Grace Unchained (Bloodrite Book 1) Read online

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2022 Starkie

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  1

  Scaling the grey stone steps, the rock in the pit of her stomach tightened. As the entrance drew near, she clung to the safety of her red cloak. The hood covers the marks of her past horrors. This was her last hope as she made her way to the doors of the Paranormal Council. This was her last chance to be safe. If the beings here did not help her, she would be dead within the week or worse, enslaved by a madman.

  With a cautious glance, she approached the door. A deep sigh helped her gain the resolve to slip inside, even as tightening the hood made her head, ache.

  The entrance was empty, and she was grateful for it. She did not have the energy to steel herself for the stares that inevitably came.

  She found a woman sitting at a desk at the end of a second banal corridor.

  “Hello, how may I help you, human?” The woman asked flatly.

  “Hello. My name is Grace.” Grace kept her tone soft. Though the woman fashioned a smile, Grace knew some paranormals looked down on humans, and she could not blame them—hell—even she looked down on her own race. “I have a meeting with the council,” her voice cracked, and she winced at the pain in her sore throat.

  “Are you okay?” The woman asked, looking up, her bright green eyes giving off a shine.

  “Yes.” Grace croaked.

  The woman frowned, checking her papers. “Grace- N-i-Garra-Gn,” She stutters.

  “It’s pronounced ignore-ah.”

  “Spell that?”

  Grace sighs, rubbing her throat. N-g-a-r-r-a-.”

  “Oh yes, go right on in. They are waiting for you,” The woman motions to a room just over Grace’s right shoulder.

  With a nod, Grace approaches the doors, which open without prompting. As she braves the long walkway, she can see the dais that holds a semi-circular table at which sits the fifteen members of the Paranormal Council. A single member for each known sect. From the rumors of her youth and travels during her escapes, Grace understood that these people—if you could call them that—ranged from magical types to the lord of demons. While she should be terrified standing amongst them, her mind is fractured. Her trauma, pain, and need to escape are all that she can focus on until she is safe.

  “Hello, you must be Grace, a courageous little human,” a slender male with pitch-black hair and eyes to match sits at the dead center of the table, nodding to his peers.

  “I am.” Grace swallows, trying desperately to hold her ground, stopping before them.

  “And how may we help you?” Another speaks, pushing his blonde hair behind his ears to reveal pale yellow eyes that shone with a merry light. His features are soft and beautiful.

  “I wish for sanctuary within the paranormal world. If not, I will be dead or worse, enslaved by the week’s end. Of this, I am sure.” She tries in vain to hide her inner panic.

  Though there is silence, she can feel the eyes of the room upon her. Each watched with curiosity, confusion, shock, horror, and even humor.

  “And why would you be dead?” One of the few females asks. Her long brown hair is twisted down over her shoulder, secured with bits of silver and gold. Her kind green eyes watch Grace with curiosity.

  Grace knew a few of the stories, but she did not know the actual players by sight. The Paranormal Council kept things close, and though they were revealed to the humans, they have never formally introduced themselves.

  “My ex—” She choked on the word trying to be heard. “Thinks himself something of a Satan worshiper.”

  The first male to speak lets out a growl, making her lift her hand in defense. “I know he is a nutjob who clearly does not understand anything about demons or even their so-called leader Satan—or Lucifer—whatever he wishes to be called. It’s just what he calls himself.” The taste of blood comes into her mouth, making Grace grasp her throat at the pain. “Great, I’ve irritated the wounds,” she mutters before trying to continue. “He believes me to be a—what did he call it—” she stops mulling it over then snaps her fingers with recollection, “vessel—that’s it—a vessel. One who can be used to call forth a demon, his so-called queen. The nutjob thinks he was once a demon but was removed and forced to be a human or something as punishment.” A cough escapes her dry throat.

  “You are bleeding,” A deep voice makes her lift her head. She had been purposefully keeping her gaze lowered to seem less and to, of course, hide her fear and shame.

  His eyes flash from pale jade green to red, a sure signal she was in the presence of a vampire. “Old-time gentleman vampire,” she mutters to herself. His appearance prompted her auditory kneejerk. Dress shirt, waistcoat, did she even spy a pocket watch?

  With a glare, he runs a hand through his clipped brown hair, making Grace realize he had heard her. She blushes under her hood, having always had a bad habit of filing away information out loud.

  “I’m fine,” she went on. The pain was killing her. The results of her torture still lingered, leaving her croaking as she spoke, but she pushed on. “He has held me for the last year and long before that on and off, doing—things—I would rather not speak of. In the aim to summon his queen, you could say none of it worked, as I am still, me.” Grace suffers to laugh. “I was able to escape and went straight to the human council, but he knows powerful men in the human world. He said I was mentally ill, that it was all self-inflicted attention-seeking behavior.” She stopped when the yellow-eyed male interrupted, lifting his hand.

  “What is all this?” He asked softly.

  She looks at him now, “Cute guy center-right, angel maybe?” Again, this was more to herself but heard by all.

  He fashioned a crooked but pleasing smirk making Grace’s face flush redder than the cloak surrounding her.

  “I am s—sorry, bad habit,” She swallows when he nods with a small wave to continue. Her hands go to the clasp of her hood. “I understand you need to know what was done, but I would like to choose to not bear all to a room of mostly males that I do not know,” she says softly, almost shyly but also in fear. Would they turn her down when they saw her scars? She could not take the rejection. Could not survive it.

  A shift of a chair alerts Grace to someone moving. Her eyes follow the woman that had already spoken. She is average-sized as she comes around the table. Her strong green eyes turn soft while she speaks.

  “Hello, I am High Priestess Tabitha. I represent those who wield magic. Why don’t you come and show me, and I shall inform the others? Will that be amendable?”

  Understanding what Grace may have been put through, the High Priestess reacts as gently as possible. She knew that those with trauma needed a softer hand than many of these males could provide. Her eyes scan the table. She knew one, in particular, would want to hug and squeeze, which could be disastrous.

  Grace presses her lips together tightly. “Okay.” She finally whispers.

  Without touching her, Tabitha motions for Grace to follow her, Grace barely lifts her head until they enter a small antechamber.

  Tabitha waits patiently as Grace again plays with her cloak, then takes a deep and imme
diately regretful breath. Choking on her pain, Grace shrugs out of the cloak and lays it over her bent arm before facing the High Priestess again, though she squeezes her eyes closed, not wanting to see the look that would inevitably cross the woman’s features.

  There was silence, which made Grace even more nervous, “How could anyone believe you did this to yourself?” Tabitha finally asks.

  Grace scoffs. “He has a way of making people see things his way.”

  “Well, I see beauty, Grace. What do you see?”

  Grace opens her eyes as a mirror is handed to her. Coming face to face with herself does not cause her to flinch. She blinks, two-toned eyes shifting. On the right side were significant burns. Her hair was clipped short. Much was singed down, patched. It was evident the damage was not very old. Grace does not hate her looks like many would. The shell did not matter. What mattered was that she was alive. Scars could possibly be fixed, but death was a more permanent predicament she was desperate to avoid.

  Thankfully, however, Grace came to her wounds, her eyes had been saved. One brown, one bird blue, she was still striking in Tabitha’s eyes. “Do you see the beauty? Even in pain?” Tabitha lightly touches Grace’s neck and shoulders, which bear the marks of her captivity. “Is there more?”

  Grace nods.

  “Show me?” The High Priestess says kindly. “I won’t touch you, but I need to know what we need to heal.”

  Unclasping her dress, Grace tries to explain. “My throat has never healed from his forcing me to drink a chemical. My body is a mess that I doubt even your magics can heal.”

  Grace shivers, trying to slow her disrobing. Tabitha stops her.

  “Please let me call Olle in. He can heal some of these far better than I or take away the pain. He is, after all, the leader of the angels.”

  Grace’s head goes to the side, “I always thought God was the leader of the angels?”

  Tabitha smiles knowingly. “He is the source material for God and the angels. Just as the stories of the Devil and Grim reaper come from Lucifer and Grimm, respectively. Most old tales and stories come from those sitting at the Paranormal Council's table.”

  Grace nods. It made a strange bit of sense to her. “Okay, you can call him.”

  2

  Tabitha steps out briefly, leaving Grace to look about. The chamber is not large, but it is full of things. It reminds her of the stories of dragon’s dens. As it was said, they enjoyed hoarding pretty things. “No chance in that.” She mutters aloud. “Only monsters and demons want anything to do with me. Nothing so majestic as a dragon would ever look at me as more than a toothpick.”

  Her head swivels as the door opens, and Tabitha enters. Alongside her is the male with the soft yellow eyes.

  The swiftness of his movement makes Grace lurch. Pain in her calf causes her legs to give. She does not crumple but rather finds herself in his gentle embrace.

  “It is okay,” Olle’s voice calms her like summer rain on a hot day. His eyes are kind and full of concern, and she allows it when he tries to help her to a soft chair. His hands slowly hover over her exposed flesh, followed by short, centering breaths. His fingertips graze her, sending a surge of pain up her spine.

  She hisses, but he merely nods with his soft tone. “Do not fear. The pain is temporary. I am using magic to find your wounds. I can feel your anguish.” His eyes scan the many superficial wounds atop old scars. Burns and slashes from sharp and serrated blades litter her now exposed skin. “I know this hurts terribly. Frankly, I’m surprised you even reached us. Most humans would not have the resolve. What makes you so different?”

  Grace shrugs. “I am stubborn.” She shudders.

  Olle’s hands begin to let off a mild glow. “Sadly, I will not be able to remove the much older scars, but I can heal the new wounds with little stress to either of us. Would you like that?”

  Grace closes her eyes with a little nod. Anything he could do would be a godsend. Her body warmed at each place he touched. Her arms, legs, back, and chest. It seemed she had little parts that had not been broken, torn, or abused at some point. Her tormentor, Imp, as she had come to call him as he had a name she could never pronounce, had done much to try and coax his queen from her soul. When she managed to deprive him of her body's first taste, he sought other means to bring the devil. As he sometimes called it.

  A tear slides down Grace’s face as her cheeks are cupped. She can hear ragged breath, was that this Olle, or was it her own rattling in her ears?

  The burns that ravage the side of her once pretty face were only months old. Still raw, like her throat. Temperature changes made some places ache, while other parts, namely closer to her jaw, had no feeling at all.

  Grace feels the pain being washed away like the tide takes the sand. Her lips curl up, but she does not notice until Tabitha remarks.

  “What a beautiful smile.”

  Surely the woman did not speak of Grace. There was no longer anything beautiful about her. Imp had made a beast of her beauty.

  Olle’s hands trace her throat. The placement makes Grace stiffen. She could no longer count how many times Imp had choked her for his depraved amusements.

  It took time, but soon Grace felt—nothing. No more pain nor stiffness, the soothing and warmth of his touch left her, and she was confused by this lack of sensation.

  “Did you block it all?” The roughness to her sounds was gone. Her voice returned to its once almost lyrical vibrations.

  Olle let out a short chuckle. “No, my dear, I healed what could be.”

  “Thank you,” clearing her throat no longer hurt, and the deep breath she took was the most refreshing feeling.

  “You are quite welcome, and High Priestess Tabitha is right. You really do have a beautiful smile,” he said softly.

  Grace flushes with embarrassment as she stands to put her clothes back to rights, finding the pain in her limbs is also quite gone. Her movements regained a poise she had long since forgotten. Touching her face, she could feel her own fingertips against the raised flesh, and her face turned in a blending of smile and frown.

  Olle sighs, watching as Tabitha leads Grace toward a full-length mirror. “Sadly, the infections were too great to fully heal your face, but it is much im—”

  “Thank you.” Grace cuts him off with a breathless whisper as she traces her jawline. The scars no longer looked like macerated meat. This Olle had done what surgeons could never have done. While not completely smooth, the coloring was more Port wine stain than gnarly disfigurement. Her hair, which had been clipped short because of the missing patches, was now long and full of luster.

  She fussed with a raven-hued tendril and raised an eyebrow. “I think it used to be brown.” Raven is going to love this. She thought, watching her healer.

  A curt nod preceded Olle’s answer. “Something in me said this was more befitting your striking eyes and pale beauty.”

  Grace swallows and lets out a sigh that holds back the sob she wants to release but will not in the presence of these—

  “Where did the priestess go?” Grace only just notices her absence as the door clicks, and another man enters, only he has a tray of, from the smell of it, herbed tea, scones, jams, and coddled crème.

  “The High Priestess went to give her report. Please, sit. You must be starving. I know I need carbs after extensive heals.”

  Grace is unsure. When Imp would often bring her sweet treats, they came with a horrible cost, but with all this council has already done for her, she would pay any price they wished, simply to stay in their protective walls.

  3

  With a full belly and a straighter, more confident gait, Grace stands once more in the room with the council members. She no longer hides beneath the cloak, instead choosing to keep it over her forearm.

  “The High Priestess has reported her findings, as has Olle. They both make a strong case for you. What we do not understand, however, is how any—human or otherwise could believe the majority of your injuries were self-
inflicted.” The Vampire gestures toward her. “Please explain why you feel we are best suited to keeping you safe.”

  Grace blinks and shakes her head with a glare, “They believe him. The one that did this to me. He claims he is trying to help me, and as his father sits at the head of the Human Council, he can do no wrong.” There is malice in her final words. Without the pain from injury, her emotions begin to bubble to the surface. “I have pleaded. I have run. Each time the humans—the ones that were to protect the citizens—returned me to him. This last time he chose the cruelest punishment. He burned me inside and out with his chemicals, so none would look upon me or hear my pleas again. His intentions were to next have me blinded, so I could never try to run again. I could not risk that.” She pulls a set of manacles from the bag she carried beneath her skirt—tossing them at the dais. “This is what his love gave me. I want none of that kind of love.”

  The slender male at the center of the table stares at her, making her uneasy. “Handsome male—demon maybe,” Grace mutters softly, and he rubs his mouth to hide the smirk.

  It would appear she truly did not know when she was speaking aloud. She was on the right path, though he was no lowly demon. He was The Morningstar, the fallen one, the serpent in the garden—if the stories held water. He had many names, and today as he stares at the woman before him, he is simply Lucifer. He can see her strength but also her fear. “If we were to agree to shelter you, what would you wish from us?” He asks and watches as Grace thinks it over before replying. This moves her up from idiot human, in his opinion. She did not rush her words, even if she had a habit of speaking odd things.

  Grace watches him watch the others. Wishes and the Paranormal world were tricky things. “I do not wish for anything. I ask for your aid under asylum that lets us take sanctuary when there is no other option. I am an orphan and have no one, so I know I fall under this. I hope that you are better at your words than the humans. All I would require is a small parcel of land I could work, perhaps a few fowl, near a stream for fresh water and fishing if possible. Honestly, I would be content with a hovel in the woods if it had a good roof and a locked door, anything so long as I could call it my own.”