by Tessa Dawn
“Tsk-tsk,” Jaegar warned her. “You were never that. But now, as then, you should listen to Nanaşule. If we all behave neatly, retreat to our separate houses, we might all remain unmolested, Vanya.” He linked both hands behind his back and flashed his canines, while emitting an audible snarl. “But as for giving up entirely—neither procuring my sisters, nor sacrificing another female—I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot do that.”
His chest rose.
His shoulders fell back.
And he raised his chin in rebellious derision.
Then he unlinked his hands, slowly brought them forward, and held up the trophy he had just acquired, before setting the blood-drenched organ on fire: the still-beating heart of a female destiny, the one who had cried out in concern for her son. He quickly scanned Achilles’ memories—ah yes, the matron, Lily Bratianu, her heart emblazoned in his hand and dangling before the milieu.
No one had even seen him retrieve it.
Nay, he had moved faster than the speed of light, swifter than the barrier of sound—not one warrior in the piteous courtyard had watched him grasp the female by the neck, encircle her shoulder with a steadying arm, or retrieve her heart through the center of her back. Not one had heard, sensed, or suspected a thing when he had just as swiftly set the organ on fire so that none might bring the wench back to life.
It had all taken place in under a second.
Ciopori and Vanya gasped, even as the males looked around in disarray.
And off in the distance, in that same, far pavilion, a female’s body slumped to the ground, hitting the planks of the wooden platform with a thud. A boy, perhaps a teenager—no more than twelve or thirteen summers—cried out in shock and anguish, and another female shouted, “It’s Lily! Lily Bratianu!”
Prince Jaegar chuckled. “No,” he reiterated, still holding what was left of the incinerated heart, “I’m afraid I cannot do that. And as for your magick, it is no match for my savagery. The only reason you are still standing, dear Vanya…” He locked eyes with his younger sister and peered into her soul, glorying in the shock, fear, and agonized regret he found swirling around in her anima. “The only reason you still live,” he repeated, “is because if I kill you…when I kill you…I will take my time and relish the pleasure.”
Three things happened at once.
A male in the affected pavilion roared like a wounded lion in an unmistakable challenge to battle and Blood Vengeance, the black panther pounced, and Saber Alexiares well and truly lost his shit, the latter leaping over two other sentinels in order to get to Jaegar.
Prince Jaegar fell backward, onto the ground, raised his forearm, and tried to block the panther. The panther bit down, snapped Jaegar’s radius, and then, frothing, snarling, and whipping its head from side to side, it tugged at the broken limb in a feral attempt to yank the arm out of its socket.
Still, Prince Jaegar kept his wits about him.
He wrestled with the wild cat while deftly dividing his attention: He watched through his peripheral vision as Nuri Bolasek intercepted the female’s mate, the wounded lion from the pavilion, the Dark One’s albino skin glistening in the moonlight, and he threw up both feet, even as he continued to fight the panther, in a quick, harsh thrust—a desperate, extended leg press—stomping Saber in the chest before the vampire could eviscerate his jugular.
Holy shit; this was wild!
The ensuing tussle on the ground was like a ball of ferocious wild snakes: striking, siphoning, curling around one another, in order to gain greater advantage, and the earth and sky opened up with equal ferocity and fury. Lightning struck the ground three times in rapid, earth-shaking succession. Hail the size of cannon balls began to pelt the courtyard. And the land beneath the vampires began to shake, rumble, and tremble, threatening to split open in a giant fissure, as a consequence of so much tumultuous energy…too much charged emotion.
Ciopori screamed as Silas and Falcon tried to seize her.
Silas’ face exploded as Marquis unleashed his fury, pommeling the Dark One between the eyes, over and over—and over—wielding his brutish cestus like a jackhammer, brutalizing bone, stripping flesh, and sending the Dark One’s nose ring scattering across the quaking forest into the widening, open fissure.
And the sentinel called Ramsey cut Falcon’s head clean off with one brutal stab and swipe of his trident.
Shiiiit.
Prince Jaegar was as aroused as he was worried, and then dozens of Dark Ones appeared in the courtyard. The king, Napolean, flanked by Saxson, Santos, Nathaniel, and Kagen, prepared to take them on, one by one, all night if necessary, even as Fabian, Niko, Jankiel, and the princesses began to chant a powerful spell, heavily laced in Latin.
Then, “Stop!”
Prince Jadon’s mighty roar rolled out like thunder, snapping nearby tree limbs and crackling through the valley. “Not here! Not now!” He stood atop the center dais and raised both hands in the air, fingertips pointed toward the heavens, and he did not look a thing like Braden Bratianu—he must have asked Fabian to restore the illusion of his former appearance, much like Jaegar had requested of Salvatore. Jadon whispered a prayer in the ancient tongue, beseeching the celestial beings who were free this night to drench the earth with their power, and a multicolored dome encased the courtyard.
Lightning ceased to strike.
Hail stopped falling.
The broadening gap, the fissure in the earth, knit back together, and the ground began to settle beneath them.
“Not here,” Prince Jadon repeated in a much nobler voice. “Not now. Brother against brother. Prince against prince. Vampire against vampire, so the legions might live. For all our descendants, for both our houses, for all the Millenia Harvest Moons and battles yet to come—for the fate of one cursed and one honorable species—brother against brother, winner take all.” He paused for the space of two heartbeats and added: “Lasa pe cei puternici sa mosteneasca pamantul.”
Prince Jaegar’s ears perked up.
Let the mighty inherit the earth…
Prince Jaegar favored his tattered arm, disentangled himself from the various vampires on the ground, and stood to his full, proud height, even as the warriors and destinies around him instinctively dropped to one knee, and the soldiers from the house of Jaegar stood, equally entranced, gawking at the dais.
Nonetheless, the house of Jaegar did not kneel.
They dared not show deference to a traitorous monarch, no matter how ancient, no matter how legendary.
“Brother against brother?” Prince Jaegar tested his voice. He braced his broken arm against his side and stuffed the pain of numerous lacerations, bruised organs, and hanging strips of flesh out of his mind. He buried it somewhere deep—this was a time to focus. “Winner take all?” Prince Jaegar repeated. “Be specific; all what?”
Prince Jadon frowned, and his dark brown eyes grew murky with tension and disdain. “What is it you most want, my wicked brother? What could possibly assuage your carnal soul, even now, after all these centuries?”
Prince Jaegar smirked and took several cautious steps away from Napolean’s warriors. “The redhead, Kristina Silivasi, and my sisters, of course,” he said candidly. “All I wish is to finish what I started. I want to defeat you, once and for all, and I want to complete a true, final sacrifice.”
“Fuck no!” Saber Alexiares snarled.
“Not gonna happen,” Marquis Silivasi barked.
“Have to go through me first,” Napolean Mondragon hissed.
“Warrior,” Ciopori entreated, reaching for Marquis’ hand. “Listen…just listen.”
Vanya placed her hand on Saber’s shoulder and nodded in assent.
“What say you, brother?” Prince Jaegar called out, loud enough for all to hear him.
Prince Jadon’s eyes fixed, for the very first time, on the two enchanting ancient females standing in the center of the courtyard, and if Jaegar’s own vision had not been clouded by dirt, sweat, and blood, he would’ve sworn the
prince’s eyes misted with tears. “Ciopori?” Prince Jadon whispered. “Vanya…” His voice lightly warbled, and then he sucked in a deep, astonished breath.
“Brother…” Ciopori breathed the word, her voice thick with emotion.
Vanya extended her hand toward the stage and began making her way through the crowd as if there was no one else in the courtyard.
“Stop,” Jadon cautioned, holding two fingers upright. “Wait.” He surveyed the blood, sport, and wreckage strewn about the courtyard; reverently regarded the many vampires kneeling, as well as the body of the lone slain female; and then he turned his full attention back to Prince Jaegar. “I cannot offer you the lives of our sisters. Is there something else you would battle me, and me alone, for?”
“No.” Prince Jaegar scowled.
Prince Jadon closed his eyes, cursed beneath his breath, then slowly reopened them. “Then so be it: This mystical, magnetic dome, provided by the gods, will have to hold, and I pray it will shield all the human inhabitants of this valley from the fury of the earth and the outcry of the land, while we, the two sons of Sakarias, will battle this night, right here and now, unto death. Because I will not cede my sisters or any other female in the house of Jadon.”
“No! No, you won’t,” Ciopori blurted. She immediately turned to regard Marquis. “The children are in the manse—all of them, including our precious Nikolai—the destinies, here in the courtyard. Brooke, our queen. Napolean, our king. Generations of faithful vampires. No, he cannot. Should Jadon fall, I will go with Jaegar.” She turned to face her brother. “No, you will not.”
“As will I,” Vanya whispered.
Marquis whirled around, fury on his face, and Saber took a scorched step back, away from Vanya. “Are you insane?” the Ancient Master Warrior shouted.
Saber shook his head. “Don’t get it twisted, princess. He looks like your brother, but the body he inhabits belongs to Braden Bratianu—that means Braden’s age, Braden’s knowledge, Braden’s skill set in battle.”
“And this one”—Marquis gestured toward Prince Jaegar, conspicuously using his third finger to do so—“same thing goes: Achilles’ age, Achilles’ knowledge…Achilles’ skill set in battle.”
“Nay,” Vanya said, even as Ciopori looked on, “the mind and the spirit—the seat of the soul—these powerful entities belong to Prince Jadon and Jaegar. And frankly, I would take Braden’s wisdom, psychic talents, and courage over Jaegar’s any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
Prince Jaegar snarled, growing restless and annoyed. “Enough!” he barked, repeating the same, simple refrain he had used so long ago in Romania. “What is it going to be?”
Prince Jadon sighed. He closed his eyes and took his time, while massaging the lines in his forehead. Finally, he looked back up. “We move away from the manse, from the women and the children, we reconvene in the Red Canyons at three o’clock in the morning, a half hour before the harvest moon wanes, and we battle to the death, yet again, you and I. Kristina and our sisters for the entire house of Jadon. If I win, Achilles will be no more, your Colony Guard will bring me the head of the snake Oskar Vadovsky, leader of the Dark Ones’ Council, as well as the sorcerer, Salvatore Nistor, and you will return to the Valley of Death & Shadows, forever sworn to leave our sisters unharmed. Should you prevail, you will have the three females, but again, you must promise to never return.” Before anyone in the audience could object, Prince Jadon held up his hand and scanned the crowd for two vampires. “King Napolean, will you assent? Fabian, High Mage, will you?”
Well, this should be rich, Prince Jaegar mused.
The silver slashes in Napolean Mondragon’s dark onyx eyes narrowed as the ancient king considered the weight of Jadon’s proposal, and Prince Jaegar could almost see the wheels turning in the silly king’s mind as he balanced the far-reaching consequences: To be sure, the king loved the princesses—perhaps Vanya just a little more than Ciopori, also interesting—and from the king’s perspective, all three females, even the ditsy redhead, were likely irreplaceable: their place in the vale, their duties and friendships, their families, their mates, their existing or future children…
Blah, blah, blah…
To the king’s way of thinking, such a loss would be incalculable.
Just the same, he wasn’t an idiot.
He had to know that an open battle, waged right here and now in this courtyard, between the house of Jaegar and the house of Jadon, led by their respective patriarchs, would leave untold death, slaughter, and destruction in its wake: Children would die, perhaps his own. Monuments would be destroyed, perhaps the compound. And the economy, all that sustained Dark Moon Vale would be upended—if not ruined—the Academy, the mineral plant, the casino, the lodge, and the resort…all the precious holdings filed away in Achilles’ compartmentalized brain. The sons of Jadon might lose their history, their society, and quite possibly, the future of their species.
Nay, any ruler worth his salt must consider the well-being of all his subjects.
Beyond that, the king had to know what Prince Jaegar knew: Prince Jadon was only buying time—as long as the fair prince drew breath, whether in this world or the next, Jadon would never truly cede his sisters to Prince Jaegar, nor would he relinquish Kristina.
So be it, two could play this game—all Jaegar needed was the opportunity, the set-up, and the advantage.
“It will be as you pronounced,” the king finally said, and Prince Jaegar exhaled with relief.
Jadon inclined his head in deference, noble as ever—can we just get on with it? “And you, High Mage? What say you?”
Prince Jaegar turned his attention to Fabian, who appeared to be a million miles away, his silken eyebrows furrowed, his copper skin a few shades too pale. “You must know,” the High Mage said, his eyes now linked unerringly with Prince Jadon’s, “the time, the hardship, the travails both I and your sisters have come through, the travels, the centuries, the growth we have achieved. The victories we have won and the losses we have grieved.” He ran his hand through his long, layered hair—was he stalling for time or wrestling inner demons? The fool had to know he was responsible—nay, guilty—for setting this entire fiasco in motion. “But I remember you, my beloved monarch, as a prince among princes, one who led with wisdom, compassion, and empathy, a son who revered his father with unyielding fealty, a brother who loved his sisters with unfailing affection, and a leader who served his people, those whose descendants would one day become the house of Jadon, with both honor and duty.”
Prince Jaegar puked a little in his mouth.
“Yes, Prince Jadon,” Fabian said, “I will defer to your wishes on this fateful night and trust that you will lead us, still, in kind.”
Fuuuuck.
Finally, Prince Jaegar groused inwardly.
Prince Jadon released a long, slow breath—he had probably been holding it this entire time. “Very well, then my decision is final. Brother”—he turned his attention back to Prince Jaegar, and the dark prince nearly burst with excitement—“take your soldiers and leave us, so that we may reconvene and gather our dead. We shall meet again at three a.m. in the Red Canyons.”
Prince Jaegar opened his mouth, then closed it.
What could he say to that?
Gather our dead?
There may have been a lot of injured warriors, but last he had tallied, there was only one dead vampire from the house of a Jadon, a female whom they could not put back together.
Could one be any more melodramatic?
Whatever…
“See you at three.” Prince Jaegar smirked, then he spun around to scan the ground, grimacing at all the carnage and mayhem—he was looking for Falcon Zvara’s head.
Gruesome?
Yes.
But with enough blood and a little creativity, he could still put it back on Falcon’s body and bring the dark soldier back to life. The moment he found it, he dropped into a squat and scooped what was left of it up by the hair—
�
��No!” Prince Jadon thundered, still perched on the dais like a carnival clown.
Prince Jaegar cocked his brows.
“He stays as he lies until we incinerate him.” He gestured toward the distant pavilion. “A life for a life; you know how this works. Go now, brother, leave us be.”
Now this required a strong response.
Who was Prince Jadon to order Jaegar around!?
But it seemed petty, if not immaterial, even by Jaegar’s standards.
Very well, he thought. ’Til we meet again.
He stood to his full height, flicked his wrist over Falcon’s body, and sent the corpse up in flames, himself. “Why put off until tomorrow what one can do today?” he called over his shoulder. And then, with a nod and a snarl, he vanished from view, taking his dark servants with him.
Chapter Eighteen
Midnight
Kristina sat in the farthest corner of the lair on the ledge of a sulfuric pool of bubbling water, her five-inch heels strewn haphazardly on top of each other on the floor next to her feet, trying to garner heat from the misty plumes of steam. Her shoulders were curled inward, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, and she was absolutely freezing. As a vampire, she should have been able to regulate her temperature, even raise it a few degrees if necessary, but nothing could stamp out this chill.
Achilles’ lair…
She was in Achilles Zahora’s lair.
How did she know? It was fairly obvious. From the wicked-looking dagger, carved of bone, sitting atop the heavy chest of drawers, the smooth, antique hilt engraved with the letters A and Z, to the personal collection of archaic, medieval weapons hanging from the cavern walls, along with a medal or a trophy of some sort, an old piece of brass emblazoned with the word: Executioner.
Yeah, two plus two and all that…
And as long as she was doing math, then she might as well solve another equation: Two vials of ancient blood, one fed to Braden, the other to Achilles, plus a rising Millenia Harvest Moon that awakened the same damn blood, equaled a resurrected monster from the eighth century BC. No, she wasn’t a guru with history, any more than she could do advanced calculus, but Kristina knew fashion, she knew modern clothes, and the dude who had approached her from behind that ponderosa tree…well, there wasn’t a store anywhere in Dark Moon Vale that sold that kind of apparel.
