could have been more cautious with her. Perhaps I could have done something more to help her. I frown and grit my teeth, annoyance building in me like a volcano, and I stop and turn before putting a heavy fist into the wall beside me, anger and frustration burning in my veins. What is wrong with me today? We’ve trained together for months, and I’ll admit that there has always been something between us, but it’s taken on a whole new meaning lately. Each night as I lie on my bed, I think of her, see her, can almost taste her on my fangs. She makes my body hungry for something more, something I haven’t wanted for many a year.
I pull my fist from the wall, letting the dust float to the floor. I stare at my knuckles as the small cuts knit themselves back together and the blood dries up.
I need a drink.
That damn woman is going to be the death of me.
She makes me hungry, thirsty, my body wanting more than just blood and lust, wanting more than this life that I had once loved so much. She makes me want to forget. She makes me want to remember. She calls to something deep inside of me, something I have neglected—or perhaps ignored—for too long. And now that it is awake, she is like a siren to me, singing her sweet songs and bringing me to my death.
But she is my job, and I will not step over those boundaries—no matter how much she or I want to. We cannot be more than trainer and trainee.
Not ever.
Six.
I arrive at the Queen’s hall and knock twice on the large, ornate wooden door. Two guards stand outside, barely acknowledging me, as usual. Their job as enforcers is to search out any dangers to our queen long before they reach here. Using their minds, they sense danger before it can happen—a tragic yet important quality for any Bastion to acquire. I can only imagine the amount of self-control it must take to be able to feel every danger before it is happening, and not be allowed to do anything about it. They are the only ones that are requested to wear uniforms—if they can be called that: black T-shirts and black cargo pants that hold a multitude of weapons.
I close my eyes as I hear footsteps coming towards the large door from the other side, and I steady myself, cooling all my emotions as it opens, and I step inside. The room is as always: cool marble, diamonds hanging from chandeliers, and white walls. Our queen is nothing if not glamorous.
She sits upon her throne; her face is still and perfect as if carved from pure white marble. But her ovate opal-coloured eyes are always watching, always seeing, following me across the room until I come to stand before her. I bow down to one knee in front of her, lowering my head to the wooden floor.
“My Queen.” I stare down, waiting for her to speak.
“Evan.” Her voice hisses out quietly, yet unfathomably manages to echo loudly around the room, as if she is everywhere.
I look up at her slowly through my lashes, and when her finger gestures to me, I stand tall and proud, willing my body to still and my mind to remain calm as I wait for further instruction.
“How is my little prodigy today?” She laughs, but there is no humour in her voice, and I can’t help but feel defensive.
“She is well,” I say calmly, and as emotionlessly as I can. Of course that is easy for me.
Our queen watches me for several minutes without speaking. Eventually she stands and makes her way towards me, her head cocking from side to side predatorily as she walks in circles around me, her bones creaking as she moves. She places a long-nailed hand on my shoulder, and my muscles begin to unwillingly quake under her touch. Tremors run through my body—the source, her palm on my shoulder. I long to turn and ask her what is happening to me, but don’t dare. I have only once been afraid in all my many long years, and that was the night I was made. Right now, though, as my body heats and trembles under her touch, I feel that same fear bubbling underneath the surface.
I pull my fist from the wall, letting the dust float to the floor. I stare at my knuckles as the small cuts knit themselves back together and the blood dries up.
I need a drink.
That damn woman is going to be the death of me.
She makes me hungry, thirsty, my body wanting more than just blood and lust, wanting more than this life that I had once loved so much. She makes me want to forget. She makes me want to remember. She calls to something deep inside of me, something I have neglected—or perhaps ignored—for too long. And now that it is awake, she is like a siren to me, singing her sweet songs and bringing me to my death.
But she is my job, and I will not step over those boundaries—no matter how much she or I want to. We cannot be more than trainer and trainee.
Not ever.
Six.
I arrive at the Queen’s hall and knock twice on the large, ornate wooden door. Two guards stand outside, barely acknowledging me, as usual. Their job as enforcers is to search out any dangers to our queen long before they reach here. Using their minds, they sense danger before it can happen—a tragic yet important quality for any Bastion to acquire. I can only imagine the amount of self-control it must take to be able to feel every danger before it is happening, and not be allowed to do anything about it. They are the only ones that are requested to wear uniforms—if they can be called that: black T-shirts and black cargo pants that hold a multitude of weapons.
I close my eyes as I hear footsteps coming towards the large door from the other side, and I steady myself, cooling all my emotions as it opens, and I step inside. The room is as always: cool marble, diamonds hanging from chandeliers, and white walls. Our queen is nothing if not glamorous.
She sits upon her throne; her face is still and perfect as if carved from pure white marble. But her ovate opal-coloured eyes are always watching, always seeing, following me across the room until I come to stand before her. I bow down to one knee in front of her, lowering my head to the wooden floor.
“My Queen.” I stare down, waiting for her to speak.
“Evan.” Her voice hisses out quietly, yet unfathomably manages to echo loudly around the room, as if she is everywhere.
I look up at her slowly through my lashes, and when her finger gestures to me, I stand tall and proud, willing my body to still and my mind to remain calm as I wait for further instruction.
“How is my little prodigy today?” She laughs, but there is no humour in her voice, and I can’t help but feel defensive.
“She is well,” I say calmly, and as emotionlessly as I can. Of course that is easy for me.
Our queen watches me for several minutes without speaking. Eventually she stands and makes her way towards me, her head cocking from side to side predatorily as she walks in circles around me, her bones creaking as she moves. She places a long-nailed hand on my shoulder, and my muscles begin to unwillingly quake under her touch. Tremors run through my body—the source, her palm on my shoulder. I long to turn and ask her what is happening to me, but don’t dare. I have only once been afraid in all my many long years, and that was the night I was made. Right now, though, as my body heats and trembles under her touch, I feel that same fear bubbling underneath the surface.
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