The Toad Prince

Chapter Ten

Nadaria gripped the handle of her sword and took a deep breath. Be like River, be like River. Unshakeable.

She approached the door with an itching nose. The dark magic was heavy in the air, leaking through the gap under the door. When she was closer, the shuffling stopped, and the silence was even more unsettling.

The wood was rotting, and she put her eye up to a small gap where the planks were pulling apart. It was too dark on the other side to see anything. While her eye was still close, the thing threw itself against the door again with a raspy snarl.

Nadaria jumped back. “Holy crap! Gah! Stupid thing.”

She drew the sword and reached for the knob. Slowly, she turned it. The mechanism clicked, and she shuffled back, holding the sword in front of her. Putrid rot and acrid dark magic swarmed her nostrils, and she suppressed a gag.

Out of the darkness, what used to be a human shuffled forward. It was an old woman, and Nadaria assumed she was looking at the nulla healer that once lived here. She wore an ankle length nightgown, so soiled Nadaria couldn’t guess the color. Like Crina, her throat was ripped open, and she appeared to have been torn at by a wild animal.

She was rotting, the flesh of her face drooping and hanging in folds, and her stringy grey hair had fallen out in patches, exposing her scalp, and in some places her skull. The woman snarled like a beast, and moved quicker than Nadaria expected, dragging a badly broken leg behind her. The bone protruded, and if she had any ability to feel pain, it would’ve been impossible to walk on it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Nadaria whispered. More necromancy, considered one of the darkest evils of witchcraft.

The woman snarled and moaned, the sounds nothing close to human, and her teeth clacked as she bit at the air, obviously hungry for flesh. Nadaria let her walk straight into the sword, pushing it through her heart. But—surprise—she didn’t stop.

“Oh dear,” Nadaria said, stepping back. Silver would not get it done, apparently.

The undead woman’s jaws snapped at her hand, and she was strong for a rotting corpse, pushing Nadaria back as she stumbled forward in a desperate attempt to bite her. Nadaria’s hand flew out, grasping for a makeshift weapon, and she felt the handle of a cast iron pan.

Thank you, Goddess.

“Sorry for this,” she squeaked, bringing the pan around. As rotten as she was, the old woman’s head exploded like a ripe melon under the force. Maggots and brain matter erupted like a wave, hitting Nadaria’s poor defenseless sneakers. She gagged and pulled her sword free, backpedaling until she hit the wall.

A clammy arm wrapped around her throat, and she screamed, wrenching herself free and scrambling in a bear crawl away from the open window.

“Oh, geez,” she mumbled.

Hands reached through the windows, searching for her, and moans and snarls filled the quiet hut. Undead, straight out of a zombie movie. The door started creaking open, and she crawled to it on hands and knees and slammed it shut. Severed fingers from a hand that had been reaching through fell in maggoty thumps next to her. The creatures on the other side banged against it with force, and she dug her heels into the rotten floor to hold it. The door jamb was rotted away, and it wouldn’t latch.

“s**t, s**t, shit.”

Her eyes darted around the hut, searching for a way out. Every window was full of putrid reaching arms and hollow melting faces. Their disturbing snarls and moans iced her blood and stole her breath. She’d intuitioned her way right into a living hell.

************************

“Come on, Boian,” Sorin yelled, grasping the horn of the saddle and throwing himself up.

The stallion was coiled and ready, launching forward before his feet were in the stirrups. He’d always been a high-strung horse, some would say difficult, and that was why Sorin liked him. No one outran Boian.

Bless Nicoleta, because there were already two people at the gate pulling it open. Boian dashed through, sliding for a moment as he rounded the muddy corner. Damn this rain.

“Woah! Keep your feet!” Sorin shouted at his horse, and Boian did, finding sure footing and streaking down the road.

Sorin hunched low on his back, watching the sides of the road for the undead. They scared the s**t out of the horses and he didn’t have time to be thrown from the stallion’s back.

Sorin hadn’t even grabbed his cloak, and the rain soaked his white cotton shirt within a couple of minutes. He cursed under his breath, so angry at Nadaria for not asking him to go with her. Of course, she was pissed at him, but this forest was wrought with evil and she didn’t have her magic. His heart beat faster than it had in decades, and he prayed to the Gods he despised that she would be okay.

Sorin was stunned they didn’t see a single undead the entire way, but as soon as they crested a small hill and saw the village, he understood why.

“Oh, s**t. Oh, no.”

The undead were all gathered around the healer’s hut, crawling over each other like insects. They wanted inside. They wanted to eat.

Sorin halted the horse and jumped off, waving his arms and yelling.

“Go home, Boian! Get out!”

The stallion needed no more motivation and turned with his empty saddle back to the castle. Sorin knew he would find his way.

He looked down at the hut. How the f**k could he get in there? Thoughts, dark ones, pushed into his mind. She was probably already dead. He ripped back his sleeve, and the tattoo was there. Did that mean she—

A sharp scream from inside pulled his head up, and he ran, slipping down the muddy slope. He had an idea. It would hurt, but he’d get inside.

Thankful for once to be a vampire, he scaled the side of the windmill that dominated the village. Once on top, he broke into a run and leapt from edge with a grunt of effort. He braced himself, smashing through the thatching of the roof. In several places, wooden boards and sticks impaled him, and he grunted in pain, landing on his feet and then falling to his knees.

Nadaria shrieked in surprise, and he could have thrown a party to hear such a beautiful sound. She was alive. He should’ve known this little viper in pink socks wouldn’t go down so easily.

“Sorin?”

He glanced over at her. She held a cast iron pan and was bracing the door with her back. Her pink dress was muddy and her eyes were wide with terror.

“What in God’s names are you doing, woman?” he growled, trying to stand. He yanked a wooden shard out of his thigh, and then his calf.

She glared at him, yelling, “A Game of Thrones reenactment!” He furrowed his brow, not understanding, and she spat, “I’m holding this stupid door, i***t. What’s it look like?”

He growled again and stood, picking up the heavy wooden table in the center of the room. She understood and darted out of the way. He threw it, and it smashed against the door, holding it for now. But they needed to get out. The undead ripped at the open windows, mindlessly tearing the worn hut to pieces.

She hurried to him and shoved a leather bag in his hands. His leather bag.

“Thieving witch.”

“Lying vampire,” she hissed back, and he frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Hold that open.”

She started grabbing jars off the shelves and shoving them into the bag.

He watched her with his mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry, but we’re about to be torn to pieces by the undead, and you’re shopping?”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional,” she mumbled, skimming labels.

He scoffed in disbelief, and she looked at him. “But everything I want is gone.”

“Well, no s**t. I could’ve told you that if you’d asked me about it.” She glared at him, pursing her lips in anger. “You think you’re the first witch to want to come here? At least the other one was smart enough to bring me with her!”

“Why would I bring you? Are these things particularly weak to deception? Because then you’d be an invaluable asset.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, and they glared at each other.

“I just thought you were lying about the other witches, since, I don’t know, they’re not here? And you’re a liar… face… stupid vampire.”

“A liar face stupid vampire? Oh, wow, take it easy on me, please. You cut me so deep,” he deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

“Shut up. And I’m serious. Where are they?”

He didn’t answer, but shifted a hand to cover his groin.

She watched the movement and narrowed her eyes at him. “Sorin? Where are the other witches?”

“Hm. Well, I was going to give you a moment to calm down after you tried to castrate me earlier, but they may have died. When they tried to break the curse, they may have erupted into flames and burned to death.”

She stared at him blank-faced, blinking like she had on the bridge, and he worried so much for his balls.

“You suck. I think I hate you. I think the Goddess hates me for giving me someone who is such an unbelievable asshole.”

“She must,” he agreed, earning a fresh glare.

“Just hold the stupid bag.”

Nadaria started throwing anything she could get her hands on into the bag, along with several rags to cushion the glass jars and keep them from breaking.

The table scraped the floor, and the undead pushed part way in through the cracked door.

“Enough, bubblegum witch, we must go.”

He lifted her to the hole he’d made in the ceiling, and choked on his breath when he looked up. Yes, the panties were pink.

Sorin leapt, grabbing the edge of the roof and pulling himself up.

“Now what, Drac?” she asked, and he glared at her.

“I don’t know. This is your brilliant plan, witch.”

Snarls and moans sounded beneath them, and he glanced back down to see the undead had gotten inside the hut. They still surrounded it, too, and were probably going to tear the entire building down to get to them.

“Can you jump over them?”

“Of course I can.”

She turned up her chin, and held out her arms, as if to say lift me, peasant. “Then do it. And we’ll run away.”

He sighed. “You make it sound so easy.” But he picked her up like she was his bride, dressed in pink, and ran along the top beam of the hut.

She clung to his neck, and she giggled when he leapt the horde, and landed next to the old well. Crazy woman.

As he thought, it was easier said than done. The undead were relentless and swarmed towards them. The less rotted ones were fast, squealing with excitement at the sight of a fresh meal.

“Go! Go!” he yelled, pushing her. “The windmill.”

They built its lower foundation of stone instead of wood, and would hopefully hold the beasts back until they lost interest. Sorin didn’t look at them. He didn’t want to see the melting, rotting faces, most of which he recognized.

They already haunted his dreams.

He was right behind her as she ran, but they were on his heels. Sorin shoved her in the back through the door and felt teeth clamp down on his tricep. He punched at the undead, and its putrid face caved under his fist. Once inside, he tried to turn and shut the double doors but they were like a wave, pushing him back.

“Hide!” he yelled at her, but he heard a sharp scream.

Turning, he saw the floor had given out beneath her, and she’d fallen into the basement of the mill. Sorin gave up on the doors and meant to jump down after her, determined he’d kill every undead that followed before he’d allow her to be harmed.

But he had only taken two steps when the decayed floor gave way beneath him. He fell, and a piece of wood impaled him. Right through the heart. Sorin grunted in pain, getting to all fours.

“Sorin?” Nadaria whispered, then gasped in horror when she saw.

He felt her grab his shirt and pull him. “Come on, this way.”

Loud crashes echoed all around them, the undead falling through, and he struggled to follow her.

Nadaria grunted with effort, half dragging him, and shoved him into a tiny room. Some kind of storage area. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. It was only the size of a stair closet, or smaller, and she had to climb on his lap so they both fit.

She swung the door closed, and luckily, this one latched. The undead hadn’t been as able in the pitch black, but witches and vampires could see in the dark, thankfully.

“We made it!”

But Sorin pushed at her, groaning. “Get away, Nadaria. Get away from me.”

“What? I can’t!” she hissed, trying to hold back his powerful hands.

“Oh, f**k,” he groaned, turning his face and shoving it into the corner.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I’m hurt. Bad.”

“Yeah, why aren’t you dead?”

He laughed and sounded a little crazy. “Do you really think she’d let me end my suffering through death? But that doesn’t matter now. Get as far away as you can from me.”

“Sorin, this room is tiny.”

Still in his lap, she pulled his shirt open and yanked the wood free. He growled and bared his teeth in her face. Nadaria was stunned, because his fangs were long. His eyes flashed bright red, like burning embers, and she understood.

“You want blood. Because you’re hurt.”

Vampires could regenerate faster when they fed, and his instincts were pushing him. The roar of her blood rushing through her veins was deafening. It consumed him and threatened to overwhelm rational thought.

His old enemy. The thirst.

He shoved his face back into the corner and put his hands over his ears. “Yes.”

Nadaria dug in the leather bag, sad to see many of the jars broken. She hoped a few things would be salvageable. Finding a piece of broken glass, she cut her wrist.

“Here.”

She shoved it into his face.

“Oh, f**k!” he yelled in horror. “No, no, no!”

He started scrambling, pushing at her and trying to find the latch in a crazed attempt to get out. The undead found them because of the noise and started scratching at the door. If she didn’t calm him down, he’d let them in.

“Sorin! Stop! Just breathe, okay?”

He slammed back into the wall, pushing his face into the corner and twisting his body, trying to get away from her. He groaned in desperation and covered his ears again.

She thought of Codi. None of us ever will ever drink from a living being again.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't understand. Hold on, okay? It’ll be okay, love,” she comforted him, and his chest rose and fell with rapid, trembling breaths.

Nadaria dug into the bag and pulled out a small medicinal bowl. She squeezed her blood into it until it was about half full.

“Here. How about this?”

Nadaria tentatively offered it to him, and he looked out of the side of his eye. When he saw it, he grimaced, but snatched it from her.

Sorin drank it like a man lost in the desert, starved too long for a sip of the good stuff. So many years of horse blood, and now the real deal was right here in his face.

She pulled his shirt aside and watched the flesh knit together until it looked brand new.

“Was that enough?” she whispered, hoping the undead would go away if they were quiet.

His arms wrapped around her and crushed her into his chest with a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Nadaria laid her head on his shoulder and embraced him. She felt so sad, picking up once again on his horrific emotional agony. As a witch, she was naturally an empath, sensing the emotions of others. With her element being water, it particularly attuned her to emotion, and she had to block herself from his feelings or they would overwhelm her.

“Will you tell me, please? The truth of what happened here?”

He kissed the top of her head, then her temple. His fingers lifted her chin and turned her face up to his. She gripped the nape of his neck, threading her fingers into his soft hair, and accepted his desperate kiss.

It was more frenzied than the first two times, needy and wanting. He kissed her like he’d never kiss her again, because he was sure he wouldn’t. Time became nothing, and when they broke apart, they were both breathless and full of desire to do much more than kiss.

She pressed her soft lips to his jaw, and he muttered, “I will tell you, but I wanted to do that first.”

“Why?”

“Because once you know, no matter what tattoo is on your wrist, you will not choose me. And that’s okay.”