Page 19 of Death Comes for Her
The full force of lingering nightmares and the fading ache from my high left me drenched in sweat the next day. I’d taken my time bathing and eating breakfast, muttering brief replies as Imani rattled off every thought in her head. Halfway through a scalding cup of tea, I decided to resume my journey to the library.
Sitting with thoughts of vampires wasn’t good for a fairy’s mind. Mine was already broken beyond repair and recently addicted to a vile substance, but gods-fuck, I needed a true distraction.
Dressed in an airy, lavender colored dress with my hair twisted at the nape of my neck, I marched through the hauntingly empty halls of the manor. Briefly, with an erotic tingle rushing down my spine, I paused at the door where I’d seen the Ambrose lords entangled. After a rough swallow, I shook myself free of the memory and continued to the impressive double doors at the end of the corridor.
With bated breath, I twisted open the handle. It was no opulent palace library with gilded walls and massive, magically glowing crystal chandeliers. The manor library had the same paned glass, arched windows as the rest of the home compared to wall-to-wall windows with doorways to balconies and flying landings I’d grown up with. The lights above me were electric, shining on the thick, heavy red drapes along the back wall and the two levels of books.
If blue skies and bright sunlight existed, I imagined the space feeling bright and open. Once upon a time, it might have been exactly that. In the world the vampires conquered, red light from the crimson moon stained any surface it touched. Only the dim electric lights gave the space a manufactured air of comfort.
Still, the selection didn’t disappoint me. Two open floors filled to the brim with towering walls of books were a consolation prize in an altogether shit situation. And I was starved for the sweet diversion of literature.
Books were the perfect mental escape.
As a child, I had access to a library larger than life. Any subject one might imagine had lived in those gilded walls. Teachers and scholars from all over the kingdom were summoned to educate me. I’d had the best tutors that gold could buy, even throughout the war. Nothing was off limits to me, not even restricted books, because so many years ago I was someone special.
But poetry always sat on a pedestal in my heart.
As I ran my fingers along the spines of ancient leather-bound texts, memories flickered behind my eyes. A woman with golden curls sitting beside me as a child, looking out over a crystalline lakeside. We’d huddled together on expensive blankets not meant for outdoor use but took on our picnics, regardless. She would recite the sweetest poems while braiding wildflowers into my hair.
Shaking away thoughts of the dead, I meandered through the stacks of written knowledge. When I found several sections with tomes I recognized, I pulled the books of poems from their shelves and settled in one of the large wingback chairs near a fireplace. There was no fire, but the seat was comfortable, feeling almost like a welcome embrace in the library. I folded my legs underneath me and tucked into my first book of the day.
The first few hours I busied myself by reacquainting my mind with works I’d read over a decade ago. At one point in my life, I’d been tutored to memorize and recite the ancient literature. Words danced around in my head as I re-familiarized myself with the classics.
It struck me as odd that vampire lords sequestered in their broody home would have hundreds of books written by fair folk. Halfway through my stack of books I paused, remembering that the undead had the time of the war and the ten years following to collect whatever remained of the greatest fairy libraries. Everything in the room might have very well been stolen from the place I was born before they burned it to the ground.
In fact, the book in my hands was of high quality. Certainly a first edition copy with magical preservation humming in the pages. I skimmed the pad of my thumb over the embellished front cover, feeling the ridges and grooves of the flower pattern sewn into the leather. If I hadn’t skipped the front matter, would I have seen the royal seal?
A whisper of groaning wood and a gentle click alerted me to the library door opening. I was hidden behind stacks of shelves in the corner by the fireplace, yet all the hair rose on the back of my neck as if bodily aware of the unwanted visitor. Holding my breath, I shrunk deeper into my chair and hugged my book to my stomach. I prayed the interloper quickly found what they were looking for and departed without finding me.
No such luck, it seemed.
The soft tap of expensive leather shoes on pristine hardwood floors closed in. My heart lodged itself in my throat, choking me on my next breath as a white-blond head appeared over the nearest row of bookshelves. Lord Simon Ambrose strolled with lazy grace into the pale light of the lamp, with both hands in the pockets of his expensive black trousers and an expression of utter boredom on his pale, blade-sharp face.
The frigid aura that followed him set my teeth on edge, and I winced when his ice-blue eyes cut to me huddled in the wingback chair. A second passed where something heated and heavy glinted in his gaze before his expression quickly settled into a sneer, dripping with disdain.
“What are you doing here?” His mouth curled over each word with perfect articulation. Not for the first time, I wondered what his life as a human was before his un-death and transformation.
My eyes rolled of their own volition. I hadn’t meant for it to happen, but off they rolled, joined by a soft scoff. “The other insufferable lord of the manor permitted my freedom of the home.”
It was Simon’s turn to scoff.
“Yes, Dante likes to let his pets roam with more freedom than they should be allowed.” Then his stormy blue eyes dropped from the scattered volumes around me to the book clutched in my arms. His lip curled back. “I didn’t know you could read.”
I wanted to put him in a glass jar and shake it—vigorously.
“Oh, forgive me for being educated, you prat!” The insult flew off my tongue before I could bite it back. Once it hovered in the air between us, the deranged urge to laugh bubbled up in my chest.
It feltgoodto insult him.
His eyes rounded before he smothered his surprise. Then he arched one perfectly pale brow. “I could have your tongue for that.”
The threat felt… weak.
An odd sense of courage rose under the surface of my skin, warming me. It allowed me to unfurl from my defensive posture in the chair to cross my legs and shrug. “That would be a shame. I can do very pleasant things with my tongue.”
Simon’s throat bobbed, and he swiveled his head, narrowing his gaze at the darkness outside the window. It was dimly lit in the library, but I thought I noted a flush of pink on his cheek. But that was an absurd notion I kicked from my head.
“Like reciting poetry?” He cleared his throat, eyes returning to the book in my lap. “Humans say there’s nothing more alluring than listening to a fairy sing or read aloud.”
