Shadow Guardians: The Key

Chelsea, London

“Oh dear, this simply will not do,” Marcel shook his head disapprovingly.

The gown was far too tight around the waist and shoulders. The design, on the other hand, was appropriate for the gala honoring Lord Georgiano’s birthday, one of the chairmen preceding over the aristocratic nosferi council, and Marcel’s brother. Its bronze ball-style skirt and black lace bodice with gold decorations complemented Arlena’s auburn hair and golden complexion wonderfully. She would have been a lady of standard, if her hair hadn’t been a short jagged cut, and her physique hadn’t been so muscled. A smile on the hard face of her wouldn’t hurt either…

But as the only vampire in the small civilized aristocratic community of nosferi in Chelsea, London, his hopes were low. He sought to turn her into a lady, wiping out the warrior inside her, and thereafter, making her his own. Of course, she was two heads taller than him as a vampire, but what difference did it make if there was love in the air? Or duty as it were. Her duty, to her race. He was of a strong aristocratic bloodline, his DNA might survive yet if they bore a child together. And she was to be mated to him. That was the arrangement he had with the chairmen of the aristocracy. She would have to fall in line.

He sighed and held his chin, staring down at the gown. He tilted his head this side and that side, trying to see how to make this marvelous work of art fit her. Purposely he ignored the scornful glare in those cognac eyes of hers, and the setting of that strong jaw.

Arlena silently mouthed a curse and tried not to deck the pompous guy in front of her with his perfectly tailored suit and his spiffed up hair. He was short and pudgy, befitting the rich who sit on their asses all day, barking out orders like the world belonged to them.

“A little bit to the left with the needle, Frannie,” he instructed the servant carefully.

“Ow! Fuck!” Arlena cursed as the needle jabbed into the Barbie-puff sleeve of her dress.

“Sorry Mistress!” the human fumbled with the hands in a panic.

“Now, now Arlena. We don’t swear in this house…” Goodness, for all Marcel knew, she’d want to be on top in the bedroom, too. The horror. A lady’s place was underneath her male, surely, especially in the act of lovemaking. He released some of his bonding scent to calm her.

Instead, Arlena choked and started coughing, her eyes watering at the sickly sweet scent.

“I’ve told you to stop exercising so much, so these muscles can slender down. And let your hair grow out for gods’ sake. See that she is ready within the hour,” Marcel ordered. The human servant bowed, and Marcel strode out of the grandeur bedroom with a back so straight it looked like a steel rod had been hammered up his ass.

Arlena huffed out in relief as that cloying smell left the room, and unclenched her fists. But it was short lived. She already felt choked in this damn dress that was designed to fit Betty Boob. She was a fucking warrior, not porcelain china.

As the human tried to make something of the gown work, and failed, Arlena stared at the stately room of the mansion. It was as if Bollywood had vomited all over the place. Gold and gold and…oh there was a red rug. And oh wait, more gold. With frills and twirls and just way too much of everything. Sensory overstimulation to the seventh realm of the Abyss. And a canopy bed the size of a football field, in which she was supposed to be mated.

Yeah right. That shit ain’t happening. Not with Marcel with his powdered balls and stiff posture. He was just like everything in this bedroom, in this house, she mused. The illusion of perfection, flawless and spotless. Life ain’t like that. That was part of her repulsion of him. There was no rawness, no passion, and the war on the outside was so far removed from the aristocrats, she wondered sometimes if they choked it up to the stuff of Transylvania.

If she hadn’t been the only vampire to survive out of her team in the war, she wouldn’t have ended up here. Instead she was found by chance in a cornfield that had been devastated by battle, littered with the torn bodies of her fallen shield brothers and sisters, nearly bled out herself. It was Marcel that had found her, on his way home from some fancy gala like the one she was expected to attend tonight. That was nine months ago now. Since she had been steeped in perfumes and taught proper table manners.

He was sure probably, that it was a fallen angel that had appeared on the ground. And of course the aristocratic society would expect her to mate him, now that she was the only female vampire still standing in wretched London. She was a prize, a pure-blood, and fuck her, capable of bearing younglings. She was nothing but a babe incubator in their eyes. She owed it to them, after all. For saving her life. Which she had never asked for. Godamnit, dying in battle was an honorable way to go, dying with a sword in her hands and fire in her heart.

And here she was, stuck in a princess gown to rival the Queen.

But she didn’t plan on sticking around. To hell with that. Duty or no duty, she will not be mated for an eternity to a man her very biology rejected. And as confident as Marcel was in his high-browing masculinity, a female vampire’s biology would not produce a child if she was mated to the wrong male. It was hard enough to conceive with the right mate. And as much as he wanted an heir, the chance that his nosferi DNA would carry over her pure-blood genes was very slim.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to find you another gown, M’Lady.” Frannie said, rising with disappointment on her face. It was such a lovely dress, and it would’ve looked so beautiful on the mistress. “It was so beautiful, it reminds me of the wedding gown you will wear before long.”

The aroma of freshly cut flowers filled Arlena’s nostrils, the sweetness rising, taking over, and replacing the air, until it felt as though it was poisoning her lungs. Her throat swelled shut, as if fighting the attack, and she tugged at the dress’s bodice. It was far too tight. She tried to breathe via her mouth, but it didn’t help. Her lungs were choked and covered with the floral stink... She was suffocating, drowning.

“Get this fucking thing off me!” Before the servant could untie it, Arlena ripped the thing to shreds with her bare hands, tearing the exquisite needlework to bits.

Jesus, if her brother was alive…If Ravende was still alive. Fuck. His name didn’t mean revenge in their language for nothing.

She ran into the bathroom, and shut the door with the human servant agape. She had to get the hell out of here. Before that wedding. Doing so required doing the unthinkable. She was going to steal some of the money out of the safe, and fly to New York. There were more covens in the U.S.

And she had some experience as a bartender. She could probably find work in one of the nightclubs. Her honor was reprimanding her, but she’ll send money back anonymously once she’d found her footing. She had a contact there that might be able to help, too. But she was going to give the aristocracy the one finger salute, and she didn’t care shit what they thought of her thereafter.