seven
Saber Alexiares sat up on the damnable cot in his cell and stared out one of the two windows above him. It was about ten o’clock at night—don’t ask him how he knew, he just did. As a Dark Vampire, he was the descendant of Jaegar Demir, and while Jaegar may have been an evil prodigy from a once-pure race, he had also been the offspring of celestial gods and humans, before he had bowed down to the demons. In other words, evil or not, Saber still belonged to a race of beings who were intrinsically connected to the earth and stars, the planets around them, and no matter how evil or ruthless he had become, he retained each and every one of those otherworldly abilities. Not to mention, he had lived deep beneath the ground in the dark colony for hundreds of years, where no light or reflections ever crept in; and in the process, he had honed his skills of intuition to a tee. He could divine the time of day or night within seconds of any clock simply by feeling the subtle shifts in the universe around him. It was as easy and natural as breathing.
He stared up at the moon and sky and thought of his brothers. Where were they now? Were they deep in the colony hanging out with other warriors, perhaps shooting pool or sparring in the gym—the Dark Ones almost never slept at night; they preferred to take their repose in the day—or were they out hunting, even as he thought of them, prowling the streets of the surrounding towns in search of fresh blood?
He licked his lips, wishing…dreaming.
Oh, what it would be like to call on his youngest sibling, Dane, to feed—just once more. To reject the meager and ridiculous vials of blood he was given by his captors and feast like a lion in the house of Jaegar. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering what the self-righteous males of the house of Jadon would think of the Dark Ones’ custom, the way they fed: The youngest sibling in every household was a hunter, and the hunters roamed in packs. They stalked their prey from one end of the earth to the next, careful not to leave too many dead bodies in any one city or town in order to avoid detection by humans, and then they gorged on their victims, feeding their feral appetites beyond the point of satiation in order to return to the colony and feed their elder brothers and fathers. It was easier to hunt that way, in smaller, less obvious numbers, and it helped to preserve the population of their prey, leaving more food alive for future generations to consume.
As Saber’s thoughts drifted, branching off from one memory to another, he was suddenly drawn to the sky: The image in the window was changing, metamorphosing, becoming something entirely foreign yet eerily familiar.
Saber swung his feet off the side of the cot, stood on slightly unstable legs, and meandered to the nearest window, stretching his neck to see more clearly. Indeed, the sky had transformed into a slate-gray canvas, deepening by the second, until it emerged an iridescent black. The moon followed suit, transforming in dazzling waves from ivory to seashell white; from white to burgeoning rose; and from rose to deep, scarlet red.
Saber let out a full-throated laugh, reacting to the utter absurdity of it all. Those favored, undeserving bastards, he thought, referring to the males in the house of Jadon. Like them, he was now waiting like a spoiled child playing with a Rubik’s cube, hoping to solve the puzzle: Who would the chosen male be tonight? Which of the cursed celestial gods would bestow some hapless human woman on her new, overbearing, testosterone-laden mate? How would the whole damn Curse play out?
At least it would be entertainment—a distraction in a world that was rapidly becoming unbearable to live in—and what the hell did they plan to do with him anyway? Convert him to the good side? Save his blackened soul? He scoffed irreverently as he continued to stare out the window.
And then he took an unwitting step back.
What. The. Hell.
A globular cluster had appeared across the blackened sky, like a paint-by-number picture filling itself in; and the stars in the cluster were very distinct and familiar: Serpens Caput, the head of a snake, and Serpens Cauda, the tail, both wrapped neatly around Ophiuchus—it was a Serpens Blood Moon.
Saber looped his hands behind his head. He leaned back and roared with laughter. Oh, this was rich! You couldn’t even make this shit up—it just kept getting better and better! Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at Ramsey Olaru. The stoic male was staring through a larger window in the watch room, viewing the celestial show from his more comfortable, privileged vantage point. But surely, even he hadn’t expected this.
“Hey, son of Jadon,” Saber called mockingly.
Ramsey blinked several times, acknowledging that he had heard Saber speak, but he didn’t respond or turn in his direction.
Saber gestured toward the window, knowing the sentinel’s peripheral vision worked just fine. “What the hell is that?” he chided. He pointed at the sky. “That looks like…hell, I don’t know…my astronomy’s a little rusty—we don’t really study the celestial gods too much down in the bowels of the earth, but…” He cleared his throat and took a step closer to the window. “But I could swear that looks like a snake to me. What do you call that again?” He snapped his fingers several times as if trying to remember. “You know, that one god you worship? Oh yeah, Serpens.” He licked his lips in anticipation, and a taunting snarl escaped his throat. “Shit, brother, isn’t that mine? I mean, if I’m this stolen child you think I am.” He leapt from the window to the cell door and snarled at the insolent warrior, his fangs fully extended. “So, where’s my wifey then? Who’s going to get her for me? Because she has to be close by, right? I mean, that’s how the Curse works for you light vampires, true?” He turned around to regard the cell and gestured toward the narrow, unkempt cot. “Can I actually take her in here?” The thought made him audacious. “You guys gonna watch? Learn something?”
Ramsey Olaru twitched, almost imperceptibly. The rage in his hazel eyes shone in an emerging, heated glow. He turned his head slowly in a serpentine motion and scowled with disgust. “Glad you’re enjoying the show, Chief. Because you know what it means, right?”
Saber shrugged, completely unaffected. “Yeah, I’ve been blessed by your gods…twice.” The sarcasm in his voice was abundant.
Ramsey smiled a sinister grin and sauntered toward him. When, at last, they stood on opposite sides of the bars, their eyes locked in a parody of lethal, spiritual combat. “It means I only have to put up with you for thirty more days.” He pointed at the sky through the window. “Napolean will never give the likes of you a human woman, a cherished destiny; and in thirty days, when the blood comes calling—and oh, I think we can both agree that it will come calling—your sorry, meaningless life is going to come to a truly brutal and fitting end.” He leaned forward and winked. “How d’ya like them apples, Chief?”
Saber didn’t even flinch.
There was no way he was going to give the smug bastard the satisfaction.
So what if his life came to an end? As far as he was concerned, it was over anyhow. He swallowed the rising taste of bile in his throat as he thought about the ritual sacrifice, the way in which the Blood would claim him, the endless pain and torture he would be forced to endure on his way out of this world, and then he drew a deep breath, dismissing the thought.
Whatever.
He would cross that bridge when he came to it.
For now, he was far more curious as to how this whole thing would play out. What had Lorna said? Napolean is a just king who rules with a fair hand. The Ancient One wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss tradition and thumb his nose at the will of the gods, and who knew, maybe Saber could play this whole thing to his advantage, work his way out of this claustrophobic cell, spend a few days in the fresh air before he met his final demise.
Right now, there was only one thing burning a hole through his curious mind: Who the hell was the female?
And where was she?
Vanya Demir stood in stunned silence, her fingers still wrapped firmly around the outside handle of the door to the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement. On one hand, she could hardly pull her eyes from the sky, the magnificent splend
or of the stars and the unmitigated power of the gods. On the other hand, she could hardly look away from her wrist.
A feeling of overwhelming excitement…and dread…enveloped her.
It couldn’t be.
It just couldn’t be!
Had the celestial god, Serpens, chosen her, an original female from a time so far removed, to be the mate of one of Napolean’s males? Had this been her fate all along? Had she been chosen that long ago to be the mate of a vampire? But how was that even possible? She had been born before the Curse even happened.
She released the door handle and clasped her head in confusion. And then she held her arm up once again to stare at the strange, enigmatic symbols etched into her flesh.
Serpens.
The god of rebirth.
There was simply no denying it. But how? Who? Where was the male?
Was he a Warrior, a Healer, or a Justice?
Surely, in her case, he would almost have to be a Wizard. She wasn’t sure what she felt, and her body began to sway from the overwhelming emotion and confusion.
She reached once again for the door handle, this time using it to maintain her balance. She was just about to tug on the handle, when all at once, a terrifying voice cut through the silence like thunder. “Do not open that door, Princess!”
Vanya spun around. She would know that alluring tone anywhere. The voice belonged to Napolean Mondragon. She released the handle and squared her shoulders to face the ancient king, her mouth dropping open. “Milord,” she uttered breathlessly.
“What are you doing out here…in the night…all alone?” he asked, his tone revealing his disapproval.
“I…I was—” She stopped short, preferring to query the ancient king instead of being interrogated by him. “I believe, the question, milord, is what are you doing out here in the night, all alone?”
Napolean frowned, clearly having little patience for her diversion. “Marquis called me when you arrived at the airfield to let me know you would be coming to the manse. When you didn’t show up, I became worried. Then I tracked you here.”
Vanya sighed. Of course. She should have known that her family would alert Napolean, and the king would keep careful track of the time. As was his right, the sagacious ruler carried the blood of every member of the house of Jadon in his veins in order to maintain a connection with his subjects, and Vanya was no exception. In fact, he had practically demanded the blood offering as a concession in order to allow her to travel to Romania. As if she could not have pulled rank and insisted. She absently turned over her wrist, remembering the day Napolean had drunk from her vein, and she was immediately reminded of the sky—and the Serpens Blood Moon. She glanced upward. “Have you seen the moon, milord?”
All at once, Napolean looked as if someone had slapped him across the face. Indeed, as if someone had murdered his firstborn child. In a rare moment of unrestrained emotion, he reached out, grabbed her arm, and rotated her wrist. His touch was not at all gentle.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed in admonishment. “Please.”
He dropped her arm as if she had burned him, and then he took an unwitting step backward, his usual calm and regal demeanor disturbed. “Dear gods, Vanya.”
Vanya placed her open palm against her chest and fought to collect her breath. “What is it?”
When he didn’t answer—looked as if he couldn’t even maintain eye contact, let alone answer—she knew something was wrong.
Really, really wrong.
Napolean Mondragon was the embodiment of a noble king, an unshakable warrior, and a hardened ruler—nothing fazed the 2,800-year-old male, and there was no challenge he did not meet head-on. Only now, he looked more like an angry tiger than the king of the Vampyr. Almost robotically, he reached out a second time and took the princess’s wrist. His grip was softer, almost hesitant in nature, but his searching fingers revealed his confusion. He traced the celestial etchings and lines with disbelief. And then he slowly exhaled, his face a mask of both sorrow and determination. “I am so sorry, Princess…for this.”
Vanya drew back in immediate alarm this time. “For what?” she asked. Whatever could this mean? “Napolean? What is it—why are you so upset?” Surely, he wasn’t angry because she might belong to another male, not now, when he had Brooke. She began to lose her patience then. “I demand that you tell me at once, milord.” When he still didn’t speak, she raised her voice. “Say something, Napolean; you’re scaring me!”
Napolean met her eyes with a steely gaze and held up both hands in an act of contrition. It was as if he were apologizing and trying to calm her down at the same time. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but then he obviously thought better of it and looked away. Eventually, he planted his feet and squared his broad shoulders, and when, at last, he met her gaze again, there was a hard, unyielding resolve in his eyes. His jaw was set in a hard line, and his sculpted lips were drawn taut. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered. “Everything is going to be fine. You will not be mated under this Blood Moon, and nothing adverse will happen to you as a consequence. I won’t let it.” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly and added, “This may be a rough thirty days—indeed, it will be a difficult thirty days for many—but your life will not be changed.”
Vanya was just about to respond when a beautiful, tall brunette with long, purposeful strides and stunning sapphire eyes approached the two of them, her limber hands working feverishly to finish tying the knot on the heavy white bathrobe she was wearing. Her feet were clad in soft slippers, and her hair was mussed from sleep. “So, you have already sealed the fate of so many?” she said. Her voice was soft but challenging. “You have unilaterally decided that the gods are wrong and you need to overrule them?”
Napolean took her full measure. “Brooke, you shouldn’t be out in this cold.”
Brooke frowned and shrugged off his words. “Neither should you. Neither should Vanya. But that’s neither here nor there.” She bit her bottom lip while considering her words. “I was in our room, waiting for you to check on the princess, waiting to talk a bit more about the Blood Moon and the male…” Her voice trailed off, and then she cleared her throat. “And then I started thinking about the Curse, the necessity of proximity, and I put two and two together.” Her eyes were full of a deep compassion as they swept briefly downward over Vanya’s wrist. “I thought you might need me.”
By all the gods, it was still hard to witness the undeniable love and rightness of Brooke and Napolean’s union. The king swallowed hard and nodded at his mate. “Thank you.”
Brooke declined her head in a gesture that could only be described as stately; and then she turned her attention to the princess. “Hi, Vanya.”
Vanya regarded the beautiful mate of the Vampyr lord with a slight nod of her head and tried to maintain at least some semblance of dignity under the circumstances. “Greetings, milady.”
Brooke’s expression became all at once serious. “How are you?”
Vanya frowned. “Well, isn’t that the question…” She eyed Napolean warily. “I don’t really know. Perhaps someone would like to tell me what’s going on?”
Brooke appeared completely taken aback, and her hand went up to her chest. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I thought—” She pressed her lips tightly together and held her breath for a moment, refusing to say another word. When any one of them could have cut through the silence with a knife, she turned toward her mate. “Napolean?”
The king gave his destiny a cautionary glance. “Brooke, I appreciate your support—you know I do. But I need to handle this myself.”
Brooke nodded her head and took a deep breath. “Okay…if that is what you need, but I think…” She was so very careful with her words: far, far too careful. “I think you might want to sit with this for a while. There’s still time. Maybe slow down. Bring Vanya inside. Let’s all just take a step back and analyze the situation together.”
The situation?
Vanya didn’t know if she shoul
d be terrified by the cryptic way they were talking or mad as hell at the way they were treating her with kid gloves. Was it because she was an ancient princess, or was she perceived as a woman scorned? Fire began to stir in her belly, and she leveled her gaze at Napolean. “I would like to know what situation your mate is referring to.” She tried to soften her tone and failed. “And I would like to know now, milord.” She pointed directly at the moon then. “For what it is worth, I am not a half-wit, so I gather it has something to do with the moon”—she pointed at her wrist—“and my arm.” She immediately regretted the clip in her demeanor, but truth be told, she was afraid.
Napolean stiffened in surprise, clearly caught off guard by her overt aggression. “Vanya…” He inhaled sharply. “It’s not…personal. I’m not trying to avoid the subject.” His deep onyx eyes, with their rare silver irises, narrowed in concentration. “I am simply trying to think of a way to protect you, as well as the house of Jadon, and all those with a…personal interest in this matter.”
“Protect me from what, Napolean?”
Napolean started to respond, but before he could, Ciopori Demir materialized in the courtyard and quickly rushed to her sister’s side. She swept an anxious arm around Vanya’s waist and laid her head gently on her shoulder. “Sister, are you okay? Napolean just contacted us telepathically; I can hardly believe this is happening.”
Marquis Silivasi followed in quick succession, appearing beside his mate with their son Nikolai still squirming in his arms. “We need to get her out of here”—he spoke directly to Napolean while inclining his head toward the door to the chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement, and then he growled—“away from that door…and that male…now!”
Napolean cleared his throat. “Watch yourself, Warrior. Remember to whom you’re speaking.”