Chapter 14: The Forgotten Queen

The garden was colder this evening.

In spite of the heavy silver drench of the moon, shadows hugged the twisted vines and the broken marble walks.

I ought to have been dreaming after what had happened to Kael.

After that bond between us grew close and beyond recall.

But dreaming was out of the question.

Instead, I traveled the dark maze of the gardens within the palace, trying to escape the taste of his mouth upon my flesh, the flame bond we now shared.

I grazed a hand upon stone—a half-obscured statue with ivy creeping over its form.

I halted.

The statue was that of a female.

Beautiful.

Regal.

Depressed.

Her unadorned crown differed from the gem-studded circlets worn by the vampire aristocracy.

And her eyes—smoldered with such a depth of depression—nearly. Human.

On the sidewalk at the base of the statue, a plaque had stuporously sunk into the earth, smoothed down to flatness by time and disrespect.

A few of the letters remained, though.

Queen Isolde. The Chosen Flame.

Chosen flame?

I arched an eyebrow, tracing the letters with my fingers.

I was going to get up when I knelt, shoving the trash obscuring the plaque aside.

A few more letters surfaced, ethereal and shattered:

"She who rose. A human among demons. lost to shadows."

I shivered and a whisper slid down my spine.

A human queen.

Surrounded by vampires.

Devoured by darkness.

The idea drove hooks into my mind, refusing to release.

I got up on my feet, standing, looking around.

The garden felt. Heavier now.

Like the air itself wept for her.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice behind me made me turn around, pounding my heart.

It was Lady Selene—the palace chronicler, or so I'd heard the servants whispering.

She had dark purple robes and hair as white as new fallen snow, one temple-to-jaw scar line creasing her ageless face.

"I was just—"

"Curious," she concluded dryly.

I winced. "Who was she?"

Selene's eyes flashed with moonlight.

"Best you forget her, girl. Curiosity concerning Queen Isolde is costly."

I took a step forward, fueled by the residual warmth of my fight with Kael.

"I’m willing to pay."

Selene studied me for a long moment.

Then, almost reluctantly, she said, "She was the last human to sit beside a vampire king. Chosen not for her blood. But for her fire."

A chill prickled over my skin.

"What happened to her?"

Selene's mouth tightened.

"Nobody knows. She vanished one night. Some say she was betrayed. Others. that she became something even the vampires feared."

I swallowed hard.

"Something they feared?"

Selene nodded.

"Humans are dangerous in ways the vampires don't forget. Especially those who burn hotter than the others."

I remembered how Kael had stood about me after the bite.

Of the red fire that had flared between us.

"Was she like me?" I gasped.

Selene's gaze grew cold. "More than you can even imagine."

She stepped forward, her whisper the faintest of breaths.

"Beware, little flame. Talent like yours attracts monsters to it. And not all are dead ones."

That ominous threat disappeared into darkness, and I stood there staring up at the crumbling queen's statue.

My mind was filled with questions.

Was it that Kael was so obsessed with me?

Not that I was a blood slave—but something more?

And if Queen Isolde had already been chosen once.

What had happened to her after she had burned too brightly?

Later that night,

I stood beside the fire in my quarters, the flames flickering uneasily over the walls.

I couldn't rest.

The bond between Kael and me thrummed low beneath my skin, a slow pulse of awareness.

But more pressing still was the pull of the mystery—the story of the vanished queen.

I require information.

Perilous, I went to the compact trunk concealed behind the groaning board on the floor beneath my bed.

It contained the two things I had managed to swipe from the palace library when everyone was distracted.

One of them was a dusty old leather-covered book with no cover.

I opened it and read the creased script.

Half of the pages were gibberish—lists of herbs, star diagrams, lines of blood.

But then,

A single mark had caught my eye.

A single flower coiled around a flame.

The same symbol is neatly inscribed on the bottom under the statue of Queen Isolde.

My heart pounding, I read the words:

"The Chosen Flame is no mortal woman. She is the spark that may ignite even eternal night. She is hunted, she is feared, and she is worshipped. She stands in a blood oath to the king. But severed, the flame will annihilate them all."

A blood oath.

I settled back, the words searing themselves into my mind.

Kael had gotten me to vow a blood oath—but was something older, something deeper holding us fast?

Something he had not said to me?

Something that he could not help?

I cooled as I flipped the page.

Another shard, this one more disorganized, like the author had been desperate:

"They'll try to shatter her. Smother her flame. If she's recalling who she is, then nothing—not even the smallest of the blood gods—will be able to muzzle her. Be wary of those who love with bloody hands."

Love with bloody hands.

Kael's face crossed my mind—red eyes burning, the warmth of his touch as if he'd hated himself for it.

I clapped the journal shut, hurting throbbing within me.

I was more than a plaything in their games of pleasure.

More than a servant, prize, or property.

It was something that scared them.

Something they'd once attempted to kill.

And if Queen Isolde had died because of it.

I wouldn't.

I would remember.

I would fight it.

Even at the cost of burning this damnable palace down to ashes.

A knock came at my door at dawnbreak.

I stepped softly and swung it open half in hope expecting Kael.

But it was a servant—a small, quakey-eyed little girl who forced a crumpled piece of paper into my palm and sprinted down the corridor.

I smoothed it, my breath tightening on the ancient, slashing writing.

"You are not safe. Meet me in the west wing gardens at midnight. Come alone."

No signature.

But somehow.

I had known the note hadn't been written by Kael.

And whoever had written it—they knew me inside out.

And they wanted me to remember.

To be continued…