The Vampire & Her Witch

Chapter 1051: Jocelynn’s Struggle (Part Three)

"She, she what?" Jocelynn said as her stomach twisted and tied itself into knots. Percivus had timed his revelation carefully, waiting until Jocelynn was licking the bowl clean before revealing that the meal had come from Eleanor and that her cousin was suffering in order to provide it to her. Now, Jocelynn couldn’t give the food back if she wanted to, and Percivus knew it.

"She’s been very stubborn about keeping your secrets," Percivus said, hanging his head in a show of disappointment. "But no one can endure forever. It might have taken a few days with a lash in a cell that isn’t as warm or luxurious as yours, but she’s finally learned that it’s better to cooperate with the Inquisition than to defy it," he said.

His hardened hazel eyes seemed to bore into Jocelynn’s trembling eyes, and the corner of his lips turned upward in the faintest of genuine smiles when he saw moisture collecting in her eyes as she imagined what Eleanor must have endured these past several days.

"So you do have some concern in your heart for your cousin, Eleanor," he said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head at her. "So it’s only the sister you’re jealous of that you can’t bring yourself to worry about. But of course, you’ll never have to compete with Eleanor for the attention of a man you fancy, so I suppose that makes her safe from your schemes, doesn’t it, Jocelynn?"

"Don’t you dare hurt her!" Jocelynn spat, and with tremendous effort, she pushed herself up from the cot.

The sudden movement sent her chains rattling, the sound echoing in the small cell. Pain shot through her raw, bruised ankle as the iron cuff shifted, and her wrists screamed in protest as she braced her hands on the cot to lever herself upright.

For a moment, she swayed, dizzy from hunger and the sudden change in position. Her head swam, and her vision faded to darkness at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the faint light within the dungeon.

Still, she forced herself to stand, to draw herself up to her full height despite the way her weakened legs trembled beneath her. She was still slightly taller than Percivus, something that seemed to irritate the powerful man who was shorter than either of his acolytes, and she used every inch of that height now, refusing to cower before the Inquisitor.

For days, her posture had grown more bent and slumped as the chains dragged at her, and she had to bring the embroidery close to her face to make sure she wasn’t making any mistakes the acolytes might notice. The constant hunching over the workbench, with the cold and hunger and exhaustion, had made her appear smaller, more fragile, more timid.

She’d felt herself shrinking, felt the proud noblewoman her father had raised being worn away like water eroding stone. The acolytes’ casual cruelties, the constant hunger, the bone-deep cold, the pain from her wounds, all of it had been designed to make her smaller, to reduce her from Lady Jocelynn Blackwell to something lesser.

He wanted to reduce her to something broken and compliant, like the abused housewife of a poor drunkard. He wanted to turn her into someone who could never threaten a small man like Percivus or make him feel like he was somehow lesser than the young noblewoman he’d thrown into the depths of the dungeons.

But as soon as Percivus talked about hurting Eleanor, something buried within her flared to life. You could cover up a fire with dirt, and the flames might go out, but the embers still burned underneath, and the fire hadn’t been extinguished. The same could be said for the pride and presence of a noblewoman that Jocelynn possessed.

Percivus had worn her down, had stripped away her fine clothes and her comfort and even her dignity. He had reduced her to a shivering wretch bent over embroidery in the dim light of a flickering torch in a damp dungeon cell. But he had yet to obliterate the essence of who Jocelynn was. Breaking a nobleman could take months, and despite his cruelty, he’d refused to rush things with Jocelynn Blackwell.

Now, that refusal manifested in a resurgence of the young woman’s strength and defiance. Standing there in her rough peasant’s dress, her wrists bleeding and her body wasted from hunger, chained to the wall like an animal, she still managed to look down at Percivus with something approaching the majesty of Count Rhys Blackwell’s daughter.

For a fleeting moment, Percivus was struck with the illusion that she had transformed herself into some kind of ruffian sea captain, standing atop the unsteady deck of a wave-tossed ship and refusing to yield before the might of a storm, and he took a small, half step backwards when he was struck by the intensity of her gaze.

"I see that someone hasn’t learned their new place in the world," Percivus said, shaking his head to rid himself of the momentary feeling of inferiority the captive noblewoman had dredged up from deep within his heart before turning toward the door. "Talking when you’re like this would be useless," he called over his shoulder as he began to leave.

"Instead, I’ll give you the night to consider the best way to help your cousin," Percivus said. "It isn’t impossible to fetch a healer from the Temple for her, you know. I have many questions to ask you in the morning. If your answers are at least as satisfactory as Eleanor’s, I might be convinced to summon one of those healers. Her life could still be preserved."

"Think about it, Jocelynn," he said as he left the dungeon cell. "Her life is in your hands..."

Left alone in the darkness of her cell, Jocelynn felt as though the warmth in her stomach had turned into a flaming ember, burning her up from within. Eleanor was dying... and it was all her fault.

The dam within her that had held her tears back whenever she confronted Percivus or his lackeys finally shattered, and twin rivers of salty tears flowed down her cheeks as sobs shook her body.

All of this was her fault, and it had been her fault from the very beginning. The moment she told Owain about the mark on Ashlynn’s hip, she’d doomed her beloved sister to die. Then, when she’d finally realized the sort of monster she’d deceived herself into falling in love with, her attempts to free herself from this nightmare doomed not just herself, but the kindest, most loving companion she’d ever had.

Eleanor was far more than just her chaperone, and much closer to her than any of her other distant cousins. She was family in a way that went beyond the labels of a family tree, and the bond between them had transcended the boundaries of their relative stations long ago.

Eleanor had become a pillar of support that she relied on, a confidant whom she could confide in, an advisor whom she trusted more than she trusted herself at times... and the very best friend that Jocelynn could ever ask for. A far better one than she deserved.

And now, Eleanor was dying in a dank dungeon cell... because of her. Because she’d tried to manipulate Bors Lothian when she realized that he’d mistaken her for his long-lost wife in the delusions of his illness. Because she’d thought that she could outsmart the Lothians in the middle of their own territory to escape the delusional father and his violent, controlling son...

It was all her fault, and in the darkness of her cell, there was nothing that could distract her from that cold, bitter truth.

She didn’t know how long she sat and wept. It felt like an eternity, long enough that the silvery moonlight had faded away, leaving only the dim light of the stars in the night sky outside her tiny window.

But then, as she felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss of self-loathing for what she had done, a golden, flickering light appeared beside the door, pushing back the darkness and revealing a familiar figure who couldn’t possibly be here...