Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 133

Markus’s face mirrored William’s stoney visage. The turmoil was now an indwelling daemon with a fire of retribution that overmatched even the conflagration building inside the priory. Doubtless it was the same for the young wolf. William glared with the cold detachment of an immortal grown used to death and violence. And yet, by immortal standards, he was still so very young. Already he had lost half of himself. It was unthinkable, and there was still the matter of apprising their father…and Gabriel, of course. Unthinkable loss. And that Malach had dared to eat the young wolf’s heart…!

Control was an illusion, omniscience a sham. Markus was no less affected by the laws of fate and nature than were the mortals they all glared down upon. He was no less the thrall of love’s subjugation, and himself an author of chaos and carnage. Had it not been for his selfishness and pride, Nicholas might still be alive.

At least Markus still had Emma—the light of his life. Whether or not she could forgive him was outside his power to control. Without her he knew he’d go mad; he would be no different than his sister, Isis, who’d been consumed by rage and maddened by sorrow when her mortal love had died betimes. And in her mad grief she’d borne the lovelorn Gabriel a son and, later, fallen victim to Malach’s artifice. It was Malach that had raped her and begotten that wretched Lilith off her. He knew not what had become of Hemera, her firstborn. Yet she and her offspring must have thrived, for how else was Emma’s provenance to be explained.

His beloved Emma. He could not allow her to lose her sister and suffer the same fate as William—he would strip the flesh from the bones of every witch before he’d allow Emma to live only to see her sibling die an unnatural death. Moreover, he would not rest until he brought back the heart of whomever had taken Nicholas’s and watch as Marbod the Black devoured it, as was the right of a grieving father.

The hatred coiled around Markus, insistent, like a dark caress. It was easier to give in to darkness than to brood and eat his heart out over that which he was powerless to change. How seductive that darkness, demanding death and blood. How it called to the dragon within and beckoned him away from reason. How it tugged at the fetters that leashed him to sanity. “Release me,” it whispered, eager for him to loose his chaos like the fire and black smoke that belched from the shattered windows of the priory; how easy it would be to annihilate everything in his path and scorch the earth with his hate and fury!

But not yet. Not while Emma lived. He left William glaring fixedly at the flames, and stalked back to where his bride lay in her catafalque of grass and earth. If she survived, he would contain the beast within—she was the peace that gave solace to his wretched soul.

He could hear the distant yell of voices raising the alarm. Their pyre had finally been spotted. Soon, the little priory would be overrun with smoke and soot and busy hands filling pails of water from the pond. Then again, the rain might douse the fire by morning. At the very least it would wash the stain of murder from the churchyard, though it could never efface the weight of taint. It mattered not, the fire had already made a feast of the bones and flesh, and the mystery of the priory would die with its faithful servants, forevermore entombed in soot and ash.

He lifted Emma into his arms and threw his wings wide. Up he sailed into the night, the rush of air cooling his blood as he banked over the thick grey strata. Below, the clouds billowed with gold, but the unnatural glow dimmed as he left the crematory fire behind. And with the distance from the fire his mind cleared and the dragon quietened, content beside its mate.

William would follow when he was ready. There was time enough tomorrow to slay witches and rescue errant young sisters, and to mourn his young friend.

Later, as his castle appeared beneath the wisps of cloud and silvery moonlight, his mouth gave way to a peculiar smile. Only the moon and stars bore witness to that smile, tracing its enigmatic curves and the flash of white teeth as he gazed at his sleeping beauty. Only he and the night could hear the sudden change in her heartbeat. A new rhythm unlike any it had sounded before. The beat of life eternal.

“Emma,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers. “Wake up, my love.”

They were crimson and lush, those parting lips, curling with life as she opened her vampyre eyes to gaze up at him—the mortal grey replaced by gleaming black pearl. The wind whipped the dark velvet of her hair against her porcelain temples. “Markus,” she said, her voice soft with the mellifluous whispers of the night. “Have I been sleeping?”

“Like the dead.” His heart stormed against his breast, euphoric and hungry, as he lowered his head once more to her sweet mouth. “Like the dead.”