by Tessa Dawn
And for reasons she simply could not fathom…
She had to do it fast.
twenty-nine
Julien Lacusta did not know where he was.
In the land of the living, the land of the dead, or somewhere, lost, between the two.
His head hurt like the dickens; his skin felt like it was on fire; yet curiously, everything around him was shrouded in ice.
He faintly remembered standing on the banks of the River Rock Creek, facing off with his brother, Ian, and gazing into an undulating wall of blazing flames, a rampart of fire and wrath that had enveloped the forest and called to him like a lover.
Beckoning him forward.
Entreating him to embrace his brother and end the madness once and for all.
Now, as he scrubbed a partially transparent, spectral hand over his eyes to clear his vision, he noticed that he was standing on a high, arched bridge, positioned midway along a narrow passage, and it was literally caked in ice. Huge shards of what looked like frozen snow, framed by icicles the size of cars, hung from the bridge’s girder, long beyond the anchorage block, and disappeared into a crystal fog. The deck beneath his feet was coated in sleet, and the railings were like virtual planks of frost. Even the towers sustaining the bridge were coated in thick blocks of rime.
He ceased walking and looked both ways, toward each distant shore, trying to distinguish between opposing directions. For all intents and purposes, he was standing at a crossroads: He could turn to the right and cross the bridge, emerging into a thick bank of clouds; or he could turn to the left and traverse the bridge, emerging into a dense, inky darkness.
What the heck was going on?
Where the hell was he?
And then it hit him as he glanced again: The white clouds were dotted with golden specks and almost radiant with brilliance—he somehow knew that they heralded the entrance to the Valley of Spirit and Light. And the dense, inky darkness at the other end of the bridge that practically radiated with despair and malevolence—it augured the entrance to the Valley of Death and Shadows.
Was Julien dead or alive?
Was he caught between two eternal worlds?
And did he have a choice as to which realm he entered?
Nothing made any sense.
Squatting down to make himself smaller—he didn’t know if he was alone—he gripped his head in his hands and tried to remember the teachings, all he had learned at the Romanian University in his youth, all he had been taught by the house of Jadon about life after death, the Curse, and the afterworld: Every male from the house of Jadon was destined to reside in the Valley of Spirit and Light unless he failed to fulfill the Curse, to provide the required sacrifice of a dark twin within thirty days of finding his destiny; just as every male in the house of Jaegar was destined to enter the Valley of Death and Shadows, even if he made the required offering. For the Dark Ones, it was just a matter of timing, a matter of when.
Best to live as long as they could.
Immortal.
Forever.
If possible.
But had Julien actually failed to complete the Curse? Had he refused to comply before he…died?
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
Nothing was getting any clearer.
He had thirty days from the start of his Blood Moon to provide the Blood with an heir, and the wicked aberration could not claim him before then, not as long as he still had time. If he had refused, tried to outrun the Curse or save his soulless son, then—and only then—could the Blood come after him and take him to the gods-forsaken valley. But—and it was a pretty important but—if he turned himself in, after failing to comply, if he willingly entered the Death Chamber, then even after the Blood took his life, his spirit would go on. It would reside, for all eternity, in the valley of the celestial gods.
So which was it?
What had he done?
Or, more importantly, what had he failed to do?
True, if he was actually dead, then technically, he had failed to fulfill the Curse. He had found his destiny, claimed her as he must, and died before he could either make the required sacrifice or turn himself in to the Chamber.
But that wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his choice—
Or was it?
Julien had willingly and knowingly dived into the fire with Ian, and that meant he had, in effect, taken his own life. What had Ramsey Olaru said to him, that first day, right after he had found Rebecca? Julien had absently told the Master Warrior: I have half a mind to tell the Blood to go straight to hell and just let the Curse take me in the end. And Ramsey had immediately snarled, his voice growing deathly grave. That’d better be the H talkin’, warrior. Don’t even play like that. Let’s not forget: The Blood can take you on a lifelong trip, an eternal, never-ending vacation. To hell.
And then Nachari Silivasi…he had chimed in with some advice of his own, later that same day, when he had brought the pale blue crystal, embedded with his memories, to give to Julien to view: Your life isn’t just your own. Your choices don’t exist in a vacuum. And your fate affects the entire house of Jadon. If you think for one moment that you can just step off the stage without completely screwing Ramsey, Santos, and Saxson—hell, even Saber Alexiares—then you’ve been sucking down that cocktail for way too long… Try skipping out on the Curse, skirting your way around this Blood Moon, offering yourself up like some suicidal sacrifice to the Blood at the end of these thirty days. Just try it, and see what happens… No one is going to let you die, brother. And we don’t give a gods-damn about what you want or whether or not you’ve had enough.
Nachari had been trying to tell him that suicide, in any form, was not an option.
Before Julien could process any further, try to figure out if he was alive or dead or caught in some celestial purgatory, a hideous crimson shadow swept over the bridge, swirled in an arc above him, and then dipped down, low, at eye level, where it snarled and moaned in his ear.
Julien shrank back, immediately recognizing the primordial taint of the Blood: the ghostly apparition of the original Romanian females, those who had risen from the dead in order to wield the perpetual Curse.
“Dear Gods,” he muttered, shielding his eyes with his hands to avoid the noxious glare.
“Trackerrrr,” the apparition hissed. “You think to avoid our Curse?”
Julien shuffled back on his haunches, drawing even lower to the icy planks. “I…I didn’t think at all. When I died…if I died…it was not intentional.”
Sparks, fire, and brimstone shot out of the evil apparition, melting the frost beneath him. “Oh, but it wasssss.” The Blood drew out the letter S like a snake taunting its prey. And then the bridge began to rock and tremble as a giant of a man—no, a god—stormed out of the mystical white clouds and traversed the space in an instant.
Once again, Julien shielded his eyes, even as he peeked at the giant from between two fingers: The male was at least ten feet tall; his wild hair whipped about his shoulders as if in a violent wind; and he was the naked personification of an Adonis: all sculpted, bulging muscle and rock-hard flesh, cloaked in a simple lion’s pelt that covered his back like a cape and wrapped around his groin like a loincloth. In his right hand, he brandished an enormous club; in his left, he held a three-headed serpent, also known as Cerberus; and just like he did in the northern sky, he immediately knelt on one knee.
He was no less imposing at half his height.
Terrifying, really.
Julien immediately bowed his head out of deference and averted his eyes out of terror.
“Recede,” the mighty god commanded, glaring at the Blood.
The apparition snarled as it warily drew back, allowing Julien some room to breathe, but it did not retreat from its claim. “The child of Hercules is ours! This son of Jadon, who you seek to protect; he failed to fulfill his Blood Moon. We have come to take him to the Valley of Death and Shadows.”
Hercules threw back his he
ad and laughed, the deafening retort shaking the deck beneath them. “You foolish necromancers. He isn’t dead!” The last word echoed like a clap of thunder.
“Ah, but he will be soon,” the Blood crooned softly.
Hercules drew back his shoulders and raised his chest. “Not necessarily,” he spat. “And even if he dies, that doesn’t necessarily give you a claim. There are yet twenty-two days left in his Blood Moon.”
This time, it was the Blood that chuckled. “Perhaps, my lord, perhaps. But he was not faithful in his desire to fulfill his obligation—he took his own life. That is not the same as being killed or dying of natural causes, something he couldn’t prevent. He can neither present the required sacrifice, nor turn himself into the Chamber. From where we stand, he forfeits his birthright to the Valley of Spirit and Light. He has tried to circumvent the Curse, and now, he belongs to us.”
Hercules rose to his full, imposing height and stepped forward toward the Blood, causing the entity to draw back in fear. “Allow me to remind you of the rules, the rubrics you created when you masterminded this infernal curse!” He gestured angrily with his hands as he spoke, his powerful voice dripping with mockery. “From this day forward, you shall be cursed! And your sons shall be cursed. And their sons after them…unto all eternity.” He softened his voice just a bit, as he were lecturing a child. “But do not forget that you gave the sons of Jadon four mercies; you allowed them to retain their souls. Thus, they reside for eternity in the Valley of Spirit and Light.”
The Blood undulated and swayed—to the left, then the right—as if to an internal song. “’Tis true that we allowed them their souls, and we gave them the sun. We did not require them to kill the innocent when consuming their much-needed blood; and we gave them one opportunity to procure a mate, and thirty days to do so. But we demanded a sacrifice in return, the life of a soulless son. The Valley of Death and Shadows will not be denied. Whether it was the child or the father, by choice or by challenge, it made no difference to us; but make no mistake, a soul is required, and this one has circumvented the law. He tried to take his own life. He tried to avoid the Curse.”
Hercules shook his head, and his golden hair framed his massive shoulders like a royal cloak. “My son is standing on the Bridge Between Worlds for a reason. He is neither alive nor dead, and his final destination is yet to be determined. But I say this to you—and you will hear me clearly—his final choice was one of honor; it was an act of valor; and he did not seek to violate your law. He did not consciously choose to die, nor did he desire to do so. He was simply willing to give his life in order to stop an eternal scourge: his brother, Ian. So the question we weigh is one of degrees—suicide versus natural death—what did the tracker intend to do?”
The Blood hissed again, and dark red plasma sprayed outward, perversely staining the snow. “And what court shall decide this dilemma? To whom should we plead our case?”
Hercules tightened his fist in anger, and the three-headed staff shook from his rage. “You may be a powerful entity, grown strong from iniquity and sin, but I am a celestial god, an original omniscient being: I need no tribunal to rule; I require no jury to measure my words; nor do I demand an assembly to weigh my thoughts. There is no power greater than my own. And I have already decided. Should this warrior live, he still has twenty-two days. Should the son of Jadon perish, his soul belongs…to me.”
The Blood jolted backward and dipped in what could only be described as an unholy curtsey, and then, without warning or pause, a million crimson cells began to coalesce. They danced, they expanded, and they grew, until they coagulated into a dozen cerise arms and latched onto Julien like tentacles, snatching the tracker to his feet, and drawing him into their mass.
With a rage-filled screech and a final flash of fury, the abomination withdrew from the icy bridge.
Taking the tracker with it.
thirty
As swiftly, yet as carefully, as she could, Rebecca cut through Julien’s bandages and turned her full attention to his toes. She wrapped the palms of her hands around each charred, melted digit and waited as the blackened flesh turned pink, as the connected metatarsals realigned. The tracker stirred in the bed, twisting and turning this way and that, but only by small haphazard increments. When she reached his heels, and then his ankles, when she began to massage his calves—all the while breathing, willing, transferring life into his rigid muscles—he began to flex and tense.
It didn’t matter.
She couldn’t stop to try to read him, to discern what was going on, to call Kagen or Arielle and ask the healers for assistance. For whatever reason, the clock was ticking, and she had to continue…quickly.
In fact, she had to move faster.
Much, much faster.
She covered his kneecaps with her palms and tried to infuse more light, and he kicked in a violent response. For the first time, he actually reacted reflexively to Rebecca’s touch, but it wasn’t an encouraging response.
It was a panicked, defensive start.
And then he moaned.
And then he shouted!
He jerked his head forward, yanked it free from the medical restraints, and strained the muscles in his neck, as if he intended to get up and run. His once-vacant eyes were wild with fury and fright, yet he still stared fixedly ahead.
Rebecca shivered. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!” She glanced over her shoulder at the door—maybe she should go get Kagen Silivasi, after all—but something more imperative, more important, more imminent drew her back to the immediate task: healing Julien now.
Infusing his flesh with light.
Breathing him back to life.
She worked feverishly on his thighs, and then his narrow hips—his ribs, his chest, his shoulders—making her way down his broken arms, until at last she reached his hands. And that’s when a sound—a snarl—so savage, so vicious, so fierce, emanated from his throat and nearly jolted her from the bed.
She screamed, withdrew her hands, and watched in mounting horror as his fangs punched free from his gums, his claws shot forth from his fingers, and his head twisted in a sharp, serpentine motion, his rage-filled eyes locking onto hers.
“Rebecca!” he roared like a wounded lion.
And then, utilizing the full measure of his strength, he snatched her by the hand and tugged her forward.
Julien twisted and turned.
He flexed his biceps, expanded his chest, and tried to break free from the Blood’s unholy clutch, ripping tentacles out of his flesh as he struggled. He reached for his familiar battle axe, but it wasn’t there. They were soaring backward at an incredible rate of speed, spinning, falling, and flying through space, traversing the bridge in an instant. And then, just like that, he was surrounded by a terrible, eerie fog, and the ground beneath his feet began to ooze with demonic sludge, roiling in thick, pasty waves over his suddenly bare feet.
He kicked in a futile effort to break free.
The sky was as black as night, utterly absent of light or goodness, and there was no horizon as far as the eye could see, only smoke and mirrors, vapor and mist, and the appearance of charred, calcified earth. The very air around him seemed to scream with terror, to moan with incessant electrical currents, creepy-crawly gusts of wind that whipped at his skin and tugged at his soul as if it wished to rip it out of his chest.
Julien Lacusta was standing in the Valley of Death and Shadows.
“Welcome, brother.” Ian’s disembodied voice brought him up short, and holy hell—may the gods have mercy—he looked like he had swallowed a dragon. He must’ve stood at least ten feet tall; he had a spiny extremity shooting out of his tailbone; and he was literally enveloped in fire, as if they were both still burning. Only, these flames did not consume the vampire’s otherworldly flesh—they magnified it, invigorated it, illuminated his silhouette with blazing, preternatural light. His fangs were the length of a saber-toothed tiger’s, and by the look in his savage eyes, he intended to shred Julien to pieces.
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br /> The tracker took a wary step back, glancing to his left and then his right.
Where was the Blood now?
It was no longer seizing his limbs.
Where was his ruling celestial god, Hercules?
The lord had spoken clearly—he had made his pronouncement known—Julien did not belong here in the valley of the lost, the eternal resting place of absent, wayward souls!
“I don’t…I don’t belong here!” he protested feverishly, angered at his desperate opposition. He did not want to give Ian the satisfaction.
As expected, Ian roared with taunting laughter. “Apparently, you do.” He swept his arm in a wide arc, indicating the barren gorge all around them. “And isn’t this just a delicious twist of fate: I was not the sacrificial twin, after all. You were.”
Despite his defiance, Julien gasped.
No.
No!
This could not be happening.
A part of him was stricken with horror: He wanted to live; he wanted to survive! What had he ever done to deserve such a fate? Yet another part of him was resigned to his karma, both the punishment and the chance for revenge. He knew exactly what he had done to deserve this: He had failed to save that village, to appeal to his father’s love, and he had failed to atone for the most basic, original sin…
Surviving as a ten-year-old child when he should have perished along with his mother.
He dropped down into a defensive squat, prepared to fight this demon for all he was worth, even knowing that he couldn’t prevail. His fangs punched through his gums; he somehow released his claws; and he channeled every ounce of rage he had ever felt—or repressed—into that one critical moment.
And that’s when Ian’s eyes transformed.
From glowing orbs of crimson, masking hints of deep, slate gray, to bright reflections of topaz, like gemstones, sparkling in a cave.
Julien jolted and blinked three times.
