Page 12 of Of Hearts and Hunters (Fallen Crowns Duet #1)

DARREN

T erry leans against the brick, regarding the gardens overlooking the tail-end of the Clair de Lune estate. Winter has dampened the appearance of the rose bushes that, according to Terry, are a priority for the Queen during the Spring and Summer months.

“You’re in for quite a barney after what happened with your brothers, eh?” Terry asks, turning over his current read in his hands. Last time I was with him, it was still War of the Worlds . Now, it’s the hardcover edition of The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. I’ve been learning so much about Terry based purely on the books he enjoys.

“I’m sure.” I nod, folding my arms over my new leather jacket, a present from the Queen for being ‘obéissant.’ I likely wouldn't have accepted or worn it had it not been for the fact that Verity had shredded my former one.

“They’ve made themselves scarce since the Queen’s reprimand,” I add, taking in the wintry sight of the barren naturescape before us. I’m sure this enormous terrace is more appealing in the warmer months. It would probably hold more beauty for me now had it not been for the fact that Vampyrs, monsters of the night, frequent these grounds with unsuspecting (or mind-controlled) wait staff for nefarious reasons.

“Probably think it’s safer to go unseen, I reckon,” Terry mentions, fingering the spine of his clearly loved novel.

He’s right–in a way. I fear that Pierre and Gabriel might not only be hiding due to shame or guilt. I suspect they’re plotting the demise of their enemies–including me. It seems the ‘brothers’ think rules and others’ wellbeing don’t matter unless they themselves believe their worthiness.

Terry scratches the stubble on his chin, looking over at me with wary blue eyes. “Did you get any sleep the last few nights, mate?”

I shuffle uneasily, stuffing my hands in my pants’ pockets. “No,” I admit. “I’ve been thinking too much about my human life.”

Terry pats my shoulder. “I get yah. It won’t be as hard in a few years.”

I wonder if the pain of one’s past life truly does pass with time. I can’t imagine things ever getting better. But Terry wouldn’t lie to me. He must be speaking from experience. Of course, what’s true for some isn’t true for everyone.

“How long have you been–like this?” I finally ask.

He shrugs, as if he’s avoiding the question. He fiddles with the spine of his book once more before clearing his throat. “Thirty years, mate. Thirty long years.”

I almost stumble in my stupor. He’s been a Vampyr for longer than I’ve been–I was –alive.

“I thought you’d accepted everything,” I eventually put forth, hoping I don’t offend him.

Terry shrugs again, looking straight ahead. “It beat the alternative when I was on death’s door, eh?” He looks over at me before pointing out to the gardens. “Y’know, la Reine wasn’t the one who built this,” he tells me quietly, like he’s afraid of being overheard. If we were human, I’d be less concerned, but the walls have ears, as they say.

I frown. “But Lenore takes such pride in them.”

Terry shakes his head, a small smile on his face. I don’t understand it until he explains, “Marie loved them more. They reminded her of her humanity. Y’know, here one day and gone the next.”

“She was the previous Reine?” I inquire. The throbbing in my head does little to assist in me digesting this news from Terry. When I get thirsty like this, it’s almost as if I’m underwater: my senses are dulled, as is my ability to appear normal (as normal as a Vampyr can be, I suppose).

Terry nods once, his fingers suddenly gripping the width of his book. “She turned me,” he tells me, causing everything to click into place. “She saw me dyin’ and wanted to rescue me. Said I still had a lot of life left to live.” He turns to look at me, his eyes suddenly mournful. “Things have changed since then, mate. She wasn’t as–er– hungry as, y’know.” He gestures with his hand, a nonverbal way of saying ‘Lenore.’

“Not as power-hungry?” I ask, hating to manipulate Terry for the sake of my deal with Verity. I guess it’s cold comfort that I likely would have asked this question despite that.

“Marie was nothing of the kind,” Terry tells me. “Like I said, lots has changed in thirty years.”

He stops his train of thought when we both hear one of the side doors closing from behind us. He glances at me and waves his book at me lightly. “You like reading, don’t you, mate?” he asks, changing the subject on purpose, I imagine. “Go on down to the library and choose somethin’.”

“Maybe I will,” I concur.

Terry gives me what seems to be a side-eye before adding, “And from the looks of things, you haven’t fed, eh? The kitchen’s always open.”

I know what he means. The thought of enduring the smell, taste, and revulsion of another blood bag makes me want to be violently ill–but it also entices me, causing the hairs on my neck to stand on end.

How can these two feelings coexist?

“You’ll need to be ready,” Terry whispers to me, his face so close to mine, I can tell he had his own feeding recently. He brings his body back, hits me gently with his book in emphasis, and walks away.

Does he mean I need to be ready in case Gabriel and Pierre ambush me, because of the peace party, or in general? I’d love to ask him, but a few members of the Queen’s court are walking out onto the manor grounds. I know my chance is gone.

The women who pass me are ornately dressed, their jewellery twinkling in the daylight. I’m not sure which personal possession is spelled to enable them to walk in the sun. Different ‘important’ Vampyrs have varying trinkets that are spelled. Terry has a pocket watch, for example. Zander’s diamond stud earrings are another.

I’m surprised to see Kiran Gauthier and Zain Duhamel walking behind the women, talking quietly amongst themselves. Both of them are carrying something but I can’t tell what it is.

I’ve had little to do with Kiran and Zain since my arrival, but Terry tells me ‘they’re good blokes.’ From what I can remember from their introductions, Kiran is one of Lenore’s past lovers who appears as though he was turned in his forties. He’s quite strict and always dresses formally–as one can plainly see from this afternoon’s three-piece suit. Zain, on the other hand, is closer to my age and used to be in the military. His short haircut and upright posture tell me he still harbours his past as I do.

Zain must sense my presence because he turns and looks at me, whispers a ‘goodbye’ to Kiran, and approaches me.

“Hey, Darren,” he greets me, hazel eyes appearing kind and welcoming as he marches toward me.

“Zain,” I respond in kind as Zain hands something out to me–a blood bag.

Ah. Zain and Kiran were carrying blood bags, likely going for an afternoon ‘stroll and snack,’ as Zander calls it. A few of the nobility like to drink from blood bags instead of feeding from humans, using mind control to ‘borrow’ blood bags from hospitals and the like. Stealing blood that can be used to save humans is just as unethical as feeding and then erasing victims’ memories–but I digress.

“Looks like you need this more than me, Pierce,” he tells me quietly. It’s surprising that he’s using my ‘former’ surname instead of Lenore’s ‘Crané,’ but it’s definitely not used with venom, as is Gabriel’s custom.

I don’t want to offend Zain by declining his offer. Moreover, my pounding temples and the metallic taste in my mouth are causing my fingers to prickle with desperation. Focus and concentration are dwindling from grasp.

You’ll need to be ready.

Terry’s foreboding words echo through the recesses of my dying mind. They represent some formidable black omen slithering toward me like a circling serpent closing in on a helpless rodent. That very omen might be dwelling within the Clair de Lune, awaiting my missteps, hoping for me to stumble so they can eliminate me for good.

I don’t have a choice.

I slowly take the item from Zain, the sloshing thick liquid moving beneath my fingers, just out of reach but too close, all at once. My stomach drops. I stop myself from dry heaving.

I don’t want to do this.

If I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

What if I can’t control myself around innocent people in town? Around people who don’t deserve to be in my warpath?

“Thank you,” I choke out, clearing my throat to try and hide my extreme aversion and addiction–something I can’t control, face, or leave behind.

Zain gestures to the blood bag with his chin. “Hey, I get it,” he shocks me by asserting. “It took months for me to adjust. That’s why I do bags only. I refuse to attack civilians. Five years of blood bags. You can do it too, Pierce.”

Fumbling the bag with pale hands, I give Zain a smile. Maybe there are more like-minded people– Vampyrs –around here than I initially thought. But even if that is true, loyalty to one’s own kind and the matriarch run deep. Zain and the others may turn a blind eye to the carnage, the plotting, the secret alliances.

“I’ve been having trouble feeding–and getting over things.”

My confession is but a whisper. I hope no one will overhear, but hope seems to be a useless desire in this new world. My words are a gross under-exaggeration.

“I miss my former life. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Zain pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket, taps at the screen, and holds it out to me. I see a well-dressed man hugging a German Shepherd puppy.

“That’s Mark. My fiancé before…” Zain trails off and slides his phone back into his pocket. “I used to check up on him every couple of months. It helped–in the beginning.”

“And now?” I can’t help but ask, swallowing dryly against my throat and the emotion swelling at his story.

“He’s married to a boilermaker from out of town,” Zain answers easily as if his words don’t touch him, but his hazel eyes churn in silent agony. “He’s happy. It took him a couple of years, but he got over me.”

It took him a couple of years, but he got over me.

“It’s gonna happen, Pierce,” Zain tells me, clasping my shoulder. “Your family? Your friends? Partners? They’re all gonna move on. It’s for the best if you do, too.”

The gravity of his story and the unbearable knowledge that the very same thing will soon become my reality–

It's a fate worse than death.

I wish I had died when my unknown killer jumped me four months ago.

I wish Verity had killed me when she had the chance.

I swallow away the enormous lump in my throat and look up at Zain. His eyes are soft now, moisture-filled.

“It’ll get easier,” he assures me as he lets go of me. “It’ll hurt less and less after a couple of years.”

A couple of years ? It’s mind-numbing pain now !

“I can’t imagine this pain ever going away,” I admit, more to myself than to him. “My parents, my sister, Stephanie–”

But it’s true. My sister has already shown signs of outward healing. I’m sure my parents are throwing themselves into their work and taking care of their daughter, ensuring her happiness and stability. Stephanie just started dating someone new–a recently-changed profile picture was all I needed to see to know I’ve lost her all over again.

Zain raises an eyebrow. “Stephanie?” he asks. “Girlfriend? Wife?”

“Friend,” I sigh. “I never had the opportunity to…” I stop, wondering why I’m being so open with Zain, someone I hardly know. That rarely happens. Maybe a bit with Verity, but that’s purely under duress.

Zain nods. “Okay. I just got the feeling that you were… Different.” He smiles at me when I glance at him. “No disrespect,” he adds in case he’s offended me. “I just have a sixth sense about people. Military and gay combo equals the Vampyr version of Sherlock Holmes.”

I can’t help but smile. “Well, you are correct,” I slowly admit. “I am demisexual. Stephanie was someone I bonded with and fell for after quite some time.”

Zain nods. “Yikes. So you really miss her, then.” He glances down at the blood bag I’m still holding. “Don’t check up on her, Pierce. Don’t even think about her. It’s best if you find someone new. Bond with someone else. It’ll hurt less.”

As he walks away, I keep mulling over the words he spoke to me in varying degrees of grief.

They’re all gonna move on. It’s for the best if you do, too.

It’ll get easier.

It’ll hurt less.

I wipe helpless and liberated tears from my face. I yank my phone out of my pocket.

Kill me.

That’s all I write. Just two words. Two words that I hope will solve everything.

It doesn’t take Verity long to discover my message.

The fuck are you talking about?

Poetic, as usual.

Just do it, Verity. Put me out of my misery. I can’t do this life.

You’ve been a vamp for four months, bucko. Chill yourself.

I need your help. And you said you had a couple friends. So stop whining and get your ass in gear.

Hug a tree or something.

‘Hug a tree?’ That is her comforting advice to me wanting to end my own life?

If you still wanna die next month, hit me up. But God help me, we need you.

Maybe my life does have a purpose besides my own self-fulfilment. At least Verity hasn’t completely ruled out my proposition.

Your sympathy is touching.

I’m a bartender, not a shrink.

I lift my head up when I hear two of the noble women walking past me, murmuring something about tailored fittings. In the mist surrounding my zeal for death, I’d forgotten about the Queen’s request for the Noble Family to be fitted by professional tailors and costume designers at two o’clock this afternoon–all in preparation for the peace party over which she is so agog.

I put my head down when I hear one of the women mention that the Queen rescheduled the event due to an impromptu meeting. The fitting is now at seven at night instead of two o’clock in the afternoon.

Could it be–?

The Queen takes her wardrobe and that of others very seriously. We weren’t to be one minute late for our fitting in her chambers–and yet she’s postponed the entire thing?

This can’t be a coincidence.

I may have something to report. The Queen has a surprise meeting. We can meet to discuss the details.

I thought you hated your life.

Can you meet or not?

Chill, Darren. The usual place, midnight.

I put my phone away, resolve filtering through my despair. There’s no time for self-pity. If I want to safeguard against the slaughter of an entire faction, I need to think about other people before myself.

I take a step to go back into the manor and out of the cold wintry air, suddenly remembering the blood bag in my hand.

If I’m going to be sleuthing, I’m going to need some liquid courage–and not the kind that I was only eligible to have when I turned eighteen.

My senses come alive as soon as the last drop hits my tongue and moves down my throat. My stomach is warm, buzzing with satisfaction and fulfilment. Being without blood was akin to dehydration in a desert. My insides were beginning to feel like sandpaper. My mind was dreary, foggy, incoherent. Now, I can think more clearly. Even the air feels fresher, fuller.

I may hate that I am this way–and I do, with every fibre of my being–but there’s no denying it any longer, not after the murder I committed and the blood bags I’ve consumed like a ravenous parasite.

I am a Vampyr.

I need blood.

Even if it makes me loathe myself.

Trying to distract myself from how good blood makes me feel, I concentrate on my excursion to the Queen’s chambers. To say that Lenore is a tad eccentric is laughably modest. Her chambers take up an entire floor of the manor. Elaborate paintings decorate either side of the corridor. Stained glass windows cast different shades of light into the space. The wallpaper is crimson red with golden accents.

The highest level of the manor is reserved for her–quite the salute to the power she wields over the entire Vampyr community. Daywalkers adore her for giving them freedom. Nightwalkers revere her and blindly serve her, hoping to win her favour and, in turn, their liberty. Each and every Queen in God knows how many cities and countries around the globe possess this authority over their faction.

I know the consequences if I dare cross Lenore. If la Reine ever found out I was conspiring with a Korama, the punishment would be quick and severe: death or something much worse, even unimaginable.

I’m surprised to see none of the Queen’s court–no noble women, none of her multiple paramours, no security. And with the tailor event taking place in a few hours, one would think that there would be designers up and down the halls with clothing racks and excited Vampyr Nobility discussing clothing options with one another. This ornately-decorated wing of the Clair de Lune is always populated–and with good reason. The fact that it is so quiet and barren that a pin drop could reverberate in my head is cause for suspicion.

I slowly reduce my pace until I reach the red double doors that signal the entrance to the Queen’s personal dwelling. It is not just her bedroom inside; there are multiple rooms reserved for meetings, dinners, and the like.

I hesitate, making a conscious effort to hold my breath, steady my feet, anything to diminish the amount of sound I’m making. The last thing I want is for la Reine and her meeting companion to hear me out in the hallway.

When I try to calm my battered nerves (which doesn’t work very well), I suddenly realize something.

There’s silence.

Absolute silence.

No murmurs of conversation. No shuffling from inside.

This is absurd and baffling. She has to be here. Her private meetings always take place in her chambers (a dig to the Koramas, who were waited on in the common room that is never used, who sat in front of the fireplace which is never lit).

Then, it hits me.

An aroma coming from the doors, circulating about the hallway. It burns my nose, causing me to slowly step back.

What is this scent? I recognize it but not enough to assign a label to it. It’s so powerful, it is causing me to hold my breath, my eyes burning.

I turn on my heel and begin to walk away from the red doors, feeling ill. I’m just opening the door to her level of the manor when I all but bump into Gabriel.

I suck in an abrupt breath. I knew I’d run into him sooner or later. Honestly, I was hoping for the later possibility.

Gabriel seems to be the opposite, relishing in the fact that he has stumbled upon this luck-would-have-it occasion. His black business suit matches his dark brown eyes, which are sparkling with mischievous glee.

“Monsieur Pierce,” he greets me coldly. “What are you doing in Maman’s chambers?”

I swallow. “The fittings, of course,” I respond, hoping he will believe me.

Gabriel’s mouth twists into a pompous smirk. “Didn’t you hear? It’s been rescheduled.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Maman doesn’t like des rats in her personal dwelling.”

I lock eyes with him, but he smugly places his hand on my arm, using much more pressure than is necessary for acquaintances. The excruciating pain is slow and then debilitating. My knees buckle. Gabriel bends with me, placing his lips to my ear. I feel his blood-soaked breath on my face, and my stomach twists in agony and in hunger.

“Rest assured, little Prince,” he whispers. “If you ever wreak havoc on my plans again, I will tear your abysmal heart from your chest and toss it to the Koramas for satisfaction.”

He rips his hand off my arm, sending me toppling backward. The pain is already leaving my system, but his threat burns in my ears as I hear his footsteps recede behind me. I slowly turn, watching him waltz down the hall as if he didn’t just utter threats against me. I assume he’s going to the Queen. The eldest and ‘firstborn’ (as far as turning is concerned) Vampyr Prince holds certain privileges over the rest.

To my surprise, Gabriel passes the Queen’s double doors–but what is even more shocking is the fact that when he moves past her doorway, I can no longer hear the clanking of his expensive heeled dress shoes. At first, I think I was mistaken, that my mind has finally snapped under the pressure of this new life and threats against my safety; but then the sound returns just as soon as it stopped. Just as soon as he is a good distance from the Queen’s living space.

Was that–

Did the smell coming from the room actually impede on the sound Gabriel made? Did he notice, or was he too wrapped up in his own selfish musings to care?

There’s no mistaking it now. Whatever smell is coming from the Queen’s chamber is affecting what is heard–or overheard .

Whatever meeting she is conducting from within her chambers is so top-secret that she doesn’t even want her favourite son to discover its contents.

I leave the Queen’s corridors as quickly as possible with one thought taking hold of my mind.

She must be meeting with il Sovrano. There’s no other explanation.