Nocte, p.1
Nocte, page 1
Nocte
NOCTURNAL SOULS
BOOK ONE
LANA SKY
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NEWSLETTER EXCLUSIVE
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Nocte
Note By Lana Sky
Copyright © 2024 by Lana Sky
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either 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.
Cover Design by Caoimhe Coleman
Interior Formatting by Lana Sky
Editing and Proofreading by Katie Crum
Alpha Reading by Jessica Rita Rampersad
Acknowledgments
Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! A special thanks to Kat and Jess for working tirelessly to help make this book the best it could be. Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic, and explicit content matter that may not be suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, and graphic depictions of violence.
Contents
About Lana Sky
I. The Citadel
1. Niamh
2. Caspian
3. Niamh
4. Caspian
5. Niamh
6. Caspian
7. Niamh
8. Caspian
9. Niamh
10. Niamh
11. Caspian
12. Niamh
13. Caspian
14. Niamh
15. Caspian
16. Niamh
17. Caspian
18. Niamh
19. Caspian
20. Niamh
21. Caspian
22. Niamh
23. Caspian
24. Niamh
25. Caspian
26. Niamh
27. Caspian
28. Niamh
II. The Mortal Realm
29. Niamh
30. Caspian
31. Niamh
32. Caspian
33. Niamh
34. Caspian
35. Niamh
36. Niamh
37. Niamh
38. Caspian
39. Niamh
40. Niamh
41. Caspian
42. Niamh
43. Caspian
44. Niamh
45. Caspian
The Story Continues…
About Lana Sky
Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and parenting her Cockapoo Joey. She writes dark, twisted romance across several genres. Her titles include everything from mafia romance to vampires.
PART ONE
The Citadel
CHAPTER 1
Niamh
I must be shunned for my own benefit.
I’ve been told as much my entire life. That I am ugly. Ungainly. Unworthy. An abomination of my race. A fae’s only purpose is to embody perfection, neatness, and order above all else. We are boundless. Eternal.
Any deviation from the path is a harbinger of death and destruction.
They tell me, and tell me, and tell me so…
Grateful for their shelter and protection, I have found it within myself to internalize those teachings.
I’ve made peace with my fate.
What I cannot stomach, however, are the lies. To be fair, I’ve only found one in my time exploring the alcoves. Just one. A tiny lie that disrupts order and contradicts the rules they enforce. A lie that entices me to entertain a dangerous line of thinking—what else might be possible?
There is a book that claims the vamryre never stray beyond their compound. How could they? Linked in their twisted mental landscape, they cannot bear to be separated from one another for even a second.
Even a second.
Yet he is always alone. With pale skin and cold eyes, he looks like them, moves like them. But his thoughts… They show across his face as if written there in brilliant black ink. Murderous intentions.
Violent fantasies.
He is all anger—not like the rest. They stick to their covens and enclaves, traveling in pairs of two or more, never alone. Never silent. It’s how they function, you see. The vamryre. They are like bees in a hive, or that is how the old scholars referred to them as.
Together they hum with a buzz of emotions, the thoughts of many contained in one. According to another elder, if you cut one of the creatures they would all feel the pain. Never do they frown or pout or show any outward distress.
He is the exception.
Here, where no one else can see, he glowers at the world. The first time I saw his face still sticks in my mind. Beautiful beyond compare, yet frozen like the marble statues on the outskirts of the tower compound, battered and unfazed by time.
Initially, I thought he was simply curious. A creature compelled by his masters to explore beyond his boundaries. Upon finding this place, he probably wondered why a lone fae was allowed to stay here. Live here. Shelter in hiding and in secret.
Such a fool he was to wonder, or so I thought.
It wasn’t until the third day that I realized the truth, and I felt a creeping, tingling sensation all over my body. The unease festered and festered until I came back here yet again and found him lingering on the outskirts of the courtyard.
The vamryre isn’t here out of curiosity.
He is hunting. While the Citadel’s law prohibits them from taking prey within its walls, they do so anyway. Vamryers, are incapable of adhering to boundaries fully, after all. It is in their nature to test all rules, other than those their masters give them.
He sees in me something to feast upon.
Yet it is hard for me not to feel pity for this beautiful, poor vamryre. If he seeks to prey on me, he must be weaker than the rest. Desperate.
Surely, he is an abomination too.
In any case, I am as curious about him as he is about me. How do the vamryre deal with one who makes a mockery of their laws? I am not sure. They are beholden to their own twisted set of values, far different from those that guide the fae.
The fae punish those who stray from the fold. Individuality is shunned. One might think vamryres do the same…
But he is here. My mind spins as I watch him stand in the same spot he always has—near the rear wall where the crumbling stone has left a divot in the once-impenetrable structure. He looks strong enough to have ca
used the damage, though I know a storm did years ago.
Still…
There’s a softness to his beauty that I don’t expect to find as I creep closer to watch him. Viewed from beyond my nose, he looks so small. A spot of glaring white on a gray landscape. Not like sunlight. Something harsher and destructive, like fire. Lightning. He burns my eyes, searing the longer I stare. A painful and beautiful spot.
Then he looks up.
My heart stops. I jerk back and nearly lose my footing on the slanted roof tiles. What does he see from down there?
A girl.
A woman.
A pale creature with long hair the color of midnight and sunken, mournful eyes that I sometimes glimpse on the polished floor when I’ve finished my chores. I am not bright like the other fae with their pink skin and flowing hair, the color of starlight and amber. They have wings as well, while my back is just a lumpy maze of bones and scars.
My physical appearance is how they knew I was different from the day I was born.
But my mother…
He moves again, snapping me back to awareness, the vamryre. He has such a penetrating gaze, like the ritual knife used to draw blood by the elders during their ceremonies. During their punishments. Sharp and precise, yet with a serrated edge meant to slice, cut, and butcher.
He butchers me. Slices through my core and eviscerates the fearful, furtive part of my soul accustomed to hiding. In the presence of other fae I must not be seen, but he isn’t fae.
And he sees me. Those eyes suck me in whole, and I can’t look away like I should. He is a curiosity, one far more interesting than any I could find in the archives.
Whatever interest I held to him, however, was fleeting. He turns and walks away, scaling the wall with an effortless ease. His red robe billows out behind him—the color all vamryre wear. I’m left staring after him, unsure if he was real or just a figment of my imagination. Years of isolation have rendered me so desperate for company I’ve imagined it.
Strange. I’ve never thought of my life in those terms before—isolation. Loneliness.
It is not my place to feel despair at my circumstances. They are what they are, and it is only due to the benevolence of the council that I have survived this long, sheltered in the walls of the Citadel. The vamryre wasn’t the only one to slip into these ruins unnoticed. Another visitor sneaks in to see me, but he is different.
We are blood.
Yet I’m not allowed to think of him. Instead, I tiptoe back to the edge of the rooftop and follow it to where an incline of tiles forms a steep, makeshift path upward. From there, I must grab onto the edge of the nearest window overlooking the courtyard and pull myself inside. Once my feet hit the marble flooring I have to move quickly, dashing down the hall and up the lone stairwell leading to the bell tower.
This place is so familiar to me I could navigate the creaking wood panels in my sleep. Eyes closed, breath baited. I know how to avoid the loose floorboard that comes right after the doorway and how to tiptoe to avoid making too much noise and risk disturbing the workers below. I can even tell just from which direction the wind blows if a storm is on the way or what time of day it is.
And now, I can tell—as that gust of wind brings with it the sharp scent of incense—that I am not alone. Someone is here.
Someone important.
I drop to my knees instantly without bothering to face the newcomer directly. I know that scent and the air of authority it carries.
“L-Lord Master,” I choke out the title. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting—”
“Stand.” Their voice radiates the command and wisdom garnered from decades of life. For the figure standing before me is the oldest soul of all the fae, transcending any other title or even gender. They simply are the Lord Master, their previous self irrelevant.
Tall, they threaten to pierce right through the low ceiling of the bell tower—and even the rafters seem to strain just to avoid the head of long, gray hair framing a set of silver eyes. Piercing eyes. They appear to see everything and nothing at once, gazing through me while rendering me frozen.
This figure has been the sole continuous presence throughout my entire life. Twenty-four years—a pittance in comparison to theirs. Yet they somehow have aged in that time more than I have, becoming colder and sterner with every passing year. Fae lack the persistent youth of the vamryre. How old is the white-haired vamryer who watches me? He looks to be twenty but is probably twenty decades or more.
“Your greeting, young one.” Lord Master’s voice is ice, washing over me in a callous sweep. As I process their words, my heart sinks and I shuffle forward, my head bowed solemnly.
“Greetings, Lord Master. I thank you for the blessing of your presence.” Those are the words all fae must greet our wise elders with. Yet several more slip out of me unbidden. “I wasn’t expecting your arrival today.”
“Young child,” the Lord Master replies. “Need I remind you? You are to expect nothing. Request nothing…”
Their subtle inflection is a demand for me to continue.
“Require nothing. Desire nothing,” I finish, still eyeing the floor. “You are correct as always, Lord Master. I forget myself.”
But I never forget anything—especially not when it comes to the carefully choreographed moments of my life. Only three days in my life matter each year, precisely three. One is the naming day, the anniversary of our birth. The second is the solstice to commemorate the births and deaths of all fae. The last and most essential falls upon the final day of the year—the commencement of the high council—the only one of those days even remotely close to today.
Those are the only times of the year when the Lord Master visits me. Never in between.
“You were gone, girl,” Lord Master says, their voice eerily flat. “Where?”
“I…Nowhere.” My heart won’t stop racing as if betraying me with every beat. Liar. Liar. Liar.
“It is noon,” the Lord Master says. “Your chores, child. What do they consist of?”
I swallow hard, relieved by a relatively simple question. “I clean the archives and dust the catacombs. I sweep and return the books to their proper shelves. I repair and catalog the older volumes.”
And I read those volumes, huddled over candlelight—a skill that isn’t allowed. When I was younger, the Lord Master taught me only the runes necessary to recognize a title and return it to its proper shelf. The bare minimum. Yet I went further. Not out of disobedience, I told myself then. I learned to fulfill my sole purpose all the better.
But a well-meaning sin is still a sin.
“The Citadel Mother was kind enough to show me to the catacombs and the archives,” the Lord Master remarks, drawing my attention back to them. “You were not there.”
I stiffen. “I… I was—”
“Though you were born ungifted and forsaken, you do possess one small quality, child. What is it?”
I clear my throat and croak, “Honesty, Lord Master.”
“Honesty,” the Lord Master echoes, turning the word into a dirty sin. A lowly crown. A curse. “With that in mind, I want you to answer me now. Where were you, child?”
