Without a word, she angled it at him. And pressed the tip against his throat.
He withdrew instantly.
Ah yes, that was his grandmother. Little did the man know, he'd barely escaped a near-death experience.
But it did piss her off enough that she got up and, cradling the Warsword, headed for the nearest exit while leaving Nyran behind to pay her bill.
Also vintage Eriadne.
As she and her entourage passed by Jullien's outdoor alley table, he rose and followed them at a discreet distance. This actually was working out even better than his original plan. He could use that sword to his advantage.
And he planned on using it to slice her treacherous head off.
Her guards escorted her several blocks away, to an elegant hotel that had seen better days. Even so, it still held a certain faded dignity to it. And it was a lot better than the squalor she'd forced Jullien to endure in his exile. While she would no doubt argue, she wasn't hurting at all in her fallen grace.
With his new powers, Jullien didn't have a difficult time slipping past the lax security guards--who were probably hoping someone would knife their charge and liberate them from her acerbic tongue--through the hotel, and into Eriadne's dimly lit suite of rooms.
It was as coldly sterile as the female who lived here. Nothing out of place.
Eriadne reverently knelt before the antique sofa and returned the sword to its case, but she didn't close it. Rather, she continued to trace the engraving of the hilt.
In that moment, Jullien would kill to know her thoughts. If she remembered his grandfather ...
Was she even capable of regret?
With that question came a violent flashback of when he was seven ... to the day he'd told her that he wanted to leave Andaria and live with his father.
Jullien had been in the palace courtyard, clutching one of Nykyrian's action figures--which he'd found lurking in his own closet, where his brother must have dropped it during a play session--and trying his best not to cry over it. Andarion tahrs didn't cry. They held their emotions in. Their heads high. They never let anyone know when they suffered.
But the pain inside him was more than he could bear at his young age. He missed his brother so much. Every single minute of every single day.
Instead of getting easier, every day without Nyk was harder. More miserable. Longer and more grueling.
And he was bitterly alone. Haunted with a soul-deep sorrow he dared not express to anyone. Because their own grandmother had murdered the better part of them.
His breathing ragged, he didn't know what to do. He had no one he dared confide in. No one to even talk to.
"Why did you leave me, brother?" he'd whispered to the doll, wanting to hate Nykyrian for abandoning him to this life. They were twins. They weren't supposed to be separated. Not for anything.
And on that fateful day when Nykyrian had headed off to school, Jullien had begged his brother not to go without him.
Nyk had laughed in his face. "I don't want to stay here. Study harder and stop being so stupid, Julie, and maybe you'll get out one day, too."
"What are you doing!"
Jullien had gasped at the sound of his mother's furious growl. Eyes wide, he turned to see her descending on him like some vengeful kybbyk out for his blood. He'd forgotten that her room, like his, looked out onto the courtyard. Mostly because she never left her room.
Her face flushed by anger, she snatched the toy from his hand. "This isn't yours!"
"I know."
Tears had streamed down her face as she looked from the toy to him and rage contorted her beautiful features. "Is this why you killed my baby? You wanted his things?"
Horrified at the accusation, Jullien had gasped. "W-wha--? No! How could you think that?"
Hysteria had overtaken her then as she grabbed him and started slapping and hitting him. "It is, isn't it? Admit it! You killed him because you wanted to replace him. You wanted to be heir! You're just like the rest of them! Selfish! Ruthless! Monster! You have no feelings for anyone but yourself!"
Covering his head, Jullien had been too stunned to answer. He'd tried to escape her wrath, but in spite of her madness, she was a fully trained, decorated warrior and he was just a frightened boy.
By the time Tylie had finally pulled his mother off him to calm her, his lip had been busted and his nose bleeding.
His entire body shaking, Jullien pushed himself to his feet and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.
Tylie had sneered at him. "What did you do?"
Gaping, he'd stared dumbfounded at the question as his mother showed Tylie the toy and sobbed about Nykyrian.
"He killed my baby!"
"I know, Cairie. Shhh. It'll be all right."
Jullien had felt his own tears stinging his eyes as he watched Tylie hand his mother off to her nurse for care. When he went to get the toy from his aunt, Tylie had shoved him away.
"This belongs to your mother. Not you!"
Unshed tears choked him. "It's mine!" His mother had a room full of things Nykyrian had left behind for her to hold on to, but that toy was all he had left of his brother. It alone had been something they'd played with together.
Desperate to keep one precious memento for himself, he'd reached for it.
Tylie had slapped him for the effort. "You selfish little brat! I hope someday someone takes something from you that you love and gives you exactly what you deserve!" And with that, she'd stormed off.
"But it's mine," Jullien had whispered as his tears finally came in a violent burst of sobs. He just wanted one thing of his brother's to hold in comfort.
Just one.
He'd rather have Nykyrian. He'd give anything, his own life, his soul--anything of his worthlessness--if he could have Nykyrian back for one heartbeat. But the gods were mean and uncaring.
Like everyone else, they'd abandoned him, too. And he hated them. He would always hate them for what they'd taken. So he cried like he'd never cried before.
"What is this?"
Jullien had opened his eyes to see his grandmother standing over him.
She curled her lip. "Are you weeping? Like a girl?"
Suddenly, he'd had enough of them all. He hated this place. Hated his mother and his aunt. This courtyard. That palace.
Most of all, he hated the bitch glaring down at him like he was garbage.
Sniffing, he stood to boldly face her. "I'm not living here anymore. I'm calling my father to come get me."
That was what Jullien could have sworn he'd said. But apparently, the Andarion words Eriadne heard were more akin to telling her that her dress made her ass look fat, and they had the same effect as pissing in his grandfather's pool on the man's birthday.
Because the severe ass-beating they'd resulted in had taught him to never, ever cry again.
Most importantly, he'd learned not to tell his grandmother that he had any intention of leaving Andaria to live with his father.
And with those bitter memories, and the sight of her in front of him now, came the full weight of his animosity for her. All the years of hatred and of her blistering, unrelenting scorn and humiliations.
Of his wanting her dead and gone.
It was time.
Before Jullien even realized what he was doing or what he intended, he silently opened his coil knife and was moving straight for Eriadne's throat, with the full intention of slicing through it.
But just as he would have reached her, the door of the next room opened.
That wasn't what saved her life.
Normally, he would have killed his grandmother and whoever came through it, without reservation.
Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have hesitated.
Yet as he heard his mother call out for her own matarra, he froze instantly. Unaware of the fact that he stood barely three feet from her, Eriadne rose and rushed to the other room to greet her daughter.
"So ... you actually came, mu tina."
Cairistiona
let out a tired sigh. "I told you I would. Did you doubt me?"
Eriadne glared at the guards around his mother. Guards that included the ever-beautiful Galene Batur and a garrison of males who kept his mother well protected from the former tadara. "Where's your sister?"
"Tylie isn't as forgiving."
Eriadne rolled her eyes. "I just wanted to see my girls. Neither of you will take my calls."
Cairistiona exchanged a bitterly amused smirk with Galene. "You have to forgive me, Matarra. I'm a little busy these days. I'm sure you can understand and appreciate the extent of my duties."
While Jullien listened to them, he moved toward the Warsword that had been wielded in battle by a grandfather he'd never known existed. Had it not been for two rare genetic defects, he'd have never known about his grandmother's indiscretion. It would have been a secret his grandmother would have taken to her grave.
Like all such weapons, the ancient Warsword was a thing of absolute beauty and grace. Perfectly balanced for war. The guard fanned outward like ornate, spiked dragon wings from the center dragon head over the elaborately cut out, etched, and engraved blade and fuller. The worn leather grip was sewn with gold thread that led up to the pommel, which had been shaped like the Kadorai Sojara--"Kadora's Rose." It was carefully cradled in and protected by the claws of a dragon.
A chill went down his spine as he felt an instant connection to that sword. It was as if something in his very blood remembered it, and his mind flashed on the image of a blond, battle-worn male clutching it in his hands. Yet even though he was badly bruised and bleeding, his pale eyes were charged by raw determination, and they held the image of lightning flashing in the sky.
Jullien knew instinctively that it wasn't Edon he saw in his mind, but rather Altaris Samari. Edon's father. The Samari who'd been born on the battlefield while his mother fought against Eriadne's.
And when Jullien touched the hilt, the dark red stone that made up the Kadorai Sojara on the pommel illuminated, making it appear as if the sword itself came alive. How strange that it hadn't reacted to Eriadne's or Nyran's touch at all. It was as if the sword knew it was in the hands of a Samari now.
And it welcomed him.
Unlike the women in the adjoining parlor, who were still talking, unaware of his presence. As they'd always done him. They gave him no thought whatsoever.
They never had.
A painful ache choked him as that reality slapped him. Gripping the cold, metal Warsword to his chest, he crept to the door to watch them. They sat as if no evil had ever taken place in their family. As if all were right in the Andarion Empire. Even Galene held her composure as she stood behind his mother's chair, ever her loyal protector. Since she was the prime commander of their military forces, she didn't have to be here for this. Her rank was too high for such a lowly task.
Yet her friendship with his mother was absolute, and had been for as far back as he could remember.
Speaking of memory ... this was the only time he'd seen his mother sober in his whole lifetime. She sounded so ...
Normal. Intelligent. Even humorous. For once, he saw a grand, elegant tadara, and not the hate-filled creature who had cursed and condemned him every time he neared her.
As did Galene. Neither sounded like the monsters he'd painted them in his mind. Like the cold-blooded reptiles he remembered from his nightmares.
Had he known nothing of their past with him, and met them on the street, he would actually like them, and they could easily be friends....
The thought screwed with his head.
Badly.
If everyone you meet is the asshole. Maybe the asshole's you.
Jullien stared down at the glowing sword in his hand and the knife he still held in his other. I was going to cut the throat of my own grandmother. A female who sat there cordially conversing with her daughter ...
No, they weren't the monsters.
I am.
And before he could gather his thoughts and collect himself, the light came on in the room.
Eriadne gasped as she came through a side door, and stared straight at him.
CHAPTER 29
Her face turning pale, Eriadne swallowed hard. "Edon?"
Hissing, Jullien expelled a burst of flames at her. Turning, he clutched his grandfather's sword and ran for the window, then ducked out before she could call for reinforcements. He used his grappling hook to quickly descend to the street below and vanish into the crowd. But with every step he took that separated them, he cursed himself. One, that he had missed another chance to kill her.
Two, that he was every bit the animal they'd accused him of being.
Not since the night Nyk had thrown him over that table had he seen himself so clearly. You destroy everything you touch. You are nothing but a rabid lorina that needs to be put down ...
They were all right. He was an Anatole. He could bleach his hair. Breathe fire. Lie all he wanted. But when all was said and done, he couldn't hide the truth. His roots would always come back. Blood was blood, and it never changed. The curse of his family would forever be his to bear.
What have I done?
He'd ruined a beautiful female. Caused strife in her family. Tainted her with the stench of generations of psychotic animals, who'd devoured their own.
We are chromosomally damaged. Genetically wrong.
And he had no idea how to fix any of this. His heart pounding, Jullien looked down at his wedding ring.
I promised not to hurt you, Shara. Yet he hurt everyone he was around. Sooner or later. There was something deeply rooted inside him that was suicidal and nuclear. It was a daily struggle to keep it leashed.
It'd always been disastrous those times when it escaped his tight control. For everyone near him. He'd always been self-destructive. A complete and utter prick.
I need clarity.
Jullien glanced down at the Warsword, and in that moment, he caught a vivid image of Edon Samari. Of this sword being ripped from his dying hands by Eriadne's sister before she used it to finish Edon off.
The legacy of his family was that of blood and violence. Brutality. Hatred. Jealousy. Cold-blooded treachery. He couldn't take that home to Ushara. Maybe if their daughters were raised without him, they would be like Nykyrian, and be spared the Anatole curse. His brother, alone, had escaped it. He was the only one of them who wasn't broken and mentally damaged. Perhaps that was why. Nyk hadn't been around any of them during his formative years.
He'd grown up around humans.
And that was what Jullien wanted for his girls. He wanted them to be like Jay and Ana. Close and tight. Inseperable. The way twins were supposed to be. Not to hate each other and be eternally divided like he and his brother were. To have one of them despise the very air the other breathed.
To swear out a death warrant for them.
"I have to leave you." It was the only hope his girls had for a life worth living. Before either he, or his blood, or his birth family did irreparable harm to them. It was just a matter of time. He knew that now. Whatever it took, he had to secure them.
Now and forever.
Please, Shara, forgive me, and understand.
*
Jullien came awake with a start as his ship's alarm screeched to notify him that another ship had invaded his perimeter.
When he went to move, his head throbbed from a vicious hangover. Cursing the pain, he stumbled half-dressed to the bridge to see what new "fun" he was facing. Honestly, he figured at most a cargo ship passing through.
It wasn't.
Stunned, he stared at the readings. Am I still flagged? That can't be right....
"What the Tophet?" He actually thumped the screen to see if it was malfunctioning.
Nothing changed. There were six heavily armed ships coming straight at him. All were locked on his position.
They weren't League. Was it his cousins? Surely they weren't that stupid or suicidal.
Then again ...
His sight blurry, he slid into the
captain's chair and was just about to initiate some awesomely aggressive maneuvers when he heard a deep sultry voice call out to him.
"Jules? I know that's you. If you start those engines and flee me again, I swear to the gods, I will find you and unleash my full Andarion wrath on your ass with such venom that you will physically feel the pain of every single nanosecond of worry you've given me."
"Yeah!" Davel said. "And I'll help ... with a lot of backup! Which I have, as every one of my sisters is here with me, and they all want their turn at you! Fear us!"
Jullien actually smiled at the lunatic threat. His hand lingered on the controls. A part of him was tempted to run, consquences be damned. It would be the best thing to do.
For all of them.
But he couldn't.
The last four months had almost killed him--and that wasn't counting the assassins and other suicidal runs he'd made. It was the excruciating loneliness of not having Shara by his side. Of watching over her and not speaking to her.
Honestly? He'd rather be dead than live without her another day.
Unable to stand it, Jullien was still sitting in the chair with his hand on the controls when Ushara entered the bridge. The look on her face was one she only wore when Vas failed to take out the trash or Jullien forgot to reset logs.
I'm in so much trouble....
Ushara hesitated as she saw Jullien for the first time in months. She was pissed, relieved, happy, and hurt--all at once. The little snot had skillfully evaded every single member of her family.
Even Trajen and Thraix. With a stubbornness that could only come from an Anatole, he'd refused to answer any of their calls. Not even Vas or Nadya had been able to get through to him. The only reason she'd known he was still alive was his band, which would send his heartbeat to her whenever she buzzed for it, and she continued to get care packages that showed he continued to monitor her through the system he'd installed.
The aggravating beast had even finished off the nursery for their daughters with everything she'd wanted, right down to the tiniest detail, such as the baby socks she'd picked out and the twin mobiles. Thus letting her know that he was keeping extremely close tabs on them, while ignoring them completely.
Would he ever stop being such a frustrating dichotomy?
"Not one call?" she whispered.
He refused to look at her. Instead, he kept his gaze locked stubbornly on the control panel in front of him like some sullen child.
Even though she was furious and hurt enough that she wanted to shoot him, her heart broke at the wretched sight of his neglected condition. Honestly, she'd never seen him like this. Not even when he'd been homeless and destitute. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, as were his whiskers. Shirtless and barefoot. His pants were barely fastened around his hips--and their loose fit said he hadn't been eating. He reeked of excessive alcohol consumption.