by Tessa Dawn
Dark Moon Vale
Even as the princesses were occupied at Napolean’s compound, leading the Homage Ceremony in the courtyard, and Niko was on the opposite end of the vale, nestled between the thick of the northern forest and the Dark Moon Academy, performing the Rites of Magick, Jankiel Luzanski was in a clearing just west of the hot springs, leading several warriors, destinies, and Vampyr families in the Renaissance & Renewal Ceremony, midway through the circle of drumming.
He had already woven the necessary ritual bands of light, focused inward, and sharpened his senses, and the rapt audience had already aligned their immortal heartbeats in a single harmonious rhythm: a symphony of pulses, not drumbeats; blood, not drumsticks; inhales and exhales in place of tapping.
Badump-badump.
Thrum-thrum-thrum.
The collective heartbeat of the house of Jadon soared in the clearing.
And that’s when Niko interrupted the ceremony: Wizard, he called out on a private, telepathic bandwidth. Jankiel, are you there?
Jankiel drew back, losing his focus, and instinctively turned his head toward the north. Niko, what is it? It was no small thing to interrupt a sacred ceremony—surely, Niko was midway through a very difficult sequence of rites, himself, evoking solar winds, conjuring magical geysers, and manifesting a contained winter snowstorm—something had to be wrong.
I don’t know how else to say this, Niko said, his psychic voice thick with emotion, but our ancient patriarch lives. Jankiel, Prince Jadon is alive!
Jankiel staggered backward, and several watchful vampires immediately fixed their eyes upon him: Arielle Silivasi, with little Ryder seated on her lap; Rebecca Lacusta, as she lounged on a blanket beside Jayce Gideon; Rafael and Lorna Dzuna, seated toward the head of the throng; and the Master Warrior Mateo Devera, who had once taught self-defense along with Nathaniel and Jocelyn, the vampire’s keen senses instantly alerted.
Stunned by the extraordinary statement, Jankiel’s mind went blank—but only for a second—and then it filled with a dozen competing thoughts at once…
How could this be?
Where was Braden—what had happened?
What of the blood in the second vial—the blood Fabian had fed to Achilles?
As a Master Wizard he was intrigued, curious…drawn by the supernatural phenomenon, but as a loyal son in the house of Jadon, he was immediately concerned for his kinsmen, the children, the beloved destined daughters. Niko, I don’t know where to begin, he murmured. My mind is so full of questions—what is it you would have me do?
Yeah, tell me about it, Niko shot back. Same here, and I still don’t have many answers. But this much I know—the prince took possession of Braden’s corporeal body in the cove outside Santos’ lake house, pretty much the moment the harvest moon rose, and Fabian believes, Prince Jadon agrees, that Prince Jaegar has likely taken over Achilles Zahora.
Jankiel gasped, and Mateo Devera stood up.
Arielle Nightsong Silivasi set Ryder down beside her.
What are you saying, wizard? Jankiel asked, staring, dumbstruck, out at the crowd.
Napolean does not want to alarm the Vampyr. As of yet, there is no reason to overreact, but needless to say, extreme caution is the name of the game. He wants every male, female, and child in the house of Jadon either safely sequestered inside their homes—wards and alarms fully activated—or gathered in the courtyard at the compound. Niko sighed, then pressed on. Look, the warriors are spread out all over the vale, and so are the destinies and their offspring. As we well know, the Dark Ones are engaged in full-fledged debauchery and wicked blood rites this night, so only the gods know how this moon will turn out. Fabian believes—or maybe he just hopes—the changes will reverse themselves when the harvest moon wanes at 3:34 a.m. If not at 3:34, then at the latest, when the moon fully sets tomorrow morning at 11:46. He believes Braden’s soul—his persona—will ultimately return, but of course, he can’t make any promises. Same holds true for the house of Jaegar, whatever the hell is going on there. Either way, Napolean wants everyone in one place where they can be protected by the warriors, the sentinels, and if necessary, by him. And blessed Lyra, it goes without saying, Prince Jadon—Prince Jadon!—is with him.
Prince Jaegar Demir, in the body of Achilles Zahora, leaned back in Oskar Vadovsky’s high-backed leather chair at the head of the esteemed council table and crossed one leg over one knee. He eyed the descendants of his own venerable, ancient line, each one in turn, as the vampires sat obsequiously around the worn limestone tabletop, awaiting the monarch’s instructions: Oskar Vadovsky’s jaw still hung open; Salvatore, who still flinched at Jaegar’s every word and movement, shifted back and forth like a restless child in his seat; Sergei Gervasi, the son of a previous, murdered council member—and kudos to the duplicitous rebels for engineering the coup—kept digging for gold beneath his fingernails; Milano Marandici, with his disturbingly beautiful right profile, brutally scarred left temple, and one missing eye, constantly worried his bottom lip; and Demitri Zeclos, who was apparently missing something else—something far more valuable, situated quite a bit lower—kept tensing his shoulders and wiping his brow.
Ominous torchlight flickered in the darkness, illuminating the craggy, ancient chamber, and silence hung like a phantom in the air as Prince Jaegar carefully considered his options and the Dark Ones’ next move.
“Your Majesty…” Oskar breached the silence, his grayish-black eyes cast low. “Do you have any further questions for the council?”
Prince Jaegar studied Oskar’s eager, servile expression as well as his submissive body language—though head of the Dark Ones’ Council, the vampire dared not show even a hint of offense for being seated in a more lowly position, for giving Prince Jaegar his plush, preeminent chair at the head of the council table. The ancient prince flicked his wrist in a haughty, dismissive gesture. “No,” he said bluntly. “I believe I have sufficiently queried the council, and at this juncture, I am quite confident I have the lay of the land.” Indeed, Oskar had already shown Prince Jaegar all three levels of the underground structure, the prince was fully acquainted with the Colony Guard, including its newest member, Zeus Dragavei, and the ancient monarch had scanned Achilles Zahora’s memories, ad nauseum, making internal note of the most pertinent details.
In addition, Prince Jaegar had spoken at greater length with Salvatore Nistor, and according to that curious object, that strange, enigmatic “cube,” it was indeed quite likely that Prince Jadon had reanimated in an immortal vampiric body as well. Yea, Prince Jaegar and the sorcerer were in tacit agreement: Both princes’ time in their borrowed bodies was limited at best, the possession was most likely transient, and that meant there was no time to waste. Prince Jaegar had been given a rare opportunity to right what had once gone…so wrong. And at this point, the only thing that mattered to the reanimated prince was making full and efficient use of the auspicious occasion.
While the majority of the house of Jaegar—his house—could remain blissfully unaware, free to celebrate the Millenia Harvest Moon, indulging in carnage, debauchery, and bestial pleasures, Prince Jaegar would remain laser-focused on enacting timeless Blood Vengeance on his piteous twin and finishing what he could not accomplish so many centuries past: the ritualistic sacrifice of the most divine, royal progeny of celestial gods and men, his sisters, Ciopori and Vanya.
If possible, he would lure Kristina Silivasi to Achilles’ lair, leave her as a gift for the faithful executioner, but such an act of generosity was not his primary focus. He wanted to look, at least once more, into his twin’s placid, dark brown eyes. Only this time, he yearned to see pain, anguish, and abject failure reflected back in Prince Jadon’s pupils—he wanted to revisit that fateful night in Transylvania when brother had slain brother and prince had murdered prince—and he wanted to change the course of history for all of time immemorial.
He wanted to right what had gone so wrong.
“I shall utilize the Colony Guard as my personal sentry
and militia,” he stated, matter-of-factly, “in order to carry out my own private vengeance on those I once held dear. And if”—he shrugged a cocky shoulder—“during this intimate process, I manage—we manage—to slay every beating heart of every female destiny in the piteous house of Jadon, well, that would be a bonus, to be sure. However, I will not—I cannot—allow such petty, infantile fancies to distract me from my aim or thwart my ultimate desire…to circumvent my path. My brother. My sisters. One final sacrifice to the ancient gods. ’Tis all I give five fucks about.”
The council sat in silence—clearly, they were still getting accustomed to Jaegar’s blunt, yet introspective, personality.
Whatever…
Finally, Oskar Vadovsky rubbed his hands together and leaned forward in his subordinate seat, daring to pierce the silence once more. “It shall be as you wish, Your Majesty, but if I might ask one indulgence, there is something I have long desired to know…to understand.” His voice trailed off into the chilly night, and his audacity stirred, then settled, like eddies of snow caught in a sudden gust of wind, all around the council chamber.
Prince Jaegar furrowed his brows and frowned.
Despite the vampire’s arrogance, Oskar was indeed a leader…a thinker…one who led the Colony with an iron hand and ruthless authority. He was curious but not to a fault—there seemed to be a method to his madness—and Prince Jaegar had already glimpsed enough of the Dark One’s mind to know the question he desired to ask had vexed the vampire for centuries. It would not do to emasculate the authoritarian leader before the very males he would still need to control once the venerable prince was gone.
“What is it, Oskar?” Prince Jaegar asked, summoning the patience to spare five more minutes, placating the council chair.
“Your Highness,” Oskar began, speaking in a low, respectful tone, “it has long perplexed me…angered me…nay, disgusted and confused me…our inability to walk in the sun, the challenge of propagating our race, bringing sons into the world when we cannot keep a female alive, the challenge of—”
“Get on with it, Oskar.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It is written that at the time of the change—at the time of the Curse—the blood of the slain rose up to torment the princes, to curse both you and your twin brother, Jadon, as punishment for sacrificing your females—our females—to the point of extinction. It is recorded in the annals that the maiden Jessenia Groza was the last female slain, and her sacrifice—her death—brought the plague upon us. But we now know…you now know…that there were two females yet living, your royal sisters, the daughters of King Sakarias and Queen Jade. I have often wondered why the Blood did not know this, did not respect this”—his voice rose in anger—“why the Curse was allowed to go forward.”
Once again, Prince Jaegar studied Oskar mindfully, and then he thought, I really don’t have time for this shit. But he could see why the question would have haunted the councilman over a lifetime, living with the Curse, and it was not that difficult to provide an answer, especially since Prince Jaegar had spent several lifetimes hence, residing in the Valley of Death & Shadows.
“Oskar,” Prince Jaegar purred, his voice thick with conviction, “on this earth, where you reside, you only see what is right in front of you. You only hear with your ears, see with your eyes, and feel with your external senses, but there is much more going on in the realm of spirit. Indeed, all that you behold around you is merely thought, manifest as form. It was created—it was done—long before it appeared to your carnal eyes. Quite literally, thoughts are deeds.” He sat back and sighed. How to illustrate this in a more elementary fashion?
“Imagine this scenario: a marketplace in the village square, where a poor vendor peddles fresh-baked bread from a cart, the first thing every morning. On one particular daybreak, a child born to wealth, privilege, and prone to boredom idly passes by and steals a loaf of bread…for pleasure, but the vendor catches the boy in the act and seizes him by the arm. The boy, in turn, flicks a coin at the vendor’s feet, laughs, and strolls along. The child has committed no sin. He has broken no laws. He did not in fact steal the loaf of bread. In truth, he paid a fair coin. Now then, imagine a destitute child who lives in a hovel with his impoverished family. This child also takes a loaf of bread from the merchant’s cart, but when the merchant sees him, attempts to seize him, the child wriggles out of his grasp. He runs away with the bread in hand. By law, this child has committed a crime—the second lad is guilty of theft.” He paused to let his words sink in, hoping Oskar was following his logic. “Ah, but that is not how it is seen in spirit, you see. In the underworld—yea, in the celestial realms—intention is nine-tenths of the law. The first child set out to sin; he believed wholeheartedly in the crime he was committing; and the theft occurred in spirit long before it occurred in flesh. Whether or not he returned the bread, paid for the loaf, or circumvented the theft is of no matter—he intended to steal from the vendor, and he believed it was theft when he did so. His thoughts were his deeds, Oskar. Congruently, the second child was absent of malice. He never intended to steal from the merchant—yea, his hunger drove him to violate the law—but he had no such corrupt intention.”
Prince Jaegar sighed; the whole damn tale was making him weary, and he was going way too far out of his way to explain. “Trust me, Dark One,” he grunted, “when I and my soldiers slayed Jessenia Groza, we thought she was the last female living; we believed we were sacrificing the final wench to the gods, we absolutely intended to spill her blood in exchange for power and glory, and the Blood judged us accordingly. Our thoughts were our deeds. It is not the same in spirit. It mattered not that Ciopori and Vanya had been sequestered away in the Transylvanian mountains. We believed—I believed—that we had sacrificed the very last female, and make no mistake, we relished the iniquity.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Also,” he added, circumspectly, “those bitches were crazy. The Blood. It was twisted. It wanted to curse the men, and Jessenia’s sacrifice was all the excuse it needed. The Blood was not inclined to split hairs.”
Oskar nodded his head, and the other Dark Ones sucked in air, ostensibly trying to grasp the concept. “So, in this analogy,” Oskar said, “my prince, you would be the wealthy child of privilege, and Prince Jadon would be the poor, starving pauper. Do you believe the Blood would have spared Prince Jadon—offered your twin the Four Mercies—even if he had not pleaded his case?”
At this, Prince Jaegar tilted his head to the side, considered the query for a fleeting moment, then tossed back his head and laughed, uproariously. “No,” he said with finite conviction. “I don’t think you grasp the full picture. My brother, Jadon, was a male, just like myself. And the Blood was well and truly pissed off. Trust me, you had to be there.”
Oskar’s slate gray-and-black eyes grew darker, and Prince Jaegar knew he finally understood: This was not about some higher theological judgment—right versus wrong, degrees of sin—it was about an age-old struggle between good versus evil…
And evil had corrupted innocence.
With regard to the Blood of the Slain, darkness pierced the light, not the other way around, and Prince Jaegar had been on the side of darkness.
He still was.
They all were.
And that meant, this night—this Millenia Harvest Moon—was a second chance to revisit a primordial battle: to punish Prince Jadon, the celestial order, and to enact equal vengeance on the Blood itself.
Light was weak.
Goodness was overrated.
And if Prince Jadon was back, in the body of one of his far-removed loyalists, his indirect descendants, then both were likely weak as well.
This time, Prince Jaegar would prevail.
Chapter Fourteen
The Enchanted Forest
“Remember and make a choice,” Braden whispered, but he had already remembered everything that had happened, at least leading up to arriving in the forest—and nothing transformational had occurred.
&nbs
p; At least not yet.
So remember what?
He sat down at the base of the Tree of Light, raked the tips of his fingers through the rich, loose soil, and stared up at the brilliant tricolored foliage. The gold and white leaves began to rustle, making a soft, almost harmonic sound, as if separate voices in a heavenly chorus were singing a pure, organic ballad, and time seemed to stand still…
As he listened…
And tuned in to the enchanted melody.
Closed his eyes.
Aligned his heartbeat.
His thoughts began to drift, as thoughts often do, and he found himself thinking of Kristina: the first time he’d kissed her on Valentine’s Day, outside Nachari’s brownstone…that time she had appraised him approvingly, from head to toe, when he was wearing his worn leather bomber-jacket and a pair of faded blue jeans—the way she had whispered “Damn” beneath her breath—and the proud way she had displayed his gemstone bracelet, showing it off to his mother, Dario, and Conrad…
Her bright blue eyes and her carefree laughter…
The shades of red in her soft, layered curls.
The dozens—no, hundreds—of shoes she collected: azure-blue ankle boots to go with her form-fitting blue and gray pencil skirt, cobalt-blue spikes with thin, dainty ankle straps, to go with her next suede ensemble.
He chuckled softly, relishing the memories.
And then his mind meandered, naturally, to Conrad: I’m gonna say a prayer of my own for you tonight…my big brother has the stealth of a warrior, the skills of a wizard, and the heartbeat of the house of Jadon in his veins. How true that statement had become…
A low-hanging branch brushed Braden’s right upper arm, and he opened his eyes, turned his head to glance at it. As the ends of the branch curled around his shoulder, like a friend reaching out to reassure a comrade, he absently thought, how strange—it should have been unsettling, but it wasn’t.
