A Dowry of Blood (A Dowry of Blood #1)(14)

You did not seem concerned with the human toll such a remaking would demand.

As the trade routes in and out of the city were choked out by the Ottomans, Vienna’s tables became more and more meagre, but you and I feasted nightly. Chaos ruled the streets, and people were so preoccupied with their own concerns that they were willing to look the other way if someone went missing. There were more young people roaming the streets, restless and wound up with fighting instinct. You welcomed them with open arms, even brought some of them into our bed to toy with before you took your fatal bite.

We grew fat and happy in the city’s discontent, and you quietly began pulling your money out of Viennese ventures and cashing out your investments in gold. Another move was coming, then. There wasn’t much time left.

My killing sprees grew bolder, more indiscriminate. The frantic atmosphere covered my tracks and allowed me access to men whose disappearances would have otherwise been thoroughly investigated. I went after magistrates, keepers of the peace, wealthy merchants, degenerates all of them. I ripped the throat out of a man who had violated his own daughter, then left a whole month’s worth of the allowance you gave me at the foot of his daughter’s bed. I ran a war profiteer through with one of the swords he so happily sold to both sides, then delicately supped from his wrist in his smithy. It was like sitting at my father’s knee as a child, cozy in the glow of a blacksmith’s fire while I enjoyed my simple meals.

It wasn’t a vendetta now, it was a purge; my last-ditch effort to cleanse the city of the wretches who haunted her dark corners. I would not leave Vienna in their clutches. Despite the way you turned your nose up to my nightly vigilante activities, my heart was steadfast. Why else would God allow me to fall into your hands if he did not want me to use my monstrousness to serve the common good?

I began to say goodbye to my beloved city, going for long walks at dusk to try and catch a bit of her color, see a few of her inhabitants before night fell. I was in love with every cobblestone, every bridge, every butcher’s boy and flower-selling girl. Vienna seemed to me a perfect encapsulation of the wonder of city life, and I shuddered to think she may fall.

Either way, you and I wouldn’t be there to see it.

We fled under cover of night, through an underground tunnel known only to a few. I ran with your jewels sewn into my dress, with hidden pockets to hide silver and gold. We abandoned everything in the townhouse; my fine dresses and shoes, Hanne’s lovingly embroidered pillows, your scientific equipment in the basement. We would rebuild even better than before in our new home, you told me.

We were stopped a mile from the city by a band of Ottoman soldiers patrolling the borders of their camp. They brandished their spears, but we made short work of them. We left their bodies in a heap on the ground, blood seeping through their clothes, a spear sticking up out of one of their chests.

“Where are we going?” I panted, struggling to keep up with you in my heavy dress. I thought I might collapse under the weight of it, even with my growing preternatural strength. The night was moonless, and I trusted your night sight better than I trusted mine.

“There’s a coach waiting. I paid off anyone who mattered.”

You pulled me along by the wrist, almost dragging me when I slowed too much. We scrambled through the weeds, the distant sound of explosions battering Vienna’s walls urging us along.

“And then?”

“Spain. One of my associates is expecting us.”

Another explosion sounded, loud enough to rattle the ground under my feet, and I gasped and rushed forward. Sickness, age, and a simple knife wound couldn’t kill creatures like us, but I wasn’t sure that being blown to bits wouldn’t.

The coach was waiting just as you said, with faceless hooded men waiting with two identical black horses. They were the kind of rough folk whose loyalty could be bought for a week or two, highwaymen mostly likely.

You opened the carriage door for me and held out your gloved hand.

“My lady,” you said.

I let you help me inside and pressed myself against the side of the coach, my face an inch from the window. As we took off with a lurch, I watched the city shrink to nothing behind us.

From such a great distance, the faithful torches burning along the outer wall made it look like Vienna was on fire.





PART TWO





We travelled by coach for days, dowsing in the sunlight hours and passing our time with quiet conversation or solitary activities by night. You became more withdrawn the closer we got to the Spanish border, referring to notes and letters you kept tucked into your datebook over and over again. I wanted to ask who exactly it was we were going to meet in Spain, but I would have been met with one of your gentle rebuttals, or worse, a flare of your unpredictable irritation. I had learned by then that it was better not to ask about your plans, since I didn’t have a say in them anyway. Better to ride along as your quiet, beautiful consort, taking notice of everything and everyone without making any demands of you.

I knew we were going to pass a few nights with one of your many correspondents, a Spanish noble of some prominence who had dazzled you with their cutthroat political philosophy.

“Like a modern Machiavelli,” is all you had murmured, half to me, half to yourself as you reread the letters.

I never expected her.





Magdalena insisted on receiving you the instant you arrived. She was waiting for us outside her manor, flanked by her staff. She was one of the most striking women I had ever seen, with a fine-featured face of cutting cheekbones and a soft, thin-lipped mouth, framed by a confection of black curls. Her dusky skin was set off by the high color of her cheeks. Rouge, probably, despite its impropriety for someone of her station. She was dressed in black satin trimmed with crimson silk, and her dark eyes flashed like twin daggers when she saw you, a smile breaking across her face.