“What do you suppose it means?” he asked.
His father shrugged, tucking the scroll back into his pocket. “We will know when we arrive, I suppose.”
Octavian turned away. “They’re probably going to just let us get slaughtered.”
The thing had arrived an hour after his mother had sent off the request. It had dropped from thin air onto the coffee table along with a note that assured them their letter had arrived and was being considered. In the meantime, they should continue as planned and take the scroll with them to their destination. Further instructions lay within.
Typical Angels. Full of riddles and bullshit, he mused with a shake of his head. They didn’t care about anything but humans. It was all about the humans. True that his mate was human and he ought to be grateful, but what good was having a group of immortal begins protect their precious humans if they didn’t at least give them some kind of super power? It irked Octavian to no end. Yes, they were stronger and faster than humans, but they were useless where it mattered most. Now they were on their way to Russia of all places to face a coven of strigoi, and chances were they weren’t going to leave the place alive.
Maybe they could throw the scroll at Mortlock and it would somehow erupt into flames or something. He almost snorted. The Summit would never do that. To break the treaty with one coven would be breaking the treaty with all of them and not even a human was worth that risk. Despite their preaching that they were the ones in charge, the Angels would bend over backwards for the Forsaken. Nothing scared both worlds like the possibility of an uprising. It would wipe everyone out. There was always an air of caution when in reference to the bloodsucking group.
“Please fasten your seatbelts and tuck your balls in safely boys, because we’re about to hit turbo speed and those babies’ll smack you in the face!” Thaddeus crowed over the intercom.
Octavian turned his head and glanced at Magnus in the seat behind their dad. He arched an eyebrow. Magnus returned it with a dry glower.
“Don’t look at me,” Magnus muttered. “Guy’s fucking nuts.”
Octavian snorted. “He’s your friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” Magnus said as the plane picked up speed. “He’s a guy I occasionally have the misfortune of running into because he’s always doing stupid shit, like transporting illegal—”
Whatever illegal stuff Thaddeus was transporting, Octavian never found out as the world was suddenly sucked in through a straw. He felt every bone, fiber and muscle in his body compress like he was being pulled through a vacuum. He half expected his head to explode like a balloon as the pressure built, suffocating him. He opened his mouth to cry out when the plane jerked and everything snapped back into place.
Octavian groaned, clutching his head, wondering if it were possible to even survive doing that more than once a day. There should have been laws against it. But maybe it was different for demons, because the next moment, Thaddeus’ voice filled the cabin.
“I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for me! Please remain in your seats as we make the descent.”
Octavian frowned. Descent? They were there? He pressed his face against the glass and squinted at the world below.
Nothing but miles upon miles of blinding white wasteland stretched as far as he could see into the distance. Mountains jutted all around, looking infinite against the blue backdrop. He wondered what would possess a person to even consider making such a trip. He’d never been a fan of cold places, so he couldn’t imagine ever living in a place with that much snow.
They made their descent onto a snow covered patch of road behind what appeared to be an enormous ice castle.
“How long has Mortlock been exiled here?” Octavian wondered out loud.
“Apparently too damn long,” Magnus answered, staring up at the fine attention to detail, like the shingles on the turrets stretching towards the heavens and the thin pieces of ice doubling as windows. There was even a bell tower with a bell carved entirely of snow. “Men do strange things when they’re bored. Some take up knitting, some build snow castles.”
“Boys!” their father said sharply when they snickered. “Focus please. Take note that a man on the edge is a man to be feared. Stability is not a luxury we will find here. Tread carefully, and, Octavian.” He cut his gaze to his eldest. “I will speak. You will say nothing.”
Amusement gone, Octavian gave a brisk nod.
Together, they exited the plane. Thaddeus waved them off, promising to stay and pick them up. Their boots crunched as they made their way to the drawbridge separating them from a moat filled with jagged ice spears, all standing erect, waiting to impale the poor soul that fell in. They passed through the open portcullis into the inner bailey. It was designed like most castles with a chapel and battlement. There was even a medieval stock, and everything was carved from snow in fine detail.
“Maybe we should open that decree before we go any further,” Magnus muttered with an edge in his tone as he took in the unnatural stillness of their surroundings. He knew as well as Octavian that they were only being given the illusion of security, but there were eyes watching their every movement.
Their father removed the scroll from his pocket and broke the red seal. The parchment blazed scarlet before puffing out of existence.
“That can’t be good,” Magnus said, jaw tense. “Did they just give us the middle finger?”
“The Summit does not give middle fingers,” came a drawl voice from behind them.
They spun around to find a tall, finely dressed man standing there, blinking blue eyes at them. He wore a navy suit and leather loafers. He was so not dressed for Siberia. But he seemed unaffected by the cold that was peeling back Octavian’s skin.
“I am Seraph Abraham,” he said evenly. “I have been sent to help oversee this meeting.”
“I’m Liam. These are my sons—”
“I know who you are,” Abraham said. “I don’t have very much time. I have been briefed on the situation. We are here simply for the strigoi with the name Duncan. You will leave it to me.”
Octavian opened his mouth to tell the guy to stuff it. This wasn’t his mission. It was his father’s hand on his arm that stopped him.
“We are here only for Duncan’s blood.”
“I want to kill him,” Octavian said.
“It will be done,” Abraham said seeming unaffected by the venom in Octavian’s tone. “Come now.”
They followed Abraham to the great doors and paused on the open threshold. The doors opened into a majestic foyer with tall pillars and vaulted ceilings. Windows lined either side, spilling light into a giant room full of strigoi.
Octavian silently cursed.
Abraham seemed unfazed as he resumed his even strides down the center aisle to the ice throne perched atop a dais. A man sat there, tall and built like a Viking with a wild mane of blond hair and a rugged jaw that could cut glass. His eyes were as cold and blue as the throne he sat upon. His body was sheathed in gleaming gold armor, which, in Octavian’s opinion, could not be comfortable in this sort of weather.
“Three Casters and an angel,” the man said drolly. “This must be my lucky day.”
“Antonius Mortlock, I am Seraph Abraham, Divine Council sent by the Summit. I have been sent in response to the laws one of your coven members have broken. Do you admit your knowledge of this act?”
Antonius inclined his head. “I was only just made aware of the situation.”
“Then you are aware that by the conversion and harm of a human, he has gone against the treaty and has put a strain on the agreement, thus our judgment?”
“Duncan.” Antonius never took his eyes off the Angel. “You have company.”
The strigoi stepped free of the hundreds standing about the room and walked casually up to his Master.
He went down on one knee at the throne. “Master.”
“Address the damage you have caused.”
Duncan rose and turned to face the Angel. “I conf
ess.” His inhuman gaze drifted to Octavian and a ghost of a smile curled his lips. “I sunk my fangs into her pretty little neck and drank my fill.” His leer broadened, revealing fangs. “She was delicious.”
The room erupted in snarls and jeers that sounded like an angry hornet’s nest when Octavian lunged. Magnus grabbed him before his hands could close around Duncan, restraining him from tearing out the bastard’s throat and watching as he died slowly at his feet.
“Stay focused!” Magnus hissed into his brother’s ear. “He’s goading you.”
Octavian growled deep in his throat, mind still curtained by a heavy red veil hell bent on revenge. Duncan snickered.
Abraham put up his hand for silence. “You realize the punishment for such a crime is death?”
Duncan turned away from Octavian to squint at the other man. “If my Master wishes it, then I am prepared to face the punishment.” Duncan turned to his Master. “What would you wish of me?”
“You have failed me. Death is a small price to pay for your disobedience.”
Duncan inclined his head. “Yes, Master.” He turned to Abraham. “My Master has deemed me fit for death.”
“Wait.” Octavian’s father stepped forward before another word could be spoken. “Pardon my interruption, but there is another matter yet to be settled. The human he has bitten was never allowed a proper transformation. We require a vial of his blood.”
Antonius said nothing for a long moment. His blue eyes swung from Octavian to Magnus before settling on their father. “You wish for a vial of his blood,” he repeated very slowly like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“Yes, to complete the transformation,” their father answered.
“And you still wish for Duncan to die?”
“Yes!” Octavian growled, gaze fixing on the beast. Duncan returned the sneer with a smirk.
Antonius continued to study them a moment before he threw up his hands. “If that is what you wish who am I to stand in your path. Do as you will.” He waved for Duncan to go ahead.
Magnus took the vial his father passed him and uncorked the top. He turned to face Duncan who presented him with a forearm. Magnus removed his angelic blade from within the folds of his sleeve and made cut over the vein. Duncan never so much as flinched as blood, thick and black as tar oozed from the incision. It rolled like paste into the vial. The foul odor of it burned through the room. Once full, Magnus stuffed the cork back over the neck and slipped the vial into his pocket. He stepped back and gave Octavian a nod. Heart hammering with elation and the desire to leave so they could give it to Riley, he nearly turned on his heels right there and then and left. But there was still a matter left to see through.
“If there is nothing else…” Antonius said.
“There is.” Octavian took a step forward. “Why did you order Duncan to attack Riley?”
Antonius remained frustratingly blank faced. “I am unfamiliar of these orders. Duncan?”
Duncan so much as batted an eyelash. “It was an error on my part, Master. Forgive me.”
Antonius arched an eyebrow in a sort of, see, I told you so. “I gave no such order.”
“Well, someone did,” Octavian replied, ignoring his father’s hand on his arm. “Are you not in control of your children?”
The first real flash of anger exploded across Antonius’ face a split second before the hall burst into chaos as his children snarled and hissed, but it was Duncan who lunged for Octavian’s throat, fangs bared like a rabid animal. Once again, it was Magnus who leapt in, slamming his body into the creature’s and stopping him from killing Octavian.
“Duncan, down!”
Instantly, the creature went slack and stepped away from Magnus.
Antonius’ features never settled, but continued to dance with the harsh glow of rage as he observed Octavian. “No one has control of my children but I and I did not give the orders. If we are finished, my children are hungry and the nearest town is quite a distance.”
“And you are of course following the laws when hunting, Mortlock?” Abraham said. “No turning of humans and no carnage.”
Antonius inclined his head. “Of course. We are very discreet and never kill or turn.”
Abraham nodded. “Very well. I believe this matter to be dealt with. There is only one final matter left to complete. Duncan, if you please.”
Duncan turned and knelt at his Master’s feet, head bowed. “It has been an honor, Master, to have followed you through these years. Forgive me my inaccuracies.”
Antonius rested a hand on Duncan’s head. “You have served me well, Nikolas.”
It took Octavian a moment to realize Nikolas must have been Duncan’s original name. Unlike his family who kept their given names through the passing centuries, but changed their surname every decade or so, most changed both to meld better with the growing culture. Frankly, he didn’t care what the guy’s name was. He just wanted to see him die.
Duncan began to rise and turn to Abraham.
“Remain there,” the Angel ordered him.
Octavian watched as Duncan did as he was told and stayed on his knees as the Angel moved to stand over him. Abraham raised a hand much the same way as Antonius had and placed it on the crown of Duncan’s head. He murmured a series of words in a language Octavian had only heard Angels speak. He expected Duncan to burst into flames or ashes. He wasn’t expecting him to just crumple to the ground and shrivel up like a prune sucked of all its juices. As climaxes went, it really sucked, but the bastard was gone and could never hurt another again and that’s all he wanted.
Chapter 43
His mother leapt to her feet the moment they strode into Final Judgment. Her blue eyes jumped from face to face, flickered briefly on the Angel that had followed them before going back, touching each one of them with her eyes, assuring herself they’d all returned before exhaling and visibly relaxing.
“You’re home,” she said, hurrying over to lose herself in his father’s arms. “I’ve been worried.”
His father smiled warmly down at her, his hands going up to touch her face. “You worry too much.”
His mother laughed. “What else can I do when my boys are always off looking for trouble?” She kissed his cheek lightly before pulling away to draw first Magnus then Octavian into her arms. “How was it? Were you successful?”
Octavian withdrew the Vial he’d taken from Magnus on the plane from his pocket and held it up for her to see.
His mother’s face lit up. “That is wonderful!”
“I expect that the human will be properly transformed by the end of weeks’ time?” Abraham interrupted.
All eyes went to him.
Octavian wanted to snort and tell him she’ll be transformed by the end of the hour, but his father, ever the diplomat intervened.
“Yes, we will handle the situation. Thank you for assisting us on this matter.”
Abraham inclined his head. “We do what we can. Please see that everything in regards to this matter is properly managed.”
It was his father’s turn to incline his head. “I will see to it personally.”
With another nod, Abraham stepped back through the doors and disappeared from sight.
His father turned to his mother. “Jackamo?”
Octavian didn’t wait to hear the answer. He was moving with long purposeful strides towards the kitchen, all the while shedding the coat and sweaters he wore. He left them where they fell, a path of his progress to where he’d been dying to be since he’d left. He was only vaguely aware of the second set of footsteps behind him. He knew his family well enough to know it was Magnus’ domineering strides that followed him. Neither brother spoke as they shoved aside the boxes and things concealing the hatch. Octavian all but leapt into the dark hole without bothering with the stairs. He certainly didn’t bother with the lights as he marched the distance into the little room.
She was awake. Her red eyes shot over to him and she hissed. The bedsprings rattled as she writ
hed the way a worm would on a hook.
“It’s all right, darling.” He murmured, yanking the cork off the bottle neck. He moved to the nightstand and yanked open the drawer. He yanked out a foul wrapped syringe and in four quick movements, had it unwrapped, uncorked and filled with blood from the vial. “Get her legs,” he told his brother, without looking away from his mate. They had one chance at this and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from getting that blood in her.
Magnus did as he was told. He sat at the foot of the bed and pinned her legs down from the knees. Octavian, once assured she was properly restrained, perched down on the corner of the mattress by her hip and leaned down.
“It’s all right,” he told her softly. “This will make it stop.”
Octavian's Undoing (Sons of Judgment) Page 43
