by Tessa Dawn
“She tossed him the sword,” yet another insisted as they inched closer to the edge of the cliff like one wild throng, their bodies trembling with vehemence.
Braden took the house of Jaegar’s full measure, immediately wondering, would they retreat…or attack? Although he had been traveling in the Enchanted Forest when the place and time for the battle had been set, and although Lord Monoceros had shown him a small snippet of Prince Jadon’s challenge to Prince Jaegar in Napolean’s courtyard, Braden was now back in his body, which meant he still shared one frame, one mind, one seat of the soul with Prince Jadon, and he could now access the entire memory.
He swiftly scanned his corporeal mind until he found the odious pact:
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.
Jaegar would fight for the right to slay his sisters…for the right to keep Kristina.
Jadon would fight for the right to save both Red and the princesses…and for the right to execute both Oskar and Salvatore—
Let the mighty inherit the earth.
And now, the Dark Ones believed Braden had cheated because Kristina had tossed him the sword…
Braden swept his gaze over the vulnerable royal females still kneeling at the canyon’s edge, and his heartbeat slowed, his spirit lifted, as he eyed the soft, glowing, nearly incandescent light of a holding cell wrapped tightly around them both. He glanced over his shoulder, to the western clifftops, and noted the smug, yet determined look stamped on Marquis and Saber’s features—the princesses’ mates, the warriors’ arms, were linked like a chain with the Master Wizards: Jankiel and Niko on the outside, Nachari Silivasi standing between them. Meanwhile, Fabian Antonescu was seated in front of them, both palms still facing out and turned upward, as he wielded—and held—a shrouded spell.
They had protected the princesses…instantly.
And then Braden felt him before he saw him, Napolean Mondragon hovering in the air, his feet no longer touching the rocky ledge, his entire body pulsing and radiating heat, brimming with barely leashed radiation…all ten fingers splayed and deftly pointed across the canyon at the entire dark horde of vampires.
Yeah, Braden thought, they had this all along.
Still, he understood intuitively that the Dark Ones, those who remained in the Colony—the fledglings, the children, those maintaining basic operations—would never stop coming. They would stalk and hunt every soul in the house of Jadon…in perpetuity, to say nothing of all the soulless monsters that would be hatched in the next forty-eight hours.
To say nothing of the fact that the effort might kill Napolean Mondragon—that was so much cosmic energy to control and release without lethal consequences.
“It’s over!” Braden shouted, and his voice crackled like thunder. “You may have your chairman and your wicked sorcerer. Go back into your hellhole or die like Achilles!” He stormed across the canyon floor, snatched Achilles’ head, and held it up in an erect, vertical arm, glaring at the three Dark Ones, all Colony Guard, standing in a loose vertical row with tattoos of jewel-eyed black mambas circling their right biceps. Inadvertently, and led by precognition, his eyes swept from the left to the right and landed on the third and final guardsman: a fiendish vampire with a murderous glare in his granite-gray eyes, spiked red-and-black hair, and a nasty, pointed beard. The vampire’s thick upper lip, dissected with multiple piercings, turned up in a contemptuous, mocking scowl—a promise of vengeance—and he stared right back, the black mamba on his bicep twitching and uncoiling, its eyes also boring into Braden’s…then Kristina’s.
“Son of a bitch,” Braden snarled.
And he knew…
He just knew.
He hurled the head like a shot out of a cannon traveling along a bolt of lightning, and watched in primal, possessive, raw satisfaction as it struck its target, unerringly: Achilles’ skull exploded in the Dark One’s face, crushed his cranium, and bowled him over. They might yet heal the savage bastard, but at least he had gotten the message.
The Dark Ones backed away from the ledge, and their vengeful energy began to dissipate—they did not desire all-out war, any more than the house of Jadon…
As Braden turned around to go to Kristina, he felt a swift, sharp tug between his eyes, as if someone had just unplugged a cord, and a sweep of energy, like a cool winter’s wind, whooshed out of his body.
He gasped, jerked back, and spun around.
“Well done, son of Jadon.” A disembodied voice. “I have always been with you. Now it is time that I leave you.”
“Wait!” Braden spoke into the air, immediately recognizing the soul of Prince Jadon, the spirit who had begged him to get up and fight when he had been prone on the ground…when his eyelids had been so heavy, his heart, even heavier…when he had thought he’d lost his badges, along with Napolean’s sword. “I never got to meet you.”
“Nay.” The ancient prince chuckled. “You know me better than anyone else, save my beloved sisters. Protect our house, Sword of Jadon. My power is always at your disposal.”
Realizing the full breadth and meaning of those words, Braden sank to one knee in reverence.
Dear Gods…
Prince Jadon had been with him…leading him…teaching him, protecting his lost, cherished house, all along…through Braden. And it was Jadon’s strength, his assistance, his cunning and prowess that had aided Braden through the battle with Achilles.
“Your Grace, I’m not worthy,” Braden murmured.
And that’s when the Sword of Andromeda appeared before him, dangling in the air like a specter—the blade shimmering with pure, ethereal essence—and began to glow with the radiance of all eight badges. That’s when Prince Jadon appeared in the canyon like a spirit of light, in all his nobility, splendid beauty, and timeless glory. The prince grasped the hilt of the sword and held it out in his hand. Then, like a prince of old in a knighthood ceremony, he laid the flat side of the blade on Braden’s right shoulder, raised it above Braden’s head, then flipped it counterclockwise, so the same side of the blade would be used to tap the left shoulder. “Arise, son, as my anointed Amadis…the living Sword of Jadon.”
Braden stood up, and Prince Jadon vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A sleight of hand.
A delightful artifice.
A low-down dirty trick beneath a waning harvest moon—it did not matter what the Vampyr would call it—they would likely never know it had happened.
Aye, but the lords of the underworld would be fully aware of it.
Free will and all that bullshit…
They had allowed the battle to play out, winner take all, and Prince Jadon…Braden Bratianu…had slayed the dark Prince Jaegar.
Well, Achilles Zahora—
Whatever.
Braden had arisen victorious, and Prince Jaegar’s time on earth, living or reanimated, was done with, once and for all. Yea, but the wild redhead had thrown a monkey wrench into the ending when she had entered the battlegrounds and later tossed the Sword of Andromeda to the conquering hero—and thus, she had opened up the tiniest crack, a teensy-weensy sliver, to the dark lord Soreconom.
If the girl could intervene, so could he!
The proud, defiant dark lord had nurtured, indulged, and guided one of his favorite sons of Jaegar, Achilles, for no less than five hours inside The Forest of Evil—he had strengthened The Executioner’s vices and planted enough fresh cruelty and envy to last many lifetimes. Far too much work and concentrated effort to be so easily undone. Besides, Achilles’ dark soul was over 1,000 years old; whereas, Zeus had only lived for four centuries.
And so it was…
And so it shall be, a sleight of hand to be sure.
An
ace for a king.
A jackal for a knight.
A spade for a heart—and an executioner for a Colony Guard.
The soul of Achilles Zahora for the soul of Zeus Dragavei: an even swap, an advantageous trade, a simple malignant replacement.
The sons of Jaegar would most certainly heal Zeus’ humiliating injuries—Achilles’ head used as a winged bowling ball, now that was kind of funny—and it was still the Millenia Harvest Moon, after all. The rare solar body would not fully set until 11:46 a.m., which still left the dark lords some time to play with.
And so they must…
Indeed, they would…
Interfere with Zeus’ healing by swapping his soul with the soul of The Executioner, Achilles Zahora, and planting it firmly in Zeus’ body. From this night forward, Zeus would live on but only in appearance, not substance—since Achilles’ superior, magnificent form was nay but ash and dust, there was nothing to be done with his glorious body.
But his soul…
Yes, alas, his wicked, carnal, hate-drenched soul—it would live on in the Dark Ones’ Colony, and Achilles would never forget.
Though his brethren would be none the wiser, The Executioner would know…
The injury Braden Bratianu had dealt him.
The vampire female he had come this close to claiming.
The arrogance, the dishonor, the envy…
And he would never rest until he attained Blood Vengeance.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Red Canyons erupted in feverish activity and frenetic energy. The Master Warriors Ramsey Olaru and Julien Lacusta released Oskar and Salvatore; Marquis Silivasi and Saber Alexiares flashed across the canyon to untangle their mates from the magical protective holding cells; and the Dark Ones reluctantly retreated from the eastern clifftops.
Kagen Silivasi, the Master Healer, rushed to Braden’s side, even as his mate, Arielle, hurried to check on Kristina. Meanwhile, in the chaotic background, the remaining sentinels and wizards attended to Napolean Mondragon as he settled to the ground, listed sideways, and fought against the dizziness and disorientation involved in banking all that solar energy.
Well, all except Nachari.
The Master Wizard stood, along with Dario, just a few yards from Braden, his arm wrapped lovingly around Conrad’s adolescent shoulders…
Braden sighed, knowing it would be a difficult reunion.
But there was something else—someone else—that had to come first.
“Raise your chin,” Kagen instructed, feeling along Braden’s lower jawbone, turning his head from side to side, then pressing gently against his esophagus. “Amazing.” He felt every one of Braden’s ribs, examined his stomach and his internal organs, and then he stepped back, switched to infrared vision, and more or less x-rayed Braden’s entire anterior torso. “Turn around, son,” he said, repeating the examination from the back. “Extraordinary. I can’t find a single injury.”
Braden shrugged, then rolled his shoulders. “I think the energy from The Tree of Light must’ve healed me…when I shifted in and out of the branches.”
Kagen cocked both eyebrows. “Come again?”
Braden smiled wanly. “Long story. Really long story.”
Kagen tilted his head to the side, paused, then slowly nodded. He glanced several feet away at his destiny and called out, “Arielle, sweeting; how is Kristina?”
Braden’s vision followed Kagen’s like a trained homing pigeon locking in on home base.
How is Kristina…
She was a hot mess.
Her delicate, dainty feet were bare and covered in dirt and grime. Her hair was tangled, matted in several places, and just like Lord Monoceros had shown him in the vision, she was wearing a raspberry wine-colored skirt, no longer wet but wrinkled, and it was stained with droplets of blood. Braden’s throat constricted and his heart skipped a beat…
What had that Dark One done to her?
The broad, U-shaped neckline on her silk black vest was stretched to the sides, the lacy raspberry camisole beneath it was torn, her arms and thighs were bruised, to say nothing of the large, garish fingerprints around her wrists and ankles, and there were more holes in her thin sheer stockings than found in a block of swiss cheese.
“She’s doing okay,” Arielle said. “Considering she spent four hours in the Dark Ones’ Colony and just jumped over the side of a cliff, I would say she’s in pretty good shape.”
But was she…violated? Braden wanted to ask, but that would have to wait until later, until the two of them were alone, assuming she would feel comfortable enough to answer something so personal.
Besides, he considered, did he really want to know?
What could he do now to change it?
Other than go batshit crazy, he was helpless to go back in time and defend her. He was powerless to undo…anything.
He shoved the wretched thoughts aside, grasped Kagen by the wrist and thanked him. Then he strode toward Kristina with a confident gait, trying to figure out how to break the ice…
Such heavy, bone-chilling, frosty ice…
How to make her comfortable, especially considering their last encounter.
The moment he closed the distance between them, he glanced up at the eastern cliffside, used his pointer finger to trace her aerial leap from the ledge and her ensuing path through the air, and grimaced when he came to the spot where the eagle had caught her. “Red,” he said lovingly, “what the actual fuck!?”
Kristina pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead and chuckled, insincerely. It was funny—it was Braden—but at the same time, it wasn’t.
She had so very much to tell him.
“Let’s just say it was an insane leap of faith,” she muttered.
He took her measure from head to toe, then studied her eyes in earnest. “Yeah, maybe…or maybe a desperate leap of…love.”
She absently caressed the precious gemstone bracelet around her wrist, and her vision misted with tears. “Bray.” The word came out weaker than she intended. “There’s so much I need to say to you.”
“Kristina, give me your wrists.”
She drew back in surprise. “What?”
“Your wrists—let me see your wrists.”
She held out both arms, palms facing up, even as she began to shiver. Braden released his fangs, coated his fingertips with venom, and began to slowly massage her bruises until the markings disappeared. He paused—just for a moment—to trace the outline of the familiar bracelet. Then he dropped to one knee and repeated the process on her ankles, his touch as light as a feather, as intense as a blizzard. Without pause or warning, his hands slid up the back of her calves, turned over her knees, and grasped her thighs, his thumbs kneading inward in tender, healing circles.
She gasped. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes darted around the immediate canyon—Arielle had already backed away, returning to Kagen and the others.
Braden stood back up. “Better?”
She nodded, growing even more nervous. “Bray,” she repeated, “I need to talk to you, to get some things out while I have the courage.”
He nodded. “I know.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t. There’s so much…” Her voice trailed off. “That night, in my apartment, before you left to meet with the king, the sentinels, and the other vampires—”
“I know,” he interjected. “Me, too.”
She stared at him in earnest. “But I should’ve said…I should’ve explained…”
He grasped her jaw and cradled it in his hands. “Red, look at me. I know.” He held her gaze, without blinking. “I’ve always known.”
She sighed in exasperation, still determined to explain it. “That day in front of Nachari and Deanna’s brownstone, Valentine’s Day, before we went to the mall…and that day, a little over four months later, when I acted so selfish and jealous…after you’d rescued Gwen from The Fortress…when she was staying at the brownstone with the three of you.”
He pressed two fingers over her lips to silence her. “When I promised you I was not keeping Gwen at the brownstone because I thought she was attractive? When I told you my veins and pulse are attuned to a very different…frequency?” He leaned forward and whispered, “When I bit your bottom lip, healed it with my tongue, and you just stood there for a minute with your mouth hanging open?” His lips curved up in a cheeky grin. “Yes, Kristina, I knew.”
She gulped. “But you didn’t know everything. I mean, about my past.”
He cocked one shoulder. “I knew enough.”
She shook her head in frustration. “My dad was an alcoholic,” she blurted, cringing at the random nature of the words.
“So was mine.”
“Yeah, but I never even knew him—he died before I was born.”
“I’m aware of this.”
“My mother’s boyfriends…hell, Kiki, herself…and Dirk—”
“You aren’t broken, Kristina,” he interrupted. “You’re perfectly imperfect, just like the rest of us.”
She lowered her gaze in shame. “But you deserved more.” A tear escaped her eye, and she didn’t try to brush it away. “I couldn’t…love. I couldn’t…be loved. I’ve never known how to do…vulnerable.”
At this, he tunneled his fingers in her hair, until the tips met her chin, and then he tilted her jaw upward, forcing her to look at him—she barely came to his shoulders now, but she strained to meet his eyes. “Kristina Riley Silivasi, you just snatched a heavy-ass sword out of the hands of a Dark One, leaped over the edge of a cliff, and tried to skewer Achilles Zahora—Achilles Zahora, The Executioner!—in the back. For me. For us. To love…to be loved. That was the most courageous…crazy…and vulnerable thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”
She tucked her elbows into her stomach, clasped both hands together, and lowered her head until her forehead rested against her thumbs, and then she leaned into the warmth of his chest and trembled against him. “And you caught me,” she whispered as he wrapped his arms around her.
