by S. K. Ryder
He hesitated, but complied, though his gaze remained downcast until he stood directly before Dominic and bared his throat.
The Lord of Night embraced him, pierced the vein, and marveled at the tale he found unfolding in the five-hundred-year-old mind. When he cut his palm and offered his own blood, Dominic smiled. “Welcome, Leonidas.”
Chapter 38
Ghosts
Standing in the predawn quiet of the forest, Dominic turned his face to the sky and listened to the cool wind sweep through the trees. The dark web pulsed all around him, a living thing unfurling from his heart as never before. Never before had he been surrounded by so many who were aligned with it. So many minds bound to him. He felt rooted at its center, its source and its master, protected and protector, inevitable and right.
Only one small flicker of discord remained, and only Dominic still heard it.
“It is not too late, Adilla,” he said without looking at the inert body at his feet, one of dozens lined up in neat rows across the clearing. “You can still know the peace you see in the hearts of your young ones now. You can still live.”
Throughout the night, Adilla’s body had regenerated a little of the blood it had lost. While he couldn’t do more than twitch his fingers, his mind was stronger, aware of everything—and burning ever-brighter with resentment and hate. He wanted no part of any world that did not contain him at its center. He understood no other way of being and never would.
Dominic waited until the sun roared in his ears, but Adilla didn’t waver. Nor did he spend a moment fearing the sun’s fire, which, old as he was, would be no small thing. Still, Dominic granted him a final mercy when he unsheathed one of his swords and silenced the bitter rage with a single blow.
While Jackson and Garrett kept an eye on the makeshift graveyard and scattered the ashes after the sun processed the remains, Dominic accepted an invitation to spend the day in the underground palace. There, sheltered from the sun’s direct influence, most of the blood-drinkers stayed conscious for several hours past sunrise and spent that time swarming around him.
A few remained subdued, grieving for friends lost during the battle, but most were openly curious. Many practically buzzed with excitement. When he settled in an ordinary sofa rather than on the throne, they pulled other seats close until they surrounded him. They shared their tales of woe and spoke of their plans now that their lives were their own—in some cases for the first time ever. They crawled out of the shells in which they had cowered. They showered their new lord with gratitude and love.
Dominic basked in every moment of it, feeding on their emotions and letting them vibrate back out into the web. At any moment, he was sure, he would pass out with the sheer, drunken euphoria of it all.
Eventually he did pass out because eventually the sun’s power reached even here. But he was the last to lose consciousness, long after the others had fallen one by one into their oblivion, leaving him with the silence and his thoughts and the unnerving sense of unthinkable quantities of rock suspended above him. Adilla had found this comforting and thought of the mountain as a shield of sorts against the larger world he would never be able to subdue. Dominic found the sensation claustrophobic.
He distracted himself with thoughts of Cassidy. Earlier he had connected his phone to the colony’s Wi-Fi and started a video chat with her. He only wanted to see her and make sure she was safe, but soon he had a steady stream of blood-drinkers hanging over his shoulder, introducing themselves to their queen. She welcomed them with a confident grace and humor that made his chest swell with pride and his heart overflow with love. Before another night passed, he would share his soul with her again, hold her in his arms again, love her again. The anticipation brought on a whole different kind of euphoria.
Night had barely settled with the cool damp left by a rainy day when Dominic and his hundred-plus new followers emerged from the depths. They all carried bags of personal belongings, and most soon vanished into the darkness with varying degrees of excitement and anxiety. None intended to return here. The villagers had already been compelled to consider the cavern and its mine empty and devoid of all interest. He made sure that in the days and weeks to come, they would seal the place up, erasing it from existence.
Six of the new converts, four men and two women, joined Dominic’s original group in the RV and made themselves as comfortable as was reasonable given the cramped conditions. As the miles passed, the vehicle filled with lively discussions about centuries of art and politics and history, both personal and global. Mostly they spoke in English but references from several other languages peppered the conversations. New experiences were shared, old ones recalled. Connections were made, friendships formed and renewed.
While Jackson manned the wheel, Garrett joined in the conversation, adding the ‘modern human’ perspective whenever he thought appropriate, which was often. His broken bones had mended thanks to more blood, and his spirits soared. A pseudo-mania shone in his eyes. The defiant, burning life of one racing toward death.
Of their six guests, one man had joined them solely because of Lyle, whom he said reminded him of his own long-dead brother. Looking close to the same age, but separated by many decades of time, the two huddled in the back of the RV, quietly plotting their new life.
Four of the others were two couples who asked to travel with Dominic to Florida. From there, they planned to continue to their native South America where they would operate as official emissaries of the Lord of Night.
And then there was Leonidas.
The quiet blood-drinker had attached himself to Jackson the moment he discovered his prominent role in the Striker family history. He sat in the copilot seat and shared what he knew of his long-ago friend Lars, the Striker ancestor whose murder had created the Striker’s sworn mission to annihilate the vampire species.
“We almost succeeded, too,” Jackson said. “If it hadn’t been for Dominic taking over and convincing us to give his way a try.”
Leonidas exchanged a long look with Dominic before speaking again. “In all that time, how many did you kill, Jackson?”
Shrug. “We’re good at what we do.” His hands tightened around the wheel. “Very good.”
“I see.” Leonidas became a little paler. “Will you believe me when I say that I was not responsible for Lars’s death?”
Jackson continued to stare at the road. “It was Adilla, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Leonidas said, the raucous background conversations almost drowning him out. “It was when I learned that in Adilla’s world, there is . . . was only room for Adilla.”
Jackson’s mouth twisted with irony. “And all these centuries later that one kill came back to end him. Karma’s a bitch, isn’t she?”
A slow smile spread across Leonidas’s handsome face as he regarded his friend’s descendant. “Yes. She certainly is.”
Oui, elle l’est, Dominic agreed as he sifted through what he recalled of Adilla’s memories. The jealous rages that had destroyed so many had come full circle over half a millennium of time and ultimately destroyed Adilla himself.
The equivalent of a polite knock on his mental door made Dominic look up and meet Isao’s solemn gaze. Have you decided about Garrett Striker, my lord?
Dominic glanced at the man who was engrossed in a rousing exchange about medieval weapons technology with one of their guests who had firsthand experience of same. Only last month, this scene would have been unthinkable. Garrett would not have set foot among this company without a solid plan to kill them all. No such thoughts crossed his mind now. In fact, he looked as close to enjoying himself as Dominic had ever seen him.
And yet . . . their history . . .
Would make an intimate bond uncomfortable? Isao ventured.
Dominic looked back to Isao. There is only one I ever hope to make. Garrett is not that one.
T
hen with your permission, I would like to be the one to sire him. When Dominic just stared at him, the samurai slowly drummed the fingers of one hand on the table and continued. Normally, I wouldn’t consider such a step for a mortal I have known so briefly, but Garrett is running out of time.
Dominic wondered if Garrett had stooped to begging every blood-drinker he met to turn him, but he saw in his thoughts and in Isao’s that this was not the case. Garrett did not know what Isao contemplated. In my memories of him, you have seen what he is capable of. Why do you want to turn someone like that?
Because I have also seen what drives him, my lord. And I have worked with him these past few nights. He is a soul shaped of true suffering, and possessed of a will to live that has caused him to transcend even himself. With a glance at Makoto, seated beside him, he added, We have discussed this, Makoto, Douglas, and I, and we all agree on admitting him to our family.
Dominic rubbed his chin, feeling the barest trace of a beard there. Will you all serve me then as he does now? As my personal guard?
On my honor, my lord. Eternally.
Then if he will have you, you are welcome to him.
Isao inclined his head in acknowledgment. Not much chance of Garrett not accepting such a powerful and sympathetic warrior soul mate for his sire. Amazing how he hadn’t seen their similarities earlier.
At a fuel stop after the RV had lumbered its way out of the mountains, Dominic relieved Jackson at the wheel. He needed to separate himself from the hubbub brewing in the camper and think about what lay ahead in the shining city rising out of the flat Alberta prairie at the horizon. Think about another conversation he would have to have this night, one he hoped wouldn’t end the way he already knew it would. He knew his mother too well.
The closer they came to Calgary, the stronger grew his connection to Cassidy. His vague awareness of her blossomed into a warm hum that became distinct thoughts. Genevie isn’t with you, is she?
He glanced at the canvas shopping bag on the floorboard by Leonidas’s feet. Wrapped inside was a large, beat-up tin Jackson had found in the village. Inside that was all that remained of Genevie Guérin.
Oh, no.
There was nothing I knew to do at the time to save her. And . . . that is as it should be. Strange how Serge’s infuriatingly frequent words to that effect had lost their power to irritate. She would have hated living in this world.
Francesca . . .
I will tell her, chérie. We are almost there.
After their harrowing escape of the night before, Cassidy and Francesca had changed hotels yet again just in case a rogue element still operated in the city. Dominic pulled the RV into the most remote corner of the Comfort Inn lot and shut off the engine. While the blood-drinkers spread out, exploring the pleasures of hunting for love instead of terror, Jackson busied himself with cleaning and prepping the vehicle for return to its owner in the morning.
It was Garrett who accompanied Dominic and the canvas bag to the second floor room where Cassidy and Francesca waited.
Cassidy felt him coming and was out the door and in his arms before he could knock. Dominic crushed her against his body, his one free hand moving up her back and around her shoulders. He buried his face in her hair, closed his eyes, and inhaled her sweet, beloved warmth.
The moment of peace only lasted until Francesca spoke. “Genevie? Où est-elle?”
No greeting to her son. No relief that he survived what she knew was a dangerous struggle. Only where is she? Where is the daughter he promised to return to her?
“Let’s sit down,” Garrett suggested, ushering her deeper into the room.
The worry on Francesca’s face became wary as Cassidy sat next to her on one of the two queen beds and took Francesca’s hand into hers.
Dominic placed the canvas bag on the desk before them and watched his mother’s face for a long moment. A mottled bruise bloomed on her left cheek, and a small bandage was partially hidden under the wave of silver sweeping from her widow’s peak. Slowly, understanding dawned. Then her expression hardened with defiance worthy of a warrior. So be it, he thought and said, “I miscalculated, Maman. I did not realize how powerful and determined my foes truly were.”
Francesca swallowed. Her eyes glistened.
Pulling up a chair, Dominic sat and leaned forward, doing everything he could to look as ‘normal’ as possible without using his supernatural gifts. He had even changed out of his leathers into a pair of Jackson’s jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of running shoes. His hair hung in loose waves from which he had brushed most of the blood. “They had claimed Genevie as one of their own before I found her.” He looked to the bag. “She did not survive the battle. I brought back what remains.”
Francesca’s throat bobbed again, her attention locking onto the now-sinister bag. “You . . . you . . . murdered her?”
“Non. Of course not. I retrieved her and tried to keep her safe. But when her sire was killed, all his spawn died with him, including her.”
“You murdered my daughter,” she whispered.
“No, he didn’t,” Cassidy said and put an arm around Francesca. “Of course, he didn’t. He was tricked into believing someone else was her sire.”
“He tried to help her,” Garrett, standing beside Francesca, added, his tone consoling. “He was the only one who could have helped her.”
“And yet . . . you allowed her to die.” The tears broke free. She looked down at her clasped hands where the knuckles turned white. “You allowed her to die.”
“Maman, I—”
Her shoulders stiffened, which was all the warning he got. Then her eyes held him pinned. They glittered with far more than grief, and her voice shook with it. “You are their so-called leader. You knew what would happen, and yet you allowed it to happen anyway. You allowed my last living child to be murdered.”
A dozen defenses rushed to his tongue. He uttered none of them. Nothing he could say would sound like anything other than a meaningless excuse.
Francesca’s face distorted into something beyond misery. Something that made his heart hitch in his chest. This wasn’t just a grief-stricken mother lashing out. No, this was an impenetrable wall rising up against him. A wall she had begun building the moment she learned the truth about him. Though he had watched her construct it, he had refused to see it. Not until now, when the last brick slid into place. He was her son, and she would forever love the memory of him.
But she could never love what he had become.
And as of this moment, there was nothing more that would ever bind them.
Heartache filled Cassidy as she witnessed this revelation in his thoughts. Her unacknowledged embrace of Francesca loosened, preparing to be shrugged off the way Francesca was shrugging off her son.
It was contempt he saw in his mother’s face, hateful and raw. “You . . . you abomination.”
Dominic didn’t flinch. The words felt like the ghosts of a sad, half-forgotten reality.
Cassidy recoiled. “Francesca, you don’t know—”
“I know all I need to know,” she snapped. With small, angry movements she swiped at her eyes. “I have seen all I need to see. And I have reasoned out everything you did not tell me.”
Garrett reached for her shoulder. “Francesca, don’t.”
She slapped his hand away and stood. “How was it exactly that my husband died, Dominic? Your father? The love of my life?”
He closed his eyes. Hung his head.
“And Anastasie? My sweet, innocent baby?”
Dominic said not a word. He let it happen and pass around him and over him and through him like so many more ghosts. They joined the other shades still haunting the murky corners of his soul—the sun, a human life, a family of his own.
“They were both found decapitated and not a drop of blood
in them. It was not just your kind that did this, was it?” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “It was you.”
The ghosts shrieked in his skull, but no one spoke. Or moved.
Francesca threw a shuddering breath. “So you know this, Cassidy? Garrett?”
Silence.
“You know this. And still you are with him? What kind of monsters are you?”
“Well, I almost killed him once,” Garrett offered.
“Almost? Only almost?”
“Dominic didn’t know what he was doing,” Cassidy tried. “He has been plagued with guilt ever since. I had to stop him killing himself over it several times.”
This seemed to give her pause. Her tone softened but not her venom. “I was happier believing my son was dead. I was happier not knowing all of this. He might as well kill me, too, and finish destroying our family.”
Dominic finally raised his head. “You are right, Maman.” She flinched a little, apparently not as eager to die as she claimed. “It is all my fault,” he clarified with a derisive smile. “I was a fool to rescue Ana from her attackers the way I did, drawing the attention of the immortal who stole my life from me and for a while even my sanity. Everything I have done since and will ever do again springs from that one moment, in which I made—what?—the wrong decision?” he finished on a soft, mocking note.
She stared at him. Her lower lip trembled.
“I did not think so.” He stood and stepped closer. She shrank back. “Do not for a moment think that I have suffered no regrets over what I have done. The guilt you try to heap on me is inconsequential compared to the guilt I have already lived with and already resolved. I will take the blame, if you will, but I will not apologize for what I cannot control. I will not apologize for cruel and random fate.”
