As Napolean explained the details of the missive, the argument that had ensued between the king and his warriors—leaving out those details that would betray personal conflicts within the house of Jadon or overemphasize their low regard for Saber’s life—Vanya watched the dragon closely. The male was as still as a statue, as quiet as a mountain pond. He was as cold as a cavern wall, except for his eyes.
And if the eyes were truly the seat of the soul, then in this frozen moment in time, Vanya Demir knew, without question, that Saber Alexiares did, indeed, have a soul—because his eyes burned with unspoken anguish; his pupils reflected an overwhelming dread that could not be concealed beneath their blackened depths; and his tear ducts, while they never released a single tear, failed to hide the pressing moisture that threatened to surface as he listened quietly to the news of his father’s execution.
As the king’s words sank in, Saber struggled to remain calm, cool, and detached. He could not afford to provoke Napolean’s wrath again. Not now. Not when he was so close to meeting up with his brothers, to seeing his father, perhaps for the last time.
He couldn’t help but wonder about the meeting of delegates, how the whole thing would turn out; for surely, the Dark Ones were up to something. And as the thoughts drifted around in his head, he shifted his gaze to the princess, who was standing off to the side, so unassuming, waiting patiently beneath the branches of an aspen tree, while the males talked of war, strategy, and subterfuge.
Princess Vanya had been born to stand among, within, and at the head of such circles.
She had been reared to foster diplomacy, to consort with kings, and her unique, dusty-rose eyes were as keen with intelligence as they were soft with compassion.
For a moment, Saber couldn’t help but wonder about the strange woman: After all, the princess had come to his defense, even against Napolean. She had told him the truth when no one else had bothered; and she had backed off appropriately when he had warned her away. She was an enigma to say the least. A surprising twist in an ever-changing story.
Their eyes met for a brief second, and he refused to look away.
What was she thinking now? he wondered.
She should have been afraid of him—terrified, in fact—yet she faced his blackened soul with courage, defiance, and tenacity. She had even reached out to help him.
It just didn’t make any sense.
And for a fleeting moment, he thought he almost felt something.
Something he couldn’t name.
Perhaps it was respect…or admiration.
thirteen
Salvatore Nistor sat back in the plush, contemporary sofa in the receiving room, just outside the council’s chambers. Those who were not on the council were not allowed inside the inner sanctum, but they could come and go in the waiting room as they pleased. He looked around the pristine environment and turned up his nose: Outside of being at the bottom of a cave, it looked like something out of Interior Décor Magazine, an opulent display of wealth, power, and intimidation. The place was meant to let all who arrived know they had just entered into the heart of the house of Jaegar.
He shifted lazily, feeling his oats. Indeed, he was one of the most powerful males in the colony. Not only did his sorcery make him an invaluable asset, but his many years serving on the council had given him a certain level of prestige and notoriety. He was just beginning to replay all of his notable accomplishments in his mind when the heavy iron door swung open, and two giant guards entered with Diablo and Dane in tow. Both males were handcuffed and drained of vital life-blood.
He immediately rose to his feet. “Well, it’s about time.”
Achilles Zahora, a giant of a male who stood to the left of both prisoners, snarled, but not in challenge. It was more of an automatic instinct—one Alpha male responding to the perceived dominance of another. “You said to have the prisoners here at two PM.” He eyed the grandfather clock, pressed up against the lacquered cave wall, and snickered. “It’s two PM.”
Salvatore followed the soldier’s eyes, made note of the time, and shrugged. “Ah, well, I suppose it is.” He turned to regard the second soldier, Blaise Liska. The male always gave him the willies. To begin with, he was short but stout, maybe five-foot-ten at best, and his cropped, spiked hair stuck up in all directions. In addition to his unruly appearance, his upper chest and arms were so overdeveloped that it almost made his lower body seem slight in comparison. Did the vampire not know one should always seek balance in every endeavor, even weight lifting? He sighed, returning his attention to the matter at hand. “Prisoners is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of Dane and Diablo as my honored guests.”
Dane yanked his arm free from one of the guards and held his shackled hands out in front of him. “Do you always manacle your guests?” His eyes flashed with heat.
Salvatore smiled apathetically. “Just a precaution, my friend. Just a precaution.”
Diablo glared at him with blatant insolence—this one was not to be toyed with, Salvatore thought—he was the most volatile of the two, and by the keen look of intelligence in his deep obsidian eyes, it wouldn’t take much to set him off.
“Please,” Salvatore said, gesturing toward two chic, modern club chairs, each flanking a separate side of the sofa, “have a seat.” He turned to eyeball the guards. “The handcuffs are no longer needed. I’m sure my guests will behave appropriately.” His eyes bored into Dane’s, and then Diablo’s, each set in turn. “Won’t you?”
They didn’t respond, and kudos for that. It would have been weak and subservient at best. “Very well,” Salvatore said, waiting as Achilles gruffly unlocked the diamond-embedded handcuffs. “There is much we must talk about before tonight’s meeting of delegates, when we rendezvous with our spoiled brothers of light in an attempt to rescue Saber, return him to his rightful house.”
Now this got the brothers’ attention.
“You mean the house of Jadon actually agreed? The king is willing to meet with us?” Dane took a careless step forward, covering the floor in one long stride, and Salvatore snarled to back him up.
“Sit, boy. We talk…while seated.”
Dane looked down at his feet and slowly backed away. “My apologies.” He sat in the closest chair, waiting as patiently as possible, and Diablo followed suit.
“Yes,” Salvatore finally answered. “The meeting is a go. We shall rendezvous with our mortal enemies just shy of midnight in the Red Canyons.”
“How did you pull that off?” Diablo asked, his tone both suspicious and condescending.
“Does it matter?” Salvatore retorted. “We pulled it off—that’s all you need to know.”
“Okay,” Diablo said. His jaw tensed. “So what’s the catch?”
Salvatore’s smile was much too broad for his face, and it literally hurt his jaw to stretch his skin so tight. An eyeless insect scampered across the floor, not far from Salvatore’s feet, and the sorcerer took great pleasure in lighting the creature on fire, using only his eyes to do it. He wriggled his nose. “I love the smell of burning flesh, even when it’s bug flesh. If only it could be that easy with our brothers of light.”
“So we are going to fight then—wage an offensive?” Diablo asked.
Salvatore rolled his eyes sadly. “No, Diablo, not tonight. Napolean Mondragon will be there…” He shrugged as if to say, What would be the point, and then he perked up. “But I do have a foolproof plan if you and your brother would like to be quiet for a moment and listen.”
Dane angled his head, only slightly, to regard Diablo, leveling a pointed glance with his peripheral vision. “Please, brother; I’d like to hear what our councilman has to say.”
Salvatore nodded with appreciation. Respect was capital. He waited while both brothers got comfortable in their respective chairs, and then he reseated himself in the center of the sofa, where he could watch each male equally and react just as quickly, if need be. Achilles took a strategic position behind Diablo, even as Blaise stood like a hideous g
argoyle statue behind Dane. Both guards stared straight ahead, their faces iron masks of indifference. “Now then, my plan centers around Dane gaining access to Saber, and—”
“Why Dane?” Diablo interrupted.
Salvatore cut his eyes at the insolent visitor, his patience growing thin, and Achilles looked down and growled in warning. “Because you, Diablo, will not be there.” Before Diablo could speak out of turn, yet again—or worse, object—he added, “You will not attend the delegation. You are needed here.”
Diablo sat back in his chair warily, crossed one leg horizontally over the other, and rested a forward elbow on his knee. “Come again, sir?”
Salvatore frowned. He would be damned if he was going to explain every detail of his decision—correction, of the council’s decision—to the sons of a traitor. He would tell them what he needed to tell them in order to gain their cooperation, and that was all. “Diablo…” He practically purred his name. “You would do well to remember your place.” He held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and middle finger back and forth in a taunting manner. “It would take no more than the snap of my fingers to have your head, and your heart, on this coffee table.” He took a measured breath. “However, I am trying to exercise at least some measure of decorum and hospitality. Do try harder to appease me.”
If looks could kill, Salvatore would have been six feet under as Diablo cast daggers at the elder statesman with his devilishly cold eyes. He sat back, plastered a fake—just shy of insolent—smile on his face, and nodded. “By all means, go on, Counselor.”
Salvatore returned the smile, wicked grin for wicked grin. “Thank you, Diablo.” He turned his full attention on Dane. “Now then, Dane; you are the youngest in the Alexiares clan, no?”
Dane nodded cautiously.
“You were born just minutes after Diablo?”
“I was,” Dane answered, his eyebrows raised in question.
Salvatore rolled his eyes. “Then that would make you the youngest.” He relaxed his shoulders and nodded. “So, it has always been your role to feed your family then, correct?”
“I hunt…yes,” Dane said, putting a more virile spin on the subservient custom of feeding one’s elders.
“Good.” Salvatore clasped both hands together and cracked his knuckles. “Very good.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Because we will be relying upon this sacred duty in order to free Saber from the house of Jadon.”
Diablo contorted his features in confusion, but to his tribute, he held his tongue.
“You want me to feed Saber? When we meet tonight? Right out in the open—in front of the sons of Jadon?”
Salvatore narrowed his gaze. “My boy, it is imperative that you feed Saber tonight, right out in the open, in front of our delegation and the house of Jadon—it is our only chance of rescuing your brother.”
Dane frowned, his forehead creasing in consternation. “How would—”
“May I speak?” Salvatore said, failing to conceal the clipped edge in his voice.
“Of course.”
Salvatore reached into the pocket of his black silk shirt, retrieved the vial of sterilization serum, and held it up in front of the vampires, preparing to lie with grace and ease. “Do you see this bottle, son? It contains a very potent, mystical substance, one that took a great deal of expertise to prepare, I might add.” He raised his chin in a prideful gesture, then set the bottle down on the expensive cocktail table in front of him. “We know that the house of Jadon has not exactly welcomed Saber with open arms; they are keeping him closely guarded, drained of blood, and weakened—”
“Sounds faintly familiar,” Diablo growled beneath his breath.
“Pardon me?” Salvatore said.
“Nothing.” There went that malevolent smile again.
Yes, well, smile while you can, boy, Salvatore thought. “As I was saying, they are keeping Saber in a weakened state. They are using diamonds to keep him from dematerializing, and Nachari Silivasi has him constantly surrounded with insulation wards and energetic barriers.”
“English,” Diablo prompted.
Salvatore froze. To kill or not to kill—that was the question. Would it be better to just have Achilles slit the boy’s throat where he sat? He pondered the pros and cons. Perhaps not. If it was Zarek or Valentine—Dark Lords rest the latter’s soul—in the clutches of their enemy, Salvatore would also be on edge. He could make an allowance for temporary insanity. He forced himself to summon more patience. “Yes, well, in English: The Wizard is blocking all transmission from coming or going in Saber’s presence: He can’t dematerialize out of there; we can’t speak to him telepathically; and it is impossible to conjure any spells on his behalf.” He pointed at the blue vial. “This, however, will level the playing field. One hour after Saber ingests the serum, his body will return to full strength; we will be able to speak to him telepathically, in spite of Nachari’s barriers; and he will have a fighting chance of escaping on his own. I, of course, will be able to create a small diversion to assist him, to summon some sort of magic on his behalf.” He smacked his lips for emphasis. “It’s our best chance—no, it’s our only chance—of getting him back safely.” He locked his gaze with Dane’s and squared his jaw. “Son, you must ingest this serum so that it is thick in your own blood, and then you must feed Saber liberally so he can absorb it through you. No matter what else occurs this night, the potion is the purpose for the meeting. You will either doom or save your brother. Do you understand?”
Dane nodded slowly as he processed Salvatore’s words.
Diablo looked at him suspiciously. Very suspiciously. “You would do that…do this…for Saber?”
Salvatore shrugged languidly. “Why not?”
Diablo looked off into the distance, and something icy and cold glossed over his eyes, darkening his expression. “Did my father really do what he is accused of?”
Salvatore sat up straight. “He did.” Slowly licking his lips, he paused to prolong the moment. “Why?”
“Then Saber was truly born to the house of Jadon?” Diablo asked.
“He was.” Salvatore was practically salivating. Where was this angry male going with this?
Diablo shrugged, feigning indifference, but the quiver in his throat betrayed his regret. “Then he can’t be allowed to live. Saber, that is. He is our enemy—no matter what.”
Salvatore swallowed the sweet secretions in his mouth and shifted erotically in his seat. Well done, Diablo. Well done, he thought.
The rebellious male could not possibly have known that the serum was not exactly as Salvatore had described, that in truth, the serum would make Saber infertile for the next thirty to sixty days, rendering him incapable of siring sons and fulfilling the demands of the Blood Curse. He could not possibly have known that, ultimately, the potion would ensure Saber’s death at the hands of the Blood. And yet, he had spoken wisely.
Loyally.
Salvatore had no intentions of telling Diablo the truth, not right now.
After all, it would only work if Dane could get it into Saber, and as Salvatore had predicted, Dane was beyond desperate to save his beloved sibling, regardless of the change in Saber’s origins. The council could not count on Dane to murder Saber with the serum, so the ruse of transferring the potion as a means of escape, while deceitful at its core, was absolutely necessary. The good of the colony always came first.
Always.
Feeling slightly overwhelmed for the first time, Salvatore held Diablo’s pointed stare with an equal amount of intensity, regarding him for the first time with a modicum of respect, and then he continued to lie for Dane’s benefit: “Of course I would do this for Saber, Diablo—or any other male in the house of Jaegar.” He sought a plausible explanation. “Your brother is innocent; it is your father who has committed treason. As far as I know, Saber has always been loyal to our house; there is no reason to assume that anything has changed.”
In truth, they both knew there was every reason to assume that everything
had changed. Saber was a descendant of Jadon, not Jaegar, and despite his loyalty and upbringing, that meant he had the favor of the celestial gods and the potential backing of the all-powerful king, Napolean Mondragon. Saber had a destiny now and perhaps a reason to embrace a freer, easier life. He could never fully be trusted again. Not to mention, Saber knew far too much about the colony, its history, government, and ways. Saber Alexiares needed to be extinguished at all costs; and clearly, Diablo understood this, too.
Diablo continued to appear calm, almost too calm, yet his pulse sped up audibly. “Of course.”
Tread very carefully, son, and you may yet live, Salvatore said on a private bandwidth, addressing Diablo directly, mind to mind, for the first time.
Diablo winced as understanding slowly began to dawn in his eyes. He swallowed his arrogance and returned Salvatore’s honesty with a question of his own: What is really in the serum, Councilman?
Salvatore smiled broadly, but he did not answer.
Diablo’s head fell forward into his chained hands as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold up.
To whom do you pledge your loyalty? Salvatore asked him. It was a question from a time long gone, from the fateful day of the Blood Curse, when the men in Romania were asked to choose once and for all, to forever serve one prince or the other: Jadon or Jaegar.
I pledge my undying heart—first, last, and only—to the house of my rebirth, to our royal prince Jaegar, to all his descendants, and to the dark lords who have granted me life.
Salvatore let out a profound sigh of relief.
Diablo looked nauseated, slightly pale, but he was indeed a loyal subject: Salvatore, please do not ask Dane to do this thing. Even if he initially thinks he is helping Saber, he will eventually learn the truth. Give the serum to me, and I will see to it that Saber ingests it.
Salvatore shook his head. Saber is accustomed to feeding from Dane, son. He will suspect something if we send you in your brother’s stead.
And Dane—
Must make his own choice. Here and now.