A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,103
the last hope to reclaim their lives!”
Tears drip and fall from my jaw once more, and Castrel eases the building tension in his posture.
“I’m... sorry,” he says.
Ceti walks over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Think about it, Wavorly.” But before she says anything, I already know. “Why would Zein consistently forgive your trespasses, when you have done everything to not deserve it?”
I know.
“And Giomar… he was opposed to the Elders’ proposed plan of securing a five-century break in heirs,” Ceti continues despite my fatigue. “No one aside from a few officials close to Zein, and the surviving mortals from that night, know of the heir’s continued existence. But it is my suspicion that Giomar realized it and informed Seriesa. Which is why—”
I stop listening.
Why...
A stabbing pain blasts through my chest. I’m an idiot. There’s no other reasonable way to see it. No other logical way to explain it. Zein, if nothing else, destroyed Avignon and took me with him as some sort of political plan; a plan to raise up the vampire race even more. He lied to me. He had to have lied to me. He murdered—
My whole body goes numb when the obvious finally surfaces.
“He murdered my family…,” I mutter, disbelief holding fast to my words.
“Wavorly,” Castrel says, standing, only to drop to a kneel before me. He lightly takes my hands in his, but I recoil away from his touch.
“Stop, please,” I say, the words muffling.
The pictures that develop within my mind no longer depict Zein ripping apart Duke Amaorin. No, now they illustrate what I remember of my mother; her fragile, porcelain skin stained red—from the fangs of Zein’s brigade. Her countenance turning sickly and unsustainable. My brother and father, too. Castrel’s parents, the servants, the town. All slaughtered by him—by Zein’s command. By the one that I let fool me into admiring him, into serving him, into trusting him. My mind threatens to shut down the more I indulge the horror.
It compresses until all there is left is hatred. Boiling hatred. The nightly summonings, passionate moments, and tender words.
“Could you even believe me then, if I told you the truth? That I saved you that night out of senseless compassion?”
You liar.
“Can you accept it? That such an unexplainable regard for your life has, at some point throughout your stay here, developed into an equally unexplainable desire for your heart?”
You. Liar.
“I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”
“You murdered my family!” I scream out, uncaring who or what hears as I weep uncontrollably into my palms. “How could I have been so...!”
“Wavorly, please…,” I barely comprehend Castrel’s voice as I’m met with an onslaught of body heat. It’s Glera’s arms that embrace me.
“I’m sorry, it makes me so angry. I wish I could have told you sooner,” she says, gritting her teeth. “But we are here now to get you out. You will be able to have your freedom, and one day—your revenge. I promise you that.”
I shudder with cold, despite the warmth. I don’t want anything, except for the horrible truths to be lies. This is real. My whole world has shriveled and crumbled into nothing.
I am nothing.
chapter 20
Restless. Helpless. I don’t even bother trying to sleep. There is so much more I would rather do anyway. Like driving a knife straight through Zein’s heart, or even my own. Suicide plagues my thoughts in the most imaginative of ways, enough to scare myself. The colorless faces of my family churn through my mind more than they ever have, chilling me to the bone, and making me want to join them in sweet death.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea, would it? If I killed myself, I would be pulling one over on Zein. I could make all his efforts with this ‘heir apparent’ thing null by taking my own life. But then again, if I were to go that route I wouldn’t be able to witness his anger and defeat when I set myself free of him. When I eventually kill him. That wondrous daydream of vengeance must be what keeps me from clawing out my own throat—that, and Glera intensely monitoring me since our return from the janitorial closet.
She keeps her dark eyes focused on me even though her head is glued to the pillow. Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t bother me with chatter. Apparently, her years of studying my personality and behavior at Nightingale has left her with a correct assumption: I prefer to suffer in silence.