“It means,” Saber said forlornly, “that the only reason I’m not going to draw on every ounce of strength I have left in order to come off this ground and take you into the afterlife with me is because I have a soul.” He paused to consider the utter absurdity of it all. “And the reason you’re going to wield that scythe like the monster you are—and take my life without consideration—is because you don’t. You were my brother,” he whispered in resignation. “But I was never yours.”
Diablo stood like a granite statue: cold, hard, and unfeeling. “I feel sorry for you, brother. Maybe the next life will be better to you than this one.” With that, he raised the scythe above his head and brought it down in one clean motion.
Saber shut his eyes, waiting for the final blow.
Waiting to feel the cold bite of the iron blade that would slice his throat and end his life.
Waiting for the immediate numbness that would follow.
Diablo was a wizard with a scythe. The execution would be swift, clean, and instant. Absent of suffering.
When nothing happened—the momentary pain never came—he blinked in surprise and opened his eyes, half wondering if Diablo hadn’t experienced a change of heart after all.
The look on Diablo’s face said something altogether different: There was shock, horror, even agony, but not second-guessing or some newfound loyalty.
Ramsey Olaru rotated a thin pine needle between his teeth before spitting it out on the ground. He held up a still-beating heart; juggled it up and down, perversely, with his right hand, before tossing it aside; and took a judicious step back, in order to avoid the falling body of the slain vampire. Of Diablo Alexiares. “Not today, Dark One,” he growled, sounding almost nonchalant. “Not on my watch.” He turned to regard Saber. “Look, I get the whole loyalty, I-can’t-kill-my-own-brother thing. Fortunately, I don’t have that problem.”
Saber just stared at him in stunned silence.
“Turn around,” Ramsey ordered next.
“What?” Saber asked, still in shock.
“Look,” Ramsey said. “I’m trying to be delicate here, since you obviously had some kind of connection with this…trash.” He kicked the heap of bloody garbage at his feet. “Turn around, so I can incinerate the body.” Before Saber could reply—or protest—Ramsey shrugged. “All right, have it your way.” With that, he narrowed his devilish, hazel eyes; leveled his gaze at Diablo’s scalp, all the while building an intense heat with his glare, until two fiery red beams of light shot out of the focused orbs; and in a manner of seconds, set the Dark One’s scalp ablaze. The unearthly beams of light turned from red to blue as Ramsey focused them up and down the torso next, drawing on ever more intense heat, until the entire body began to smolder, burn, and turn to ash. When he took something out of his pants—an appendage Saber was never meant to see—and began to focus an ice-cold stream on the blaze in order to extinguish the fire, Saber’s jaw literally dropped open. “You really are one gnarly son of a bitch, Ramsey,” he said.
Ramsey shrugged, tucked himself back inside his pants, and snickered. “You’re not exactly smooth around the edges yourself, Chief.”
Saber was just about to make a smart-ass comment, something along the lines of maybe my upbringing had something to do with it, when, all at once, he noticed the outlines of two rage-filled soldiers shimmering into view behind Ramsey Olaru: It was Blaise Liska and Achilles Zahora, two of the strongest fighters in the house of Jaegar. “Ramsey!” Saber shouted in warning. “Behind you!”
Ramsey spun around like an overgrown ninja, nimble, quick, and deadly, dropping instantly into a defensive fighting stance. “Well, look what we have here. The hyenas have come to Pride Rock to play with the lions.”
Saber tried to leap to his feet but stumbled over sideways instead. “Call for back-up,” he panted, quickly realizing that he didn’t even know the common bandwidth for the warriors in the house of Jadon. And by all the jackals of the underworld, he knew he wouldn’t be any help to the sentinel in his current condition, not even if he wanted to be.
“Just drink this and stay out of the way until you can stand on your own two feet,” Nachari Silivasi said.
And just where had he come from?
Nachari dropped several fresh vials of blood at Saber’s feet and nodded at the contents. “It’s Marquis’s.”
“Blood?” Saber asked, stunned by the admission. It really didn’t matter at the moment, although he found it impossible to believe Marquis would have offered his blood to help Saber. Just the same, he popped the red tops with amazing speed and began to guzzle the contents, even as Nachari spun around to take his place at Ramsey’s side.
The Master Wizard drew a polished, ancient sword from a time-worn scabbard at his side and tested the weight in his right hand, deftly.
“A sword?” Saber asked, incredulous. “For a wizard?”
Nachari smiled broadly, his absolute arrogance shining like the noonday son. “Yeah,” he answered, holding it up with pride. “Nice, huh? I got this from my father in like”—he eyed Ramsey sideways—“what year was that, Ramsey?”
Ramsey wrinkled his brow. “I think it was around fifteen twenty-six…or twenty-seven.”
Achilles Zahora roared in defiance, the frightful giant clearly unaccustomed to being ignored.
“Damn,” Nachari said, “need attention much?”
The angry soldier lunged at Nachari, but Nachari leapt adroitly into the air and summersaulted above his head. Landing behind the massive Dark One, he slashed at his vital organs with the sword.
Achilles caught the blade in the palm of his hand. He was just about to tighten his fist, try to crush the heavy steel, when Nachari drew it back, slicing deep into his palm. “I know you weren’t trying to break a priceless relic,” he snarled.
Achilles licked the blood from his palm, dripping venom in the wake of his tongue, and snarled as he eyed the instantly healed limb. Without hesitation, he sent ten streams of fire sizzling from his fingertips, all aimed at Nachari’s heart.
The wizard caught them in his own palms and sent them right back, creating an even greater conflagration, with a much hotter flame.
As Achilles braced himself against the assault, tried to put the fire out, Blaise tossed a series of shuriken at Nachari’s head, one deadly, razor-sharp blade after another, hurling the objects faster than they could be seen. Nachari used his hearing to detect each one, in turn, and his telekinesis to send them splintering into the nearest tree. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that,” he taunted.
Achilles puffed up like a blowfish. He reached into his waistband and pulled out two ten-inch daggers, wielding each one in a circular motion, both hands working together in mortal synchronicity. And then, the whole scene shifted into overdrive.
Achilles lunged at the Master Wizard, slicing upward then down, across then back, in then out, in a fluid series of motions almost too proficient to combat. Just the same, Nachari anticipated each move with uncanny stealth and grace—he was obviously using some sort of sixth sense to react to the unpredictable attacks. He blocked, dipped, shifted, and countered like a partner in a lethal dance, two vampires performing a deadly tango on an earthen stage. All the while, Blaise and Ramsey went at it like two heavyweight fighters locked in a prized title ring: fist to fist, jab to uppercut, cross to hook.
Saber watched in morbid fascination, his eyes darting back and forth between the warring sets of vampires, trying to make sense of the attacks and counterattacks that appeared as only a series of blurs, even as he waited for his own body to rejuvenate, to give him just enough strength to join the fight.
And then he heard the umpf. The sound of blade piercing skin, or an organ being serrated, of Achilles finally making contact with his lethal dagger. Nachari sucked in wind and coughed, his body reacting to the pure physics of the blow. He reached down to grab the hilt of the blade, to prevent Achilles from twisting it further, from plunging it deeper.
And then he simply s
hape shifted.
Out of the body of a man and into the body of a panther.
The giant cat came up screaming, howling, and grunting—whatever it was that panthers did when they were really ticked off, Nachari Silivasi was doing it. The dagger broke loose from the vital organ as the cat twisted, turned, and flexed its incredibly nubile body in more dexterous ways than it could have ever been meant to go. Roaring in fury and pain, the cat leapt from its haunches; flew through the air, its open jaw exposing a vicious set of teeth; and latched onto Achilles’s throat. Nachari tore at the esophagus with a fury, whipping his enormous head back and forth to the side, ripping out skin and cartilage and tissue as he vented his wrath.
Saber was so captivated by the magical movements of the cat that he almost missed what was happening with Ramsey: The tough-as-nails sentinel had just struck a wicked blow with his elbow, connecting squarely with Blaise’s throat, and he had followed through with the heel of his hand, a hard thrust right against the soldier’s nose, shoving the bones back into his brain. Blaise had fallen instantly to the ground and was grappling to find his equilibrium, struggling to put the bones back in place before Ramsey finished him off. As Blaise groveled on the ground, Ramsey bent over to pick up Diablo’s scythe—no doubt, he intended to remove Blaise’s head and heart, end it before his enemy could recover and come at him again. But he never got the chance.
Blaise got to the scythe first, and in one swift, determined motion, he swiped at Ramsey’s Achilles tendons, first the left, then the right, slicing clear through the meat to the bones, before Ramsey could move away. The warrior’s legs twisted in an unnatural position, his massive body toppled backward, and he arched his back in an effort to get back up, to use something other than his feet to propel him.
As Blaise released his wings and rose from the ground, Ramsey was now a sitting duck. The dark soldier straddled Ramsey with unparalleled ease, and then, he drew the scythe upward and began to slash down, in hopes of removing his enemy’s head in one final score.
Saber leapt from ten feet away.
He landed on the soldier’s back and reached for the scythe; he tore into Blaise’s throat with his canines and bit down until he felt the clavicle snap; and then he released his own lethal claws and punctured Blaise through the back, tunneling for all he was worth with one, and only one, objective: Get to the heart.
Saber was like a rabid animal.
All of his rage and helplessness and betrayal unleashed in one furious moment.
Blaise’s heart felt like a golden conquest beneath his fingers, the rarest jewel he had ever held, and when he wrenched back to dislodge the organ, he yanked with so much fury that he took the lungs and liver with it.
And still it was not enough.
More was required.
He tossed the heart across the valley floor and dug into the soldier’s neck with his claws until he felt the spine beneath his grasp, like a pliant switch within his hand. He tugged with the same lethal force, until the entire spinal cord was simply dangling in the palm of his hand, dislodged in one fierce tug, and yet he wanted more.
Snapping the cord like a pharaoh’s lash, high in the air above him, he headed toward Nachari and Achilles—the male who had killed his father. He brought it back and slung it forward, catching the dying vampire in the forehead and, unfortunately, the wounded panther in the corner of one eye. The nubile cat leapt straight into the air and shifted directions in mid-leap, morphing instantly back into a vampire as he landed on his feet.
Nachari Silivasi rotated both arms in a circular motion, almost as if he were spinning his aura, and then he shoved both palms forward, outward, sending a mystical energy into Saber’s chest. The glowing, supernatural force lit up Saber’s body like a Christmas tree, and he immediately felt like he was burning from the inside out, exploding, about to be incinerated. When the wizard’s eyes turned an eerie shade of orange, rather than the normal, vampiric red, Saber backpedaled wildly. He held up both hands and continued to retreat even as Nachari strolled lethally forward, his face ablaze with power and rage.
“Whoa!” Saber shouted. “Whoa.”
What the hell?
He knew Nachari had it in for him, that he had always had it in for him—and he had every right, really, considering what Saber had done to Deanna—but what had all this been about? Surely Ramsey and Nachari had not fought so fiercely, at the risk of losing their own lives, just to savor the privilege of killing Saber themselves.
Or had they?
After all, Saber had reached out to Diablo, despite Napolean’s earlier warning.
Saber was just about to lunge at Nachari, make whatever pitiful effort he could to save his own life, when the wizard’s eyes flashed three times, turning from orange to amber; from amber to red; and finally, from red to deep forest green. The wizard stopped advancing. “Saber?” he said, almost absently.
Saber struggled to find words beneath the scorching heat that was still simmering in his body. Damn, what was with these sons of Jadon and fire? Didn’t anybody fight with regular weapons anymore? He nodded the best he could. “Yeah.”
Nachari rocked back on his heels. “Oh…shit. My bad. My bad…it was the hair.”
“What?” Saber said, incredulous.
“The hair,” Nachari repeated. He raised his right hand, like a kid in a kindergarten class who wanted nothing more than for the teacher to call on him next; drew two or three intricate designs in the air; and spoke a series of cryptic words in Latin. And just like that, the fire inside of Saber’s body cooled, then disappeared. Nachari reached up, grabbed a lock of his own wavy hair, and held it out in a demonstrative gesture. “You really need to get that fixed, Saber. Try some Clairol or something. Maybe work with some henna. Something.”
Saber sneered. He looked down at his body; patted his chest, arms, and thighs, just to be sure the metaphysical assault was really over; and snarled in defiance. “Yeah, or maybe you just better learn to get used to it.”
Ramsey snorted in the distance then. “When you girls are done comparing beauty notes, could I possibly get some venom over here?” He was lying on his back with his knees pulled up to his chest, holding his calves in his powerful arms, and his face was drawn tight with pain. “That son of a jackal cut my freakin’ ankles.”
Nachari sauntered over to Ramsey, squatted down, and began to apply copious amounts of venom to the backs of his heels. He glanced over his shoulder to regard the headless, heartless pile of spineless mush that was now Blaise Liska. “Looks good and dead though.”
Ramsey nodded. “Yeah, I think your boy over there had a cathartic moment.” He glanced across the meadow. “What about Achilles? Where is he?”
Nachari spun around as if he had almost forgotten the second dark soldier and frowned.
Achilles Zahora was gone—and just how was that possible, anyhow? The male had been one breath away from the spirit world when Saber lashed him with Blaise’s spine. “Damn,” Nachari whispered. “That’s one tough SOB.”
Saber made his way over to the two males, not exactly sure what to say or how to act. The whole afternoon had been so bizarre: first, his hunger getting the best of him; then, Diablo coming, not to feed him but to kill him; and last, the fight with the Dark Ones—the ones he used to call friends.
Family.
He kept a healthy distance from Nachari and Ramsey out of some peculiar sense of protocol…or, perhaps, respect. Sure, they had fought together like brothers, but that didn’t make them friends. Not by a long shot.
When, at last, it looked like Ramsey’s wounds were almost healed, and the ill-tempered sentinel could take it from there, Nachari turned around to eye Saber. “So, what was all this about, anyhow?”
“Excuse me?” Saber asked, all at once becoming defensive.
“This.” He waved his hand around the valley floor, indicating the battle, the Dark Ones, and the whole grisly scene. “All this…because you refuse to feed?”
Saber shook his head.
“That’s none of your business, Nachari.”
Nachari excreted some venom onto his own hand and placed it on the tear just above his pelvis, where Achilles had sliced his small intestines. Breathing a sigh of relief, he said, “I think you just made it my business.”
Saber glared at him. “If you’re waiting for me to say thank you, then fine. Thanks, all right? I am not—”
“You—are being an ass,” Nachari offered matter-of-factly.
Saber flinched, but he didn’t say anything.
“You wanna live out here in a cave? That’s your business. But when you grow so weak that our enemies think they can confront one of us out in the open, this close to Dark Moon Vale? That’s everybody’s business.”
“I let it go too far,” Saber said by way of explanation—it was the only one Nachari Silivasi was going to get.
“Starvation?” Nachari asked.
Saber shrugged, refusing to say any more.
Nachari frowned. “Look, it might not be my place, but somebody’s got to say something: You never killed before while feeding, so why do you think it’s gonna happen now?”
Saber was momentarily stunned by the vampire’s words. “What makes you assume I never—”
“Give me a break,” Nachari said. “What am I?”
Saber blanched. “I don’t know what the hell you are.” He looked him up and down suspiciously. “Vampire…panther…King freakin’ Arthur with his beloved Excalibur—you tell me.”
Nachari smiled faintly then. “Yeah, it is one bad-ass sword, isn’t it?” He patted his scabbard absently. “Seriously though, I’m a wizard; and you’ve never killed while feeding.”
Saber stiffened. “I never had to, Wizard. In the house of Jaegar, the youngest brother feeds his family; and trust me, Dane killed.”
“Not your karma,” Nachari said. “Besides, what about the two hundred years you spent on this earth before Dane and Diablo were born? You hunted, you drank, but you did not kill your prey.”
Saber looked at him in amazement, feeling more than just a little bit exposed. He had never really thought about it: As far as he was concerned, times were different then; populations were sparser; it wasn’t wise to leave entire villages dead in your wake—vampires didn’t know when they might run into another viable food source. “Wasn’t prudent,” he said brusquely.