Page 296 of Rage

Night Sister

By: B.L. Brown

Chapter One

The first failing of weak men is knowledge.

They know they are weak. They know they cannot manifest change in the world, and that knowledge makes them cruel.

I suppose knowledge is my failing as well, for as much as I know I should not give Declan Margrave the satisfaction, I do. I know that by screaming and letting him see how much this hurts, how much it enrages me, I’m only urging him on.

Because Declan Margrave is a weak man.

He hides this weakness behind silver chains and cattle prods. Behind the slow drip of holy water and angled mirrors to reflect the dying light. Every whimper and cry that slips from my lips encourages the monster that is Declan. Every bruise I earn thrashing against those silver bars, and the blistering welts the holy water raises on my skin feeds the weak man within the beast.

He paces around my cage like a northern wolf, and my eyes catch on the stake dangling from the belt cinched tight around his trim waist. Hewn from a crucifix, the holywood stake is a favorite toy of Declan’s. Leather worn smooth by use wraps around the base, right up to the flared hand guard. Ribbonsof mahogany and redwood wind around the shaft, capped by a gleaming silver tip pounded and sharpened to a wicked point.

Torchlight winks off the wretched metal, and my skin prickles in anticipation of the stake’s weight. The memory of cold silver against my flesh explodes in my mind. Despite how well I know not to do so, I flinch away, curling into a tight, tiny ball as far from Declan as I can get.

This is not the first time he has captured and tortured me. I wish I could say it would be the last, but I am no longer sure.

Ours is a dance, our fates tidally locked. Wherever I go, no matter how deep I run into the woods, he finds me, and I end up locked in this cage while he tortures me for a crowd.

But there’s always someone, some sympathetic Northerlands fool, who finds Declan’s work distasteful. I only need to pick them out of the crowd.

Declan pauses at the corner of my cage, obscured by the thick silver-coated frame. Men and women fill the hall, huddling at a safe distance. They leer at my bruises and wounds, their faces twisted in disgust as thick, clotted blood pumps from the cuts on my arms.

“You see?” Declan whips around the cage, driving a blade into my side.

I scream from the shock of it, the pain, furious that I dropped my guard enough to allow him that strike. I press my hand against the cut, deep crimson blood surging between my fingers as I glare at him. The pain recedes to an ache, and the flow slows as my skin stitches back together—a normal blade, then, not silver or doused in holy water.

“They bleed,” Declan states, “and anything that bleeds can be killed.”

“But they come back!” a villager shouts, too deep in the crowd for me to pick him out.

“Not if you do the job properly.” Declan gestures to the rear of the hall, where his men flank the walls on either side of large oak doors. I do not recognize a single one of them, which does not come as a surprise. Declan does not keep them for long. He is weak and cruel. Such men do not breed loyalty.

Still, every time I find myself in this cage, I search for a face I know, only to be met with strangers.

Two of his men peel away from the walls to haul the doors open. Screams fill the hall. Wild, feral screams that make my blood sing in recognition.

Vampire. Sister.

The blood of the First One chills in her veins as it does in mine, like calling to like, binding us together in our undeath.

“We found this one lurking in a village beyond your walls.” Declan’s voice rings over the enraged cries of my night sister. He paces the length of my cage and back again, pausing to spit. A thick gob splatters against my shoulder. I whip my head around to hiss at him, but he has already moved away, ignoring the beast in her cage.

My night sister wails and spits, fighting against Declan’s men as they drag her across the floor. Muscles in her legs twitch and flex, but her feet drag at odd angles. She puts her weight on one, fighting to the last, but her ankle folds, and she drops. Only the men’s grip on her arms keeps her from crashing to the cold stone floor.

“The bitch killed three of my men before we subdued her.” At this, he lowers his head and presses a hand to his chest, letting his words sit heavy in the hall. “We believe her to be the creature that killed Lord and Lady Beenleigh.”

A murmur grows in the crowd. Rumors of the horror in Beenleigh have spread far. The Lord and Lady drained of their blood, and their entrails spread to decorate Marley Hall. Therewere less than half a dozen survivors of the vampiric massacre, a feat I am still quite proud of.

Feet shuffle, and the mass parts. Finally, I am given a clear view of the manor lord and his wife seated on a low dais at the far end of the room. The lady’s cheeks are pale, her pinched features sucked to the center of her face, while the lord sits with his legs set wide. Rolls spill over the high collar of his shirt, and the buttons on his vest threaten to pop off from the strain of covering a rotund belly.

“Drained a flock of sheep before we got there.” Declan shakes his head.

“What concern of mine is that?” Lord Stilton scoffs and spit dribbles down his chins.

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