The Blood Price
1202 Words
The door of the manor creaked open behind him, and Armand Cain spun around, his hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword. His breath caught.
It was her.
Celeste stood in the doorway, bathed in the moon's light. The pale light caressed the ivory of her skin, making her something otherworldly, almost ghostly. Shadows wrapped around her like silk, and for an instant, she didn't stir. She just gazed at him. Her face a mask, chiseled in immobility. But her eyes, those storm-darkened eyes, had a flicker of concern that made his chest constrict.
You shouldn't have come," she whispered, the words as soft as falling ash. "Not tonight. Not here."
Armand did not yield. His voice was hard but low. "I couldn't stay away."
She moved closer. Her unshod feet made no sound on the broken stone. "You don't know. It's not only Valerian who guards this place. There are others: eyes that pierce the mist, shadows that never sleep.
He looked at her face, his voice rough. "Who else is watching us?"
Her eyes followed to the edge of the cliff beyond the manor lands, her mouth compressing with some inner anguish. "Old blood," she replied. "Ancient. Forgotten. Waiting. They've waited always for the blood to flow once more from their lands, for the compact to be claimed."
Her fingers trailed across his arm, light as a feather. Cold to the touch, but sending heat thrumming in his veins. It was infuriating, this tension of cold skin and burning sparks. He could feel every nerve in his body responding to her.
He swallowed. "What do they want?"
Celeste's tone went far away. "What they were promised. When Blackthorn made its bargain, it pledged more than land, more than time. It pledged bloodlines."
His breath was caught. "You mean…"
"Yes," she said softly. "Your blood. Your family."
He took a step back, as if the impact of her words physically hit him. "No," he said. "No, my family were hunters. We battled this. We never…"
She shook her head. "You don't know the entire truth, Armand. The Order might have purified its name, but the bloodlines of its founders were once tied to this site tied by oath, by blood, and by terror."
His pulse was pounding. "What does that make me?
Celeste looked at him then not as a vampire, not as a curse, but as a woman who had once been human. A woman who had seen too much. “It makes you part of Blackthorn. And it makes you part of me.”
The words were barely more than a whisper. But they shattered something in him.
He spun away from her, jaw set, eyes blazing. The Order's teachings echoed within his mind monsters, lies, kill on sight. But none of them had prepared him for what to do when the monster protected your life, kissed you like an angel, and bled like a woman grieving for her soul.
"I can't figure out any of this," he growled. "You're a vampire. I should have gotten rid of you the minute I met you."
"But you didn't," she replied, walking closer. "Because a part of you already knew. And now it's too late."
He spun back to her slowly. "Too late?"
"We're bound," she told him. "You touched the altar. You bled in this town. The curse knows you now. It knows you for one of its own."
He looked at her, his heart racing. "And you, Celeste? What do you have to do with all this?"
She didn't blink. "I am the key, the vessel, the mistake that cannot die."
For a long time, neither of them shifted. The space between them hummed with unspoken feeling. Anger. Desire. Loss. Lust. All knotted, all jagged.
"I don't know if I can trust you," Armand said. "But I want to, and that's what frightens me the most."
Celeste's eyes filled with softness. She moved into him, slow, measured. Her fingers ran up his chest, tracing over his pounding heart.
I don't ask for trust," she whispered. "I want you to stay with me. Just… stay."
He bent his head until their foreheads touched. Her breath was combined with his. His hands rested on her waist. She shook but didn't move away.
"I should leave," he growled. "Every part of me is screaming to."
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because I never wanted anything more than I want you at this moment.
Her mouth touched his.
Once.
Twice.
Then the kiss intensified, slow and painful, like a wound squeezed open. Her body sank into his, cold flesh aflame as it came into contact with his. He made a soft sound of pain, wrapping his arms around her waist, drawing her hard against him.
Celeste's fingers wandered across his back, pulling at his coat, tips tracing underneath his shirt. When they had to come up for air, her eyes were wide, her voice a breath against his lips.
"This is dangerous."
"So are you," he said.
"I could lose control."
"Then lose it."
She kissed him once more, and this time there was nothing held back. The manor towered above them, the darkness deepening, the walls full of secrets as their bodies found each other like fire and frost.
He pinned her against the stone wall of the corridor, his lips tracing along the curve of her throat. She gasped, her body arching to meet him, her fingers raking down the length of his spine.
Her thigh rose, curling around his waist, drawing him closer, deeper.
But when his hands slipped under the edge of her dress, her eyes flew open.
"No," she panted, voice strained. "Not here. Not now."
Armand went rigid. Not because he didn't desire her but because of fear in her voice.
"What is it?"
She took a step back, her chest convulsing. The house. It feeds on passion. It drains it.
A groan rang down the corridor.
Not from them.
From beneath.
From the altar room.
Armand reached for his sword. Celeste closed her fingers around his wrist.
"It's begun," she said in a whisper.
They sprinted.
Down the corridor, into the spiral staircase that would take them to the lower floors of the manor.
The wavering candlelight became paler as they went down, and the air grew colder until their breath solidified into mist.
At the bottom, they discovered it.
The altar room had altered.
The runes pulsed red.
The stone had cracked, and from it oozed thick, black ichor that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
The room breathed.
And in the center of the altar stood a child.
A girl.
Maybe ten years old. Hair tangled. Skin too pale. Eyes… black.
Her lips parted in a smile that did not belong to any child.
“You’re late,” she said, in a voice too deep. Too old.
Celeste stepped in front of Armand.
"No," she panted. "No, not her. Not again."
Armand clutched at her shoulder. "What is that?"
Celeste's hand shook as she brought it to her lips.
"She's the first."
"The first what?"
Celeste faced him, eyes unbalanced with sorrow.
"The first sacrifice."
The child giggled.
And then the candles all died.
- Writer
