The Impaled Bride (Vampire Bride 3)

“Hiding? Why were you hiding? Could you not fight them with your magicks, Archwitch?” Wirich asks Ágota, raising bushy eyebrows.

“I promised The White Woman in the Wood I would not use my magic in her territory. Otherwise, I could have easily evaded them,” Ágota answers. “I did not know I had passed out of her territory.”

“So you respect the fey?” Wirich appears amused by this confession.

“Yes. My mother told me that their curses are potent and not easily dispelled.”

“That is true. Where is your mother now, Ágota the Archwitch?”

Ágota straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “My mother died. We are journeying to our father’s home.”

The temptation to correct her is great, but I remain silent. Ágota must have her reasons for insinuating we are full-blooded sisters.

“You have Hungarian names and speak German with an accent, so I assume this father lives in the Kingdom of Hungary?”

“Transylvania. He is a castle warrior.”

“And his name?”

“Balázs, beholden to Ladislaus Kán, Voivode of Transylvania,” Ágota answers, raising her chin higher with pride.

Dominique flicks her gaze toward Wirich, a sly look upon her face.

The large man returns her look, and nods. “Well done, Dominique.”

“I thought you would be pleased.”

“Sit down, young ladies. You look cold and tired. Are you hungry?”

My stomach is rumbling and empty, but remain quiet. I do not trust the big man or the vampire, so I obediently stay in Ágota’s shadow.

My sister stands before them, her manner fearless and a bit arrogant. “You do not seem impressed by the presence of vampires and witches, so before we partake of your food and drink, I must ask: what are you?”

Tucking his hands behind his back, the big man walks toward my sister. His tunic is crimson with a raven embroidered on his chest. Looming over us, he regards my sister with eyes as black as pitch. My sister meets his stare, unflinching and defiant.

“You are a very clever girl to ask such a question.”

“I am a very clever witch.”

“I am part fey, the great-grandson of The White Woman in the Wood, but I do not wield the power of the fey. It is safe to eat my food and drink. I do not have the power to bind you to me through such trickery.”

“So what power do you have to bind us with?”

“Alas, only mortal power,” he says with an exaggerated sigh and a significant look at Dominique. “I would rather be hospitable, so please, sit.”

Grudgingly, Ágota takes a seat, and I perch on the chair next to her. I clasp my trembling hands in my lap in an attempt to still them but fail. Lifting my eyes, I gawk at the enormous boar head over the fireplace. Its tusks and glassy eyes scare me even though it is dead. Though I cannot quite determine why it thoroughly unsettles me.

Observing my sister out of the corner of my eye, I am bothered by her countenance. Her usual scowl is absent. I have never seen her so quiet or calm. I am unnerved by her behavior, but do not dare speak.

Meanwhile, Wirich summons servants out of the dark corners of the room, and soon, food and drink are set upon the table. I regard the pie placed before me with some trepidation, but Ágota breaks the crust on hers and digs into the chicken and peas hidden inside. Starving, I shovel the food into my mouth. It is too hot to actually taste, but I eat with relish. I gulp the cold, fresh water in the cup set beside my plate to soothe my burned tongue before eagerly continuing to eat.

Wirich and Dominique sit at the end of the table talking in lowered voices and occasionally casting thoughtful looks in our direction. A few times they burst into laughter, their voices boisterous and triumphant. Again, I worry that they are plotting against us. I steal another look at Ágota. She appears unfazed as she ignores them.

A door opens with a loud clank.

Startled, I whip about and peer into the gloom dwelling outside the light cast by the fireplace. Footsteps announce the arrival of another person. I gulp down the food I was chewing and stare at the dark figure approaching. My almost full stomach flutters with trepidation.

A boy, a few years older than I, steps into the firelight. He's tall, lean, and clad in a tunic similar to Wirich's. Hair the color of raven's feathers and eyes black as night stand out against his pale skin. His delicate lips are very red and set into a hard line when he notices me staring at me. Narrowing his eyes, long lashes cast shadows over his cheeks resembling wings. He's the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.