Vampire Girl 3: Silver Flame(48)

She wasn’t in the vision. Because her soul was still trapped. Trapped for all eternity.

That path is gone. I can never go back.

Dean touches my hand, pulling me away from my dark thoughts. He looks at me, his eyes filled with a sorrow I haven’t seen before. "The mirror," he says, "the mirror showed me what would have happened if I had never let you go. If I had taken the first turn as was intended." He smiles, though his eyes fill with tears. "We could have been happy. Happier than I ever imagined. Perhaps we still can." He massages my hands with his own, caressing them with the softest touch. "I know what I want, Arianna. Do you?"

I step back, letting his hands fall away. Because I don’t. I don’t know what I want.

Fen, because he makes me happy.

Asher, because he can bring about peace.

Dean, because he reminds me that life can be thrilling.

All of them. None of them.

But I must choose.

And my choice will change the whole world.





Chapter 9


UNCHAINED


Fenris Vane





"I can hear Fen mumbling his complaints. I ignore them."

—Arianna Spero



My skills have grown dull. For weeks I was tortured, barred and caged. Now, I wield a sword once more. I feel the weight in my palm, the leather grip on my skin. The blade is perfectly balanced, thick and sharp for piercing armor and bone. It is of Kayla’s making. I strike at the wooden target before me, slicing through air, splitting the log in half. I move on to a stone pillar. The vampire blood coursing through my veins gives me strength, makes wood and flesh too frail. The stone will dull my blade, but I need something solid to practice on, something that won’t break at the hint of my power. I side step on the soft grass, light on my feet, striking at the column. I cut into the stone over and over, and then I change my technique. I begin to stop my blade short just as it meets my target, practicing control over strength. I imagine a body where the pillar is. Head, torso, legs. Strike. Strike. Strike. I aim for where the major arteries would be. I aim for a guaranteed kill.

The training yard is near empty this time of night, but a few practice in the shadows far off. The smell of roses and peaches carries on the wind, tickling my nose, as I wipe the sweat from my brow. White flowers and green vines spill over the walls around the field, sprinkling the darkness with touches of light. There is no fancier training yard in all Seven Realms, and I wonder why Dean mixes combat and beauty. War is simple, brutal, devoid of art, and yet my brother approaches the two as one and the same. I’ve seen it in the way he fights, twirling through a battlefield, jumping over his foes, more dancing than cleaving. There is elegance to his technique, but foolishness as well. Too often he leaves his back exposed. Too often he strikes with more flair than speed. I see his methods in the others practicing here. The Style of the Rose, I hear them call it. Such a soft name for such a soft form.

Despite myself, I begin to adopt its stance. Upright, blade far from the body. Legs bent slightly and loose. I twirl, spinning my blade like a storm, ravaging the stone pillar. I leap, leaving myself exposed, but covering a far greater distance than usual. My heart rate begins to rise. There is some sense to this method after all. Perhaps I will never use it in battle, but it will be of use if ever I am forced to fight Dean’s soldiers. If ever I am forced to fight my brother.

I whip the blade left and right, up and down, as if it were more string than steel. Clatter and clashing fill the air, but through it all, I still hear him, gliding over the grass.

"What do you want, Varis?"

The Druid’s footsteps stop. He stands behind me. I can smell the fur on his clothes, the scent of places far away on his skin. Of Avakiri. It must be a world far different than my own, a sight to behold one day. If I live long enough to see it.

The Druid speaks softly, the wind stirring at his words. "You are fierce with the blade, Prince of War, but blind to the other forces at play. Blind to the earth and wind. Blind to the heat and water in all things."

"I see enough," I say, lowering my blade to my side.

He steps closer. "Let me train you. Let me do what your mother could not."

"You knew her." The words slip from my tongue. I do not wish to speak to the Druid, do not wish to know of his way, but I crave to learn more of her. More of the woman who haunts my dreams.

"She was my mentor," says Varis. "My friend. She was the oldest of the four Wild Ones. Our guide in peace and war. I would have given my life for hers if I had but the chance. I would give my life for her son…"

His words hang in the air, thick and heavy between us. This man, he sees me as more than foe, more than vampire. Perhaps even more than common Fae. But… I am a Prince of Hell, and he is but Druid. "We are not friends."