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When Love Runs Red

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Copyright © 2012: Letitia Van Herck. All Rights Reserved.

 

                                                  When Love Runs Red

                                                      Chapter Thirteen

 

A riot! Those two words shook the very order in Dante’s considerably busy schedule. At present he stood in the large mass of crowd, with a hundred or more guards, in a feverish attempt to stop the enraged riot getting out of hand. The putrid stale odour of sweat and liquor wafted through the air and clogged up Dante’s nose. Had he not been used to it he was sure he would have heaved. The people in this part of the capital were overcome with poverty, living in tiny one bedroom huts and living of scraps off the street. They were bitter and ruthless and hated the Queen for their unfortunate circumstances. This was partly the reason she had royal guards, to put a stop to any riff raff that surfaced. It worked to a certain degree, minus the evident fact it cost a considerable amount of money to do so. The Queen was painfully paranoid and he didn’t blame her, not when she had lost everything and given up all she had left utterly in order to gain it all back. Some would say she was possessed with the idea of power.

 

           "Death to the Queen!" was roared by a collective pack of drunken rioters whom smashed through a shop window. This was followed by screams as young women went scattering out the shop looking aghast. It was an exceptionally bad event this time; they had set fire to shops, carts but thankfully not houses. They were rebelling against the system as they stole. It had been going through much of the night and now well into the day. Despite their best efforts it was proving to be difficult to find an end to the madness; for they had arrested half a dozen citizens and the riot still seemed to continue with an angry force. Dante hated to conduct direct contact with the citizens for he always felt like he was betraying them in some way. He let out a low grunt as he jogged up to the drunkards, grabbed them by the back of their collar's and with graceful manoeuvre brought them onto their backs within less than a werewolf’s hearts beat. They grumbled, as he slammed their faces into the floor. Two other guards appeared then; lifting them up and dragging them away to a dingy dark cell no less.

 

           It was becoming quiet apparent the riot would last a fare number of days; much to Dante’s great distaste. Weary he ran a hand through his hair; the strands sleeking back. He scowled then his green eyes turning sinister at the scene before him. It was apocalyptic madness, with fire and blood and carnage sprouting from every corner and consuming the air till it was thick and heavy in ones lungs.

 

          A woman’s scream had Dante’s senses come to life. With brooding eyes he scanned the crowd looking for the supposing victim. He was against the abuse of women, for they were such delicate creatures whom were the great bearer of new life. They were not to be harmed but pampered and cared for like women should; treated by men with care and timid hands. He thought of Charlotte then with her porcelain doll skin, and lips so red they resembled the finest of wines, and eyes a brilliant amber. A heavy sigh escaped his lips right before his gaze fell upon the holder of the devilish screams. The woman was young and terrified to the point of madness. Four men gripped her arms and shoulders trying to drag her, with no much success, to an alley adjacent to them.

 

          Dante felt his jaw tick in frustration at the whole ordeal, and he could do naught but think of Charlotte being gripped by those men, being forcibly dragged away. A sick churning started in his stomach as his own imagination wreaked havoc inside him. He almost shook now in anger as he raced through the frantic crowd of rioters and citizens. Fear sat heavily in the air like a stale odour and it all but made Dante wince. He continued onwards; his set purpose at the time to help the woman, to who was now being thrashed around like a rag doll. The long thick strands of black hair that must have previously been kept in a tight bun had come lose. Her eyes were wide and teary; her cheeks were flushed from fear. The men were tattered and cruel, their features harsh and unflattering and hands rough upon her skin.

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When Love Runs Red:: Chapter Thirteen

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