Foretold: 14 Tales of Prophecy and Prediction

  Still, when Dimitri fell backward and took me down on the bed with him, I had a feeling it was that particular memory that was fresh in his mind too. “Maybe you just need to help remind me,” he said diplomatically.

  “ ‘Remind,’ huh?” Wrapped in his arms, I cast an anxious glance at the door. “I feel bad enough having our own room in your mom’s house! It’s like we’re getting away with something.”

  He cupped my face between his hands. “They’re very open-minded,” he said. “Besides, after everything we’ve been through? I think we might as well be married, as far as most of them are concerned.”

  “I got that impression too,” I admitted. When I’d been here for his memorial service, a lot of the other dhampirs had practically treated me like his widow. Dhampir relationships didn’t stand much on ceremony.

  “Not a bad idea,” he teased.

  I tried to elbow him, which was kind of difficult, considering how entwined we were. “Nope. Don’t go there, comrade.” I loved Dimitri more than anything, but despite his occasional suggestions, I’d made it clear I had no intention of getting married until there was a “2” at the beginning of my age. He was seven years older than me, so marriage was more of a reasonable idea for him. For me, even though there was no one else I wanted, eighteen was too young to be a wife just yet.

  “You say that now,” he said, trying to keep from laughing, “but one of these days you’ll crack.”

  “No way,” I said. His fingertips traced patterns against my neck, filling my skin with heat. “You’ve given some pretty convincing arguments, but you’re still a long way from winning me over.”

  “I haven’t even really tried,” he said, in a rare moment of arrogance. “When I want to, I can be very persuasive.”

  “Yeah? Prove it.”

  His lips moved toward mine. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  The guests began arriving early. Of course, the Belikov women had been up and awake even earlier—far earlier than Dimitri and me, who were still coping with the time change. The kitchen was a flurry of activity, filling the house with all sorts of mouth-watering scents. Admittedly, Russian food wasn’t my favorite cuisine, but there were a few dishes—especially ones Olena made—that I’d grown attached to. She and her daughters baked and cooked enormous quantities of everything, which seemed excessive since almost every person who stopped by also brought a dish to share. The experience was a mirror of Dimitri’s memorial service, save that the mood was understandably more upbeat.

  At first, there was a little awkwardness on everyone’s part. Despite his resolve to focus on the positive, Dimitri still had a little trouble getting over the fact that his Strigoi time was the central focus. Some of the guests were equally nervous, as though maybe the rest of us had made a terrible mistake and he really was still a bloodthirsty undead creature. Of course, you only had to spend about five minutes with him to know that wasn’t true, and soon the tension melted away. Dimitri knew almost everyone from his childhood and grew more and more delighted to see familiar faces. They in turn were more than happy to rejoice in his being saved.

  I watched a lot of this from the sidelines. I’d met many of the visitors before, and while several greeted me, it was clear Dimitri took center stage. Most of the conversation was in Russian too, but it was enough for me to simply watch his face. Once he settled into being among his old friends and family, a quiet joy spread over him. The tension that always seemed to crackle through his body eased a little, and my heart melted to see him at such a moment.

  “Rose?”

  I’d been watching with amusement while some children interrogated him very seriously. Turning at the sound of my name, I was surprised to find two familiar and welcome faces.

  “Mark, Oksana!” I exclaimed, embracing the couple. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “How could we not?” asked Oksana. She was Moroi, nearly thirty years older than me but still very beautiful. She was also one of the few spirit users I knew about. Beside her, her husband Mark smiled down at me. He was a dhampir, which made their relationship scandalous and was why they tended to keep to themselves. Oksana had used her spirit powers to bring Mark back after he was killed in a fight, a feat of healing that rivaled Dimitri’s return from the Strigoi. It was called being shadow-kissed.

  “We wanted to see you again,” Mark told me. He inclined his head toward Dimitri. “And of course, we wanted to see the miracle for ourselves.”

  “You did it,” said Oksana, her gentle face filled with wonder. “You saved him after all.”

  “And not how I originally intended either,” I remarked. When I’d last come to Russia, my goal had been to hunt and kill Dimitri, in order to save his soul from that dark state. I hadn’t known then that there was an alternative.

  Oksana was understandably curious about the role of spirit in Dimitri’s salvation, and I gave her as much information as I was able to. Time flew by. The day gave way to early evening, and people began breaking out the lethal vodka that had been my downfall last time. Mark and Oksana were teasing me about giving it another try, when a new voice suddenly got my attention. The voice’s owner wasn’t speaking to me, but I was immediately able to pick him out over the hum of the now-crowded house—because he was speaking English.

  “Olena? Olena? Where are you? We need to talk about the Blood King.”

  Following the voice, I soon spotted a guy about five years older than me trying to squeeze his way through the crowd to where Olena stood near her son. Most paid little attention to him, but a few paused and regarded him with a surprise that I shared. He was human—the only human here, from what I could tell. Humans and dhampirs looked virtually indistinguishable from each other, but it was an ability of my race to be able to tell each other apart.

  “Olena.” Breathless, the human guy reached Olena and gave me my first clear view of him. He had neatly trimmed black hair and wore a very prim gray suit that somehow enhanced his gangly build. When he turned his head a certain way, the light caught one of his cheeks, revealing a golden lily tattoo. And that’s what explained his presence. He was an Alchemist.

  Olena had been chatting with a neighbor woman and finally turned when the Alchemist said her name three more times. Dimitri’s mother remained smiling and pleasant, but I caught the faintest glimpse of exasperation in her eyes.

  “Henry,” she said. “How nice to see you again.”

  He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “We need to talk about the Blood King.” The more he spoke, the more I could pick out a faint accent. He was British, not American like me.

  “This is hardly the time,” said Olena. She gestured to Dimitri, who was gazing at Henry with intense scrutiny. “My son is visiting. He hasn’t been here in years.”

  Henry gave Dimitri a polite but curt nod of greeting and then turned back to Olena. “It’s never the time. The longer we put this off, the more people are going to be hurt. Another human was killed last night, you know.”

  This brought silence to several people standing nearby. It also brought me striding over to stand beside Dimitri and Olena. “Who was killed?” I demanded. “And who’s doing the killing?”

  Henry gave me a once-over. It wasn’t like a checking-to-see-if-I-was-hot once-over, though. It was more like he was trying to decide if I was worth responding to. Apparently not. His attention went back to Olena.

  “You have to do something,” he said.

  Olena threw up her hands. “Why do you think I can do it?”

  “Because you’re … well, you’re kind of what passes for a leader around here. Who else is going to organize dhampirs to take care of this menace?”

  “I don’t lead anyone,” said Olena, shaking her head. “And the people here … they certainly can’t be ordered into battle on a moment’s notice.”

  “But they know how to fight,” countered Henry. “You’re all trained, even if you didn’t become guardians.”

  “We’re trained to defend,” she corre
cted him. “Certainly everyone here would turn out if Strigoi invaded our town. We don’t go out seeking trouble, though. Well, except for the Unmarked. But they’re all away right now. Once they return in the autumn, I’m sure they’ll happily do this for you.”

  Henry sighed in frustration. “We can’t wait until autumn! Humans are dying now.”

  “Humans who are too stupid to stay out of trouble,” said a grizzled dhampir woman.

  “This so-called Blood King is just an ordinary Strigoi,” added another man who’d been listening. “Nothing special. Humans need to simply stay away, and he’ll leave.”

  I didn’t exactly know what was happening here, but pieces were coming together. Alchemists were among the few humans who knew about the existence of vampires and dhampirs. Although we often lived and interacted with humans, my kind generally did an excellent job of hiding our true natures. Alchemists believed all vampires and dhampirs were dark and unnatural and that humanity was better off without contact. Likewise, the Alchemists feared that if our existence was public knowledge, certain weak-willed humans would jump at the chance to become immortal Strigoi and corrupt their souls. As a result, Alchemists helped us stay hidden and also assisted in covering up Strigoi kills and other ugly business those monsters caused. At the end of the day, though, Alchemists made it clear they were helping humans first and us second. So, if there was something out there threatening his kind, it was no wonder Henry was so worked up.

  “Start from the beginning,” said Dimitri, stepping forward. He’d listened patiently so far, but even he had limits when someone was trying to order his mother around. “Someone explain who this Blood King is and why he’s killing humans.”

  Henry gave Dimitri an assessment similar to the one he’d given me. Only, Dimitri apparently passed. “The Blood King is a Strigoi who lives northwest of here. There are some foothills with several caves and twisting paths, and he’s taken up residence in there. We don’t know exactly which cave, but evidence suggests he’s very old and very powerful.”

  “And so … he’s what, preying on human hikers that happen to wander nearby?” I asked.

  Henry seemed surprised that I’d spoken, but at least answered this time. “No wandering involved. They seek him out. All the people in these villages are superstitious and deluded. They’ve built up this legendary reputa