by Tessa Dawn
She shot up into the air like a rocket, summersaulted beneath the cavern ceiling, and came back down like a spiraling comet, landing at Zeus’ back. She bashed the weight of the heavy stalactite, still in her hands, against the crown of his skull, then swept a nimble leg crosswise, just above his ankles, sending him tumbling headfirst into the pool.
She didn’t give him a chance to recover.
She dived onto his back, wrapped her arms around his wiry but brutally strong shoulders, and sank her fangs into the back of his neck, tearing out a mouthful of flesh and vertebrae.
Zeus sprang to his knees, flipped onto his back, and pinned Kristina beneath him at the bottom of the pool, crushing her slender frame against the limestone, and knocking the air out of her lungs.
She thrashed and squirmed, twisted and kicked, tried desperately to get him off her.
Finally, she reached around, felt for the hard, smooth plane of his lower belly, slid her hand lower, and grasped the family jewels in an iron-clad, vampiric grip; then she yanked for all she was worth—she didn’t manage to rip them off, but she stretched them like a bungee.
His back arched, and he snatched both of her wrists and clamped down hard in an effort to crush both arm bones. The bones strained but resisted breaking, and Kristina grew more determined.
She drew back her head, blocked out the pain, then drove it forward, head-butting the vampire from behind, so hard it made her dizzy. He released her arms, and she scrabbled backward, twisting to crawl out of the pool. But he spun around like a nimble tiger, swiveling in one feral motion and grabbing her legs by the ankles. Then he yanked and lifted, whipping her body like a battle rope, slamming her against the floor of the hot springs, then snapping her above the water in one harsh, undulating motion. He spun her over his head like a lasso, tossed her across the lair, and she landed with a hard, unforgiving thud in the middle of Achilles’ brass bed.
Oh gods!
Every muscle in her body was burning, every nerve ending was on fire, and surges of pain, like white-hot fire, coursed up and down her limbs in nauseating, pulsing circuits.
Zeus lumbered out of the pool and stalked across the lair like an angry, prowling lion, his dark eyes flashing deep crimson red, his sinewy muscles bunching and contracting with every feline step.
He was going to eviscerate her.
Oh gods, no…
Or much, much worse…
His lightweight sweatpants were drenched with water, sagging to midthigh, and he had obviously recovered from the attack on his privates because his giant staff was fully erect, swaying as he walked and throbbing.
“No,” Kristina whimpered, feeling utterly helpless and physically spent.
She didn’t have any fight left in her.
He released a dollop of venom into the palm of one hand, crooked it around the base of his neck, and groaned as the torn flesh and bone knitted back together. And then he sank down into a half crouch, half squat, and palmed his junk with the other hand.
“Achilles!” Kristina blurted, her brain finally coming online with a plan. “I belong to Achilles Zahora.”
Zeus froze about three paces away from the bed, and Kristina could almost see the wheels turning in his crazed, feral head.
“If you can read my memories then you know damn well that The Executioner wants me for himself. He wants me as a rare, individual prize, his own exclusive conquest, his favorite personal…possession. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to share me with the likes of you—or any other vampire in this colony!” She paused to catch her breath. “I might not be able to stop you…kill you…defeat you. But Achilles? He will end you! And you know it.”
Zeus released his package and stood up straight.
He licked his top lip, transferring venom from his upper incisors to the gaping hole the ring had torn out, and healed it instantly. “Achilles isn’t here,” he hissed, “and Prince Jaegar doesn’t give a shit.”
“But he’ll be back…won’t he? The Executioner?”
They could have heard a pin drop in the lair as Kristina held her breath.
Truth was, she was taking a gamble.
Fishing for information—and mostly about Braden…
Would her best friend, her fiancé, ever return to his body?
She honestly didn’t know how any of it worked, but Zeus just might.
It was worth the wager.
If looks could kill, Kristina would’ve been six feet under…the way the Dark One glared at her. His nostrils flared, his features contorted, and the ropes in his neck bulged like hidden serpents, but he didn’t take another step forward. “End me?” he echoed. Then he grinned and chuckled. “He is going to end you, Kristina. End your freedom. End your future. End every purpose you ever had, except for procreation. You’re right, revenge is best served cold. I can wait. Because the cruelest thing I could do to you now is hand you over to Achilles. Think about it. Imagine it. Wait for it.”
Kristina sucked in a much-needed breath and almost bit a hole in her tongue. She so wanted to tell him, Yeah, well, I’m not the one with the bloody, stretched-out balls hanging down my legs, but she thought better of it. Survival was the name of the game right now, and it was a moment-by-moment process.
Besides, Zeus had confirmed something really, really important…
If Prince Jaegar had taken over Achilles’ body, but Achilles was going to return, then maybe—just maybe—all wasn’t lost.
At least, not yet…
Maybe—just maybe—Braden could return to his body, too.
And even though she had never accepted it…trusted it…believed in her and Bray’s promise, she knew deep down at a cellular level: Braden was going to fuck Achilles up!
He would never—ever—leave Kristina in the Dark Ones’ Colony.
All she had to do was hope and persevere…
Hope.
And persevere…
All she had to do was stay alive.
Braden drew the back of his hand over his sweat-drenched brow—since when did vampires sweat like this?—and lowered the mystical dagger to his side. The Tree of Light had expelled three branches, merged them into a stick-figure combatant, a giant wooden warrior, and Braden had spent what felt like the last several hours sparring…training…being taught by the timber apparition. In truth, he had already been taught many of the basics at the Dark Moon Academy, and Marquis had taught him many more during their regular sparring sessions. Heck, even Julien Lacusta had given Braden a tip or two—maybe three—on the occasions when Braden had swung by to visit the tracker and his son on the northern edge of the vale.
But this…this lesson…was different.
The tree focused on energy and fluid motion—strength, agility, and precognition—how to feel the ebb and flow of the battle, in spirit, how to anticipate the enemy’s next movement, how to harness light against a strike of darkness, and how to become one with both your weapon and the forces of nature all around you, energies that could wield it with you if you let them.
Stranger shit…and all that.
At this juncture, Braden didn’t question anything—where the magical forest led, he followed.
The stick figure bowed, and Braden responded in kind, watching in rapt fascination as the wooden illusion began to fade and, as if out of the mist, where the figure once stood, a familiar scene appeared: Braden and his mother, Lily, standing on Nachari’s rooftop terrace, finally having a much-needed talk…
About the past, what Braden saw as neglect.
About Brad, Braden’s biological father.
About Lily’s perspective, how much she had always loved him—how broken and defeated…how ashamed she had felt—and about the only thing left that really mattered.
Forgiveness.
Braden had placed his dominant hand on his mother’s throat in a vampiric demonstration of bonding, something that had come from an instinct so primordial, it would have been impossible to identify it. And then he had stroked her pulse before allowi
ng his finger to simply rest softly on her jugular. “Mamica,” he had whispered, speaking the word Mommy in Romanian.
He had allowed the term of endearment to linger.
“Te iert.” I forgive you. “I always did.”
Lily had melted into a pool of tears, Braden had caught her slumping form, and in an act more healing than any other in his lifetime, he had enfolded his beloved matron in his arms.
The beautiful memory waned and settled, the Tree of Light creaked and groaned behind him, and Braden spun around, only to find another illusion, another far more distant memory, one he had never resolved.
Brad Clarke.
Braden’s biological, human father…
Drunk as a skunk and hunkered over the hood of an old jalopy car, barking out impossible orders at a four-and-a-half-year-old boy. “Braden, hand me that quarter-inch drive socket. Braden, give me the number fourteen hex key. Braden, what the fuck are you doing? I said number fourteen!”
Brad Clarke, spinning around in anger and flinging a wrench at Braden’s head.
Braden ducking, but not before the wrench caught his brow, sliced the corner of his eye, and bright red blood spurted out…
All over Brad’s tools.
Brad’s…
Not Dad’s.
Braden hated the man too much to call him father—or maybe he just feared him too much—maybe he just longed for something else.
Someone else.
“Remember and choose,” the Tree of Light whispered, and Braden forced himself to look deeper into the scene: His mother had rushed out of the house crying…yelling, his father basically not giving a shit, and later that afternoon—six stiches later—Braden had meticulously washed every tool in the toolbox.
Only…there was something else.
Someone else.
A child, even younger, superimposed behind Brad Clarke, and the child was screaming, cowering, covering his head on an oil-stained floor, while an older man with salt-and-pepper sideburns whaled on the child again and again, not just flinging a wrench but beating Brad with a pair of jumper cables…
Beating the child until he passed out.
“You worthless son of a bitch! I’m sorry you were ever born! What the hell did I do to God to deserve such a piece of shit for a son?”
Braden turned away.
He couldn’t watch anymore.
“My father’s dad,” he said absently. “Grandpa Clarke…he beat Dad, too?”
The tree swayed gently in an unseen wind. “Look harder. Remember. And choose.”
Braden bit down on his lower lip, dropped into a squat, and stared fixedly at the child inside of the man, and he saw it all in an instant: unrelenting pain, cancerous shame, and a kid who was broken, through and through.
Braden pounded his fist into the dirt. “So what!”
The welts on the child’s arms and legs began to swell into nasty raised bruises.
“But fuck you, anyway!”
His left ear was resting in a pool of blood.
“That doesn’t make it fair—that doesn’t make it right,” Braden argued, as the internal battle continued to rage out loud.
The child looked just like Braden, only smaller, weaker, undernourished, and the reality sank in Braden’s heart like a stone dropping to the bottom of a murky pond: Every time Brad looked at Braden, he saw his younger self. He saw someone he had been taught to hate long before Braden was born. He saw something he could not hurt enough…damage enough…to stamp out all that hate and self-loathing.
“I hated you, too,” Braden whispered, pissed off that he was beginning to cry.
Remember, and choose.
This time, the tree whispered gently in his mind.
“Choose what?” Braden retorted. “I don’t want to choose.” He clutched his head in his hands and fisted his fingers. “Damn you.” His shoulders curled inward, and he wept.
Finally, when there were no tears left to cry, he reached into the mirage, placed his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy, and breathed the words, “Te iert.”
I forgive you.
And something in his chest virtually exploded as all that buried pain broke free.
Braden rocked backward, fell onto the ground, and braced both palms against the dirt to steady his weight. Then he watched as the tree gently swayed, left then right, bent into an arc, and another branch extended its mystical finger. A silver oblong disc appeared, and the edges filled in quickly.
Forgiveness…
Written in sterling letters.
Shimmering. Bright. Luminescent as moonlight.
The scene in the background disappeared, and Braden watched the boy softly vanish, only this time, instead of feeling bottled-up rage, he felt a fresh, new underpinning…a current of compassion.
He reached for the badge, folded it into his palm, and held it against his chest for a prolonged, reverent moment before slipping it into his pouch.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dark Moon Vale ~ 2:00 a.m.
Prince Jadon moved freely about the numerous underground antechambers and halls of King Napolean Mondragon’s compound: the Ceremonial Hall of Justice; the guard room just outside the diamond-embedded holding cell, which now housed many of the Vampyr’s children for protection; and even the Chamber of Sacrifice & Atonement, as the extra pews were needed and being utilized to seat the unusually large number of Vampyr gathered at the manse. He had blanched at the anterior door festooned with a skull and crossbones—Behold the portal to the corridor of the dead inscribed on the thick, weighty panel—such a dreadful and powerful reminder of how the Curse still played out in recent times. And he had absently wished, more times than he could count, that he still had possession of his own beloved, ancient sword.
Nonetheless, King Napolean had offered Prince Jadon use of The Sword of Andromeda, a Mondragon family heirloom passed down from one generation to the next, taken by Napolean when he was just a lad, after the death of his father, Sebastian. And Nachari Silivasi had equally offered the use of a blade he jokingly referred to as his own Excalibur, also handed down to him by his father, Keitaro, in 1526 or 1527—he wasn’t exactly sure of the year.
Prince Jadon intended to try them both.
To try them and test them prior to the battle, and to choose the one best suited to his own strength and skill.
He meandered into the circular Hall of Justice, both mindful and respectful of the body laid so gracefully—and peacefully—on the simple raised pallet at the fore of the gallery, having been bathed and dressed in an elegant ceremonial robe of lavender and ivory: Lily Bratianu, resting in repose, awaiting the final details of her funeral.
He bowed his head in respect, made his way to the back of the room, and approached the seated Council of Wizards, absent those practitioners of magic who still resided at the Romanian University. “Wizards,” he said in greeting.
“Your Grace.” Niko and Jankiel spoke in unison.
“My sword is in the guard room, on top of the desk,” Nachari offered.
“Thank you, Nachari.”
“Jadon.” Fabian Antonescu stood up. “We do have an answer, but it may not be the clear, concise delineation that you want.” He linked his hands behind his back, and Prince Jadon shrugged one shoulder.
“Well, I suppose it is as it is, so what say you?”
Fabian cleared his throat. “Simple. Yet somewhat vague. Much like the moon sets and the sun rises, both bodies still exist in the solar system, yet one gives way to the other’s light, to the other’s prominence. So it will be when the Millenia Harvest Moon wanes at 3:34 a.m. Your power—your spirit—will step back, recede, making way for the true owner of the body to emerge. Assuming Braden is allowed to return, that he has not perished somewhere on a bridge between worlds, his emergence may not be complete or all at once, but like the moon and the sun, one soul will step back, another will come forth, passing one another as if in the night. Both still exist. Both may be still present. At least until full moon
set at 11:46.”
“I see,” Prince Jadon replied, swallowing his grief. There was so much yet to be said and done: the desire to spend more time with his sisters and their mates, the overwhelming yearning to get to know his nephews, the input, the contribution, the mark he would like to leave on the house of Jadon…
The house of Jadon…
His house.
His legacy.
His beloved civilization.
But once again, Jaegar had stolen all of that time, life…love…and so much more from so many innocent beings—it was mind-boggling, unconscionable, truly impossible to comprehend how one evil soul could do so much damage to so many…for so long.
He shook his head to disrupt the train of thought: There was simply no time for regret or recrimination—Jadon’s path was clear before him. He had one night. This night. To leave an indelible mark on his kindship…forever. “Well done,” he said. “I suppose we shall take it as it comes.” He trained his gaze on Nachari Silivasi. “Master Wizard, have you spoken with your eldest brother? On my way to retrieve your sword—and Napolean’s—I intend to look in on the sentinels and Master Warriors, to hear the intricate details of their final battle plans, should my twin prevail in the upcoming battle, but a brief summary ahead of time would be helpful. As we all know, time is drawing nigh, and every moment is crucial.”
Nachari leaned back in the pew and swept his thick black hair away from his keen, deliberative eyes. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, clearly wanting to speak succinctly and efficiently. “As you know, the wizards are coordinating with the warriors, and the warriors are coordinating with the king. Should you…fall in this battle…Marquis, Saber, Saxson, Keitaro, and a dozen other warriors will encase your sisters in a warded circle, place them inside a protective holding cell, and fight to the death if necessary. Jankiel and Niko will call upon the favor of the gods to drench the Red Canyons with their power and hopefully shield as much of the valley—of our human servants and the surrounding population—with protection, much as you did in the courtyard. Meanwhile, Ramsey will focus solely on taking a high-ranking member of the Dark Ones’ Colony alive, and torturing whatever information is necessary out of him to discern where they are holding Kristina. The king, our tracker, Julien, and Santos Olaru will try to make use of the chaos to enter the Colony through the old sacrificial caverns, and use the tunnels to bring Kristina out of the underground fortress. You may as well know, Napolean always risks his well-being when he harnesses the power of the sun, draws upon the energy of the solar system, but his mind is made up—he will incinerate half the house of Jaegar if that is what it takes to return Kristina to our valley.”
