Relinquish: Book II of the Rising Trilogy (30 page)

Epilogue

A man stands with his hands clenched upon the railing, overlooking the palace grounds, still moist with newly fallen rains. His face is grim, his heart burdened, as dark as the regal uniform he wears. The fire in his eyes has gone out as he waits.

Footsteps approach from behind. He turns and waits for the man to stop before him. “Thank you for coming, Kyan.”

“Of course.” Kyan stands rigidly before the man, his hands placed awkwardly at his sides. “I hear you have decided to leave again.”

He nods. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“But things have changed. Illyria is no longer bound to the prophecy. She can choose a new path for her life.”

The man swallows, unable to look up. “She still loves him.”

“No more so than she loves you.”

He raises his head. Light glints off his sapphire eyes. “I can’t ask her to give him up for me. This was her destiny.” He swallows as his voice cracks. “I won’t stand in the way of that.”

“Don’t do this.” Kyan protests, grabbing onto his arm. “It will destroy her.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It won’t. That’s why I need you.”

Kyan steps back. “What do you mean?”

Strain lines his face as he sighs. “Wipe away her memory of me. All of their memories. Leave no trace of my presence in any of their minds.”

Kyan inhales sharply. “You can’t ask that of me. It’s cruel.”

The man slowly nods. “And yet it is far more kind than what life would be like if I remained.” He steps forward and grips Kyan’s arm. “Please, do this one thing for me.”

“I… I don’t know if I can.”

The young man smiles and releases his grip. “I have faith in you. You have only ever done what is best for
her.”

He steps around Kyan and heads toward the door but pauses as Kyan calls out. “Are you sure this is what you really want, Bastien?”

The man turns back, his face a mask of grief. Moisture clings to his eyes as he shakes his head. “No, but it is what is best for her. I love her too much to stay.”

The sound of retreating footsteps echoes in my mind as I jerk upright. I hear a rustling beside me and smile, realizing I’m not alone. A warm glow of a reading lamp perches atop a side table, glowing warmly beside me. Arms wind around me, holding me close.

“Hey,” a sleepy voice murmurs in my ear. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

I sink into Eamon’s embrace, closing my eyes to the dream. I stiffen, raising a hand to my cheek, realizing it is damp with newly fallen tears. Eamon shifts on the couch, turning me so he can look upon me fully.

“You’re crying,” he whispers.

I nod. “I had the same dream again. This time it was longer. ”

Eamon takes my hands in his, raising them up to press his lips against them. “It’s just wedding jitters. Kyan says it’s normal to have weird dreams, and with the wedding only a few weeks away, this is bound to happen.”

I smile, knowing he is probably right. “It just… It felt so real.”

“I know.” He draws me toward him, setting his book aside to cradle me to his chest like he has done so many times before. “Want to tell me about it?”

I hesitate for a moment, feeling oddly protective of my dream. It is silly, of course. I share everything with him. “I dreamed about Bastien,” I whisper.

He presses his lips against my forehead and murmurs, “Never heard of him.”

COMING 2014

VENGEANCE

Book Three

~ A RISING Novel ~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Miles was born and raised in a military family but now lives with her husband and son in South Carolina. She is also the author of Forbidden, Reckoning, Redemption and Captivate. To learn more about her and her books, visit
www.amymilesbooks.com/

SNEAK PEEK

COMING March 2014

DESOLATE

Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

~ An Arotas Prequel ~

ONE

1690, Transylvania

Caro de carne mea.
Os ex ossibus meis. Lorem nocte in saecula saeculorum.

The words whisper through my mind like a long forgotten song as my eyes flutter open.
 Light and dark battle around me, seeking purchase on the room.  Flames lick the wooden walls, trailing overhead to embrace the knotted timbers that hold the inflamed roof aloft.

Ash pelts down upon me like a livid rain, singeing flesh and hair.
 I cry out as I roll away from the gaping hole above, beating at the embers that set the hem of my dress alight.  

I pause as my fingers glide across the rich fabric of my voluminous skirts, seizing it between my fingers to draw it up so that I can see it in the dim light.
 The material was once white and adorned with lace, accustomed for a wedding.  It is now a dingy gray, soiled and charred into fraying bits.  The ruffled hem of my dress crumbles into ash as I run my finger along it, fluttering down to land upon my bare feet.

I had slippers,
I think as I turn to look about me, confused and dazed by my odd surroundings.

Heat from the flames strokes my cheek with mounting intensity.
 I can feel my eyelashes beginning to mat together with a sweat that drips from my brow.  I swipe the beads away with the back of my hand and realize a fever has captured me in its grasp.

The air hangs thick before me, weighted with smoke and the scent of something repulsive, as if the grave itself spewed forth its inhabitants.

I blink to see through the haze, startled to discover that when I focus, I can see each particle of ash that drifts to the floorboards, leaving a thick dusting on everything within sight.

“Hello?” I call, my throat croaking with lack of moisture.

My hands tremble as I push against the floor, attempting to rise.  My leg muscles coil and I am sent careening backward.  The wind is knocked from my chest as I slide down the inflamed wall.  The scent of my burning hair stings in my nose as I crawl forward to escape the sweltering heat.  

How did I jump like that?
 
I stare down at my fingers, noting the definition of my skin stretched taut over pale flesh.

I was never one for hiding from the sun, as some ladies were accustomed to.
 I lived for the moment when I could escape the confines of my father’s home and be free.  My mother loved to scold me about my freckles and sun kissed skin, but as I turn my hands over, I realize the golden hue of my flesh has been sucked away.

My gaze trails up from my hands, pausing over the corded muscles that now lie just beneath the nearly translucent flesh of my forearms.
 I poke at the muscle, bewildered by its presence, but I have only a scant second to wonder at the changes in my body before I become aware of the blood that coats my upper arm, vining down to my wrist.  I draw my hands up to my face and see drying blood caked within the half crescent circle of my fingernails.

“Hello?” I whisper as I lower my hands and stare in horror at the billowing smoke before me.
 The fire has begun to spread to all corners of the room.  I hear movement in the darkened shadows but cannot spy what causes it.  “Is anyone there?”

A low, guttural chuckle rises from somewhere
within the depths of the thick cloud.  My stomach clenches painfully as the laughter rolls over me like a glacial downpour.

A memory seizes me: My family, perched resolutely in long wooden pews.
 My brother Petru sat beside my mother, stiff backed and vexed to silence.  Storm clouds brewed along his handsome features, darkening his eyes.  His hair was combed and slicked with mother’s cooking oil, a look that would have brought tears to my eyes had I not been so preoccupied with my own ordeal.

My sister, Adela sat beside him, prim and proper in her beautiful dress and ribbons.
 Her hair shone like waves of summer wheat in the candlelight and her heart shaped face lit with excitement.  This was her first wedding.

Ahead of me had been an altar of glossed wood and gold, achingly familiar from my mornings spent in this very room for weekly service.
 A large crucifix stood atop the altar and an aged, cracking leather bible rested atop its polished surface.  I fixed my gaze on the likeness of Christ, praying for deliverance, but none came.

I can remember hearing my feet whisper across the wooden plank floor as I slowly made my way down the aisle.
 My father’s rotund stomach jiggled as he nodded at each of the guests seated nearest the aisle.  

My cousins arrived just this morning for the wedding, all the way from the southern province of Wallachia.
 I had not seen them since their youngest, a wee pig-faced runt of a boy, was added to their rather excessive litter.  My entire family had gathered from near and far for the occasion, nearly fifty people in all.  My father had seen to that.

It is not every day that a Dragomir married into such a highborn family.

I remember the feel of my intended’s hand as he clasped mine in his.  His flesh was supple with youth and oddly warm to the touch.  If I had reason to care I would have questioned him as to his health, but I dare not.  Not after I met his eye.

Hunger...that is what I saw when I looked at him for the first time, not one moon past.
 It was as obvious as it was appalling.  His dark gaze made my skin crawl and my fingers tremble from within the confines of my skirts when my father presented me to him.

There was something indescribably evil about my betrothed.
 Why was I the only one to see it?

I suspect that Petru knew, but he was too busy chasing skirts to think much of it until Father announced a deal had been struck.
 I was sold like cattle in a market.  My pleas did little good.  Nor did my tears.

I believe my mother knew of my distress but she had learned long ago that no one defied my father’s wishes.
 His word was law in the Dragomir household, and to many without.  My sister, dear sweet Adela, knew of my fears.  She would cradle me in the night, just as I used to do for her when nightmares plagued her as a child.  She would whisper to me, plotting our escape.  We would head to Wallachia and marry farmers and be blissfully happy.  Childish dreams, but I prayed for them none the less.  

When Vladimir Enescue seized my hand before the altar, I wanted to pull back, to run and hide in the woods so that I could not be found, but his grip was far too tight and my father’s
reproval fierce.

I was trapped.

I do so pledge.  
My own damning words echo endlessly through my mind as I crawl forward, my hands flailing about before me in search of the pews my family sat upon.  Heated splinters easily burrow into the flesh of my palms as I hunt, drawn inexplicably toward a sweet, yet oddly tinny scent.

My hand touches something damp and sticky and I rear back.
 My knees ache from kneeling upon the hard floor, but I dare not move.  “No,” I moan as I stare down at my mother’s corpse.  The flesh of her throat has been shredded, as if a rabid animal tore at her repeatedly.  The front of her gown is a blanket of crimson.  It clings to her like a vile sludge.

I turn away as my stomach contracts.
 I know that I am about to be ill, but my convulsion stutters to a halt as I spy my father’s hand just beyond my mother, sticking out from behind the second pew.  Only his hand.  I cannot see where the remainder of his body has gone.  

Beyond him I see piles of my fair-haired relations strewn about the room, some dangling over the backs of pews while others have been carelessly tossed aside in the aisle.
 Their clothes are alight from the embers that flitter down from the crumbling ceiling.  

The scent of death rises in my nostrils and I gag.
 Bile burns in my throat as I peer through the smoke that now escapes through the charred hole in the roof to see my brother’s body hung from the double doors leading into the church.  A rusty nail impales through Petru’s shoulder so that he slumps to one side, his chin propped against his sunken chest.  Blood coats his wedding clothes, dripping from the tips of his shoes.  The sheath at his hip is barren, his sword lost among the carnage.

I remember everything.
 
I turn about in place, searching for my new husband.  I know he is here, somewhere.  

Vladimir Enescue did this.
 He and his horrid brother.

Threads from the woven tapestries along the walls drift to the floor in charred piles of irreplaceable ash.
 The plank walls groan as the foundation of the church begins to deteriorate.

The fire appears to leap from body to body before me as I lurch to my feet and weave among the blue flames, desperately trying to fight against the pain swelling in my chest.
 It is not the dull ache of remorse but a sharp, jagged pain that steals my breath away.  Warm blood clings to my throat and chest like a second skin, sticky and maddening.  My bronze ringlets feel heavy laden as they slap against my face, matted with congealing blood.

The scent of boiling flesh needles at my eyes and turns my stomach rancid.
 The flames chase after me as I frantically scour the pews in search of my sister.

I cannot see my husband but I know he is here.
 I can hear his laughter around me, caged within the shadows.  I can feel his taunting eyes upon me as he watches and waits.

Blood rains down from my hair, splattering against the bodice of my wedding dress.
 I do not know to whom the blood belongs.  Myself?  My husband?  My sister?

“Adela!”
 My voice is hoarse as I grip a pew to pull myself over a slain cousin, Remus and his young wife, Valeria beside him.  I try not to think of the unborn child within her womb that will never see the light of day.

My nails dig deep into the flesh of the pine seatback.
 I cry out as the pew tears free from the floor and crashes atop Remus.  I stare in disbelief at the flames that crawl up through the new cavity I opened in the floor.  
How did I manage that?  Surely it is because the floor is severely compromised by the fire.

But as I move to step around Remus, I spy deep indentations where my fingers laid buried within the wood.
 I step forward to brush my fingers across the markings but a sickening squelch from below my foot makes me feel faint.   
Oh, my Lord!  Who did I tread upon?

I dare not look for fear of losing my nerve as I pick my way through the carnage.
 Dismembered body parts lie scattered before me like a gruesome puzzle.  Is this Lucien Enescue’s doing?  My husband’s brother was the one who butchered my family and stole the life of my brother as I watched in stunted horror.  I have never a more vile man.

My hands tremble as I clutch my stomach and lurch to the side, expelling the acid as it burns in my throat.
 I wipe my mouth clean but the taste of guilt lingers.  My chest rises and falls as the sound of crackling flames consume my mind.  The smoke is growing thicker, hanging heavily in the air before me.  Though much of it rises from the blistered slant of the church gable, the smoke pouring from the walls around me is suffocating.    

The room begins to spin as I fight back the terror that grips me.
 “Adela!”  

My voice is gravelly as I push back to my feet, ignoring the flames that seize the hem of my dress.
 The floor is unbearably hot on the soles of my feet but I press on, gritting my feet against the blisters that form.

Nothing seems as it should, almost as if I have awoken into a terrific nightmare.
 If only I could pinch myself and wake.

My sister’s golden hair should be easy to spot in the firelight but she is nowhere to be seen.
 “Adela, answer me!”

I slip on the blood slicked floor and crash to my knees before the altar, jarring my jaw so that I nearly bite my tongue in half.
 Blood seeps between my teeth, but I ignore it as the copious amounts of fabric from my dress shield my knees from the brunt of the impact.  

A terrible crash from behind sends me scrambling to my feet.
 I glance back over my shoulder to find the timbers nearest the door have collapsed, sealing me inside.  I can no longer see my brother upon the far wall.

“Help!”
 I stagger up the steps toward the altar, terrified. Flames eat away at the wooden crucifix before me.  Already half of the Lord’s body has been destroyed, the other portrays a gruesome reminder of the eternal torment my mother so loved to preach to me about when I was headstrong as a child.

Am I dead?
 Is this my damnation?

 
 My gaze lands upon a glint of silver and I lurch forward to retrieve a bloodied dagger, clutching it tightly to my chest as another memory envelopes me:
Adela’s wide eyes latch onto mine.  Mewling sounds rise from her throat as she thrashes against Lucien’s grasp.  The muscles along her forearms pull taut as she fights to touch my outstretched hands.