Page 50 of Princess Redeemed

I shake my head, rubbing at the ache that has sprung up in my forehead.“How?”

He sighs.“I wish I knew.We need to get to my underground bunker.I have several changes of clothes and armor there.”

I nod, gulping, as we walk through the spoils of war, stepping over and around dead bodies, the destruction so great it’s impossible to tell vampire from wolf from demon.

In death, we’re all the same.

Is the war over?Or is this a simple respite?I don’t know.Rogan should know, but he’s been gone.Dominic would know.My father would know.My stepfather would know.

But I can’t think about any of them right now.

I think only of my beautiful son growing inside me.

And I do what Rogan said.

I look.

I see.

And I remember.

30

The stenchof death pervades the air as I step cautiously over the remnants of what was once a battlefield, now reduced to a graveyard of shattered dreams and splintered lives.The sun casts a sickly pallor on the landscape, its warmth failing to penetrate the cold grip of death.

“Look at it all,” Rogan whispers.“Look and remember.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”I demand.

“Because war is horrible.”

“Warishorrible,” I echo, my own voice barely audible as I struggle to swallow the emotions that threaten to choke me.The muddy wasteland is strewn with broken weapons, discarded armor, and the lifeless bodies of men.

Again I think of how, in death, they all look alike.No red eyes of a demon, no protruding canines of a vampire, no shift of a wolf.

“Can anything good come from this?”I ask, my voice trembling.

“Only if we learn from it,” he says.“If we can prevent another war like this from happening.”

I continue walking, each step a painful reminder of the brutality and senselessness that has brought us to this place.The ground shifts beneath our feet, the ether itself seemingly eager to bury the evidence of this horror.

“Did you know any of them?”I ask Rogan.

He turns me to him, grips my shoulders, and gazes into my eyes.“Of course.They were my brothers.”

Another knot forms in my throat.

These are his friends, his companions.

But I recognize no one.I steered as clear as I could from my vampire heritage, acknowledging it only when my father called for me.

I know these fallen warriors only as bodies.Not as souls.Does it matter on which side they fought?It’s clearly over, and I’m not sure either side won.

“I don’t recognize any of them,” I say quietly.“Not a one.”

“Does it matter?”he asks, his tone bitter.“In the end, they all lost something.”

“They lost their lives,” I agree.“But who bears the true loss?You, Rogan.You knew these people.I didn’t.”