Men and Monsters (Nightfall, Book 2) Read online

  Men and Monsters

  the Nightfall series Book II

  Elena May

  NIGHTFALL Copyright © 2018 by Elena May.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Nadica Boshkovska.

  Vector art: Depositphotos

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio.

  For information visit KingdomOfAshes.net

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: CROSSROADS

  Chapter One: Secrets

  Chapter Two: Bloodstains

  Chapter Three: Unbroken

  Chapter Four: Staying Human

  Chapter Five: A Taste of Darkness

  Chapter Six: Fixation

  Chapter Seven: Explorers

  Chapter Eight: The Price of Fear

  Chapter Nine: Déjà Vu

  Chapter Ten: Player

  Chapter Eleven: Dance of Death

  Chapter Twelve: Remnants of a Lost World

  Chapter Thirteen: Changed

  Chapter Fourteen: Conviction

  Chapter Fifteen: Sacrifice

  Chapter Sixteen: Gone

  PART TWO: DANCE WITH THE DEVIL

  Chapter Seventeen: Friends and Foes

  Chapter Eighteen: Penance

  Chapter Nineteen: Pawn

  Chapter Twenty: Enemies

  Chapter Twenty-One: Untamed

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Trust

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Willpower

  Chapter Twenty-Four: A Bookworm’s Nightmare

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Alliance

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Knowing what You Want

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Earplugs

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dustless Pages

  PART THREE: BIRTH OF A MONSTER

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Wind of Change

  Chapter Thirty: A Sharp Turn

  Chapter Thirty-One: Civilization

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Identity

  Chapter Thirty-Three: On the Wings of Legends

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Priestess

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Prophesy

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Responsibility

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Last Heartbeat

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Shadow

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Reborn

  Chapter Forty: Three Last Tasks

  Chapter Forty-One: Voyagers

  Chapter Forty-Two: Shieldmaidens

  Chapter Forty-Three: Scholar

  Chapter Forty-Four: Boneless

  Chapter Forty-Five: Gift

  Chapter Forty-Six: Time for Wrath

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Blood Eagle

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Feast for Gods

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Death by a Thousand Cuts

  PART FOUR: RED DAWN

  Chapter Fifty: Blood and Amber

  Chapter Fifty-One: Clash

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Ring of Fire

  Chapter Fifty-Three: On the Brink of History

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Field of Bones

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Mists of Despair

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Raven Wings

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: Painted Red

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Shattered

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: Breaking Free

  Chapter Sixty: Fire and Death

  Chapter Sixty-One: Weeping Skies

  Chapter Sixty-Two: Swarm of Flies

  Chapter Sixty-Three: A New Power Rising

  Chapter Sixty-Four: Daybreak

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Notes on Historical Accuracy

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Secrets

  The moth-eaten blanket stank of rot. Myra’s fist clenched the tattered fabric so hard, she nearly tore it apart. The cloth was so thin, her fingers touched in between the threads. Her eyes darted around the cellar: pitch dark and silent, apart from the familiar, high-pitched scratching—rat claws over stone.

  She turned on the hard cot, willing herself to sleep, but her mind was reeling. It’s actually happening. The Resistance had captured Tristan alive. For the first time in fifty years, they held real, tangible power. And she, a selfish, dumb traitor, had promised to let Tristan go.

  But self-reproach would help no one. Myra sat up and reached out in the darkness, finding two pieces of flint. She searched for the candle next to her bedside and frowned when her fingers found only a smooth, greasy blob of wax. Cold and solid on the outside, but the surface gave under her touch. Of course—she had let the candle burn down completely. What an efficient use of our scarce supplies. Just two months at the Prince’s Palace had made her spoiled and wasteful.

  Myra opened a wooden box she had pulled from underneath her cot and rummaged through old papers, pens, forks, buttons, threads… and needles, she realized belatedly as a sharp sting shot up her finger. Finally, she found a new candle. She lit it with the flint and brought it closer to the large mechanical watch on the table. The hour hand had barely passed the second mark. No way. Had she been tossing and turning in bed for only a couple of hours? She would have sworn it had been much longer.

  That meant she had to wait for four more hours until breakfast, and only then would the Warriors’ Council visit and feed the prisoner. If the last couple of hours had been such torture for her, what had they been for Tristan? Vlad had claimed vampires drained of blood would feel as if drowning in a sea of dreadful nightmares until someone fed them. She had promised the Prince she would take care of Tristan, but she had left him to suffer.

  Myra stood up, running a hand through her hair so hard she pulled a few strands loose. She had betrayed everyone—both Zack and the Prince. The very least she could do now was try to keep at least one of her empty promises.

  She raised the candle and took a step, wincing at the loud sound her feet made on the stone floor. The hinges squeaked as she opened the door, and her breath caught in her throat. Myra expected the whole Resistance to come rushing in, demanding to know why she was leaving her room in the middle of the night. She stood frozen still for a few minutes, hardly daring to breathe. When no sound came, she stepped into the corridor.

  She squinted, trying to see beyond the candle flame. Myra spotted no guards, but she knew they would be patrolling all night. Perhaps she should snuff out her candle. Myra chewed on her bottom lip, gazing into the deep darkness. No. She had to finish this fast and could not risk stumbling into the wrong room. Quickly, she went back inside and retrieved the pieces of flint to put in her pocket—she needed the option to extinguish and relight the candle if she ran into trouble. As she returned to the door, a loud clank came from outside. Myra froze, heart pounding and throat tight. When no other sound followed, she walked on.

  The corridor was pitch black and deserted. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cold, and Myra swallowed hard, trying to slow down her racing heart. The candlelight danced on the stone walls, and, for a moment, Myra stared at the play of light and shadow. She could see a fish, and a rat, and a man fighting a hideous two-headed serpent. She bit her lower lip and stared straight ahead. There are no monsters in the shadows. The true monsters live in the real world.

  A bright light appeared at the end of the corridor, and Myra gasped. She blew out the candle and stood still, holding her breath.

  “Hey. Who’s there?” She heard L
idia’s voice.

  Myra squeezed the candleholder, thinking through her options. She could try to run in the darkness and hide back in her room, but Lidia was faster than her. “It’s okay, it’s me,” she called and walked towards her friend. “You startled me, and I dropped my candle. May I?”

  Once she had reached Lidia, she used her friend’s candle to rekindle her own. Lidia frowned. “Myra, are you all right? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m fine,” Myra said, her voice calm despite the tightness in her chest. “I just couldn’t sleep.” I was on my way to the library to pick up a book, she was about to say, when she realized the library was in the opposite direction. I had a bad dream and wanted to check if Thea is all right. Right, the children’s quarters were not this way either. Was there anything, besides the rat farm, that was this way? The school. “I left a book at the school. I wanted to pick it up; I thought it might help me sleep.”

  “Yeah, no wonder you can’t sleep after the last day’s excitement,” Lidia said. “Do you want me to walk with you?”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks,” Myra said. “Why are you patrolling? Shouldn’t you be resting and recovering from your wound?”

  Lidia snorted. “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep.” She massaged her neck. “My wound will heal, though I won’t feel better until I kill the beast who did this to me.”

  “Kill the Prince?” Myra said. “You know the plan is—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Lidia rolled her eyes. “The plan is that he’ll help us blow up the WeatherWizard after we send him a few of the pretty vamp’s severed fingers. I still don’t believe that’s going to work.”

  “Let’s be more optimistic,” Myra said, forcing herself to smile. “Goodnight, then. I hope you get some rest.”

  “You too,” said Lidia and continued on her way.

  Myra closed her eyes. She had just looked her friend in the eyes and lied to her. And, in all likelihood, that would not be the last lie she would have to tell.

  The rest of her trip was uneventful, and Myra smiled once she reached the metal door that separated her from her goal. She rested her palm against the cold surface, taking a slow breath before she rotated the knob and stepped inside.

  Rusty metal cages were stacked on top of each other on the tables and against the walls. Inside each were dark furry rodents, some small enough to fit in her palm, others as long as her forearm. A dozen pink and hairless newborns were in a separate cage, so their parents would not devour them. Bread crumbs, spilled water and rat feces littered all the cages. The stink and the hellish racket nearly made Myra go back, but she took a deep breath of the putrid air, closed the door behind her, and stepped further inside.

  The rats squeaked. She closed her eyes and steadied herself for what she was about to do. Myra spotted a metal bucket next to the wall and picked it up, frowning as another thought came to her. Was she supposed to take them dead or alive? If they were alive, they would be unmanageable and would make noise in the bucket, but if she killed them now, their blood would stop flowing, making it harder to feed the unconscious vampire. Feeding Tristan was what mattered the most—she had to take the risk.

  Myra donned the thick leather gloves left on the table for whoever needed to handle the rats and unlocked one of the cages. She could not take all the rats from a single cage—someone would notice they were missing—so her best bet was to take a single rat from one cage, a second one from another, until she had a decent number. She gingerly opened the door, not wide enough for a rat to get out, and all the rodents rushed towards the opening. She widened the gap, grabbed the closest rat and threw it into the bucket while she closed and locked the door with her left hand.

  The creature hissed and squealed, running around and bumping itself against the metal. That would never work. If she went out in the corridor with a bucket full of these demons, she would wake everyone. She had to kill the rat and hope that Tristan would still manage to drink.

  Myra knelt on the floor next to the bucket and reached out for a large sharp knife on the table. She lowered her hand into the bucket, grabbing the creature. It kicked, bit, and scratched, its sharp claws penetrating the thick leather glove and piercing skin and flesh. Myra cursed softly—she would have to clean the wound, and soon. She did not wish to imagine where the rat’s claws had been and what bacteria were now entering her bloodstream.

  With a quick move, she thrust the blade into the creature’s throat. Thick, sticky blood sprayed forward, onto her face and blouse, and she dropped the knife. Myra pressed one hand against her mouth and one over her stomach, rocking back and forth and trying not to retch. Panic made her dizzy. If she threw up here, she could never clean it completely.

  She slapped herself. What was wrong with her? She had killed plenty of rats in the past, and had baked them and eaten them. Had she become so squeamish after her time in the Palace? Was it easier for her to accept a vampire drinking a living human than a dead rat?

  She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Perhaps on the fresh green grass after the hunt, with Tristan sitting next to her and drawing her the map of their route, the sweet smell of living plants and earth surrounding them. Or perhaps in the Prince’s study, with Vlad playing the piano and Tristan teaching her how to dance. Or perhaps at the opera, with Tristan explaining the plot.

  Right. Of course, she preferred hunts and dances and operas to killing rats, but she had to stop being a coward and do what needed to be done. She opened her eyes and walked to the next cage.

  After she had killed seven rats, Myra decided those had to be enough and stood up, dusting her knees. It did more harm than good as her bloodied hands left smears along her pants. She stared at the horrific stains—she would need to wash her clothes in secret. This mission was becoming messier at every turn.

  Myra spotted a bucket full of water for the animals and used a rug to wash her hands and face. Feeling marginally better, she picked up the rats in one hand and the candle in the other and stepped into the corridor. Vlad, she thought angrily, the things I do for you.

  Chapter Two

  Bloodstains

  Picking a book from the school definitely won’t work as an excuse now, Myra thought as she walked towards the prison cell. She had no way of explaining the bucket full of dead rats. The sticky blood covering her clothes made her feel as if she had committed a terrible crime and was now trying to hide the evidence. Which, in a way, was true.

  At least Zack had stationed no guards at the prison door, apparently realizing the prisoner was in no condition to cause trouble. She put the bucket down to unlock the cell and stepped inside.

  She coughed, choking. The air was moist and heavy everywhere in the Resistance’s caves, but the cell where they kept vampire prisoners was the worst. Taking a slow breath, Myra brought her candle forward and squinted in the darkness.

  Tristan sat on the dirty floor with his back to the wall, his head hanging down and his hands and feet chained. Myra’s heart clenched. He looked so fragile. Why had Zack insisted on restraining him?

  “Tristan?” she called softly even though she knew it was in vain. If anything, he would be weaker than he had been a few hours ago.

  Myra gulped and walked in front of him, placing the bucket on the ground and raising her candle to illuminate him. He was hanging from his chains, completely limp, his skin even paler than usual. The wounds on his chest, neck and shoulder were still red and raw; perhaps they would not even start to heal until he had fed. His long silver-blond hair, now matted with dust and dry mud and blood, fell down in a curtain, concealing his features.

  She reached out to brush his hair away and frowned. His face was like wax, sickly pale and twisted into a grimace of agony.

  “Vlad will kill me,” she murmured under her breath and bent down to take a rat from the bucket. Her stomach turned as her fingers closed around the soft dead flesh. She drew in a deep breath before she brought the animal to the vampire’s lips.

/>   “Come on, Tristan, drink. Don’t make this hard for me. I have no idea how to help you.”

  After what seemed like ages, the vampire sniffed the air and instinctively started sucking on the rat’s wound. Myra nearly sobbed in relief. After the rat was sucked dry, she reached out for the second one.

  After the fifth rat, Tristan frowned and a soft moan escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly before they fell shut once again.

  “Tristan?” Myra called. “Tristan, can you hear me?” She slapped him gently on the cheek. “Please, open your eyes if you can.”

  He made no sound or movement, and Myra reached out for the sixth rat. The vampire devoured it quickly and whimpered when there was no more blood. “Come now, I know you’re strong,” Myra said. “Armida said you can’t handle captivity. Open your eyes and prove her wrong.”

  Tristan’s lips moved, and she leaned in to hear the barely perceptible sound.

  “My lord?”

  She frowned and grasped his uninjured shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just me. Myra.”

  He blinked a few times and turned his bleary eyes to her. She tried to smile. “That’s it. You’ll recover.”

  “Where am I?”

  She winced. “Save your strength. I have one more rat. Drink it and we’ll talk.”

  His eyes shot wide open, no longer bleary but focused and sharp. “Rat? Are you mad? I am going to stink.”

  Myra rolled her eyes. “Honestly, this is your problem? That’s the only blood I can get you, so stop complaining and drink. I promised Vlad I’d take care of you. Don’t make my work harder than it already is.”

  “You could have at least skinned it. My mouth is full of putrid hair.” Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait, what? Take care of me? Why?” He frowned. “I am at the Resistance.”

  “Yes, and you need your strength. Drink.”

  This time he did not protest and obediently drank the rat dry. After he was done, he gasped, throwing his head back, his face contorted.