The Dracove (The Prophecy series)

by N. L. Gervasio

  “He’s in a safe place for the moment. I’ll bring him to you later.”

  Cearbhall nodded.

  “Who’s Rathius?”

  “The King of Gargoyles,” Cearbhall replied. “Probably the one Kylie saw move up on the roof. He’d only do so in her presence. They wouldn’t have awakened unless she was in danger.”

  Grant contemplated Cearbhall’s words. “I’d like to know more about that later.” He turned to Mahlon again. “You never answered my question.”

  “Aye, the prophecy.” He walked over to one of the broken chairs. “Cearbhall doesn’t know all of it either, so I’ll tell the two of you what was told me more than two thousand years ago. Now that I think of it, it may be closer to five thousand years.”

  White magic trickled from Mahlon’s fingertips to what was left of the broken chair. It gathered itself together. First the legs stood in place. The seat, arms, and back slid into place. When he was done, it looked brand new. He sat down and turned his head toward Cearbhall, but he wasn’t looking at Cearbhall.

  “What is it, my dear,” he asked Daniella. The other two stood slack-jawed behind her.

  “I wanted to tell Cearbhall—” She had trouble finding the words.

  “Go ahead,” Mahlon said.

  “We found Frederick, or what’s left of him.”

  Cearbhall closed his eyes a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Cearbhall,” Mahlon said. “He was with you a long time.”

  Cearbhall only nodded.

  He gave Cearbhall a moment before gesturing to the three young ones. “Why don’t you join us? You’ll need to hear this, as well.”

  They entered the library and each found a place to sit. Daniella sat on the floor in front of Cearbhall. Elizabeth and Kenneth sat on the desk near Grant.

  “Who are you,” Elizabeth asked. Kenneth nudged her arm with his elbow. “What? Do you know who he is? I don’t, and I’d like to know.”

  “And you shall,” Mahlon said with a warm smile.

  “He’s Cianán’s blood-father,” Cearbhall said.

  She leaned forward to look around Kenneth, and stared at him. Her eyes returned to Mahlon.

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  Mahlon nodded. “You question your maker?”

  “Well, no . . . I mean . . . How could you create that monster?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I want to know who ye are other than that,” Grant said. “You’re not a vampyre.”

  Everyone stared at Grant in shock, but Mahlon only smiled. Grant knew something was different about him.

  “Very perceptive, Grant; however, I am a vampyre. I’m just different than you’re used to.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t need blood to sustain me or give me strength. My blood doesn’t die within my body like yours does. That’s why you must feed. You take a little of something else when you do so to help keep the blood alive, so to speak, but it’s only temporary.”

  Grant noted that tidbit of information and stored it away for later. Right now, the subject was his Master. “How’d ye create Cianán then?”

  “I told you, it was an accident.” Mahlon drew in a deep breath and began his story. “During the ritual to make him immortal at Trystan’s request, he died at the conclusion of the spell. I’d never performed the spell before. The last word I said killed him instead of giving him immortality—I said it wrong. Always be certain to pronounce each word correctly; otherwise, things go haywire. The universe can be cruel if you are not specific and don’t articulate.

  “Trystan knew I could save him, or at least hoped I could. I cut my wrist and gave him my blood, truly immortal blood. I figured it would work, and in a way it did. After he rose, he needed blood to sustain his body. His blood died, or had gone cold, as some of you call it. Because of the spell, his blood would never stay “warm,” his heart would never create more blood. When you feed, you’re not restoring blood to your veins. You’re stealing part of your prey’s life force to warm your souls. The blood is what you crave because yours can no longer keep you alive. That’s the reason you are the way you are. I didn’t know my blood would do that to him. My blood has given each of you life after death through him.

  “As you see, it was an accident, or really, it was my fault. I’m the creator of this branch of the Dracove and of all of you.” He paused.

  The room was silent. Grant heard the clock—tick tock—in the foyer. Outside, leaves rustled as the wind swept through the trees beyond the broken library window.

  “The Dracove. I’ve heard that before,” Grant said.

  Mahlon’s magic twirled through the air to repair the broken glass. “Of course. It’s what all of you have been called for centuries. The Dasulmavre are the ones who chose the name.”

  “And who are they?”

  “Later. Let me get back to Cianán before we delve into things you’ll have numerous questions about.

  “He’d been learning the magic from Trystan for about three or four years, I can’t recall. After I gave him my blood—which has the magic in it—he became a strong sorcerer. The magic chooses those of you who already have a small amount inside of you, those who are predestined to wield it. That’s the reason not all of you are taught. It’s part of the hierarchy for vampyres, much like your other traits. Those who can’t perform the magic can’t create fledglings.

  “Cianán’s powers grew over the years. His lust for power overwhelmed him. He’ll stop at nothing to achieve his goal.

  “That’s over twenty-three hundred year’s worth of magic he holds within. Only I and few others hold more.”

  Grant arched a brow. “An’ how old are you?”

  Mahlon smiled at him. “You want to know everything, don’t you, Grant?”

  “Aye,” Grant said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “My age is unimportant and has nothing to do with this. Besides, I wasn’t ‘born’, so I don’t really have an age.”

  “Well, you aren’t acting like Cianán,” Daniella said. “Is it because you weren’t ‘born’?”

  “No.”

  “How’s that,” Elizabeth asked.

  “Some other time, perhaps.”

  “What about the prophecy, will you tell us about it,” Kenneth asked. “Cearbhall mentioned it a few times. I was wondering if what happened tonight has to do with it.”

  “Aye, I started to explain before you asked me all these other questions. Let’s begin.

  “The prophecy is the Beginning. Truly, it begins long before Cianán’s rebirth. Soothsayers warned me for millennia, and I’ve spent that time trying to figure it out. I’ve now come to a conclusion. Listen carefully; I’m only going to say this once. It has been very difficult to translate over the years.”

  He closed his eyes and sat on the edge of his chair. He drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Grant figured it must be one hell of a story.

  “In Ireland long ago, there were good times and bad times. Many things happened. But one event shook the Earth.

  “A seer spoke of the gods and three children. The gods would spawn a Dracove whose mastery of all things would be unmatched, the strongest of his kind. The bloodshed he would bring would reign for many ages in his mad search for the power of the gods. He would find the child bearing the mark he’d created. The mark was the key, part of the flesh that gained access to the chamber of the Spells of Destiny, hidden within the caverns of the Isle of Man.

  “Upon entering the chamber, the child bearing the mark would no longer be the child. The Great Warrior Queen would return to aid the Dracove in his quest. Many shall suffer her wrath before the full moon sets.

  “In order to conquer, the power of three must play. The Chosen One, another of the Dracove’s creation, must prove his love before the dawn, or all is lost.”

  Mahlon shook his head, like he’d been in a trance. “There was quite a bit more to it, and I’ve done some of my own interpretation to understand it. The first part was
originally in Dasul, a long lost language. You’ve heard the broken down version of the Gaelic.”

  “Sounds a bit bizarre,” Grant replied.

  “Don’t discount it yet, Grant. If Siobhán had lived, things would be different.”

  “How’s that possible? Ye recited nothin’ regarding her. Are ye certain it’s Cianán you’re looking for?”

  “Fairly certain,” Mahlon said. “You’ve thought yourself Siobhán was merely a glimpse of the woman you’d one day meet. They share not only a likeness to one another, but also the mark. They are both the key, Grant. Cianán knew this. He’s the reason the mark even exists on them.”

  Grant frowned. “Why?”

  “Siobhán’s father, Pádraig, was spared his life long ago by Cianán. In return for the favor, he asked for Pádraig’s first-born daughter bearing the mark Cianán burned unto his flesh.”

  “He set this whole thing up from the beginnin’?”

  “Aye,” Mahlon replied. “He created the key. What none of you know about Cianán is, when he studies something, he studies it thoroughly. How he found a way to become Dasulmavre, I can but guess. He’s figured it out and he must not be allowed to follow through with it. Your lives depend on it, as well as my own and every god that still lives.”

  “That’s why Siobhán was his Chosen One,” Grant whispered.

  “His Chosen One, Grant, not the Chosen One. Cianán would’ve succeeded up to a point if she hadn’t died before the ritual. She was the key at the time, but the Chosen One wouldn’t have been able to destroy him. I almost had to intervene; the Chosen One wasn’t strong enough for the battle, and Siobhán wasn’t part of the sacred three. She’d lead Cianán to the spell, but her blood wasn’t strong enough for the ritual. However, it would have put him in a much more powerful position. Too powerful for the Chosen One to defeat, and for the gods’ liking.”

  “I knew it,” Cearbhall shouted. “He’s the Chosen One.” He pointed at Grant.

  “Excuse me?” Grant cocked a brow at his blood-brother.

  “He’s right, Grant, you are the Chosen One. Cianán created you as well. Kylie is the one you’ve been searching for, as you’ve said in the past. She’s been searching for you for a very long time, as well.”

  Grant stared at him in disbelief. “Then why didn’t I find her before now?”

  Mahlon smiled. “She hasn’t always come back in human form. I don’t know why. When she did return, she didn’t have the mark . . . until this last time. I always knew when she returned. I felt it.”

  Grant stared at the floor, shaking his head. It made no sense, and it was hard to believe. But he’d always felt alone in this world, even when Siobhán was alive.

  “Where does the Queen come in?”

  “The two of you haven’t been together in over two thousand years in this realm, or any other. The Morrigan helps her and, in a sense, is a part of her. The two of you are drawn to the goddess like you’re her children, and perhaps in a way, you are.

  “The only thing is there are pieces of the prophecy bothering me that weren’t revealed today. They make reference to sacrificing young to appease the blood god. I’ve never known anyone to think of Cianán as a god and to sacrifice to him. It doesn’t make any sense to me.

  “I’d ask Morrigan, but I haven’t spoken with her in a very long time. She never really tells you everything anyway.” He winked at Grant.

  The library fell silent. Grant felt like he sat in a public library and they’d been told to keep it down. He scratched his temple and rubbed it. If he were able to get headaches, he figured he’d probably have a pretty damn good one.

  “I’ve a specific question for ye, Mahlon.”

  “You want to know if you’ll become mortal again,” Mahlon replied.

  “Aye. Do ye know?”

  “It hasn’t been foreseen that once the Dracove is destroyed, this curse shall end. At least, that’s what the Soothsayer told me. Truthfully, I don’t know.”

  “Then ye don’t know everythin’,” Grant said, smiling.

  Mahlon gasped. “Ah, you’re right, I don’t! Damn.” He hit the arm of the chair.

  The others chuckled, but Grant stared at the part of the desk he’d cracked again.

  “Truly, Grant, I’m sorry. I’ll see if I can find some sort of answer for you.”

  “It’s all right. I just hoped I’d have somethin’ to look forward to.”

  “But you do, Grant. You have Kylie.”

  “I know, but she’s mortal an’ I’m not. An’ I don’t want her to be immortal; I mean, I don’t want her to be like me.”

  “I understand,” Mahlon said and stood. “We’ll see what we can do about that. First thing’s first, though, we have prepare for a battle. Before you ask, aye, there will be a battle. It will be extremely difficult to hide from the human population. We’ll need help. Cearbhall, you know what to do.”

  Cearbhall nodded and stood. “Should we bring in the wolves?”

  “Aye, I’ve already discussed it with Vincent,” Mahlon said.

  “I’ll collect the rest of the clan, then.” He left the room.

  Grant stared out the window, cursing himself again.

  Mahlon placed a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Stop blaming yourself. It’ll do no good but get you hurt.”

  Mahlon’s hand slid off his shoulder as he stood. “I want to go after her right now.”

  “I know, but you can’t. There are too many of them. They’d kill you before you could get to her.”

  Grant sighed. “I know.” He walked out of the room, leaving Mahlon and the others behind, and headed for the courtyard. Stones covered most of the grounds now, so he stepped carefully around them. The statues that stood watch over the courtyard were gone. Grant peered up to the roof; the gargoyles were all missing. He wondered how many there had been. Obviously not enough.

  Grant.

  He stiffened at the sound of the voice in his mind. Kylie?

  Help me. I’m scared.

  It’ll be okay, Ky. I’ll find you. I promise.

  His mind silenced, and the past replayed, showing another promise—one he had yet to keep. Siobhán, lifeless in his arms, blood soaking her gown. His dream of holding a soaking wet, lifeless Kylie flashed through his mind, and he roared to the heavens.

  He’d find a way to save her, even if it meant tearing the earth apart.

  About the Author

  NL “Jinxie” Gervasio is a creator and destroyer of worlds. She is both editor and author, and discovered she’s quite good at the romance thing—writing it, that is—along with vampires, werewolves, zombies, angels and demons.

  Jinxie is the CEO and Founder of Just Ink Press, her second publishing company, and she also owns and operates Forever Nocturne e-zine, a bi-annual literary magazine. Jinxie reviews books in her spare time, of which she rarely has any.

  Jinxie was born on Friday the 13th. Her dad wanted to call her Jinx. Her mom said no. It took 34 years for her to discover the nickname, and she's grown quite attached to it. She lives in Tempe, Arizona with Umi (her mother), whom she cares for. She enjoys riding her beach cruiser "The Betty" around downtown Tempe, loves a good pub crawl, and has had the pleasure and the heartache of experiencing a love far greater than she could have ever imagined.

  She welcomes you to her worlds.

  Jinxie is the author of the Kick-Ass Girls Club series book Nemesis and the Prophecy series. She’s also an editor for several successful authors.

  Find Jinxie online for updates to upcoming works:

  Twitter Facebook Blog Just Ink Press Zombie Survival Crew

  Email: jinxieg13@gmail.com

  SPECIAL PREVIEW

  Chapter One

  Afternoon sun broke through the clouds. Danny stared out the car window in wonder at the way the sunbeams hit the ground, forming small pockets of paradise in the midst of the gloom. It never looks like this at home. Then again, California had its own beauty. He needed to travel more.

  Dana had
been here often, to kill vampyres. He'd never been anywhere overseas other than Japan, where he spent some time as a small boy living with their grandfather, until his parents brought him back to the states. The last time he was there was when Grandfather died years ago. They were both still in college then. Their father wanted them both to go to Penn State, where he'd attended. They went to UCLA instead. Dad also wasn't too crazy about their occupations. At least they got to travel. Well, one of them did.

  Yep, Dana had the wonderful privilege of traveling the world while he sat in front of his damned computer.

  Danny sighed. This was his first trip anywhere in a long time, and it was to go up against one of the most powerful vampyres the slayers had ever known.

  Not much of a vacation. He watched a young couple hurrying to get out of the rain. Not that it was meant to be a vacation.

  Some of the slayers thought Cianán might have been the first vampyre. That was his theory as well, but no one truly knew for sure. Throughout the years, they'd found bits and pieces of information about the vampyres. A few years ago someone discovered a letter speaking of a prophecy. Why it popped up after all these years was beyond him. It was an old scroll—quite a bit of the ink faded into nothing. He'd dated the piece to around the first century. What bothered him was, it'd been addressed to them. Not just the slayers, in general, but a particular branch, and a particular person.

  It'd been addressed, “To the grandchild of Yoshiaki Tsumura”—his and Dana's grandfather. Bet the author hadn't figured on twins.

  Dana didn't know about the scroll. It'd been Danny's best friend who found it. The find made him wonder just how old their grandfather was. He never admitted his age, no matter how many times they asked.

  The Prophecy. Up until that point, it was a myth. Something they'd heard of, but had never gathered enough information about. Danny knew it was the key to this whole thing. Some of the intel they received was handed down from generation to generation as folklore. He was able to decipher most of what was true and what were tales with the help of the scroll.