Damien licked his cracked lips and croaked out an affirmative sound. “But you can use it on the sons of Jadon?”
“Why not?” Salvatore snapped. “That was the point of all that sacrifice!” He took a deep, calming breath. “Yes, Damien; if we can get it into the bodies of our enemies, we may use it.” He smiled then, his flash of anger gone. “And that is where you come in. That is where Dane and Diablo come in.”
Damien swallowed a bit of bile, clearly beginning to put two and two together. “You want Dane or Diablo to get Saber to ingest the potion?” He shook his head in confusion. “How? Why would Saber do that? I mean, not only do our males drink only blood for sustenance, but it would be suicide.”
Salvatore rose languidly and turned to face his prisoner. “This is true, but Saber will never know that he’s ingesting a foreign substance. If the host drinks the potion—and Saber drinks the host’s blood—then Saber, in effect, drinks the potion. Do you see how simple that is?” Salvatore knew he didn’t need to explain any further. Damien was rebellious; he wasn’t stupid. The male would understand exactly what the sorcerer was saying: He was referring to the ancient custom in the house of Jaegar of younger siblings feeding their fathers and brothers.
“But you said the Dark Lords forbade it—our own males taking the potion,” Damien said in a weak voice, interrupting Salvatore’s thoughts.
“They do,” Salvatore replied.
“Then, if Dane or Diablo ingest the poison in order to feed it to Saber—”
“Then Dane or Diablo will die,” Salvatore supplied.
Damien nearly shook with anger. Nearly. He was far too weak to pull it off with any aplomb. “You can’t ask me to send one of my innocent sons to his death.”
Salvatore laughed then. “Oh, but I think I can. You see, your own death is simply a formality, a matter of going before the high court to receive your sentence. Dane and Diablo? Well, they are not yet a foregone conclusion.” He strode across the room in three giant purposeful steps and snatched Damien by the jaw, his claws extending and biting into the tender flesh. “You may save one son, my treacherous brother: Dane or Diablo. The choice is yours. Choose who will feed Saber and die and who your council will allow to live.” He paused for effect, then drew a jagged claw across the male’s face, before releasing his hold. “If you do not choose either son, we will feed one the potion anyway and slay them both.” His words were final, venomous, and harshly clipped. “But do it soon, Father, for we need to get to Saber before he gets to his destiny, if you understand my meaning.”
Damien looked positively pale, aside from being drained of ninety percent of his blood, and Salvatore almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
It must be hard to lose a son…but then, the sorcerer had much bigger fish to fry and no time for communal compassion: They had to plot and scheme.
Whether Dane or Diablo acted as host was a small matter. Very small. They still had to find a way to get the potion into Saber, and that would take some doing. It would take a missive attached to a white flag, perhaps in the talons of a falcon, being sent to the fair and just Napolean Mondragon: a brother’s plea for a final meeting with his long-lost sibling. A promise of truce between houses that had stood in deadly opposition for as long as the Vampyr could be counted. It would require mercy and diplomacy, a delegation of dark soldiers meeting light warriors underneath the night stars in the Red Canyons that stood as a middle ground between the darker and lighter factions of their kind, a temporary cease-fire that had never before been achieved.
Would the ancient king go for it? Salvatore wondered. Would he allow the newest member of his house to meet with a former brother, a current enemy, in order to say good-bye, to find peace…or closure…or whatever the hell a king with a soul would call such nonsense.
Salvatore and the Dark Ones’ council would have to make a perfect offer. They would have to get Dane or Diablo close enough to feed Saber, and they would have to convince the male to do it, no matter what occurred, without letting him know that his brotherly kiss would, in fact, be a kiss of death for both of them.
Yes, Damien needed to choose quickly, perhaps even wisely.
And then Salvatore and the council needed to act.
Definitively.
And pray for a king’s compassion.
nine
Vanya Demir dragged a narrow wingback chair against the door of Napolean’s upper level guest bedroom and securely wedged the top beneath the doorknob. Not that the chair would actually stop a determined vampire from entering, but gods be merciful, she had to have a moment alone.
She had just excused herself from Napolean’s living room, begging a momentary retreat, and she had no doubt that her family, and her king, were still going at it, discussing her life.
“We will protect you, Vanya,” Marquis had insisted.
“You will need to stay here at the compound where you are more heavily guarded,” Napolean had insisted.
“I will not let him anywhere near you,” Ciopori had asserted. As if her sister was any match for a Dark One.
Brooke was the only one who had acted with objectivity or restraint, suggesting that Vanya should be allowed to think and decide for herself; and that had caused more than a little friction between the queen and Napolean. No doubt, they would be talking late into the night, long after everyone else went to sleep.
And that wasn’t even the half of it.
It seemed like every interested soul in Dark Moon Vale, including a swarm of Master Warriors who had somehow figured it out, had felt the need to weigh in on the princess’s predicament, until half of those gathered in Napolean’s front room were practically strangers, many of whom were speaking at the same time.
Enough already!
Vanya had needed a break.
It wasn’t like she was a child. After all, she was 2,830 years old. Granted, she had spent 2,810 of those years sleeping in the ground, but the point was: She was hardly wet behind the ears. Surely, she could apply some measure of reason and analysis on her own.
So, Saber Alexiares was a dark soul.
A completely rotten, unredeemable fiend who had tortured, slain, and violated innocence his entire long existence—and who knew what those words really meant in terms of the details concerning his abhorrent life. She didn’t want to contemplate his history, not right now. But she was able to contemplate the fact that he was born to the house of Jadon, not the house of Jaegar. She was able to consider the fact that Napolean had spared him from immediate execution for some reason—perhaps the king felt he was not entirely beyond redemption. And, she was certainly able to understand that, like the dragon from her dream, he was cornered in a dark cave, having never known the light, and there were too many unknown variables to draw final conclusions just yet. The celestial gods were not idiots by any stretch of the imagination.
Vanya padded across the room and took a leisurely position on the bed, reclining atop the goose-down comforter. She immediately fluffed a small, rectangular pillow and snuggled into the embroidered fabric. Staring up at the coffered ceiling, she took a deep breath and tried to still her racing heart.
Dear gods, she had a mate; she was another male’s destiny. In her wildest imagination, and especially after the hurtful fiasco that had been her brief relationship with Napolean, the revelation was wholly unexpected.
And yes, she understood full well that this was a dangerous and depraved being. For all that was holy, she had known her brother Jaegar in the flesh…and at his worst. She had witnessed the murder of her half-celestial sisters. She had lived during a time when war was blood sport used to avert boredom, and women were taken and used like chattel. She had known the best and the worst that the soul was capable of, but she could not dismiss the fact that she had also always belonged to someone else. Her family. Her father, the king. Her people and their kingdom. Her duty and her honor…
But never to a man.
Never to a living, breathing, sentient male wi
th flesh and blood and struggles of his own.
She remembered the fire and the passion that had come from Napolean’s hands; the gentleness and brutality that dwelled in the same set of fingers; the need and the desperation that had shone in his eyes. The animal beneath the man. The vulnerability beneath the strength.
And she trembled.
What if—just what if—there was something universally male or untouched in Saber Alexiares? What if—just what if—there was some place in the entire vast universe that might belong solely, and without obligation, to her?
Someone?
Vanya had never had a man, a friend, a child…anything…to call her own. She had been born to responsibility and duty. She had been raised to be poised, mature, and regal. She had been reared to serve, to give, and to persevere. Hers was a life that had always belonged to everything and everyone but her. There were no breaks or reprieves, no true sabbaticals from the seriousness of theology and study. There were only her people and her royal blood. Her never-ending sense of purpose. And while that was fine—it was woven into the very fabric of who she was, and she embraced it—was she not also a woman? A person? A living, breathing, feeling entity as well? And what about her dream—the treasure?
Vanya rubbed her slender palms over her face and tried to clear her mind.
Who was this dark, fire-breathing dragon? And why wasn’t she qualified to discern the truth of his embittered soul on her own? The more she thought about it, the idea of him reclining on a stiff, narrow cot in an ancient, barren cell, less than a mile away, the more she felt drawn to see for herself.
She didn’t need to be a vampire to cloak her appearance, to move as the mist through a dark, tree-filled forest; she had centuries of magic in her repertoire. She was an original female, the daughter of King Sakarias and Queen Jade, descended from a long line of celestial gods and humans—the goddess Cygnus and her human mate Mateo, to be exact—and her powers were formidable. Especially since she had been honing them at the Romanian University.
Swallowing hard to suppress her fear, Vanya summoned her determination as well as her courage: Yes, she would enter the dragon’s lair on her own; she would remain quiet as a mouse and equally unobtrusive; and she would see for herself what the Serpens Blood Moon was all about. She would look the devil in the eyes and measure the full blackness of his soul. And she didn’t need her king, or her sister, or her brother-in-law, or the house of Jadon’s keepers to assist her.
Vanya Demir created a holographic double of her body. She left the double in the guest bed; slipped through the wall like a ghostly apparition; and made her way down the long, narrow hall, with its dimly lit sconces and outrageously expensive carpets, headed for the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement, for Saber Alexiares’s holding cell.
Before she opened the heavy outer door, she conjured a simple but powerful sleeping spell, the equivalent of sprinkling celestial slumbering dust around and about the bodies of Saber’s guards, Ramsey and Saxson Olaru; and the two sentinels were instantly sleeping deeply, long before they had a chance to notice her entry. In fact, Ramsey had fallen asleep so quickly, he was still sitting upright in his comfortable chair, still facing the cell from his vigilant position.
It was late, around eleven forty-five at night, and to Vanya’s absolute relief, the fire-breathing dragon was sleeping soundly as well—at least he appeared to be sleeping soundly. As her ethereal form began to take more substantive shape, she tiptoed cautiously toward the horizontal cot, ever so careful not to wake the sleeping vampire, and then she peered curiously at his prone form.
The Dark One was lying on his back, partially turned on his left side, with his left arm bent at the elbow and stretched in such a way that he could cradle his own head. He wasn’t chained, either to the wall or the bed, but there were enough diamonds embedded in the stone walls and the floors to keep him restrained without the use of additional manacles. Not to mention, he appeared to be substantially weakened, as one who was missing an extensive amount of life-force or chi. Clearly, the warriors were keeping him drained of vital blood, denying him much needed sustenance. Vanya grimaced—what an awful state of affairs. How sad that such dire measures were clearly necessary.
As she bent to take her first true look at his face, her breath caught in her throat: The sight of the male was jarring, intimidating, in many ways, yet deeply stirring to her own blood and soul. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she swallowed convulsively.
Saber’s hair was thick and wavy, almost unruly in its mass, and it hung just to his shoulders, as far as she could tell from that angle. And the unnatural highlights—the dense, unmistakable red bands woven throughout the raven tresses—were positively unsettling. Dear gods, he looked just like a Dark One, just like a cursed male from the house of Jaegar. And of course, that was what he was—or at least, what he had once been.
She fought not to shudder as she took another careful step forward, and her hand rose inadvertently to cover her mouth.
His nose was as straight as an arrow, rugged yet nicely refined, and perfect in its shape and structure. His cheekbones were positively chiseled, as were his jaw and the slight indentation in his chin. His mouth was set in a harsh, cruel line, almost contemptuous, even in his sleep, but his lips were firm and well filled out, shapely in their own right. Vanya drew back in surprise. By all the gods, he was disturbingly handsome—in the most treacherous type of way. Everything about him screamed danger.
And excitement.
She followed the angles of his face down to his neck, making note of the copper hue of his skin—and just how was it that a male who lived underground maintained such a rich complexion? She paused when her gaze traveled to his raised arm, then narrowed in on the distinct lines of his musculature, all that raw power barely concealed beneath smooth, unmarred skin. It was surprising to see such raw perfection—not that she had expected a mass of scars and warts, but still, she felt as if she were staring at an artist’s rendition of an anatomy chart rather than a ruthless male who had lived a life of violence and brutality. The various contours of his build were clearly defined beneath a fine, silken covering, and every striation of his muscles was readily apparent, as if sculpted by a potter’s hands, into taut, lean tissue.
Sweeping her long, flaxen hair behind her shoulders, Vanya took a cautious step back.
He was dangerous, indeed.
Lethal, without question.
For more reasons than one.
Saber’s spirit radiated around him, and it was a synthesis of fire and lava and dark swirling smoke. This male had known no gentleness in his life, no mercy or kindness—or peace. He was simply ash and stone in a flawless, hardened shell. Feeling the sudden need to draw fresh air, Vanya slowly backed away, picking up her pace as she headed toward the cell door. She had seen quite enough: an outer beauty concealing an inner fury. She would conjure her magic once more and slip through the bars undetected, and then she would quickly retreat—perhaps she would run—back to Napolean’s manse, where she would, indeed, allow her loved ones to provide the protection they were offering.
Somehow the fantasy of the male was more glorious, and far safer, than the reality.
As Vanya struggled to remember the words of the incantation she needed to keep her form fluid and ghost-like, to allow an ethereal transition that would take her safely through the bars, she all at once heard the most terrifying sound imaginable behind her: the soft, almost inaudible rustling of a body rising from its slumber, the low pad of bare feet finding purchase on a stone floor.
And then just like that, Saber was there.
Behind her.
Pushing up against her. His hard, lean body pressing into hers, trapping her against the bars.
She gasped. And she would have screamed…fought…tried to run, except the most vivid images from her dream instantly replayed in her mind: I step back in alarm. The creature is fierce, and I know that he will destroy me if I let him. Slowly, ever so carefully, I begin to retreat. M
y feet are now bare, and the rocky floor is rough against my skin, tearing at my flesh and causing me great distress, but I am too afraid to cry out, lest the vicious beast pounce in response to my fear.
Trying her best to remain calm, she focused on what was happening here and now. By the measure of his chin against her hair, he was a full head taller than she, perhaps six-foot-one, give or take an inch, and his breathing was silent and steady, measured only by the rise and fall of his powerful chest against her much narrower back.
“You must be Vanya,” he whispered in a deep, foreboding voice, his warm breath wafting over her ear. His tone was as silken as it was threatening, and Vanya cleared her throat, hoping to sound confident and unafraid.
“And how would you know this?” she asked, a purposeful hint of arrogance in her tone.
He practically purred his words. “How could I not? Jaegar. Jadon. Ciopori. Vanya”—he rolled her name off his tongue as he nipped at the lobe of her ear—“your likenesses were recorded in the annals of history…stored in the colony’s library.”
The thought made her sick—so all the Dark Ones knew her by sight then?
She couldn’t dwell on it now. She was too busy remembering to breathe; recalling her dream; replaying the scorching, excruciating fire and pain…trying desperately not to get burned.
“I see,” she whispered.
“Do you?” He tilted his hips forward ever so slightly. “The real question is—why are you here, sweet Princess?”
Vanya nearly forgot herself. “Stand back, soldier!” Her tone was too impassioned—too fearful. She immediately softened her voice and murmured, “Please.”