by Tessa Dawn
“Do I know you?” she’d asked, once again being crafty—she’d intended to call out to a warrior named Keitaro. Not gonna happen…
He had blocked all transmissions.
“Shh,” he’d cajoled, “you don’t want to do that.” He had laced his tone in overwhelming compulsion. “Don’t be afraid, just listen to my voice.”
“There are a dozen warriors in this courtyard, and they will all come running if I call.”
“But you aren’t going to do that,” he’d countered. “Come to me. Quickly.” He had held out his hand, even as he had constricted her vocal cords. She had drawn back, her skin growing pale, her entire body had quivered, and her eyes had reflected her defeat. “Come to me, Kristina. Take my hand, Princess Red.”
And that was the second she had gotten it.
Yeah, little lady—you are summarily screwed.
Only, the poor insecure woman—no, the abused broken child—was just naive enough to think she had been taken by Achilles Zahora.
“Hah!” He grasped her hand, spat on the ground, then encircled her slender, trembling shoulders. “Welcome to my house,” he whispered as he dragged her backward, further into the shadows. “Zeus!” he barked, glaring into the darkness, knowing the veiled soldier was close by. “Take her back to Achilles’ lair, lock her inside, then rejoin my entourage. I still have a family reunion to attend to.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Valley of Death & Shadows
In the deepest bowels of the underworld, the dark lord Soreconom, twin energy to the celestial god Monoceros, watched through the reflection of a boiling cauldron as one of his favorite vampires, Achilles Zahora, sprawled beneath the Tree of Darkness in one of the many bridges between worlds, the Forest of Evil, eager to eat from the dark tree’s fruit.
As noxious gases swirled from the cauldron, wafting to Lord Soreconom’s nostrils, he considered the facts and this rare opportunity—after all, Achilles was neither alive, nor dead, in this predetermined moment. Rather, he had ceded his body to Prince Jaegar for a time, and Soreconom intended to make good use of the interlude. To be sure, Achilles Zahora was already a masterpiece, born of rage and reared in darkness. He possessed every attribute of a true, minacious soul: cruelty and envy; arrogance and deceit; dishonor, self-absorption, and a vile, quick temper. He didn’t just dole out punishment or enact vengeance with a fury—he kept a detailed, long-lasting record of anyone who had ever wronged him, and he positively delighted in retribution and evil.
He would never love.
He would never show true kindness.
His soul was as murky as the sap in that tree.
And he was right about Kristina Silivasi, with one important exception—the Dark Ones were cursed, down to the very last male—they were in fact “damned to father twin sons by human hosts who would die wretchedly upon giving birth, and the firstborn of the first set would forever be required as a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of their forefathers.” In other words, Kristina was no longer a human host—she could indeed bear children without dying wretchedly upon giving birth. Only, unlike Braden Bratianu, who was born of man, then later sired into vampirism, Achilles was a true, full-blooded vampire, born of a son who was the son of another, on and on…ad nauseum.
He could not circumvent the Curse.
His children would be born as twin sons of darkness, and like any other male in the house of Jaegar, he would be required to sacrifice the firstborn of the first set. Indeed, the only difference would be the eternal life of Kristina, bearing son after son…after son.
In perpetuity…
Soreconom absently stroked the gnarled antler protruding from the center of his forehead. It wasn’t quite the magnificent horn Lord Monoceros, the Unicorn, could don at will, but it was far more fitting for a deity of the underworld.
He turned his attention back to the cauldron—time to stir things up a bit.
Yes, Achilles would grow angry and rebellious over time, once he realized he could not provide immortal females for the house of Jaegar, females to distribute, use as chattel, and ravage. He could not proliferate the species with the redhead. And he would eventually grow tired of her endless existence and mayhap snap her skinny neck, but before then…until then…she could magnify and multiply the best of the best: Kristina would give Achilles numerous, exceptional offspring.
And that’s why Lord Soreconom had chosen to step in.
Well, that, and his utter disgust for the celestial regions and Lord Monoceros.
That, and the fact that two could play this game, two pantheons, that is: If the celestial gods thought they could play chess with Braden, well then, game on—Soreconom would gladly move his pawn, Achilles, forward across the board. And luckily for the dark lord, Achilles did not require…a whole lot of nudging. A little shoring up here, a little influence there—ratchet up the cruelty and envy; cement the arrogance and deceit; pour a little gasoline on the fires of dishonor, selfishness, and temper; and stoke the vengeance, fury, and evil—give him more of what he already possessed.
Make him more of what he already is…
Soreconom dipped his hand in the cauldron and swirled it around in circles, groaning as his flesh melted off his bones—it would grow back the moment he withdrew it—and he conjured a female siren with curly red hair, bright blue eyes, and a supple, beckoning body. She looked enough like Kristina to entice The Executioner but not enough to satisfy his yearning…his longing…to command, possess, and multiply his seed.
And so, envy would grow.
Followed shortly thereafter by grossly enhanced cruelty.
Hell, Achilles Zahora would take the conjured female beneath the Tree of Darkness in every bestial manner imaginable, until he had finally had his fill. He would savage her body, drink her blood—he might even break her fragile bones—until at last, she perished beneath him. And the desire for the real thing, for Kristina Silivasi—Achilles’ envy of Braden and the house of Jadon—would grow, along with the Dark One’s savagery.
Yes, Soreconom would strengthen each vice, one at a time, each iniquity in turn, until this singular dark vampire was even more of a masterpiece. And the dark lord was free to do so, at will, to pour his powers upon the earth or the forest of evil, to drench the cosmos, atmosphere, and even the soil with sin. He was free to drench Dark Moon Vale—and this bridge between worlds—due to the rarest of omens, occurring this night…the Millenia Harvest Moon.
Chapter Seventeen
Dark Moon Vale
A wiser male, a younger male, a male who had not lived—and died—over 2,800 years ago might have exercised more caution.
But Prince Jaegar Demir was not that male.
Clad in his familiar ancient clothing—a cinched pair of trousers, high leather boots, and a long-sleeved tunic with ruffled sleeves and girded wrist cuffs—he once again stepped boldly into the courtyard from behind the pyramidal pine tree. Only this time, he was not stalking a redhead.
He was strolling toward center stage…
Stalking his ancient sisters.
His thick, wavy, raven black-and-red hair cascaded about his shoulders as he prowled forward with all the stealth, grace, and confidence of a jungle cat, a predator…a minacious ancient monarch. And his entourage—Silas Slovinsky, Nuri Bolasek, Falcon Zvara, and Zeus Dragavei, who had already returned from depositing Kristina in Achilles’ lair—were close behind him in a loose semicircle, still invisible and still cloaked in the energy and scent of the native flora and fauna.
Jaegar knew the warriors from the house of Jadon would spot him immediately, but honestly, he didn’t give a shit. The immediate element of surprise was half the battle, and no one in this courtyard could match his ageless skill, his unconscionable savagery, or his awesome power.
Ciopori was the first to see him, and Vanya, maybe a half second later.
The eldest of Jaegar’s two royal sisters swept her waist-length, midnight-black hair behind one shoulder in an absent yet defiant gestu
re and trained her golden gaze directly upon him. Vanya crossed to the front of the stage without hesitation and began descending the makeshift staircase, newly constructed for the festive occasion, her pale-rose eyes ablaze with fury. “You bastard,” she practically snarled.
They were walking right toward him.
Could this get any better?
Ciopori halted about five yards away and extended a braced arm in front of Vanya’s chest to stop her. “After all these years, all these centuries…” Her voice trailed off in disgust and disbelief.
“Back from the dead, dear brother?” Vanya goaded.
Prince Jaegar declined his head in a mockery of a male curtsy, an archaic gesture of respect to the monarchy. “You didn’t think I would let you get away?” he countered.
Ciopori let out a quiet, drawn-out hiss, the air passing over her lips like venom. “Be it known, you vile creature, that we did get away. We escaped the castle, and we escaped Romania. We escaped you and your depraved, soulless army of failures. For that is what you are, Jaegar, what you have always been: a failure, a nothing, a bygone relic of triviality and irrelevance.”
“We have children,” Vanya added, her nostrils twitching in anger. “Children and mates, an entire life here in this valley. And we still practice the ancient magick; we are able to share it with our people. You destroyed nothing but yourself, even as you condemned your followers for eternity. How was the Valley of Death & Shadows? Were you irrelevant there as well?”
Prince Jaegar smiled, even as his gums began to throb, and his fangs descended in his mouth. How bold, how arrogant—so the girls had grown up? The haughty, self-righteous wenches! He released his claws, took an angry stride forward, and that’s when the warriors appeared in front of him, looming like a stone-and-mortar fortress between Jaegar and his sisters.
According to Achilles’ memories, to the left, now blocking Ciopori, stood Marquis Silivasi, his right hand cloaked and fisted in an ancient, well-worn cestus. His brothers, Nathaniel and Kagen, the former wielding a razor-sharp stiletto with a hand-crafted grip, the latter flashing only a calm yet dangerous, cagey smile, swiftly filled in the space between Jaegar and his eldest sister. And hackles raised, front paws forward, an enormous black panther also crouched in front of her, head low, ears back, forest-green eyes trained on Jaegar, alert and ready to pounce.
Ah yes, Nachari Silivasi…
The wizard.
To the right, surrounding Vanya, were all three Olaru brothers, Santos, Ramsey, and Saxson, an iron stake, a three-pronged, barbed trident, and a medieval axe in their hands. And then there was Saber Alexiares, menacing toward the fore, every muscle in his chest and arms twitching from bloodlust…and the desire to strike.
Prince Jaegar glared at Saber with loathing—this male had once been a member of Prince Jaegar’s house, the traitor, the infidel, the weak, spineless bastard. He wanted to kill Saber most of all. “So,” he carped, eyeing each warrior in turn. “This is what you bring me to contend with?” He glanced over his left shoulder, and then his right, remaining motionless, proud, and defiant as Silas, Nuri, Falcon, and Zeus revealed their presence and flashed into view.
“Prince Jaegar.” A deep, sonorous, commanding tone of voice.
The prince’s head snapped forward, dead center, as Napolean Mondragon flanked the black panther, took a brazen step forward to stand directly before Jaegar, and glowed from head to toe with a burnished, sizzling orange-and-red light. “Move one inch closer to these women. I dare you—no, I beg you.”
Prince Jaegar studied him more closely, taking the king’s full measure…
Dark lords, the mighty vampire was channeling the celestial bodies—nay, the very miasma of the sun—even in the thick of night, and he was holding his palms forward, all ten fingers splayed, the tips pointed at Jaegar and the Dark Ones. He was ready to cremate the males where they stood, in spite of the fact that he would also scorch—and destroy—his beloved valley. Perhaps his beloved followers.
Interesting.
Brilliant.
This little boy from the indigenous village…
“You!” Jaegar spat the word. “The child who changed the course of history without lifting a single finger, without knowing what he did.” Napolean did not flinch or look away, and Prince Jaegar chuckled haughtily. “My High Priest, Ravi Apostu; he had visions about a ten-year-old child, several days before the Curse. At the time, he told no one; yet and still, he was determined to extinguish your life.” He fixed his gaze on the brothers and the panther perched in front of Ciopori. “Only your ancestor, Timaos Silivasi, treacherous as he was, convinced me that he’d had a change of heart, that he was loyal to my line and my cause, just long enough to slay the priest, before once again pledging loyalty to my brother, Jadon. It was all for you, Napolean.” He glanced upward at the red-tinged moon, then back at the formidable king. “To save the child pauper who would one day be a monarch. You see, what is hidden in life is revealed in death: each act, each thought, each intention. So much orchestration on behalf of one inferior lineage.” He shrugged a cocky shoulder in contemptuous dismissal. “I see now that the gods chose well but not well enough, dear king. Not well enough.”
He held his own hands outward, palms facing the bowels of the earth, to draw symbolic energy from the dark lords of the underworld and power from the Millenia Harvest Moon. “You are not the only male of great prowess,” he said, as thick, dark vapor coalesced around his fingers. “You are not the only remnant from the Old World in this courtyard.” The vapor began to harden like cement, and Prince Jaegar raised his arms. “Release your power, dear king, and it will strike a wall of darkness, ricochet off, and incinerate every soul in this courtyard, including your own. You will destroy your beloved valley, every heart in the house of Jadon, as well as every innocent human inhabitant.” He reached, once again, into Achilles’ memories to find a more apt vernacular. “You don’t have to take my word for it: If you’re feeling froggy, leap!”
Napolean stared at Prince Jaegar’s hands, studying the mystical, thickening vapor. “Fabian?” he whispered under his breath, and the ancient High Mage appeared beside him.
“Yes, he speaks the truth,” Fabian said bluntly.
Prince Jaegar’s breath left his body as he regarded the latest newcomer: burnt copper eyes rimmed in black and shaped like graceful almonds; long, layered, golden bronze hair and perfectly symmetrical features: a powerful physique, fit for a god, chiseled as if animated from a statue.
“Nanaşule.” Jaegar breathed the word, recalling his sisters’ pet name for the male. “Fabian Antonescu, son of Fortino, child of Koryn Anne, High Mage to my father, King Sakarias.”
“Yes, Prince Jaegar, one and the same.”
Prince Jaegar blinked three times; then his mouth turned down in a scowl. “I see you served my brother well, but you sure as shit made a mess of things, didn’t you? Vials of blood and all that. What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“There is nothing for you here, Prince Jaegar,” Fabian said with authority. “Go back to the Colony, enjoy this night with your progeny, mingle with the Dark Ones until the harvest moon wanes. You will not procure your sisters. You will not sacrifice another female. You will not complete what you failed at, so long ago in antiquity. The house of Jadon will leave you unmolested if you return to your own for the duration of the millennium moon.”
“I see,” Prince Jaegar mocked. “You will leave me unmolested—you, and what army?” He glared at Marquis, whose shoulders tightened. “Him?” He turned his gaze on Saber, who was gutturally snarling. “Or him?” He swept one hand forward, gesturing toward Ramsey and the other…sentinels…before placing it back, palms down, in front of him. “Or these ragtag warriors and so-called guardians?” Now he was just being deliberately provocative. “Will you protect Kristina Riley Silivasi?” His top lip turned up in a menacing snicker. “Oh yes, too late—we already have her. She is resting comfortably in a colony lair. You didn’t think I would ov
erlook the redhead, did you? Not with her intimate relationship to Braden.” He paused to let the boy’s name settle in their ears. “Yes, Braden Bratianu; shall we talk about the body my twin has taken over? Jadon has inhabited Braden’s body, has he not?” The prince was looking for a signal, anything—a twitch, a sideways glance, any type of tell which might confirm the proffered information—but it honestly didn’t matter. He had already put the pieces together. Higher reasoning was never one of Prince Jaegar’s weaknesses.
“What’s happened to Braden?” he heard a female murmur in angst, somewhere off to the right in the background, from the cover of a distant pavilion, and the rapid spike in the female’s heart rate, as well as her preternatural hearing, her palpable maternal energy, told Prince Jaegar everything he needed to know.
Hmm.
Such information was golden.
Ripe in the moment…
So, the female was both a destiny in the house of Jadon and the vampire—the matron—who brought Braden into the world.
“What have you done with Kristina!” Ciopori demanded, recapturing Prince Jaegar’s attention. In her ire and dismay, she elbowed her way forward, edging her body beyond Marquis’ huge shoulder, and she was immediately shoved back by his large, unsheathed hand, his eyes flashing crimson with terror, rage, and overwhelming possessiveness.
Huh…
So Marquis was Ciopori’s mate…
Good to know.
“I tell you what,” Prince Jaegar snarled, “come back with me to the Colony, dear sister, and all this will end right here, right now. I will even leave Vanya alone…for the moment. Correction, I shall leave her unmolested.”
“Fuck you!” Vanya retorted, lashing out from behind the protection of Saber’s shoulder. Yes, of course, these two were mated as well. “Your magick against ours; we’re right here and willing. And unlike that night you came for us in the castle, we are no longer young, naïve, or helpless maidens!”
