I Release You

She was immediately intrigued yet skeptical at the kind request, which was unexpected because he normally commanded. What was it that he desired from her?

He led her discreetly up the stairs, through the chapel, out the front doors, and onto the grounds, and she reluctantly followed him. He did not look at her, and she could not help but notice that his head was lowered. At last he opened the padlock at the wrought-iron gate and dropped it to the floor.

She remarked, "I'm not thirsty yet."

"I understand. I had no intention of taking you hunting. Finally, he turned to her, but it seemed like he was having trouble finding the right words. As though gathering himself, he closed his eyes.

"Taking away your human life was wrong," he declared. His voice, she believed, shook. It was incredibly self-centered, harsh, and self-serving. Since I thought I could someday make you happy, I felt it was justified. I was mistaken, and it wouldn't make up for it even if you were happy. I'd like to take it back and send you home, but I can't. His face was buried in his hands. "There is no penance in the world that could put things right, even if I want to make up for what I did. I'm sorry, that's all I can say. I really apologize, Rosamund.

His eyes, which were abnormally dark, glistened with tears, and his normally expressionless face was filled with bare misery. She was in too much shock to move.

He pushed the gate wide and choked, "Even though I can't undo what has been done and you probably won't be able to go back to your aunt and uncle, at least you should be free." By now, you've become sufficiently self-assured to withstand human blood without my assistance.

Her heart leaped. "You mean I'm free to go?"

His voice was flat as he continued, "I release you." "If you want, you can leave here now."

She was too stunned to notice the elation creeping in. "I'm free!" she exclaimed, shocked. "But why?"

He turned his face away and stated in a gruff voice, "Because you deserve a man who will not make you cry." "Because it is illegal to keep you here, in prison. Considering that I am a monster. Because I can no longer bear to see you suffer. since I cherish you.

She was at a loss for words. She made a little, stifled squeak, but nothing came out of her mouth.

His eyes glistened, yet he gave a small smile. "Please give me your left hand." She felt her wedding ring go unbelievably hot as he stroked its garnet. He was able to take the ring off her finger since it appeared to grow just enough. She was both amazed and perplexed when she felt the exposed flesh of her now-free ring finger.

Leaning down, he gave her a final peck on the cheek. She tried not to shudder and closed her eyes.

He held the gate wide for her and said, "You can go now if you want to." She passed through numbly, and he shut it after her. In a stupor, she started to go.

He called after her, "Rosamund." She pivoted.

He said, "I only hope that you can be happy wherever you go."

She stumbled on the first stone step and stammered, "Thank you."

She had a peculiar feeling after her final look at Count Ivar, one that was neither comforting nor guilty because she had good reason to want to leave. His head was in his hands and his shoulders were bent over, but he had turned away so she couldn't see his face. She could hear his regretful tears.

She turned and ran away.

Before he could alter his mind, she pushed aside her incredulity at being freed and fled as far away from this gloomy jail as she possible could, down the steps and along the path. She flew farther and farther into the forest, barely seeing the ferns and branches that brushed by. She tripped over stones and sticking roots, yet she never stopped for even a second to straighten herself. Her hair was snagged by low-hanging, claw-like branches, while thorns grabbed her clothing and tore the hem. She didn't slow down.

She had not been paying any attention to her direction and was now far from the path, but it was obvious that she was heading more out of the valley and into the most untamed area of the forest. Every fallen log was surrounded by mushrooms and shelf-like fungi, lichens adhered to every rock, moss clung to every tree trunk, and the pines grew closely together. In order to keep from running into them, Rosamund had to slow down.

She wondered where she was. What was she going to do, anyway? Returning to society was obviously impossible. Would she just live in solitude in this never-ending forest and travel the world like a gypsy? In that sense, reasoning and preparation had been superseded by her need to get away from Count Ivar.

Pointing at a little brightening through the trees, she reversed her course. She ran, ran, ran into the clearing, desperate to get away from the old trees for a time.

A precipice!

With a gasp, Rosamund leaned back to regain her equilibrium. Below her, a precipitous cliff was slipping away from her toes. Thoroughly shaken, she staggered back. She took slow, deliberate steps in the opposite direction, trembling and numb after what had nearly happened. She tried to walk like a lady and take deep breaths.

When she heard a faint rustle in the bush a few yards away, she had nearly recovered from her astonishment. Sensations on high alert, her body tensed as she searched for the source.

Behind a leafy plant came a deep, feral snarl. Rosamund stiffened.

Her mouth fell open in horror as the beast raced out into the open.

Was it a wolf, or what? What wolf, after all, had such dreadful claws that tore up the earth beneath it, such insane, bright yellow eyes with dilated pupils, such mangy brown fur that stood on end, and such awful dagger-like teeth that were dripping with saliva? With its fangs bared in a growl, the wolf-creature hunched over, seemingly ready to charge at her.

Rosamund was unable to get her scream out of her throat. She didn't know how to combat this monster.

Would she be able to outrun it?

She ran without thinking. As she fled furiously, always one step ahead, she could hear the wolf snarling in frustration and snapping at her heels as it chased at a gallop.

She was surprisingly not tired or out of breath, but rather felt as if adrenaline was pumping through her, urging her to run faster and faster, outrun the wolf, and escape to safety—but where?

The wolf's huffing and faint footsteps could be heard far behind her, and she grinned with relief at having made her getaway. It must have known the chase was pointless. She was a vampire! A simple animal could not capture her.

The wolf that had halted abruptly threw back its head and let forth a howl.

She let out a cry and stopped suddenly.

The first monster had called, and another wolf had sprang out before her. A whole pack of wolves stalked toward her, four more to her left and right. Drooling with anticipation, they circled slowly, gaining ground on the terrified vampire. She believed she caught one licking its lips. She frantically looked for a gap in their ranks to run through, but the watchful pack never let their prowling get lazy.

With a shiver of fear, Rosamund closed her eyes and braced herself to face her Creator.

Her eyes snapped up when she heard a terrible, twisted sound—a piercing animal cry of pain.

Rosamund glanced to her left in time to witness Count Ivar taking out the silver dagger he had stabbed into the wolf's back as one of the wolves collapsed to the ground in pain.