Blood Redemption

  He didn’t await their reply. Rather, he lowered his head, his eyes flashing the slightest feral red, and stared pointedly at Vanya. “Whether he knows it or not—whether he owns it or not—Saber Alexiares was born with a soul.” He turned his attention to Ramsey. “That means that he was born with the capacity and potential to love.” Moving his attention to Marquis, he added, “Whether or not he understands that he possesses this capacity is not the issue I am wrestling with.” Clearing his throat, he continued: “After eight hundred years with his dark father and six hundred years with his brothers, there is a very good chance that what Saber feels for them is beyond loyalty, imprinting, and survival. There is a very good chance that in his own demented way, he loves these males deeply. And when they are gone, he may grieve just as profoundly as we would, following the loss of one of our own.” He chewed his lip in concentration, carefully considering his words. “If we deny him this meeting and his family is executed, they will become martyrs in his eyes; and he will forever blame the house of Jadon for a pain he does not even comprehend.” He turned toward Vanya then. “If he is not already lost to us forever—and he very well may be—his rage will most certainly consume him. His loyalty to the house of Jaegar will be set in stone, and any evolvement of his soul outside of their influence will be impossible.”

  When Brooke brushed her hand lightly along his shoulder in an obvious gesture of support, he visibly relaxed beneath her touch. “There is also the matter of repercussions: What impact will such a meeting of houses have on Mr. Alexiares?” He regarded Marquis with scrutiny then. “I agree with you, Master Warrior, there is an ulterior motive involved—the Dark Ones are always up to something. Nonetheless, we are capable of containing the situation if necessary.” His eyes flashed a strange gold and yellow, reminiscent of the sun’s rays at high noon, before settling back into a dark, regal hue. “I am more than capable of containing—or destroying—our enemy.” He stiffened. “As you know, I don’t want to risk the collateral damage of so many human lives should I have to unleash my fury in the valley, but I will if I have to.”

  Marquis’s sharp inhale made it clear that there would be no argument from the Ancient Master Warrior. Napolean’s prowess in battle was legendary—his overwhelming facility for lethality and power beyond what anyone in the house of Jadon could even comprehend.

  “I…” Ramsey tested his voice before proceeding. “I understand that, milord; however, the cost in human life, in natural destruction—perhaps even to your own health should you have to go there—might be more of a risk than any of us are willing to take.”

  Napolean appeared to be considering Ramsey’s words. “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “However, if the Dark Ones are planning some sort of subterfuge—a trick or worse, an attack—then it is more than likely against Saber, himself.” He absently braced his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “They do not want this male—who has lived among them, studied their histories and secrets, shared in their customs and ceremonies—waltzing off into the sunset to live among their enemy, knowing he could potentially share all he has learned with our house. Believe me, whether they try something tomorrow night or not, they want Saber Alexiares dead.”

  Vanya shivered unwittingly, rubbing her arms with her hands to generate heat.

  “This may be the edge we need,” Napolean explained.

  “How so?” Ramsey asked.

  “A chink in the armor, so to speak,” Napolean answered. “If they make a move against Saber, then they also make it clear that he is no longer welcome among them. If they actually try to kill him, then he learns that his loyalty, and his unconscious love, are not shared by his dark brothers. They leave us an opening…they leave him an opening…to begin absorbing information from a different vantage point: one that at least allows the possibility that he was not born there, and may be other than what he assumes.” He rubbed his temples wearily then. “It isn’t much. The male is as hardwired as I have ever seen, nurture trumping nature at its max; but just the same, it may be a crucial opportunity if we ever hope to make any inroads with the soldier.”

  For some reason, the king’s words must have triggered a momentary lapse in reason within Ramsey Olaru. He spit out his toothpick—on Napolean’s floor—and snarled, “I gotta be honest; I’ve watched the bastard day in and day out for a while now, and I’m not so sure he still has a soul to be saved.” His muscles bunched and rippled as he drew to his full height. “Frankly, I’m against all of it. I say the male never gets anywhere near Vanya, and the Dark Ones can take their delegation and shove it where the sun don’t shine. Literally.” His voice dropped to a lethal purr. “If it please you, milord; my job, my sworn duty, is to kill Dark Ones. If you recall, I spend my evenings, or at least I used to before I became a glorified babysitter, arranging hunting parties to troll the local towns and counties, extinguishing dark vampires. Tracking them, hunting them, ensnaring them whenever necessary, so I can deliver their hearts and their heads back to hell. Now, you want your warriors to just stand back and let them waltz into neutral territory, knowing damn well they’re planning an offensive, all so we might save this one unredeemable soul.” His lips twitched in anger. “Well, I say the cost is too high. The risk is too great. I say no to it all.”

  The king’s jaw tightened, and his own voice took on a dangerous edge. “Your allegiance is to the house of Jadon first, Ramsey.”

  Ramsey turned on his heel and took an aggressive step toward Napolean. “You’re damn right it is!”

  “And Saber is born of this house!”

  “The hell he is!” Ramsey shouted in an unprecedented display of insubordination.

  Napolean dropped his own tone to a low, lethal whisper. “At any rate, you will obey your Sovereign.”

  Ramsey seemed to inhale Napolean’s words and swish them around in his mouth, trying feverishly to swallow them, before failing. In a barely audible tone, he murmured, “Maybe. Maybe not on this one.”

  Napolean’s head turned to the side in an eerily serpentine motion, and a terrifying pop, like that of an amplifier blowing a fuse, crackled in the air as the king’s ancient eyes bored into Ramsey’s like a searing laser of light.

  Just like that, the powerful sentinel flew off his feet and landed prone on his back, his body immediately drawing in on itself as he contorted in pain. His complexion grew sallow and his face became gaunt as the ancient king rose slowly from his chair and began to walk in his direction.

  Marquis took several steps back, drawing Ciopori with him.

  Vanya tucked her legs beneath her and curled up in her chair.

  Even Brooke ducked out of the king’s line of fire, and her brilliant blue eyes grew wide with fright.

  The king stalked forward like a jaguar, a low, rumbling growl shaking the chandeliers and causing the furniture to shift above the hard wooden surface. When at last he reached his fallen subject, he knelt down gracefully and planted one firm knee directly on Ramsey’s chest. “What did you just say to me?” he whispered in a dark, unnatural voice. His feral lips drew back and his fangs showed only a hint of extension, but they were terrifying just the same.

  Brooke found her voice. “Napolean…sweetheart… please…stop.”

  The king didn’t respond.

  Ramsey tried to croak out an answer, but he couldn’t draw a breath. His chest collapsed beneath the pressure of the king’s knee, and the sound of it caving in was grisly.

  “One soul in the house of Jadon is worth more to me than every soulless bastard born to the entire house of Jaegar.” He withdrew his knee, and Ramsey gasped for air, finally taking in some oxygen, but his body continued to writhe in agony. “Including yours, Ramsey Olaru.” He bent down so that their noses almost touched, and he met the warrior’s horror-stricken eyes with a look of iron resolve. “You are honored by me, Warrior. Your council is welcome; your words are weighed heavily; your objections are noted.” He purred like a lion, deep, throaty, and thick with command. “But your direct insubordination wi
ll not be tolerated. Not ever.” A gathering of foam began to leak out of the corner of Ramsey’s mouth, and he began to choke on the spittle.

  Dear Gods, what was the king doing?

  Was he killing Ramsey from the inside out?

  “Now then,” Napolean said calmly. “You have five seconds to correct this insanity.” With that, he released whatever hold he had over the warrior and waited patiently—so quietly one could have heard a pin drop—while the warrior coughed, swallowed his bile, and struggled to his knees.

  Ramsey fell into formal protocol immediately.

  He raised one knee so that the other was bent, bowed his head, and crossed his arms over his chest, still sputtering. Once he had finally composed himself fully, he extended his right hand to Napolean and offered him the Crest Ring of the house of Jadon in an act of reverence and contrition. “Forgive me, milord.”

  Napolean took his hand and kissed the ring. “Speak...freely.”

  Ramsey drew in a deep breath, trying to find his words. “They will try to kill Saber.”

  “Of course they will.”

  “They may try to kill you.”

  “And which one among them can succeed?” At last, his voice softened. “Rise, warrior.”

  Ramsey struggled to his feet, and Napolean took a measured step forward. He palmed the back of the warrior’s neck, drew him brusquely forward, and kissed the top of his head. Placing a firm hand over Ramsey’s heart, he released what looked like a surge of energy, and the sentinel’s chest returned to its previous state of health. “Look,” Napolean said, speaking as if the entire incident had never happened, “I agree with you and Marquis: I have no love loss or sympathy for our dark cousins, and I am not at all convinced that Saber can—or should—be allowed to live. Still, I believe we need to let this play out. Perhaps the betrayal of those he still believes to be his allies is precisely what our prisoner needs to finally cut those ties; or perhaps his stubborn loyalty to them, in spite of such a betrayal, will grant us the permission we need to allow him to die. Either way, we must let it happen.” He stood straight, stretched his back, and turned to face the entire room. “Saber Alexiares has yet to taste his soul, yet the truth of it lies on his tongue. We must allow him to swallow this bitter pill so he can make choices going forward…with all the information.” He looked at each vampire present and furrowed his brow. “Now then, the issue we must address next is a logistical one, how to conduct the meeting: How do we meet safely with our dark cousins in a place as open and potentially volatile as the Red Canyons? Who do we choose to bring? And what security measures do we put in place?”

  The words wafted to Vanya’s ears like smoke from a campfire. They swirled around her head and coated her body like a waiflike scent that was real, and she shuddered.

  She had already tasted Saber’s soul.

  And it was beyond redemption.

  While the warriors continued to strategize and plot, making plans for the next night’s meeting of delegates in the Red Canyons, Vanya was discreetly interrupted by a smartly dressed human woman with short, neatly layered blond hair: Tiffany Matthews. Apparently, Tiffany had been Brooke’s dearest lifelong friend in the human world of business before the capable Ms. Adams had been claimed by the king as his destiny. Since Brooke’s conversion, the king’s consort had taken over all marketing and PR of Dark Moon Vale, Inc., the house of Jadon’s considerable and lucrative business holdings in the valley; and Brooke had immediately hired Tiffany as CFO of DMVPrime, the branch of the corporation that focused exclusively on sales, to oversee all of the advertising campaigns, annual budgets, and payroll concerns. It was rumored that in her spare time, Auntie Tiff spent a considerable amount of time watching Phoenix, the young prince and future king of the lighter vampire, whenever Brooke and Napolean were tied up with Vampyr business: It was a labor of love that Tiffany didn’t mind in the least.

  Now, shifting the young prince from one hip to the other, Tiffany bent over to whisper in Vanya’s ear. “There is a lady at the door to see you, Saber’s mother, Lorna.” Apparently, Tiffany was not one to dance around a subject, a trait Vanya deeply appreciated. “I saw her approaching the manse and let her into the foyer before she could ring the bell.” She swept her hand around the room, gesturing at the considerable mixed company in the house. “I thought you might prefer some privacy for your visit.” She hoisted Phoenix higher on her hip, and the young prince reached up to swat at a dangling earing. “No, no, Phoenix,” Tiffany whispered, her voice stern but kind. “You must leave Auntie Tiff’s earrings alone, remember?” The little vampire squirmed with disappointment, but soon found another distraction in Tiffany’s necklace. “Oh, Lord,” Tiffany sighed, sounding only mildly exasperated. “Should I escort Lorna in?”

  Vanya held up her hand instinctively. “No, no. Gods forbid she should be thrown into this tank of sharks and subject to her own round of the Vampyr Inquisition.” She huffed. “I will meet her in the foyer. Thank you, Tiffany.” As quietly as possible, Vanya slipped out of the room, watching as Tiffany made her way back down the hall toward the little prince’s rooms.

  The king’s foyer was a large, magnificent receiving room, surrounded by high, coffered ceilings and several dimly lit, arched niches, each one custom painted in a muted but exquisite pictorial of a Romanian landscape. It opened up on the left to the formal living room, where the warriors were hard at work, and on the right, to the king’s private conference room, where as many as sixteen could be seated around an oval mahogany conference table. If one traversed the space vertically, it would lead to the main hall of the manse, which led occupants to the first-floor suite of rooms, the kitchen, laundry, and storage area. Lorna looked distinctly out of place in the grandiose space, swallowed up by the size of the foyer as well as the grandeur.

  “Mrs. Dzuna,” Vanya said by way of greeting.

  To Vanya’s surprise, Lorna curtsied in the manner of the Old World. “Princess Vanya.” She averted her eyes respectfully.

  “Please,” Vanya said, not knowing how to react to the visit, especially considering the highly delicate situation that surrounded it. “Just call me Vanya.”

  Lorna raised her head and nodded politely, her kind brown eyes meeting Vanya’s with warmth. “I brought these for you.” She held out a magnificent bouquet of cerise lilies, red roses, and light green carnations, all surrounded in vibrant greenery, and extended it forward. “They’re from Saber.”

  Vanya held her tongue out of respect. It would not do to take out her considerable angst—and anger—on this clearly uninformed woman. What in the name of the gods was the dragon up to now? Vanya took the flowers and raised them to her nose, deeply inhaling the sweet fragrance of the lilies and then the roses. “They’re beautiful. You have exquisite taste.”

  “Saber wanted you to have them.”

  Vanya arched her brows. “Again, I repeat: You have exquisite taste.”

  Lorna looked away and nodded softly, unwilling to argue the point. And then, appearing to gather her courage, she faced the princess again, this time lifting her jaw in determination. “I spoke with Sabino—with Saber—earlier, and he has asked me to invite you on a stroll this evening, perhaps a short walk beneath the canopy of the forest, with a healthy escort of guards, of course. He’s considerably drained, and if he has to be chained, I suppose that is okay as well.”

  Vanya’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

  She started to say something flippant but thought better of it: By the look on Lorna’s face, the sudden deepening of the lines around her eyes and the unmistakable anxiety that stiffened her otherwise delicate features, Vanya knew that the female was this close to falling apart. And why wouldn’t she be? The situation had to be every mother’s worst nightmare. She loved her son, and her hope sprang eternal. What must it be like to have a monster for your progeny?

  Despite her compassion, a rush of laughter escaped Vanya’s lips. “A stroll? Around the forest? With Saber?” She took a gentle step forward and clasp
ed Lorna’s hand in her own. “My dear woman, I…I hardly know what to say. I feel so deeply for you and your husband; I cannot even imagine what this is like, but—”

  “If it’s all the same,” Lorna interrupted, “I would rather not be patronized.” She took a deep breath and pushed forward. “I have lived with an ever-present heartache for eight hundred years; and I am no stranger to awful events. I know what Saber is, what he has been all this time. But he is still my son.”

  “Of course,” Vanya said, withdrawing her hand. She linked her fingers together and held them gracefully up to her chin, dropping her head and sighing. “And I appreciate your desire for an honest exchange.” She tilted her head back up and brought her linked hands down to her thighs. “In that case, let me be frank: The male is not my long-lost son, and there is no love lost between us. I have neither the goodwill nor the inclination to meet him anywhere, for any reason.”

  Lorna started to wilt in response to Vanya’s words, but to her credit, she dug back in. “I understand. He told me of your…history.”

  Vanya’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Did he now? He told you—”

  “Well, not anything specific, just that there was a history; and it was…not good, to say the least.”

  Vanya regarded her sideways, frowning. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Dzuna—”

  “Lorna.”

  “Lorna. The details are quite…disturbing; and if you did know—”

  “Forgive my constant interruptions, Princess,” Lorna said, rushing the words. Apparently, she was beginning to feel a bit desperate. “I don’t mean to be so rude; I’m just”—she wrung her hands together and shifted her weight from foot to foot—“I’m just so nervous.” She licked her dry lips. “You have to understand: There is so much as stake, not just for you and Saber, but for me and his father as well. For the people.”