Page 10 of House of Crimson Hearts
“Then I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon, won’t I?” And the way her rouged lips curl around the words makes my heart beat a little faster.
Rage.
I cling to it as I walk out of the garden and back into the Midnight Market.
Chapter3
OCTAVIA
Ispend another couple of hours in the club before I have to make my way to Mother’s after Xavier’s summons. As I head towards the exit, Erin gives me a cheeky salute. “’Night, boss.”
I clap her on the back. Erin is my right-hand woman. Bit of a vicious type, all brawn, crushing, squeezing and garrotting. And to give her credit, she is one of the few who isn’t afraid of me, though whether that’s because there’s not enough brain attached to the brawn or the fact she’s a hunter, I’m not sure. Regardless, we have an agreement. She serves me till her thirty-fifth birthday and I’ll turn her. If she serves me another thirty-five years as a vamp, the rest of her immortality is her own.
I’ll head towards the Midnight Market carriage station. I’d normally use the club’s station, but I don’t have my personal carriage.
I step out of the club into the Midnight Market. It’s misty. A chill wind whips through the stalls. Roils of white steam peel off the canals to shroud me in creamy shadows. Today, the mansion door has exited me into the clothing quarter of the market. I wonder if the club is suggesting I change my attire, or if this is where its whims and fancies took it. It’s a gift and a curse, this mansion. The house’s moods are one reason I adore it. It’s secretive and changes its entrance and exit whenever it deems necessary. Finding the place can be a pain in the ass if you’re not au fait with its temperament.
I walk along the canal, past dozens of market stalls, racks of dresses and high collared jackets—the fashion of the moment.
“You shouldn’t be here, filthy omen of death,” a market seller says and turns his back towards me as I’m passing.
I glance up at him. Gooseflesh flecks down the back of his neck as if my being alive disgusts him. Pathetic human. I have swung through every emotion over the years. I used to drain those who discriminated against me, tore their heads from their necks. But that only made the humans worse. I tried reasoning with them, arguing with them until I realised ignoring it and raising my shields was the only thing I could do.
I meander through a new quarter, this one full of witch grimoires, bottles of herbs and potions that crawl in ways that make me uncomfortable. I divert out of this area past sellers dishing out ordinary stock bottles of blood and then past the more nuanced flavours. Though by the odd hue to the bottles, I can tell they didn’t collect it in the authentic way our blood is. Knockoffs, no doubt. That said I’m hungry.
“I’ll take an A-positive with essence of love,” I say.
The seller rifles through his bottles and plucks the right one. “Here, oh—” he says as his eyes meet mine.
His fingers tremble, the bottle shakes in his hand as he moves a fraction further away.
“Forget it,” I say, my heart sinking. I walk away, and at times like this I curse my nature and enhanced hearing.
“Vile, disgusting creature,” he says under his breath. But it’s no matter, I hear anyway.
I step down into the underground, the sleek red walls of the staircase almost shimmery tonight. The stairs guide me down, down, down. Under the market, under the canals and quaint townhouses toward the carriage platforms. When I reach the bottom, I chuck a silver coin into the ticket barrier hole, and it lets me through.
“Lady Beaumont,” gasps an elderly human man. He bows his head at me, backs away and stumbles. I lunge to stop him from falling, but he yelps as my hand brushes his arm and that alerts the station staff.
Gods. Why do I bother helping? The stationmaster appears and frowns at me until his gaze meets mine and then a shiver wracks his body.
The stationmaster reaches down to pick the old man up as I sigh and leave them to it. While the vast majority of citizens fear me, the religious revere me enough to stay away. No doubt this man is one of the faithful. The Church of Blood tends to spit out believers. Thatshe’llreturn. The maker. Our witch goddess, the originator of my dear mother Cordelia.
Mother always tells the story in the same way. Where everyone else has varying shades of commitment to the church, Mother despises it.
Once upon a time, there were two families, the St Clairs and the Randalls. And like any respecting families of nobility, they were at war.
For petty things, Mother says. Over land and property. The economy and legacy. None of it seems to matter now and the details have faded even for her. Nonetheless, a local witch took issue with their dealings. Many of the locals were caught in their war, slaughtered and maimed for no reason other than being in the way. So the witch cursed the heirs, Mother and some woman called Eleanor, to become mortal enemies, never able to kill each other.
While their families died long ago, Cordelia and Eleanor lived on. Hatred seeping into their bones like a disease. Burrowing and festering in their souls for a thousand years. And as for the witch? As penance for her crimes, the witch-gods gave her a choice: become the monster she created or spend eternity in hell. And that is how the three vampire lines came to be: one cursed, one chosen, and me: one born.
The witch-vampire was lost to history, though her line was not. She’d turned enough vampires before vanishing for her line to continue.
A claret-coloured carriage pulls up and I jump in.
“Castle St Clair,” I say and knock on the carriage wall.
“Alright, miss,” the driver says.
