Page 1 of King of the Damned
Prologue
Kaius
1000 Years Ago
Monster. Abomination. Demon.
Those words swirl within my mind as I clutch my mother’s lifeless body to my chest. I weep for her, the agony nearly too much to bear.
I’ll never love again. Of that, I am certain.
I gave my heart so willingly. Trusted so thoroughly. I loved Yekaterina unconditionally, and it cost me everything. More than everything. My life, my family, my soul.
I was warned, and that’s the part that leaves a bitter taste in my bloodstained mouth. It is known that the Ten Priestesses have a deceitful nature. They prey on men like me. They prey on their selfish desires, those same selfish desires that I foolishly shared with her.
Yekaterina cursed me, and it cost both of us our lives. It even cost the life of my innocent mother.
But souls live on, and as the witch’s lifeless body turns to ash, the silver dagger I stabbed into her heart clatters to the ground. I feel her cold, black aura wrap around my spine, and I stiffen as her demonic voice enters my head, to tell me I will have but one chance to release her soul back into the world and break this wretched curse.
I vow at this moment that I will stop at nothing to end this immortal burden, stealing back my human life from the clutches of Yekaterina’s wickedness.
But I will not bear this alone. I will create an army of my own. Worshippers of Yekaterina will become my slaves. The most cunning among Avrusa will become my allies.
I am Kaius Voroninov, King of Bloodlust, Betrayal, and the Damned, and all will share in this eternal torment with me.
One
Adelasia
This is my favorite part of the show. The anticipation that hits me right before I’m meant to perform. The way my hands tremble as I apply rouge to my cheeks. The way my legs feel weak as I put on my first costume of the night and tie the ribbons of my shoes.
So many women in this school would kill to be in my position. We’ve all worked so hard for this moment, and while I’m proud of myself for landing the lead role this season, there’s an air of jealousy as the other ballerinas walk past me. I can see it in the little sneers on their faces that they each believe they deserved the role over each other and over me. It happens every season, and truthfully, when I’m in the corps, I look at the principal dancer with the same envy.
I stand at six feet tall–far taller than normal for a woman and certainly for a dancer. My height has come with its own set of challenges, the main one being that for many years, it was almost impossible to find a male partner that I didn’t tower over. For much of my childhood, I simply was told to sit backstage, for my height was too much of a distraction. It was only by simple luck that eventually one of my male classmates hit a growth spurt.
That year, when I was sixteen, was the very first time I was allowed to participate in pas de deux class, and I never again wanted to let my height be a barrier to me. I practiced longer, trained harder, and took three times as many technique classes as anyone else. While I was not always the best, I certainly was one of the most determined, and it earned me respect that I did not have before.
The thing I love most about dancing is the freedom it gives me to be whoever I want. The freedom to be something as simple as a girl in love or something as majestic as a swan.
Tonight, I am to be a woman destined to fall in love with the moon, forced to watch it die every night only to return in the morning with no memory of me.
It’s time for me to prove to everyone why I earned this role. As I regain my focus, the crowd goes silent, and the violinist begins to play a soft tune. My partner and I squeeze each other’s hands in a small ritual of luck. The music begins to softly crescendo.
I hold my breath in anticipation before fluttering out to the center of the town square in a romantic skirt. The light fabric dances with me as I tell a story of a vicious cycle of pain–not with words, but by making beautiful shapes with my body.
I see my mother’s proud gaze as she stands in the front row. Right before I exit the square for the next piece, I notice two sets of red eyes locked with mine. I quietly gasp and shake my head, convinced I’m just seeing things. After I blink, the red eyes are gone.
Right. Seeing things.
I bow to the crowd with my partner. The crystals of my skirt shimmer in the torchlight surrounding the town, radiating beautiful shades of orange and yellow from the white tulle.
This costume, despite its beauty, comes with insecurity.
I was born with a long, jagged, ugly scar down my spine. It would pass for a birthmark if the skin weren’t raised and discolored from the rest of me. My parents tried everything to get rid of it. No potion or remedy the apothecary offered helped.
We gave up after five years of painful treatment, and I eventually learned to live with the permanently blemished part of me.
Fortunately, since it’s on my back, I tend to forget about it most days. Sometimes though, like when my ballet costume shows it…I envy the other girls in my school whose muscular, toned backs aren’t soiled by the sight of a massive, grotesque scar down the entire length of their spines.
