by Tessa Dawn
Whatever the Blood was going to do to him in twenty-seven days, it wouldn’t be enough, not nearly enough.
It would never, ever be enough.
There was no punishment great enough for what Ramsey Olaru had done to his mate, and by all the gods in the celestial heavens, he wanted to feel more pain!
“Ramsey!” Napolean’s voice rang out like a clashing symbol, and his otherworldly eyes sparked red. “Stop.”
Ramsey took an unwitting step back. The knife was now protruding from his gut. What the hell? And what was that on the ground? He bent over to take a closer look and started counting fingers, missing from his broken left hand.
Napolean winced and shook his head. “That’s not how we’re going to play this, warrior. By all the gods, I swear it: I will put you to sleep if I have to.”
Ramsey cocked his head to the side. He blinked several times and shrugged. “Where’s Tiffany?”
Napolean scrubbed his hand over his face. “Come back to the manse, Ramsey.” He gestured broadly at all of Ramsey’s wounds. “Let me heal this… mess… then come back to the manse. Your brothers need you to be strong.”
Ramsey bit his lip and scowled, still trying to make sense of what he was hearing… and seeing… and feeling.
The sky was a dark, angry mass of swirling clouds; the valley was one tremor away from splitting open in a half-dozen places; and the king of the Vampyr—sacred twins of Gemini—was Napolean Mondragon crying?
“I’m sorry, milord,” Ramsey said softly, biting down on his lower lip.
“I know,” Napolean whispered. He slowly removed the dagger from Ramsey’s flesh and tossed it aside on the ground. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Ramsey whispered. His right leg began to shake uncontrollably, and he couldn’t make it stop. He stared at it blankly and frowned. Nothing around him made sense.
“I know,” the king repeated, yet again, placing a steadying hand on Ramsey’s shoulder.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Ramsey stared off into the distance and focused his attention on a pine tree. He felt like he had just been run over by a freight train, and his heart constricted in his chest. “This shit is all wrong.” His knees buckled out from under him, and he stumbled to the ground, strangely surprised by his sudden weakness. And then he noticed the color of the grass. It was so incredibly green. So silvery and wet. He reached out to touch it, to see how it felt, maybe rake it through his fingers, and then he chuckled morbidly beneath his breath.
Alas, he didn’t have any fingers left.
He threw back his head and moaned, no longer recognizing his own voice. It was much too wretched, primal, and wrong. His chest began to heave beneath the enormous weight of his… sobs? And this disturbed him most of all. His destiny was gone. His body was ruined. His heart was broken, yet he couldn’t feel a thing. He was locked inside a vault. Lost. Disconnected. Splintered in two. He turned to face his king. “Help me, Napolean. Something’s really wrong.”
The king sank down onto his knees. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. He wrapped his arms around the warrior’s chest and bent to murmur in his ear. “The earth can’t sustain this, Ramsey. Neither can you. You’re trying to hold back a dam, but it’s going to break. Give me your hand.”
Ramsey shut his eyes and tried to swallow his confusion. Napolean was right. There was a tsunami of rage, anguish, and guilt just churning beneath the surface, hurtling toward the shoreline of Dark Moon Vale, and ready to wreak havoc on the land. And when it did, there would be no survivors. The gods themselves could not insulate Ramsey from this much pain. There was nothing left to cut; no digits left to chop off; no flesh, yet unmarred, to self-injure; and no way to hold it back. “I can’t let this out, milord. I need you to take it away. Help me, Napolean.”
The king didn’t reply.
He simply raised the warrior’s arm to his mouth and slowly inserted his fangs into the brachial artery. As the razor-sharp incisors sank deep into the vein, he whispered in Ramsey’s mind: Be still, warrior. Just let go.
Like a cool, gentle breeze on a hot summer’s day, an undeserved peace began to sweep through Ramsey’s bloodstream, lulling the warrior into a false sense of security. As he embraced the welcoming darkness, his heavy lids began to close, and the turmoil began to fade. The pain, the tsunami—the nightmare—simply fell away beneath a king’s compulsion.
A king’s deceptive illusion.
All became silent.
All became still.
And then Ramsey Olaru heard the sweetest word of all: Sleep.
And he did.
seventeen
Salvatore Nistor came awake with a shout, his lungs burning as if they were on fire. His entire body felt like it had been pulverized in a food-processor, and something was terribly wrong.
He had no sense of his corporeal form in time and space.
He felt lost and disoriented, strangely out of place.
And there was a cavernous emptiness in his chest where his heart had once been.
He blinked several times, trying to open his eyes. The ether around him was inexplicably dark, not like night, but like the total absence of good, like there was no longer a war between good and evil. Evil was all there was. The air was as thick as fog, and it contained a strange, skeletal density, like fingernails scraping over an ethereal chalkboard, wraithlike, yet tangible. He shivered, trying to regain his bearings.
Just then, a dark hooded form bent over him, and despite knowing that he was a powerful, immortal being, Salvatore instinctively shrank back, his entire soul trembling. The hooded figure reached out with a clawed hand and traced an odd figure-eight over his brows.
“Welcome, my son.”
Salvatore shot up from the ground and sprang into a squat. “Who the hell—”
A deep, rumbling growl brought him up short, and he bit a hole in his lower lip, trying to pull back his words, lest he offend his unidentified host.
“Better,” the creature snarled.
And then, all it once, it became crystal clear just who Salvatore was staring at—the dark vampire would know those features anywhere: the oily, tangled hair, matted to the creature’s brow; the cloven hooves where his feet should have been; and the viscous, acidic drool, dripping from the corners of his evil mouth. It was the dark lord Ademordna, and his eyes were glowing orange beneath the dark, bulky hood.
Salvatore’s teeth began to chatter as he slowly glanced around. He appeared to be outdoors, in a courtyard or a glen, but there were no clear, identifiable markers present, no way to determine his location… or identify his fate. The ground was slate-gray and black, like the remnants of volcanic ash, and there was a tall iron gate behind him, with spiked finials atop, reaching toward the heavens. But there were no heavens. There was no sky and no moon. It wasn’t night, and it wasn’t day. It was an endless expanse of darkness, cloaked in a thick, unholy blanket of fog.
Dear lords of the underworld, he was in the receiving courtyard of the Valley of Death and Shadows.
“Mm, precisely,” Ademordna drawled. He removed his hood, revealed his hideous features and his glowing orange eyes, and then he smiled. “Welcome home, my son.”
Salvatore bowed his head out of respect—and fear—curbing his instinct to run. Although he worshipped the dark lords with all his heart, he certainly had no desire to spend eternity in their midst. “Thank you, master,” he whispered. Oh great prince of darkness, am I dead?
“You are,” Ademordna answered, reading his mind with ease. He wrinkled up his nose and flicked his snake-like tongue, in and out, several times, as if he could taste his fear. “And what a grisly death it was. Ramsey Olaru seems to have bested you at your own wicked game.” He wagged his long, bony finger three times in the air. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I must say, I’m disappointed.” With that, he lunged at the vampire, made a seal over Salvatore’s mouth, and forced thick, burning goo, like acid, down the Dark One’s throat.
Salvatore struggled like a helpless baby
caught in the demon’s arms. He kicked his legs and flailed while choking on the sludge. It burned like volcanic lava, coated his esophagus, and then slowly began to attack his internal organs, one at a time, eating him from the inside out.
He gasped at the pain, or at least he thought he did. His throat no longer worked properly. And all the while, the most hideous visions flashed through his mind: images of vampires from the house of Jaegar being tortured in all manner of cruelty and imagination. One male was chained to a tree in the jungle territory of the Northern Province, and he was consumed day and night by a swarm of demonic beetles and bloodred scorpions. Another was impaled on a rusty spike in the western mountain territory. The stake was erected in the midst of a fire, and the demons roasted and dined on the vampire’s flesh, night after night, peeling tasty morsels from his bones. Yet another vampire was thrashing and bucking in a huge cauldron of bubbling magma, unable to escape or die, and the surrounding demons took turns using medieval implements to force his head under “water,” watch the skin peel away, and then carefully reconstruct his face. The demon who could recreate his features the fastest, with the most accurate representation, would don his scalp as a crown and dance around the cauldron, victorious in the game.
Salvatore recoiled at the macabre vision, and then the space where his heart should have been constricted. Oh dark lords, deliver me! He knew that handsome face, the vampire in the kettle. Salvatore was staring at his beloved little brother, Valentine, trapped forever in a prehistoric vat. And somehow he just knew: Those same demons would soon have Salvatore in their clutches. No, milord, he whimpered in his mind, hoping to appeal to Ademordna’s blackened conscience.
By all that was unholy, this could not be his fate!
The demon lord withdrew his fetid kiss, threw back his head in triumph, and roared with wicked laughter. He released Salvatore from his grasp and flung him to the ground like so much garbage, spitting out the aftertaste of their mingled saliva. “What did you think would happen when you finally made it home?” he hissed. “Welcome to hell, Mr. Salvatore Nistor.” His voice rang out like thunder, reverberating across the barren expanse, and the sheer might of his brogue rattled the vampire’s bones.
“My lord?” Salvatore curled into a ball and shivered. “But I have always, always served you faithfully. I have worshiped you with fidelity… and love.”
Once again, Ademordna thundered with laughter, this time, clutching at his sides to withstand the humor. “Love, dear Salvatore? Love? What does one of your ilk know of love?” He pressed his decrepit hands to his lower belly and took three deep breaths to regain his composure.
Salvatore began to retch uncontrollably.
He dropped his face into the dirt, writhed in the vomit, and began to choke on the vile mixture, on his fate, and on his future.
Just then, the ground began to rumble beneath them as a peculiar-looking demon approached from the side. The genetic mutation appeared to be a rodent of some sort, perhaps a weasel or a rat, but he hopped instead of walked, like some barbaric kangaroo, and his mouth was a wide slit, full of dozens and dozens of teeth, each tusk filed to a ghastly, sharp point. “Hehehehehe,” he giggled like a fool. “What do we have here?” He rubbed his hands together, and dark lords, he sounded like Renfield when he spoke.
Salvatore scooted away. Ew. Just… ew.
The rat-thing smiled at the demon lord, flashing at least sixty of his hideous teeth. “This is the sorcerer?” With his curious accent, the word this sounded like thes.
Ademordna cleared his throat. “What brings you to the Middle Kingdom, Veratchi? Is there no garbage to rummage through elsewhere?”
The rat hunched over and laughed, causing his back to bow and his bones to crack. “Eeeh, yes, yes. Of course there is.”
Ademordna rolled his eyes. “Well then?”
The rat stood up straight. He tried to gesture imperiously at the vampire on the ground, but with such short stubs for arms, it looked more like a convulsive tic. Follow the yellow brick road, Salvatore thought. I’m sure you’re needed in Oz.
The little mutant tried to bow next, and the gesture was equally ridiculous, as his overripe belly did not allow for the bend, and he bounced instead. “My great, imperious, all-powerful, maleficent, preeminent, majestic, resplendent—”
“Shut the hell up,” Ademordna cut in. “What do you want, Veratchi? As you can see, I am rather busy with a new arrival.”
Veratchi licked his hairy lips. “Ah, but of course.” Ademordna growled, and the rat suddenly found his voice—and a much quicker pace. “Milord, if you would, I have simply come to point out the obvious: Napolean Mondragon still lives, as does the prince-child, Phoenix. And the house of Jadon still thrives. The celestial gods will celebrate this Dark One’s death”—he snickered into his paws, the best he could—“in other words, they’ll be laughing their asses off at you, and it will make us all look weak.” He glared at Salvatore then, and for the first time, he actually looked formidable. “I mean, with all due respect, your prized sorcerer was dispatched by a caveman with a pitchfork. And I might add: The Neanderthal usurped his skills with black magick.” He shook his head as if deeply ashamed. “Oh, it is a dreary day, indeed, for evil everywhere. Might you just… patch him up and send him back?”
Ademordna took a judicious step backward, and his hands began to shake. He curled his lips in a parody of a smile. “Ah, so you came here to die?” He bent over the rat-thing, removed its left eye with a claw, and transformed into his pure, demonic form, instantly losing his hands. Still ten feet tall, Lord Ademordna hovered over the demon-rat in a rage. “There are rules, you ignorant fool. Free will and all that. We appeal to our subjects, we corrupt willing minds, we lead those who seek our guidance; but we do not interfere with those who inhabit the earth, without first being summoned. We do not alter creation itself!” He gestured wildly with his serpentine head, his voice growing increasingly frenetic. “It would disrupt the eternal balance of good and evil. Nay, the repercussions could ricochet all the way to the gods. Would you risk our own eternal existence by altering the laws of the universe?”
Veratchi hunched his shoulders and softened his voice, trying to speak plainly in spite of his pain. He didn’t dare retrieve his eye. “Says who?” His voice quivered slightly.
Ademordna blanched. “Says power. Says wisdom. Says history. Says every existing pantheon of gods from time immemorial.”
“Ah,” Veratchi sighed, “the gods, of course, not the Dark Lords.” He was brave for a one-eyed, about-to-die fool.
Ademordna frowned, and his glowing orange eyes began to leak blood. He transferred back into his typical demon-lord form, snatched the rat by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and bit off his ear. Spitting it aside, he snarled, “Just what are you trying to prove?”
Veratchi squealed in pain and wriggled in the air. “My intelligence is meager compared to yours, my liege. Alas, there is nothing I can prove to you. I would only endeavor to advise and suggest: Are you not a god in your own right? Is your power not equal to those who reside in the celestial realms? Do you honestly fear the earthlings’ god or your celestial twins? Isn’t it time we asserted our dominion on all the planes of the various worlds—in heaven, hell, and on earth?” His small beady eyes sparkled with delight, and for a moment, Salvatore thought he might actually be… affected. Could demons incur brain damage at birth? Did they actually suffer from their own brand of mental illness?
Ademordna dropped the rat.
He glared at Salvatore, who was now cowering on the ground, as if the vampire had given the touched rodent the idea. Ademordna paced a slow circle around the two of them and bit his lower lip. “The Dark One could not return as he is. I have not the power to create new life.”
Veratchi smiled, a wicked, duplicitous grin, in spite of his missing ear and eye. “No, but he could be patched back together, perhaps like Frankenstein? Imbued with demonic essence, instead.”
Ademordna spun on his heels, hi
s cloven hooves sinking deep into the ground from the furious motion. “Send him back to earth as a demon in a vampire’s body?” He assessed Salvatore’s ethereal form, and it was clear what he was thinking: Dead as Salvatore was, his ghostly body looked whole, but his earthly body had been torn into pieces—just what would that look like?
Veratchi shrugged. “Why not?”
Salvatore remained deathly quiet. This was the most ridiculous conversation he had ever witnessed, the most idiotic idea he had ever heard. Even he knew that the laws of the universe could not be altered without severe consequences, that all of existence was constructed in balance: Light was the continuum of shadow; good was a counterpart of evil; and each shared its flux and reflux with the other. In essence, they were halves of the same whole, just a different manifestation, summoned by an opposite vibration, and they could not be separated out any more than day could be separated from night. Balance would always be restored. And while the gods may have created the laws, they were also the origin of the laws, bound by their formation as they were one in the same. To destroy their creation would be to destroy themselves. All of existence would cease to be. In plain speak; Ademordna would never get away with such a thing.
But, then again, who was Salvatore to argue if it would get him out of there, even for a minute?
Maybe he could find a way to exact his own vengeance on the house of Jadon, reclaim his vampirism while back on earth, or at the least, discover a form of suicide that left the soul in limbo, neither dead nor alive, so he never had to return to this valley. At the least, he might take advantage of the rat-thing’s stupidity and Lord Ademordna’s pride before all hell literally broke loose, and the gods found themselves at war.
Ademordna bent low, over Salvatore’s quaking body, and peered into his petulant eyes. “I suppose I could replace your physical ears and your nose, perhaps borrow a limb, here or there, from the suffering vampires, maybe implant a demon-heart, along with your manufactured soul.”
Salvatore furrowed his brows. Despite his determination to stay out of it, he couldn’t help but speak. “But Dark Ones don’t have souls, milord?”
