To Vanquish Darkness (Le Sombre #1)

Chapter 4

4

1836 COUNTRYSIDE BEYOND MORDELLES, FRANCE

A malie worked to catch her breath as Oren stared at the macabre collection of objects in front of him. Aunt Maurielle shoved the book she’d been holding onto the shelf and took a step toward the desk. For a second, she wondered if they’d ignore the weapon completely and start in on her being out after dark.

“What is this?” Her uncle’s voice was tight.

“You know what it is.” Amalie wasn’t going to play his game. Not anymore. There was too much at risk for her to placate him and accept his outdated reasoning.

“I don’t—” he started, but Amalie slammed her hand onto the desk, making him flinch.

“This is the proof you said I’d never find. I killed him, Uncle. The man I told you I saw in the city. The vam?—”

“Do not say that word in this house.”

Amalie’s nostrils flared. She forced air into her lungs as her hands started to shake. Oren had been the one to teach them from the Grimoire. To tell them the story of Solène and Le Sombre, to explain why their world always teetered between light and darkness, never settling in peace. Yet he would not concede that either god had touched humans with their power. It was madness.

She drew a breath and forced the edge from her tone. “Those dark creatures killed my mother. I saw it with my own two eyes. I’ve hunted him—the man they call Theo Vallon—for months, and tonight I vanquished darkness.” Amalie held up the ring with his insignia. “He is one of them. The brotherhood you refuse to acknowledge. The creatures of the night responsible for?—”

“You know nothing of what you speak.” Her uncle’s voice shook with rage.

Amalie straightened, her palm still stinging. “And you do? You live in a dream, Uncle! Pretending we are not being watched, hunted! Pretending the accounts of corpses drained of blood are not spread to cow us into submission!”

“I told you to stay away from Marcel and the Pourfendeurs. I told you?—”

“You told us plenty of things that aren’t true, Uncle. You may not approve of Marcel, but he has been willing to do what you haven’t.” Amalie straightened, stepping back from the desk. “Now there is one less of them prowling the streets.”

Oren watched her with barely concealed anger. Amalie waited for him to open his mouth, thrilled and terrified by this break in her uncle’s gentle demeanor. He hadn’t yelled when she told him she was leaving. When she left with his horse, he hadn’t chased after her like she’d half-hoped he would.

“Amalie?” A small voice sounded behind her, and she whipped toward the study door.

“Bethany.” The name slipped past her lips as her sister ran forward, wrapping her arms so tightly around her waist, Amalie thought she might heave the meager contents of her stomach. Even though she had nothing left after heaving outside. The adrenaline that had coursed through her for the past half a day seeped out of her at the clean scent of her sister's hair, and she wanted to sink like a stone to the floor.

Leaving Bethany had been the hardest decision of her life, but the ring staring at her from the desk had made it all worth it. They would be safe. Amalie would fight until they were safe.

Her sister pulled back, tilting her chin until her deep brown eyes locked onto Amalie's. She didn't have to look far. Bethany had grown a full inch since the last time they were together. She'd had a birthday as well. Fourteen. Bethany's jaw tightened. "Why haven't you visited?"

"I—" Amalie paused. How to answer that question? She glanced at her aunt standing next to the desk. "I was working and couldn't get away from the city." She could've visited more if she wanted to. If she'd been willing to lie about what she was doing in Paris. Who she was spending time with. Leaving and defying her uncle's wishes was one thing, but looking him in the eye while sleeping under his roof and partaking of his hard-earned food would've filled her with shame. She'd come back halfway through the year for her blood infusion, and those twenty-four hours had been difficult enough.

"I missed you," Amalie breathed, pulling her sister in again and clutching her head to her chest. That was the truth. Perhaps one of the only truths she could tell her at the moment. "Let's get you up to bed, shall we?" Amalie positioned herself purposefully between Bethany and the desk where the ring and stake were still sitting out in the open.

Bethany nodded, linking her arm with Amalie’s and leading her into the hall. They walked together up the stairs and into Bethany's small room. Besides the new clothes thrown over the chair next to her vanity, the room looked the same as it had the day Amalie had left. The same four-poster bed. Same mahogany armoire. Amalie sat on the bed and ran her fingers over the cream Matellase quilt.

Bethany grabbed her brush, then handed it to Amalie as she dropped onto the mattress next to her. Amalie had to reach to pull the brush through her hair from scalp to tip. "You're too tall for this now."

Bethany grinned back at her, her brilliant green eyes sparkling. "Aunt Maurielle passed on some of your old clothes. I wore that blue dress you used to love—the one with the bow?"

Amalie laughed. "That fits you already? I thought I wore that when I was at least sixteen." She hadn’t stopped loving that dress. The one with the white swans.

"It's still a bit long in the sleeves." Bethany’s eyes dropped.

She understood her sister’s impatience. She'd worn everything of her mother’s the second it no longer fell off her shoulders, regardless of whether the skirts dragged when she didn't have her boots on. All her mother's frocks, save for one, hung in the bedroom next door. She had no use for petticoats and skirts during her training and only used the one on weekends. Thankfully, there were plenty of women working hard labor in the city. She rarely received strange glances or judgment for her breeches unless she ventured too close to high society.

“You better put it back when you’re done,” Amalie teased, and Bethany huffed a laugh.

"Are you here to stay?"

Amalie pushed the now gleaming section of her sister’s hair to the side and started on the next. "Why would you want your spinster sister to mope around the cottage and accomplish nothing in her life?"

Bethany snorted. "That would only be true if my sister's soul was stolen. The sister I know would find a way to accomplish greatness no matter where she lived."

Amalie swatted her lightly on the hip with the brush. "You have far too much faith in me."

Bethany exhaled, sitting patiently as Amalie finished with the rest of her chestnut locks. Amalie had always been jealous of her sister's stock straight hair. It looked perfect the moment she rolled out of bed, whereas hers looked like a windblown bird's nest.

She could’ve made conversation about that. She could’ve teased her about the men who were surely coming around now that she was of age. She could’ve asked her about her schooling or her plans for the summer, but every time Amalie tried to open her mouth, the lump in her throat bobbed.

So instead, they sat in gentle quiet. The only sound the brush bristles whispering against Bethany’s hair. When she finished, Amalie handed the brush back to her sister. Bethany stood and padded back to the vanity, placing the brush next to the jeweled box that used to be their mother's. She wondered if Bethany had hidden any secrets there.

"Why did you come back tonight?" Bethany turned but didn't walk closer.

Amalie drew a deep breath. How much had her sister heard? She replayed her conversation with Uncle Oren, regretting instantly how she'd gotten worked up and raised her voice. "I had something I needed to bring to Uncle Oren."

"What was it?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

Bethany rolled her eyes. "I'm fourteen, Amalie. You hardly need to protect me anymore." She stalked forward and plopped down next to her, making the bed frame creak.

"I'll always protect you, Beth." Another truth. Amalie was grateful for it.

Bethany folded her arms across her chest. "It's about mother, isn't it? About those stories you used to tell?"

Amalie's heart sped in her chest. Uncle Oren had forbidden her from talking about what she'd seen that night. He'd taken the books their mother had found in a closet at the estate. The ones that held the old stories about Le Sombre. About the curse. About unearthly creatures that lured humans into their clutches and drained their victims of blood.

Amalie shivered. "I'm sorry I filled your head with those nightmares."

Bethany shook her head. "You were a child, Ams. We both were."

In her head, Amalie knew it was true, but her heart refused to believe it. She should've known better. She should've been better.

"You're not going to tell me what you brought." Bethany lowered her eyes.

"It's not that I don't want to."

"Then what is it?" She looked up, her eyes glassy.

"Beth, I promise I'll tell you the second you turn sixteen." She worried her bottom lip. That was reasonable, wasn't it? This wasn't the same as what Uncle Oren had done to her. Bethany was still a child. "As long as you haven't gone and gotten yourself married by then."

Bethany screwed up her nose. "Married to whom?"

Amalie laughed out loud. "Matthew, for one! Or that boy who always used to wait at the back gate and?—"

"Gabriel? Absolutely not!" Bethany playfully shoved her shoulder. "He still chews on the collar of his shirts!"

Amalie pulled a face, and Bethany giggled like she had when they were young. Amalie could still see her there—that wide-eyed girl who had traipsed along behind her on their adventures along the river in the summers. Now her features had sharpened at the edges, and the freckles across her nose had faded. With her long, dark lashes and full lips, she was more beautiful than cute. It made Amalie's heart twinge.

"Alright, time for bed." Amalie pulled her sister into a quick hug and stood from the bed.

Bethany pouted. "You'll be here in the morning?"

Amalie nodded, though truthfully, she didn't know what to expect. Her conversation with Uncle Oren had been cut short. "I'll see you at breakfast." She swept through the door and closed it gently behind her, then strode to her room at the other end of the hall. She hadn't asked if she could stay the night, but given the late hour and the raindrops tapping against the tiles on the roof, she hoped it was a fair assumption.

Amalie slipped through the door and shivered. Her room was on the north side of the house, so the stones didn't absorb much heat from the sun this time of year. She blamed her trembling on muscle fatigue and general exhaustion rather than the lingering sensation of wood punching through flesh. Of blood against her fingertips.

She strode immediately to the edge of her bed and felt along the floorboards for the familiar, uneven edge. When she found it, Amalie pried the edge up with her fingernails, wincing at the pressure, then set it to the side and pushed her hand into the gap.

Amalie breathed a sigh of relief. Still there. She pulled the carved wooden box out of its hiding place and inspected it. Just as she left it.

When she’d run from this house at seventeen, she hadn’t known where she’d be living, and the city wasn’t a place for flaunting valuables. Though she didn’t have the first clue what was inside the box, it had to be something important, didn’t it? Else why would her mother have asked her to protect it?

Amalie traced her fingers around the edges, searching for the thousandth time for a clasp or depression. Nothing. She gritted her teeth and kissed the box, then set it on the bed. She wouldn’t stay long, and this time, the box was coming with her.

Amalie quickly stripped off her coat and boots, then pulled her shirt over her head. Her skin prickled at the rush of chilled air against her chemise, still damp with sweat. Amalie strode to the armoire to search for clean undergarments, but just as her fingers closed around the knob, a breeze laced with the scent of fresh rain whispered against the back of her arms and neck.

She stilled. Her room had always been cool but never drafty. Her heart jumped to her throat. Perhaps her window had been left open a crack. It had been unseasonably hot the week before in the city, and?—

Amalie gasped as a strong arm cinched around her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth. She flailed her arms behind her head, tensing her hands into claws and raking her fingernails over whatever flesh she could find. It availed her nothing.

A man was in her room. Someone strong. How had he gotten in? Her door was still shut and she was on the second story.

She bucked and strained but barely moved inches from the iron chest against her back. The man's grip tightened until her lungs burned, and she was forced to stop struggling or pass out from lack of air.

"Please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be," he whispered, his breath ragged and hot against her ear. He relaxed the fingers over her nose, and she greedily sucked air through her nostrils. A soft scent flooded her senses, and she was immediately transported to the south of France, where they'd traveled with Uncle Oren three summers ago. White jasmine flowers decorating lush green vines. Plump orange fruits hanging like teardrops from thin branches.

Amalie could almost hear the sea crashing against the cliffs. Her wrist twisted, and she slammed back into herself, realizing her cheeks were wet. Her vision blurred as she tried to think past the strange calm coating her like a second skin.

His arms still gripped her. She should be panicking. Why was she not panicking? Her body slumped into the stranger, and she nearly growled as she worked to force tension back into her spine.

She had to think, but her mind was cloudy. What did she know? He was large, at least a head taller than her, and strong enough that he may have cracked her ribs. Or had she done that fighting against him? Either way, she had no chance of overpowering him, though she was struggling to remember why she wanted to in the first place.

As her breathing settled, Amalie became very aware of his forearm against her bare shoulder. The button of his pants pressed into the small of her back. His skin was warm, his breathing deep and heavy. Her eyes darted to the still-firmly closed door of her bedroom. What did he want with her? How had he scaled the wall and gotten through her window without her hearing a thing?

He’d been waiting for her. That was the only logical answer. When she’d walked into her bedroom from Bethany’s, he’d already been in her room. Plus, he’d brought some aerosolized toxin that was addling her brain.

Amalie held her breath, hoping the effects would clear before her lungs gave out. The man pulled her further from the armoire, away from the desk and the candle that still burned there, and the fog lifted slightly.

His thumb grazed her wrist. "I'm not going to?—"

Amalie clawed for every scrap of rage rippling beneath her consciousness and used the slight distraction of their movement and his words to her advantage. She curled her lips back and bit down hard on the first finger she could draw into her mouth, then slammed her foot against the inside of her attacker's knee. He grunted but never lost hold of her, instead cracking her nose with the heel of his hand as he spun her around to face him. Amalie groaned as he crushed her arms to her sides, and she opened her mouth to scream, but the air caught in her throat.

That face. His face. The amber glow of the candle flickered against his dark brow, his angled cheek bones, his coal-black hair again wet with rain like it had been that night on the street.

"It's not possible," Amalie hissed as the room seemed to swirl around her. She had killed him. She'd driven a stake made of ash wood into Theo Vallon’s heart. Her eyes dropped to his chest, and he noted the movement like a bird of prey. "I watched you die. I?—"

"You don't know half of what you think you know." He rubbed his finger, his lips drawn into a sneer.

Amalie's head spun as her eyes shot back to his. The air seemed to thicken, and her heartbeat continued to slow, lulled by his touch and scent. She was breathing. She shouldn’t be breathing. Her limbs grew heavy, her thoughts hazy.

His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed as his lips curled past gleaming teeth. "You will remain silent when I release you."

Amalie's eyelids drooped. Yes. She wanted to obey him. To please him— no . Amalie fought the heat building in her center, searching for the thread of fear and rage quickly slipping through her consciousness. He is dark. Dangerous. He will kill you, just like he killed your mother.

The thought of her mother sharpened her senses, and though she nodded her head in acquiescence, the second Theo released her waist, Amalie called on every thread of strength and bolted for the door.

It was stupid. She knew it the second he wrenched her shoulders back. Her face throbbed, pain radiating over her cheekbones as he wrapped around her a second time. Amalie whimpered and tasted iron in the back of her throat as something hot and wet dripped onto her upper lip.

Theo's body went rigid behind her, and the fog in her head lifted instantly. "You shouldn't have done that." His voice was rough, stretched tight like a bowstring.

"Done what?" Amalie coughed, fighting him just as she had the first time, her body no longer numbed by his glamour. Where was her uncle? Or Bethany? Surely someone had heard the scuffle of her feet against the floorboards.

"So stubborn." A low growl ripped from his throat as he shifted, forcing her shoulder blades flush against his chest and bending her head at an unnatural angle. Amalie gasped for breath. She begged for strength to stomp against the floor, to scream, but her muscles fell slack as Theo swept her curls from the tender skin of her neck.

Theo’s eyes drank in the shadows, glittering onyx in the candlelight. He was feral. He was thirst.

Vampire.

This was how death would come for her. Alone in her room. Her blood drained as she stared at the wooden ceiling beams. Nobody survived a vampire’s bite, not in the legends and not in reality. How many corpses had she seen? Lifeless eyes. Sallow, ashen skin.

She wondered if it would hurt. If she’d make a sound.

Amalie imagined her mother’s lifeless body draped across Theo’s outstretched arms in the woods. She thought of his lips coated crimson. His face twisted into something more animal than human.

This was how she would die then. At the hands of the same creature.

Exactly like her .

“Maman,” she whimpered as if she still stood on the rocks of the river bed. Hate curled around her bones like smoke as Theo’s jaw grazed the shell of her ear. A shudder rolled through his body as he dropped his head and pierced her flesh with needle-sharp fangs.