Blood Vengeance

by Tessa Dawn

  Bring it on.

  All he could see was red.

  That, and the vile soulless witch who had just snapped Tiffany’s neck.

  He snatched Tawni by the throat, yanked her off the ground, and glared into her eyes, burning the sight out of her retinas with a crimson beam of rage. “What have you done!” he roared, shaking her like a rag doll. He closed his fist around her larynx, crushed it like a walnut, and then continued to squeeze until her sightless eyes popped out of her head and hung along her cheeks by the optical nerves. He ripped her heart from her body, even as it slumped to the ground, and then he spun around and shoved the organ, along with his trembling fist, right into Salvatore’s mouth.

  Salvatore choked on the unforeseen offering, spitting out the pieces in a rage. He flew backward, out of Ramsey’s reach, and channeled a mystical fire. But before he could hurl the black conflagration at his enemy, Ramsey unearthed the trident, dove forward at the Dark One, and plunged all three stakes in the vampire’s chest. He twisted the metal to the right, and then to the left, thrusting it deeper and deeper, until the hooked ends grasped at the heart; and then he withdrew it in an instant.

  Salvatore was not a fledgling sorcerer, and he must have felt the inevitability of his demise, because he channeled all his magic into dematerializing and scattered his molecules to the wind.

  The errant building-blocks of life coalesced around the trident’s forks and then settled ominously in the air like a fog, swirling in luminous circles.

  Ramsey shouted in outrage.

  The bastard could not get away!

  He dropped the trident, now a useless piece of steel, and dissolved his own precious molecules, hurling them into the midst of the sorcerer’s sphere. He heard Nachari Silivasi’s voice in the background, and he instinctively knew that the powerful wizard was weaving a spell of his own—Nachari was keeping Salvatore earthbound, anchoring his molecules to the park, refusing to let him flee to the colony, to live and fight another day.

  Ramsey felt like an egg in a blender as his wits were ruthlessly whipped about. Never before had he dissolved without a clear focus, a predetermined point of re-emergence, or a specific locale for rematerializing already fixed in his mind. To simply come apart and spin was more than disorienting. It was chilling.

  Ramsey let go of his body and his consciousness, each one in turn, and focused his attention, instead, on the celestial heartbeat all around him. He became one with the elements, merged with his distant celestial ancestors, and felt for his orientation: For the purpose of alignment, the gravitational pull beneath him was south, and the expansiveness above him was north. There was a vibration from the west, coming at 426 pulses per second, which had to be sound, and this told him where the other warriors stood. The corresponding silence was east—Salvatore had to be there.

  Ramsey felt his own being like a ray of light, an internal velocity traveling at 186,282 miles per second, and then he felt for the vacuum, the inherent darkness, the slower, inky vibration that would identify Salvatore’s soul.

  It was all around him, swirling about him, moving in and out of the air like a ghost.

  Ramsey exploded outward. He attached his faster molecules to their slower counterparts; he formed numerous chemical bonds with his enemy; and then he fixed his point of transportation to the west and fought to rematerialize amongst the warriors, praying that Salvatore would come with him.

  The sentinel and the Dark One appeared as one, both shimmering into view before the house of Jadon’s finest. At first, there were gasps and growls and uneasy snarls as the warriors stepped away from the apparition, unsure which being was which, but then Nachari Silivasi laughed out loud, a wicked scoff of triumph, and all the warriors knew…

  The wizard reached into the fresh amalgamation, wrenched his arms around Ramsey’s waist, and pulled backward. And just like that, the two beings stood in their natural, visible forms.

  Salvatore opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to decry his rage at being bested by a brutish warrior in matters of arcane magic, but he never had the chance to make a sound. Santos Olaru ripped out his heart so quickly that it took a moment before he felt it leave his body. His cruel mouth flew open in surprise, even as Saxson beheaded him with a medieval axe and tossed the skull to Julien Lacusta. The savage tracker retrieved Ramsey’s trident and skewered both appendages to the ground, the head on top of the heart, and Marquis Silivasi stepped forward and tore what remained of the Dark One limb from limb, tossing the pieces into the macabre pile.

  For the space of one or two seconds, the park was deathly silent, and then Ramsey turned around and knelt on the ground.

  He crawled several paces toward Tiffany and gently lifted her head.

  Her neck was broken; her eyes were vacant; and her beautiful mouth was silent.

  He blinked several times, trying to process what was happening, trying to comprehend… “Kagen,” he croaked in a raspy drone, “healer? What can be done?”

  Kagen and his mate, Arielle, pushed their way through the crowd of stunned vampire observers and dropped to Tiffany’s side. Kagen placed his hand over Tiffany’s heart, and then two fingers against her throat, and then he sat back and sighed. “Ramsey, is she still… ”

  He didn’t have to say human.

  Ramsey simply nodded, waiting to hear what he already knew.

  The air left Kagen’s body as he folded his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

  Ramsey shook his head. “No,” he barked, his voice growing harsh with anger. “No!”

  Kagen tried to place his hand on the warrior’s shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, but Ramsey jerked it away—and Kagen took no offense. How could he? The situation was beyond an epic disaster or a Greek tragedy: It was an utterly heartbreaking catastrophe. Tiffany was gone, and Ramsey was a dead man walking. What in the world could the healer say?

  Kagen cleared his throat, three times, staring at Ramsey’s hands. “Uh, we… ” He shut his eyes, and his voice came out in a hollow rasp. “Let’s heal your broken arm”—he gestured toward the shattered limb— “and then, maybe… and then maybe we can sort this out.”

  Ramsey cocked his head to the side and glared at Kagen with a vacant stare. “Sort this out?” he parroted. “Sort this out?” He glanced at the beautiful blonde before him, scooped her up by the waist, and held her tightly against his chest. “My destiny is dead. What is there to sort out?”

  Just then, Brooke Mondragon shoved her way through the crowd and flung herself at Ramsey’s feet. “What are you saying?” Her frantic eyes shot back and forth between Kagen and Ramsey before settling on her lifeless best friend. “Ramsey?” Her voice raised an octave in terror. “Ramsey?” She spun around and grabbed Kagen by the shoulders, heedless of her own bleeding arm. “Do something! Why are you just sitting there?”

  Kagen Silivasi grasped her by the wrists and tried to command her gaze. “Milady… ” He swallowed a lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. “My queen, there is nothing I—”

  “No!” Brooke shouted. She bounded to her feet and frantically searched the crowd. “Napolean! Napolean!”

  The king immediately materialized at Brooke’s side, the little prince asleep in his arms by obvious compulsion. The king’s face was a barely concealed mask of horror as he surveyed the scene and his mate’s battered arm.

  “Do something,” she implored him.

  Napolean looked at Kagen, and the healer shook his head.

  “Arielle,” Napolean whispered, making fleeting eye contact with Kagen’s mate.

  The beautiful female stood up quietly, removed the sleeping babe from Napolean’s arms, and swiftly strolled away.

  The king turned to face his mate. “Brooke.” He reached down to assess her damaged limb, and she slapped his hand away with a fury.

  “No! Don’t touch me!” She knelt over Tiffany’s body, grasped her by the shoulders, and gently pried her from Ramsey’s arms. “Tiff… Tiffany… ” She lowered Tiffany’s head onto R
amsey’s lap like a fragile piece of china. “Hey, you; wake up. We need to go home now. Phoenix needs someone to give him his bath, and I… and I have so much to tell you.” She laughed nervously, as if Tiffany had just responded, her voice rising in anguish. “Napolean and I made a major decision.” She leaned in closer to whisper in her best friend’s ear. “We’re going to have two more children. I know it seems fast, but… what can I say? Gotta protect the throne. Phoenix is too much of a target on his own.” Her voice trailed off, and she began to tremble uncontrollably. It was almost as if the part of her that was anchored in denial was warring with the part of her that knew. And then, all at once, she became enormously agitated. She rocked back and forth and moaned. “We can do it together. Go through it together.” She grasped Tiffany’s hand and squeezed. “Did you hear me?”

  Napolean visibly cringed. He knelt behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and leaned closer to her ear. “Sweetheart, I need you to let go now. She’s gone.”

  “No-no-no,” she argued, speaking in rapid fire. “She’s just sleeping. She’s just taking a nap. She’s not gone.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, and the cry that escaped her throat was as guttural as it was raw, the piteous echo enveloping the valley. And then, just like that, she quit wailing, glared at Ramsey beneath tear-stained lashes, and groaned: “What have you done?” Her voice grew hoarse with accusation. “We trusted you. We placed her in your care. What have you done!”

  Ramsey rocked back on his heels.

  He laid his destiny on the ground and slowly backed away, still lumbering along the grass. The earth was spinning around him, and there were so many people—vampires—staring. He gazed up at the sky. The air was growing thick with clouds, enigmatically dense, and the ground was beginning to shake beneath him, as if any moment now, it might just split open.

  The rain began to fall, and at first, he thought it might be his own emotion triggering it. He was struggling to make sense of Brooke’s question, to compartmentalize the approaching, threatening wave of guilt before it grew too powerful and destroyed them all, but then he realized that, no; it was his brothers. They were literally teeming with pain. Santos and Saxson were standing behind him like two crumbling statues, like they didn’t know where to go or what to do next. Their mouths were hanging open; their massive shoulders were quaking; and their faces—great celestial gods, their expressions—they were horrible masks of grief.

  They knew that Ramsey was dead as well.

  That in twenty-seven days, when the Curse came calling, there would be no sacrifice of atonement, that the Blood would have its vengeance.

  Ramsey closed his eyes.

  It was all too much to take in.

  He needed to get away, but he didn’t want to leave Tiffany behind, just lying on the ground. He had already failed her miserably. In fact, Brooke was right: He had failed at the only task he’d ever been given that truly mattered.

  He had failed to keep his destiny safe.

  And Tiffany, with all her quick, polished wit and her keen, superior mind…

  He drew her closer to his heart and held her.

  She would never argue with him again. She would never cringe at one of his comments or stare at him with those eyes. She would never grow to love him, and he would never have a chance to love her in return. He had let Salvatore Nistor destroy her, however indirectly, and for that, there could be no forgiveness. He thumbed the hilt of his ancient dagger—it was no longer sheathed but, oddly, nestled in his broken left hand—and he groaned. He opened his mouth to respond to his queen, but there was nothing he could say.

  And then, in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of Saber Alexiares slowly ambling forward, and something inside of him snapped.

  *

  “You son of a bitch!” Ramsey Olaru leapt to his feet in one smooth but furious motion and lunged at the unsuspecting vampire, signaling his rage with a roar.

  Saber jerked back and snarled. “What the hell?”

  The clouds opened up. The sky exploded with thunder and lightning, and the relentless rain turned to hail as Ramsey snatched the incredulous vampire by the collar and clipped him across the jaw with a powerful right hook.

  The bone in Saber’s jaw snapped audibly, and the male stumbled to the side. He caught his balance, drew back his fist, and lunged forward at Ramsey, like he was about to knock his block off; and then, in the midst of the mayhem and anger, he took one good look at the warrior and blanched.

  Saber caught his punch in mid-swing and pulled it back, hissing in both revulsion and surprise.

  Ramsey went after him again.

  This time, he dove for Saber’s throat, but Julien Lacusta moved twice as fast. The hard-nosed tracker jumped between the vampires, wrapped both arms around Ramsey’s chest, and abruptly pulled him back. “Stop, brother! Oh gods; you’ve gotta stop.”

  Ignoring the tracker’s cryptic words, Ramsey kept trying to charge at Saber, hoping to break the tracker’s hold. He was too far gone to let it go. “I was going to call you for backup, you miserable son of a bitch!” He slammed the back of his head into Julien’s chin, but the hard-as-nails tracker didn’t even budge. “I was going to ask you to tag along, but I didn’t.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he spat the words again. “But I didn’t!”

  Saber shook his head in disgust and alarm. “Well, why the hell not?”

  “Because of this!” Ramsey shouted. He brought his right arm up, shoved it in Saber’s face, and splayed his fingers wide to emphasize the intricate ring wrapped around his fourth finger. And then he shook it like a fist.

  Saber took an anguished step back, his face growing pale with mounting awareness. “The crest ring,” he murmured, referring to the sacred emblem of the house of Jadon.

  “Yeah,” Ramsey mumbled, “the crest ring.” Still wielding his dagger in his broken left hand, he somehow managed to slide the ring off his finger and toss it at Saber’s chest. The heavy disk bounced off the stiff leather jacket and burrowed into the grass, settling with a plop. “Keep it,” Ramsey snarled. “Maybe two will be your lucky number. Besides”—he glanced at Tiffany’s body; oh dear gods, she was getting drenched—“I don’t need it anymore.”

  Saber gasped and staggered to the side as if Ramsey had physically struck him. He glanced down at the discarded ring and fought to regain his composure.

  And that’s when Napolean stepped in. “We are not going to do this,” the king said, sternly. “Not here. Not now.” His own voice was ragged with emotion. He looked up at the skies and assessed the lightning. The storm was growing worse. “Marquis,”—he turned to the Ancient Master Warrior standing off to the side, and nodded—“drive your queen back to the mansion and heal her arm. Her car is parked on the street.” He searched for Kagen’s mate and softened his tone, albeit only slightly. “Arielle, take Phoenix and go with them. Carlotta is there if you need her.” He appraised the healer next. “Kagen, be gentle with Tiffany—bring her to the Ceremonial Hall. We will prepare her body there.” He immediately held up a hand to halt any objections or comments. “And tracker, sentinels”—he eyed Julien, Santos, and Saxson as one—“you need to return to my parlor. This is not the time or the place. Where is Nathaniel Silivasi?” The ancient vampire stepped forward, and Napolean gestured toward Salvatore’s remains. “Clean up this mess. Get it out of here. I don’t care what you do with it.” He spun on his booted heels to seek out the Master Wizard next, his eyes beginning to glow. “Nachari, you need to scan the area, make sure there are no human witnesses—take care of anything you find. And Saber?”

  The still-stricken vampire folded his arms in front of his chest. “What?” His voice was as distant as it was angry, and by the look on his face, he had half a mind to simply turn and walk away. He was pissed, and he was hurt. But those weren’t his dominant emotions. For all intents and purposes, the vampire looked ashamed.

  “Son.” Napolean spoke in a much gentler tone, clearly aware of the difficult history—Saber Alexi
ares had only recently been returned to the house of Jadon after living for centuries with the sons of Jaegar. He had been kidnapped as a baby. “You stay here with Nathaniel. Keep an eye out for any Dark Ones who might still show up.” He raised his eyebrows, and his pointed expression spoke volumes: This is your house. You are one of us. And I am trusting you to stand against our common enemy.

  Saber inclined his head. He cast a sideways glance at Ramsey, and the warrior’s heart constricted.

  Damn.

  That shit had been wrong.

  What he had said to the former Dark One.

  But it was too late to fix it now.

  Ramsey nodded once. It was the best that he could do. And then he watched like a helpless child, rather than a full-grown male, as Kagen Silivasi gently lifted Tiffany—Ramsey’s destiny—into his strong, protective arms and headed for his Rubicon.

  Ramsey felt like the very air around him might ignite into flames.

  “Ramsey!” Napolean barked his name as if he had already called it ten times.

  Ramsey looked at the king and frowned. “I’m right here,” he mumbled. And then for reasons he couldn’t explain, he added, “It’s all good.”

  Napolean reached out slowly, gently, with a tentative but steady hand. “Give me the knife, warrior.”

  Ramsey furrowed his brow and slowly looked down. He was still grasping the hilt of his dagger in his broken left hand, yet all five inches of the blade were imbedded in his thigh. He must have accidentally stuck himself at some point, although he couldn’t remember when. He grunted beneath his breath as he took a closer look.

  Son of a bitch.

  When had that happened?

  His entire front torso looked like someone had played a morbid game of tic-tac-toe on his flesh. There were crisscrossed lines through the front of his arms; deep, ugly gashes up and down his thighs; and wicked, circular gouges carved into his chest, all like a series of x’s and o’s. Yet, he couldn’t feel a thing.

  Why hadn’t he felt any pain?

  He was supposed to feel the pain!