"My, my, love. Are you sure you want to leave such a cruel world behind?"
Far beyond the horizon, clouds gathered-throbbing, budding, menacing. Time was slipping through their fingers. "What can be worse than this?"
A slow, wicked smile split his fa...
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The evening would not be kind or welcoming, and already the hounds of the night creatures foretold the horror that was to come. With a somber, halo of pale light trickling from an oil lamp to her side, Rose sat taut in a velvet chair staring mutely at her crooked, bruised reflection. Just her and the bruised eyed girl staring back. Hollowed and gaunt in the face. Thin, trembling lips. A servitor tugged an ivory comb through the tangled mass of Roses hair before braiding it into an assortment of a coiled bun to the back of her head. Rose watched with detachment another servitor rub a paste of clay, ashes and rosemary onto her shoulders and collarbone. So she may smell lovely when they feast on her. The Servitors were not gentle, and she didn't expect them to be. She was human waste, always inferior, never equal. But even Vampyrs have their rankings.
Branded on the side of their face, the tattoo of a sun placed them as one of the lower bloodlines: Daywalkers. Just like Cato. They were terribly weak in Vampiric descent, not strong like the other bloodlines, and so they were used as Servitors, along with the Vylewrought. Most Daywalkers, because of their weak descent, would rise to the surface and lure hopeless mortals to Hel so their masters could feed. Used, Cato only used her. But the catch was, their hunger was insatiable. The girl was horrified to have loved something so terribly far from human. So monstrous he had to hide his true self. He lied to her, every word he said from the beginning was a lie to get her here. Every stupid smile and soft kiss, his kindness. The long car rides he'd take her on. She was so reluctant at first that day in the coffee shop, until she bumped into him at the university. And he smiled like she was who he had been looking for. And then came the sweet words, the notes left on her desk, the roses in her bag. She couldn't remember the tattooed girl's name, but she remembers seeing her squeal when he painted a portrait of her and sent it to her house. She couldn't remember the brown-haired boy they always had coffee with, but he always seemed to hate Cato. She never understood why.
She should never have fallen in love with him. She should never have stupidly agreed to run away with him. But who was she to know her freedom was a lie? Who was she to know the place he told her of reeked of rotten flowers and death, musky scents and cloying sweet blood. One of the servitors strutted over to the window of the room to draw the curtains. No light filtered through, the sky was in perpetual darkness. Massive billowing dark stormy clouds, not to mention the giant eyeball hanging in the sky. Its massive, swamp green pupil occasionally shifting to look elsewhere. There were three of them, she heard from a backhand conversation between a two Vampyrs. Three eyeballs hanging in the sky facing the three corners of the mother's star. The High Arches, watching their servants of death with unblinking swamp green eyes. Rose could have sworn the eyeball cast a glance at her.
The Servitor returned to assist Rose with her gilded mantle. Rose stood upon their clipped orders. As the two women fastened the mantle to her waiting shoulders, Rose inspected her own foggy reflection. Her midnight gown glittered like obsidian, shimmered like the night sky. Around her eyes, artful smudges of liquid gold made her amber eyes all the brighter. The mantle itself was brocade, golden thread woven in intricate patterns. The behemoth of a jeweled necklace clasped around her neck only emphasized just how sickly she looked. She might have liked it, had she not known who it came from. The letter on the desk lay opened. She read it silently, unable to hold it herself.
My darling Rose, Forgive me for my poor behaviour. Please accept this gown as a measure of my goodwill, I remember how often you talked about the night sky. At least now you can be as beautiful as the stars you love so dearly. Sincerely, Cato Masen.
Anger, hot and rolling, flooded her. So viciously, she nearly bared her teeth. Nearly. Her muscles remained locked in the trance they had over her. A gown? Did he really think a gown would be enough for all he has put her through? The horror, the pain, the constant terror that raged war within her bones. A gown was not enough, an apology was not enough. She wanted his head. One of the servitors took her left hand, the other took her right, and together they escorted her out of the room and into the winding corridors. At the end of the hall, she saw the same man who took her from Cato just three hours ago. He looked young but she was sure he was much, much older. Cropped dark hair and piercing red eyes, his jaw was cut so clean it looked godly. He stood in an array of robes in red and black. Upon their approach, one of the servitors sneered in her ear, "I hope they mutilate you." The other tittered, ducking her head to laugh.
Elias saw them coming and straightened, allowing the girls to deposit Rose into his waiting hands. He was a large man, his hands alone could crush her skull like it was a mere toy. She never allowed herself to forget just how dangerous these monsters were. A slow, awful smile appeared on his face as he yanked her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "You will do as you are told, do you understand?" magic tinged in the air, the command rattling through her until her own body obeyed. She shivered. "Good, let's go. The Lords hate tardiness."
