by Tessa Dawn
Zeus shrugged his shoulders. He was tired…not in the mood.
“You gonna wear his clothes, too? I don’t think they’ll fit.”
Zeus grinded his teeth and tongued the tip of his fangs.
“You’re a ballsy little bitch, aren’t you?” Salvatore persisted.
Now this pissed Zeus off. He spun on his heel, stalked across the lair, and stopped just short of snatching Salvatore by the throat as the two stood nose to nose in the arched stone doorway. “Had a really long night, sorcerer. Why don’t you give me some room to breathe?”
Salvatore arched his brows, his dark sapphire eyes narrowed with focus, and his distinctive widow’s peak dropped down as his forehead wrinkled. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is really going on? Why you feel the need to desecrate Achilles Zahora’s memory? If you’d like, we could piece together what’s left of his head, stuff it, and hang it from the ceiling as a centerpiece to a garish candelabra. Then you could stare at it every morning before you go to sleep.”
Zeus bristled from head to toe, white-hot energy seared up his spine, and he pumped both fists, straining for control.
“Be careful, vampire,” Salvatore warned. “Very, very careful. You are sworn to protect me, and don’t get it twisted—your strength, even your savagery, is no match for my dark magick.” His eyes flashed violet-purple before banking back to sapphire blue.
Zeus tugged on a newly placed nose ring, snorted to dislodge some phlegm—on Salvatore’s boots—then grasped the heavy wood-and-iron door and slammed it in Salvatore’s face. He bolted it behind the annoying Dark One—of course, Salvatore could likely kick it down if he wanted to—hell, the sorcerer could probably unweave it with his fingers, and the vampire could certainly pass right through. But the bar did contain diamonds embedded in the iron, and Salvatore was old enough, hopefully wise enough, to know what would happen if he ignored the warning and crossed that threshold again.
Two more dead vampires in the house of Jaegar.
Peeling off his tight black muscle shirt and sliding out of his loose gray sweats, Zeus shook his head to dislodge the cotton—unpack the stuffed rage—and made a direct, unswerving path to the natural hot springs. Memories of Kristina Silivasi abounded, once again.
What. The. Fuck. Ever.
Zeus had time…
Achilles had time.
As he crawled into the hot, bubbling water, sank in up to his neck, and sprawled his body like a lazy human tourist sunbathing on a private beach, he let the sulfur, heat, and rippling waves wash over him, carrying the tumult…and angst…away.
He would store it for another day.
But not the envy…
Not the envy.
He would let the envy steep and simmer, rising to a red-hot boil.
He would ponder over his time in the Forest of Evil and mull over Lord Soreconom’s life-altering decision to place his soul—Achilles’ soul—in this weaker, less magnificent body.
He would retrieve the rest of Zeus’ things—his things—later.
He would give Salvatore Nistor an extremely wide berth as he moved through the Colony and slowly figured out how to make the transition…into a new life…a new body.
A new identity.
And he would determine his next move and redress the wrongs…whenever and however he damn well pleased.
Chapter Thirty-One
Freshly showered, his chestnut brown locks still damp, and clad in a pair of soft, stone-washed gray jeans and a short-sleeve, slim fit, casual gray T-shirt with a deep V neck, Braden stood on Napolean’s front veranda and hesitated before knocking.
He took a deep, steadying breath—he was tired.
Not only was he eager to get back to Kristina, but his body was beginning to shut down, demanding sleep. It was already 6:00 a.m., the sun would be rising at 6:42, and the Millenia Harvest Moon would be a permanent thing of the past, no more than a memory, in less than six hours.
What a freakin’ night…
To his surprise, the queen answered the door, her deep blue eyes brimming with kindness and some unnamable, newfound esteem, laced in wonderment. “Good morning, Braden.”
He smiled. “Milady.”
“Brooke,” she corrected.
“Good morning, Brooke.”
Ramsey Olaru cleared his throat in the background, most likely to let Braden know he was there. He took a healthy step back in the foyer and barked, “C’mon in. The king’s in the rectory.”
Braden stepped inside quietly. He looked around, made note of the extraordinary silence and the lack of activity—no servants, no other guards or vampires present, besides Ramsey, no children milling around or playing—and he grimaced just a bit as his heavy, cross-laced boots clopped along the hardwood floors. “Where are the other sentinels?” he asked Ramsey.
“Saber’s with Vanya, Saxson’s at the farmhouse with Marquis and Ciopori, and Santos is posting guard outside Kristina’s apartment—the king wanted everyone to remain on their toes, at least until the sun rises. Doubt the Dark Ones will pull any more shit before the harvest moon departs but better safe than sorry.”
“Absolutely,” Braden agreed. “And Fabian?”
“Last I heard,” Ramsey said, “he was meeting up with Niko and Jankiel, some sort of wizardry debriefing—exchanging notes from the earlier ceremonies—then heading back to the guest house to spend the rest of the moon with Gwen and Falcon.”
Braden nodded amiably. In truth, he was relieved. The fewer vampires he had to give an account to, the sooner he could get back to Kristina.
“Just one note of caution,” Ramsey continued, his deep, gruff voice sounding a bit hoarse, maybe weary, “take it easy with the king—”
“Keep it brief if you can,” Brooke interjected, tucking a lock of dark ebony hair behind her ear.
“Lucky for all of us,” Ramsey said, “he didn’t have to use the full extent of his powers in that canyon, but he banked more of that astral fireball than he’s ever stored before. And he was absolutely prepared to unleash every atom if he had to, random consequences and uncontained losses be damned. So, needless to say, he’s wasted…spent.”
“Got it,” Braden said, turning toward the rectory, but just then, Brooke reached out and caught his hand.
“Braden…”
“Yeah?” He cocked both eyebrows.
“I just wanted to tell you…thank you.” She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for your courage, thank you for your bravery, thank you for everything you have always been to the house of Jadon.” And then she drew him into a big bear hug and whispered, “I am so very sorry about your mother. My heart is broken, and I am grieving with you. Please…if there is anything I can do, just name it.” She paused to let her condolences linger. “We love you, Braden, and we are so very grateful…so incredibly relieved…to have you back in the valley, home where you belong.”
Braden returned the hug, feeling touched, honored, and curiously distant. “Thank you,” he uttered, “and no problem.”
No problem?
He immediately regretted the words.
Of course, losing his mother was more than a problem—it was a living nightmare—and Brooke’s words meant everything to Braden, more than she could know. He wished he could’ve said something more touching…more appropriate…maybe even a little more formal and dignified, but it was what it was. He had to hold it together, and this horror…this loss…was going to take time.
Without missing a beat, Brooke pulled away and stepped back gracefully. She gestured toward the formal living room. “He’s waiting for you, Amadis.”
Amadis…
She used the accolade like an endearing nickname, more or less referring to Braden as a chivalric knight or hero—wow.
Just wow…
Braden cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on Ramsey. “You coming?”
“Nah,” Ramsey said, “not this time. I think the king want
s some time alone with you.”
Braden drew back his shoulders, nodded in acknowledgment, and entered the rectory more confidently than he felt. He strolled across the floor, took a seat in a red wing-backed chair with mahogany arm supports and legs, cattycorner to Napolean, and drew in warmth from the nearby blazing fire.
The king was sprawled languidly on a royal blue sofa, his feet propped up and crisscrossed at the ankles on a matching ottoman, and while he definitely looked tired, perhaps a bit depleted, there was a faint red flush beneath his chiseled cheekbones and a fresh, radiant sheen in his long, black-and-silver hair—he had clearly fed recently, and fed very well, more than likely from another powerful vampire.
“My lord,” Braden said, reverting to more formal protocol.
Napolean snorted, and then he smiled. “Perhaps that is how I should address you going forward.” The deep lines around his eyes creased with mirth. “Your Grace?”
Braden chuckled nervously. “Nah…I mean, no. Definitely not. How are you feeling?”
Napolean flicked his wrist in the air. “I’m fine. No worse for the wear. I think the real question is how are you doing? But before we go any further, I want to express my deepest condolences for the loss of your mother. Son, I know the road the two of you have traveled…how long it took you to get to this juncture… I know how deeply Lily loved you, and I know how deeply you loved her.” He shook his head sadly, his dark onyx pupils reflecting the full depths of his sorrow, the silver in his irises reflecting his regret. “So many times throughout the centuries I have questioned the will of the gods: when they intervene, and when they do not. I have wondered at the injustice of the Curse…a child deprived of a parent, a male removed from his destiny. And I have even wondered on many occasions why I lost my own father so early, also by the hand of Prince Jaegar.”
Braden blinked several times.
Oh, my gods—
That was true…
Napolean’s dad had been killed by Prince Jaegar too.
“For what it’s worth, and I know it isn’t much, every loss to the house of Jadon is a wound to my soul, and this particular loss is especially painful because I’ve walked the road you’re walking now, and I know it isn’t easy. But I also take comfort—and hope you will as well—in knowing that when it comes to your life, son, your specific path…your enigmatic journey, nothing has been random, and you have never been alone. The hands of the gods have been on your shoulders since the day you were brought into this world, and we—the house of Jadon—are blessed to have known you. Blessed to have sired you into our ranks. And blessed to have you among our finest warriors—and wizards—going forward. My son, you are beloved by all.”
Braden’s eyes brimmed with tears, and once again, he blinked, only this time to keep the tears at bay. “Thank you,” he whispered softly. “You…all of you…the warriors and the wizards. You’ve always been my truest family. And maybe now, Conrad too.”
Napolean nodded circumspectly. “Yes, Conrad will need you.” He paused and narrowed his gaze. “And, of course, there is Kristina…”
Now this made Braden smile.
“Well?” Napolean nudged.
Braden’s smile grew wider. “I don’t know. Still have to go see her, but I was kind of thinking…hoping…maybe a mating ceremony on my eighteenth birthday? I mean, if you don’t mind.”
Napolean chuckled softly. “Of course I don’t mind. It would be my honor.” He clasped his hands, let them rest over his lower belly, and then swiftly changed the subject. “Where were you, son?” he asked softly. “While Prince Jadon resided in your body?” His brows drew inward in a curious, almost mysterious reflection.
“I was safe. I was well. I was in a plane between worlds, some sort of magical forest with this Tree of Light. I was being taught by Lord Monoceros…made ready.”
Napolean nodded slowly. “Made ready. Well…that you were.” He shook his head in amazement as if replaying a scene in his mind, then shifted his weight on the couch to angle his shoulders more toward Braden. “I will not deny that I’m curious, eager to hear every detail, but I also know that you need your rest—that some of the particulars may be quite private, intimate—and that Fabian should be present when you share…what you will. That said, I do have a couple insistent questions.”
“Go ahead,” Braden urged.
The king grew quiet for the space of several heartbeats before pressing on: “Were you linked to Prince Jadon the entire time?”
“No,” Braden said emphatically. “Not at all. I don’t think I ever felt him, saw him, or even knew he was there, using…inhabiting my body, until right before I returned to the canyons. Lord Monoceros showed me…what had happened to my mother. He showed me just a small snippet of Prince Jadon in your courtyard, challenging Prince Jaegar to a battle…brother against brother, winner take all. He showed me Kristina in Achilles’ lair, and then again, at the very end of the battle in the Red Canyons, I heard Prince Jadon’s voice in my head. He kept telling me to get up and fight.”
Napolean pondered Braden’s words. “I see. Do you hear him now? Feel him now?”
Braden shook his head. “Not that I know of”—he paused to consider the question more methodically, to think it over carefully—“well, I guess in a sense, that isn’t true. I guess it depends on how one defines the word hear. Because in truth, I think he’s always been there, I think I’ve always heard him…felt him, kind of shared the same heartbeat.”
“Indeed.”
They sat in silence, allowing the revelation to linger, as Napolean continued to process all he’d heard, and Braden had the strangest feeling, just an inclination, that maybe the king wasn’t speaking all he knew—maybe he was keeping much deeper, almost clandestine thoughts to himself.
At least for now.
Finally, the king cleared his throat, and his countenance roused. “It is no small thing what happened in that canyon earlier. And not just the battle, the way you defeated Achilles Zahora, but what happened at the end when Prince Jadon anointed you with the sword. Being sired into our house, as opposed to born, you were never given a naming ceremony like firstborn heirs—you were never formally presented directly after birth. If it is agreeable, I would like to perform a formal naming ceremony for you, Braden, now that you have come of age. Now that you have stepped into your purpose.”
Braden drew back in surprise.
“Not this weekend, of course. We all need rest, and there is still the heartbreaking formality of Sunday’s burial, but perhaps when some of this bitter dust settles, we might revisit the subject. This season, we shall grieve. We shall honor the cherished life of a beautiful matron, a soul moving on to the afterworld to begin a new journey of Spirit & Light. But, afterward, at some point, we must also celebrate with a ritual honoring new life, a new beginning, a burgeoning journey on earth. ‘For every time, there is a season,’ and we shall meet each season in time.” His voice trailed off, and he waited quietly.
Braden swallowed any immediate questions or concerns. “Can I think it over?”
“Absolutely.” There was no hesitation.
“Thank you.”
The rectory grew quiet yet again; the orange and yellow flames in the majestic hearth danced and flickered from side to side; and Braden soaked in the warmth, then sat straighter in his chair. “I do have a question for you as well.”
“Go ahead,” Napolean said, his tone both peaceful and reflective.
“It’s about Fabian, something he said…about what he did.”
Napolean raised his brows and waited.
“When he traveled in the body of the hawk, then the raven, carrying the vials that night…when he fed them to me and Achilles: ‘Drink this blood and welcome life. Drink this blood and welcome death.’ Did Fabian know all along? Did he know that I would ultimately survive, and Achilles would ultimately die?”
Napolean appeared to be thinking it over.
He uncrossed his legs at the ankles, switched the dominant fo
ot, then crossed them again, shifting once more on the sofa. “Well, you will have to pose that question directly to him, but I think the reality is more cryptic…the words were more symbolic. Hatred is a death of sorts, a decaying of the soul, a rotting in the spirit, whereas love and light are life-giving, life-affirming…life-enhancing. The ultimate consequence of darkness can never be life, and the ultimate reward of love can never be…true death. I think somewhere deep in Fabian’s psyche, despite his confusion and disorientation, he knew the blood in the vials could only be imbibed by a homogenous soul: a soul desirous of embracing light, knowing, and becoming true love, and a soul so lost to depravity that it would welcome ultimate corruption. Perhaps the High Mage was also a tool of the gods, a sword wielded by the hands of the celestial deities.”
Becoming true love…
The king’s words lingered.
It was uncanny how all these questions—and lessons—dovetailed together.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Braden said, and then he lowered his head in deference, remembering what Ramsey and Brooke had told him. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take you up on that offer to get some rest, and besides, I still need to see Kristina.”
The king nodded with understanding.
He studied Braden’s features for a moment, looked off into the distance, then brought his gaze back to Braden, and when he did, the silver irises surrounding onyx pupils were glowing with three shades of refracted light: white, gold, and green…
Like the magical Tree of Light.
Napolean? Braden thought, zooming in on the enchanted trio of colors.
Then, no way!
Napolean was here…in Dark Moon Vale—he had remained on earth the entire time.
But the lessons, the sparring, the enchanted badges—maybe Napolean and Fabian, together? Or Napolean, with the aid of the princesses and the original, celestial magick…
He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind.
He really needed some sleep.
Napolean’s nose twitched and his eyes twinkled; then he flashed a warm, loving, fatherly smile. “Pay attention. Learn. And remember, my son—always remember and choose going forward—knowing you are deeply and eternally loved.”
