Finally! Lucian thought.
But could Sonja make it to the gateway before the final werewolf ripped her to shreds?
Lucian strained to get the remaining beast in his sights, but the crafty wolf zigzagged back and forth behind Hecate, making a clean shot difficult. Lucian’s mouth went dry as he waited anxiously for his shot. He had only one bolt left. If he missed, there would no time to reload. And if he hit Sonja or her horse by accident…
He didn’t even want to think about that.
Light spilled from the open gate onto the drawbridge. Hecate’s hooves tore up the gravelly road, spewing a cloud of dust in her wake. Her face hidden behind her crested metal helmet, Sonja spurred the horse toward sanctuary. Her midnight cloak hung in shreds from her steel-plated shoulders. The bloody sword was poised and ready. Sensing that its prey was on the verge of escape, the final werewolf let out a deafening roar and leapt through the air at the endangered horsewoman. Serrated fangs gleamed within its gaping jaws.
Lucian squeezed the trigger.
Cheers erupted from the ramparts and balconies as Sonja galloped through the half-open gates. Right behind her, the airborne wolf took a silver bolt to the skull. It slammed headfirst into drawbridge and skidded through the gate before coming to a rest inside the courtyard. Alarmed Death Dealers charged toward the felled beast, their swords and battle-axes raised high, but there was no need. Canine fur and muscle melted away as the lifeless carcass reverted to human form.
Yes! Lucian rejoiced. I killed the monster just in time!
His crude leather boots touched down onto the courtyard as he dropped fifty feet to land before the open gate. He looked quickly to see if any more beasts were coming, but it appeared that he had indeed slain the last of the pack. Guards hurried to close the doors and bolt them securely once more. He heard the portcullis being lowered back into place. A horn informed all within earshot that Castle Corvinus was secure once more.
The crisis was over.
Sonja pulled back on her reins, bringing Hecate to a halt only a few feet away from Lucian. He stared up at the imposing armored warrior upon the black steed. Her blade and plate armor were splattered with crimson, but she appeared personally unharmed. A molded steel breastplate fit her shapely torso to perfection. A diagonal sash stretched across her chest, holding onto the tattered remains of her cloak. Fierce azure eyes peered out from behind her masklike helmet. He heard her breathing hard.
She reached up and removed the helmet, exposing a face of exquisite beauty. Lustrous dark brown hair, the color of stained walnut, framed her elegant features. Her pale white skin was as smooth and flawless as polished alabaster. Her fiery eyes burned like sapphires. The delicate points of her incisors peeked out from beneath her ruby lips. The excitement of her close brush with death added a rosy flush to her cheeks as she gazed down at Lucian with icy disdain. A crowd of soldiers, servants, and courtiers gathered around them, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves.
“Have you nothing better to do, blacksmith,” she asked coolly, “than play with weapons of war?” She casually lobbed the gore-smeared sword at him, much to the amusement of the vampires in the vicinity, who chuckled at her quip. Her azure eyes gradually faded back to their customary shade of chestnut brown. “At least make yourself useful.”
He plucked the blade from the air, holding her look as long as he dared. The hubbub of voices muted as the crowd parted to admit Viktor and his retinue. A phalanx of Death Dealers followed after the lord of the castle. Lucian was careful to stay out of their way.
“A little gratitude,” Viktor chided his daughter, “to the one who saved your life.”
She burned him with a look. “I needed no saving.”
Viktor took her defiance in stride, perhaps attributing her attitude to wounded pride. He was known to be indulgent of his headstrong daughter, at least to a degree. Letting the matter drop, he turned his attention to the slain werewolf instead. Striding over to the corpse, he yanked the crossbow bolt from its deceptively human-looking skull. Bits of bloody brain tissue clung to the quarrel’s silver point. He toyed with the missile as he turned toward Lucian. His face bore a quizzical expression.
“Tell me, Lucian,” he asked benignly. “Does it burden your heart to kill your own kind?”
“Not at all,” the blacksmith insisted. In truth, he resented being compared to such a creature, but, in deference to the Elder’s rank, he kept his tone suitably respectful. “They’re mindless beasts, milord. No brethren of mine.”
He spoke sincerely and from the heart. As a blacksmith, rather than a warrior, he had never had occasion to slay a werewolf before, but now that he had done so, he felt not a twinge of remorse. Indeed, he had spent his entire life trying to kill the wolf inside him—and to put his shameful ancestry behind him. That he had now literally taken arms against his loathsome cousins struck him as both fitting and something to be proud of, especially under the circumstances. As far as Lucian was concerned, Sonja’s life was immeasurably more valuable than that of any mangy animal.
“Really?” Viktor stepped closer. He sounded intrigued by Lucian’s answer—and perhaps a trifle suspicious. Narrow eyes searched the lycan’s face for any hint of deception, but Lucian stood his ground. His bearded face gave nothing away.
Sonja observed the exchange for a moment, then seemed to lose interest. “Father,” she addressed her sire, before spurring her weary mount toward the stables at the rear of the bailey. Lucian watched her regal form depart, with perhaps more appreciation than was prudent for one of his station. Belatedly realizing his mistake, he looked away from the retreating noblewoman, only to find Viktor scowling at him. Clearly, the blacksmith’s attentions had not escaped the Elder’s notice.
Fool! Lucian castigated himself. What were you thinking?
“You are a credit to your race,” Viktor said frostily. “Do you know how to remain so? Keep your eyes to the ground.” He gestured at the dead werewolf with the bloody arrow. “Get rid of this carrion.”
Lowering his eyes, Lucian knelt to carry out the Elder’s command. The lifeless carcass did not feel half as heavy as the terrible weight of Viktor’s eyes upon him. Lucian prayed that he had not placed his very position in the castle in jeopardy. As every lycan knew, a vampire’s memory could be both long and unforgiving.
I must be more careful in the future, he vowed. Or risk losing everything.
Chapter Three
The great hall of the keep dwarfed any other chamber in the castle. Ponderous granite pillars supported the high vaulted ceiling, while arched doorways led off to murky passageways lit by racks of torches. Dried rushes carpeted the floor. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, holding arrays of beeswax candles. Rusty chains and manacles dangled from the pillars, as a reminder that all who prospered within the keep did so only by the sufferance of the Elders. The somber stone walls had witnessed bloody executions as well as courtly celebrations.
Sonja paid little attention to the familiar surroundings, which had been her only home for more than two centuries now. She strode briskly through the hall after leaving Hecate in the care of her grooms; to her relief, the horse’s wounds did not appear life-threatening. Still encased in her gore-splattered armor, Sonja hoped to make it to the privacy of her own chambers without further incident. She wanted nothing more than to shed her metal carapace and perhaps indulge in a soothing tub. Alas, her father intercepted her before she reached the spiral staircase leading up to her bedchamber on the topmost floor of the keep.
“You were sorely missed at Council,” he reproached her.
She was in no mood for another one of his lectures. “There are other demands on my time, you know.”
“Yes, I see.” He swept a withering gaze over her battle gear. He had never approved of her dressing like a Death Dealer. “I do hope then that you enjoyed your little moonlight ride.”
“I was patrolling,” she said indignantly. As always, she chafed at her father’s overprotective ways. Why shou
ldn’t she be a warrior like Amelia or her mother? Other female vampires served among the Death Dealers. Why was her father so determined to mold her into some pampered aristocratic lady instead? She couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime as a dainty creature of the court, let alone eternity.
“You were disobeying,” he shot back. He came up beside her. “Time and again, I’ve told you to stay within these walls. You risk too much for a father to ignore. You will leave the wolves to the Death Dealers.”
She turned to confront him. “Why should my risk be less than theirs?”
“They are not my daughters!” His voice quaked with emotion, betraying the deep love he felt for her. The outburst caught them both by surprise, and he needed a moment to compose himself. “And they are not council members. You are. And one night you will become an Elder, your birthright should you endure long enough.” He leaned toward her, intent on making her understand. “Sonja, you are well thought of at Council, but that is a precarious thing. They grow tired of your games, your perpetual absences. The dangers of the forest are no greater than those of the council chamber. You must learn the dance of politics, to be ruthless and cunning. And, above all else, you must be loyal to your family. To me.”
Sonja held her tongue. She had not been unmoved by her father’s spontaneous display of emotion; despite their frequent quarrels, she never doubted that he cared for her profoundly. And yet his talk of duty and politics bored her to tears, and sometimes made her feel like one of the caged werewolves in the dungeon. Palace intrigues and diplomatic maneuvers held no attraction for her. Where was the life, the passion, in such bloodless games? The prospect of wasting her precious immortality thus filled her soul with dread. She’d sooner be chased through the forest by a dozen werewolves than suffer through another interminable council meeting….
Why couldn’t her father understand that?
Instead he stepped forward and cupped her chin in his hand. A little more warmth crept into his stern voice and gaze.
“After all,” he reminded her, “without the bonds between us, we are no better than the beasts at our door.”
Viktor’s ominous warning echoed in Lucian’s mind as he returned to his smithy. The naked body of the dead werewolf was slung over his shoulder. He was anxious to dispose of the corpse, if only to remove any reminders of the incident from the Elder’s sight. Lucian continued to lament his own stupidity; whatever goodwill he had incurred by coming to Sonja’s rescue had been lost by his careless behavior in the aftermath of that event. He wondered whether Viktor would ever truly trust him again.
I might as well have shot that silver quarrel through my own brow.
He flung the carcass into the smoldering bed of his forge, then pumped the bellows to stoke the flames to a roaring blaze. As he somberly watched the bright orange fire consume the corpse, he had to admit that the burning body looked disturbingly human. Was it possible that some trace of a soul still lurked within the savage hearts of the werewolves? Lucian didn’t want to think so and yet… where did his own mind and spirit come from if not from the blood and loins of a creature such as this?
The stench of charred flesh, as well as his own unwanted doubts, drove him to seek the fresher air of the courtyard outside his smithy. Glancing around, he saw that, despite the excitement earlier, the castle had fallen back into its usual nightly routines. Lycan slaves labored to rebuild a watchtower that had fallen into grievous disrepair. Their dirty bodies drenched in sweat, the men dragged and pushed massive slabs of granite up steep wooden ramps and ladders. Other slaves mixed enormous quantities of mortar, which were hauled up onto the scaffolding. Cranes and pulleys lifted the larger blocks, which dangled ominously over the courtyard below. Grunting workers manned the ropes and tread wheels.
Studded leather harnesses were strapped to the slaves’ hairy chests, while fraying wool trousers satisfied the demands of decency. Moon shackles pricked their necks, keeping their inner wolves safely caged. The brands upon their arms bore the initials of one of the three vampire Elders; Marcus and Amelia had embraced with enthusiasm Viktor’s idea of turning the lycans into slaves, so that each of them now claimed equal portions of the breed as their personal property. The slaves’ eyes bore the numbed, hopeless look of men whose futures held nothing but an eternity of endless toil. Immortality for such as these was not a blessing but a curse.
A shaggy blue-eyed laborer, who had been christened Xristo by his masters, looked near the limits of his endurance. Gasping in exhaustion, he chipped away at a crumbling wall with a pickax in order to clear a space for the replacement stones. Perspiration dripped from his light brown bangs and he lowered his pick long enough to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He leaned his muscular frame up against a wooden ramp as he paused to catch his breath.
This did not sit well with Kosta, the sadistic overseer in charge of the project. Unforgiving gray eyes glared at Xristo from beneath heavy black brows. A long white scar, left over from his mortal days, ran down one side of his grizzled face, which gave him the look of a mortal in his late fifties. His stiff gray hair was cropped close to his skull. Jet-black plate armor added to his intimidating aspect. Frown lines were etched deeply into his saturnine countenance. The sneer on his lips made it clear that he despised his lycan charges nearly as much as they hated and feared him.
His fist tightened on the grip of a thick leather whip. Silver glinted at the tip of the whip as he cracked it loudly against Xristo’s face. The lash opened a deep cut in the lycan’s cheek. The pickax crashed against the rubble as Xristo cried out in pain and clutched his face. Blood seeped through his dirty fingers.
Lucian winced in sympathy. He knew Xristo casually, as he knew most of the lycans in the castle. He didn’t deserve that, he thought angrily.
The other lycans backed away from their bleeding comrade, averting their eyes from the ugly spectacle. Kosta was infamous for his harsh ways and short temper; rumor had it his only son had been killed by a werewolf centuries ago and he had been taking out his grief and bitterness on the lycans ever since. None wanted to share Xristo’s punishment.
Lucian couldn’t blame the other slaves. If he was smart, he would follow their example. Stay out of this, he cautioned himself. It’s none of your affair.
“Lazy mongrel!” Kosta snarled. “You’ll rest when I tell you to… and not before!”
He raised the lash to administer another vicious blow. Before he could crack the whip again, however, a strong arm seized hold of his wrist.
“That’s enough,” Lucian said.
Kosta erupted in fury. Spittle sprayed from his lips as he yanked his hand free from Lucian’s grip. “You dare raise your hand to me?”
He drew his sword.
Lucian refused to back down. He realized he was taking his life in his hands, but he wasn’t about to let this brute flay Xristo to the bone for no reason. His dark eyes burned as hot as his forge. “I said, that’s enough.”
Kosta swung his sword at Lucian’s neck, and for an instant, the blacksmith expected his head to go flying across the courtyard. He had heard tales of severed heads that had lived for a heartbeat or two after being chopped off. Would he survive long enough to see his own decapitated body crumple to the ground?
The sword halted at the last moment, coming to rest against Lucian’s jugular. The edge of the blade pressed against his skin, just above his leather collar. The touch of the sword reminded him of the silver spikes forever pressing against his throat, but the threat it posed was far more immediate. Lucian was only too aware that Kosta could end his life with just a flick of his wrist. He thought briefly of the knife in his belt but knew better than to draw it. Pulling a knife on a vampire was a sure invitation to death by torture.
The sneering vampire searched Lucian’s face for the fear he expected, but the blacksmith refused to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t even flinch. Groveling for mercy would do nothing to soften the heart of a heartless bastard like Kosta, so why bother? If he was to die this n
ight, Lucian resolved, he would at least do so with some vestige of his pride intact.
Like a man, not an animal.
Disappointment flickered across Kosta’s face. Snorting in disgust, he drew the sword away and returned it to his hip. “The master’s dog,” he growled at Lucian.
Apparently, he didn’t think killing Lucian was worth risking Viktor’s displeasure. Lucian wasn’t quite sure that Viktor would truly be that unhappy if he perished, especially after what had happened earlier this evening, but he chose not to contradict Kosta.
“You will not always be his favorite,” the overseer warned. “And when you fall, I will be there.”
“Let us hope so,” Lucian murmured under his breath. Peering past Kosta, he was glad to see that Xristo had made himself scarce. With luck, the overseer’s ire was now directed at Lucian alone, so that the other lycan would not receive any more lashings tonight. Lucian could only hope that his foolish bravado had done one poor soul some good, even as he suspected that he had just made a lasting enemy of the brutal slavemaster.
At this rate, I’ll have offended the entire coven before the sun rises.
Kosta glared at Lucian, trying to read some hidden message of defiance in the lycan’s words, then wheeled about and stormed away in high dudgeon. He barked furiously at the milling slaves, who were doing their best to keep to the shadows. Lucian wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a few furtive looks of admiration from his fellow lycans.
“What are you looking at, you worthless curs!” Kosta raged. He cracked his whip above their heads. “Back to work!”
Chapter Four
As was tradition, the High Council had convened in the crypt of the Elders, above the buried tombs of Marcus and Amelia. Viktor presided over the session from an imposing granite throne. An ornate capital V was inscribed on the high stone back of the throne. Stone-faced Death Dealers, as well as lycan sentries in leather armor, stood stiffly around the perimeter of the mausoleum, as immobile as the marble columns supporting the domed ceiling. The highborn lords and ladies of the Council were seated facing the throne in two rows of six chairs each. Embroidered pillows cushioned their high-backed seats. Burning torches and braziers cast dancing shadows upon the somber gray walls. Mosaic tiles, running around the base of the dome, depicted the history of the coven. Capering skeletons symbolized the fearsome plague that had given birth to the immortals, while subsequent panels celebrated the rise of the vampires, the capture of William, and the ongoing war against the werewolves. Tanis stood beside Viktor, transcribing the proceedings for posterity. His quill pen scratched against an unrolled parchment. Looking out over the crypt, Viktor was irked to see that one of the council members’ seats was conspicuously empty.