Chapter 15: How Lucky to Survive
Evanora’s POV
The Devourix library breathed like a dying thing.
Ancient shelves leaned inward, burdened with forbidden tomes and ash-dusted scrolls. The air carried the bitter sting of smoke—desert winds dragging the scent of blood and burning fur from the distant war. Somewhere beyond these walls, werewolves and rogue packs tore each other apart beneath a cursed sky.
Here, silence ruled.
“Guards. Leave us,” Arabella commanded.
Her voice cut clean, unquestioned. “Zagan—return to your quarters.”
I didn’t look at her. My eyes stayed on Zagan.
“Wait outside,” I said calmly. “If I’m not out in thirty minutes… come find me.”
Arabella’s gaze snapped to me—sharp, offended.
“He’s under my protection now.”
I met her eyes without flinching.
“He’s mine.”
Silence stretched between us—thin, brittle, dangerous.
Arabella flicked her hand. The guards withdrew. Zagan hesitated only once before leaving, his eyes never leaving me.
The doors sealed shut.
Her lips thinned.
“He remains alive,” she said coldly,
“depending on your answers.”
I didn’t argue.
---
Arabella studied me like a specimen that had crawled out of the wrong grave.
Torchlight flickered across her face, shadows carving hollows beneath her eyes. The flames hissed softly, as if even fire leaned in to listen.
“You look human,” she said at last. “Yet you claim to be Devourix. Explain.”
“I was Devourix,” I replied, voice flat, unyielding.
“Until the elders tore my heart out for a crime I didn’t commit.”
The torch nearest us flared, spitting sparks against the stone. Her interest sharpened—not sympathy, not shock. Hunger.
“What crime?”
“They accused me of slaughtering my uncle and his son,” I said.
“Hearts removed. Minds shattered. My fingerprints were placed perfectly at the scene.”
I lifted one shoulder in a slow shrug.
“The vampire-witches swore by it. The council agreed.”
A beat.
“My father signed the order.”
The flames crackled. Somewhere beyond the walls, something distant howled.
“Did you ask for time?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They refused.”
Silence settled—thick, deliberate.
Then, just barely, the corner of her mouth curved.
Amusement.
“And who do you think framed you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know I have more enemies than allies.”
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A torch hissed nearby, flame guttering as Arabella’s attention drifted—
to the mark burned into Zagan’s arm earlier.
“The dagger seal,” she murmured. “Devourix craftsmanship.”
“I’ve carried that dagger since childhood,” I said. “I don’t know where it came from. Only that it answered me. So I claimed it.”
A slow smile curved her lips.
“How poetic,” she said softly. “The blade meant to end you becomes your symbol.”
My brow tightened. “What do you mean—”
“I was holding that dagger,” she cut in.
“When I tried to kill you.”
The library tilted—just slightly.
Torches flared, then steadied, as if the room itself had inhaled.
My voice dropped. “Who are you?”
She turned away, letting the truth fall like a crown striking stone.
“Arabella. Daughter of Dracula.”
The torchlight caught her profile—cruel, regal.
“And your mother.”
Mother.
The word struck harder than the execution order ever had.
The air thickened. Smoke burned my lungs.
It took a moment—too long—for the meaning to settle.
Mother?
"What do you mean… mother?”
The word scraped out of me before I could stop it.
Arabella turned slowly, torchlight carving sharp lines across her face. There was no hesitation in her eyes. No sentiment.
“Your father was a vampire,” she said flatly. “Your mother was Devourix.”
A pause. Then, colder—
“That was me.”
She added her voice colder than the smoke that stung the air.
“I don’t care what stories they told about my disappearance,” she continued. “I carried you. I birthed you. You are my blood—an accident I never intended to survive.”
First, my father signed my execution.
Now my mother claimed she had tried to erase me before I could walk.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely holding together.
“You were a mistake,” she said without blinking.
“A forced marriage. A cage dressed up as royalty. I wanted your father dead—and you gone with him.”
She moved down the aisle, fingers grazing forbidden spines like she was strolling through memories, not confessing murder.
“I tried to end you while you were still inside me,” she went on, almost bored. “But there were always eyes on me. Guards. Witches. Witnesses.”
Her gaze darkened.
“When you were born, you looked ordinary,” she said. “No red eyes. No power surge. No Devourix trace.”
A thin curl of her lip.
“Disappointing.”
She stopped in front of me.
“Xavier escaped the dungeons,” she said at last.
“My real love. My way out.”
Torchlight flared as she moved, shadows crawling across the shelves.
“We gathered what remained of the Devourix and fled to this realm.”
Her gaze hardened, all warmth burned away.
“You were the loose thread,” she continued.
“The last chain tying me to that palace.”
She stopped before me.
“I came to your cradle with a blade.”
The words fell softly. Intimately.
“You cried,” she said. “Too loud. Too wrong. Someone was coming. I dropped the dagger and ran.”
Silence swallowed the library. Even the torches seemed to recoil.
“My son,” she went on, straightening, voice returning to steel,
“was born later. He is heir to what we built.”
Her eyes flicked to me—brief, dismissive.
“And you?”
A shrug.
“You were left behind to rot in court politics.”
I lifted my chin.
“Then kill me now.”
I already knew she wouldn’t. Outside, her coven burned. War howled closer.
Arabella sighed—bored, almost amused.
“Later. I’m not in the mood.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“Your father thrives with his new queen. I have my family. Why waste effort?”
Her gaze swept over me like dust.
“You’ll get yourself killed soon enough.”
A pause.
“No extra paperwork.”
I didn’t react.
Veronica—my stepmother.
Was I blessed, then?
Maybe.
She had given me more kindness than I ever expected.
Arabella, by contrast, was carved entirely from knives.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
She didn’t turn.
“I can help you.”
Help.
The word sounded like arrogance dressed as mercy.
“Help with what?” I asked. “I don’t hear concern. Only control.”
Arabella leaned against a shelf etched with ancient sigils, dust drifting down like ash.
“A history lesson,” she said.
“The Devourix were forged by the Demon King. My father and uncles—the first Draculas—created vampires.”
Her eyes burned.
“A catastrophic mistake.”
“Vampires wanted obedience. Gold. Thrones.”
A bitter laugh slipped out. “They betrayed us.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Your grandfather—King Dormon—murdered my uncle. Enslaved our bloodline. Then married me to his son to steal what remained.”
“I never bowed,” she added flatly.
Her gaze returned to me—cold, weighing, impersonal.
“I don’t like you,” she said. “But your survival… amuses me.”
She stepped closer.
“I can turn you back into a vampire,” she offered lightly.
“Because why not?”
Outside, the desert wind howled.
The war burned on.
And in the oldest library of the Devourix, I understood—
Survival had never meant mercy.
It meant usefulness.
“The one who tried to kill me now offers help,” I said quietly.
“What do you gain from this?”
“Gain?” she echoed. “It’s been a long time since I changed anything.”
Her eyes flicked over me. “Besides—you look pitiful.”
Pitiful.
I lifted my chin.
“I was the Crown Princess of the Vampire Kingdom,” I said evenly.
“I don’t want your help. Or your pity.”
Her lips curled into a cruel smile.
“Survive, Evanora,” she said. “Wear your pride like a threadbare cloak. But understand this—your former glory means nothing here.”
“I’ve lived a more practical life than your theories allow,” I replied.
“They won’t touch me.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping into venom.
“And remember this—never speak our connection aloud. Never call me your mother.”
“I will not be ashamed.”
The words were heavy.
Silence was the only armor left to me.
I nodded once.
She straightened, composed once more.
“The guards are mine. They’ll keep quiet.”
Her gaze hardened. “You should do the same. You’re dismissed.”
I gave a shallow bow and walked out—
without looking back.
