The Vampire & Her Witch

For a long, frozen moment, Owain stood perfectly still in the courtyard of Lothian Manor. His face was a carefully blank mask as he struggled to process the unbelievable news that Sir Gilander had just delivered.

In the courtyard, the winter wind picked up, scattering the pea-sized hail across the flagstones with a sound like demonic claws scraping against the walls, or something colder still. The grey afternoon skies hung low over the manor, casting a pale light over everything that leached color from the world and made everything seem faded and dull.

’Ashlynn’ is dead, Owain thought, and had to fight to stop himself from smiling at the news.

For months now, ever since that disastrous wedding night when he’d discovered the mark of the witch on his bride’s hip and beaten her to death in his fury, he and his father had been planning how to announce Ashlynn’s death.

The scheme had been simple enough. They would use a servant girl who resembled his late wife, Samara? Samila? In truth, Owain had already forgotten her name, but they would use her to maintain the fiction that Lady Ashlynn was still alive, living in the Summer Villa for the duration of her pregnancy. Owain had expected to keep up the act for at least another month or two before announcing that his beloved wife, Lady Ashlynn, had tragically died in childbirth, taking his son and heir with her.

It would be sad, certainly, but these things happened. Women died bringing new life into the world all the time, especially on the frontier where skilled healers were scarce and the harsh conditions of the frontier made everything more difficult.

Of course, death in childbirth was far more rare among members of the aristocracy than it was among the common folk, but most people of Lothian March wouldn’t notice how unusual it was for someone of Lady Ashlynn’s exalted status to suffer such a tragic fate. Instead, they would remember their own friends or loved ones who had met a similar end, and they’d allow their own losses to color their thoughts about the misfortune that had struck the rulers of the march.

But this, Owain thought, this was so much better.

A demon attack from the The Vale of Mists had stolen his wife and unborn child away from him. Now, she was likely dead or worse, at the hands of the Demon Lady of the Vale. The story he needed to tell all but wrote itself, and Owain had to press his lips together to keep from laughing at the sheer absurd perfection of it all.

Gone was any need to carefully time an announcement about childbirth complications or explain why the body couldn’t be properly displayed for mourning. Gone was the risk that someone at the Summer Villa had noticed that Sarina, or whatever her name was, didn’t behave like the noblewoman she pretended to be. Owain didn’t even need to dirty his hands killing the woman in order to keep her from revealing what she’d done. The demons had solved all his problems in a single night of violence.

Better still, this gave him a cause, a rallying point that he could use to cement his position as heir to the throne of Lothian March. He could stand before the people of the march and declare that the demons who had murdered his beloved wife, who had stolen her away in the night to feed on her blood or used her in some sort of dark ritual, must be made to pay. He could use ’Ashlynn’s death to unite the march behind him, to prove his worthiness as heir, and to demonstrate the decisive leadership that his father kept questioning.

And when the time came to marry Jocelynn, beautiful, clever Jocelynn who understood him in ways Ashlynn never had, it wouldn’t be seen as unseemly or hasty political opportunism, but rather as a powerful symbolic gesture.

The Lothians and the Blackwells, cementing their alliance against the very demons who had murdered Lady Ashlynn. It would be romantic, even. Tragic to be sure, but romantic. Two families joining together in their shared grief, finding strength in unity.

Owain felt the laughter building in his chest again, threatening to escape, and he clamped down on it viciously before he gave everything away. He’d stood there, frozen, for several long heartbeats while his mind raced, overwhelmed by the perfection of the moment, but he still had a part to play. Here, in the final moments of this month’s long charade, he had to play the part of a grieving husband, not just for Sir Gilander and the boot-licking Captain Albyn, but for all the servants who had paused in their duties when they heard Gilander’s shocking news.

Owain let the silence stretch another heartbeat or two, long enough that Sir Gilander’s concerned expression began to deepen into worry, long enough that he could sense rather than see Captain Albyn shifting uncomfortably behind him. Then, with a roar that came from somewhere deep in his chest, Owain spun and drove his fist into the stone wall of the manor with enough force that the impact sent jolts of real pain shooting up his arm.

”No!” The word tore from his throat, raw and anguished in a way that sounded genuine, even to his ears. His knuckles split and bled from the force of his blow, but he didn’t stop at a single punch as he worked himself into a performative frenzy. ”No, no, no! She can’t, she can’t be gone,” he cried as he hit the wall again, and again, until Sir Gilander stepped forward to put his hand on the young lord’s shoulder in a comforting gesture of support.

”My lord, please,” Gilander started, hoping that he could pull Owain aside so the young lord could at least grieve in private. Lord Bors had been far more reserved when he heard the news, but then, Bors had already lost his own wife years ago, and the pain he felt for his son suffering the same cruel fate was very different than what he’d felt when his own wife died.

But Owain... Owain had always been a man who let his passions rule him, and now, he’d clearly let his grief overwhelm him without realizing how many onlookers were gathered to witness this tragedy unfolding. If Gilander could just bring Owain away, even a few steps inside the manor, where they could find a private sitting room so the young lord could compose himself, it would be better than remaining outside at the entrance to the manor where all the world could see.

Unfortunately, Owain had no intention of allowing the aging knight to ruin his performance when such a perfect audience had been prepared for him....