Page 299 of Rage

Lord Stilton’s puffy lips flatten, his watery eyes darting from Declan to me and back. His chins wobble as he nods his agreement, and I bury my face in my knees to hide the expression that crawls over my face.

Declan and his borrowed men fill the cages. They build more from scrap wood and silver stripped from Stilton’s walls or melted from his goblets and cutlery. The week passes, and I watch their progress from my cage, which is now in the center of the hall. I am covered by a tapestry during the daylight hours, safely hidden from the sun while my body takes its needed rest, and each sunset, I am rewarded with the sight of my night brothers and sisters sitting quietly in wait.

We are unliving; we are undying. We are patient.

I see it written on their faces and in the steadiness of their stares. They wait, watching me, following my lead. Rumors of Declan have spread across the Northerlands, and with them come the stories of me. Captured, escaped, a terror in the night chased across the moors and highlands by a man with a silver-tipped stake. We are creatures of legend, crafting a warning tale for mortals and immortals alike.

It is a dance, mine and Declan’s. We are bound together on the wheel of fate, tipping in his favor as easily as the cards deal my success. I am caged now, but I will not be caged forever. No silver bars can hold me, not when the weakness of men serves my purposes so well.

Not when there is alwaysone.

Lady Stilton haunts the hall in the small hours, her wide-set, dark eyes large on her pinched face. New bruises darken arms she no longer hides from my night siblings and me. A limp hitches her step, but with every night that passes, she draws on her courage to come closer.

On the sixth night, I wake to the tapestry torn away and Lady Stilton’s face pressed against the bars.

“He will kill you,” she hisses, her voice barely above a whisper. “He has had the priests blessing barrels of rainwater all day. Tomorrow, after the feast, the guards will drag your cages into the courtyard at dawn and drown you.” Lady Stilton’s pulse flutters in her neck, her heartbeats loud enough to deafen. Her eyes skitter over my face, my filthy dress, and the dried, crusted blood on my arms and legs. “He wants to watch you burn before you burn.”

In the sun, I assume. What a terrible fate.

“A grand plan for a worm like your husband,” I rasp. Each word saws up my throat, and hunger claws in my belly. Six days is a long time to go without a meal, and I was hungry when Declan threw me into this cage.

Lady Stilton’s mouth twists in a sneer. “My husband can barely think beyond his next meal. This was the hunter’s idea.”

Of course it was.

“Please.” I press a hand to my mouth, making my eyes widen in fear. “Please help me.”

A silence descends over the hall, quieting the mice in the corners and the swallows nested in the rotting beams. As one, my night siblings fall still and face my cage, ears pricked as they listen intently to our exchange. Their silent focus is as loud as the rush of blood in Lady Stilton’s veins.

“How?” she asks. Pale, twig-like fingers curl around the bars of my cage. Several are crooked, bones broken and healed, and she is missing the thumbnail on her left hand.

I shuffle across the cage on my knees, hands clasped in plea. “I heard them speaking. Lord Stilton is going to open the cellars. Tell the servants to pour heavy. Get them drunk and?—”

“He’ll water down the wine.”

“They will not notice?” I stop, lowering back onto my heels.

“They never do.” Lady Stilton grips the bars, eyes darting as she thinks. “But perhaps … perhaps if I drug the wine with bergamot and elderflower?” I blink, surprised at how easily she offers to do this. Bergamot and elderflower are a druid’s tools, and that knowledge has me eyeing her pale, pinched features and dark, haunted eyes anew. “The taste of the wine would be strong; they will think it fortified and consider him generous. They’ll drink more heavily and?—”

“And when they succumb, you steal the keys from the hunter.” Greasy hair falls in my face as I nod. “Let me out, Lady Stilton, and I will ensure you never have to suffer another night at the hands of your husband.”

Her skin blanches the color of the moon, a white so pale she could be one of my night siblings. Blue veins pulse in her throat and along her jaw, and she steps away from my cage, fingers pressed to her tiny mouth. For a moment, murderous druidic tendencies aside, I fear I have overstepped and made one too many assumptions about the caliber of woman before me.

Then she nods. A tiny, tight dip of her chin that bobs and grows into a strong affirmation.

She will do it. She sees the wisdom. Free me and be freed. Her husband drained and discarded—all of his lands, all of his wealth, hers for the taking. I do not care whether she will be a good shepherd of her lands. I only care about escaping my cage and tipping the scales in my favor.

Chapter Three

By the night of the feast, two dozen vampires fill the cages. They huddle together to keep as far from the silver bars as possible, but there is no respite. Declan’s men and Stilton’s guards have taken to dousing our cages with holy water and cheering loudly when they scream. At the far end of the hall, a quartet of men play a game, guessing the number of blisters that will rise when the water touches a night sister’s arm.

She is brave, my sister, and does not scream, but blood wells in her eyes, drawing crimson tracks down her cheeks.

Lord and Lady Stilton sit on their dais with Declan lounging near their feet. Propped on an elbow, he absently twirls the silver-tipped stake in his hands. His dark hair falls loose and soft, curling against the collar of his vest, and stubble darkens a strong jaw. A goblet sits untouched beside him, and he stares down the center of the hall at me. Hunger darkens eyes that gleam a burnished gold in the firelight, and I can’t help but notice the bulge pressing against the tight leather of his trousers.

An unwilling shiver trembles through my body, and I tear my gaze away, studying the guests.

I recognize many faces from that first night, though most are new. Tourists come to witness the vampires in their cages andsee the slaughter with their own eyes. I would laugh if I were not so hungry.

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