I pushed my vengeful thoughts aside as, level-by-level, room by room, we reached the top—Luc and Judy’s suite. It hadn’t been opened since their deaths. Kari lingered on the top step. Crimson tears glistened in her eyes and she clutched the small perfume locket she always wore around her neck. It had been a present from Jake.
With heart racing and trying to ignore the cold, hollow pit that opened in my stomach, I grasped the doorknob only to see my hand was trembling.
‘It’s alright, Milady. We can always come back another time. When you’re ready.’ Her soft voice flowed over me like a warm blanket. Of course, but how long would that be—days, weeks, months?
‘Fine by me.’ Kari sniffed and dabbed at her eyes leaving red streaks on the backs of her hands. She wiped them down the side of her black leggings.
It was some comfort to share our grief. The shock of their deaths had hit Kari just as hard, just as wrenching, for she and my mother had been best friends.
I turned to Sabine and nodded, appreciating her sensitivity, yet unable to speak. It was all too raw, too soon.
‘How ‘bout you meet the staff now?’ Kari called as she started back down the stairs.
‘Capital idea.’ Sabine tucked her hands into the pockets of her tweed jacket and followed Kari.
‘Rest in Peace,’ I whispered to the door, stroking the timber panel as if their essence was somehow infused into its grain. Then I followed them down.
Chapter 4 – Return of the Lamia
A nightmarish shriek rang through the forest.
Crawling slowly from its cramped hiding place beneath the ruins of Timur’s castle, the surviving lamia craned its leathery neck. It screamed again at the full moon. Those who heard its cry might mistake it for some night bird or an animal caught in a trap in the woods, gnawing off its foot in an effort to escape.
Burning desire for vengeance gave its mutilated limbs the strength to drag its mangled and pain-riddled body inch by inch through the rubble. ‘The ssssoldier boys will pay. Yesss, they will,’ it consoled itself as it tried to catch any warm-blooded creature that strayed within its reach, rats mostly, or the occasional mangy cat. But human, or better still, vampire blood, would work the magic to make it completely whole again, and stronger than before.
Somewhere beneath the blackened stones and charred timbers of the fortress lay the remains of its brothers. The blaze had spread rapidly, fuelled by rotting fabric and dry, wooden furnishings. Nothing had escaped its ravenous hunger. Its brothers had swung from beam to burning beam. As each one collapsed, the lamiae were trapped, caught in its fiery grasp.
They hadn’t been in the fortress long enough to have learnt all its secret passageways, only the ones revealed by collapsing walls. It’d dived into one of them. Its brothers hadn’t been so quick—a flaming beam had crashed on top of them.
Several thousand years they’d freely roamed the earth, survived wars and vampire hunters only to be imprisoned by one who claimed to be their brother, yet proved disloyal—Marcus Antonius Pulcher and his cursed band.
Its weakened muscles still managed to quiver with rage at the memory and fuelled its hatred. ‘Hate isss good. It keepsss usss alive. I will avenge you, my brotherssss. Thissss I ssssswear,’ it hissed.
It’d crawled through the exposed passageway, but not fast enough to escape the flames as they devoured its legs and licked up its back and along its precious wings. Its screams were lost in the maelstrom above it, as it painfully dragged itself below ground and to a place of safety.
Soon, soon, it promised himself, its ravaged body would regenerate and it’d be strong enough to take its revenge—destroy Marcus Antonius’s house and all who carried his name.
A figure, dressed all in black, strode into view. The lamia hissed and slunk back into the shadows, rubbing ash over itself to mask its scent. By the moon’s pale light, it recognised the insignia of a crowned black stag on a silver background emblazoned on the figure’s coat.
Its body trembled. Those who’d burned down Timur’s fortress wore that insignia. Whoever it belonged to was going to pay.
The man was alone. Its hunger gnawed. It needed only to enter its prey’s mind, and its victim would willingly surrender to death. Vampire blood was richer, stronger, its healing powers surpassing even that of juvenile humans—although not as freely flowing. It took greater effort to coax it from a vein.
But in its weakened state, could it overcome one of the Brethren?
Excitement surged through its veins at the anticipated kill.
It began to inch forward. Then, another figure joined its intended prey. A growl of rage escaped its lips. Not strong enough to take on two. Two too many. Reluctantly, it slunk back into its hole, hissing in pain where splinters and the sharp edges of collapsed stonework dug into its body.
‘Did you hear that?’ Its prey asked his companion. ‘A hiss?’
Brow furrowed, the other man looked about him then shook his head. ‘Probably just a grass snake out hunting.’
Its prey sniffed the air again before giving up in disgust. ‘Impossible to smell anything in this debris. How many bodies so far?’
‘Two-hundred-and-ten Rebels, or what’s left of them. And this.’ He motioned to a tall Brethren member carrying a sack over his shoulder.
From the top, protruded the tip of a charred leathery wing.
The lamia snarled silently, its fangs extending well below its lower lip. It writhed on the spot, desperate to avenge its brothers.
‘Patiencccce, patiencccce,’ it consoled, envisioning the many ways it would suck the life-blood from its enemies.
The one carrying the sack dropped it on the ground and opened it. The first man covered his nose and peered in.
‘Shit! Reek, don’t they? First time I’ve actually laid eyes on one.’
The other two covered their noses with their sleeves as they leaned over the sack, grimaced and turned away.
‘Never would’ve asked to be turned if knew I’d end up looking like that.’
The other two nodded.
‘Weren’t there supposed to be four?’
The lamia barred its fangs. How dare they! With its brothers dead, it was now the oldest of their kind and they owed it respect. Without it, the Brethren would not exist. Insolent fools! Adrenaline coursed through it but the lamia remained utterly motionless, only its blazing eyes revealing the life within. One day, they would all bow down to it. It would come as surely as the Earth revolved.
One day.
Comforted by that thought, it coiled himself into as small a ball as possible... no sudden move or sound. It watched, mouth watering but it ignored the gnawing churning of its empty stomach.
‘Take this back to Lord Karl. Tell him ... we’ll keep searching for the last one. The body’s got to be round here somewhere.’
The tall Brethren heaved the sack onto his shoulder and hurried off.
The cloaked figure frowned. ‘Search everywhere. I want that thing found. Two by two, understand?’ He then hefted a massive fallen timber beam, threw it aside and peered at the ground beneath. ‘Who knows how many hidden tunnels this place had. It’s got to be in one of them.’
A satisfied smirk etched the lamia’s scarred face at its ability to avoid their notice. They thought it dead. All the better. They would lower their guard.
‘What if it’s still alive?’ The two exchanged glances. ‘We can’t take that thing on. Not even Lord Marcus was able to kill it,’ the second man said.
‘I didn’t sense anything left alive ...’ its intended prey surveyed the area.
‘Unless it’s masking.’
The lamia sneered. A tinge of hope bloomed in its leathery chest, for the scent that now emanated from them was fear.
Not even the great Marcus and his soldier boys had been able to destroy it, and so it and its brothers had been imprisoned in separate fortresses, wings ripped from their backs. Even now, centuries later, the memory alone sent a searing pain along its spine.
As the centuries wore on, its immortality a curse, still it plotted and planned its revenge. Slowly its wings regenerated.
Then one day, the chain of its cage creaked, and it was pulled upwards.
Count Timur’s face had grinned at it from the edge of the pit.
Hope renewed until one of its brothers was slain before its eyes—pierced through with one of the soldier-boys’ swords smeared with Ingenii blood.
A shudder ran the length of its body as it recalled the scene, and then it remembered her. Timur had paraded her through his fortress—the Ingenii. How could it forget that enticing, yet deadly scent?
She too would face his wrath.
For now it was still too weak, and its beloved wings were damaged. Unless it could feed on something more substantial than cats, rats and mice, their regeneration would take longer, and it risked capture.
It sniffed deeply. No, no trace of Ingenii blood left on their swords. After slaughtering the Rebels, and its brothers, they’d wiped their swords clean.
Still it waited and ... watched.
Neither man moved. Its hunger grew. It found himself crawling toward them, all its concentration trained on the first man, boring through his skull and delving into his mind. Find a weakness ...
Its prey stopped speaking, his eyes glazed over, then, just as suddenly, he shook his head, unsheathed his sword and spun around. ‘It’s here. I felt it trying to get into my head.’
The lamia froze. It didn’t dare even blink away the beads of sweat that broke out on its brow and trickled slowly down its gnarled face.
The other man whistled, and ten others joined them, the silver emblem on their badges glinting in the moonlight.
‘Fan out, nets at the ready.’
With swords in one hand and nets dangling from the other, its enemies approached.
It was only a matter of time.
It could stay hidden and risk discovery, or it could make a run for its life.
Seconds ticked by.
Chapter 5 – In Memoriam
LAURA
A north wind ripped through the assembled crowd and tore at the lapels of my coat, digging its icy fingers into the tiniest exposed parts of my skin, and penetrating through my gloves to my fingers. I shivered and gripped the lifelike wax bust of Judy. I pressed the figure to my breast—the sculptor had captured her likeness, even down to the tiny dimple above her left eye.
How I longed to hug the real, living Judy to me. A swell of sadness filled me, the pressure building until hot tears stung my eyes. I bit down hard on my lip in an effort to contain my grief. If I started crying now I’d never stop.
Next to me, Alec carried a wax bust of Luc. He glanced at me, his expression grim, and whispered, ‘Courage. We’ll get through this.’
His quiet confidence gave me strength. The eyes of the serpent ring flared ruby red. As if in response, its twin on my finger did the same and spread its gentle warmth along my hand.
Marcus strode in front of us, his cloak flapping about his legs. With his hood thrown back and the wind whipping his collar-length black hair about his tear-stained face, he seemed impervious to the wintery blast. The crunch of hundreds of footsteps on the lightly fallen snow the only indication that Brethren and villagers followed behind in solemn silence.
From Marcus’s lips broke the mournful dirge of a soul in pain, a cry from the heart of a loss so great, its anguish could not be contained. How could my pain compare to his—the loss of a beloved son with whom he’d shared countless human lifetimes. How much had they experienced together; how much had they endured?
Now he was alone.
At least I had Alec.
My heart ached for him.
An answering dirge rose from the throats of Jake, Cal, Sam and Terens, who marched on either side of us. Faces hidden within their hoods, they joined in the requiem, their voices blending with Marcus’s, as our funerary procession wound its way from the great hall and through the woods to the stone monument, which had been erected over the site of the former chapel. A smooth, white marble block stood gleaming dully under the light of a full moon. Two niches carved into its surface, awaited their new occupants—the wax busts of my parents. And there, behind thick glass panels, would they remain, protected from the elements, forever together.
Announcement of Luc and Judy’s death had caused a quake in the Brethren world. The secret Brethren website had nearly crashed beneath the influx of questions and messages of condolence. Luc, a formidable leader, had held the Principate together by sheer will alone. There’d been rumblings his passing could trigger a loss of confidence in Alec’s leadership. It had been Luc who’d pressed him into the position while still a juvenile—an unheard of event in Brethren politics. And although Alec had gained many supporters over the years, there were those who still resented it.
But our allies were more powerful and numerous, and to see their faces among the mourners bolstered my confidence.
The scent of crushed pine leaves and newly dried mortar hung in the air as our procession stopped at the base of the monument. Marcus and the men ended their dirge. I looked up as the last note faded. The desolate cry of a raven—the bird of death—sounded.
As a former Roman military commander, Marcus chose to farewell his son following traditional Roman military practice. He climbed the three steps to the top of the platform and turned to face us. The scarlet trail of his tears seemed to leave permanent tracks on his ashen face. And once again my heart broke. How many more times would it do so? I lowered my head, resting my forehead on the small wax bust of Judy I clutched and swallowed down yet another deep sob.
‘Brethren and friends,’ Marcus’s voice had me looking up again. He spread his arms. ‘This night we come to mourn the greatest of our kind who had walked the earth. One I was privileged to call my son.’ His voice wavered. ‘Shall I recount his deeds?’
The crowd as one roared, ‘Yes!’
He lowered his arms, tucked them in the folds of his cloak and gazed at the crowd.
‘Lucius (Lucien) Antonius Pulcher Lebrettan, twin brother of Antonia, son of Gallia of the Allobrogii, Lord of D’Antonville, Prince of the Antonii, High Elder of the Brethren and Princeps Primus.’
His voice rang with pride as he recited a eulogy:
‘In the dark days of our kind, order he brought, and the Principate he birthed.
At my side he cut down the savages who, in their bloodlust, brought the wrath of humans upon us.
He created the territories and appointed elders and prefects to govern them.
Where there was chaos he brought peace,
And in fairness and justice administered our laws by which all have prospered.
He was worthy of all honour.’
The assembled crowd repeated, ‘He was worthy of all honour.’
Terens stepped up to the dais and lowered his hood. His voice rang out, almost in a chant.
‘I, Tribune Sextus Terentius Varro, was there when Rome fell,
When the barbarians came,
Alamanni and Visigoth who harried the land.
Clovis, king of the Franks and friend of Rome, called upon Lord Lucien to protect the people.
At the Battle of Vouillé I saw him rout the enemy,
Slaughtered them in their thousands and sent them fleeing.
He was worthy of all honour.’
Again the crowd responded with, ‘He was worthy of all honour.’
Jake now stepped up to the podium and took his place on Marcus’s left.
‘I Gaius Justinius, was there when one Jaro
slav, proud Prefect of Moravia arose and sought the serpent ring,
Poisoned the hearts of the Brethren and warred against his own kind.
With courage and might, Lord Lucien threw him down and showed him mercy.
But in the blackness of his mind Jaroslav rebelled again and wrought destruction among his own kind.
Lord Lucien crushed the enemy and cleaved his head from off his shoulders.
Peace returned.
He was worthy of all honour.’
The crowd repeated the words.
Sam joined the others on the dais and recounted yet another heroic deed from Luc’s past, as did Cal. Finally it was Alec’s turn.
Vale Luc. May I do you justice. I caught his words in my mind.
For one maddening second, I was seized with the desire to run up to the dais and hug him. But I forced myself to remain where I stood even as every part of me rebelled at the physical distance between us.
‘Brethren and friends, Lord Luc was my sire, my mentor and my friend.’ He lowered his gaze to the marble slab on which he stood. ‘And here beneath my feet he lies, at peace by the side of the one he loved—his sweet lady, prematurely cut down by a gang of Rebels.’
Hisses and loud cries emanated from many in the crowd.
‘His heroic deeds have been recounted. Rather I will tell you something more of the man he was. Some thought him kingly, autocratic even. If that was the case, why did he willingly give up the office of Princeps? Surely those voices meant well?’ Silence greeted his words. Several exchanged glances. ‘Others said he’d hoarded the Ingenii blood for himself, yet every Elder and prefect here has walked in the daylight thanks to his generosity. Were those voices still well meaning?’
‘They were wrong,’ came O’Toole’s strong Irish accent. The Prefect from Hibernia was one of the few from outside our immediate circle entrusted with our secrets.
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