In the thrilling sequel to Of Shadow and Death, the mysterious Dracul Dregoth and the tenacious Evette Star return to seek each other out amongst the ashes.
Though Evette once vowed to kill the King in the West, she soon realizes that he is the only...
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Dracul stood stiffly as he looked out over the dark battlement 0f Drogen. The looming castle he had called his home for over twenty two years. His soul had spent more time lingering in the quiet halls than his physical body had. The details did not matter, at least, to him they no longer did. Whether he had spent a century as a troublesome spirit, or a little over two decades as a man in the flesh, he was the same person. The same monster who had tore young men away from their families for the sake of the great war he had hoped to win. He did win, though he lost in more ways to count.
Dracul was the same beast who had dared to test the patience of the young woman he now knew as Evette Star, the elf who had disrupted the natural balance of existence he had once created. She was a flame that burned so bright before his eyes he simply had to force himself to glance away. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight at the fresh remembrance of the wet tears that had stained her dark cheeks. He was the one who had brought tears to her eyes the first and only time he had ever truly been in her presence; had sparked a flame all around her that set her heart on fire. She hated him. She would come for him. Evette would tear down one castle wall at a time to search out his soul, he knew.
He could not sleep, albeit, his body did not require it of him. He once enjoyed the feeling of closing his eyes to rest, as it once brought him peace, but that peace had long been disrupted. That peaceful silence was no more Dracul realized, and the lightening in the dim sky rumbled and crashed in noisy agreement. He thought of the girl he had hurt, and of the sky that further darkened with smoke each day that turned over unto the next. He wished that he did not have to witness the sun rise over the burnt horizon each dreadful morning, but he had no choice. He had to keep an eye on the horizon. His non-existent heart beat another day, and so, he could not free himself from the chains of immortality, or break away from the constant chill that radiated in his pale bones.
A dragon of hollow bone; a man of hollow feeling, he hated what he had become. He shattered every mirror within the castle walls, disgusted by the appearance of the vessel that his soul occupied. He knew no other vessel, as only one was created for him. Only one could match the appearance of the spirit that lie beneath, beautiful in ways he could not see; grotesque in more ways he could not bare. Raven haired, with pale, violet skin, and a lean figure, Dracul was a vision that could evoke envy in men, women, and any conscious supernatural alike. Knowing that many he had met longed to hold such a graceful allure as he, did nothing for his ego, as he barely felt any emotion besides sadness, and the occasional bout of anger. He once rid himself of those who simply wished to stare, as he only payed a second glance to those who wanted more of him than his earthly looks. He wanted to evoke an emotion within the few who looked upon his face, but not just any emotion. He wanted them to feel the pain that burdened his existence, the burning sorrow that ate away at the gore that lie beneath his semitransparent skin. He was no stranger to the feeling of sadness, as his creator had wrapped such a feeling around his being.
Dracul found that the days moved at a pace so slow, he found himself droning. Words escaped him, though he knew no one could hear him. He allowed the shadows at his hands to amuse him as they parted and danced around like tiny dancers beckoned to please only his eyes. He amused himself with tricks, and few sad, distant memories that seemed to cheer him instead of sadden him further. He felt like a child again, nodding along with the voices that spoke into his pointed ears. When he was young, the voices were quiet; barely above a tedious whisper. As a grown creature, the voices spoke without caution. They no longer wished to keep from frightening him so. They hissed like a snake in the stiff, browned grass, wild and untamed, rattling their tails with ferocious force. Some sang, and some screamed at the top of their blackened lungs, reminding him of the innocent children that had once haunted his nightmares. He had created the fire that pooled at their feet, and he had been the one who ordered their ears dulled. Their tongues cut out. Their pride torn away.
