by Tessa Dawn
He struggled once again to sit up, only to meet Marquis’s impassive resistance, slamming him back to the ground. As what little air he had rushed out of him in a whoosh, he reached for Vanya’s mind. Then I will still convert you. He said it telepathically.
Directly.
Sincerely.
“It is too late,” Vanya whispered.
Saber’s eyes shot wildly around the room. Ramsey and Santos were now standing inside the entrance of the cell, their collective expressions displaying a harsh mixture of mortification, rage, and unfathomable sorrow. He turned to Marquis, uncaring that the male was his enemy. “Warrior, is this true?”
Marquis shifted his weight more fully onto his knees and leaned forward over Saber’s body. “As true and as certain as your death,” he replied. With that, he drew back his powerful arm, plunged forward with all of his might, and burrowed deep into the chest cavity, where he grasped the Dark One’s heart.
seventeen
“Easy now, Warrior.”
Napolean Mondragon’s powerful voice reverberated in the cell, even as his noble hand tightened deftly around Marquis’s fist, which was still lodged in Saber’s chest. The wise king bore down with a gentle but exacting pressure, holding both Marquis’s hand and the fragile organ tenuously in place. “Let’s not act too hastily,” he crooned, as if to a small child.
The king had appeared out of thin air, and Marquis looked up at him in astonishment, even as Saber fought not to writhe in torment, lest he dislodge his own beating heart.
While Saber panted in agony, the Ancient One calmly turned his head to regard the sentinels. “Ramsey.” He spoke quietly, deliberately, as if he weren’t actually holding the lives of several people in his hands, literally balancing life and death in his cautious, all-powerful fingers. “Get Vanya out of here. Take her to Kagen’s clinic, now.” He gestured toward a pair of diamond-encrusted shackles hanging on the guard-room wall, and inclined his head toward Santos. “Warrior, bring those for the prisoner….then depart.”
The sentinels obeyed immediately. Ramsey stepped to Vanya, wrapped one powerful arm around her back, the other beneath her legs, and lifted her effortlessly to his chest, strolling out of the cell as if she weighed no more than a feather, even in her condition. Santos followed suit: He quickly removed the manacles from their peg and laid them noiselessly on the ground beside the king. And then, with a graceful nod of his head, he simply dematerialized.
Napolean locked gazes with Marquis next. He transferred a visible light from his own silver-lined pupils into the Ancient Master Warrior’s blue-black orbs, and spoke in a dark, velvety voice, deeply laced with coercion: “Marquis…release his heart. Slowly.” His eyes never left the warrior’s.
Marquis’s fist opened of its own accord, and the huge warrior rose from the ground and floated backward through the air like a ghostly apparition, transplanted several feet away. The king had taken absolute control of Marquis’s body with his mind. He had broken his hold, levitated the giant vampire backward, and removed him from the volatile situation as if the ferocious warrior were nothing more than an afterthought. By the look on Marquis’s face, the ancient son of Jadon was as surprised by the sudden turn of events as Saber.
“Leave us now,” Napolean said to Marquis. His tone was no-nonsense. Softening it a bit, he added, “Go take a walk. Clear your head. Feed.”
Marquis grunted his disapproval, perhaps disorientation, and then he slowly shook out the cobwebs and strolled out the guard-room door.
Saber groaned. Not only was he in insufferable pain, but he was now alone with the most formidable being on the planet. His eyes moistened with pain-filled tears as he fought for breath that just wouldn’t come. He half wondered if he wasn’t already dead, half wished that he was, just to escape the agony.
It was unbearable.
Beyond anything he had ever endured before.
“Shh…breathe,” Napolean whispered, turning his full attention on Saber. He blew a soft, breath toward Saber’s scalp, effortless and calm, and the pain from the burns cooled instantly.
At least it was something.
Raising his free hand to his mouth, Napolean extracted several drops of venom onto the pad of his forefinger, drew a line along the deep circular incision beneath Saber’s hairline, and watched as the wound closed up as if it had never been. He repeated the process, healing the wicked gash in Saber’s side. He then stared fixedly at Saber’s open chest cavity and ever so slowly, carefully, began to massage the serrated organ back into place. He raised his free hand to his mouth once more and fully released his incisors in order to discharge more venom.
A lot more venom.
He gathered the healing fluid in his palm, lavishly coated each of his fingers with the viscous substance, and then he bent forward to insert a second hand into the gaping wound, where he continued to knead the heart.
Saber jackknifed off the ground.
His back contorted in a terrible arc of pain, and he began to curse uncontrollably in Romanian—perhaps interspersing a bit of Farsi and Japanese, who knew—while sucking in air like a vacuum. His collapsed lung began to slowly inflate, even as his heart knit back together, and the air gradually returned to his body.
“You think this is pain?” Napolean whispered hauntingly. “This is nothing.” He shifted his gaze from Saber’s chest to his face, and continued speaking coolly: “If Vanya dies, I will play in your heart for hours, shredding it, then healing it, slashing your aorta to pieces only to repair it, until I finally tire of the game—which I suspect could take weeks, perhaps months.” His resolve was as savage as his tone, despite the calm, cool expression on his face.
Saber swallowed his fear. He had no doubt that the ancient king meant every word he had spoken. He breathed a sigh of relief as the pain began to ebb; and then he locked his gaze with the king’s as cautiously as he could. “Let me try and convert her,” he said, knowing it was a long shot. Feeling as if he owed himself, if not the Ancient One before him, at least some explanation, he added, “I didn’t know.” He repeated the words with surprising sincerity. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
Napolean eyed him sideways. “What didn’t you know, Saber? That you were impregnating her, or that she had to be converted first?”
Saber glanced away—but only momentarily. Now was not the time to lie to this king, and he was trying to gather his thoughts. “Either…both.”
Napolean’s eyes flashed crimson, and a low, almost indiscernible growl rumbled in his throat. “Explain yourself, son. Now.”
Saber recoiled at the command. He resented this male almost as much as Salvatore, but now was not the time…
He inhaled deeply and tried to answer the question in as civil a tone as possible. “I don’t deny that I knew…something…that I was aware she was my destiny, and that the whole purpose behind the Blood Moon was to fulfill the demands of the Curse. But it was more like I felt it, remembered it. I didn’t consciously will it. At least I don’t think I did. I just wanted to…exist…without pain; and somehow, that must have transferred into intention.”
Napolean took Saber’s full measure, those severe, mystical eyes boring so deep into his that it felt like the Ancient One was probing his mind. But he wasn’t. He didn’t have to. He simply assessed him carefully and nodded calmly. “Go on.”
Saber took another deep breath, knowing that his next words would seal his fate. “As far as conversion, the fact that she isn’t Vampyr…” His voice trailed off, and he sighed. “You have to understand, as a soldier born into the house of Jaegar”—he caught the slip and sought to rectify it—“brought into the house of Jaegar”—damn, the admission was killing him!— “we never talked about the Blood Moon, not in that way. How could I have known? I mean, who was there to teach me…about the Curse…the way it worked in the house of Jadon? Damien? Salvatore? There were no circumstances under which I would have ever considered the thirty days following a Blood Moon or what it really entailed. In truth,
it never occurred to me that she had to be converted first.” He held his tongue then, letting his words linger, knowing that the king had never heard him speak a sincere, uncorrupted word since that fateful day in the valley when his body didn’t burn. Truth be told, the Ancient One probably didn’t even realize a Dark One was capable of candor…that Saber was capable of honesty.
He was.
He just didn’t choose it that often: Outside of his interactions with Damien, Diablo, and Dane, it wasn’t usually the best tactic.
But this was different.
This was about earning the opportunity to try and save Vanya, to try and save his unborn son. While wanting to save the latter was an obvious motivation—his son would be his own flesh and blood, independent of what house he was born into—the desire to save Vanya was more of a mystery to him: He hadn’t been raised to care about females or citizens outside of the house of Jaegar. And maybe care was too alien of a word. Too strong? Too different. But just the same, he desperately wanted to try.
There was something so inherently wrong with what had happened: He and Vanya had made a trade, an even exchange.
She had come to him without an agenda, save only to try and lessen his pain, however ill-conceived her compassion might have been. And he had taken her up on the bargain. Hell, he had taken her virginity and allowed her body to give him momentary sanctuary…however it had occurred. And that meant something to Saber. His word—dark as it may be—was still his word. Could he kill an innocent as prey? Yes, without hesitation. Could he plot and scheme and callously use his enemy to achieve his own ends? Been there; done that; tossed the tee-shirt. But could he lure Vanya to his bed in a moment of raw, uninhibited need; convince her to step outside the boundaries of both their worlds; and then murder her for consenting so loyally?
Not in this life or the next.
He may not have a soul, but such a thing went against the very fiber of his being. Whatever that was.
Napolean shook his head slowly, bringing Saber back into the present moment. He seemed to consider his next words carefully, before clearing his throat. “And it also never occurred to you that Vanya was a cherished female, an original princess, when you stole her innocence and took her body so selfishly…in this filthy cell, I might add.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Saber was not about to respond rashly. He had to control his anger, keep a handle on his defiance. After all, he had his own agenda. Still, who the hell were these males to constantly demean his motivations, to treat him like he wasn’t a grown-ass male, capable of handling his own destiny? Respect, he didn’t expect. But recognition? He felt it was his due. Dark Ones may have been soulless, a separate species in their own right, but they were still soldiers, males—vampires—and they had come from the same legacy of celestial gods and humans as the sons of Jadon. “She came to me,” Saber whispered, hoping not to provoke Napolean’s wrath but determined to stand his ground.
“Excuse me?” Napolean said. His voice was laced with warning.
“Vanya,” Saber reiterated. “She came to me…on more than one occasion. The fact that I was in a filthy cell—that wasn’t my call.”
Napolean chuckled, slowly, deeply. And the sound was akin to a set of brass claws being raked across a blackboard, chilling in its dissonance. “You’re right; it wasn’t your call. Your call was to go after Kristina Silivasi, to attack Nachari’s destiny, to act in a way that guaranteed your death and execution, by me.” He rocked back on his heels and glared at Saber in challenge, all the while continuing to make repairs in his heart as if the two motivations were wholly separate. “My call,” he continued malevolently, “was to let you live…while we watched you…see if there was anything worth saving in your blackened heart.” He narrowed his gaze, and his piercing eyes contracted into two tiny slits, the silver centers glowing with barely restrained wrath, even as he tightened his grip on Saber’s heart. “Tell me I was wrong, and I will rectify it now.”
Saber swallowed a buildup of saliva. He swallowed his retort, and he swallowed his pride. “I don’t know,” he said evenly, “if there’s anything but blackness in my heart.” It was the frankest admission he had made yet. “But last night, it wasn’t about that…hatred…or what you call love.”
“What was it about then?” Napolean murmured.
Saber looked away, glancing off into the distance at a spot on the wall. “It was about a son who had just watched his father get executed.” His eyes met Napolean’s once more in the briefest of contact; but the intensity was too much to withstand so he looked away again. “And a brother who had just watched”—he bit his lip and swallowed a droplet of blood—“just watched his ally, his friend and brother, get slaughtered.” He winced. “It was about falling…hell, spinning.” He tilted his head to the side swiftly, cracking his neck as if he could snap the pain away. “Reeling.” His shoulders stiffened. “And it was about a woman who, for whatever reason, had the power to make it all go away. For a minute. Just one minute.” He closed his eyes in shame, hating that Napolean had witnessed his grief so intimately in the Red Canyons, despising that he was surely witnessing it now.
When Napolean didn’t speak—not a single word—Saber began to feel cornered, exposed, inexplicably pressured. He forced himself to regard the fearsome leader of the house of Jadon straight on, while he let his next words fly. “You are the king of the house of Jadon, right? Hell, king of the whole freakin’ world. You’ve always known about the Curse, about destinies, and protocol…and honor. Yet, even possessing all that wisdom, can you tell me you never crossed a line, played hard and fast with the rules?” He continued to stare directly at him, refusing to blink or look away. “Can you tell me you never felt the weight of the world on your shoulders and wanted to ease the pain in the wrong set of arms? In Vanya’s arms?”
Napolean jolted.
And then he froze.
Not a single muscle twitched. Not a hair on his head rustled. He simply stared back at Saber with a look of fierce incredulity on his face, his jaw set in a hard line. “You’ve glimpsed her memories?”
Saber shrugged.
“Does she know?”
Saber was not about to go there. “Either my words are true…or they aren’t.”
Napolean scowled. “What do you know about truth, Mr. Vampire-Soldier-Dark One? So far, you haven’t been man enough to face any of the truths presented to you. You would rather plot and scheme, lash out at the whole free world, and feel sorry for yourself.” He leveled a cautionary gaze at the stricken vampire before continuing, a clear warning not to interrupt. “What happened between me and Vanya is none of your damn business. Not only was it a long time ago, but it was an entirely different situation.”
“Why?” Saber retorted, feeling suddenly emboldened. “Because you’re the great Napolean Mondragon?” His next words came out in an uncensored rush. “The gods gave her to me, milord.”
“What did you just say?”
“The—gods—gave—her—to—me, milord.”
Napolean withdrew his hand from Saber’s chest as if the cavity had suddenly burned him. He rose from the ground in absolute silence, took a calculated step away, and spun back to face the defiant prisoner. “I heard you the first time.”
“Then why did you—”
Napolean waved his hand in harsh dismissal. “Stop talking, you fool!”
“Why? Because the truth—”
“Because you are dead if you don’t! Even I have limitations!” His enormous body shook where he stood, and it took him no less than a minute to fully calm down. “And such a thing won’t serve Vanya right now—which is the only thing I care about.”
Saber struggled to stand upright. He paused to test his broken body and assess his rapidly healing wounds before daring to place his full weight on his feet. Once he was steady, he turned to face his accuser and finish the conversation the way he had started it: with brutal honesty. “What the hell do you want from me, milord?”
Napolean took several steps back, crossed his arms over his powerful chest, and leaned casually against the diamond-encrusted bars, staring at Saber as if he suddenly didn’t have a care in the world. And truth be told, he probably didn’t. His easy demeanor, as well as the contrived look of indifference on his face, said it all: I can take your life in a heartbeat; you are nothing before me. “Speak freely, male, or forever hold your peace.” Napolean’s voice was a mere whisper. “This is the only opportunity I will ever give you.”
Saber gawked at the cocky display before him and raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Seriously? What do you want me to say?”
Napolean smiled then, laughing almost softly, although there was certainly no humor in his voice. He shrugged. “That’s up to you. Why not start by facing the truth.”
“The truth?” Saber snickered. “As you see it or as I see it? Because trust me, Your Grace, there’s more than one truth here.”
“How about the truth of your position.”
“My position?”
“Your position.”
“Yeah…my position,” Saber parroted. “Like I don’t know where I stand.”
Napolean raised his eyebrows in question. “You don’t seem to know much of anything—who you are, who I am.”
Saber laughed blatantly then. “You think I don’t know who you are, Napolean?” He waited to see if the ancient king would strike him dead just for using his name so casually. When it appeared as if he were still breathing, he continued: “Because I’m too dark, too stupid, and too defiant to recognize power when I see it—is that it?”
“You tell me.”
“Your ego is astonishing, milord.”
Napolean shrugged. “Perhaps. But yours, it’s just pathetic…obvious…tiresome.”
