Page 62 of Feathers From the Sky

Standing in the doorway, I can’t bring myself to move as I confirm Margot was right.

It’s too late.

When Margot had uttered those words, I’d known.

When I heard Victoria’s laugh as I’d entered the mezzanine, I’d known.

When I smelled her blood from the stairwell, I’d known.

But I can’t stand seeing her like this.

They’ve dragged her out from the bathroom, four vampires still feeding from her. They’ve torn her hoodie off, her half-naked body laying still beneath them. She’s so goddamn pale. Her dark hair is a puddle on the ground beneath her and her mouth is slack. The worst part is her eyes. Unseeing, she’s staring at the door.

She’d been waiting for me. Watching for me.

Counting on me.

I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think.

I can only break.

When one of them drops her wrist, Gwyn’s hand opens and the tiny bathroom scissors fall to the floor. Her attempts at protecting herself had been futile, and all I can think of is her expression in the camera. She’d been scared but determined, and I wonder how much of her had trusted I’d be there to intervene in time. Whatever good she’d seen in me has gone with her, and there is no hope for those who have taken her from me. Launching forward, the sound which comes up my throat is that of a wounded animal.

Is that not exactly what I am?

When one of my father’s most steadfast men faces me as I grip him by the throat, he’s so drunk, I doubt he even knows his own name. Anders is no match for me as a born vampire, even if he has a few centuries on me. He doesn’t cry out when I break his neck, still staring at me as I rip his heart from his chest to ensure he can’t come back.

The others don’t move, continuing to drain every drop from her. She is covered in the marks of their thirst, covered in evidence of betrayal, of hate, of desire. They hate her, and yet her blood tastes like their sweetest dreams.

They won’t live long enough to have nightmares about what I do to them.

I pluck the slight woman off her, grimly realizing it’s the same fledging who attacked her in the stairwell weeks ago. The new vampire who barely has any fucking control.

I don’t care.

She thrashes in my arms, pupils dilated so thoroughly I can barely see the blue ring around them. The girl screams, clawing at me, doing what she can to get back to Gwyn.

I break her over my knee like a twig, and she stops moving.

For whatever reason, it gets the other’s attention, and both men attack at the same time. They’re both Emile’s blood sworns, Giovanni and Peter if I remember right, and I wonder again if my uncle was responsible. I’d assumed Victoria had been behind it, but I suppose they could’ve worked together. The scent of Gwyn’s blood is overwhelming as they tussle with me—covered with it. The sound I make is one of horror and longing. I want to taste it, taste her, drink from her neck. But I can’t.

I will crave her for the rest of my life.

In more ways than I ever wanted to think about.

Giovanni’s hands are around my throat while Peter tries to knock my legs out from beneath me.

“Did you think I wouldn’t care?” I roar at them, but I am so much closer to sobbing than I realized. When did she become so important to me?

Everyone you swear to protect ends up dead though, don’t they?

Indulging myself, I’d chosen to protect her. She’d relied on me. This is what happens to the people I choose. This is what happens when I soften and dare to dream of something different.

I get them killed.

Flipping Giovanni to the ground, I knee Peter in the jaw. Gio is looking up at me from below, blood covering his face and clothes, and he chokes on a laugh.

“You mad we stole your blood bag?”

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