Oskar stood slowly. His raspy voice dropped to a low-pitched hum like a bass guitar. “The plan is simple: We restore our numbers and hit back hard by going after the king.” His eyes roamed from male to male, boring holes through their skulls with the voracity of his hatred. “Fifty infants were killed, so I want two-hundred and fifty filling our nurseries within the next seventy-two hours!”
Demitri gasped and then quickly regained his cool, exchanging a knowing glance with Milano.
Salvatore laughed inwardly. Poor kid. Didn’t he know that council was exempt from colony-wide mandates, their duties being too important to group with the general population? Salvatore studied the pale wash of Demitri’s skin and couldn’t say he blamed him—he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a son at three-hundred years old, either. In fact, he was still yet to reproduce, but then, he had Derrian to look after now. And as for Milano, the young buck was as wild as they came, nowhere near ready to be saddled with a kid.
“Is there a problem?” Oskar demanded, glaring at Demitri.
“Not at all.” The kid showed the proper respect.
“Good,” Oskar flared, “because by this time tomorrow night, I want our lairs filled with the sounds of screaming, groaning women. I want the chorus of rape and the death-song of birth to be a symphony playing in my ears until every soul we lost is replaced. Is that understood?”
Demitri nodded along with Milano and Salvatore, and then he began writing on a piece of parchment.
“Now then, every male over the age of five-hundred who does not have offspring must...contribute. Those under five-hundred may choose to reproduce now or wait, and those with at least one son already may also pass on the festivities by choice.” He began to pace around the table. “As for feeding, I do not want the males to eliminate the local food supply, but I do want them to drop enough bodies in the streets to terrify the local humans. I want pandemonium in Dark Moon Vale, enough to rile up the hidden vampire hunting societies. Let them come after our foolish brothers on the surface while we remain safely hidden away beneath the earth.”
Every male at the table smiled.
“And as for the book…” Oskar glared at Salvatore and then clasped his hands behind his back. “Nachari Silivasi must be made to pay for this insult!”
Stefano, the chief of council, scowled in disgust. He stood, held out his arm to silence his second in command, and then neatly took the reins. “For Salvatore’s foolish, foolish oversight!”
Oskar nodded and took a seat as the council chief trembled, slowly stoking the fire of his rage.
Salvatore bit his tongue and waited.
“But not before we avenge our fallen,” Stefano hissed, slowly cracking his knuckles in true theatrical fashion. “I would have Napolean Mondragon broken! Humiliated! Little by little, brought to his knees in shame. I want the male ruined!”
No shit, Sherlock, Salvatore thought, any plans on how to get there? “And what would you have us do, your excellence?” he asked.
“Are you not our sorcerer?” the council chief thundered, striking him unexpectedly across the face with an open hand.
The force of the blow rattled Salvatore’s teeth, causing his upper canines to pierce his bottom lip. He spat out the blood and glared at their leader, his body trembling with the need to strike back.
He restrained himself.
“Torture him, you fool!” Stefano shouted. “Cast a spell! Haunt his dreams! Find his weakness and exploit it!” He purred deep in his throat, an evil, rumbling hiss, and his eyes grew dark with menace. “I don’t care what you have to do, just make the male suffer! For once in your miserable life, prove your reason for existence, Nistor! Or I shall have your council seat.”
The room reverberated with a collective gasp.
Oskar sat forward with interest.
Salvatore cleared his throat and forced a smile. “My apologies, your excellence. I was unaware that my service was so lacking.” His eyes shot between Demitri and Milano and then flashed quickly, two harsh red pulses, before returning to an endless void of black.
This was the opportunity they had discussed.
The chance to seize power they had each hungered for.
Ever since Valentine’s death, both males had postured for his vacant council seat, each proving himself to be worthy in different ways. With the chief gone, there would be two standing vacancies instead of one.
Salvatore’s mouth turned up in a sly grin. “Your excellence,” he snarled, “you hurl such a powerful accusation, yet you stop short of corrective action. Indeed, should any male on this council fail to prove his reason for existence, he should be removed at once.” And then he winked.
Demitri and Milano flew up from the table like two malevolent black tornados whipping through a barren field, gathering momentum as they approached the chief, daggers drawn, fangs bared, the adrenaline of youth coursing through their veins. The element of surprise was all that saved the bold soldiers from a certain death as Demitri’s dagger sliced the chief’s artery and Milano’s found its way into his heart before the chief could blink.
Stefano’s fangs exploded from his mouth, and he howled in rage, bringing pieces of the ceiling down upon them, but the power-thirsty males kept up their attack: swiping, biting, twisting, and attacking like madmen as the three flew around in a whirlwind at the head of the table.
When Oskar rose to go to Stefano’s aid, Salvatore placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are our new chief now, Oskar. You do not want to do that.”
Oskar looked astonished. “Are you threatening me, Salvatore?” He hissed a clear warning, his eyes narrowing in an unmistakable promise of retribution.
Salvatore bowed his head but kept his eyes focused on his quarry. “Only threatening to serve you, your excellence.”
Oskar wasn’t impressed. He leapt up on the table only to dodge the flying head of their chief as it rolled off his shoulders. Demitri and Milano had sunk their fangs into opposite sides of Stefano’s neck, ripping it from his torso with their bare teeth. The males salivated like wild animals, staring at the decapitated head with a wicked blood-lust flaming in their eyes. Great lords of darkness, they looked like two possessed, rabid dogs: Blood and gore hung from their teeth, ravaged skin covered their mouths, and saliva dripped from their fangs.
Oskar growled a low, unmistakable warning: Attack me, too, and die.
Both males took a step back.
Salvatore turned calmly to Oskar. “What’s done is done, your excellence. It would be a shame to waste this ancient one’s blood when the dark lords of the Abyss—and Napolean Mondragon—are waiting. We should make a sacrifice, ask the dark lords for assistance in besting our enemy…while we still can.”
Oskar looked as revolted as he was stunned, staring at the treacherous trio with utter disgust. He cleared his throat. “His son, Sergei, will seek vengeance.”
Salvatore shook his head. “His son, Sergei, will not know. Perhaps our illustrious chief was so enraged by the attack on the colony that he attempted to go after Napolean alone. Unfortunately, Napolean was the stronger of the two. We were able to retrieve his remains for incineration and will, no doubt, need to decorate Sergei with his honors.”
Oskar stepped back against the wall and ran his hands through his long, twisted hair. He glared at Milano. “Clean this mess up and move his body to the hall of sacrifice. Salvatore, prepare for an offering ceremony to the dark lords, and Demitri, you will be the one to notify Sergei once all is said and done.”
The three males nodded in unison and were just about to move when their new leader held up his hand to still them. His piercing, angry eyes were the color of blood. “Stefano was caught unawares,” he scowled. “In a million years, he would never have conceived of such treachery.” He glared at the two young bucks. “Trust that you are only breathing because of the audacity of your coup. But know this; I will have both eyes open at all times, and from this day forward, the punishment for treason shall be eternal torture
. By this new decree, one enforcer and one healer shall remain at either side of the traitor in the torture chamber—the former to inflict unimaginable suffering, the latter to ensure the traitor’s survival…for all time. With all of the males in the house of Jaegar—and all we are about to create—each soldier need only serve one day every few years to keep the torture going forever. The cycle would never end.”
The tips of his fingers caught fire, and he leapt across the table, decking Milano first, and then Demitri, with a scorching fist—before either male saw him coming. Both traitors hit the ground, scalps smoldering, jaws busted open, and bits of fang scattered about the floor. “Do we understand one another?”
Gulping, the two males nodded.
He then lifted Milano by the lapels of his shirt, released a sharp claw, and carved it along the left side of his face, from temple to mouth, removing his left eye in a single swipe. “If you dare to heal that scar or regenerate that eye, you will meet the fate of a traitor. Your days of beauty—and your ability to catch anyone off-guard—are both over.”
Milano held his face in his hand and shook, but he nodded in submission. “Yes, your excellence.”
Oskar then bent over Demitri, who was trying not to tremble. “Stand up, boy, and drop your pants!”
Demitri’s eyes grew to the size of silver-dollars as he looked to the other two males for support. None was coming. They had already pressed their luck as far as it could go.
Oskar withdrew a dagger from seemingly nowhere and held it to Demitri’s throat. “I won’t ask you again.”
Trembling, Demitri unzipped his jeans and let them fall to his ankles.
“Which do you prefer to keep? The left or the right?” Oskar spat.
Demitri gulped.
Too late.
His right testicle was sliced from his body so swiftly, a couple of seconds passed before he registered the pain and then buckled to his knees. “Cauterize the bleeding,” Oskar ordered, “but do not regenerate it. Ever.”
Salvatore winced. There was a time-limit on regeneration. After a couple of months, both males would be irreversibly damaged, and they’d stand out in the house of Jaegar like sore thumbs. Oh well, at least they were council.
Oskar approached Salvatore then, a look of pure contempt in his eyes, hatred dripping from his upturned lips. “I know these young fools could not have coordinated such an act of treachery on their own, sorcerer. Nor was it a moment’s impulse.”
Salvatore knew better than to speak.
He declined his head in reverence and waited to see what was coming. Whatever it was, it would be worth it to bring down Stefano Gervasi, to gain the dark lords’ assistance in besting Napolean Mondragon—to get at the family that had killed his brother and attempted to harm his nephew. The council was as it should be: They needed Oskar’s leadership and his cunning, and all actions had consequences. He would take his punishment like a man.
Incensed by his arrogant resolve, the new chief caught him by the throat and squeezed until Salvatore’s eyes bulged in his head, and his body started to convulse. Salvatore refused to plead for mercy even when the elder snatched him by the hair, jerked back his head, and fed on him like a worthless human in the ultimate act of disrespect, tearing out huge chunks of his throat as he gulped.
Salvatore winced, but he didn’t cry out. There was no regret for his actions. Unbidden, a small, maniacal chuckle escaped his lips.
Oskar released his throat with a disbelieving snarl. “Do you find sedition funny, sorcerer? Never in the history of our colony has such a thing been done!”
Salvatore shook his head. Despite his attempt at humility, he struggled to suppress a smile.
Their new chief was beside himself with rage. His body shook with his fury. “Demitri…Milano…stand up!”
The two gravely injured vampires struggled to their feet and braced themselves on the table. The wretched look of agony on Demitri’s face was beyond description.
“Good! Now watch—as your arrogant mastermind learns humility.”
Oskar threw Salvatore against the table and ruthlessly bent him over. A pair of harsh, angry hands ripped his trousers—a set of jagged claws pierced his skin at the hips.
“What the—”
“Shut up!”
Now this had Salvatore’s attention. You have got to be kidding!
This just wasn’t done.
This was never, ever done!
Salvatore’s eyes scanned the council chamber door in desperation, searching for…
What?
He had no idea.
Something!
Time stood still as his trousers dropped to his ankles and he felt Oskar kick his legs apart. Okay, fine—the new council chief has made his point. This has gone far enough!
What the hell...
As panic began to set in, Salvatore’s eyes darted around the room hysterically. He thought about fighting…resisting. Attacking!
Hell, dying.
But he knew he could not best the ancient one now that Oskar had drained him of so much blood. He was far too weak and disoriented. And what was it Oskar had just said? He wanted Demitri and Milano to watch?
If Salvatore had only seen this coming, he would have fought Oskar to the death before the crazy freak of nature could have siphoned him...but then, that was Oskar’s point, wasn’t it? Treachery…sedition…taking unfair advantage against one’s enemy. The punishment was fitting.
As his mind struggled to comprehend the horror, Salvatore felt a hard thrust against him, and his hands instinctively gripped the table as an unspeakable pain ripped through him.
He shouted his agony.
Twisted this way and that.
Tried to mentally escape the torture.
The pain was unbearable, the humiliation beyond comprehension.
Zarek could never know.
And then he heard his own voice, as if it belonged to someone else, groaning and whimpering like a wench, his cries thrust out of him to the rhythm of Oskar’s pounding.
Oh dark lords: the disgrace.
The pain.
Make it stop!
The male had made his point already! This had never been done! But then, neither had the assassination of a sitting chief of council by his own members.
Salvatore’s body shook from the invasion, and then Oskar wrenched Salvatore’s head back by his hair, bit out a raspy command, and moaned with pleasure. “Look at each other!”
Demitri and Milano were simply stunned stupid, their broken, bloody mouths hanging open, their pained faces reflecting the shame they felt—both for themselves and the ancient sorcerer being defiled before them—as they forced themselves to hold eye contact with Salvatore.
Bile rose in Salvatore’s throat, and he began to dry heave—unfortunately, still to the rhythm of Oskar’s gyrations—as he watched their piteous eyes fixed on his, the revulsion on their faces.
No one said a word as the vile act went on…and on.
And on.
At some point, Salvatore considered holding his breath in order to pass out, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He gripped the edges of the table harder, instead, trying to sustain the harsh, relentless thrusts, gritting his teeth against every vile surge, biting back his own angry tears. He wanted to rip the bastard’s throat out, but there was nothing he could do but take it.
This was inconceivable.
Murder was one thing. Treachery, another. But this?
All at once, Salvatore heard a hoarse shout and felt Oskar relax behind him. Oh great demons of hell. He refused to even think it. Demitri lost his dinner, and Milano followed right behind him.
As the chief backed away, Salvatore collapsed on the table, no longer able to walk. His stomach wrenched as he caught the scent of his own blood mixed with the scent of—
How did one regenerate from such a thing?
Salvatore panted from exhaustion and agony, the chief panting from something entirely different.
Oskar zipped u
p his pants and took a step back. “The next time we meet, boys, there will be a master at arms posted to the left and right of my seat, and a body of guards just outside the door. What you did tonight in this room will never be spoken of again. What I did tonight in this room will remain here as well. Are we clear?”
The soldiers grunted, still in shock, as Salvatore fell from the table, groveled on the ground, and tried to nod. There was little he could say—especially without an intact throat. He didn’t even possess the strength to release his fangs.
“Now get yourselves together so we can get on with the offering. We have a king to destroy.” With that, the furious new chief of council stalked out of the chamber.
Salvatore stared at the ground, too ashamed to look up. At least it was over. The coup had succeeded, and they had all lived through it.
Such as they were.
Yes, he thought, with profound disgrace and a new grudging respect for their leader, Oskar Vadovsky was not one to toy with.
twenty-three
Marquis brushed a sweat-soaked lock of Ciopori’s hair away from her forehead and softened his seal on her throat, careful not to dislodge his fangs.
Dearest virgin goddess, when would the suffering end?
Trying to disguise his own trembling, he brushed her arms with his hands and held her tightly to his chest, continuing to send the life-changing venom deep into her veins.
It was two a.m., and they had been at it for twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours.
What amounted to an entire day of muscles stretching, joints realigning, organs failing then regenerating, blood pooling like acid in reconstructing veins, and unimaginable pain, bringing merciful bouts of unconsciousness only to jolt her awake with a new surge of agony. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. And the hardest thing Ciopori had ever endured. Although Kristina’s conversion had been difficult, it had only lasted a few hours. This was beyond comprehension.
Apparently, Ciopori’s pure celestial blood, as well as the fact that she was an original female and exempt from the Blood Curse, had caused her very essence all the way down to her DNA, to fight the change like a soul invasion, as if her eternal existence depended upon it. And in all actuality, it did. There were more than a few occasions when Marquis had wondered if her body would take to the change at all.