I giggle at his words. “It sounds very grand.” Growing sober at another thought, I say, “But it will be a very long time until I see you again.”
“Perhaps, but we will spend much more time together once you return.” Albrecht leans over and kisses my cheek. His lips are soft and his breath warm. I blush and press my fingers to my cheek, imagining the imprint of his kiss lingering there.
“Erjy, we need to leave at once,” Ágota orders.
I reluctantly return to her side, casting longing looks over my shoulder at Albrecht. Wirich moves to stand behind his son, his hand on his free shoulder. The raven continues to observe me with one keen black eye. Impulsively, I wave to it and I am not so surprised when it lifts a wing in return.
“Safe journey, Ágota, Archwitch of the Lost Witch World!” Wirich calls out. “Until we meet again.”
Not answering, Ágota leads me through the gate and down the steep slope to the bigger gate in the outer wall. It rasps open as we approach, not at her bidding, but Wirich’s order.
Soon we are on the road, marching toward the ley line that will carry us from Styria. Ágota mutters under her breath in Magyar, the magic in her hand burning ever hotter. I raise the dagger clutched in my hand and notice that roses are tooled into the soft leather sheath. Once my sister is calmer, I will ask her to help me fasten it to my waist. Casting one last glance toward the castle before it is hidden behind the woods, I smile with happiness at the knowledge that one day I will return.
Darkness flows over my vision and is replaced by torchlight. Magdala’s needle flows in and out of the silk and satin of my dress.
“What did she do with the rose when he gave it to her?” Magdala asks, and I grasp that no time has passed in the mausoleum while I was trapped in my past.
I press my lips together at the memory and find it difficult to answer. At last, I say, “She plunged it into his heart.”
And I weep.
Chapter 10
Despite my piteous, shuddering sobs, the gypsy remains at my side, mending my dress. My heightened vampire senses detect the mortal’s wildly beating heart and her shallow breathing, all signs of frightened prey. I taste fear in the air, yet the needle continues to stitch the hem of my dress. Magdala is a daring young woman, which is her undoing.
The agony of the stake is more potent since I am starving. I endeavor to lift one hand to grip it in a futile attempt to rip it from my body, but my fingers merely quiver at my side. My vulnerability is yet another indignity. I am a fearsome creature by nature, yet Vlad has weakened me to the point where I am at the mercy of lesser creatures. Magdala could strike me down if she so desired and I would be unable to defend myself. Worse yet, I am a very old vampire, which only adds to my misery. I long for the bliss of sleep or madness to escape this hunger, yet my mind remains observant even as my body shrivels to a mere husk.
Another escape from my t
orment makes itself known, but I do not welcome it. My eyelids quiver as I attempt to force them to stay open. I do not wish to revisit the events of long ago. The curse that is upon me is potent and persistent. The tendrils of its power wrap around my mind, subsuming me. I am too weak to resist. The haze of time has not stolen away this particular memory and I do not wish to live it again. I fight to remain in the mausoleum, but it is a futile struggle, for my eyes close only to reopen in another time.
The world is a hazy blur of greens and blues. We travel with terrifying swiftness along the vein of magic threaded through a world ignorant of its existence. Hidden from the eyes of mortals, we travel faster than any horse could ever carry us. The hum of the ley line buzzes in my ears and the constant, unrelenting pull of its power makes me queasy. Ágota clutches me close as we fly and I cling to her with my arms and legs.
We are in the Kingdom of Hungary at last, but we cannot allow ourselves to drop our guard for we have yet to reach the border of Transylvania. There are violent clashes occurring among the men who rule sections of the kingdom. Since we cannot always travel the ley lines, we have had to hide more than once from men in heavy armor while Ágota convalesced after expending too much magic.
Furthermore, my sister’s negotiations with various supernatural creatures for passage through their territory often forced her into spectacular displays of magic in order to impress them. By the time we arrive in Transylvania, her reputation as a fearsome Archwitch will be firmly entrenched in the hidden world, but at a cost. The magic is consuming her. She is thinner in frame, so the bones in her hands are sharp beneath her skin. Perhaps this is why she looks older and feral. Her eyes appear larger in her slimmer face and her wide mouth more pronounced. Ágota has never been particularly pretty, but now I find her oddly bewitching in appearance. She will never be beautiful, but she is formidable.
Sometimes, she even frightens me.
The closer we draw to Balázs’s domain, the grimmer she becomes. When I’d learned that we did not share a father, my mother told me about her flight from Balázs’s land after his wife had attempted to kill my sister out of spite. I suspect she is afraid to face her father after so many years apart. She has never spoken of him fondly and a dangerous fire sparks in her eyes whenever he is mentioned. This history does not bode well for Ágota’s reunion with her father, but we have no other choice. With Lucifer searching for Ágota, we need the protection of the witches.
When the ley line abruptly vanishes around us, Ágota screams as though wounded. My sister’s hold on me lessens as we reel about as if caught in a funnel. While plunging toward the ground, I bury my face in Ágota’s shoulder, my fingers digging into her arms. We smash through the trees, leaf-laden boughs scratching our limbs and slashing our clothing. Arms flailing, I attempt to stop my fall but bounce off branches before I can gain purchase.
There is a bright burst of magic seconds before we crash into the ground. I fall into something soft and pliable and it saves me from a terrible death. I lift my head to discover we are caught in a lattice of golden magic. It shimmers beneath us, holding us safely aloft the hardened dark earth of a clearing in the woods. Ágota’s arms slacken about me as a low agonized groan slips from her sickly pale lips.
“Ágota, what happened? Why did we fall?”
Ágota’s eyelids quiver, her gaze unfocused.
The magical net sputters beneath us before vanishing. We drop the last few feet to the ground and strike it with such force the breath is forced from my lungs. Gasping, I lie next to my sister, stunned by the fall. Although breathless, I am not terribly hurt.
With some difficulty, I drag a deep breath into my lungs, relieving the unpleasant sensation of suffocating. My body aches when I push myself upright to study my surroundings. In our travels, we visited places of deep magic and this is yet another. Admittedly, all magic feels wild and dangerous, but the aura of our surroundings is foreboding. The woods are murky and disquietingly noiseless. The ground beneath me is barren and smells vaguely of smoke.
I bend over my sister, grip her shoulders and shake her. Ágota’s eyelashes flutter, her eyes rolling back in their sockets.
“Ágota! Ágota! Wake up!” I cry out.
The battle to focus on me is evident on my sister’s face. The whites of her eyes roll down to reveal dulled irises. “... draining me,” she whispers.