Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

LOYALTY

M y stomach lurches. ‘What is it? What's happening?' There's a distant sound of screaming, which stops abruptly. I run to the door, but Bertrand won't let me pass. He stares at me with worried eyes.

‘Bertrand.' I try to sound like my mother, cool and clear, even though my panic is rising. Bertrand blinks.

‘There's been a disturbance, ah, in the ballroom.'

‘Let me through.'

‘My lady, you mustn't?—'

‘Please, Bertrand. Are my parents okay? I need to go…' My voice catches. I can see indecision in his face.

‘But my lady, you're not wearing shoes.' There's silence now, even more ominous.

‘Forget my shoes!' I push at his arm and he finally lets me pass. I run down the hallway, fear sharp within me. Bertrand is next to me, one hand on the small of my back. Halfway down the stairs I realise he hasn't answered me.

I cross the foyer, taking the turning to the ballroom. The hallway is deserted, which is odd. Then I realise I can see. And the lights aren't on…

I hear Bertrand hiss. ‘My lady! I can go no further.'

‘It's fine.' I keep running, leaving him behind. No vampire can get me now, anyway.

The double doors to the ballroom are splintered, half hanging from their hinges. I slow down, my hand to my mouth. Whatever happened here was quick, and violent. I enter the ballroom and my heart sinks. One of the shutters covering the long windows is bowed out of its frame, the window shattered, pale morning light coming in. The parquetry floor nearby is cracked and blackened, several piles of black ash drifting in the cool autumn air. I feel sick as I realise what they are. Vampires. Or what's left of them. What if one of them is my mother? Or my father? I cannot bear the thought.

‘My lady.' The call comes from behind me and I turn. A group of blood dancers are huddled together, kneeling, in the furthest corner of the room. I can't understand why they're hiding from the light. Then I realise. They're shielding someone.

I start towards them, then stop. Oh darkness. Near to the wall, tumbled as though thrown, are the remains of a human. Blood pools on the floor, is spattered up the wall, a spray of crimson droplets. His head is on top of the pile of tangled body parts, mouth open for eternity. I try not to throw up. What in god and nightmares has happened here?

‘My lady, please!' The call gets more urgent and I hear a groan. I think I recognise the voice. Please, no. I can't take any more shocks. I make my way to the huddled group in the corner.

‘What… who is it?' I sniff despite myself. ‘Are you hurt?'

‘We're fine, my lady.' It's Elodie, her dark hair dishevelled, a smear of blood at her temple. She's closest to me, her body pressed tight with the others, their arms wrapped around each other creating a wall of flesh to shield whoever is behind them.

I bite my lip to stop from screaming. ‘Who is it?' I ask again, my voice shaking.

‘Emelia.'

My father. His voice is faded, old sounding, and I start to cry. The only reason he's still here, that he hasn't left the ballroom, is because he can't.

‘Emelia, control yourself!'

I wipe my face, sniffing. ‘Father, wh-what can I do? Where's Mother?'

‘You have to fix the shutter, block the window. Do something. I can't move.'

‘Uh, okay.' I can do that. I think. Spots of black ash swirl in the breeze, the gilt and mirrors silvered by the morning light. I avoid the piles of ash and blood spatters as I make my way to the broken window, feeling as though I'm in some horrible dream. The window frame is splintered beyond repair, the shutter bowed and blackened as though some force pushed it outwards. I still don't know where my mother is. My breath sobs in and out. I hope and pray she was among those who escaped. I put the thought away from me, unable to consider it any longer. I have a job to do here, and I need to focus.

Grabbing the edge of the shutter, I pull, the metal cutting my hands, black soot smearing my dress. It doesn't move. I groan with frustration, pulling again, but all I succeed in doing is hurting my hands, my palms red and scored with lines. ‘I can't move it.'

‘Try something else.' My father doesn't sound disappointed – rather, he sounds encouraging, like he knows I can do this. I look around and notice panelled inserts running either side of the recessed window frames. I pause, remembering an old video I once watched of a man playing piano as his dark-haired wife opened white wooden shutters, his song one of imagination, of a different world. The windows had been tall, the shutters set in panelled recesses like these. I run my fingers along the edge of the panels. There. A semi-circle indentation at the edge of the wood. I hook my finger in and pull. There's a creaking sound, and a cloud of dust appears. But the panel moves. I pull harder, managing to get more of my fingers around the wood and, gradually, the shutter opens, coming from the recess like a butterfly wing unfolding, hinges squeaking. It covers the window, not quite opening all the way, but enough to plunge the room into near darkness. The candle-lamps glow once more and there's a sigh from the corner. The blood dancers come apart, one dropping to all fours. I rush over to my father. Oh my god and darkness.

Daylight is the most devastating thing to a vampire, and it looks as though he was caught in it long enough to ignite. One side of his face is blackened, his clothing singed and torn. I glimpse charred flesh and cuts through the holes in the fabric. A blood dancer is curled up next to him, half fainting. He has her wrist to his mouth. Oh shit. That means he must have been much worse, if he's been feeding and yet still looks as he does.

‘Father…' My voice breaks. I drop to my knees. He releases the dancer's wrist and I see him half smile.

‘Good girl,' he says, his voice faint.

I hold out my arm. ‘Take some from me.'

His brows come together and his smile fades. ‘Don't be ridiculous.'

I am being ridiculous. But I don't know what else to do. ‘Please, I want to help.' My voice cracks.

‘You have helped. Here, take Danae.'

Danae is the fainting dancer. She's so pale, her freckled skin almost translucent. My father must have taken a lot of blood from her. The other dancers crowd around, silent. My eyes prickle with tears at their loyalty, at what they did to protect my father.

‘Thank you, thank you so much,' I say. ‘I just, um, thank you. Um, can anyone?—'

‘Here.' James, all lithe muscle and smooth dark skin, bends down next to Danae. He puts an arm under her and together we manage to get her to her feet. Her breathing is shallow though and, as James scoops her up, her eyes roll back in her head.

‘Take her, get her well. I can manage from here. And thank you again, for everything.'

‘This will not be forgotten,' my father adds. His voice is stronger, but he still hasn't stood up. As the dancers leave, I kneel beside him.

‘Papa.' I haven't called him that since I was small. ‘What happened here? Where's Mama?'

‘It was a bomb.' His head rolls slightly to one side and I see the gleam of his eyes. ‘She left. She had to… the light.' He gestures to the now-covered window. ‘Mistral took her to the fortified rooms, along with the other guests. She didn't want to leave me, I told her to go.'

‘A bomb?' I whisper. ‘H-how is that possible?' Inside I'm melting with relief that my mother is okay. But my father… I sob, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

He pats my leg. ‘You did well,' he says. ‘I'll be fine.'

‘But you're all burned, and…' I sob again, unable to control myself. ‘I'm sorry,' I say, ashamed.

‘It's all right,' he says, his voice gentle. ‘Now, I need to get out of here.'

‘Uh, of course.' I nod, sniffing. ‘Can I… can you stand up? How badly are you hurt?'

My father grimaces, shifting his weight. ‘Is Bertrand near?'

‘Yes.' Of course. He can come in now. ‘Bertrand!'

Bertrand arrives, knocking down the remains of the shattered doors. His hand comes to his mouth when he sees us. I want to cry again at his reaction. I stand up, my bare feet sticking to the floor. I don't want to know what's on them. My dress is ruined, smeared with dust and soot and blood. ‘Um, Bertrand.' I swallow my tears. ‘Father needs help. I can't lift him.'

Bertrand comes to lift my father in his arms. ‘I'll take him to the sitting room, my lady.'

My father reaches for me, squeezing my hand. ‘Find your mother,' he says.

I nod. There are no words. I leave the ballroom, heading towards the fortified rooms. Made of thick stone, half sunk into the ground and sealed against the light, they are the heart of the house. Built many centuries ago, they've since been strengthened with steel, floodlights installed on the outside controlled from the inside, with cameras on all sides. I press the intercom buzzer.

‘Emelia!' My mother's voice sounds tinny, her usually smooth tones rough. She's sobbing, hoarse gasps coming through the speaker.

‘Mother, he's all right, it's all right. I've sealed the ballroom.'

I hear my mother sigh. ‘Aleks.' Then another voice comes over the intercom, deep and masculine.

‘How do you know the threat is contained?'

‘Who is this?' I frown, knowing the cameras can see me. But, seriously?

‘It's Mistral, dear one. I don't think your mother should come out until it's safe.'

‘I'm out here.' I don't add ‘ asshole ', but I want to. ‘And so's Father. We're fine. Bertrand is here. Mama, I need you.'

That last bit slips out. I'm shaking, cold in my ruined gown. I just want to hug her and know she's safe. Stupid Mistral isn't in charge here. Who the hell does he think he is?

With a hiss of steel, the great metal door opens. My mother is first out, shaking Mistral's hand off her arm. What the hell? Was he seriously trying to hold her back? When she sees me her face crumples and all at once she's curved around me, hugging me, kissing my hair. I hug her back, equilibrium returning to my world. Air rushes around us, but all I know is her. Thank darkness she's safe.

‘Your lovely dress,' she mumbles. ‘It's ruined.' I realise she's as shaken as I am. It's damp where her face is buried in my shoulder and I know she's crying. Mistral is standing nearby, his handsome head tilted, a look of sympathy on his face, though there's also a tightness, a slight frown. Blood is all over his crisp white shirt, fading red blotches on his golden skin.

‘Mama,' I whisper. Childlike, again. ‘Father, he'll want to see you.'

‘Of course.' My mother sighs and releases me. Her silk dress is singed along the edges, red patches of burned skin on her pale neck and shoulders. Blood streaks her cheeks and she rubs at it, red flaking under her fingertips. There's more blood on my shoulder, to go with the mess on my gown. I almost want to laugh. What a pair we make. Other than Mistral and two guards, everyone else has gone – I suppose they've returned to their chambers.

‘Come on.' I hold out my hand but to my annoyance Mistral takes her arm and they whoosh down the hallway, faster than I can go. I run along behind, the guards keeping pace with me easily.

When we reach the sitting room my mother is hugging my father, who is half-lying on the sofa. ‘Oh, Aleksandr,' I hear her say. He's smiling, his eyes closed as he wraps his arms around her. Bertrand is standing nearby, hands clasped behind him, as are my parents' personal guards. Mistral is sprawled in one of the armchairs. He seems relaxed, but there's still something tense about him, something I can't quite put my finger on.

‘What happened?' I ask. Two words, encompassing so much. The long night catches up with me and I collapse into a soft armchair, hugging a cushion close. ‘Papa said it was a bomb.' I still can't believe this.

My mother turns to me. ‘It was one of the blood dancers?—'

‘The one at the drinks table?'

My mother's eyebrows go up. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?'

‘I didn't recognise him. And…' He smelled of violets. ‘I think he was wearing anti-feed. What in darkness did he do?'

My mother's expressive features seem to ripple. It's my father who answers.

‘I was standing by the window when he came towards me, a jug in his hand. I waved him away, but he threw the jug at me. I sidestepped, and?—'

‘It blew out the window,' Mistral drawls. ‘I ripped him apart, but the damage was already done.'

‘And then he rushed me out of there.' My mother still sounds shaken.

I swallow. So Mistral is responsible for the pile of body parts. Fuck fuck fuck. How is this even happening? ‘But, I don't understand?—'

‘He shouted something.' My mother's voice is rough. ‘Before he threw the jug. "The North Wind will blow."'