urbanfictionalist: Allow me to elucidate: Caphis wants to keep her at the dance because Caphis herself has no choice but to oversee it. If Rakel is there, in plain sight and amongst a great many students, she has a better chance of not being abducted. As for Angel, I would advise you to simply read ahead in order to clarify your confusion.

Chapter XXXIII

“I’m not fucking crazy,” she growled around the plastic in her teeth. She tugged fruitlessly at the plastic hospital bracelet on her arm. Two more of the same littered the floor, and there were still six attached to her wrists.

“I’m not crazy, I just— just vomit words when I’m scared, you know? And I— ” she hiccuped, the fear now evident in her voice. “— I’m really fucking sc-scared right now, okay? Okay?”

Belus watched her quietly. They were both in an empty interrogation room, one of the older ones at the end of the building; they were dusty, white walls turning brown-yellow, out of electricity, and no longer in use. They’d been torn down next month in order to build a new ward for more extreme interrogation. For now, Belus, sitting placid in a chair, and the skinny, pacing, hospital-greens-clad girl were the only inhabitants.

If Belus could help it, though, they wouldn’t be staying too long.

“I tell you, I w-wasn’t even home for five fuckin’ minutes before they showed up,” she was talking again, having driven down some of her fear, and had resumed her attack on the bracelets. “They showed up, government people, whisked me away to ‘check out my mental state’; plopped me down in front of a pigeon-shit, crazy-ass doctor who took one look and locked me up. They’ve asked me so many questions . . . it’s a no-wonder I can’t fucking think st-straight. PTSD. That I believe— that shit turned me white. And every time I demand to be let out they put me in ISO— that’s where I get all these pretty bracelets from.” She stopped her assault and held her arm up in his face. The bent bracelets dangled from her bony wrist.

Belus leaned forward to look. Each half-masticated strip of plastic had a date, medication name, and time slot, and big fat red letters reading ISOLATION printed on it.

“I’m scared,” she repeated, and he looked up into entreating brown eyes, sunken holes in her gaunt face. “I’m scared, not fucking crazy. I’m not f-fucking crazy. . . .” She looked down, and her eyes began to pool with pathetic tears. “I just . . . just want to go home. . . .”

Belus made a soothing sound deep in his throat and took her wrist. Patiently, he snapped the rest of the bracelet’s off, and Angel hung her head and collected herself, blonde shocks of hair hiding her face.

When she was able to look up at him again, her gaze had lost its frightened sparkle; instead, they were serious, deadly serious.

“You have to get me out of here. You have to get out of here. He’s going after her. When he attacked me he got inside my mind, did terrible things, sick things, twisted sick terrible awful things— but I got inside his too. And I saw . . .” her voice faded, and Belus watched her eyes glaze over as the memory reached the surface of her mind, like something that hadn’t seen light or breathed air for aeons. He watched her intently, not wanting to miss any clues or uncovered messages he might find in her face.

Angel’s light brown eyes traveled from his face to a spot over his shoulder. They spotted themselves in the dirty fragments of the smashed one-way mirror behind her old teacher; they froze, transfixed at their own reflection. Scrying into her own black pupils, Angel felt a tremor rise within her, a diseased and primal dread— but she forced it down, swallowing past the aching lump in her throat.

Airily, she heard her voice float through the stale silence:—

“. . . .what’s . . . the date?”

Belus betrayed no emotion. His face and eyes hurt from concentration. “February 14th.”

Angel convulsed.

She lurched from her languid stance, hurling herself at a wall of air that wasn’t quite ready or able to catch her. She fell, but scrambled to her feet so quickly that she might’ve never hit the ground at all. Her movements were frantic and shaky, all the agitation that she had managed to contain thus far coming out as soon as Belus had spoken those magic words.

“The 14th? Are you sure? Are you sure?!” she wasn’t looking at him, all her attention focused on the discolored walls around her, eyes flitting from one to the next without missing a beat. “He’s coming to get her, he’s coming— ” and she was babbling now, her eyes darting around so fast that they quivered and shook in their sockets.

Becoming slightly alarmed, Belus made to grab her wrists. Maybe it was his icy touch; maybe it was the cold calculation in his bloodred irises— whatever the reason, the moment he had her undivided focus again, she ceased everything, like the puppeteer upstairs had cut her strings.

“What,” he could hear the quiet eerie gravel in his own voice, the only disguise he had for his own fear, “is so important about today?”

Angel gazed at him, expression perfectly blank, mouth lingering open as though waiting for a phantom hand to deposit words there. Slowly, like someone waking from a dream, her jaw worked and her voice filtered through her own milky confusion:—

“Don’t you remember?”

Bewildered, Belus shook his head.

“‘By that month of spring anew’,” she recited, “‘From thighs shall reap what long in due/ Hath vital breath be stripped from thee/’— ”

“‘And transferred to the throne in me’,” he finished, eyes boring into hers.

Suddenly, Belus’ mouth had gone very, very dry. He swallowed harshly past the lump in his throat, and heard himself ask tentatively:—

“He’s been planning this . . . all this time?”

Angel nodded.

Fighting off the abrupt and unusual wave of panic that swept over him, Belus took a deep, calming breathe, letting the air fill his lungs slowly. When he exhaled, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Angel was still looking at him, wondering what he was going to do.

If he was going to fall apart like everyone else had been lately.

Instead, he kept a cool exterior, but when he turned back to her his eyes were cold with some unfathomable emotion. They flashed sharply in their sockets, and seemed to glitter dangerously.

“Well then,” he said in a chilly voice, “we really have no time to lose.”

He’d been sleeping when he heard them.

He was lying on the lush burgundy bed, the darkness around him complete without so much as a candle to illuminate the room. He had been slumbering, wading in the dreamless sea that belongs to those who are far beyond help and hope of real sleep, just fake sleep, a way to bide time until opportunity rears its ugly head. He lay, stiff but languid all at once, aware but withdrawn, noting everything from his slight breathing to his barely-beating heart and yet numb to everything but an insufferable cold that existed only inside him. He lay there and waited. . . .

And then. . . .

His eyes flickered under their closed lids as the first sounds reached him. Light padding, slippers along stone floor, followed by the louder, more boisterous clacking of four-inch vinyl heels. Voices then, low and murmuring with occasional bursts of squealing laughter— and all of this, growing and swelling up like a great balloon, a migration of hundreds downward towards a great and gleaming hall . . . .

In the darkness, his orange-red eyes flashed open.

Time to wake up.

It was with an unrestrained listlessness that Rakel gazed at the gown draped across her bed. The garment was a simple one, black and satiny as her hair to where the two almost blended. She was lucky to have picked something up so late; most of the stores in the Village had run out of appealing attire, all of the glamorous dresses having already been taken. The one on her bed had been inconspicuously hidden between a frilly magenta number and a nearly translucent pale-yellow gown. It was sleeveless and hung a bare inch above the floor; the collar consisted of a conservative turtle-neck, complimenting the less-conservative oval hole in the back. It was an ideal dress, one that the Headmistress wouldn’t reproach her for and yet also one that she could feel comfortable in.

Still, even as it shimmered all its tasteful attributes, Rakel was desolately reluctant to put it on. It would be less like putting on a dress and more like fitting a noose around her neck. For all the hype about the dance, it promised to be a woeful affair, one that she didn’t feel like dressing up for.

Headmistress Gurlend, however, was hard pressed to have her present— even if her rules made it so that Rakel couldn’t have fun even if she tried. She’d been given quite a lecture, one that boiled down to something along the lines of: “You can’t take a crap without me to accompany you.” The Headmistress wanted her near at all times.

As though she thinks she has a chance of fending him off, Rakel thought acidly. Greying, seventy-something-year-old woman vs. five-hundred-year-old Undead. Oh, yeah: she’d kill him.

Rakel sighed. Like it or not, sooner or later she’d have to put on the dress and drag her ass downstairs, or else said seventy-year-old woman would be much obliged to do it for her. She had an hour left before the dance as it was. Most girls would use the time to prep, chat with each other, and start long, suffering feuds between each other; her, she’d rather just sit and sulk.

Because we all know that sulking is o’ so productive. And yet, despite her own cynicism, there was little else she could do. She’d never been one for meditation, so that was out. There was a book lying on her desk, Empress by Shan Sa; that would have been tempting, but she knew that she was way too distracted to focus on any kind of reading material. Combat practice required two people; so did throwing a tantrum. You could cry, she thought with fake optimism, but that would do very little for moral; and, given that everyone here has heightened senses, they’d probably smell you a mile off. So crying’s out too.

Which, of course, only left her with sulking.

It was, however, some kind of comfort that the solitude and privacy she currently sought weren’t totally lost concepts. All the halls throughout the school had been decorated in accordance with the silly “holiday”; pink streamers lined walls and dangled from ceilings; huge hearts were plastered on every door; there was even a puddle of sparkling pink-and-white confetti dumped mysteriously outside the main doors, so whenever they were opened the gusts of wind from outside blew the stuff everywhere. The decorations hadn’t even stopped there, apparently; from what she’d heard, all the dorms had been decorated (even the boys’ dorms; they’d been given streamers and an 8-foot inflatable Cupid, which was no hanging from a tower window, saggy and deflated). That Rakel’s room had gone untouched was reassuring, if only a little.

Absently, Rakel walked over to her bed, brushing the dress with her fingers. Rudolphus had come to her about an hour after Belus had been taken and did what he could in his slovenly, drunken state to calm her. He hadn’t been fooled for a moment by her seemingly-calm exterior; he made a run to the market, bought some Fat Bastard (1), and then made her down a good 1/3 of a cup until he was satisfied in her sedation. While she didn’t appreciate being forced alcohol upon, it wasn’t hard liquor and it did make her feel better. Rudolphus had left the bottle with her and lumbered back out to god-knew-where. He’d be at the dance tonight, most likely as the only intoxicated supervising adult in attendance.

Oh, well, she resigned glumly, staring at her dress. At least then I’ll have someone to talk to.

Giving herself a little mental shove, Rakel stripped down and, before the goose-bump-inducing chill could settle on her skin, threw the dress on in a quick, motion. She zipped it back up the side and tugged it into place as she went to stand before her foggy, floor-length vanity.

It’s not that bad, she decided, eyeing the dress. It fit nicely, to say the least; it added a kind of softness to the angles that made up her toned body, giving her a more womanly appearance than before. The bare shoulders, however, served as a reminder of her hard form, not letting all of her menace be lost. With no makeup on, though, no healthy glow to her cheeks and with dark circles around her eyes, she looked more like a ghoul than a girl going to a dance.

Distractedly, Rakel pulled at a lock of her hair; she’d let it down for the dance, and it was a shower of black water, every subtle curve reflecting an otherwise unseen blue light. And if her hair was a midnight waterfall, her eyes were stills ponds under the gaze of a new moon, inky and unwavering—

They widened to encompass the entire night as a pale hand slid over her shoulder, whispering deftly across her collar bone as a voice growled:—

“Hello, Princess.”

High Council Member Amalric Tancred (1) pressed his thin lips in an excessive motion of disgust. His dull red eyes (2) scanned the surrounding chambers: the lifeless nature of the walls, the precariously hanging wrought-iron chandelier— anything to keep from gazing at that wretched report again or the faces of his colleagues, seated in a circular fashion around an empty black chair.

Every single white-framed face in the room was looking to him in earnest— at least, as much earnest as hard-packed sacks of flesh with powdered mummy-guts for brains could muster. It was a pretty defunct, apathetic bunch. They had all died past their prime; and all had faces to match the walls of any proper asylum: featureless, Roman-white, with blue veins pulsing slowly in each neck. If Tancred concentrated, he could hear all their heartbeats, all in sync with each other as their thoughts circulated the room. . . .

The old vampire rebuked himself wearily for letting his mind wander; with much ceremony, he closed the file and pushed it away from him. His eyes flicked around, seriously taking in the others surrounding him; he was unable to dismiss the way their white hair gave them luminous halos, even in the dim.

“Belus Cohal Hayell.” His voice rumbled out of him, deep and old as the mountains. How strange, he thought, to be saying that name again.

After giving a moment for dramatic pause, he continued.

“Belus Cohal Hayell, former High Council Member, was apprehended early yesterday for questioning concerning the break in of the High Council’s Library. It has now been determined that he is the culprit. He is also considered to be a highly dangerous individual.

“Unfortunately, as of six hours after sunset today, he has gone missing. In his company was an eighteen-year-old female named Sarah Kingdom.”

Not an eyelash entire room fluttered, but there was an almost audible shift as every jaw in the room clenched. It wasn’t often that the HCV precinct had an escapee, much less one with a teenage accomplice. But not only had they both escaped— apparently, Hayell had ripped open an coplanar portal and dragged them through it to a location across the world. The fact that the girl in question was barely legal, insane, and a former student of Hayell’s was just the cherry on top.

And, if one were to continue comparing the situation to an icecream Sunday, Hayell’s colorful record was the caramel-and-chocolate syrup drizzled over everything. There wasn’t a vampire in the room— nay, in whole building— who didn’t know Hayell’s name or his past. The man was psychotic, dangerous, experienced, roguish, powerful— the list went on.

Judging by the tight expressions of his colleagues, Tancred guessed that they were thinking the same thing.

And it went without saying that there was only one thing to do.

He would say it though— for formality’s sake.

“Belus Cohal Hayell is a dangerous criminal. It would be in the best interest of the vampire community if he were found and brought back before the High Council. Then,” he nodded gravely, “justice may be dealt out to him.”

All around the room, a series of haloed silver heads bowed in affirmation. Tancred waited, then giving them a distinct and righteous nod of the head, then motioned for the court attendant, a dark-haired living vampire standing just behind him.

“Collect a small militia of our best officers,” he instructed, being careful to keep his voice loud enough for the rest of the Council to hear. “Send them to Raekland Academy for Vampires. I have no doubt that he’s returned there, if only to gather some belongings. Cut off his escape and capture him; then bring him back here— and Rankor,” he said as the man was turning to leave, addressing him by his last name. In a slightly quieter voice he murmured, “Make sure this is done quietly.”

The man nodded, blue eyes hollow and solemn. Giving the Elder vampire a respectful pause, he then turned. A guard opened the black, Gothic door set in the wall behind Tancred’s high-backed chair, and the attendant strode swiftly out, seemingly unaffected by the dozens of dull red eyes following him as he went.

Belus panted, heart racing, face drawn tight with concentration and worry as he darted through the trees and brush. He scarcely breathed, scarcely made a sound as he flew over the rocks and fallen leaves that covered the forest floor; the trees whispered as he past, but other than that, the night was completely silent, and his deft flitting through the emerald forest did nothing to compromise that.

He’d been traveling like this for four hours now, having jumped off a train about fifty miles back. He would have started as soon as he left the HCV HQ (so to speak), but he had to make sure that Sarah— Angel— got home safely. Seeing as she couldn’t walk around in her hospital gown, he had gotten her some civilian clothes. Then, with very little ceremony and a great deal of concentration, he’d ripped open an mono-planar transportation portal and shoved both the girl and himself through it before the HCV’s lackeys came swooping down upon them.

Coming out of the portal on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean hadn’t been remotely pleasant; however, the proverbial cloud hanging over Miss Kingdom’s head had definitely let some sunlight peak through. She was particularly jovial to be taking a train that would make no stops until it reached her hometown.

As soon as the train began pulling out of the station, he’d caught his own, knowing that there was no more he could do for her. He couldn’t lose anymore time.

Fifty miles back, he’d realized that taking a train wouldn’t aide him in reaching this goal; so, he jumped and began streaking through the forests, heartbeat in his head, adrenaline pulsing through him like a drug, all his thoughts now a jumble of incoherence. The only rational thought he could conjure was:—

Rakel. Have to save Rakel.

He swallowed painfully, his throat red and irritated from the harsh air and hours of incessant flitting, even though he was respiring easily enough to still breathe through his nostrils. His heart pounded, but not with effort to circulate blood and sustain his rapid movement— no. His heart pounded painfully within in, caged inside his chest, but for reasons entirely separate from the strenuous exertion he was forcing upon his body. His heart was not racing because of his body.

It was because of fear.

He was afraid for Rakel.

And that was the one thing that held him in a harpy’s iron grip, constricted his insides and tore up his mind. He was afraid, afraid for her. He couldn’t fool himself and pretend it was only something so simple as concern— this was terror with gravity. And it was too late to take an emotional back seat, he’d already given up so much of his old stoic self to loving her.

And the fear made it so cold, so damn cold. . . . It was like diving into freezing water, where the chill is so intense that it sucks the breath right from your lungs. It paralyzed his insides and made lethargic his brain.

It cut his movements down into fractions of seconds.

He was flying over the ground, the trademark of flitting, but he was moving fast, faster than he w as supposed to, and already he could see the lights ahead of him, gleaming through the eye-shaped spaces between tree branches, and the leaves that rustled without sound tremored in his wake.

He met the edge of the woods the way one meets a glass wall when running full speed ahead— he parted it, seemed to dive through it, and leapt as if propelled into the clearing of trees. The smell of grass was all around him and he crouched where he had landed, breathing in the scent.

Slowly, methodically, he drew himself up, a dark shadow rising. His ruby eyes flicked across the quiet grounds; they settled on the large jack o’lantern of a building, all the windows flooded with orange light, full and glowing and rosy.

It said nothing of the horror within.

Belus stared, eyes never moving. A breeze swayed him, rippling his torn clothes; a lock of silver hair fell in the middle of his forehead.

Then, starting low from in his throat, a sound rose up inside him and he bared his fangs in an enraged snarl as he let out a very angry, very human growl.

Patience. That was all it took: patience.

He could tell himself this for eternity, and it would never make the waiting any easier. For three months, he had bided his time, sat and waited in this very room. Truthfully, he was sick of it. The restored grandeur and decor that suggested carnal pleasures ceased to amuse him any longer. It was hard to be idly tickled by the insinuation of the joys of the flesh when the object of his desire was laying, quite defenseless, no more than four feet from him.

She was beautifully laid out. Hands tied above the head— secured, rather, by shackles; her feet were clad in black, pointed ankle-boots, also bound by shackles; the rest of her was lovely and posed in sleep, cloaked in her black gown.

She sighed in her sleep, thin black brow creasing slightly. When he had set her down, her long black hair had draped itself over her pale, elegant neck, in addition spilling in silky black strands across her forehead. In his carelessness to tie her, the hem of her floor-length dress had ridden up, exposing a supple but toned calf.

She looked positively luscious.

Narkall glanced down at his hands to see that his palms were bleeding where his nails were digging into them. He unclenched them quickly and, with great pain, resisted the urge to lick his palms. Better to let the blood crust and dry than excite himself too early. There could be hours to wait still, depending on how long she decided to—

His heart jolted as the girl on the stone altar stirred; his quivered in his flesh as she groaned softly and shifted her head. He watched her face scrunch up, eyebrows creasing, concentrated on her closed lids. Patience, patience, patience . . . .

Two sets of pale petals fluttered open and blossomed into black orbs before him.

A slow sadistic smile crept onto his face as the confusion in them turn quickly to fear.

Ah, yes. Now the games could begin.

1. Amalric: means “work” and “power”. Tancred: means “thought and counsel”

2. Unlike most Elder vampires, Belus’ eyes are blood/ruby red. Most Elders’ eyes are brown-red, like the color of old blood. Because Narkall is a) crazy and b) on a dangerous power surge from all the other vampires he’s taken power from, his eyes are orangish-red, or scarlet.