by Tessa Dawn
As the Master Warrior deflected the flame with his hands, sending it back in Saber’s direction, the Dark One flew into the air in a calculated backflip, missed the arc of the flame, and landed on his feet behind Marquis. His hand shot out in a targeted effort to puncture Marquis’s chest from behind and grasp at his heart, but Marquis moved too quickly. He spun to the left, threw a lightning-quick punch with the spiked cestus, and landed it squarely against Saber’s jaw before the enemy could move out of the way. Saber’s jaw cracked audibly as he launched backward as a result of the punch. He shook his head furiously to diffuse the blow, and immediately flew back into the fray. Nathaniel met his approach with a sustained spray of silver-tipped bullets, emptying the clip in his AK-47.
Saber deflected each bullet with the ease of a camper swatting away a swarm of flies before they could land and do any damage. Nathaniel tossed the gun aside, launched into the air, and leapt on the Dark One’s back, wrenching his neck in an unnatural position even as Marquis plunged a hidden dagger into the center of Saber’s gut and began to twist the blade. Saber struck back with a fury, connecting a high, balanced kick with the Master Warrior’s jaw and following it with an immediate strike to the groin. One, two, three lightning-quick strikes followed, all connecting with Marquis’s manhood. As Marquis doubled over in pain, Saber grasped both of Nathaniel’s hands by the small pinky fingers on the end, rotated his wrists outward to break both digits at the carpal ligaments, and freed himself from the choke hold. He immediately flipped Nathaniel over his shoulder, slammed his body hard into the ground, and pinned him down beneath iron, contracting thighs.
Nathaniel’s eyes became two focused beams of light—red, lethal lasers boring a deep, horizontal incision into the Dark One’s forehead, cauterizing toward his brain, but incredibly, Saber ignored the pain. Blood dripping into his eyes, he plunged a set of deadly claws into Nathaniel’s chest, breaking several ribs upon entry, and tunneled toward the heart. Nathaniel grasped Saber’s arm with both fists and wrenched in opposite directions, snapping the bone in half like a mere twig.
Saber grunted in pain as he withdrew his arm.
His hand hung limp at the end of his wrist, but he didn’t stop fighting. Lunging forward, he dove at Nathaniel’s jugular. As horrible fangs sank deep, he snarled in a crazed effort to tear Nathaniel’s throat out.
Nathaniel’s left fist slammed against the back of Saber’s head, over and over in quick succession, like a jackhammer, even as he fought to gouge at the Dark One’s eyes with his free thumb. While the two vampires struggled for advantage, Marquis crawled to a nearby mountain pine, ripped the tree out by the roots, and sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain in his groin. In the space of an instant, he brought it behind his shoulders like a baseball bat and swung. The resounding whack was deafening, stunning the Dark One stupid for a moment before he collapsed on Nathaniel’s chest.
Slithering out from under his heavy body, Nathaniel crouched low on his feet and watched as the Dark One who had tried to kill Kristina and Deanna slowly slumped to the ground, landing on his side. Marquis kicked him over onto his back and squatted down beside Nathaniel. The dagger Marquis had stabbed Saber with was still protruding out of his stomach, and Marquis took the blade by the hilt and removed it. Reaching into his waistband, he tossed another matching dagger to Nathaniel and nodded. “You take the head, while I remove the heart.”
Nathaniel removed the blade from the scabbard, the corner of his mouth turning up in a wide grin of anticipation. “My pleasure.”
As the two warriors began to wield the sharpened blades in unison, the sky grew at once overcast, and a faint but discernible wind swept through the air. As Deanna looked up, she had to blink several times in order to understand what she was seeing.
Descending from the sky like a warring angel from heaven was a powerful, stately male with burnished skin, chiseled features, both handsome and fearsome at the same time, and long silver-and-black hair, which whipped about his face like a medieval halo.
“Wait.”
One word.
The male spoke one word, and both Marquis and Nathaniel released their blades, bent to one knee, and bowed their heads.
Who was this guy?
The male strolled forward with the authority of one who owned the entire world—no, the entire universe—and held out what looked like several diamond-studded collars.
“Milord?” Nathaniel asked, looking at the collars skeptically.
“We will question him before we kill him,” the male said in an imperious voice. He wasn’t asking. He was telling.
Marquis visibly wilted. He was clearly biting back his anger in an effort to show obedience. “Milord, this Dark One attacked our sisters…my first mate. The right of blood vengeance is ours.”
The handsome vampire nodded his head, his eyes strong with compassion yet determined. “Indeed, Marquis,” he responded in an almost lyrical voice, “but it is time that we make an example out of our enemy for all to see.” He handed the diamond-studded bands to Marquis and glared at the vampire on the ground. “Bring him to the Chamber of Torture—The Blood is not the only power around here capable of exacting a pound of flesh. We will get whatever information we desire out of him, and then we will stake him to a post in the Red Canyon on the Sunday after this next and feed him to the sun, so that even those cowards hiding underground in the colony will hear his screams and know his agony.”
Nodding his understanding, Marquis took the bands from the male’s hand and began to affix them around Saber’s throat, ankles, and wrists.
Nathaniel sat back and watched. “This is the male who saved Jocelyn that day in the shed. From the Lycans.” He shook his head in disgust. “I told her he had no soul.”
The vampire nodded and turned to eye his surroundings. “Kristina?” he asked.
A vampire with light, ash-colored hair stood up from his place about fifteen feet away, where he knelt beside the thin redhead’s body. “She’s still unconscious, but she will live,” he said, answering the king.
“And she will be questioned,” the king said.
“And throttled as soon as she gets better,” Marquis grumbled.
The king placed a firm hand on Marquis’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. “Debriefed, Marquis—not throttled. She is young and new to our ways. And no match for the cunning of a Dark One. No doubt, she will feel tremendous shame and remorse.”
He released Marquis’s shoulder and took a step toward Deanna then. Instinctively, Deanna stepped back.
“Greetings, Ms. Dubois-Silivasi. I am Napolean.”
He held out his hand as he approached even closer, and Deanna just stared at it. As ridiculous as it was to consider her appearance at this moment, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious—she was standing before the sovereign leader of the house of Jadon in a torn bikini, with puncture holes in her neck and bloodstains around her mouth; and her knees were literally knocking together.
She swallowed, pushed a clump of matted hair away from her eyes, and wiped her hand against her thigh to remove some dirt. “Hi.” The word came out hoarse, so she tried again. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Napolean held her hand for a second longer than was customary and then gently released it, giving her the distinct impression that he had taken something from her mind. Perhaps her memories…or information about Nachari? “Thank you for your commitment to the Master Wizard, Nachari. What you have done—coming here to Dark Moon Vale of your own accord—took tremendous courage, and we are all praying that the gods will smile upon both of you for your kindness. I am sorry you had to go through such a horrible ordeal tonight.”
Deanna nodded. Or at least she thought she did. The male was simply too intimidating, even for a confident woman like her. Jocelyn had previously mentioned that there was just something about Napolean Mondragon—something that made a person want to take off running in the opposite direction—and now, Deanna understood completely. “You’re welcome,” she managed t
o reply.
With that, Napolean seemed satisfied. Turning to face the sentinels, he said, “Saxson, you and Santos remove the prisoner and take him to the holding cell outside the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement. I want him carefully guarded at all times. Ramsey, take Kristina back to the clinic so Kagen can attend to her, and then gather the warriors in my conference room to discuss a defensive strategy. We must be prepared in the event that the Dark Ones attempt to come after their missing soldier. Marquis”—he turned to face the Ancient Master Warrior—“you and Nathaniel accompany Kristina and Deanna to the clinic and debrief everyone, including Braden, thoroughly. I want to know everything that has happened these last weeks, since the Dark One began impersonating Ramsey. If you must, view each person’s memories firsthand—I want to know exactly what was going on inside of Kristina’s head and why the Dark One chose her as a target. No one’s destiny is to venture out without an escort until I say otherwise. Understood?”
“As you wish, milord,” Nathaniel answered.
Marquis nodded his head. “Trust me; we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
As the vampire with the ash-colored hair, the one called Saxson, joined Ramsey and the other warriors, Deanna couldn’t help but stare at the redheaded girl still lying limp in his arms. She took a long measured look at Kristina and all her many bruises, and winced. Holy cow, she thought. Could we have come any closer to dying tonight?
Suddenly, all of her certainty and conviction—deciding to come to Dark Moon Vale; trusting her instincts to go forward with the conversion; even waiting anxiously, if not somewhat fearfully, for Nachari to return—came into question. And she felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
More lost and confused.
What in the world had she gotten herself into?
And what in the world would happen next?
twenty-three
One Week Later
Deanna shut her eyes and poured all of her concentration into making her voice sound steady…even…unaffected. Kagen was knocking on the door for the third time in the last five minutes, and it was all she could do to hold it together. “I’m all right, Kagen,” she called out, the vise around her heart tightening with every word of the lie. “I’ll be out in a few. I just”—her voice began to quiver—“I just need a minute…alone.” She hoped it was good enough.
Kagen paused for a moment, no doubt trying to find a way to collect his own emotions. “Okay,” he murmured through the thick oak door, “but if you need us, we’re…” His voice trailed off. “You don’t have to be alone right now; that’s all.”
Deanna clutched the thick white bath towel wrapped around her slender body, her typically tan fingers turning blotchy red and white with the effort. “Thanks.” The word came out as a whisper. It was the best she could do.
The moment she heard Kagen’s footsteps recede from the door, she padded toward the shower like a robot, cold and unfeeling, and turned on the spray in an effort to create some white noise: to block out the world. Stepping away from the stall, she let the glass swing shut, and then she pressed her back against an adjacent wall and slowly slid down to the floor.
With her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, she drew in a deep, unsteady breath and began to tremble as the tears finally broke free.
They were out of time.
All of them.
Nachari.
Her.
The Silivasis…
The day had begun like any other, with one exception: The heavy awareness of time had risen with each of Nachari’s loved ones as they awoke from their slumber.
Day twenty-eight.
Fifty-seven hours until the end of the Blood Moon. A nine-hour window for Nachari to return. Even less time than that for Deanna and Nachari to conceive a son in time…
To avoid the ultimate penalty of the Blood Curse.
Deanna had been a nervous wreck all day, waiting on pins and needles for some miraculous event to take place: half expecting to see the Master Wizard levitate from the bed like a true vampire of old, rising from a coffin, and half expecting to see him stroll into the lobby as if nothing had ever happened, wearing that infamous smile so many of his friends and family had told her about. She had battled terrible fear—what if he actually showed up? What if he never did?—and the uncertainty had taken its toll. She had already taken three cold showers, hoping to shock her system into some sort of normalcy, to clear her mind; and she had jumped at every knock on the door, every creak of the building beneath the gusty wind.
What she wanted more than life itself, she feared more than death itself—for Nachari to return in time. And if he did, she would likely run the other way. And if he didn’t…she would never be the same.
She wasn’t even human anymore.
Dearest angels in heaven, what had she done?
As the seconds ticked by, minutes passing as slowly as hours, she battled both terror and relief, guilt and remorse. She soothed herself, forgave herself, and hated herself all at the same time.
Now, staring absently into the shower, she watched as the cold spray hit the mosaic tiles, met in a swirl at the center, and rapidly disappeared down the drain. A part of her wished she could blend her essence with the water and simply wash it all away. Wash herself away.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, hugging her knees to her chest and hiccupping a sob. “Help me.” She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and glanced up at the solar clock for the millionth time: It was six-fifteen PM. The sun would be setting in thirty-seven minutes—and wasn’t that just an appropriate end to a horrifying situation—and Nachari had simply not returned. There had been no miraculous resurrection, no peaceful rise from slumber, no trumpets sounding to herald his return.
Absolutely nothing had happened.
An inappropriate laugh escaped Deanna’s throat, the sound a mixture of nervousness and incredulity: If she wasn’t pregnant in the next forty-five minutes—pregnant in the next forty-five minutes!—Nachari was dead. And his brothers would be—
She slammed her hands over her ears and pressed hard. No. No! She couldn’t think of their devastation, their grief…the funeral. Her body began to slowly rock back and forth as her mind clung to a very thin thread of sanity.
Get up. Get dressed, she told herself. Yes, fix your hair and put on clothes. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t….don’t….don’t…
Anything.
Nachari Silivasi ran both fingers through his thick, wavy hair and paced along the uneven stone floor, his heart pounding in his chest. By all the gods, we are running out of time! Where the hell is Noiro?
His mind was swimming with thoughts—recalculating his every move, questioning his every decision: Had he pushed Noiro hard enough? Had he emphasized the importance of the timing strongly enough? Had Ademordna found out? Was Noiro dead? Was it over?
Deanna.
What was she going through right now?
She had to be half mad with anxiety and dread, fearing his return yet dreading his loss.
Confused!
She had to be in a living hell all her own.
And his brothers—were they providing her comfort or coming unglued themselves?
He threw his head back and shouted his frustration. Tears stung his angry eyes, he grit his teeth, and he slowly exhaled. “Lord Perseus,” he cried, knowing nothing else to do, “for the sake of all that’s holy…for my brothers…for Shelby…for me. Please…I have yet to curse you; I have yet to ask you why; but now I am begging you—get me out of here!”
A key turned in the lock, and Nachari spun around swiftly, half expecting to see the Celestial god himself walk through the door.
When Noiro entered, dressed in a tight black mini dress and heels, her hair shimmering flame red, he felt a moment’s disorientation. And then he quickly recovered. “Do you have them? The remaining talismans?” He closed the distance between them in two long strides.
Noiro smiled as if they had all the time in the wo
rld. At least she had replaced her customary jagged fangs with the illusion of straight white teeth. “So anxious, are we, lover?”
Nachari took a deep breath and nodded, staring down at the ornamental box in her hands. “We are committing treason,” he reminded her.
“For love?” she asked whimsically.
There were only so many lies a being could tell before they no longer sounded believable. “For vengeance…and a child,” he reminded her. “Perhaps love will come in time.”
Noiro rolled her eyes. “You do realize, Wizard, that I may be banned from the underworld for all time—that I am trusting you with my eternal soul?” She frowned then. “Will you ever come to love me?”
For the gods’ sakes, Nachari thought. The witch was a demon. “Taste my answer,” he said convincingly. And with that, he encircled her waist with one strong hand, pulled her tight against him, and covered her mouth with his. He poured all of his longing, desperation, and desire to return home into the kiss, leaving the stunned demoness breathless. When at last he pulled away, she stumbled to regain her balance.
Nachari opened the rectangular box and sighed a deep exhale of relief as he stared down at the small scorpion and spider, both oozing darkness and lethal energy. “From the western and southern kingdoms?” he asked, just to be sure.
Noiro smoothed her dress. “Y…y…y…yes,” she stuttered, “of course.”
“Good.” Nachari immediately spun around and crossed the floor to retrieve the other two talismans—the frog and the snake—and set them carefully on a makeshift stone altar he had constructed beside the bed. Kneeling before the aberration, he laid both hands across the stone, palms up, and began to chant an ancient incantation.
As the frog began to croak, the snake slithered over his wrist and bit him. As the scorpion stung him again and again, the spider pierced his skin and began to burrow beneath the outer layer. Yet Nachari held fast—chanting and praying and visualizing the way home.
Noiro crept up behind him and placed both hands on his shoulders. “I will be right behind you, lover. Do not forget your promise.” Her words were as much a threat as a reminder.
