19 Bloodlust

My mind reels for a moment.

My name? I think to myself. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect the Scarlet Prince to be asking me for my name. 

"Serena," I reply, slowly, chewing on my cheek. It isn't like I had to hide anything anyway. My name means nothing to him, and wouldn't give a scrap of my true identity away. After all, there are probably many other Serena's throughout Faey, so I have no fear in telling him. Resentfully, I dismiss any thoughts from my head that suggest otherwise. The Scarlet Prince pulls back a little, as though he'd been stung, before cloaking his face with another wan smile. It's a practised look, a mask, a veil between me and his true self- the part that probably wants to kill me. So as his hand trails down my neck, fingers lightly tracing the throbbing of my heart, lingering and deliberate, I find myself looking for the part of him that's missing.

"Serena, Serena… A pretty name for a pretty creature," He murmurs as we dance, his voice dropping to a whisper. His fingers tap on my shoulder, nails pricking into my skin. Vampires and elves eye us warily, curiosity getting the better of them as they strain to figure out exactly what I have that they don't. I roll my eyes at the prince. Flirting, always flirting. It is as though he never stopped.

"Do you want me to thank you for that, O great one?" I half mock, rolling my eyes once more. The prince raises an eyebrow. Then he laughs, short, sharp, almost startling, but somehow beautiful. It is so abrupt it almost does not seem real. Something flashes across his face, his eyes glitter wildly, madly, crimson red churning in their depths. He pulls a hand back through his messy hair, movements fluid and sensual, fangs bared to a wicked grin.

"Surely you know, Serena," he starts, lowering his voice back down to a whisper, pulling his face close to mine- almost threatening. My name rolls off his tongue with such ease it almost seems unnatural. A faint smell, sickly and sweet, catches in his breath. Blood. I resist the urge to back away slightly. "That I could kill you. Right here, right now, if I wanted to. You would be unwise to mess with me, little dove. What makes you so sure I won't just murder you on the spot?" His wide, beautifully dangerous smile makes it all the worse. The words 'kill you' are punctuated by two taps on my chest, cold and firm. I hear some sniggers from vampires who had dared to listen in and flush an angry red. Yet in spite of his words, no malice laces the tones of his voice. But there is a cold emptiness in them, an unspoken truth that makes them so much the worse. Mustering what little courage I have from the depths of my heart, I pull my face closer to his, daring him to stop me.

"And yet you haven't. Besides, you said you wouldn't hurt me," I whisper, smirking. "Not very murdery of you, Scarlet Prince." He narrows his eyes at me, mouth twitching slightly in amusement. I can't believe I said that to him.

"And if I am lying?" He asks coldly, shadows dancing around his raven feathered cloak, in the curls of his hair, the dips under his cheekbones. I suck in my breath.

"Go ahead then. Kill me." Silence.

On most- if not any, occasions, it would be the worst thing to do to rile up a vampire- not to mention the Prince of the vampires, even a new-born angel would know that. The ease in which he slips from a man to a monster is almost startling, and the speed in which he seems to lose control even more so. It doesn't take long for me to glimpse the deep red swirling in his eyes like the blood in my necklace, displacing the remains of the golden honeyed colour, hungry, animal.

The best time to manipulate someone is when they aren't thinking clearly, when they are out of control. Internally, I thank Ithuriel for his carelessly remarked insights.

For whatever reason, he hasn't killed me yet, a fact I am alarmingly keen to exploit. If I need him to like me, and set myself apart from all his other potential suitors, I have to do everything to get under his skin, even if that means putting my life on the line in the process. To get back the flame, I will do anything.

Suddenly a strange tugging sensation pulls at my gut. Darkness sweeps up my vision for a moment- and only for a moment- before I blink open my eyes to find myself not in the courtroom, but in a lavish living chamber. He must have teleported us. I frown grimly to myself. Well, I think darkly, I suppose what they say about him walking in shadows is true after all. The ebony wooden floor is covered by a thick ornate carpet, golden tassels strewn across its perimeter, more decorative than purposeful. The walls are lined with paintings, of roses, of skulls, of blood, a collage of frames amongst cabinets of glass goblets and sculptures. Two gargoyles eye me beadily in one such cabinet. A roaring fire burns in a great black mantlepiece, pointless, bright, surrounded by two wooden boned red, velvety couches. It does very little to give heat to the room, due to the unpierceable chill that hangs in the air, as wintery and intense as a snowstorm. For what feels like the one hundredth time today, I regret not asking to wear anything warmer. Regardless of what the vampires like, if I died of hypothermia I would not be of use to anyone.

In the corner of the room, there is a desk, piled with papers, ink pots, quills, all spilling out from its drawers, illuminated by a tall floor lamp which seems pointless for a vampire. Claw marks rake their way down its front, the ridges left behind barely illuminated so that if you didn't look too closely, you might miss the black chipped paint, thinking them the marks of an animal. I can feel his presence in the room, his gaze like a thousand eyes pinning me to the spot. Shadows swirl around me, angry, violent wisps lashing close to my heels, the darkness festering, hungry. It's his power, and I feel like it's going to eat me alive. Part of me suspects it might. Carefully and unmoving, my eyes follow the fresh claw marks that scrape their way down the furthest wall, the wood splintering, black and grey oxford wallpaper torn, blood dripping from each gaping wound. It seems from a distance as though the wall itself appears to be bleeding.

In the gloom I can see his shadow. He's watching me, keeping his distance, his eyes smouldering red.

"Did I not warn you not to mess with me, little dove? I haven't fed in two days thanks to you spoiling my hunt in the Great Forest. I'm very, very hungry," he warns, his voice almost a growl. It takes me a moment to process that the person I'm seeing in front of me is the same prince I danced with seconds ago. Any spec of kindness has gone from his eyes, his hair is a mess, his body rigid, every aspect of him cruelly obscured in whirling shadows. He looks totally vampire: wicked and half mad but devastatingly beautiful. It is what I expected to see, and yet that doesn't make it any less startling. Soren coils his body up, shadows consuming him. All at once I suddenly understand why the world fears him so- this man, this wild, temperamental monster, could wipe me out in one second flat. One wrong move and I could be ripped apart. One wrong move, and those claw marks wouldn't be the only thing slashed against the wall. Being here alone is risking my life enough, but if it's my only chance to get back the flame, to save my people, I will face any vampire. Even the Scarlet Prince.