The Impaled Bride (Vampire Bride 3)

“Do not be afraid, Erjy. I will protect you. We are safe here,” Ágota whispers in my ear.

No, she is not here to protect me.

I am not safe.

I am in pain and trapped in a damp mausoleum.

I close my eyes, wishing the dark magic assailing me would let me rest just this once.

“Here. Eat these berries,” she says.

Soft, round fruit is pressed into my hand.

“Erjy. Please eat,” Ágota pleads.

I open my eyes to see my sister crouched beside me. We are hiding beneath an outcropping of rocks that provide a shelter from the downpour. We are high enough off the ground that we are relatively dry. I curl up tighter in the cloak Ágota gave me and stare at the berries in my hand.

“You need to eat,” she says again, chewing vigorously.

The dim morning sunlight sifting through the torrent illuminates her face and reveals teeth and lips stained purple from the berry juice. Reaching out a cupped hand, she gathers rain in her palm and drinks it. Her eyes are hazel once more, the vibrant green having faded since her magic is spent. How far we traveled during the night? It seems such like a great distance.

“I want Mama.” My voice sounds small and tired.

“Eat.” The order is clear. Ágota’s eyes are fierce and her jaw set.

I obey, crushing the berries one by one between my teeth. My stomach is empty and my thoughts wander to the venison stew my mother had been preparing before the devil arrived the evening before. If only we had shared that meal in the quiet of our home and never been accosted by the fearsome creature, I would now be sleeping safely in my bed.

“Are we going to return home soon?”

“Our home is gone, burned to ashes with our mama.” Ágota’s tone is harsh with anger and sadness.

I force the chewed food down my tight throat. It is an arduous effort to accept that my life with my mother is over. Why cannot this all be a dream? Why cannot Mama be alive? I want nothing more than to go home, curl up on my bed, and feel my mother’s fingers rubbing my back until I fall asleep.

“Where are we, Ágota?”

“Bavaria.”

“Is that far from home?”

“Far enough. I spent most of my magic. It will take a day for it to return, so you need to do as exactly as I tell you.”

I remember my promise to our mother and nod. I will obey my sister to honor her memory.

“Good.”

I am very tired, but Ágota appears alert. She gazes through the gray rain falling steadily onto the trees and bushes surrounding the rocky incline where we are hunkered.

I eat another berry, but the few I have eaten do not fill the ache in my belly. Before I can ask, Ágota, always prescient, serves me more berries from her apron. The berries are more tart than sweet, but I eat each one.

Muttering under her breath, Ágota opens the bag that had been buried in our garden and withdraws a thick book. I have seen the tome often during my life and tears drip down my cheeks at the sight of it. I helped my mother make some of the thick paper pages captured between the old leather binding. Often I’d watched Mama carefully write her spells with black ink mixed with her blood or paint illustrations with a feathered brush in very precise strokes. The book creaks when Ágota opens it. The smell of old paper fills the small space. With great care, Ágota flips through the pages studying the drawings and reading the neatly scrawled words.

Hope stirs in my chest at an abrupt thought. “Can you use it to bring her back to life?”

Ágota looks at me sharply before shaking her head.

“Why not?”

I know my mother was powerful and Ágota has all her magic. I cannot imagine why she cannot restore our mother.