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CAPTIVE OF THE VAMPIRE
KING
BLOOD FIRE SAGA BOOK 2
BELLA KLAUS
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23

Also by Bella Klaus

Night of the Vampire King
Night of the Vampire King
Copyright © 2020 by Bella Klaus.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or
used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher.

www.BellaKlaus.com

Created with Vellum

 CHAPTER ONE

I had to blink several times to make sure this wasn’t a

nightmare brought on by being kept unconscious for too
long by the Council’s enforcers.
Cold seeped into my shins and knees from where I knelt on the
marble floor, staring up into Valentine’s red eyes. Correction. This
wasn’t the man I loved. The man I loved had copper skin with
bronze highlights, he was beautiful and vibrant, and alive.
What stared back at me was his reanimated corpse, a gray
abomination with eyes as sunken as his cheeks. The only thing that
made him different from a zombie were the fangs protruding from
his shrunken lips.
Those fangs were longer than any I’d seen on a vampire, and I
was the only source of nourishment within the mausoleum.
Every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice. He had probably
been awakened by the smell of my blood. The smell of my cursed-
to-smell-irresistible-to-all-vampires blood. I fell forward, my palms
landing on the debris and tried to propel myself backward, but
Valentine wrapped a cool hand around my bicep and pulled me to
my feet.
“Bloody hell.” Ferdinand ran his fingers through blood-red hair. “I
told you we should have cremated him.”
Lazarus pointed at me with a shaking hand. “She’s just like
Kresnik.”
 I was too shaken by having my dead fiancé rise from the dead to
take offense at the insult.
Sylvester stepped forward, seeming to want to place himself
between Valentine and the other three. He was the oldest of
Valentine’s younger brothers and the one whose facial features
resembled Valentine the most. The only difference between the two
vampires was their coloring. While Valentine had bronze skin and
black hair, Sylvester was pale with silver locks that made him look
more like a faerie than a vampire. Right now, he stared at us
through gray eyes wide with horror.
“We did everything the lore said. Removed his heart and kept it
in an orb of clear quartz and secured his body to the stone with iron.
He should not have arisen.”
Lazarus, the brown-haired brother, turned to me and hissed.
“Didn’t any of you hear what I said? This is her doing. It’s just as the
Council said. She’s a fire mage.”
“Valentine,” Constantine said through ragged breaths. A cut on
his head had already healed but left a trail of blood down his temple
and soaking into his blond hair. “Release the girl and let us help
you.”
Valentine let out a roar that sent every fine hair on the back of
my neck standing on end. My knees trembled, and I tried to pull out
of his grip, but it was as absolute as death. I glanced around the
mausoleum, at the raised stone plinths that had once been the
resting places of their vampire ancestors and now only held broken
pieces of plaster from where Valentine had thrown his brothers
against the ceiling.
Unmoving bodies lay strewn across the floor, and I cringed at
Valentine’s side, wondering if the commotion of his rising from the
dead would summon any of the ancestors back from the other
realms.
“Get him,” Sylvester snarled.
In the blink of an eye, all four brothers surrounded us, each
holding weapons. Lazarus stood at our front, holding what appeared
to be a scythe, except its handle was much shorter and magical
symbols decorated its blade. The angelic power radiating from the
weapon made my nerve endings tingle.
I gulped. Lazarus had probably borrowed it from one of the soul
reapers who worked for the Angel King.
The scent of brimstone filled my nostrils, and demonic heat
prickled against my skin. I glanced to the left. Ferdinand pointed a
sword at Valentine’s neck with a cutting edge that burned redder
than his hair.
My heart clattered against my ribcage, and all the blood drained
from my face. Even Valentine might not survive a strike from
something like that.
Cringing, I turned to the right, only to find Constantine holding a
net with ends that crackled with lightning, sending out a spray of
silver sparks. I jerked toward Valentine, wanting to warn him of the
danger—this was the kind of weapon the enforcers used against
much larger shifters in their animal forms. One touch of that net,
and it would wrap around the target, encasing it until the captive
reached the Supernatural Council headquarters to be released by a
lightning mage.
I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know that Sylvester
would be standing behind us, although I wasn’t sure what kind of
anti-preternatural weapon he would choose to attack Valentine with.
Valentine pulled me into his hard chest, and the cold of his body
seeped into my back, making me shudder with a mix of terror and
disgust. Nothing about the vampire was alive—no breath, no
heartbeat, no warmth, no yielding of the flesh. His large fingers
threaded into my hair, making the skin of my neck and shoulders
tighten with the sensation of crawling spiders.
A whimper reverberated in the back of my throat. This was
where the tips of his fangs would pierce my jugular, and he would
drink his fill before throwing my corpse aside to confront his
brothers.
The tip of Valentine’s nose brushed against my neck, and a
scream tore from my throat.
Lazarus rushed forward, holding the reaping scythe aloft.
Valentine shoved me behind him and lurched toward his brother. I
stared at Sylvester, who held a trident with edges pointed like
arrows. Ignoring me, the silver-haired vampire sped past, aiming his
weapon at Valentine’s back.
I clapped a hand over my mouth and spun around to where the
three vampires fought. Lazarus swiped the scythe at Valentine’s
neck, who pivoted backward and swept a foot out to kick at
Sylvester’s gut. The silver-haired brother leapt onto a plinth, while
Constantine rushed forward with his net. Only the tip of it caught
Valentine’s foot, and bolts of lightning travelled up his leg.
I placed a hand over my mouth and tried to move my feet, but
they remained rooted to the floor. Every instinct in my body
screamed at me to take advantage of the opening Valentine had
created for me and run, but I couldn’t. Not while Valentine’s soul
was trapped and tortured and tormented within a desecrated corpse.
As Valentine tore at the net, Sylvester drove his trident into
Valentine’s back.
With a roar that made debris fall from the trembling ceiling,
Valentine stumbled to the side, his right leg still encased by the
lightning net. He reached behind his back for the weapon, but
Ferdinand swiped at his neck with the demon sword.
The scent of burning flesh pierced the air. My heart lurched, and
a tight band of anguish squeezed my chest. From the way he
flinched and cried out whenever struck, Valentine could feel pain.
I jerked backward, the sight of Valentine’s pain finally knocking
me out of my stupor. What if he was staying here to fight because of
me? Suppressing the urge to scream at Valentine to run, I backed
toward the exit and tried not to make a sound.
We needed to keep him trapped in the mausoleum so he
wouldn’t venture out into the world and go on a rampage of killing.
Valentine disappeared to the far side of the large space and stood
within an alcove, where he reached for the trident and tried to pull it
out of his back.
“Don’t make this difficult.” Lazarus sped toward him with the
scythe.
Valentine stood on a plinth in the far corner of the mausoleum,
twisting from side to side to dislodge the trident from his back.
Lazarus raised the reaping scythe, but Valentine flicked a hand, and
a gust of wind blew the brown-haired brother across the vast space.
Lazarus landed in a column that crumbled into two, sending giant
pieces of plaster onto his fallen body.
In an unnatural, double-jointed movement, Valentine pulled the
trident from his back and hurled it across the room at the fallen
Lazarus. Constantine rushed ahead and snatched the trident out of
the air.
Ferdinand pointed his demon sword at Valentine. “Some part of
you must still be in there, watching your body attack your own
brothers.” His voice shook with the force of his sorrow. “Valentine,
you’re dead. You must let your soul move to one of the afterlife
realms.”
Valentine shook his head from side to side. I couldn’t tell if this
was a denial or if he was just trying to clear his head. The
information on preternatural vampires was sketchy and no one really
knew much about how they were created. It looked like the fire in
my blood was reanimating his corpse, but wouldn’t that require me
to have ordered him to rise? Maybe his rising had nothing to do with
me but the curse that had wrapped around my leg and made my
blood irresistible.
Sylvester, who had lost his trident, raised his palms. Plaster dust
from the ceiling now coated his silver hair, and he’d lost the right
arm of his jacket. “Calm yourself, brother. We just want to put you to
rest.”
Valentine’s eyes flashed, and he raised both arms, sending gusts
of wind through the mausoleum.
I squeezed my eyes shut and stumbled back through the
doorway. It was as though Valentine wanted to shove me away from
what would possibly be the most brutal supernatural fight since all
the magical races united under the Council. As soon as my feet
crossed the threshold, the door slid shut, locking me out of the
mausoleum.
Shouts and snarls and the smashing of stones echoed from
beyond the door. I turned to take in my surroundings. This was
some sort of vestibule with painted walls that depicted a woman
with skin as dark as the midnight sky. She sat on a throne made of
wood, wearing a crown of silver and robes of gold leaf. Standing
along the walls on either side of her throne were a succession of
vampire kings who resembled each of the Sargon brothers.
A loud clang echoed through the vestibule. I backed away from
the door and stole another glance at the wall-painting. That dark-
skinned woman must have been the vampires’ oldest ancestor.
On the other side of the space, daylight shone through a twelve-
foot-tall wall of stained glass fashioned to depict the same woman
from the throne, wearing a gown of varying shades of red. She
stood among the trees with her arms raised toward a crimson sun
set within a pale blue sky. The window display cast colorful patterns
across the vestibule’s stone floor, but as I turned around in a circle
to look for a way out, all I found was more walls and the door that
led back to the mausoleum.
“Where on earth is the exit?” I muttered to myself. Valentine
wouldn’t have blown me out here if there wasn’t a door that led to
the outside… Unless he was keeping me here as a snack to be
devoured after he’d dealt with his brothers.
A shudder travelled down my spine, and I suppressed a surge of
guilt. If I had trusted Valentine the moment he had told me my life
was in danger, I might have gone into hiding sooner, would have
gained control of my magic, and I wouldn’t have gotten cursed.
I shook off those thoughts. Admonishing myself for not believing
what sounded like an outlandish tale was as futile as kicking myself
for not winning the lottery. The problem started when someone
tampered with my mind, making me think that the scene where
Valentine dumped me on the steps of his palace had been real.
This was our true enemy, and I expect this was also the person
who had cursed my blood. Before, I thought that I was their target
and they wanted to use Valentine as a means of my destruction.
Now I wondered if they had been using me all this time to make me
become Valentine’s downfall.
A tiny twitch of power called me to the stained glass window. It
was about twenty feet wide, spanning the entire width of the
vestibule. Someone had instilled magic within its structure, but it
was faint and spread across the curved lead panels holding together
the smaller pieces. A door was here somewhere. Istabelle, my boss
at the crystal shop, might be able to detect it with her superior
ability to sense magic, but I was spent. After two attempted prison
breaks and the shock of nearly being killed by four vampire princes
and seeing Valentine rise from the dead, my energy reserves felt
dangerously low.
I narrowed my eyes, examining each shape depicted on the wall.
One of the trees surrounding the woman had a thicker trunk than
the others and seemed too rectangular to fit into the image. I ran
my hands along its seam, feeling a faint hum of magic along the
pads of my fingers. It was some sort of ward, which meant that this
was a disguised exit.
Valentine’s roar echoed across the vestibule, followed by the
clang of metal hitting stone. My heart leaped into the back of my
throat. When Kresnik had turned Valentine's father into a
preternatural, it had taken Valentine’s two elder brothers and a pair
of uncles from New Mesopotamia to put the former vampire king to
rest, but in doing so, each of them had lost their lives.
My throat thickened. If Valentine’s brothers died in this battle, I
would have to restore them all with my phoenix flames—but that
would mean getting rid of the firestone in my blood that was
absorbing my magic.
Closing my eyes, I pushed my power into my fingertips, making
them glow in my mind. Then I ran my hands along the seam of the
door, letting it open with a click. A cool wind swirled through the
doorway, accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves.
I opened my eyes and stepped out into a clearing of gnarled
oaks, their trunks and thick branches twisting like tortured souls.
The late afternoon sun shone through leaves of oranges and yellows
and bright greens, and hundreds of feet beyond their canopies stood
the tall spires of a castle. This was a corner of Valentine’s palace
grounds where I’d never before ventured, and I couldn’t afford to
stay here for long.
Heading away from the main building, I continued through the
trees, trying to find my way back to the human world. There was
nothing left for me here except a brutal execution.
Birds tweeted, squirrels hopped from branch to branch, upsetting
loose leaves, and twigs crunched underfoot. Most parts of Logris
were above ground and located in a part of south-west London the
humans knew as Richmond Park.
To the humans, it looked like an expanse of parkland, and people
could venture inside and feel like they were walking its entire length,
but the magic protecting Logris would take them no further than the
footpaths. After that, anyone not born in Logris or without clearance
from the Council to enter fell into an illusion and could spend an
entire day frolicking with red deer in the woodland or paddling
through its ponds. At least that’s how they said the magic worked at
the academy.
My breathing calmed, and I continued at a steady pace. Logris
was a cluster of small villages separated by stretches of forest. In
the center the supernatural city was a shopping and leisure district
and built around the Supernatural Council, a sprawling, white
structure that contained everything from our government, our
hospital and our educational institutions.
We lived in Striga, a village mostly inhabited by witches. On its
east side was the Vampire palace, and on its west, the palace of the
Witch Queen. That’s where I was headed because running behind
our village was Queen’s Road, which would lead me straight out into
the human world.
That’s if I could make a gap in the magical barrier without being
detected by the enforcers.
My foot caught on a root, and I stumbled forward with both arms
flailing for balance. In this part of the palace gardens, lifelike marble
statues stood among the trees on podiums, including one that was
the exact likeness of Valentine, who stared down at me through
solemn eyes. A sob caught in the back of my throat, and I pressed a
hand against my chest. Despite seeing him rise, he was still dead,
and I hadn’t mustered enough magic to save him.
A little voice in the back of my head whispered at me to keep
running. I had just escaped being consumed by four vampires. By
now, the enforcers would have sent out search parties, and if they
caught me, I’d be worse than dead.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a harsh voice whispered in
my ear.
I stumbled into the arms of a grinning Lazarus, who stared down
at me through reddened eyes, flashing his extended fangs.
A gasp slipped from my lips. “How did you—”
“Your scent disappeared from the mausoleum.” He wrapped his
arms around my waist and hoisted me onto his shoulder. “No one’s
going to fight when there’s no prize.”
Lazarus sped through the woods, turning them into a blur of
greens and browns. I pounded on his back, screaming at him to let
me go, but he ignored me and continued until we were back behind
the stained glass wall of the mausoleum’s vestibule.
As he set me on my feet, I took in the extent of his injuries. A
burn marred the front of his chest, which probably came from
Ferdinand’s demon sword, and a deep gash ran down his right arm.
“What happened to your scythe?” I asked.
Lazarus bared his teeth and wrapped his arm around my waist,
pulling me into his hard body. “I got injured, but one mouthful of
you will heal my wounds.”
I pressed against his chest, trying to pry myself free, but he
cupped the side of my face and turned my head to expose my neck.
Terror rippled down my spine. I tried channeling my power into
my hands, to send a blast of fire into his chest, but my magic was
depleted. He ran his tongue down my neck and hummed his
approval. A sob caught in the back of my throat. As soon as he got
one bite, he would never stop drinking.
A loud bang resounded through the vestibule. Lazarus twisted
me around, protecting me from the explosion of stone raining down
from the mausoleum. I guess he didn’t want all that precious blood
spilling on the floor. Icy wind swirled around us, delving between our
joined bodies, and wrenching me from his arms. I stumbled
backward a few steps and floated through the air.
Valentine.
 This had to be his doing, just as he had protected me earlier
when the brothers had laid me on a stone plinth to plunder my body
of its blood. My teeth chattered, partly from the cold and partly from
the unnatural magic. I stared down at the rock-strewn vestibule,
where Lazarus gaped up at me through wide eyes, and I landed
gently with my back against the stained glass wall.
He took a step toward me. “What are you—”
A blur of movement came from the depths of the mausoleum,
catching fire as it reached Lazarus. I clutched at my aching chest
and moaned. It was Valentine, burned by the light streaming in
through the stained glass window. He had braved the sun, just to
save me.
I stayed up there for the next several minutes, hearing but not
seeing the sounds of battle. Pushing my magic through my hands
didn’t dislodge the magic securing me to the window, and slamming
my elbow against the glass had no effect. How on earth was I going
to get down?
Stones exploded, metal clinked against metal, and Valentine
roared over the shouts of his brothers. From where I hovered close
to the crimson stained-glass sun, it felt like an even fight. This
probably explained why so many died when confronting Valentine’s
father.
The magic holding me to the window eased a little, and I slid
down its length until my feet reached the floor. Then the magic
released, and I fell onto my hands and knees.
Sending Valentine a silent thanks and an apology for not being
able to restore him, I darted out the stained glass door and into the
clearing. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting the gardens in
gloom. This time, I ran in a different direction, through lavender and
lilac and long stalks of mint, and anything that might disguise my
scent. After being caught once, I knew which mistakes to avoid. As I
crawled beneath through a row of dead trees covered in curtains of
hanging lichen, I caught a glimpse of the end of the palace grounds
and its tall fences.
Sunlight streamed through the bare branches overhead,
illuminating the mossy tendrils brushing against my skin like spider
webs. The gaps between the fence posts in the corner were widest
in the corner. Ignoring my creepy surroundings, I changed direction
and picked up speed.
A low howl sounded in the distance, making my steps falter and
my hackles rise. Valentine’s brothers were too busy fighting to send
out hunting dogs, weren’t they? It had to be a shifter experiencing
his or her first change. I continued toward the fence, my lungs
bursting as I placed my hands on its cool iron posts.
The gap was smaller than it had looked from a distance, and I
eased one shoulder through, then my head, then clenched my teeth
as my chest squeezed through iron railings only for my hips to get
stuck.
I stared out into the track that ran along the perimeter of the
palace. It stretched twenty feet and beyond that lay the fields of six-
foot-tall poppies that bordered my village of Striga. If that howl had
come from hunting dogs, I was a standing target.
A vehicle rumbled toward me. I gripped the iron railings and tried
to shove myself back into the palace grounds before the driver
spotted me and called the Supernatural Council. My hips were stuck,
no matter how hard I struggled, and I prayed to anyone listening
that the driver wasn’t a vampire.
The barking became louder, and my imagination conjured up the
sound of panting breaths and claws scrambling over twigs. I stared
out at the approaching car, pushing and shoving and clenching my
teeth, but I still remained stuck.
Seconds later, the car stopped, and tendrils of smoky power
curled around my senses. The driver was a vampire. A vampire who
would probably find my blood irresistible and drain me where I
stood.
“Mera Griffin,” a deep voice snarled.
I met the driver’s hate-filled eyes before I recognized the
features twisting with malice.
It was Kain, the purebred vampire destined to one day become
the king.
 CHAPTER TWO

I struggled within the confines of the fence, building up a

sweat that broke out against my brow, my underarms,
and my palms. No matter if I pulled or pushed, the iron
bars wouldn’t release my hips. I stared into Kain’s hateful eyes,
watching the young vampire’s features twist from fury to confusion.
With the setting sun against his back, his ends of blond hair
shone like candle flames, matching the blue fury burning in his eyes.
I gulped several times in quick succession. It was only a matter of
time before my scent reached his nostrils and he attacked.
“What are you doing?” His voice was as cold as the oncoming
winter.
“I’m stuck. Can you give me a push?”
His lip curled, and he bared blunt teeth. “You killed the only
person who ever gave a shit about me.”
Another howl pierced the air. Kain glanced over my shoulder and
frowned. I longed to ask him what he could pick up with his vampire
senses but didn’t dare when one of the vampire princes might burst
out of the woods and claim me as his cow.
“Valentine isn’t dead.” The words blurted out from my lips.
Kain stepped back, his hands curling into fists. “Don’t lie to me. I
was at his funeral and saw what they did to his body—”
“He just rose a few minutes ago, and his brothers are trying to
get him to stay dead.”
 His face dropped, and his lips parted to let out a breath. “You’re
joking.”
“Can’t you hear the sounds of their fight?” I asked.
Kain paused for a moment and squinted, then his eyes widened.
“I’ve got to help him.”
“No.” I reached out and grabbed the corner of his leather jacket.
“When I left the mausoleum, Valentine was winning. There’s only
one thing you can do for him.”
Curiosity stirred in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Help me,” I said, trying to stave off my panic. “I have the power
to bring him back to life.”
I tried glancing over my shoulder for signs of approaching dogs,
but at my bent angle, it was difficult to see the other side of the
fence. “Can you pull me out and I’ll explain later? Every mature
vampire out there wants to drink my blood.”
Kain folded his arms across his chest and scoffed. “As if.”
At least he believed me when I said I could help Valentine, but it
stung that he didn’t believe me about my irresistible blood.
Clenching my teeth, I held back from retorting that his fangs hadn’t
yet descended. It was the only reason why Kain was immune to my
cursed blood and hadn’t set upon me like the four vampire princes.
Of course, I couldn’t say that. When I was at the academy, it was
a common insult vampire boys used to throw at each other. Pointing
out that Kain was only a baby vampire might result in him leaving
me here at the mercy of the vampires who actually wanted to drain
me dry.
“Were you at my first trial?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“When Valentine and I were in London, I got cursed—”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.” My tongue darted out to lick my dry lips. “But
they made it so that my blood became irresistible to vampires, then
they trapped us in the villa. Valentine kept coming after me and
stopping himself but the curse grew stronger and stronger until…”
Kane stepped forward, his eyes wide. “Go on.”
“Look at my leg.”
 He dropped his gaze to the dark swirl that wrapped around my
ankle and disappeared up the burned-off legs of my prison jumpsuit.
“Is that it?”
I nodded. “There’s a way to save him, but I can’t do that if I’m
stuck here and at the mercy of any passing vampire.” My voice
broke. “Please, Kain. Let me help Valentine. Right now, he’s an
undead creature, fighting his brothers because they want to cremate
him. I can heal him with my fire magic, but you’ve got to help me
hide.”
Loud barking filled the air, and my panic rose several notches.
Every ounce of moisture in my mouth dried, and the pulse fluttering
in my throat thrashed as though trying to break free.
Kain glanced over my shoulder. This time, his eyes widened and
his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Without a word, he grabbed
my arms and hauled me through the bars, just as something
scratched my calf.
I fell into his arms and turned around to find a pack of dogs,
each the size of a bear.
They weren’t bloody dogs, they were Inferno hounds.
Inferno hounds were a hybrid of a Doberman mastiff and a
hellhound, so they had the size and bulk and aggressiveness but
without the fire of their demonic sires. While demons used
hellhounds to track down souls that had escaped their realm,
supernaturals used Inferno hounds as guard dogs. The only good
thing about them was that they never knowingly hurt a sentient
being unless specifically ordered to attack.
The Inferno hounds stuck their muzzles through the bars, baring
oversized white teeth. As they snarled, thick ropes of saliva hung
from their massive jaws, making my heart jump into the back of my
throat.
One of them raised its head, seeming to want to gauge the
height of the fence, and it backed up a few paces.
I squeezed Kain’s arm. “It’s about to jump.”
“How can you—”
“Run.” I turned on my heel, bolted toward his car, and flung open
the door. Kain was already inside before I sat in the passenger seat.
 Up ahead, one of the hounds had already scaled the fence and
jumped down into a crouch. I slammed the car door, and twisted
around in my seat. “Go.”
Kain started the engine. “Where to?”
“We’ve got to outrun these dogs first.”
He slammed the car into reverse, twisted around in his seat, and
sped down the track that wound around Valentine’s castle.
The Inferno hound trotted after us, keeping a steady pace. Two
more joined it, and the trio broke into a run. Kain rounded the
corner and continued down a fork in the road.
I grabbed his arm. “They won’t follow us into Striga.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Supernaturals can cross into the villages of other races and they
can even live there with the permission of the monarch, but they
can’t bring their animals. Striga is the Witch Queen’s territory.
Valentine wouldn’t let his hounds cross over and create an incident.”
My heart sank as I said those words. It wasn’t as though Valentine
was in the position to stop his dogs, but he had trained them to
obey his commands, and in the three years we’d been together, he’d
never mentioned having a problem with the Inferno hounds.
After passing the turn-off, Kain moved the car back into gear,
drove forward and sped down Regal Street, which marked the
boundary between Striga and Lamia, the territory of the vampires. I
turned around, watching the trio of hounds slow to a trot and then
stop abruptly at the invisible border.
“They’re not following,” Kain said.
“Told you.” It was too early to feel relief. At any time, someone
passing us might recognize me or catch a glimpse of me through the
window and call the enforcers. I twisted around in the seat, placing
a hand on both headrests, and climbed into the back.
Kain spluttered. “What are you doing now?”
“Going into hiding.” I settled in the gap between the front and
back seat, and ducked out of sight.
“How do you intend to help Valentine if you’re escaping the
palace?” he said, his voice dry.
 “I have a plan.” Actually, I only had Aunt Arianna’s plan, which
still didn’t make any sense.
Kain slowed the car. “You’re going to tell me or I’ll drive you
straight to the Supernatural Council.”
“Phoenix flames,” I blurted.
“What?”
I swallowed hard. Even though Kain was a one-in-a-thousand-
generations pureblood vampire, he had grown up in the human
world and was still learning about how things worked here in Logris.
I wasn’t sure if phoenixes featured in human mythology, so I settled
for a simple answer.
“It’s a bird made of pure flame that can heal with its fire.”
“Right,” he said, the impatience in his voice indicating that
humans knew about phoenixes.
“Valentine set up the safe house so I could come into my power
without getting arrested.”
“But that failed when you killed him.”
The words hit like a slap, and I clenched my teeth. “Valentine
sacrificed himself to save me. When he realized the curse would
force him to continue drinking my blood until I died, he grabbed a
dagger of solid flame and poisoned himself.”
“But they’re saying you killed him in self-defense,” he said.
My stomach roiled, and every ounce of frustration that I’d held
down in order to get through one ordeal after another now rose to
the surface. I’d been cursed, attacked, arrested, sentenced, and
attacked all over again. The last thing I needed were Kain’s
accusations. He was hurting, but so was I, and I didn’t like the
implication that the life of a Neutral was worth less than that of a
vampire.
“Are you saying Valentine should have killed me?” I snapped.
Silence stretched out for several heartbeats, only broken by the
thrum of the car’s engine. Eventually, Kain spoke. “No.”
“Then could you please stop making barbed comments?” I asked
in a much softer voice. “I miss Valentine as much as you, but we
have to work together if we’re ever going to cure him of being
undead.”
 “Right.” Kain exhaled a loud breath. “Sorry, it’s just…” He shook
his head.
“What is it?”
“When my mum died and my dad left, Valentine stepped in and
took care of everything. He paid all the bills, the funeral, and moved
me out of that shithole and into a palace. I owe him everything.”
A lump formed in my throat, and the backs of my eyes stung
with the onset of tears. My life before Valentine might not have been
as bleak as Kain’s—I had Aunt Arianna, and the rest of the clan
weren’t cruel. But meeting Valentine had been like seeing color for
the first time.
For my entire life, the only people who didn’t dismiss me as a
worthless Neutral were my closest blood relatives. Without magic, I
couldn’t participate in most social events in the Witches’ Calendar,
and struggled to make friends because there were so few Neutrals.
When I met Valentine, he opened up an entire world of art,
culinary delights, and literature, which were all things I could enjoy
without the gift of magic.
I raised my head and peered through the gap between the
driver’s and front passenger seat. “Valentine did a lot for me, too.
It’s why I have to develop my power. If I can burn his corpse with
phoenix flames, he’ll rise from the ashes a brand new Valentine.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Kain rasped.
My gaze dropped to the rubber mats on the car floor. “Then I will
have saved his soul from being trapped in that abomination of a
body and released it into the afterlife.”
After that, Kain increased his speed and continued into the
winding streets of Striga. Most of the roads consisted of a single
lane, lined with a continuous terrace of small stone-brick cottages
that curved down their entire lengths. Each home had a foot of
external space which they used to grow plants or herbs or cultivate
charms of protection.
The setting sun reflected off their slate roofs, highlighting their
rough, uneven surfaces. Nostalgia filled my chest, and I exhaled a
long sigh. Even in the human world, most of the settlements varied
from home to home. Here in Striga, the houses weren’t numbered.
You could only tell a person’s house by what they grew on the
outside and what they displayed on their windows.
Striga was unique even within Logris. Unlike the vampire
territory, which consisted of high-rise buildings separated into fancy
apartments, the witch community of Striga preferred small cottages
that appeared no larger than twelve feet wide on the outside.
Depending on how much power the witch possessed or could
purchase, they would expand the interior of their homes into any
size or configuration. Space was limited, and in the poorer districts
of Striga, cottages lay stacked one on top of the other like shish
kebabs.
I gave Kain the directions to the Griffin coven’s stack of cottages.
Ours was one rung above the bottom, which we inherited when
Granddad died. It was originally the home where he and Grandma
brought up Mom and Aunt Arianna. Kain parked beside the public
gardens a few streets behind where I lived.
He turned off the engine, took off his leather jacket and draped it
over my back. “Hide here,” he said. “Nobody should bother a car
that belongs to Valentine’s fleet.”
After I gave him a description of my cottage and told him to be
careful of enforcers, he opened the door and left. I blew out a long
breath, hoping he would return with Aunt Arianna or someone who
knew how to remove the firestone from my blood. No matter what
people told me about firestone being able to hold large amounts of
destructive fire, it had only worked to a small extent to contain my
magic. It either meant that I was super powerful, or that the stone
didn’t work as effectively to hold back phoenix flames.
A quartet of wizards walked past, holding bundles of bamboo
stalks over their shoulders. I held my breath, hoping they wouldn't
think to look through the window, but they seemed more interested
in their harvest than in the vehicle parked outside their gardens.
I exhaled a relieved breath and tried to figure out how Aunt
Arianna had managed to infuse it in my blood and why it hadn’t
already killed me. She must have accessed some high-level spells or
have bartered something valuable to obtain that knowledge, and I
hoped Kain would find her so she could move it out of my system. If
he didn’t, I was stuck. A healer like the one who had helped Beatrice
was out of the question. They would report me immediately to the
enforcers, and I’d be back in the Supernatural Council building,
facing execution.
Several minutes later, the door opened, and Kain slipped inside.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“Are you sure it was the stack of houses sandwiched between the
red roses and the house with the purple grapes?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
Kain started up the engine. “It was empty. Not even a hairball.”
I bit down on my lip. The enforcers didn’t clear people’s houses
when making their arrests, so either Aunt Arianna and the coven had
decided to leave Logris to escape the implications of Valentine rising
from the dead, or they’d enchanted themselves invisible.
Curiosity thrummed through my insides, and I longed to see for
myself. With my ability to sense magic, I would know what they had
done, but I couldn’t take the risk.
“If you’re really irresistible to vampires, you need to get out of
Logris before someone smells you.”
“Right,” I muttered because Kain was right. Even staying in Striga
carried the risk that a vampire might catch my scent and follow after
the car. “Let’s drive to the edge of Queen’s Road and see if we can
make a gap through the wards.”
“Or we can take the royal exit,” Kain said, his voice dry.
I shook the cobwebs out of my brain. “Of course.”
Back when Valentine and I were courting, he would take me into
the human world for evenings out in London. I slumped in my hiding
place and sighed. The first time I saw a world full of people without
magic had been like finding my own race of supernaturals. Humans
seemed to care more about the factors a person could influence,
such as their attire, and the way they carried themselves. They
didn’t give a damn about what a person had thrumming in their
veins.
Three years of living in the human world had dispelled my
idealized view of humans. There were good and bad, just like in any
other supernatural race, and there were no shortage of snobs willing
to judge a person for something they couldn’t control. However,
during those first visits with Valentine, having people treat us both
with equal amounts of respect had made me feel special.
Kain continued along the public gardens and around the
perimeter of Striga, making sure to avoid vampire territory until we
reached a part of the border farthest away from where we had
escaped the Inferno hounds. Several feet before the border, we
approached a copse of flowering jasmine trees, and I tapped him on
the shoulder.
“Pull over and fill your trunk with branches.”
He stopped the car and turned around, casting me a frown.
“Because?”
“It’s the only way I’ll get through vampire territory without
someone sniffing my scent.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Do you want to take the risk?”
“Alright.” Kain stepped out of his car, walked into the trees, and
uprooted a seven-foot-high sapling with long branches that drooped
to the ground. After breaking it in half and then quarters, he walked
back, opened his trunk and threw the pieces inside with several
thuds.
By now, only the barest trace of sunlight streamed in from the
distant trees that made up the border of Logris, and the shadows
stretched across the street and into the gardens opposite. Casting
several furtive glances from left to right and through the car’s back
window, I opened the car door and stepped out into the road.
“Happy now?” he asked.
I edged around him, scrambled into the trunk, and settled on top
of the broken tree. “Close it.”
Kain looked like he was suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, but
at least the anguish had eased from his features, replaced by the
lightness of hope. He shut me into the trunk, encasing me in the
dark and the fragrant smell of jasmine.
Waxy leaves rustled against my skin, and I was sure some of the
bugs living within the small tree were now crawling through my hair,
but none of that mattered. I hadn’t been lying to Kain when I said I
had a plan—I just hadn’t formulated it until now.
As Kain drove me over the straight roads that surrounded
vampire territory, I forced deep breaths in and out of my lungs.
Border control around Logris meant having one’s vehicle searched
for magical items, but not the royal exits. Kain was Valentine’s heir
and possibly the next king now that everyone thought Valentine
dead. No one would give him trouble if he wanted to spend time in
the human world… as long as they didn’t smell my scent.
To take my mind off things, I thought through my plan. Istabelle
knew everything about crystals and would be able to direct me to
someone who could remove the firestone from my blood. With my
new power, I could burn away the curse on my blood and return to
Valentine with my powers intact. After restoring him to life…
My mind went blank.
Even though he had assured me the Supernatural Council
wouldn’t want to start a war with a powerful fire user, everything
about their conduct earlier today said they would support my
recapture and execution. I didn’t have the same amount of faith in
the Council’s sense of justice as Valentine.
Several minutes later, pinpricks of magic stabbed at my body,
indicating that we had passed through the wards and entered the
human world. Kain continued driving for a few more minutes before
stopping the car and opening the trunk.
I blinked up into Kain’s stern features. Tall street lights
illuminated his ruffled blonde hair, making him look as though he
had tugged on it the entire journey. Traffic rumbled in the distance,
but we appeared to be in an out-of-the-way spot.
“Where are we?” I asked.
He reached into the trunk and grabbed my arm. “The Kingston
Asda.”
I gulped. That was only three miles away from Richmond Park—
not that vampires would ever visit a bargain supermarket.
To my left was a sprawling parking lot large enough to fit over
four hundred cars. It was half-full, with passengers pushing trolleys
of bagged groceries through long walkways. I turned to the right to
find a supermarket the size of a small block with a huge, green sign
over an entrance of vaulted glass.
“What now?” Kain asked.
I stretched out a hand. “Can I use your phone?”
As soon as he gave me his handset, I called the crystal shop. It
took a single word for Istabelle to know it was me on the other end
of the line. “Stay away from Central London,” she hissed. “Enforcers
are crawling the streets, looking for you.”
 CHAPTER THREE

I stabelle’s warning hit me like a bucket of cold water to

the face. I wasn’t sure if it meant that Valentine’s brothers
were still too busy fighting Valentine to have reported
sighting me to the Supernatural Council or if the enforcers had
decided that I would return to Mayfair after my prison break. Either
way, things weren’t looking hopeful for my plan to get Istabelle to
help me remove the firestone from my blood.
Cars drove past where we’d stopped in the Asda parking lot, and
a few of the shoppers pushing trolleys full of bagged groceries
frowned at us as they passed. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I let
Kain help me out of the trunk and set me on my feet.
“You still haven’t said what we’re going to do next.” He shut the
trunk and folded his arms across his chest.
As a baby vampire on the cusp of getting his fangs, he would
have heard every single word Istabelle had said about the enforcers.
I had to think fast, or Kain would give up on me. Perhaps I could
reach Istabelle via a trustworthy third party?
“There’s a place I can go that’s safe.” After dusting myself off and
shaking the debris from my hair, I walked through the narrow gap
between Kain’s car and the red Ford Escort on the left. As he’d
already left the door unlocked, I opened it a crack and eased myself
inside, trying not to scratch the paintwork of the car parked beside
Kain’s.
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
him away for such long drives and walks, they never know where to
find him."
"My dear mamma," cried Missy, "don't you think the wretches
would find an excuse for whatever they did? Is their duplicity to
make it right for me to abandon my poor little man to them?"
"At least always report it at the house when you take him away for
half a day."
So after that, Missy was careful to make known her plan at the
Andrews' before she took Jay away for any long excursion. She
would stop at the door in her little pony-carriage, and lifting out Jay,
would send him in to say to a pampered menial at the door, that
they need not be uneasy about him if he did not come back till one
or two o'clock.
"We won't put on mournin' for ye before three, thin, honey," said
the man, on one occasion. Jay didn't understand the meaning of the
words, but he understood the cynical tone, and he kicked the fellow
on a beloved calf. Then the man, enraged, caught him by the arm
and held him off, but he continued to kick and hit from the shoulder
with his one poor little unpinioned arm. The man was white with
rage, for Jay was unpopular, and Miss Rothermel also, and he hated
to be held in check by her presence, and by the puerile fear of losing
his place, which her presence created.
Now it happened on this pleasant summer morning that Mr.
Andrews had not gone to town, and that he had not gone out on the
bay, as was supposed in the household, the wind having proved
capricious. Consequently he was just entering from the rear of the
house, as this pretty tableau was being presented on the front
piazza. When the enraged combatants raised their eyes, they found
Mr. Andrews standing in the hall door, and darkly regarding them.
"Papa! kill him!" cried Jay, as the flunky suddenly released him,
dashing at the unprotected calves like a fury. "Kill him for me!"
"With pleasure," said his father, calmly, "but you let it alone. Come
to the library at ten o'clock, I will see you about this matter," he said
to the man, who slunk away, while Jay came to take his father's
outstretched hand, very red and dishevelled. By this time Missy,
much alarmed, had sprung from the carriage, and ran down the
walk, just in time to confront the father. He was beginning to
question the boy, but turning around faced the young lady
unexpectedly, and took off his hat. Missy looked flushed and as
excited as the boy.
"I hope you won't blame Jay," she said, "for it is safe to say it is
the man's fault. They tease him shamefully, and he is such a little
fellow."
Mr. Andrews' face softened at these words. It was plain she
thought he was severe with his children, but that was lost in the
sweetness of hearing any one plead for his little boy with that
intuitive and irrational tenderness.
"I want to hit him!" interrupted Jay, doubling up his fist. "I want to
hit him right in his ugly mouth."
"Hush," said his father, frowning, "little boys must not hit any one,
least of all, their father's servants. You come to me whenever they
trouble you, and I will make it right."
"You're never here when they do it," said the child.
"Well, you keep quiet, and then come and tell me when I get
home."
"I forget it then," said Jay, naively.
"Then I think it can't go very deep," returned his father, smiling.
"It will go deep enough to spoil his temper utterly, I'm afraid," said
Missy, biting her lips to keep from saying more.
"I am sorry enough," he began earnestly, but catching sight of her
face, his voice grew more distant. "I suppose it is inevitable," he
added slowly, as Jay, loosing his hold of his father's hand, picked up
his hat, straightened his frock, and went over to Missy's side.
 "I am going to ride with Missy," he said, tugging a little at her
dress. "Come, it's time."
"Perhaps your father wants you to stay with him, as he isn't often
at home."
"O no," said Mr. Andrews, as they all walked towards the gate.
"Jay is better off with you, I am afraid, and happier. And I want to
thank you, Miss Rothermel, for your many kindnesses to the
children. I assure you, I—I appreciate them very much."
"O," cried Missy, stiffly, and putting very sharp needles into her
voice, "there is nothing to thank me for. It is a pleasure to have
them for their own sakes, and everything that I can do to make Mrs.
Andrews more comfortable about them, is an added pleasure."
Missy knew this was a fib the instant she had uttered it. She knew
it didn't make Mrs. Andrews a straw more comfortable to know the
children were in safe hands; but she wanted to say something to
punish this brutal husband, and this little stab dealt itself, so to
speak. She was very sorry about the fib, but she reflected one must
not be too critical in dealing with brutal husbands if one's motives
are right. Mr. Andrews stiffened too, and his face took a hard and
cynical look.
"Undoubtedly," he said, and then he said no more. Jay held the
gate open for them.
"Come," he said, "it's time to go." Missy stepped into the low
carriage—disdaining help, and gathered up the reins. Mr. Andrews
lifted Jay into the seat beside her.
"And I guess I'll stay to dinner with Missy, so you needn't send for
me," said Jay, seating himself comfortably and taking the whip,
which was evidently his prerogative. Nobody could help smiling,
even brutal husbands and people who had been telling fibs. "I
haven't heard you invited," said the representative of the former
class.
 "O, Jay knows he is always welcome. I will send him home before
evening, if I may keep him till then."
Mr. Andrews bowed, and the little carriage rolled away, the child
forgetting to look back at his father, eagerly pleased with the whip
and the drive, and the sunshine and the morning air. Mr. Andrews
watched them out of sight, and as they were lost among the trees in
a turn of the road, he sighed and turned stolidly towards the house.
It was a low, pretty cottage, the piazza was covered with flowering
vines, there were large trees about it—the grass was green and well-
kept, a trim hedge separated it from the Varian place; at the rear,
beyond the garden, was the boat-house and then a low fence that
ran along the yellow beach. The water sparkled clear and blue; what
a morning it was; and what a peaceful, pretty attractive little home it
looked. People passing along the road might well gaze at it with
envy, and imagine it the "haunt of all affections pure." This thought
passed through Mr. Andrews' mind, as he walked from the gate. It
made his face a little harder than usual, and it was usually hard
enough.
 CHAPTER VI.
A PASSING SOUL.

It was six weeks after this; life had been going on with
little change, when one morning Missy drew the reins of
her brown horse before the Rectory gate, and hurriedly
springing out, ran down the path, leaving the carriage at
the roadside. She had a vail tied close across her face;
but she had no gloves, and her manner showed haste and
excitement. St. John was in his study. She ran in, exclaiming, as she
opened the door: "I wish you could come with me immediately, St.
John. Get ready; don't stop to ask questions. I will tell you while
you're going."
"Mamma?" he asked, with a sudden contraction of the face, as he
started up and went across the room to get his hat.
"No! oh, thank Heaven! no. But don't stop for anything. Come; it
is more to me than you."
Then St. John knew that it was something that concerned the
Andrews'; but generously made all the haste he could in following
her. As he stepped into the carriage after her, and took the reins
from her hand, he said:
"Well!" and turned to listen.
"It is Mrs. Andrews," she said, tremblingly. "She is dying; she may
be dead. I knew nothing of it till this morning, though her life has
been in danger through the night. Those cruel servants did not send
for us, and she has been in too much suffering to ask for any one.
Now, she scarcely knows me, but at first turned to me eagerly. She
had something to say; I don't know what. But she will never say it.
Oh, St. John! Death is so fearful—the silence. I can never hear that
word, whatever it is, of great or little moment."
 "Her husband is with her?"
"That is the dreadful part. He is not at home. There is no one to
do anything. How they got the doctor is a wonder; except there is a
brute instinct, even in such creatures, that runs for the doctor. It was
ages before I could find the address of Mr. Andrews in town. Ages
before I could get any one off with the telegram. I came for you
myself, because I could trust no one else to get you quickly. Oh, St.
John, do drive a little faster!"
"And what am I to do, now that you have got me?" said her
brother, in a low tone, gazing before him at the horse, now almost
on a gallop.
"Do? oh, St. John! save her! say a prayer for her! help her! What
are such as you to do but that? I didn't think you'd ask me. Oh, it is
so terrible to think of her poor soul. She is so unready; poor thing—
unless her sufferings will stand instead. Don't you think they may?
Don't you think God might accept them instead of—of spirituality and
love for Him?"
"We're not set to judge, Missy," said her brother, soothingly. "Let
us hope all we can, and pray all we can. I wish that she were
conscious, if only for one moment."
"Well, pray for it," cried Missy, and then burst into tears. After a
moment, she turned passionately to him, and said: "St. John, I am
afraid it is partly for my own comfort I want her to speak and to be
conscious for one moment. I want to feel that I have a right to hope
for her eternal safety, and that I haven't been wasting all these
weeks in talking of things that didn't concern that, when I might
have been leading her to other thoughts. Oh, St. John, tell me,
ought I to have been talking about her soul all this time, when it was
so hard? She was—oh, I know you will understand me—she was so
full of her sufferings, and—well, of herself, that I couldn't easily talk
about what I knew in my heart she ought to be getting ready for. I
didn't know it was so near. Ah, I wasted the hours, and now her
blood may be upon my soul. St. John, there never was anybody so
unready. It appalls me. I see it all now. Poor, beautiful thing. She
seems to be only made for earth. Oh, the awe! St. John, if I had
been a very good person, utterly holy, I might have saved her, might
I not? I should not have thought of anything else, and by the force
of my one purpose and desire, I could have wakened her."
"Maybe not, my sister. Don't reproach yourself; only pray."
Missy twisted her hands together in her lap, and was motionless,
as they hurried on. In a moment more they were standing at the
gate. As Missy sprang out, little Jay met her, fretting and crying.
"Oh, why haven't they taken the children over to mamma, as I
ordered?" she cried; but there was no one to make excuse. "Go, go,
my dear little Jay," she pleaded. But Jay was all unstrung and
unreasonable, feeling the gloom and discomfort. "See," she cried,
hurriedly kneeling down on the grass beside him, "go to Mrs. Varian,
and tell her you are come to pay her a little visit; and tell her to let
you go to my room, and on the table there you will find a little
package, tied up in a white paper; and it is for you. I tied it up for
you last night. Go see what it is; you haven't any idea. It is
something you will like so much!" Jay was on his way before Missy
got into the house.
It was a warm morning, close and obscure. One felt the
oppression in every nerve—an August suffocation. Low banks of
threatening clouds lay over the island that shut in the bay from the
Sound, and over the West Harbor. They boded and brooded, but
would lie there for the many hours of morning and midday that
remained. Not a ripple moved the sullen water; not a leaf stirred on
the trees; the sun seemed hidden deep in clouds of hot, still vapor.
The house was all open, doors and windows, gasping for breath. In
the hall one or two servants stood aimlessly about, listening at the
foot of the stairs, or whispering together.
St. John followed his sister closely as she entered the house. The
servants made way for her, and they went quickly up the stairs. At
the door of the sick room they paused. Another woman, wringing
her hands, and listening with keen curiosity, stood gazing in. The
room was in the most confused state. The coffee-colored Alphonsine
moved stolidly about, and occasionally put a piece of furniture in its
place, or removed a garment thrown down in the haste and panic of
the past night; but standing still, more often, to gaze back at the
bed. She crossed herself often, in a mechanical manner, but looked
more sullen than sympathetic. There was a bath in the middle of the
room, cloths and towels strewn upon the floor beside it, mustard, a
night-lamp flickering still in the face of day, a bowl of ice, some
brandy. The windows were thrown wide open; the bed stood with its
head near one—another one was opposite to it. The light fell full
upon the ghastly face of the suffering woman. Beauty! had she ever
been beautiful? "Like as a moth fretting a garment," so had her
anguish made her beauty to consume away. A ghastly being—
suffering, agonized, dying—wrestling with a destroying enemy! Such
conflicts cannot last long; the end was near.
As St. John and his sister entered the room, the doctor, who stood
at the head of the bed, was wiping the perspiration from his
forehead and glancing out of the window. He was troubled and worn
out with the night's work, and was watching eagerly for a brother
physician who had been summoned to his aid. He knew the new-
comer could do no good, but he could share the responsibility with
him, and bring back the professional atmosphere out of which he
had been carried by the swift and terrible progress of his patient's
malady. Above all things, the doctor wished to be professional and
cool; and he knew he was neither in the midst of this blundering
crowd of servants, and in the sight of this fiercely dying woman. He
could have wished it all to be done over again. He had lost his head,
in a degree. He did not believe that anything could have arrested the
flight of life; all the same he wished he had known a little more
about the case; had taken the alarm quicker and sent for other aid.
He looked harassed and helpless, and very hot and tired. All this St.
John saw as he came in the room.
Missy looked questioningly at him, and then as he gave a gesture
of assent, came quickly to the side of the bed. She half knelt beside
it, and took the poor sufferer's hand in hers. The touch, perhaps,
caused her to open her eyes, and her lips moved. Then her glance,
roving and anguished, fell upon St. John. She lifted her hand with a
sudden spasm of life.
"A priest?" she said, huskily.
"Yes," said St. John, coming to her quietly.
"Then all of you go away—quick—I want to speak to him."
"There is no time to spare," said the doctor, as he passed St. John.
Missy followed him, and the servants followed her. She closed the
door and waited outside.
The servants seemed to be consoled by the presence of a priest;
things were taking the conventional death-bed turn. Even the doctor
felt as if the professional atmosphere were being restored in a
degree. St. John, indeed, had looked as if he knew what he was
about, and had been calm in the midst of the agitated and uncertain
group, occupied himself, perhaps, by but one thought. Young as he
was, his sister and the doctor and the servants shut him into the
room with a feeling of much relief. The servants nodded, and went
their ways with apparent satisfaction. The doctor threw himself into
a chair in an adjoining room, and signified to Miss Rothermel that he
would rest till he was called. And she herself knelt down beside an
open window just outside the door, and waited, and probably
devoutly prayed for the passing soul making her tardy count within.
She could not but speculate upon the interview. Now that the
awful sense of responsibility was lifted off her and shifted upon her
brother's shoulders, she felt more naturally and more humanly. She
began to wonder whether it had been to ask her for a priest that the
dying woman had struggled when she first saw her that morning.
She was almost sure it was, for she had clutched at St. John with
such eagerness. It was probable she did not know him and did not
associate him with Missy. His marked dress had been his passport.
And Missy really did not know what her friend's creed was. It
seemed probable she had been a Roman Catholic, but had dropped
her form of faith in holiday times of youth and possible wrong doing,
and had never had grace to resume that, or any other in the weary
days of illness—unprofitable so long as they did not threaten death.
But now death was at the door, and she had clutched at the hem of
a priest's garment. So, thought Missy, it is real when it comes to
facts; for what fact so real as death? Everything else seemed
phantom-dim when she thought of that face upon the pillow, with
the wide-open window shedding all the gray morning's light upon it.
The moments passed; the still, dull, heavy air crept in at the
window upon which Missy bowed her head; the leaves scarcely
stirred upon the trees that stood up close beside it; a languid bird or
two twittered an occasional smothered note. There were few
household sounds. The servants, though released from their futile
watching, did not resume their household work. Missy smelt the evil
odor of the Frenchman's cigar, and was ashamed to find it vexed her,
even at such a moment as this; she braced herself to endure the
"Fille de Mme. Angot," if that should follow in a low whistle from
under the trees. But it did not. The Frenchman had that much
respect for what was going on within.
At last! There was a stir—a moan, audible even through the door,
and Missy started to her feet, and signalled the doctor, who had
heard it, too. Her brother opened the door and admitted them. But
what a ghastly face was his; Missy started.
He turned back to the bed, and kneeling, read the commendatory
prayer.
"Through the grave and gate of death,
Now the faint soul travaileth."

Ah, God help her; it is over. He has brought to pass His act, His
strange act, and only death lies there, senseless, dull death,
corruptible, animal, earthy, where but a moment before a soul of
parts and passions, had been chained.
Missy, new to death-beds, got up from her knees at last, weeping
and awed, and, laying her hand on her brother's, said, "Come away,
St. John, you look so ill."
St. John arose and followed her, going to the room and sinking
into the chair lately occupied by the doctor. He looked ill indeed, but
his sister could offer him no comfort; quiet, and to be left alone was
all he asked of her. At this moment the doctor summoned in
consultation appeared; both the professional men went
professionally into the chamber of death, and Missy, clasping the
inert hand of Gabrielle, who, whimpering, had refused to go up
stairs, went sorrowfully home with the child, feeling that she had no
more to do in the house of death that day.
St. John came home in an hour or two. Mr. Andrews had not yet
arrived. Everything that could be done without him had, under the
direction of St. John and the doctor, been done. The house was quiet
and in order, he said. It was almost certain that Mr. Andrews would
arrive in the next train; the carriage was waiting at the depot for
him, though no telegram had come. St. John threw himself on the
sofa, and seemed again to want quiet, so his sister left him, and
took the children to her own room. It was so close in the house, and
they were so restless, that after a while she took them out upon the
lawn. There was no sun, and just a cool air, though no breeze,
creeping in from the water. It was comparatively easy to amuse
them there, or rather, to let them amuse themselves. Gabrielle was
inquisitive and fretful, but little Jay seemed to feel languid and tired
by the morning's heat, and crept upon her lap at last and went to
sleep.
Missy, sitting in the deep shade of the trees near the beech gate,
soothed by the quiet, and worn with the morning's excitement,
almost slept herself. She had gone over many times in imagination
the arrival of the husband, and his first moment at the bedside of his
dead wife. She felt sure all this had now taken place, though she
was too far from the house to hear the arrival of the carriage from
the depot. She wondered whether he would send in for the children
at once, or whether he would be glad they were away; or whether
he would think of them at all. She was glad to remember she had no
duty in the matter, and that she did not have to see him, and it was
rather a comfort to her to feel she did not know the exact moment
at which he was going through the terrible scene, and feeling the
first anguish of remorse. She kissed Jay's tawny head, and with her
arms around him, finally slept, leaning back in the great chair.
Gabrielle at first played at her feet idly, then went down to the
beach, and amused herself in the sand, but it was hot, and she
came back to the shade, and, lying on the rug at Missy's feet, slept
too.
A small steam yacht, meanwhile, had come into the harbor, had
put off a small boat, which was even now landing a gentleman near
the boat-house of the Andrews' place. The boat returned to the
yacht; the gentleman set down his bag on the steps of the boat-
house, and looked around. All was quiet; no one seemed moving at
either of the two houses. Certainly it was not a day to move if you
could help it. The only hope was that those dark clouds in the west
would move, and make some change in the stagnant state of things.
The gentleman took off his straw hat and fanned himself and walked
slowly forward, then, catching sight of the group under the trees,
with something like a smile, turned back and approached them. He
stood looking down upon them, before any of them moved.
Certainly, a pretty enough group. Gabrielle was sleeping, face
forward, on her arms, a graceful figure, on the dark rug. Missy, with
her soft, pretty hair tumbled, and a flush on her cheek, lay nearly at
full length in the stretched-out sleepy chair, her light dress swept
upon the grass, and exposing one small and perfect foot with a
gossamer stocking and a darling high-heeled low-cut shoe. And Jay,
flushed and hot, with his tawny curls against her breast, and one
brown hand in hers, lay across her lap; her other hand, very white
by contrast, holding the brown bare legs in a protecting way; some
picture-books, and a broad hat or two lay upon the grass beside
them. There was something in the sight that seemed to move more
than the spectator's admiration; but whatever emotion it was, was
quickly dispelled, and commonplace greeting and pleasure came
back into his face, as Gabrielle, aroused, got up with a cry of:
 "Why, papa! where did you come from? I—I guess I was asleep."
Missy, with a start, sat up, bewildered. She had been dreaming,
perhaps, of the scene in the upper room in the house next door,
which haunted her imagination. And here she was, face to face with
the man over whose remorse she rather gloated, and it would be
difficult to say how any one could look less remorseful than he
looked now. Certainly, more genial and pleasant than she had ever
seen him look before. She felt that she must have been dreaming all
the occurrences of the morning. Jay fretted and refused to wake.
Her dress was wet where his hot little head had been lying; he threw
his arm up over her neck and nestled back.
"I—we—what train—have you just come?" she stammered, trying
to know what she was talking of, and to believe that there was no
dead face on the pillow up-stairs.
"I did not come on a train, but in a yacht," he answered, putting
his arms around Gabby's shoulders, and holding her little hands in
his. "We started last night. Some friends of mine are on a cruise,
and persuaded me to let them bring me here. But an accident to the
machinery kept us over-night at our moorings, and interminable
arrangements for the cruise put us back this morning. We have had
a hot day of it on the Sound, and are just arrived. See, Gabrielle,
there goes the yacht out of the mouth of the harbor. It is a pity we
can't run up a flag from the boat-house; but it is too hot for
exertion, and I suppose all the servants are asleep."
"Then you haven't—" faltered Missy, "you—that is—you have not
been to the house—"
"No," said Mr. Andrews, looking at her as if he did not mean to be
surprised at anything she might say or do. "No, I am just on shore,
and unexpected at home. I hope you are quite well, Miss
Rothermel;" for Missy was turning very pale. "I am afraid that boy is
too heavy for you; let me take him."
Missy was struggling to get up, and Jay was fighting to keep his
place, and not to be disturbed.
 "Let me take him. Jay, be quiet. What do you mean by this, my
boy? Come to me at once."
"No, oh no!" said Missy, regaining her feet, and holding the boy in
her arms. He put his damp curls down on her shoulder, and both
arms around her neck, and with sleepy, half-shut, obstinate eyes,
looked down upon the ground, and up upon his father.
Gabrielle, seeing the situation, said, amazed: "Don't you know,
papa?" and then stopped suddenly, and looked frightened.
"Hush, Gabrielle," cried Missy, trembling. For Gabby's
heartlessness would be a cruel medium through which to
communicate the news.
"There is some trouble?" said Mr. Andrews, quietly, looking from
one to the other. "Do not be afraid to tell me."
"Let us go up to the house," said Missy, hurriedly, taking a few
steps forward with her heavy burden. Mr. Andrews walked silently
beside her, looking upon the ground, with an expression not very
different from the one he wore habitually, though very different from
the one he had just been wearing. Gabby hung behind, looking
askance at the two before her, with mingled curiosity and
apprehension in her face.
"You need not be afraid to tell me," he said, as they walked on.
"Has anything happened? I am quite unprepared, but I would rather
know. I suppose I have been telegraphed, if I was needed—"
"I sent the telegrams to your office," said Missy; "the first one at
nine this morning. My brother sent the last one. The carriage has
been at every train all day."
"It was a strange mischance. They did not know at the office that
I was going home in the yacht."
"The servants were so heedless, and they did not even send for
us."
 "You forget, I do not know," said Mr. Andrews, in a controlled
voice, as she paused, in walking as well as in speaking. For her
agitation, and the weight of the sleeping child together, made her
tremble so that she stopped, and leaned against a linden tree on the
lawn, which they were passing.
"Oh, it is hard that it should come upon me," cried Missy
desperately, as she looked at him with a strange pair of eyes,
leaning against the tree, very white and trembling, and holding the
boy to her breast.
"Yes; it is hard," said her companion, "for I know it must be
something very painful to move you so. I will go to my house and
learn about it there. Come, Gabrielle; will you come with me, child?"
"Oh, stay," cried Missy, as he stretched out his hand to the little
girl, and was going away without her, as she began to cry and hang
back, taking hold of Missy's dress. "It will be hard to hear it there—
from servants. It is the worst news any one could hear. How can I
tell you? The poor little children, they are left—alone—to you."
And, bursting into tears, she sunk down beside Gabrielle on the
grass, and held her and Jay in one embrace. There was a silence but
for the sobs of Gabrielle, for Missy's tears were silent after the first
burst; they were raining now on Jay's head, and she kissed his
forehead again and again. "I have told you very badly," she said
brokenly, after a moment. "I hoped you would not hear it all at
once; but it was not my fault."
There was no answer, and she went on. "The illness was so
sudden and terrible, and there was no hope, after we knew of it. I
feel so dazed and tired I hardly know what to tell you of it. It is
several hours since—since all was over. I don't suppose anything
could have been done to make it different; but it must be so
dreadful to you to think you were not here. Oh, I don't know at all
how you can bear it."
She looked up at him as she said this. He stood perfectly still and
upright before her, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, hard and
rigid. But whether he was hearing what she said, and weighing it
critically, or whether he did not hear or comprehend, she could not
tell. There was no change of expression, no emotion in eye or mouth
to enlighten her. She had, in her pity for him, and her agitation at
being the one to communicate the evil tidings, forgotten the rancor
that she bore him, and the remorse that she had wished he might
endure. These feelings began sharply to awaken, as she glanced at
him. She felt her tears burn her cheeks, looking at his unmoistened
eyes. She put down Jay upon his feet, and disengaging herself from
Gabrielle, stood up, keeping Jay's hand in hers.
"My brother will tell you all the rest," she said, slowly moving on,
leading the children. Mr. Andrews mechanically followed her, looking
upon the ground. Missy's heart beat fast; she held the children tight
by the hand; it seemed to her that this was worse than all the rest.
She was not much used to tragedy, and had never had to tell a man
the wife was dead, whom he was expecting to meet within five
minutes.
The men and women she had known had loved each other, and
lived happily together, in a measure. She was new to this sort of
experience. She was thrilling with the indignation that very young
persons feel when their ideal anything is overthrown. She was,
practically, in the matter of ideals, a very young person, though she
was twenty-eight.
They were very near the house now. A few more steps and they
would be at the side door that led into the summer parlor. There was
a total silence, broken by Jay's whimpering, "I don't want to go
home with papa; I want to stay with you to-night."
Gabby, who didn't have any more cheerful recollection of home to-
day than he, chimed in a petition to stay. She thought she would
rather look over aunt Harriet's boxes, and be a little scolded, than go
home to the ejaculations and whisperings of the servants, and have
to pass That Room. This was about the depth of her grief; but she
whimpered and wanted to stay. When they reached the steps that
led up to the door, Missy paused and turned to Mr. Andrews, who
was just behind her.
"Shall I keep the children?" she said, facing him, her cheeks
flushed, a child grasping each hand.
"Yes—if you will—if you will be so kind," he said. She had hoped
his voice would be shaken, would show agitation. But it did not. It
was rather low, but perfectly controlled, and he knew what he was
saying. He "remembered his manners." He was collected enough to
be polite; "if you will be so kind."
"Come then, children," she said, trembling all over, voice included,
as she went up the steps. He walked away without any further
speech. Leaving the children in the summer-parlor, she ran through
the house to one of the front windows, and pushing open a little the
blind, sat down palpitating and watched him going down to the gate.
He walked slowly, but his step was steady. He followed the road, and
did not walk across the grass, like a man who does not think what
he is doing. When he reached the gate, he did not turn to the right
towards his own house, to the gate of which a few steps more would
have brought him, but he walked up the road, with his head down,
as if pondering something. Presently, however, he turned and came
back, passed the Varians' gate, and went on into his own. And then
Missy lost sight of him among the trees that stood between the two
houses. She threw herself upon a sofa, and pressed her hands
before her eyes, as she thought of that broken, pain-strained figure,
rigid on the bed up-stairs. And if he did not cry for his coldness and
cruelty, she did, till her head and her eyes ached.
That night, after Missy had put the children to bed in her own
room, as she went down stairs, she heard St. John sending a servant
in to ask Mr. Andrews if he would see him for a few moments.
"St. John," she exclaimed, in a low voice, joining him. "Why do
you send in? It is his place to send for you. I would not do it, really.
I—I hate the man. I told him you would tell him everything, and he
has been here four hours at least, and has never sent for you. I
don't believe he wants to hear anything. I have no doubt he has had
a good dinner and is reading the paper. May be he will ask you to
join him with a cigar."
"Don't be uncharitable, Missy," said her brother, walking up and
down the room.
"But why do you send?" persisted his sister. "He doesn't want to
see you, or he would have sent."
"But I want to see him. So, Missy, don't let us talk about it any
more."
It was evident to his sister that St. John did not anticipate the
meeting with much pleasure. He was a little restless, for him, till the
servant came back with a message, to the effect that Mr. Andrews
would be very glad to see Mr. Varian at once, if he were at liberty to
come. St. John looked rather pale as he kissed his sister good-night
(for he was not coming back, but going directly home to the
rectory), and she felt that his hand was cold.
"He is young for such experiences," she said to her mother, as she
sat down beside her sofa in the summer twilight.
"He doesn't seem young to me any longer," returned her mother.
"A few days such as this would make us all old," said Missy, with a
sigh, leaning her face down on her mother's arm. "Mamma, I am
sure this interview is very painful to St. John. I am sure he has been
charged with something to say to her husband, by that poor soul.
How I wish it weren't wrong to ask him what it was. But,"—with a
sigh—"I suppose we shall never know."
"Never, Missy. But we can be charitable. And when you are my
age, my child, you will be afraid to judge any one, and will distrust
the sight of your own eyes."
At this moment Miss Varian came lumbering into the room, leaning
on the arm of Goneril.
 "I suppose," she said, not hearing the low voices, "that Missy is at
her nursery duties yet. Are you here, Dorla? I should think she might
remember that you might sometimes be a little lonely, while she is
busy in her new vocation."
Missy scorned to answer, but her mother said pleasantly: "Oh, she
is here; her babies have been asleep some time."
"I'm not surprised. I don't believe Gabby's grief has kept her
awake. That child has a heart like a pebble, small and hard. As to
little Jay, he has the constitution and the endowments of a rat
terrier, nothing beyond. I don't believe he ever will amount to
anything more than a good, sturdy little animal."
"He will amount to a big animal, I suppose, if he lives long
enough," said Missy, with a sharp intonation of contempt.
"Well, not very, if he copies his father. Gabby has all the
cleverness. I should call Jay a dull child, as far as I can judge; dull of
intellect, but so strong and well that it gives him a certain force."
"Aunt Harriet!" cried Missy, impatiently, "can't you leave even
children alone? What have those poor little morsels done to you,
that you should defame them so?"
"Done? Oh, nothing, but waked me up from my nap this
afternoon. And, you know, deprived me and your mother of much of
your soothing society for the past two months."
"I haven't begrudged Missy to them," said her mother,
affectionately, drawing Missy's hand around her neck in the dimness.
"I think the poor little things have needed a friend for a long while,
and, alas, they need one now."
"It's my impression they're no worse off to-day than they were
yesterday. There is such a thing as gaining by a loss."
Mrs. Varian put her hand over Missy's mouth; Miss Varian,
annoyed by not being answered, went on with added sharpness:
 "Goneril says the servants tell her all sorts of stories about the
state of things between master and mistress in the house next door.
I am afraid the poor man isn't to blame for snubbing her as he has
done. They say she—"
"Oh, my dear Harriet," said Mrs. Varian, keeping her hand on
Missy's lips, "don't you think it is a pity to be influenced by servants.
It is difficult enough to tell the truth ourselves, and keep it intact
when it goes through many hands; and I don't think that the ill-
educated and often unprincipled people who serve us, are able at all
to judge of character, and to convey facts correctly; do you? I don't
doubt two-thirds of the gossip among our servants is without
foundation. Imagine Goneril describing an interview between us; to
begin with, she would scarcely understand what we said, if we
talked of anything but the most commonplace things. She would
think we quarreled, if we differed about the characters in a novel."
"Goneril! She would not only misunderstand, but she would
misstate with premeditation and malice. That woman—" And on that
perennial grievance, the lady's wrath was turned, as her sister-in-law
meant it should be, and Missy's feelings were spared. She kissed her
mother's hand secretly, and whispered "thank you."
CHAPTER VII.
MISRULE.
 Mrs. Andrews died late in August. Late in September, one
afternoon, Missy walked up and down at the foot of the
lawn, and pondered deeply on the state of things. That
anything could go on worse than things went on in the
house next door, she felt to be improbable. That any
children could be more neglected, more fretted, more injudiciously
treated, she knew to be impossible. She did not mind it much that
the servants plundered their master, and that waste and
extravagance went on most merrily. But that her poor Jay should be
reduced indeed to the level of a rat terrier, by the alternate coaxing
and thwarting of the low creatures who had him in charge, was
matter of different moment. It was very bad for Gabrielle, of course.
But Gabrielle was not Jay, and that made all the difference. Still,
even to save Gabrielle, Missy would have made a good fight, if she
had known what way to go to work. The children were with her as
much as ever; at least Jay was. Gabrielle was a little more restless
under restraint, and a good deal more unfathomable than a month
ago. She was intimate with one of the maids, and the Frenchman
was in love with this maid, and petted and joked with Gabrielle, who
seemed to carry messages between them, and to be much
interested in their affairs. She was more contented at home, and
less often came to look over Aunt Harriet's boxes of treasures and to
be catechised by her as a return.
As to Jay, he was passionate and stubborn, and Missy's heart was
broken by a fib he had just told her. The father came home at night,
and always, she believed, asked for the children, and when they
could be found, and made superficially respectable, they were
brought to the table for a little while. But Jay fell asleep sometimes,
with his head on the table-cloth, overcome with the long day's play.
And Gabby, after she had got a little money out of his pocket, and a
little dessert off his plate, preferred the society of the servants, and
went away to them. In the morning, they rarely breakfasted with
him. They were some times not up, and never dressed in time for
that early meal. They took their meals before or after the servants,
as those dignitaries found most convenient. Once, poor Jay
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