The Purest of the Breed (The Community Book 2)

by Tracy Tappan

  “She’s claiming right by Dantură Pravilă.”

  Dev looked toward the ceiling. “The old bat has finally gone senile.”

  “What’s Dantură Pravilă?” Tonĩ asked.

  “It’s the ancient text of the Vârcolac,” Dev answered.

  “I thought that was the Străvechi Caiet.”

  “Exactly,” Dev bit off. “Dantură Pravilă is an outdated text, used way back when the Vârcolac were one race. After the breed blended with Dragons and became a mixed culture, the Străvechi Caiet was formed.”

  “Your mother’s argument,” Nỵko inputted, “is that the Dantură Pravilă was never officially set aside, especially since Străvechi Caiet was lost for so long. And if Dantură Pravilă is still an active governing document, then Pettrila has a right to place this injunction.” Nỵko nodded toward Marissa. “You can’t be anywhere near Marissa until the Tribunal has ruled.”

  Dev’s face turned stony. “Anyone tries to keep me from my woman,” he warned, fixing Nỵko with a shriveling glare, “and I’m going to have a serious problem with that someone. We clear?”

  Alex’s pulse quickened and his stomach knotted.

  Marissa watched Dev with worried eyes, her forehead puckered.

  “Don’t make this hard, Dev,” Nỵko came back, frustration edging his tone. “Just face the Tribunal, and Marissa can sit in the audience,” Nỵko reached for her arm, “while you—”

  Dev blasted a punch at Nỵko.

  Lightning-quick, Nỵko snatched Dev’s moving fist out of the air and yanked Dev’s arm behind his back, the movement forcing Dev to twist down and to the side.

  But Dev kept moving…

  Alex himself would’ve been crying “uncle!” or “take my wallet!” the moment Nỵko’s large hand made contact with any part of his body. But Dev didn’t exactly sit in front of a computer playing Club Penguin all day. Working with the downward momentum of his body instead of against it, Dev kept twisting until he was spinning up on Nỵko’s opposite side, the back of his fist slamming into the side of the larger man’s nose. The blow whipped Nỵko’s head to the side, and Alex nearly jumped out of his sneakers at the resounding crack of bone breaking.

  Marissa yelped.

  “Dammit to hell!” Jaċken roared.

  Nỵko kept his face angled to the side for a moment, blood trickling from both nostrils. Then he turned.

  Alex had a gulp ready to go, but to Nỵko’s credit, he merely sighed. He didn’t curse or complain or—and Alex was eternally grateful for this one—show any signs of shifting into the enraged, out-of-control state of Rău. He just sighed.

  “Stop,” Jaċken barked, his complexion dark, “both of you. I’m not letting the Warrior Class be torn apart by this.” Mouth tight, Jaċken rounded on Dev. “Get your butt to the Tribunal, Nichita. That’s the place to fight this, for chrissake. Marissa can sit in the courtroom, always within your line of sight. And Nỵko, what the fuck? Don’t touch her.”

  “Yeah.” Nỵko nodded, wiping his nose clean with a shammy he’d picked up. “My bad.”

  Dev stood in place, jaw clenching and releasing. Seething.

  “Dev,” Marissa whispered, her face white. “Jaċken’s right. You need to go fix this.”

  The moveable wall in the Council Room had been pushed back, exposing Ţărână’s courtroom, which consisted of two rows of lacquered wooden seats like pews, split down the middle by a single aisle. Up front, there was the U-shaped table, instead of a judge’s bench, providing a temporary home for the Tribunal.

  Seats were jam-packed with onlookers, although Alex easily spotted Luvera in the front row across the room, sitting on the same bench as her mother. Jesus, she still looked sick. His heart sagged like a stone had been wedged into his chest cavity. Dang it, if she’d only talk to him, he bet he could help her, or if nothing else, lend her his ear. Weren’t they even friends anymore?

  At his side, Tonĩ hesitated as she scanned the Tribunal members—seven in all, including Roth Mihnea and Dr. Jess—then she continued inside, her strides stiffening, her spine going rigid.

  He cast an oh, no look at Jaċken. When Tonĩ wore that stubborn expression, it always meant a fight, something his brother-in-law surely knew by now, just as well as Alex did.

  Nỵko led Dev to a lone chair at the far end of the U-shaped table. As Dev passed his mother, the two exchanged such heated glares of dislike that Alex couldn’t help but grimace. Dang, man, no love lost there.

  Nỵko returned and gestured at the bench in the front row across the aisle from Pettrila and Luvera, indicating where Jaċken, Tonĩ, and Alex should sit; as Community Council members, they were being afforded prime seats.

  They sat.

  Except for Tonĩ.

  “Excuse me.” Tonĩ pushed past Nỵko to face the members of the Tribunal. “Is there some reason there are only Pure-bred Vârcolac on this Tribunal?”

  Alex blinked, re-inspecting the occupants of the table. Heck, Tonĩ was right. All the members of the Tribunal were Ţărână’s old-guard Pure-breds…people just like Pettrila Nichita. That much-feared matron vampire had no doubt pulled the strings of this Tribunal to her own ends, which wasn’t good for Dev. Nothing like a totally partial jury to screw over a man’s day.

  “Dantură Pravilă,” Roth answered, “is the original text of the Pure-breds, making this a Pure-bred issue.”

  “The decision about it will affect a human.” Tonĩ gestured generally toward the audience. “Marissa Bonaventure deserves representation on this Tribunal.”

  “The matter will be addressed with all due impartiality and fairness,” Roth maintained. “Please, sit down, Tonĩ.”

  Tonĩ’s eyes frosted. “Only if I sit there”—she pointed at the U-shaped Council table—“where I belong. This isn’t a community of only Pure-breds, Mr. Mihnea, but of Dragon vampires and Dragon humans alike…and Half-Răus. This Tribunal isn’t representative of the mixed nature of our culture.”

  The observers in the courtroom stirred and murmured.

  Alex twisted his mouth. Mr. Mihnea. When was the last time Tonĩ had called Roth that?

  Roth hesitated only a moment more, then inclined his head in concession of Tonĩ’s point. “You’re right, Dr. Parthen. Please join us.” He scanned the crowd, finding a Dragon member of the Council. “Ælsi Korzha,” he called to the owner of Aunt Ælsi’s Coffee Shop, “if you could take a seat on the Tribunal, as well?”

  Alex hid a satisfied smile. Score: Tonĩ, one, Pettrila, zip.

  Nỵko moved to stand behind Dev.

  Tonĩ took her seat and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “As a first order of business, I’d like to put forth that we vote to set aside the Dantură Pravilă officially and permanently, then make a motion to accept Străvechi Caiet as the prevailing law, which already has been the Vârcolac de facto text for centuries.”

  Alex heard Jaċken’s soft, amused exhalation.

  Yeah, gavel down, case dismissed, pooh on you, Pettrila Nichita. Talk about going right for the jugular.

  Pettrila turned her head to give Tonĩ an icy stare.

  Tonĩ met the matron vampire’s look dead on, the two powerful women locking in silent battle for a long moment.

  “Dr. Parthen is mistaken,” Pettrila said coolly, “if she thinks the Străvechi Caiet has been our de facto guide. The text was lost for a hundred years, found a mere few months ago.” Pettrila elevated her nose. “Furthermore, it cannot be considered a reliable source of governance until we have a competent Soothsayer to interpret it.”

  Alex felt his face heat as the observers in the courtroom flashed glances his way. Man, ouch. He had to figure out how he could marry Luvera and not get saddled with this lady as his monster-in-law.

  Tonĩ’s folded hands tightened. “That’s a short-term issue, easily solved once Alex bonds.”

  Pettrila tsked. “If he ever bonds.”

  Alex’s face burned brighter. All right…so maybe he held the human record
for the longest time spent finding a potential mate to date exclusively, but, hey, if Pettrila would remove the chains from her daughter, then maybe Alex could remedy that. And if Luvera would say yes.

  Pettrila settled an authoritative look on the Tribunal. “Until the community has a Soothsayer who can reliably and consistently interpret the Străvechi Caiet, then the Dantură Pravilă must stand.”

  Tribunal member Crina inserted her opinion. “That is a reasonable request.”

  Crina was an old-guard matron member of Pettrila’s bridge club. But whether Crina had spoken out of bias for her friend or not, the fact was, Pettrila’s request was reasonable.

  Something Tonĩ obviously knew; she remained silent, her expression flat.

  “Agreed,” Roth pronounced.

  Score: Tonĩ, one, Pettrila…probably two. And wasn’t it nice that this was all Alex’s fault?

  Pettrila’s mouth curved faintly. “Therefore, in accordance with the laws of the Dantură Pravilă, I may prevent my children from bonding with a species against which our family name holds a blood-debt. In this case, humans.”

  Dev exhaled hotly. “Dammit, this is stupid. Dad was killed by accident. That’s not a true blood-debt.”

  Pettrila serenely clasped her hands in her lap. “In matters of death, a wife has the right to claim a blood-debt. I do so.”

  Silence dropped over the courtroom like a pall. Alex swore he could hear Dev’s teeth grinding.

  “All right.” Tonĩ exhaled, a long, careful breath. “How does one go about paying a blood-debt?”

  Dev’s head snapped up, his eyes widening for a heartbeat of realization, then narrowing in on his mother. “No,” he hissed between bared teeth.

  Malicious satisfaction practically oozed from Pettrila.

  Dev shook his head in a single, hard jerk. “Even you wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me do that.”

  “Do what?” Tonĩ demanded.

  Pettrila swept her hand through the air. “I have no say in this, boy. It’s the law.”

  Dev’s eyes shot silver fire at his mother. “I won’t do it.”

  “Then don’t,” Pettrila’s shoulders lifted in an unconcerned shrug, “and give up the girl.”

  Dev shot out of his seat. “Damn you to hell!” he roared, “you spiteful, abhorrent old—”

  Nỵko’s enormous hand came down on Dev’s shoulder like a hook and hauled him back into the chair.

  The courtroom erupted in noise as everyone voiced an opinion on the proceedings.

  Next to Alex, Jaċken tensed, no doubt readying himself to manage a riot, if it came to that.

  Roth pounded his gavel. “Silence!”

  Tonĩ was on her feet, her hands braced on the table. “I have a question for the court.”

  Her snapped-off words quieted the room down to tense murmurings.

  Tonĩ aimed eyes of blue steel at Roth. “According to the law of Dantură Pravilă, what must be done to expunge a blood-debt?”

  Roth carefully set down the gavel. “There is a ritual that may be performed by the oldest living male of a family line.”

  Dev rumbled out a deep, bestial growl, his eyes locked on the floor.

  “The law of the Dantură Pravilă requires retribution to be given equal to that which was taken,” Roth continued to explain. “You humans think of it as an eye for an eye.”

  Dev’s lips moved in a steady stream of silent curses.

  “In order for Devid to extricate the Nichita name from this blood-debt, and thus lift the injunction against him mating with Miss Bonaventure,” Roth drew a tight breath, “he must take a human sacrifice.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  134 years ago: December 29th, 1877, Dobruga, Romania. Port of Constanţa off the Black Sea

  Pettrila Rázóczi bent low over her galloping horse’s neck, urging the animal to a faster speed. Wind lashed her hair and whipped her cloak behind her, her eyes watering. Please, let me not be too late to find him. Her hands gripped the reins in shaky fists, the wadded letter from Ştefan still crushed in one palm.

  My Dearest Pettrila,

  I must apologize from the deepest part of my heart for not being able to journey with you to England. I thought I’d be able to withstand the pressures of my heritage, but have discovered I cannot. My mother has arranged a marriage for me with a woman of my own station, and I must not refuse this union. Go you to England without me, and make haste that you will not miss this opportunity to save yourself. I shall always remember you fondly, my dearest, although I fear I shan’t be pressed between the pages of your own memory with similar affectionate regard. This is wholly regrettable, but unavoidable.

  I pray someday you’ll forgive me.

  With all my best wishes for you,

  Ştefan Dragoş

  Dated 29 of December, 1877

  She wanted to shout against the grip of anguish in her chest. Nay! She wouldn’t believe that Ştefan had rejected her until she saw the truth in his own damnable eyes for herself.

  Careening off the harborside and into the town of Constanţa, she slowed her mount to a jolting trot, its hooves clattering on cobblestones glossy from a brief spate of rain. The buttery glow of an occasional gaslamp pushed back the shadows, although many had been left dark; few lamplighters made it to this poor and dingy part of town. Better if Ştefan had chosen to meet his comrades at the elegant Carol Hotel, and thereby relieved her of having to navigate her way, alone, to a seedy tavern called Cocoşesc Bârlog, or “The Cock’s Den,” in order to confront him about—

  She screamed as another horse and rider thundered out of a side street and nearly collided with her. Her horse reared up with a shrill whinny, sending her tumbling out of the saddle. She gasped as she hit the cobblestones hard enough to clack her teeth together and light off a blast of stars before her eyes. Rolling onto her side, she glared up through pain-slitted eyes at her accoster. “Grigore Nichita,” she moaned out.

  “Imbecilic woman!” he seethed at her. “Our armada sails forthwith, and you’re riding amok on a fool’s errand!”

  She blinked hard to clear her vision of spots. “’Tisn’t foolish to want to know the truth.” She planted one foot, then the other, to climb painstakingly to her feet.

  Grigore sneered at her. “You’ve been tossed aside like a pair of hose, Pettrila Rázóczi, no better. That’s the truth put on a platter before you. Look upon it and come away!”

  “I’m less than inclined to believe anything you have to say, Grigore.” She made a grab for her gelding’s reins, but the loathsome beast pranced sideways and tossed its head. “You, who stalks me like a beslubbering varlet.”

  “Then rely on the logic of your own mind, woman.” He made a derisive sound in his throat. “Did you genuinely believe a man outside of the Vârcolac breed would want you? Truly?”

  The heat of a blush hurt her cheeks, her lips quivering before she could stop them. My mother has arranged a marriage for me with a woman of my own station. A shout swelled up her throat. “Begone, you odious toad!” she lashed out at Grigore in her pain. “I’ve had enough of your gum.” Jamming the crumpled letter into her skirt pocket, she went for her gelding again.

  The shrill blast of a trumpet cut through the night.

  “Hell’s teeth! They depart!” Grigore sent his mount surging forward, making a grab for her.

  She tried to dodge him, but he was faster than she, snatching her up by the back of her belt and throwing her face-down across the horn of his saddle.

  She let out an enraged yell. “Unhand me!”

  Grigore reined his horse around hard, the animal’s hooves skidding. “So you can track your paramour into a pack of Vârcolac Vânător, my lady? You are addle-headed!” He dug in his heels, sending his horse hurtling in the direction of the docks.

  With a shallow gasp, Pettrila seized Grigore’s tall boot to keep from falling. Her long, unbound hair whipped around, nearly tangling in the horse’s churning legs. Blood filled her head in her arse-over pos
ition, dizzying her. “Grigore, set me aright. Now, I tell you.” She could scarcely catch her breath with her stomach bouncing hard against the saddle. “I’m going to be ill.”

  Grigore yanked his horse to a plunging halt. “Damnation, they’ve sailed,” he snarled, his boots hitting the dock with an angry scrape. He snatched her out of the saddle, his grip on her shoulders bruising, and shook her roughly. “You made us late, you insufferable doxy!”

  She stared wide-eyed into his livid his face, a cold knot of fear in her chest. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t intend… Oh, wait! Look! One ship yet remains, Grigore.”

  Men on the deck of the Tempest were just now throwing off the mooring lines.

  “Nay,” he growled, “we’re supposed to be on that ship.” He pointed to the Lady Revenge, already at full sail and making steadily for the open seas. “’Tis…’tis where my parents are and your brother.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. Did it matter at this point? They were all traveling to the same—

  She whirled around at the pounding drumroll of horses’ hooves, the rolling thunder advancing rapidly toward the docks. Lună şi steluţă! Several dozen riders were approaching, the torches they held bobbing maniacally. Vampire hunters!

  “The devil take us,” Grigore hissed. “We’ve been found out.”

  The angry shouts of the men grew louder, and fear clutched Pettrila’s innards. The riders would be upon them in mere moments! “Why do you tarry, Grigore?!”

  With a savage curse, Grigore finally grabbed hold of her hand and hauled her at a run for the ship.

  The triple-masted privateer had glided several feet from the dock, forcing them to leap the gap. They landed hard and stumbled, a sharp pain streaking through Pettrila’s ankle. But they’d made it, thank the stars, escaping just as the wall of oncoming horseflesh slid to a dock-gouging halt, hooves throwing up shards of splinters. Some beasts reared up, others stomped and blew as if echoing their masters’ frustration.

  Above them, rigging lines clattered and canvas boomed as sails unfurled fully up the masts. The Tempest leaned into the wind, and Pettrila stumbled sideways, the deck slewing at an angle beneath her. She made her way on careful feet to one side of the ship and gripped the rail. Still breathing heavily, she watched the land of her birth—and her last chance to see Ştefan—gradually drift farther and farther away as they cut smoothly across the glassy water of the harbor.