by Tessa Dawn
Nachari and Ciopori walked silently through the space. When they got to the other side, they were met by yet another door. This one had crossbones on the front and an ancient warning written in the Old Language: Behold the portal to the Corridor of the Dead.
Nachari bit his bottom lip, opened the door, and ushered the princess inside. “Don’t worry; that doesn’t apply to us.”
Princess Ciopori took a quick step back. “And you are absolutely certain of this, wizard?”
Nachari’s expression was deathly serious. “Yes, absolutely. I am not ready to leave this earth quite yet, Princess.”
Ciopori followed him through the macabre door into what she realized was a confined entry-way: Just beyond the cramped space were two steps leading up to a hatch, the final entrance to the death chamber, and the hatch was covered with an enormous iron bolt that locked it in place. It was obviously meant to keep whoever was inside the cavity from escaping.
The lingering energy of torture and agony was almost tangible as Nachari reached up, took a large iron key from a rusted hook, and unlocked the hatch.
Ciopori recoiled.
The interior was shaped like a cylinder—about twelve feet tall, twenty-feet in circumference—and it reeked of the smell of death...
And vengeance.
And malevolence.
Without a doubt, she knew that the souls of her slain sisters had become the very evil they had sought to punish. As all energy only multiplied and attracted unto itself, every act of hatred and revenge—every death meant to atone for their extinction—had simply added to their own darkness and depravity. What happened here in this chamber was not justice, and it was not penance.
It was unholy.
For the first time since she’d met him, Nachari’s proud swagger faltered, and he stumbled back as if he could barely stand. His hands and arms trembled uncontrollably.
Ciopori followed his eyes as he took in the contents of the room: There were dozens of oval shower-heads perched around the upper perimeter of the ceiling, and they were clearly positioned to wash the sterile-looking walls. But...of what?
“Blood,” Nachari answered, easily reading her mind. “The shower-heads are needed to wash away all of the blood.”
He pointed to a large drain in the middle of the floor, which dipped down at the center. “It has been said by our people that when the souls of our female ancestors are done punishing some of the males, there is nothing left of them to bury or incinerate. What little that remains flows down that drain like liquid. Others are left intact as a reminder to those who must bury them...as was the case with my twin.”
Ciopori caught her breath and shrank back from the door. His twin?
Nachari forced himself to continue. “The male enters the chamber on the last night of the Blood Moon: the night he failed to provide the sacrifice of the Dark Child.” He shivered. “It is also said that the walls are sound-proof because the cries are too agonizing to bear by those outside. The punishment is too cruel. The death too prolonged.” He took a slow, deep breath and steadied his voice. “The death curse has been known to take up to twenty-four hours when the male is incredibly strong—never less than twelve.”
He turned away and placed his hand over his stomach. His perfect face grew pale. His voice quivered despite his effort. “My...twin”—he stopped and clutched at the wall—“and Marquis’s brother…died in here…less than two months ago. For no other reason than he did not have a son to hand over at the end of the Blood Moon.”
Ciopori winced. She had no idea what to say. Dear gods…what were these males being put through? “Why didn’t he have a…sacrifice?” she finally asked.
Nachari glanced at his trembling hands. “One of the Dark Ones, a descendant of your brother Jaegar…” He exhaled. “Wow…this is harder than I thought…his name was Valentine Nistor, and he stole Shelby’s destiny before they could complete the ritual.”
Ciopori’s hand went up to her mouth and a tear escaped her eye. “Dearest gods…”
Nachari slowly backed away from the chamber. “Ciopori, you may be right about arguing with the gods. You may even be right about there being some possibility—some way—for you and Marquis to conceive children together that does not end so…badly. But if you are wrong—if there is even the slightest chance that you are wrong—then this is where Marquis will end up at the end of this moon. This is what he will endure if your argument fails.”
He turned to meet her gaze, and she saw everything he couldn’t say in his eyes.
Bringing her here had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. The grief and pain he was shouldering were beyond imagination. Standing so close to the place where his twin had died was taking something good, something elemental, out of him, but he was pleading for his living brother’s life.
“Ciopori,” he whispered, “I do not often make requests. In fact, I am forever chastised for my pride and arrogance, my inability to humble myself before others...but with the gods as my witness, I am begging you right now—do not interfere with Marquis’s destiny. I know that you love him, and that my plea is purely selfish, but I cannot survive the loss of another brother.”
Nachari turned away, locked the hatch, and rushed out of the chamber.
Nachari Silivasi was in the tunnel retching when Ciopori finally caught up to him. He hated that he had left her like that, but she was in no immediate danger—and he couldn’t bear for her to see him fall apart.
As most vampires rarely ate food, there was nothing for him to throw up, so his stomach just heaved painfully, convulsing until he truly believed his ribs might crack.
Why had he done such a thing?
What had made him believe he was strong enough to see Shelby’s last destination? Dear gods, the males in the house of Jadon never had to witness the punishment—or see the death chamber. Napolean had always sheltered them from the worst of the Blood Curse, and for good reason.
Try as he might, Nachari could not get the image of his adventurous, good-natured brother—kneeling and screaming, flailing or fighting, ultimately being murdered—in that cold, sterile chamber out of his mind. And for what reason had he been so brutally slain?
His stomach started a new round of dry-heaves, and he doubled over.
It was then that the princess approached him. She placed her hands on his trembling shoulders, bowed her head, and began to chant in a slow, repetitive cadence...her voice a haunting echo of the Old World. The song was unfamiliar but beautiful, and even though it contained words Nachari could not understand, as a wizard, he knew the presence of power when he felt it. Ciopori was commanding the energy around him, and he felt her healing compassion seep into his soul, relax his stomach...and ease his burden.
When the princess was done singing, Nachari stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I apologize for my…reaction.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she insisted. “I have been so selfish in all of this…” After a long, pregnant pause, she added, “If I might, I would ask you one more question.”
Nachari raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Why in the name of all that is holy would a male willingly submit to such an evil punishment? Why would he come here—turn himself over—even if he had failed to make the sacrifice?”
Nachari leaned back against the tunnel wall. “The punishment is not escapable, Ciopori: The only thing a male can control is where he spends eternity. If he gives his life up with honor, then his soul remains intact, and he will live on in the Valley of Spirit and Light. However, if he runs and hides from the punishment, his soul is lost as well, and he will spend eternity in the Valley of Death and Shadows. It is not a matter of dying or not dying—the execution is inevitable. It is a question of where he will spend the afterlife.”
Ciopori brushed a tear from her eye and took Nachari’s hand. “Look at me, wizard.”
Nachari smiled as graciously as he could and stared into C
iopori’s amazing golden eyes; it was easy to see why Marquis had fallen so hard, so quickly. Although he had the feeling that there was far more to the story than he knew.
Ciopori stroked his arm. “You have asked me not to interfere with Marquis’s destiny, and I give you my word as a princess: I will do nothing that might endanger your brother’s life. But in return, I must ask something of you.”
“What?” Nachari held his breath.
“Please do not deny me the opportunity to speak with him once more...to know his heart...to say good-bye. Nachari, take me to Marquis now, wherever he is. I have no way of finding him without you.”
Nachari closed his eyes and considered Ciopori’s words. The last thing Marquis needed right now was to have Ciopori show up while he was with Kristina, but there was simply no way he could deny her this one request. For whatever reason, the princess clearly loved his brother, and the two of them deserved a chance to say good-bye.
Nachari opened his eyes, squeezed her hand, and managed a faint smile. “If we can get past Napolean, I will take you.”
Ciopori shrugged. “Oh, the king will object, but it is of no consequence. I am not bound by his rule.” She paused then. “If anything, he is bound by mine.”
six
“Why is that infant still crying!”
Salvatore Nistor glared at the worthless human nanny he had captured to care for his newborn nephew, Derrian. Ever since his youngest brother, Valentine, had disappeared five days ago, the eight-day-old infant had done nothing but scream. Vampire infants grew at a much more rapid rate than humans, at least psychologically. They knew their parents right away and were aware of even the smallest change in their environment; unfortunately, this one wanted his father.
Salvatore was seething as he stared at the trembling human female he had abducted from a daycare parking-lot four nights ago on her way home from work. Snatching, cloaking, and transporting the human had been as easy as walking and breathing for the twelve-hundred-year-old male, and he knew deep inside that it wasn’t truly her inability to calm the baby that was causing him such rage: What really had his blood boiling was the ever-increasing realization that Valentine wasn’t coming home...
Not ever.
True, Salvatore had expected the sons of Jadon to seek vengeance for his brother’s crimes, and the heart of the matter was—Valentine had never really known when to say when. His arrogance and love of the game had always preceded his better judgment, and the Dark One had simply gone too far when he used Shelby Silivasi’s destiny to father his son, ultimately murdering both Dalia and Shelby.
And as if that hadn’t been enough, he had impregnated Marquis’s housekeeper by pretending to be Marquis in the hopes of achieving the same result. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked out quite like Valentine planned.
Salvatore rubbed the bridge of his nose, still fuming. Joelle Parker had been laid to rest earlier that day, which meant her body had been returned to her family, and that meant she hadn’t given birth to Valentine’s sons. It was simply impossible to go on believing Valentine was off having a good time somewhere—perhaps feeding or enjoying human women—celebrating the birth of two more offspring. The cocky son of Jaegar would have incinerated Joelle’s body immediately after the birth, leaving no trace of her demise for her loved ones to bury.
No, someone had gotten to Joelle first—and someone had gotten to Valentine. Most likely, Nathaniel or Marquis Silivasi, one of the detestable Ancient Master Warriors in the house of Jadon. Salvatore refused to believe that the wizard, Nachari, could have managed such a feat, and Kagen, the healer, was kept as far away from battles as possible because of his value to his people. No, the warriors had sought blood-vengeance. And in doing so, they had started a feud that Salvatore intended to finish.
Salvatore raised his arm and backhanded the stupid female the moment she lay Derrian down in his crib, sending her flying sideways into the cavern wall. As her head cracked against the limestone, she put both hands up in front of her defensively. “Please…” she groveled, her high-pitched voice only irritating him more.
Salvatore stalked over to where he had thrown the five-foot-six wisp of a human. Her dirty auburn hair had become a tangled mass over the last week, and her long bangs partially shielded her eyes from view. “Please what!” he thundered, towering over her—his own feral eyes burning with rage. His fangs exploded from his mouth, and he ran his tongue over them slowly, moaning as his eyes swept over her body.
Her knees came up in a defensive posture, and she folded her arms around them, hugging both legs tightly to her chest.
Salvatore snarled and snatched her by the hair. He had left her clothed in her raggedy blue jeans and rock-band tee, not because he cared about her dignity, but because if she had been naked, the temptation to take her would have been too strong to resist. And there were several good reasons Salvatore did not want to rape the female...yet.
First, she would get pregnant, and after taking care of Derrian for twenty-four hours, he knew he was not ready to be a father; besides, he had matters of vengeance to attend to which took precedence over all else. And last but not least, the birth would kill her, and he would just be forced to search for another nanny—which also meant he would have to take care of his nephew by himself in the interim.
Salvatore let go of her hair and stepped back, not trusting his own rage. “What did you say your name was again?”
The human shook so hard her teeth rattled. “S…S…Susan.”
Oh, to hell with it. Her weakness irritated him. Maybe she wasn’t worth keeping, after all. Salvatore crouched down, his feet floating just inches above the ground, and grasped her by the back of her neck, fisting another handful of hair—this time hard enough to rip some out.
She cried out in pain and clutched at his hands, trying to wrench free.
“Why can’t you make my nephew content, Susan?” he hissed.
She struggled to speak through her fearful sobs. “Pl…please…he…he doesn’t want me...I...I think he misses his mother.”
Salvatore threw back his head and laughed. His thunderous voice shook the walls of the lair and rattled the heavy antique chandelier looming above their heads. “Oh, I can assure you, Susan, he does not miss his mother!” He leaned in closer, so that his hot breath brushed against her ear. “He killed his mother the day he was born.”
He licked the side of her jugular, and she fainted.
Salvatore moved away from the woman then, taking a perch on the platform just in front of his heavy iron bed. He paused and looked around the room: The lair was one of hundreds in the underground fortress, a limestone and granite masterpiece carved out of rock and clay, built far beneath the earth, revealing centuries of brilliant architecture. The ancestral females of his race might have cursed the vampires’ souls, but they had not taken away their minds, their talents, or their brilliance. And make no mistake, the Vampyr race as a whole was brilliant.
While the Light Vampires lived and thrived above the surface, walking in the sun and interacting with humans in their precious Dark Moon Vale, the Dark Ones had built an entire colony deep underground, utilizing thousands of acres just to the west of the Red Canyons, creating an elaborate system of tunnels, lairs, and structures that stretched all the way beneath Dark Moon Vale itself.
It had been both a necessary and defensive plan: Should the Light Ones ever discover the true scope of their civilization, the sons of Jadon would be forced to destroy their own empire, economy, and way of life in order to eradicate the colony of the sons of Jaegar. The two were intrinsically connected.
No, unbeknownst to their arrogant brothers of light, the Dark Ones lived—and thrived—miles underground, right beneath their own domain. And they had for over two-thousand years.
Salvatore watched as Susan woke up, scampered to the crib, and gently began to rub Derrian’s back. Her trembling hand jerked back every time the babe hissed, as if the child might bite her. It only took a few minutes for the boy to f
all asleep, after which time, Salvatore relaxed and sat down on his bed. The female was anchored to the wall by a thick length of chain, manacled to her ankle. She had enough room to move around, but couldn’t possibly escape; therefore, Salvatore didn’t have to watch her that closely. She moved to the small stone-bench that sat just a few feet beyond Derrian’s crib, wrapped the thin blanket Salvatore had given her around her shoulders, and nervously rubbed her tired arms.
Salvatore swung his legs onto the bed, stretched back, and closed his eyes—just as the door to his lair swung open so hard a piece of the wood splintered against the wall.
“What the—”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Zarek Nistor—Valentine’s twin and Salvatore’s only remaining brother—snorted as he stalked into the room.
A narrow bolt of blue lightning shot across the lair, hurtling from Salvatore’s hand to Zarek’s, clipping the tips of two of his fingers right off.
Zarek grabbed his injured hand and howled in indignation. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Salvatore snarled. “Next time, knock!”
Zarek shot him an evil glare and raised his hand to his mouth. He released his incisors and dripped healing venom over the cauterized fingers, a process that would quickly grow the digits back.
“Now what was it you came to tell me?” Salvatore barked.
Zarek turned his head as if he had just noticed Susan for the first time, and a low, demonic hiss escaped his throat. He turned back to Salvatore. “The Blood Moon—have you seen it?”
Salvatore nodded. He’d seen it, all right, even though he hadn’t been outside when the phenomenon occurred.
Salvatore’s command of Black Magic had become so powerful over the centuries that the Omens now presented themselves to him in a crystal cube he kept on a night-stand beside his bed: Whenever the cube glowed, Salvatore examined it for information. Why the cube could not reveal what had happened to Valentine, he wasn’t sure. Unfortunately, the information it had relayed on the subject was spotty at best: fire. Whatever that meant…
