The Impaled Bride (Vampire Bride 3)

“Until they become too afraid of me. Remember what I told you.”

“Always be good to others.”

“And?”

“Be kind to the fair folk.”

My mother smiles at me, her eyes filled with delight. “And?”

“Keep my true name a secret from everyone,” I say solemnly.

My mother nods. “You may tell people your Hungarian name, but never your true name. Not even Agy.”

“Because it can be used against me,” I whisper. The thought frightens me.

“Yes, my love. That is correct.”

My mother finally whispered my true name in my ear when I reached the age of six. She told me in the dead of night when the moon was absent from the sky and Ágota was snoring in her bed. My Romanian name, the one she whispered into my being when she was carrying me in her belly, is never to be revealed. Death cannot find me and other practitioners of magic cannot spell against me if they do not know my true name.

“Does Agy have a true name?”

She scowls. “No. Her father was foolish and named her openly when I was carrying her. It was too late then. Stupid Hungarian.”

Ágota and I do not have the same father. Ágota’s lives far away from the Black Forest and mine is dead. I also understand that Ágota is half Hungarian, while I am fully Romanian. Yet, even deeper in our blood, we are descended from witches that fled a world hidden in the shadows of the human one. Sadly, I have yet to exhibit any of the abilities of my lineage.

My mother concentrates on her work, her dark eyebrows lowered over her eyes. Sometimes I wonder why my mother does not use magic to enrich herself, but I never ask. The question feels wrong somehow, tainted by my own selfishness. Our life is happy and comfortable, yet I long to live like my mother and Ágota once did when my father was alive. What would it be like to live in a grand house with servants? To wear fancy dresses with my hair piled on my head? To wear gold bracelets and jewels?

I shift on the stool I am seated upon, my feet brushing over the hard earthen floor. My mother raised our cottage out of the ground with her magic. The walls are a framework of twisting roots plastered with clay, and the roof is covered in thick grass and wildflowers. The simple table and stools where my mother and I are seated were gifts from a man thankful for the potions that saved his wife’s life. My mother’s bed is hand-carved from tree trunks and covered in the softest silks, which were given to her by a fey admirer. Ágota and I sleep in the loft on mattresses filled with downy feathers under soft, thick blankets. I am not certain where all the tiny luxuries we enjoy came from, but I know most were given to my mother out of thankfulness. Yet, I cannot help but wonder why she does not elevate herself in status.

“Erjy, please go fetch your sister. I need the water for our stew and she’s been far too long,” my mother says.

Reluctantly, I slide off my stool. I want to stay inside with my mother and watch her work, but I do not dare disobey her. I pull open the door and step outside into the bright sunshine. I blink against the glare and tip my chin to observe the clouds gliding high over the forest to cluster around the mountaintops. The clearing is ringed with towering pine trees and the crisp breeze gliding through the branches is laced with their fragrance. The birds sing in the branches of the oak tree that looms over our home while the insects hum in the flowers growing on the roof.

With a little skip, I seek out my sister in the garden behind our small cottage. Ágota is not by the well at the rear of our garden. Instead, she is leaning against the trunk of the oak tree with the neighbor’s daughter enclosed in her arms.

I regard their amorous kissing with annoyance, then say in the very loud, shrill voice only a younger sister can wield with great effect, “Agy! Mama wants the water for the stew! Stop kissing Enede!”

With great annoyance, Ágota releases the blushing blonde girl. “I shall bring the water shortly.”

“Mama wants it now! For our stew! So we can eat!”

“Go away. We wish to say our farewells,” Ágota hisses at me.

“You wish to kiss her more,” I retort.

“Bah!” She waves her hand at me, the golden bracelet on her wrist glinting in the sunlight.

Enede giggles, her pretty blue eyes shyly downcast.

This isn’t the first time I have caught Ágota kissing one of the German girls from the village. My sister isn’t beautiful like my mother. At seventeen, she is tall, slender, and rakish in her gait and manner. The disheveled appearance of her clothing only seems to add to her allure. Her dark hair is cropped close to her shoulders and always messy, giving her the appearance of having just awakened. Her hooded hazel eyes and wild smile make her appear a bit crazed and dangerous. Our mother often warns her about flirting with the girls from the village, but I suspect no power on earth can stop Ágota once she has set her mind to something.

“Now, Agy!” I stomp my small foot at her.

Jerking a basket from Enede’s hands, she thrusts it toward me. “A gift from Enede’s family. Give it to mama.”

I take the heavy burden but refuse to move. “Get the water for mama or else I will tell her what you were doing.”

“I will hex you,” Ágota grumbles, waving her hands at me. “Make you grow a tail so I can grab it and swing you about.”