Ambrose considered carefully which of the Followers in his charge
would be best suited for the tasks he had in mind. As a member of the
Inner Circle and a bearer of the Phoenix Crest, he had quite a selection at
his disposal: twenty-two living in his apartment building alone.
For the task of finding out what leads Stanton had already, he chose Eddie, Danielle, and Connor. All were appropriately subtle, sufficient liars should they be discovered, and expendable should their story fail to convince the Prince of Darkness.
To follow the potential gifted ones, he sent Marc, Egan, and Josephine, the most cunning and deceitful of his immortals. They would watch the six of them like hawks until they discovered which were the correct muses, at which point they were to be brought immediately to Ambrose.
He found himself wishing he still had the little goddess, Annie, under his command, but she still served her purpose for him where she was. She had more potential than all the rest of his Followers combined! In fact, she was the reason he'd been awarded the Phoenix Crest. The crossing- over of a goddess was always greatly rewarded. However, she was invita, taken against her will by a Follower of the Atrox, and hated him for what he had made her. Shortly after becoming a Follower, she met his rival, Stanton, who was invitus as well, and chose to serve the Atrox under him rather than her creator. Of course, Ambrose had no problem with this. He knew that, in time, she would become the key to his revenge, especially now that the Atrox had granted her the ability to age eight years, and revert back to her child-like form at will.
He thought back to the first time he ever saw her. It had been mere hours before he had turned to the Atrox, centuries before she had even been born. He knew that someday, probably soon, he would trap her in his worst memory, and that would be how he met her six hundred years before her time.
He had been sixteen years old, clutching the body of his older sister, Alethea, close to him. He did not know who had killed her: only that her wounds were no accident. He felt his rage welling up inside him and burning away at every pleasurable feeling he'd ever known. Until a shadow fell over him, and he turned to see the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes upon. She looked about eighteen or nineteen years old, and her light-brown hair captured the moonlight, creating a shine that looked almost like a halo. Her face glistened and twinkled like the starry night sky, and her green dress was of a strange cloth the likes of which he'd never seen: smooth, soft, and brilliant. She looked like a goddess.
At first, she looked frightened and confused, as if she were unsure of where she was. Then her gaze fell upon Ambrose and the woman in his arms. He watched her closely as her large, hazel-brown eyes brimmed with tears, reflecting the light of the crescent moon. ". . .Ambrose. . ." Her voice, even choked by tears, was as delicate and lovely as the rest of her.
"Fair lady, thou knowest my name? Art thou an angel, come to carry Alethea to Heaven?"
"I'm a lot of things, Ambrose," she said, "But I'm no angel."
"Then wherefore hast thou come unto me?"
She gently placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered gently, "It's hard to explain, but I want you to know that I've felt this kind of pain before. I know there's nothing that hurts more than the loss of someone you care about." He saw her body tense and heard her voice quiver with grief and restrained anger. The tenderness and compassion in her eyes told him that she spoke the truth. "But remember the vengeance won't bring her back. It'll only cause you more pain."
He touched her hand and found that her skin was as soft and smooth as that of any two women he ever knew combined. He gazed into her eyes, mesmerized by all the pain looking back at him that mirrored his own. Then, right before his eyes, she vanished like a dream.
"No!" he cried, "Come back! Don't go!"
"Fear not," came a voice from beside him. He jumped and turned to see a tall, handsome man seated beside him grinning. There was something dark, mysterious, even menacing about this man. If the girl had been an angel, this one had to be a devil. "Anastasia Richmond is the fair lady's name. Thou shalt see her again. I canst promise thee as much."
"Who art thou?"
"Someone who canst help thee avenge thy sister's life."
"But Anastasia said. . ."
"Anastasia. . .Dost thou find her pleasing? Serve the Atrox, and thou canst not only have thy vengeance, but in time, if thou dost earn it, thou shalt be permitted to woo Anastasia for thy wife."
And that was that. He became a Follower that night, and five years later, stepped into the cold fire that burned away his mortality, having sworn a solemn vow to avenge Alethea and take the one called Anastasia Richmond as his bride.
For the task of finding out what leads Stanton had already, he chose Eddie, Danielle, and Connor. All were appropriately subtle, sufficient liars should they be discovered, and expendable should their story fail to convince the Prince of Darkness.
To follow the potential gifted ones, he sent Marc, Egan, and Josephine, the most cunning and deceitful of his immortals. They would watch the six of them like hawks until they discovered which were the correct muses, at which point they were to be brought immediately to Ambrose.
He found himself wishing he still had the little goddess, Annie, under his command, but she still served her purpose for him where she was. She had more potential than all the rest of his Followers combined! In fact, she was the reason he'd been awarded the Phoenix Crest. The crossing- over of a goddess was always greatly rewarded. However, she was invita, taken against her will by a Follower of the Atrox, and hated him for what he had made her. Shortly after becoming a Follower, she met his rival, Stanton, who was invitus as well, and chose to serve the Atrox under him rather than her creator. Of course, Ambrose had no problem with this. He knew that, in time, she would become the key to his revenge, especially now that the Atrox had granted her the ability to age eight years, and revert back to her child-like form at will.
He thought back to the first time he ever saw her. It had been mere hours before he had turned to the Atrox, centuries before she had even been born. He knew that someday, probably soon, he would trap her in his worst memory, and that would be how he met her six hundred years before her time.
He had been sixteen years old, clutching the body of his older sister, Alethea, close to him. He did not know who had killed her: only that her wounds were no accident. He felt his rage welling up inside him and burning away at every pleasurable feeling he'd ever known. Until a shadow fell over him, and he turned to see the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes upon. She looked about eighteen or nineteen years old, and her light-brown hair captured the moonlight, creating a shine that looked almost like a halo. Her face glistened and twinkled like the starry night sky, and her green dress was of a strange cloth the likes of which he'd never seen: smooth, soft, and brilliant. She looked like a goddess.
At first, she looked frightened and confused, as if she were unsure of where she was. Then her gaze fell upon Ambrose and the woman in his arms. He watched her closely as her large, hazel-brown eyes brimmed with tears, reflecting the light of the crescent moon. ". . .Ambrose. . ." Her voice, even choked by tears, was as delicate and lovely as the rest of her.
"Fair lady, thou knowest my name? Art thou an angel, come to carry Alethea to Heaven?"
"I'm a lot of things, Ambrose," she said, "But I'm no angel."
"Then wherefore hast thou come unto me?"
She gently placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered gently, "It's hard to explain, but I want you to know that I've felt this kind of pain before. I know there's nothing that hurts more than the loss of someone you care about." He saw her body tense and heard her voice quiver with grief and restrained anger. The tenderness and compassion in her eyes told him that she spoke the truth. "But remember the vengeance won't bring her back. It'll only cause you more pain."
He touched her hand and found that her skin was as soft and smooth as that of any two women he ever knew combined. He gazed into her eyes, mesmerized by all the pain looking back at him that mirrored his own. Then, right before his eyes, she vanished like a dream.
"No!" he cried, "Come back! Don't go!"
"Fear not," came a voice from beside him. He jumped and turned to see a tall, handsome man seated beside him grinning. There was something dark, mysterious, even menacing about this man. If the girl had been an angel, this one had to be a devil. "Anastasia Richmond is the fair lady's name. Thou shalt see her again. I canst promise thee as much."
"Who art thou?"
"Someone who canst help thee avenge thy sister's life."
"But Anastasia said. . ."
"Anastasia. . .Dost thou find her pleasing? Serve the Atrox, and thou canst not only have thy vengeance, but in time, if thou dost earn it, thou shalt be permitted to woo Anastasia for thy wife."
And that was that. He became a Follower that night, and five years later, stepped into the cold fire that burned away his mortality, having sworn a solemn vow to avenge Alethea and take the one called Anastasia Richmond as his bride.
