The first time she met him, she was dying.
The plague had taken over villages, entire continents. So many lives had been lost and now that tally included her mother, father, and aunt. Mya tried to take care of them, tried to hope that if she could just do something, that if she was fast enough, worked hard enough, they would survive. And if not, at least she could help them hold on until her brother, Gregori, came back with a cure. He would come back; she was sure of it. They all just had to stay strong and have faith until then.
But hours turned into days, days into weeks, and still Gregori was gone. And now she, and her cousin, Lucas, had fallen ill.
Waiting for a cure changed to waiting for death. Mya could feel the Black Plague eating away at her flesh, fogging her mind, ruining her, turning her into something other than the young, healthy, vibrant girl she once was.
At the end, there was no one left to watch over them. No one to feed them, wash them, or ease their suffering. Mya and Lucas had tried so hard not to succumb to the illness, but eventually they collapsed on the floor, and soon they were covered in their own boils, piss, vomit, and fecal matter, too weak to move. If the plague did not kill them, starvation would.
It was difficult to know she was dying and could not do a single thing about it. Mya did not want to die, but what was the alternative? Even if Gregori came back with a cure, it would never revive the limbs she lost to gangrene, or the delirium that had set in at her high fever. And who was to say that Gregori was still alive? He may be just as dead as she was bound to be.
That was the state Gregori had found them in. She could not see clearly by the time Gregori and his companion entered their small family home. She half thought she had imagined his return. But then she heard his companion’s voice, and it stole her entire focus. Mya did not know what it was about that voice. She had heard men speak before, and while she and Lucas had been alone for some time, she still remembered the voices of the other inhabitants of their village … back when they were still alive, that was. Still, the slightly accented voice—so deep and rich, patient and controlled, yet strained, as if he cared about her survival—touched her, deeply. That there was anyone left to care when she was so close to death warmed her heart, made her suffering ease just slightly.
It was a mixture of that feeling and the panic in Gregori’s voice that made tears spill from her eyes. It was too late. She was too far gone, and she wished her brother had been saved from seeing her like this so that he could remember her the way she was before the plague, before he left. Yet her single string of happiness came from the notion that he would be by her side when she died.
Her wish to have him near her was a selfish one. She looked up to him, respected him, wanted more for him, but also needed him. He gave her the courage she needed to accept her death without bitterness or resentment.
But then she felt his presence next to her. He was far too close. And what about Lucas? Why was Gregori not going to Lucas? Had he already died? Was she the only one left, deliriously waiting for hope when there was none?
No, there may not be hope for her, and perhaps there was no hope for her cousin, but Gregori should survive. He needed to survive, which meant he needed to leave this plague infested house and save himself.
Gregori moved to cradle her, but she pushed him away. He leaned over her once more, and she fought with all her might to shove him once again. That bought her a few inches, but she was too weak for anything more.
Gregori warned her not to fight him, but still she thrashed. She sobbed in their native tongue, warning him, begging him to save Lucas, and if he could not, to at least save himself.
Then a hand, heavy but gentle, grasped her shoulder, surging warmth through her body. Mya’s blurry eyes shifted to Gregori’s companion’s as the man spoke for the first time, “Be still. Gregori has brought you a cure. Listen to your brother and take it.”
The last of her energy fled from her as if it had been washed away by a great tide, and she fell back onto the hard floor, so tired that she could do nothing more but obey. The stranger touched her again, his hand shifting to her jaw where he squeezed until he forced her to open her cracked and bleeding lips.
Liquid dripped into her mouth and slid to the back of her throat. She swallowed, and the first wave of heat hit her, pleasurable and shocking. Mya could suddenly taste a fury of flavors—acidic, meaty, savory, salty, iron, and something almost close to smoke. Every part of her being came alive as fire burst through her body, setting her aflame. She felt renewed, energized, capable, stronger than she had ever been in her entire life. She wanted more of the delicious drink; she craved it.
Unable to control her fervor and now free from the stranger’s touch, she grasped her brother’s hand to her lips and sunk her teeth—no, no longer teeth … fangs—into Gregori’s wrist, drinking his blood in mouthfuls. She should have been disgusted by the notion, concerned by her illness, but she was too lost to the power he had given her through his blood. It was only when the stranger pulled her away, did she settle calmly onto her back, high on something she could not name.
She felt her brother leave her and move to the side where she had last seen her cousin. After several moments, her eyes focused and she glanced at the unknown being in front of her. A gasp left her lips at his beauty, and she blushed at the twitch of a smile on his lips, embarrassed by her state of undress and filth.
That was the first time she met Erik Devereux, and he looked like an angel.
