HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) (10 page)

“My heart beats more than that,” she said. “At least once each day, at least once, with each remembrance of—” She clenched her jaw. “—of someone I lost.”

The ache in Ophelia’s esophagus intensified, turning into a burn far worse than the serpent’s mark. Her tongue and the inside of her cheeks were so dry she feared they would crack and bleed. Hunger pains bloomed in her stomach.  An image flashed through her mind—her teeth sinking into Ethan’s neck. Draining him.

“Are you all right?” Ethan asked.

Lenore grinned. “You planned poorly, Ankou. Unless, you intended to be her first meal.”

Ophelia shook her head. She clenched her hands to resist the urge to claw at her throat. “Stay away.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed, and he started to walk over, but Ophelia jumped to her feet and stepped back.

“I said stay away from me!”

Ethan halted, and the smile fell from Lenore’s expression. The three stood frozen in that strange tableau while Ophelia’s hunger grew more with each passing moment. With that pang, anger wound like a vine through her dead heart.

This was Robert’s fault. 

Without a word, Ophelia darted out the door and into the field. In a blink of an eye, the cabin was far behind and she was already near the entrance of the grove where she’d seen her mother earlier. No, not her mother.
Robert
. She braced herself for the sudden halt, but her body was more agile now, and she came to a graceful stop. She glanced down at her body.  How could such grace come from a monster?

The air carried Robert’s scent—a husky soil-like aroma and the smell of charred wood. Ophelia could almost smell Lady Karina’s house on his flesh, for all the time he spent there, often watching Ophelia’s every move. 

Now she knew what to make of the way he would leer at her as she mopped floors or prepared meals or helped Lady Karina freshen up for the day. It was lust, yes, but not for her, as she had assumed. No, Robert craved destruction and power.

She’d never forget the way he smelled, and now that her senses were stronger, she knew he was close. Robert had become an antelope in the field. 

Ophelia whipped through woods, darting between branches, crunching over fallen saplings, ducking beneath low branches. She didn’t stop until she reached his camp. He sat by a small fire, naked from the waist up, a large gash on his side seeping blood. White tissue protruded from the wound.

Robert didn’t make a move, just sat there, staring unseeingly at the fire. “I knew you’d come for me.”

“And yet ye remained ‘ere.”

“What use is running now? You’ve changed, and you’d have come for me eventually.”

Ophelia shot over to where he sat, the fire casting her shadow over him. “Ye wanted me ‘ere. Now I’ve come. Alone.”

“You expect a fight?” he asked, gesturing to his wounds, wincing. “Do you think there is one for me to give?”

Robert’s blood was meant to meet her need as well as quench her thirst for revenge. But only if he was willing to fight. 

Ophelia lifted her foot and kicked him in the shoulder, onto his back. Her fangs snapped down and she pounced on him. Her chest heaved with each heavy breath, the restraint not to sink her teeth into his throat becoming painful to her body.

“Fight,” she commanded him.

 Robert laughed. “I’d rather deny you the satisfaction.”

Ophelia slammed her fist into the dirt beside his head and snarled. “I will kill ye either way.”

“I am dead anyway,” Robert said, “Failure has a price. Unless . . . ” He steeled his gaze on Ophelia. “Allow me to bring you in. It would do us both a favor.”

Ophelia’s body shook from her restraint. “I care only to see ye die.”

“Yet, you still have a mission, no? I know you weren’t taken here for no reason. You were called,
weren’t you
?”

She didn’t need to answer. Branches crunched behind her, and Ethan’s voice soon followed. “You underestimate the woman’s scorn.”

Ophelia glared at him. “Go away, Ethan. This doesn’t concern ye.”

Lenore stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, looking on with smug amusement. Ophelia’s gaze passed between them, then fell back to Robert. All she could see was the pulse in his neck. He was one of the Strigoi. He was one of the living, and his blood would sate her hunger. 

“Ophelia,” Ethan said softly. He walked up behind her. “You don’t want to do this. Perhaps we should consider—”

“There is no we.”

Ethan took out his blade and cut across his forearm.

“You’ll feel better once you drink,” he said. “You’ll be able to think clearly. You won’t feel so out of control.”

“I am not out of control.”

It was a lie, though one Ophelia wished were true. She could not stop shaking. The dry burn in her throat made her feel as though she was choking on her own blood. The blood flowing from Ethan’s arm called to her—a primal need.

Please, don’t let me be this monster.

The hunger took over, and Ophelia felt as though she were drifting outside herself. Her body thrust forward, her teeth sunk into the flesh of Ethan’s arm. Blood, sweet and heavy, spurted into her mouth. It flowed down her esophagus, soothing the burn, easing the sores of cracked tissue.

She closed her eyes, floating away in her mind. Peace played over her nerves, arousing her senses. She could sense them all. Ethan grimaced. Lenore watched intently. Robert slunk into the shadows like the snake he was, but didn’t leave as she wished he would.

Ethan’s blood slowed.

Stop, now
.

Her body shook, and she dug her nails into his arm to force herself to push away, but as she tried to open her mouth to release him, every part of her being resisted. A hand rested on her shoulder. Lenore’s, she knew, as one would know the touch of their sire. And in that touch, Lenore’s energy demanded that Ophelia stop, as did Ophelia’s own will.

But her body still resisted. 

Shaking, she forced her fangs to retract. Her eyes shot open. The moonlight stung her eyes, and she lifted her hand to shield them. The wet blood chilled on her teeth, lips, and chin, but Ethan only looked at her with concern. 

She backed away. “I . . . I’m . . . ”

“Shhh,” Ethan said. “You’ll learn your way. Within a few weeks, you’ll rarely have to feed to keep that bloodlust at bay, and within several years you will be able to control your urges despite the difficulty.”

The moments sobered Ophelia’s thoughts. The haze had lifted, and now she was trapped in a body that had just acted in a way she could have never forgiven herself for only hours earlier.

“Lenore will hunt animal blood for you tonight,” Ethan continued. “You and I—we’ll have to talk with Robert.”

The mention of Robert’s name reignited the hatred bubbling in her gut, and her regrets and intended apologies died on her lips. She sneered at Robert, who had maintained his distance.

“Fine,” she mumbled.

Fine, for now. But soon she would see to his death.

Damascus, 1808

They traveled by night. Traveled by roads unseen, traveled with quiet steps and hushed whispers.

The world hummed in the background of Ophelia’s thoughts. Once they arrived at the Maltorim’s asylum, she would be expected to approach the entrance as though she were an uncivilized, newborn Cruor. Not that it was so far from the truth, but Lenore and Ethan said her bloodlust was minimal compared to most. The serpent’s mark made sure of that, though at least the burning had stopped.

It wasn’t as though Ophelia had never hidden truths about herself before, but this was different. This went beyond simple deceit and into the realm of false identities and fabricated stories. One misstep could mean her life. And Robert—she still resented his role in all of this. She needed his help, but she couldn’t trust him.

Lenore, however, was not apprehensive. Ophelia knew because of their blood bond—because Lenore was Ophelia’s sire. If Ophelia wanted the Maltorim to take her under their wing, she needed to convince them that her maker was dead. And Lenore was decidedly
very
alive. 

If the Maltorim did not accept her, however, this would all have been for nothing.

As they strode on, Ophelia felt every emotion strumming through Lenore’s body: the buzz, the excitement, the hunger—or was it thirst?—for adventure. Had Lenore not been so intrigued by their journey, Ophelia believed she would have taken leave by now. She could feel something more brewing there as well . . . some other driving-force that carried Lenore along with them on this journey . . . but a newborn cannot read the meaning behind all of their sire’s emotions, and Lenore had certainly kept that corner of her heart well-guarded.

As they crested the next hill, the Maltorim’s asylum expanded along the horizon. Stone walls encapsulated crowded rows of cemetery headstones and, in the center of the graveyard, a mausoleum—with its primeval doors and concrete edifice—awaited Ophelia’s charade. She marveled at the crumbling limestone, having never before been able to see so clearly from such a great distance.

Ethan stopped, placing a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. The night’s wind, carrying on it the scent of the dead and the grit of dirt, swept between her and Ethan, chilling the warmth of him at her back and lifting her hair from her neck.

“We’ll stay until you’re safely inside.”

Ophelia swallowed. She didn’t turn to face him, just stood there, studying the path they’d yet to travel. He hadn’t stood this close to her since before they departed. She’d spent the journey half-wishing he would transport them through space, but he’d said they couldn’t risk that. The Maltorim would be able to sense them if they did, whereas if they approached on foot, their supernatural presence would seem just a part of the usual world around them.

 “It has to be this way,” he said, but his voice died off in a whisper, and Ophelia was uncertain whether the sentiment was intended for himself or for her. “Remember one thing when faced with tribulations, Ophelia: Fight. Whatever you do, fight. That is the only way to survive in our world.” 

Lenore sighed the full weight of her irritation as Robert brushed past Ophelia and Ethan to start the road ahead. “Well, then,” he said. “Come on if we’re to do this.”

Ophelia turned to Ethan and startled at the sudden proximity of his body. He hadn’t felt so close standing at her back, but now here he was, his face inches above her own, his gaze pressing down into hers in a way that tightened her chest and shortened her breaths.

What she felt could not be imagined. Surely the desire burned as deeply in him as it did in her. Surely the heat spread through his body with the same intensity and need. It was there, between them. Of that Ophelia was certain. And yet she could see in his regretful brown-gold eyes the same understanding that resided in her heart.

“Perhaps—” she started, but he stepped away, his expression turning stony and his gaze averting to the distance. A cold breeze rushed by, moving Ethan’s dark hair, and his eyes watered. The pale moon washed out his bronzed skin, and the stubble on his jaw looked darker by contrast.

 “Good luck, Ophelia.” He didn’t look at her.

“Of course,” she said quietly, folding her hands in front of her. “To ye as well, Sir Ethan Forrester of Rome.”

She turned away, hoping to hide the tears that moistened her eyelashes. She clenched her fist, the dig of her fingernails in her palm a welcome distraction from the heartache pulsing in her chest. In her mind, she turned back around and demanded more from him. She yelled at him and cried to him. But even in her thoughts, that did no good. Ethan had accepted what needed to be done. And so Ophelia continued her quiet march away, farther and farther from him, hoping for the very thing she felt hopeless of, as though maybe if she stood there long enough, reality could be erased and the moment could be reenacted in a new way.

Finally she found her own inner resolution and took the first few steps away—the hardest steps—and from behind her she heard Ethan curse beneath his breath. She nearly crumbled, so evident and raw was his pain, but she only hesitated, her next step shakier than the last. She couldn’t turn around now or she would fall apart, so she bit her lip and leaned into her next few steps, starting down the road to close the distance between her and Robert.

After she’d gone a few yards, Lenore called out, “I want to know everything. You’ll know where to find me.”

There was a bumping sound—perhaps Ethan nudging Lenore—and some sharp, quiet words that Ophelia could not discern. She didn’t respond. That Lenore could keep in contact with Ethan stirred within Ophelia a fiery anger.

Just outside the cemetery, Robert stopped short and pivoted toward her. “You’ll have to bite me now, if they’re to understand why I’m bringing you in.”

Her stomach bubbled with a mix of hunger and disgust, but when Robert loosened his collar and stretched his neck, Ophelia’s fangs snapped down. She closed her eyes, trying to listen to the howl of the wind between the graves to block out the sound of her mouth on his flesh—to block out her teeth piercing his flesh—but it was all for naught. The sound reverberated in her ears and echoed in her mind with a sickening crunch, but as the blood sloshed into her mouth, pulsing between her lips, the thrum of the life-blood overrode her inhibitions.