Page 6 of The Hawk and the Nightingale

“Why would I ever want to return to this place?” Amalie asked. What she wanted was to no longer be an orphaned peasant, struggling just to feed herself. She wanted to be a rich man’s wife, and if she married a feared and handsome man like Marek she would feel like a queen. “There is nothing for me here. There hasn’t been, not since my parents died.”

Katia frowned, but didn’t argue. “Look at the elders,” she said. “They’re already negotiating the tithe with his advisors. You may get your wish whether you like it or not, Ama.”

“Why?” she asked. “What is the tithe?” Ever since her parents had passed, precious little news reached her. As a ward of the village her only uses had been mending shirts and peeling vegetables, and the elders didn’t share secrets with seamstresses or cooks. As for her voice, which was equal in strength as clarity as her mother’s was, she was rarely given the opportunity to sing. That honor went to the elders’ wives.

“The tithe is flesh,” Katia whispered. “Whenever he comes to feast, all of the unmarried women are lined up for his pleasure. He takes whomever he likes, sometimes for a night, and sometimes forever.”

“Forever,” Amalie murmured. There was nothing for her in the village, save for a loveless marriage to either an old widower, where she would care for the house and children as more of a servant than wife, or a lowly member of society such as a stable hand or muckraker. Amalie didn’t want to spend her days and nights scrubbing and toiling and smelling like shit. She wanted to be powerful, admired, envied.

She wanted Marek to choose her.

Having come to an agreement with the warlord’s men, the elders began dragging women from the edge of the square to the center, and arranging them into a line in front of the feasting table. Amalie noticed that she wasn’t the only one who went willingly, and struggled to place herself directly in front of Marek. She ended up a bit to his left, but close enough for her to see the fine gold embroidery on his velvet sleeves. Close enough for him to see her.

Not that he was looking in her direction. The elders were at the far end of the line from Amalie, taking their time as they presented each woman to the warlord, reciting each’s name and talents in turn. Amalie hated waiting, but she would hate being pulled out of the line even more. She thrust her hands into the folds of her skirts, and tried to be patient.

Finally, the old men got to her, and Father Micah simply said, “This is Amalie.”

Amalie smiled and curtsied at Marek, then the old men moved on to the next woman. Frantic that her one chance to leave her village was slipping away, she pulled open her bodice and bared herself to the waist.

“My lord,” she called. Marek’s gaze returned to her. He smiled as the villagers gasped and called her names; witch, harlot, Amalie had heard them all. The other women in line craned their necks to see what she’d done to get the warlord’s attention. To Amalie’s dismay others began baring themselves as well.

“We should come here more often,” Marek said as his gaze swept across the line of half-dressed women. “This is the most beautiful village I’ve ever seen!”

Marek’s soldiers laughed and leered, and Amalie did the only thing she could. She sang.

“Who is that?” Marek held up a hand, silencing his soldiers. He pointed at Amalie. “Step forward.” She did, being sure to leave her dress open. “Sing.”

Amalie did, and she sang of the moon, and the stars, and the icy beauty of the spring snowmelt, and the lush warmth of being wrapped in furs as the winter winds howled outside. She sang of love, and death, and beauty, all the while her gaze never leaving Marek’s. When her song was done, Marek’s gaze darkened.

“Your voice is beautiful,” he said. “Easily as beautiful as your form. Who taught you to sing like a nightingale?”

“My mother,” she replied. “She was the cantata for this village.”

Marek nodded. “You’re leaving with me. Tonight.”

Amalie smiled. “As you wish, my lord.”

Chapter Five

Hawk -Prague, Present Day

Shortly before sunset Hawk stood beside the club’s front entrance, once again waiting for Amalie’s arrival. As he stood next to Henri, he consider his behavior. He hadn’t waited on a lover with such impatience since he was a teenager, but now he could think about nothing but Amalie’s black eyes and her deep red lips.

Red with my blood, no doubt. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock of having been bitten, he didn’t mind that she was a vampire. Now, he was intrigued. He’d heard many stories about vampires, and was interested to separate fact from fiction. Maybe he would feed her some garlic bread, or walk her past a few mirrors, just to see what would happen.

He’d already learned that the myth of feeling profound pleasure from their bite was, in fact, one hundred percent true. While his memory of the previous evening was still hazy, whenever he thought about Amalie his skin thrummed with pleasure. Hawk’s body remembered the evening they’d shared, even if his mind didn’t.

Something else he’d heard about vampires was that regularly ingesting their victim’s blood healed them, and kept their youthful appearance intact. Amalie looked to be no older that thirty, but now Hawk wondered how old she really was. One hundred, maybe, or perhaps she’d seen one thousand years? More than one thousand years, even?

Hawk shook his head. Taut unlined skin was one thing, but immortality was beyond what he could accept. Besides, if Amalie was hundreds or thousands of years old, wouldn’t she speak or act like an elder? If anything, she beheld the world around her with wonder, not the jaded gaze of someone who had already seen and done it all. Add to that how Amalie favored her left leg, and Hawk suspected many of the stories were just that, stories.

He couldn’t wait to discover the truth.

Henri cleared his throat, and jerked his chin toward the street. Hawk followed his gaze, and saw Amalie.

His Amalie.

There’s another myth disproven. Amalie was once again coming toward him, the slanting rays of the setting sun bathing her in golden light. As she’d done the night before she wore a thin silk sheath that did little to hide her body, though this one was black instead of last evening’s jewel toned blue. Her shoes were matching black slippers—he noted that she was careful on the cobbled street, placing her feet deliberately—and her only jewelry was a large oval garnet that rested in the hollow her throat.

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