Page 9 of The Vampire Debt

My head snaps in the direction it’s coming from, and in seconds I close in on it. It’s partially hidden by half rotted food and… I shudder to think of what else.

Standing at the entrance of a narrow alley between buildings, I stare into the darkness. The smell is stronger than it had been on the girl, but it isn’t overpowering, as it would be if the vampire were tossed carelessly back in the shadows of this small corner.

My nostrils flare as I walk slowly closer. The blood smells too familiar for my liking.

I don’t spare another second moving slow. I rush to the far wall. My gut clenches in fear.

No…It takes seconds for me to toss all discarded things out of my way.

The fear that had been growing settles and forms into a hard lump in my throat. I reach down and lift a discarded bow and one of the scattered arrows. Dark red, nearly black, coats one of the steel tips. My vision blurs as I inhale deeply.

Rosalie. The blood belongs to my Rosalie.

Time loses all meaning as I fight to understand. Rosalie, whose fate I had created by my foolish actions, the only one in this fucked up world I give a damn about. I sink to my knees, not caring about the filth and grim coated ground.

I have failed. My only purpose in life was to protect her and now her body lies somewhere being desiccated by the local demons. It’s far less than what she deserves.

An arrow that smells of Rosalie’s blood and the bow that accompanies it has the same distinct woodsy smell as the girl. My vision fills with red and the wood splinters within my grasp.

I had not intended on returning to that dilapidated structure those humans have the nerve to call a home. The moment I smelled the blood on her, I had not quite believed that she could be capable of such an act. Weak, was the first word that came to mind. But the evidence that my assumption had indeed been proved incorrect, now lay broken at my feet—both Rosalie’s blood and the girl’s unique scent were irrefutable.

That slip of a girl will not pay for her crimes by suffering at the court’s hands, but at mine.

Chapter Five

Clara

The fire cracklesin our small wood burning stove as Kitty hums to herself on the wooden bench, sewing designs on plain white handkerchiefs. I sit at her feet, rereading my favorite—and only book—for what might possibly be the hundredth time. It’s a rare morning where I allow myself the luxury of relaxing and pretending that my life is almost normal.

But only for today. I have every intention of avoiding the woods for as long as I can.

Father’s room bursts open, the door cracking against the wall as he stumbles into the room blurry eyed, hung over and rubbing at his face. He stops when he sees me, his face turning petulant the second his eyes lock on my face.

“Taking the day off, Clara?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be out there, working?”

I bristle at his tone. He acts as if it’s my duty and my duty alone to make sure this family is fed, clothed, and that he has plenty of gambling money to waste.

Kitty’s fingers freeze mid motion, but she doesn’t look up at Father. Her nerves are already frayed at the fight that might come. I hold my tongue, for her sake, as much as it pains me to let those words of his go unchecked.

Carefully, I close my book and set it next to Katherine as I lift myself up to stand.

“I was about to go out,” I say as pleasantly as one can through gritted teeth.

His bloodshot eyes narrow on me, not having missed my true feelings. He takes a step forward, his fists clenched at his side, and I ready myself for what’s to come.

Three knocks on the door halts him in his tracks. “Don’t just stand there, answer it.”

Kitty starts to rise but I motion her to sit back down as I make my way to the door.

I blink several times as I stare into the most beautiful, deep blue eyes that sparkle in the early morning light, made even more striking by the thick lashes that frame them. He’s even more stunning in the light. I open my mouth to speak but my words catch in my throat.

Mr. Devereaux smiles when he sees me, but there’s something cold and wicked in it. Today his expression is pleasant in a way that doesn’t ring true. Where yesterday he had seemed nearly apathetic, unimpressed… bored, today there’s malice in it.

My body reacts without thought, moving to slam the door in his face. There’s something dark about this man and I want nothing to do with him.

A red ring forms around his irises, then I blink and it’s gone.

Father’s meaty hand grabs onto the edge of the door, preventing it from moving. “Mr. Devereaux,” he says, frowning. “I hadn’t expected you to return so soon… eh—why don’t you come in?”