The Mayfair Moon (The Darkwoods Trilogy 1)

The dead, nak*d woman. A flash raced through my mind. She was the one I saw lying in the snow....

Sibyl walked toward the fireplace, a skin-tight dress hugged her voluptuous curves and dragged the floor behind her. How could someone so hateful, so vile, be so stunning? Just like the monster that sat near me. He was calm and mysterious.

“My son,” Sibyl said, prodding the fire with a poker, “will make quite the Alpha one day—”

“So then he’s alive?”

Sibyl rose up, grinning over at me. “He’ll make quite the Alpha one day...if he lives.”

What is that supposed to mean? I thought. Was it a threat, or was it a prediction based on something that had already happened? I felt the tears rushing up from behind my eyes. I looked at Viktor who confused me more and more as he just sat there, listening to us.

Finally, Viktor spoke:

“Sibyl,” he said; his voice deep and abrasive, “bring food and drink for our guest.”

I would have thought someone just asked her to wash their feet. Her thin hands dropped to her sides and her face went cold and mystified.

“Why would you treat this one as so?” she said as she stepped closer. “Give her to the sister and be done with it. It is Alexandra’s duty to kill her. Those were the requirements of her initiation, her so-called unwavering loyalty.”

I felt my body jerk forward, but I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t move; every bone suddenly attacked by pain. I lay back completely against the pillow.

Viktor pressed his hand to my chest. “No one will harm you,” he said.

He turned back to Sibyl. “She was not brought here for that reason.” He stood and approached her, authority in every step. He grazed the side of her face with his fingertips.

Sibyl shut her eyes softly and breathed in deep, taking in his sadistic scent.

“Then why is she here?”

Viktor did not answer. His silence did that for him.

“You wouldn’t,” she ripped out the words and took two steps away from him; her face overcast with revulsion. “You mean to receive her?”

Still, Viktor did not speak. Sibyl looked at him one last time and left angrily.

“I know what you want,” I said and he turned around. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll let you. Now tell me what happened to Isaac!”

The sound of his boots went across the wooden floor slowly.

Where was I? There was no window in the room. I needed an idea so that I could figure out how to get away.

“I left him where I found him,” he said simply.

“Please just tell me...Is he alive?” My heart was breaking. I wanted to cry and throw up at the same time, but I could do neither.

No answer.

“Was that you that attacked us in the car?”

Viktor laughed lightly. “You offend me,” he said with a twinge of humor. “I am an Alpha Elder, over four hundred years old. Sibyl’s size could never compare to mine.”

It didn’t surprise me that it was Isaac’s mother who attacked us, who nearly killed both of us yet again.

“You were severely wounded in that car,” he said. “Lucky to be alive, I must say.”

Keeping my attention on Viktor’s every move; I also tried to examine myself. My arms and legs were blue and purple. A finger-length gash on my shin had been cleaned and stitched up. My back was sore and something protruded through the thin nightgown below my ribcage. I touched it. More stitches. A burning pain shot through me.

“And it was because of Isaac that you were almost killed in that car,” he said.

I felt the side of the bed move as he sat down again. I didn’t want to look at him, but I did anyway.

“No, it was because of you.”

Viktor smiled. “Isaac shifted inside the car with you in it, Adria. Neither I, nor Sibyl did anything to harm you. Isaac is young. He’ll not be able to control the Change all the time.” He moved a strand of hair from my face and added, “And you see how well he can protect you.”

Disgusted, I jerked my head sideways even though I knew it would hurt. “Trajan will deal with you,” I snapped. “Isaac can take care of everyone else in your abomination of a family. Your sons, even my traitor sister, all of them.” It hurt me inside to say that about Alex. It would always hurt, no matter what.

“Trajan,” Viktor began, “will not kill me, Adria Dawson. I admit—because I am not so awful that I have too much pride—that Trajan is more than capable of destroying me. He is the most powerful and feared Black Beast since his father before him. If he wanted me dead, I would have been centuries ago.”

“That’s a lie.”

Viktor’s dark brow rose just slightly. That confident, knowing expression never left his face. It haunted me.

“Believe what you want,” he said, “but don’t let your human weaknesses get in the way of your good sense.”

Thankfully, he left the bed and began casually pacing the room. I hated him. Six inches from me felt close enough to be infected by his evil maladies.

“If you had the opportunity,” he went on, “to be with the Mayfair’s long enough, you would have started to see the truth.”

“What is the truth then?”

He stopped. His back was to me, but I got the sense he suddenly felt more confident than before.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he said. “All you have to do is be willing.” He faced me, his expression more sincere. “I am not the atrocious villain you think I am.”

“Believe me, you are,” I said. “You’re the one who forced me here, who sent people to attack me. Because of your ‘family’ people in this town are dying. You’re the reason my uncle is in the hospital! Your son is why my sister is one of you!” I was shaking, uncontrollably. I felt my blood pressure rise, my stomach swirling.

“Calm down,” he said softly. “You’re in no condition—”

“To what?” I shouted. “No condition to tell you what you don’t want to hear? No condition to tell you I’ll never be willing and that you’ll have to kill me?”

“Oh, I won’t kill you.” The sincerity in his face faded, replaced by something more displeased, arrogant. “I’ll still infect you, whether you’re willing, or not.”

“Then what does it matter?” I lashed out. “Why don’t you just get it over with then?”

“Because a willing mate creates a stronger bond.”

My face scrunched up in a fit. “Do you know how disgusting that sounds?”

No reply.

“I’ll never submit to you in any way,” I threatened. “Never!”

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said placing his hand upon the doorknob. “You have until morning. Feel free to...,” he gestured with his hand, “...look around the place, if you wish.” Something about the way he said it seemed to have hidden meaning.

I was appalled; shocked that he actually thought I would change my mind. Viktor Vargas was not only a power-hungry abomination; he was completely mental.

There was a clicking sound as the door locked from the outside.

I was alone in the room.

It was strange, but I already felt stronger than moments ago. I hadn’t noticed I was sitting straight up in the bed; must’ve managed while shouting at Viktor. Amazing what anger can do to a person. Getting ahead of myself with a false sense of independence, I tried standing. My legs buckled underneath. I tumbled onto the floor, dragging the blanket off the bed with me. The wound under my ribcage shot me with excruciating pain. My hands went up instinctively to put pressure on the area, but that proved to be a mistake. Pressure made it worse. Blood soaked through my gown. Carefully, I lifted the gown up above my waist. The gash was deep. I counted twelve stitches, two of which had split when I fell.

With difficulty, I turned my body, put my back against the bed and just sat there on the floor.

I must have cried for an hour, in the same spot with my knees pressed to my chest. I didn’t care that it hurt. I thought about Isaac the most, feeling this dread in my heart. If only I could see him, just to know that he was okay. Eventually, anger took over. I wiped my face harshly with my hands, mad that I let Viktor cause me to cry at all.

I looked up and all around this room. Nothing of interest. Nothing out of the ordinary except the rotting wooden chest set against the wall near the corner. I glanced at the door, checking to make sure no one was coming. No shadows moved across the floor through the crack underneath. I heard no voices, no movement. I grabbed the bed firmly, expecting to fall this time so I’d be ready for it. Pulling myself up, I bit through the pain and walked over to the chest. Winded, I sat down on the floor next to it. I hoped to find something inside I could use as a weapon. Anything to give me any chance at all.

The hinges creaked and squealed as I lifted the heavy wooden lid. I was surprised I could lift it. The wood smelled old, like dust and water damage. It also smelled strongly of salt, just as the ocean did when I saw it for the first time.

Old weathered books. Parchment. Maps. I was no antique expert, but this stuff couldn’t be anything else. A broken compass and a spyglass telescope lay in the bottom next to a case of sorts that held tiny glass vials plugged with corks. There was liquid inside the vials, but I wasn’t about to find out what kind.

I leaned further over into the chest, reaching as far into the bottom as I could. There was nothing that would help me to escape, or fend off a werewolf. I never expected there to be, really, but when all you have is hope, you tend to do what you can with it. I settled with what looked like a journal. A thick, leather bound book with coarse vellum pages. Twine tied the spine together, though it had snapped in sections and the pages were loose. A tiny spider crawled out of the water-damaged pages and scurried up the side of my hand. Gently, I blew it away. I never liked to kill them.

The journal opened with a slight crunching sound. The pages so worn and thick they stuck together in spots and curled unevenly in others. I was almost afraid to touch them they were so fragile.

I held history in my hands, an unmistakable feeling that awed me. But I couldn’t read the text, a deep ink flourish in an unknown language.

Disappointment swept over me.

There were medieval-like drawings with names underneath that struck me in the worst of ways:

The first sketch depicted two men with dark hair, beards and mustaches. They stood side by side in a portrait pose; strange armor dressed them. Trajan and Viktor. A drawing on the next page showed them in a field of soldiers, a battle, where men with black eyes and long claws lay dead all around them. In every drawing, the one thing that remained the same was Trajan and Viktor standing together. I flipped several pages, skipping many in-between and stopped at another sketch that was different. With Trajan and Viktor, there was also a woman, a soldier like them. Next to their names another name read:

If only I could read the language!

I slammed the journal shut and tossed it back into the chest. “That’s what he wants,” I said. “That’s what he meant by telling me to look around. Why else would a random, out-of-place chest be sitting in the room with me?”