I can dodge.

“I’m a woman taken for a fool!” I shout into his face. “Caught up by your unnatural charm and swagger – maybe drawn by magic if you want to blame it – but preyed upon and lured nonetheless until I gave myself to you!”

“And I am the only one who has ever had the pleasure I suppose?” Kiril volleys.

I don’t know if he’s just caught off guard, or if my rage has given me supernatural speed, but my palm snaps loudly across his face.

“Miho?” Jazz calls from above, but all my focus belongs to Kiril for another barb before I stomp upstairs.

“I hope you have a good memory, Kiril,” I snarl. “Because hex or otherwise, screaming fits of bloody murder, it’s a pleasure you’ll not have again.”

Part 8

#miho fujiwara #Jazz Mann #kiril lambert #konstantin lambert #vampire fictoin #vampire #romance #betrayal #oc #original fiction #Blood Spatter

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