The Impaled Bride

  The Impaled Bride

  The Vampire Bride Dark Rebirth Series

  Book 4

  By

  Rhiannon Frater

  The Impaled Bride

  The Vampire Bride Dark Rebirth Series, #4

  By Rhiannon Frater

  Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.

  Edited by Kody Boye

  Interior formatting by Kody Boye

  Cover Artwork by Corey Hollins

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to Alina for her wonderful advice and my husband for encouraging me to take risks

  Chapter 1

  I can hear her scampering about like a rat as her delicate fingers scrabble at the stone walls of the sepulcher. Her piteous cries and wails are a discordant melody that I find both amusing and infuriating. This is her nightly ritual ever since she was imprisoned here.

  “Enough!” I shout at her.

  This only elicits more pathetic sobbing.

  From where I lay upon my stone platform, I only catch glimpses of her as she scuttles about in the dim light cast by the oil lamps hanging on the walls. I wrap my fingers around the iron rod piercing my body. Vlad plunged the wretched stake through the roof of the mausoleum pinning me to the bier so I cannot escape him. I attempt to pull myself upward so I can crane my neck to gaze upon my husband’s latest vampire Bride. But, alas, I am too weak for such a feat. My hand slackens around the stake and slumps against the underside of my breast, close to where I am impaled. The silver coating sizzles against my flesh, sapping my strength, and keeping me trapped in this cursed place hidden by the darkest magicks. If I could, I would press the silver against my heart and end my suffering, but my beloved was wise enough to cast a spell upon me to hinder any attempt.

  He is so very clever in his torment.

  Scuttling up the stairs to the iron door, she attempts to break the lock while calling out for help. The words she speaks in German are muddled by a voice hoarse from screaming. When she fails, she bangs her small fists against the unyielding door until she grows discouraged. Afterward, she dashes about the small room, fingers gliding over the stones as she seeks an escape from this terrible place. I lash out and catch the edge of her gown. She shrieks and scrambles up the wall to hide in the corner like an insect.

  Tilting my head back, I can see her staring down at me.

  “What is your name?” I ask in German.

  With eyes green as jade, she stares at me in horror. Tangles of her golden tresses fall over her shoulders. The gossamer gown adorning her delicate frame is tattered about the edges from her constant tantrums. Her pale hands and feet cling to the stone wall, jewels glittering on the gold bangles and rings she wears. I recognize a few of the finer pieces. They once belonged to me. My husband is generous with his new Brides.

  “Whatever did you do to anger him?”

  I cannot help but add a taunting lilt to my voice. She is delectable with her petite frame and angelic face. Exactly the sort of young woman my dear husband loves to corrupt.

  “I did nothing!” she spits out.

  “That is a possibility.”

  “He is a devil!”

  “That he is,” I agree.

  “You are a devil, too! Cursed! How can you be alive when impaled with a stake?”

  “Oh, my darling little one, you are as cursed as I. And if I should be a devil, so are you. Look at you! Hanging there on the wall like a spider!”

  She screams at me, long teeth revealed.

  My laughter mocks her. “Little one, I have faced much fiercer enemies than you. Our shared husband for example.”

  “I am not his wife! Never!” Huddling in the corner, she weeps. “He lied to me! He promised me a life of wealth and comfort!”

  “Of course he lied. All men do, you simpleton.”

  I tire of craning my neck to gaze at her and return to staring at the ceiling of the mausoleum. The spots of rust where the iron pole pierces the stone roof are gradually spreading into a dark mosaic. Sometimes, in my delirium, I see the stains transform into images of friends and family. Even now I can almost see the strong nose of my vampire brother, Ignatius, taking shape in one dark splotch.

  The iron door creaks open.

  Immediately, I tense. My sharp teeth descend as my veins scream for blood. I am weakened from not feeding for so long. If a hapless traveler has wandered into my prison, I will have just enough power to compel him to bare his throat to me.

  The Bride drops from her perch and sprints toward the doorway.

  I growl with frustration. If she robs me of my meal, I will find a way to tear off her head and reclaim the blood that is rightfully mine.

  Instead of the sounds of feeding, I hear her scream in terror and her footfalls as she flees back to her corner. The scrape of a heavy iron coffin being dragged down the stone steps into the sepulcher follows in her wake. The door clangs shut with a thunderous clang. I close my eyes comprehending what shall transpire next. I have witnessed this foul practice more times than I care to recall. And worse yet, was once the victim of it long ago.

  The miserable little vampire Bride is more spirited in the face of her doom than I expected. The noise of her scrabbling about the ceiling to escape her fate compels me to open my eyes and observe what shall come next.

  A great shadow fills the small stone room. It is as though a great dragon with leathery wings has swooped inside to pluck her from the wall like an eagle catching its prey. Her screams echo about me as she's swallowed by the dark power that consumes all light and renders me blind.

  I hear her cry out one last time before the heavy bang of the coffin lid being dropped into place muffles her screams. The clank of a padlock being shut is followed by the scrape of the turn of a key. A heavy stone is drawn from the wall and the coffin is slid into the opening. The little Brides cries finally diminish when the stone is returned.

  I am intimately acquainted with each sound. I shiver with the memory of my own entombment.

  The darkness recedes in a great wave revealing the tall imposing form of my husband. His keen green eyes regard me from beneath the brim of the top hat. The swoop of his long nose, the high pitch of his cheekbones, the full sensuous lips beneath his mustache, and long thick auburn hair resting heavily on his broad shoulders belong more to the prince he was once than the count he now claims to be. Dressed as a modern gentleman in a waistcoat, long trousers, heavy overcoat and top hat his bearing is still that of a warrior. My husband may clothe himself as a mortal man, but his bearing will always be that of Prince Vlad of Wallachia.

  “Erzsébet, my beloved wife,” he says.

  The deep resonance of his voice thrums through me, causing my body to crave his touch. Even my blood-starved heart thumps faster in my chest. I despise that even now I yearn for him, but I will never allow him to know that truth. I will not tolerate my desire being wielded as a weapon against me.

  “Cursed beast,” I reply. “What other torments do you plan for me? Shall I endure another of your pathetic wives bleating like a lamb disturbing my reverie?”

  “Did she not amuse you?” he asks, flashing a smile that reveals his very sharp teeth.

  “No more than the last.”

  It hurts to speak, but I attempt to hide my pain. I despise showing any weakness before him.

  Stepping toward the bier, his eyes rest on the ugly wound beneath my breasts. My fine red and gold dress, my favorite long ago, is torn and frayed where I am impaled. Does it distress him in the least to see what he has done to me? He sets a gloved hand on the stake, the on
e only he can remove, and stares down at me. I have no sense of time in this terrible existence, but I do know it has been a very long time since he last stood at my side to converse with me.

  “I have missed you,” he says.

  He is in one of his moods and I will suffer.

  Not with pain.

  No, with something much worse.

  His love.

  “I did not miss you.”

  The bitter chuckle that flows from the lips I once kissed with unbridled passion chills me. “All attempts to find another Bride such as you fail.” His voice is sorrowful, yet I know he will not release me.

  From his pocket, he withdraws one of the bracelets that had adorned the limb of the Bride he just entombed. In silence, he wraps it around my wrist and gently hooks the clasp. How like him to make sure his treasures are not locked away with his prisoner. With a scowl, I pull my hand away from him. I wish to turn his saccharine emotions into anger that will fuel my own and untether me from this great longing to comfort him.

  “I am unique to this world. It is your curse to have lost my love,” I declare. “Certainly, Vlad, you did not believe such an unworldly child could be like me. Are you that daft?”

  Leaning over me, he stares into my eyes. His gaze is searching, haunted, and desperate. “No, I created her as an amusement, but soon tired of her. My affections for all others are fleeting when compared to you.”

  “I spent far too many years at your side,” I retort. “Far too many.”

  “You wish me to be angry,” he says, smirking.

  “You are cruel when angry. Why should I desire your anger?”

  “So that you can hate me instead of love me.”

  I snarl at him, perturbed at how well he can still read my inner thoughts. He brushes my cheek with his knuckles. I snap my teeth at him in return. With a laugh, his hand strays to my black hair, gently coiling a strand about his little finger. This loving gesture is cruel salt on my tattered heart. I wish to not remember the many times in the past that I garnered comfort from his affections. I refuse to relent now.

  My eyes flick to the wall where several of his past wives are entombed. I pity them, yet also envy them. After the years have rendered them nothing more than skin over bones, their minds will enter the world of dreams where they will wander until they are finally pulled from their tombs and killed by Vlad or vampire hunters.

  “Why did you create this one, Vlad? She was a bit of a simpleton.”

  “I was angry,” he answers simply. “Because of another.”

  “Ah! Her!”

  I foretold the English Bride would destroy all the intricate plans he created. I observed in her lovely aquamarine eyes my own strength and cleverness. She might have been my equal, if not for one simple truth. She does not love him as I do.

  “Yes, her,” he says with distaste.

  “What did Lady-”

  “Do not speak her name!” Snarling, he steps away. “I gave her all she desired and more. But in the end, she revealed that she was weak and unworthy of my attention.”

  “You killed her.”

  Eyes downcast, he does not answer.

  “Or did she kill herself?”

  He growls, his fangs threatening behind his lips.

  “How blessed she is to find death as her reward. If only I could be bestowed such a blessing.”

  “I did not love her as I do you. She was not deserving of your exquisite torture.”

  His words are cruel because he is angry.

  Angry at her?

  Or angry at me?

  Perhaps both.

  “Your love was always the most exquisite of tortures,” I say.

  A smile seeps onto his full lips and I immediately regret my words.

  I do not wish to give him succor.

  With a dismissive gesture, he says, “She no longer matters. Her name is stricken from my lips. I loathe that I once thought she could be your equal. I was foolish.”

  It is rare for him to admit his shortcomings. This can only mean that he did believe her to be my peer until she proved otherwise. She wounded his pride and my vengeful heart sings with pleasure. How many Brides will he create in an effort to replicate our passion only to be disenchanted in due time and dispose of them? Perhaps this is his punishment for all that he has done to me.

  “You’ve always been a fool, dearest husband. She would have never loved you for you gave her every reason to hate you. Did I not warn you of that truth after you first brought her to me?”

  Vlad returns to my side to bend over and gaze at my face. I am too weak to do more than attempt to slash his face with my long nails. He catches my wrist and presses his lips to my knuckles. “Why must you inflict this pain upon me, Erzsébet?”

  As always, his touch stirs in me the great passion we once shared. That I should love him so utterly with all my heart, yet hate him with as much ferocity is the factual torment of my captivity. I yearn to hold him to my breast and calm the storm of his passions. Instead, I use the last of my strength to pull my hand away.

  “Seek my forgiveness now when I am so utterly lost without you. Tell me you love me, swear your obedience, bow to my authority, and promise to stay at my side. Do all this and I will free you, Erzsébet.”

  I despise the tears that flood my eyes. The temptation is great. To be free of this prison, find passion in his arms, taste fresh blood on his lips, and stand in the fragile illumination of the moon would be bliss. But I know all that would be an illusion that would soon fade. I could never be happy bowing like a slave to his demands.

  “Erzsébet,” he whispers, lowering his lips to my brow. “Say the words. Say them quick while I am weak in the power of your beauty.”

  “No,” I answer, my voice hard. “For you are dracul – the devil – and there can be no peace between us.”

  The sharp intake of his breath is like a dagger being drawn from its sheath. “How did our love come to this?” His voice is a growl in my ear and the deadly points of his sharp fingernails press against my throat.

  I am not certain of the answer, so I remain quiet.

  “Erzsébet, Erzsébet, Erzsébet,” he whispers against my skin. “Tell me what I desire and I shall rectify the past. Do not torment me by denying me.”

  Perhaps it is my weakened state or my hunger that renders me sympathetic to his maudlin words. They speak to my own desperate loneliness, yet, I cannot acquiesce.

  At last, I say, “Choices were made that cannot be undone.”

  His kiss is fevered against my lips. I yearn to thread my fingers into the coils of his auburn hair and hold him close, but instead, I curl them into fists at my sides. I refuse to respond to his tempting seduction though I long to surrender to his ardent ministrations.

  How can I forgive him for all that he has taken from me?

  How can I forgive him for Ágota?

  Vlad’s lips turn to ice and his body to vapor when he realizes he is beaten by my stubborn heart. The black cloud of his power recedes through the doorway and the iron door clangs shut.

  I lay alone once again in my sepulcher.

  With a sob of despair, I tremble with pain as the iron stake presses into my ribs. I wish not to cry, but the tears flow freely.

  How did my life cumulate in such pain?

  It began with such joy…

  Chapter 2

  In the aftermath of Vlad’s visit, I clench my hands and weep. I am so utterly alone. I cannot even hear the cries of the entombed Bride. We are both trapped in our hells, but at least she’s free of Vlad.

  His words haunt me.

  How did our love come to this?

  It is tempting to lay all that has transpired at his feet, yet I acknowledge my complicity in the creation of the complex lies, betrayals, and conspiracies which eventually collapsed and buried us both. We loved each other with such ferocity; I would never have imagined the future before us.

  It is in these darkest moments I yearn for him most. The touch of his hands o
n my skin, his ardent kisses covering my mouth, his body pressing against mine...

  How cruel of my own mind to besiege me with memories of our love. It renders this prison even more unbearable for it stirs a tiny flame of hope that Vlad will release me from my tomb without attempting to subjugate my will. I struggle to banish those thoughts from my mind. There is no value in ruminating on my present situation and hoping for a better future. It only increases my suffering.

  Only in my past can I find some measure of escape in this terrible existence. Some memories are precious and I cling to them until they dissipate. But others are sheer torment, and oftentimes, those are the ones that relentlessly pursue me through my waking hours. Yet, even this task is difficult. I search for memories where he does not fill my mind’s eye with his cunning smile and smoldering gaze.

  Vlad haunts nearly every aspect of my past.

  The only exception is my childhood with Ágota and the span of my mortal life.

  Ágota...

  I seize upon my recollections of my sister, unfurling them like beloved tapestries. I plunge backward in time, following each intricate stitch in the fabric of my life until I settle upon one lovely memory.

  The day Ágota told me about my father.

  I do not recall the year of my birth, let alone the month or day. Too many centuries have passed for me to concern myself with such trivial mortal dealings, yet I remember very well the details of that day when I was four and she was thirteen.

  It was morning and I toddled along behind her, clutching my basket filled with a variety of plants and berries. We were collecting ingredients in the forest for either dinner or one of our mother’s concoctions. We wore simple homemade white blouses tucked into embroidered skirts. I was wearing new shoes made of the softest leather which my mother had purchased from the village shoemaker. As I walked, I stared at them with great pride.

  Even young, I was vain.

  I recall Ágota strolling in front of me, swinging her basket, and the sound of the forest floor crunching under her bare feet. She refused to wear her shoes, so the pair was tucked into the bottom of her basket. As always, her long dark hair was unruly and her blouse hung over the waist of her skirt, the hem fluttering in the fresh breeze.