The Impaled Bride (Vampire Bride 3)

ove is consummated with a kiss, a shadow falls over Albrecht, and he vanishes from my arms. I become more and more desperate, for in every dream he is drawn into darkness by unseen forces. Frustration tears at me as I rush after him over and over again, lost in shadows, and unable to find him.

The dreams grow more ominous until at last Albrecht does not appear at all.

“Erzsébet! I have lost you!” he cries out from the dark.

“Albrecht! I am here!”

I awaken in a damp bed, feeling feverish and flushed. The room has dimmed for the sun has vanished from the sky and the new moon is rising. A single candle casts a weak glow over my bed. I sit on the edge of my bed, afraid and confused by my nightmares, for that was what they were—nightmares most foul. I am crushed beneath the grief of losing Albrecht and it is difficult to separate my dreams from reality. Dread fills me completely, abolishing all other emotions. It is as though I am teetering on the edge of an abyss and unable to regain my balance.

The absolute terror that I am about to lose all I desire amplifies when I notice the spell has been cast. The magic is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue and smell it in the air. Overcome, I stagger from my bed to the nearest window. Beyond the panes of glass, the sky is an ominous sickly dark green. The ley line that slices through our vineyard brightens as Ágota connects with it to open the gateway. I shift my gaze to the witches gathered in the courtyard below. They have closed the circle around Ágota, Henrietta, Marianna, and Cristina.

Fog drifts off the Danube and threads through the rows of grapevines toward the ceremony, undulating like waves on the river. There is something unsettling about how it slithers across the ground toward the ceremony. It is not uncommon for fog to roll off the water, so I disregard my trepidation and return my focus to my sister.

Within the warded area, flashes of colorful light illuminate the four women. Ágota holds a silver chalice over her head, and the magic within glows with the colors and vibrancy of a rainbow. Enraptured, I watch as the spell pulses in time with Ágota’s heartbeat to illume her upturned face.

The mist reaches the coven and swirls up in a great wave to descend on the witches. The onslaught cannot penetrate the circle, and the fog thickens around the edges until it is difficult to see the ceremony. Sparks of magic glimmer deep within the haze, reminding me of lightning illuminating storm clouds.

As I watch with growing apprehension, wispy fingers of mist climb toward the sky as though seeking the apex of the ward to curl over the lip and reach down to grab my sister. Some aspect of the spell is awry, but none below seem to sense the danger. Perhaps it is my magic, stricken through with death, pain, and anger, that allows me to see the power rising to thwart my sister.

I press my hands to the window. The mist billows over the courtyard, obscuring my vision and hiding the witches. Panicked, I realize for certain Ágota and the coven are in danger. For the briefest of moments, I remember being a little girl helplessly watching her home be consumed in fire while hearing her mother scream, and that same sense of powerlessness washes over me.

Ágota is about to die.

Then I remember...

I am not a child.

I am not defenseless.

I am the Battlewitch.

I must act as one.

Drawing in a deep breath, I rest my hands against my heart.

“Guide me,” I intone.

I exhale my magic. A thick rope of inky darkness flows from my lips and slithers over the stone floor to wrap around my rose dagger resting on my bed. Immediately seizing the weapon, I follow the shadow as it takes on the form of a viper and glides across the floor.

The candles tucked into holders on the walls flicker wildly, yet the light they cast scarcely slashes the burgeoning gloom in every corridor and room. As I hurry down the spiral stairwell, my bare feet slip on the icy stone floor. When I arrive on the main level, the air is freezing and chills me to the bone. Frost forms on the high narrow windows of the great hall and, to my dismay, the hearth is cold.

Something is drawing the life from the castle.

Yet, somehow, I am unscathed.

The black vaporous serpent spirals through the air toward the doors that open to the courtyard. As it draws closer to the where tendrils of mist dare to venture beneath the heavy door, the spell does not diminish in strength, but grows in size. When I reach the serpent's side, it has the appearance of flesh, the black scales slick and glimmering in the dying candlelight. I rest my hand against its back to find it solid and cool to the touch. Twisting its head about to gaze at me, I observe its golden gaze. Since it is the manifestation of my magic it has taken on aspects of me from its inky black scales that match my hair to its amber eyes.

As one, we direct our attention to the mist pressing under the door. Leaning down, the snake laps at the magical intrusion with its forked tongue, tasting it.

The mist immediately withdraws.

Understanding sweeps through me, and I compel my power to return.

The serpent collapses into black vapor as I open my mouth to draw it once more into my body with a long inhalation. When the last bit is within me, I open the doors to the outside.

Instantly, the fog separates before me, forming a path. I stretch my hand out toward the haze, and again it shirks away. The mist has a purpose here, but it cannot touch me. The only conclusion I come to is my magic is offensive to it.

“You are familiar to me,” I say in wonder. “Why?”