The Warlock King (The Kings)

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Leather couches and love seats waited here and there, plush throws tossed carelessly over their arms and backs inviting cold bodies to wrap up and be warm. Thick rugs covered the marble floors. Several hallways led off the room into the unknown.

  If the size of the main sitting room and Jason’s private chamber were any indication, the rest of the house that stretched beyond it must have been vast. Great wealth was clearly evident in every object carefully displayed. Everything possessed a kind of harshness to it, a stark and severe simplicity that clearly delineated the man who lived here.

  She’d heard that the Warlock King resided in a mansion hidden from the rest of the world. That she knew of, no one had ever been capable of locating it. It had remained successfully shielded for years.

  The tapestries on the wall drew Chloe’s attention. She made her way to the first of the series of thick, intricately woven works of art and studied it closely. As she did, comprehension dawned on her.

  She moved to the next, looked it over, and that comprehension deepened. By the time she stood before the final tapestry, she was feeling a dichotomy of thrumming excitement and bone-numbing dread. The threads wove themselves together as she watched, magically forming an image that became clearer with each passing, breathless moment.

  The spell slowed and stopped with the edges yet incomplete and the finishing touches remaining to be sewn, but there was enough of the image for Chloe to decipher with finality.

  The last tapestry depicted her… in a gorgeous flowing gown….

  With a black diamond crown on her head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jesse impatiently wiped the blood from his forehead before it could slip into his eye. Then he used his shoulder to crash through the only remaining barrier between himself and the parlor car he and the other werewolves had brawled in earlier.

  He could hear her heartbeat, faint and fluttery. He could smell her blood.

  He could also smell magic – boatloads of it. When he hurdled himself into the car to the sound of splintering plastic and rending metal, along with the smell of burning fuel, he saw why.

  Before him swirled a mass of sparkling energy. It pulsed with chaotic power, a chasm of potential danger and destruction. At the center of this whirlwind of dark magic stood Chloe Septeran. On the ground beside her knelt Jason Alberich, his head bent, his back bowed in physical defeat.

  On the other side of them stood a second Jason Alberich, identical to the first Warlock King in every respect but for the fact that he still stood.

  Jesse’s heart hammered, his eyes glowed hot, and his fangs dripped with the blood of slaughtered vampire. He could make no sense of what he was witnessing. Two Warlock Kings? The Septeran girl swirling with magic that made her hair stand on end? She looked like the girl on the cover of the Heavy Metal album!

  A half-second later, there was a warped flash and Septeran and the kneeling Jason were transported away.

  Jesse had no idea what exactly had just transpired or what the hell it meant, but none of it mattered. Not to him – not just then.

  All that mattered was that on the other end of the doomed car lay the unconscious form of Imani Zareb, her pulse weakening further with each passing second.

  The train was going to go any moment now. It had derailed several cars ahead. The engine had combusted. Imani’s coven had managed to transport every mortal off the locomotive to a safe location, where they were being held in a sleeping stasis until their memories could be altered. But Imani herself had been trapped here on the train, as had Jesse, with the task of destroying the final vampires who had been sent for Chloe Septeran.

  Jesse gauged the distance between himself and the witch. He judged how long it would take him to make his way through the Jason Alberich still standing there, who smelled just a bit worse on the evil meter than did the original Jason Alberich. He considered what he was going to do to get himself and Imani off the train once he got to her.

  Just as he was beginning to realize it might be impossible and was preparing to try it anyway, his body began to shimmer. It was the oddest sensation – like he imagined it would feel to be “beamed up” by someone on the Enterprise. He was the Werewolf Council Overseer and he was dating the herald of a witch’s coven, so of course he’d experienced the sensation before. It was par for the course for him. Nevertheless, being transported was something he would never get used to.

  He was helpless to stop it. Most werewolves were. They were not as steeped in magic as were vampires or Akyri, warlocks or witches, dragons or fae. Jesse felt the initial struggle of ambiguity as the survivor in him automatically felt grateful for a way off of the derailed train – but the wolf in him yearned to save his mate against all odds.

  However, that quickly passed when he realized that Imani’s body was shimmering as well. She was being transported off the train along with him – leaving only the Jason Alberich copy behind.

  As Jesse’s vision began to fade, becoming particulated and disoriented, he caught the sudden, desperate dash of the second warlock. Alberich bolted across the last half of the train, leaping for Jesse’s fading form. Jesse felt the swipe of the man’s arm as it sliced through the sparkling, dissipating substance of his disappearing body, but the attempted interference had no effect. This was Dannai Caige’s spell; Jesse could feel the magical signature of the witch because she was also a wolf. Her magic was never sloppy.

  A roar of rage followed Jesse into oblivion as Alberich’s double realized he’d acted too late. A trace of dark magic whipped out as well, perhaps the reaching fingertips of a spell cast in the last moments of desperation.

  But these faded, trickling away in uselessness as Jesse completely disappeared – to reappear in the clearing of a forest somewhere not too far away. The smells of the forest mixed here with the lingering scents of battle.

  Jesse quickly scanned the clearing’s inhabitants. There were ten others with him, most of them covered in the bloody evidence and torn clothing of their recent fighting: Daniel and Lily Kane, Charlie St. James, Malcolm Cole, Dannai and Lucas Caige, Katheryn Dare and Byron Caige – and Imani Zareb.

  Dannai was already kneeling beside the fallen figure of her best friend. “Ima!” she cried, reaching a healing hand toward the unconscious witch’s chest. Jesse joined her there. There was no need for either of them to take a pulse. They were wolves and could hear Imani’s heartbeat, as weak and unsteady as it was.

  “Someone cast a rending spell on her,” Dannai said. Her voice was tight with emotion that Jesse imagined she was barely keeping in check. “Severe concussion, more than a dozen broken bones,” she swallowed hard. “She’s bleeding heavily internally.”

  No one spoke. No one asked her if she’d be able to heal her friend. Either she could – and she would – or she couldn’t, and no one would force her to admit as much.

  Dannai was tired. Jesse could see the weariness in the darkness beneath her multi-colored eyes. She had been healing passengers and werewolves as she’d pulled them to safety from the battle on the train. The Healer was nearly spent. And now that she had used up so much magic on everyone else, she was faced with the task of healing one who meant more to her than most of them put together.

  Jesse held his breath. Have enough left, he thought. Just for one more.

  If Imani had been awake enough to swallow, he could have given her his blood. But he was useless to her now. It was up to Dannai.

  The Healer closed her eyes.

  A second ticked by. Her hand began to glow a soft, warm yellow.

  Somewhere in the not too far distance, something exploded. The ground beneath their feet rumbled as if struck with an earthquake. The train had finally slipped its last track and tumbled loose down the mountainside.

  No one responded. The clearing was unnaturally silent.

  Another second ticked by.

  Jesse’s chest felt tight. His eyes burned hellishly in his face. Fury was building in his veins. He willed Imani’s lips to move, he
r chest to rise, her heart to pound. He willed Dannai to save her.

  Two more seconds. Three.

  A stray wind gently blew through the clearing, brushing through branches and sending tendrils of Dannai’s hair against her cheek.

  And then, like the breath of air for a drowning man, the light from Dannai’s hand spread. Beneath the caramel creaminess of her perfect skin, Imani’s veins took on an unnatural but beautiful luminosity. Jesse watched as it infused her pores, glowed behind her closed lids, and lit her from within.

  A moment later, her lips parted and she sucked in a breath of air. The clearing erupted in loud exhalations and cries of joy.

  Dannai slumped forward, the glow having gone from her hand. Imani’s long lashes fluttered as her eyes opened. A few seconds later, she parted her lips. “Ouch,” she whispered.

  Jesse gently cupped her face. Then he turned and pulled Dannai into a strong bear hug. “Thank you,” he told her.

  She nodded, still speechless with exhaustion, and he released her into the arms of her husband, who now knelt next to her as well.

  Jesse turned back to Imani. “You owe me brownie points,” he told her as she slowly lifted herself onto her elbow. Jesse took her arms to ease her into a sitting position.

  “Bullshit,” she told him softly. “The Haunted Mansion was closed.”

  Jesse laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  “Haunted Mansion?” Charlie asked from where she stood beside Cole, Daniel, and Lily.

  Jesse nodded. “Disneyland. And she’s been in a foul mood ever since.”

  “That would explain the way you cut into those first two Offspring with decapitation spells,” said Cole, his British accent managing to put a civilized spin on something grisly.

  “I could have told you it was closed,” Lily said, smiling wryly.

  Imani shot her a look.

  Lily shrugged. “I saw the closings list when I downloaded the park map for everyone.”

  Despite herself, Imani smiled. But it was fleeting. “Fair enough. Where are Chloe and Jason?” she asked.

  “Which Jason?” Jesse asked as he recalled the second Alberich on the train and felt concern etch his features. It was probably time to meet with the Vampire King again and talk to him about a few things, not the least of which was the fact that some rogue vampire master had Offspring attacking the good guys.

  “What do you mean ‘which Jason’?” Daniel Kane asked, his cop instincts probably firing to life.

  “It’s a long story,” said Jesse. “But I’m not telling it here.” He took in their blood soaked clothing and weary expressions. “Let’s get back to town. We’ll re-convene tonight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ophelia stood still and unsteady in the empty, dark hallway. Up ahead was the door to her master’s chamber. The flicker of candlelight lent the stone hall a soft glow where it emanated from the archway leading to the massive room beyond.

  He was waiting for her.

  She closed her eyes and took a shaking breath, trying for all the world to steady her nerves. But the clothes she’d been forced to wear abraded against the fresh wounds she bore beneath. She looked down at the front of her blue outfit. A nametag that read “Lia,” mimicked the last part of her real name. It was an Amtrak uniform, tight and scratchy enough on normal, undamaged skin, but horrible on her own. She felt raw and sore and miserable – and she knew that was the point.

  The wounds he’d inflicted on her would never heal entirely. Fire was like that anyway. For mortals it left terrible scars. For a vampire, it was so much worse. A brand of fire would remain open and bleeding at first, and then gaping and seeping for weeks. The scar would never fade.

  And that’s what she wore now – brands. Two of them; one for each trespass she’d committed against her master’s wishes.

  It wasn’t only the wounds themselves that ached and throbbed for Ophelia. It was where he’d chosen to give them to her. The location was symbolic – and exceedingly cruel. They would change the way she was forced to dress for the rest of eternity. They were a lesson hard learned.

  They were also a lesson she never should have been forced to endure.

  It was his fault she was who and what she was. He was the one who’d chosen to turn her.

  At the time, it had been forbidden for an Offspring to create another Offspring. And yet, he’d done it without a hint of remorse or regret… or even gentleness. Ophelia had never been given a choice. He’d taken her from an engagement to someone she cared for more than she’d ever cared for anyone in her life, and he’d changed her. He’d made her a vampire.

  Her fiancé had gone on to other things, mourning her “death”… and then forgetting her. He’d found someone else eventually, a young American popper with no class, no lineage, and no upbringing. He’d fallen in love with her of all people, and made her his queen.

  Meanwhile a handsome, wealthy, charismatic, and completely evil vampire lord had ruined her.

  She winced as a fresh throb of reminding pain arced up from her wounds.

  And now he’s ruined me again, she thought.

  Why me? she wondered for the thousandth time in the last two hundred years. He didn’t care for her. He cared less for her wellbeing than he did the rugs on which she was forced to kneel before him.

  Pouting, sweet?

  His voice suddenly cut through her ungracious thoughts, both sharp and beautiful. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Do you think to repay me for your punishment by making me wait for you?

  The question hung in the air, absolutely unanswerable.

  Is that wise? he asked next.

  Dread coursed through Ophelia. She forced her feet to move, and moments later she found herself standing once more before the vampire who had made her.

  He watched her in silence, his angelic face that reminded her of Lucifer was cold, his dark eyes unyielding. After a few seconds, he raised a brow.

  Ophelia immediately fell to her knees and bowed her head. This time there was no rug to cushion the position. Her legs bruised, but she held still… and waited.

  As she waited, she heard him retake his throne, most likely as graceful as usual, as perfectly, horribly beautiful as he’d always been.

  “Now then,” he said nonchalantly. “What have you for me, pet?”

  Ophelia had thought carefully about how she would phrase the information she had learned for him. She’d been sent out to get close to the young Chloe Septeran. She’d been instructed to watch her, listen to her, and study her from a safe distance. Her master wanted to know as much about her as possible because Chloe was destined to become one of the 13 Queens.

  And her master’s master wanted to know as much about them as he could.

  Ophelia had tracked the soon-to-be queen through Disneyland’s park, watching her board one ride after another for apparently no reason, and as she did, Ophelia’d made note of every nuance of Septeran’s character.

  Ophelia had also stayed in a hotel room across the hall from Septeran’s – and had even boarded the train just shortly before the Akyri did.

  In order to disguise her Offspring nature from the incredibly insightful and sensitive young Septeran and anyone else who might smell the tainted magic upon her, Ophelia’s vampirism had been temporarily stripped from her. It was a rare punishment, and one not easily performed. It was also forbidden under Roman D’Angelo’s rule… because it hurt.

  But Ophelia supposed that was part of the reason her creator had chosen to put her through it. It was to be another lesson. The fact that it aided him in his plan was only an added bonus. There was an emptiness inside of Ophelia now that felt nearly as wrong on the inside as the swollen, bloody brand marks felt on the outside.

  Ophelia was transported off the train once Septeran returned to her quarters after finishing her midday meal. Ophelia’d had a few hours to herself then. And now was the questioning she had been dreading.

  Somehow, with a strength she hadn’t known she posse
ssed, Ophelia once more squelched her desire to rise from the ground and die trying to kill the man who had transformed her into a blood-drinking monster. It was an urge she suppressed time and again.

  Instead, she licked her lips. Slowly and carefully, she told him what she knew.

  She’d noticed a few things during her assignment that might come in handy in acquiring not only Septeran, but also the other twelve queens. For example, they all seemed to be inordinately sensitive. OCD tendencies, panic attacks, anxiety, vegetarianism – they seemed to run rampant through the emerging string of female sovereigns.

  They possessed a sort of profile, and this was one of the things she spoke of now as her master listened intently, quietly absorbing every word she muttered.

  She kept nothing from him. Not only would it have been pointless, as he could have just ripped the information quickly from her mind if he’d chosen to, but the longer she talked, the longer he refrained from hurting her.

  She only had so much information to share. Her knees were cold and sore, her skin was on fire, and her spirit ached. She began to tremble where she knelt. It was going to be a long night.

  “For you, yes,” her master suddenly said, slicing once more into her runaway thoughts. She’d been talking about one thing and thinking about another. And as usual, he’d known.

  Ophelia closed her eyes and swallowed hard past the lump that was forming in her throat. She wanted to die. And again, she wondered why he’d chosen to torture her, of all the women in the world.

  “Because, my dear, you were Roman’s love.”

  Ophelia opened her eyes and looked up. She could feel wetness on her cheeks, but she knew he wouldn’t care. Tears had no effect on him. At least hers didn’t, anyway.

  Blurriness greeted her, but she refrained from blinking as it would only serve to clear her vision, and the beautiful visage of her brutal and pitiless master was one she did not wish to look upon.