Blood Father

by Tessa Dawn

  At this point, he wasn’t sure if he would claim her as his bride, murder her as his enemy, or take her innocence, violently, on a raised dais in the arena for the entire realm to see, just to make a point: He was Tyrus Thane Montego, king of the lycan, imperial ruler of Mhier, and he would not be denied the most coveted treasure in the land. Not behind the stubborn will of a disobedient girl, one who had managed to elude him for ten long years. No matter how he turned it, he had to find her.

  He had to have her.

  Just once.

  She had always been his due: his to claim, his to command, his to destroy…if he chose to do so.

  eight

  Arielle Nightsong approached the steep, sandy banks of the Skeleton Swamps, nearest to the Rebel Camp, careful not to get too close to the actual water. The swamps covered a ten-mile swath of land, stretching from the eastern bend of the Lykos River to the southernmost edge of the Rebel Camp, and while the southern end was dangerous—the center, positively lethal—the bank that Arielle explored was often peaceful, enchanting, and rich with healing plants and herbs.

  Adding another bushel of river sage to her pouch, Arielle cast a furtive glance at the sparkling sun, paying little attention to the ever-present timber wolf moon. She decided to sit down on the bank and rest for a while before returning to camp—she needed to clear her mind—at the least, she hoped to replenish her energy before heading back.

  She gathered her belongings and thought about her present circumstances: the unique challenges confronting her life, how she had come to this junction, this crossroads, this particular moment in time:

  She was living like a refugee in a camp of rebel warriors, always afraid, always on the run, in a land fraught with danger and corruption. She was hiding from Tyrus Thane—always and again—in order to avoid the unspeakable, a life as his glorified sex slave.

  Or worse…

  She noticed an unusually bright orange-and-blue swallow hopping about the riverbank, meandering behind a thick bushel of reeds while pecking at insects on the ground, and it catapulted her back to her childhood. As much as she hated to relive the past, she couldn’t help but return to her years in the slave camp, years when the swallows and the squirrels had been her only friends. Well, the woodland animals, and Keitaro Silivasi.

  She shivered as the memories came rushing back like water released from a dam: At ten years old, Thane had forced her to help bring food and water to his troops, to trudge back and forth across the royal district, the brutal slave encampment, with a platter of bread and cheese in her hands or a wooden carrying pole draped across her slender shoulders, both buckets balanced precariously over her narrow frame. The buckets had been filled to the brim with sloshing water from the well, a burden that felt more like a yoke of bricks, and the vulgar catcalls from the lycans had been obscene, things no innocent little girl should have ever been forced to hear, let alone be exposed to on a daily basis.

  And the water?

  Ancestors have mercy…

  Those cursed buckets had been so damn heavy, so painfully, unbearably heavy. The rough wooden shaft had bit into her shoulders and chafed her skin—at times, her legs had given way under the substantial burden—yet she had pressed on, always pressed on, as nothing more than a servant to a diabolical king.

  By age twelve, Arielle had grown a much thicker skin. The lecherous propositions from the soldiers had ceased to bother her—she hardly even heard them—and she could hoist nearly half her weight in water with unusual strength and dexterity. She could deliver the platters in half the time. She had already become a rebel in her heart, a tomboy by necessity, and an alchemist by nature. She had worn her hair in a simple braid that snaked down her back and fell to her hips; she had taken every opportunity to collect plants and healing herbs during her frequent explorations outdoors; and she had affixed a permanent satchel to a band around her waist in order to have easy access to her herbal specimens. In truth, Thane had given her a small amount of freedom, as long as she never abused it, and she had quickly become adept at patching up her own skinned knees, treating her frequently bruised elbows, curing her own sporadic illnesses.

  Arielle had already begun to dream of providing curative services for the other slaves, somehow making a difference in an otherwise barren world.

  It hadn’t been a happy time, but it hadn’t been as bad as when she was first taken, either.

  She had adapted to her life, such as it was, and she’d had hopes and dreams, like any other human, perhaps of one day becoming a great healer for the resistance, or maybe just a shaman for the slave encampment. One way or another, she had hoped to serve others, to be for them what no one had ever been for her: a bastion of safety, a symbol of security, and a temporary haven of peace, if only for a fleeting moment.

  Arielle frowned. Perhaps it wasn’t true that no one had ever provided that for her. It was just…the one thing that had always been missing from her life was the presence of loving parents. Sure, her mother had tended to her basic needs when she was young. She had provided food, water, and shelter, such as it was—she had even taught her how to read and write—but Alina Page had been so busy with the resistance, so busy surviving, so obsessed with Ryder Nightsong, that she hadn’t had time to nurture her little girl. She hadn’t had time to play or to linger or to touch, beyond what was required for grooming and instruction.

  She hadn’t had time to show Arielle love.

  And when she had been killed during the raid on Teague’s encampment, Arielle had buried that need along with her mother. In all honesty, it was the only way she had been able to deal with the tragedy, the unimaginable loss, the only way she had managed to stay sane in her new, untenable circumstances. After all, there was little hope—no hope, really—that her father would somehow save the day.

  And wasn’t that just the understatement of the decade…

  Ryder Nightsong’s absence had left a hole in Arielle’s heart the size of the Mystic Mountains.

  She had grown up hearing stories of his gallant exploits, as well as his bravery and courage: how he had taught the rebels to hide from the lycans, given them the knowledge to fend for themselves, shown them when and where to go underground. He had inspired them to live free, as neither slaves nor subjects, in spite of the Lycanthrope’s rule. And over time, he had become larger than life in Arielle’s mind, a legend in her heart, a hero for her soul…

  But never, ever, a father.

  The lycans had hated Ryder with a passion that bordered on irrational, and that, in and of itself, had made Arielle revere him even more, but he was nothing at all in her life on a personal level, just the pollen that had seeded the flower. And somehow, somewhere deep inside, where little girls are sewn together and made into the tapestry that will one day unfold as a woman, Ryder’s ability to fight for every cause, but her, to challenge the invincible Lycanthrope on behalf of the resistance, but never on behalf of her, had sent a message to her little mind that even Thane’s soldiers could not have imparted with all their crude, misogynic taunts and gestures: Arielle was a child without value. She wasn’t just a slave to a vile creature; she was an afterthought in her father’s mind.

  Arielle hugged her knees to her chest, bit down on her bottom lip, and then quickly dismissed the memory: What was the point of all of this reflection?

  Her mother was gone, and so was Ryder.

  And the fact that he had never come for her, checked on her, counted her among his worthy accomplishments, was just a fact of life, one she had long ago resolved.

  Still, it sometimes continued to niggle: If she didn’t matter to the one who had created her, why should she matter to the ones who had enslaved her, to those who reviled her for being a subordinate species and gender?

  If only…

  Just once…

  Her father could have loved her…

  Arielle wiped an unexpected tear from her eye, wishing she could just let it go, once and for all. As it stood, she had learned how to live with th
e hole in her heart; she had stopped longing for a savior that was never going to come; and she had found her place among the other slaves, soothed by the paternal affection of Keitaro Silivasi.

  And that had been enough.

  It had to be.

  Besides, she was no longer ten years old, and while she was still often alone, she was rarely afraid. And most important, she was no longer King Thane’s slave, no matter how badly the evil monarch desired to make that happen. Arielle Nightsong was by no means free, but at least she was free of Tyrus-the-god-forsaken-tyrant-Thane.

  The sun beat down upon her brow with unusual intensity, and she plucked a large leaf from a nearby tree and set it on her forehead in an effort to block the piercing rays. Her spine literally stiffened as she, at last, recalled the night of her sixteenth birthday and just how close she had come to being claimed by the evil monarch:

  Teague Verasachi had entered her humble dwelling with a wicked grin on his face and a glow of pure devilish elation radiating in his eyes. The timber wolf moon had been full, pale yellow, and unusually bright; and it had cast a luminous shadow about the domed straw-and-mud hut like a muted torch being raised in a cave. And then the general had fixed his gaze on

  Arielle with such malice, such hatred, such spite in his eyes that Arielle had begun to shiver on the cold earthen floor. “You have two years, my sweet, untouchable little minx.” He had winked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Two years of freedom, and then you will know only pain, degradation, and sorrow.”

  Arielle hadn’t understood.

  Sure, she had known that Teague despised her—when it really came down to it, he had always hated the fact that she was off-limits, that the generals couldn’t touch her, break her, or force submission into her eyes—all they could do was taunt, tease, and threaten. Arielle belonged to Thane.

  But this?

  It had been something entirely different.

  Something sinister and cruel.

  Teague had wanted to humiliate and terrify her. “Are you even the least bit curious?” he had drawled.

  Arielle had wanted to defy him; even then, as a teenager, she had almost said no. But she had understood the consequences—it would have only egged him on. “Why?” she had whispered instead.

  “Up until now,” he had snarled, “you have been Thane’s prized possession, his wind-up toy, his cute little puppy, but when you turn eighteen, you will become his wife.” He had let the last word linger, knowing that nothing more needed to be said.

  Arielle had doubled over, as if he had physically kicked her, and then she had spilled the contents of her stomach on the ground. She knew the games Thane played with his wives: the whips, the chains, the implements of torture…the public displays for his guards. And the idea that she would belong to him in that manner was more than she could bear.

  It had jolted her.

  Destroyed her.

  Left her feeling terrified and alone.

  Teague had finally managed to break her, to take all of her hopes and dreams and crush them in one fateful blow: The king’s wife would never be a healer. She would never be more than an object or a blatant tool for breeding. She would never have a life of her own.

  Arielle shifted nervously on the ground, digging her fingers into the sand. By all that was sacred, why was she reliving this now? She had escaped. She had managed to avoid such a horrific fate, and she wasn’t going back. She would die first—even if it had to be by her own hand—so why was she still so haunted?

  Arielle fisted a handful of sand and watched as the grains sifted through her fingers, falling in random patterns to the ground. Perhaps it was because the ghosts of the past still haunted her today—they lived in the shadows of her soul. While her life was free, it had become a daily exercise of duty and purpose. Sure, she believed in the resistance, but truth be told, they would never rid Mhier of the lycans or find a place of equal footing among them. At best, they would fight to maintain a token of liberation, to live as vagabonds, forever on the run. They would survive, hand-to-mouth, from one season to the next, and even with all her skills as a warrior—her healing arts—it wasn’t a life at all.

  Arielle was ultimately and always…alone, even when she was surrounded by friends.

  She had learned to live with the death of her mother and the absence of her father, but the ghosts of her past were like unrelenting hounds from hell, always stalking their prey, forever nipping at her heels.

  They were too ethereal to destroy.

  Too corporeal to banish.

  And too ever-constant to outrun.

  Kagen Silivasi waded slowly into the murky waters of the Skeleton Swamp, turning his lip up in disgust as his boots sank deeper into the muck. They had been at it all day, slowly trudging along, making slow but steady progress.

  Marquis had insisted that the swamp was the safest route to take north, at least initially. It gave them added protection, obscured them from sight, and masked them from smell. Not to mention, they needed to sustain as wide a berth as possible from the southern lycan camp and the Wolverine Woods. They simply could not march up the center of Mhier and follow the Lykos River, not when they were carrying so many accoutrements, subsisting on subpar, bottled blood. They needed to maintain their precious energy, not waste it on cloaking objects or trying to remain invisible. And, honestly, who was he to argue with a Master Warrior?

  As a one-eyed snake slithered across the top of the water, he reached out, snatched it by the tail, and sent it spiraling across the surface, far too close to Nachari, which earned him a bone-chilling glare. Sorry, brother, he said telepathically, before shrugging in apology.

  Nachari simply rolled his intense green eyes.

  As they waded further into the waist-deep waters, Kagen began to study all the fauna. He couldn’t help it. It was an integral part of who he was. Laughing inwardly, he flashed back to a time when he was seven years old and he and Nathaniel had waded into a similar swamp—well, minus all the enormous creepy-crawly creatures and the bizarre, otherworldly land—in what was now Ouray County, Colorado. Even then, Kagen had been intrigued by nature and its inner workings. He’d had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge about science and mystics, how the two forces intermingled, worked so seamlessly together. True, he was the descendant of powerful celestial gods and their human mates, so possessing an inner commune with nature, sensing the subtle biorhythms all around him, was as natural as breathing for his kind. But for Kagen, it had always been something more.

  He wanted to know why it worked as it did, how it all came about, when it originated, and what made it true. He had always needed to understand the life beyond the life, so he could manipulate it at will. And Nathaniel had found that very funny at seven years old, especially when Kagen lost his truly ridiculous, and wholly unnecessary, magnifying globe in that same hidden swamp. He had invented the magnifying device from a 424 B.C. prototype of a globe filled with water, used to magnify specimens, and he had carried it with him everywhere he went, even though he had beyond-perfect vision, including the ability to amplify objects with his naked eye. Just the same, he had believed it made him look more scientific, and Nathaniel had ribbed him beyond endurance, time and time again. Marquis had threatened to bounce the globe off Kagen’s “scientific head” and smash it to smithereens beneath his boot, but Keitaro had intervened on his curious son’s behalf, warning both boys to leave the inquisitive vampire, claiming he was just exploring his interests.

  Kagen chuckled out loud. Funny how memories popped up at the oddest times.

  By age twelve, the difference in Nathaniel and Kagen’s personalities was pretty much set in stone. Nathaniel had a smooth, devious edge, even back then, always staging pranks and trying to best the other vampires in feats of prowess: flying, telekinesis, and mind control. Whereas, Kagen had emerged as more of a loner, content to go on long forays through the forest, endless hikes through the canyon, and to spend countless hours in his makeshift labs. He just had to be han
ds-on with the elements, to actually touch them, feel them, and taste them on a regular basis. His curiosity by that age was insatiable, and Keitaro had journeyed from one civilization to the next in order to collect the latest human contraptions, scientific innovations, and crude investigative kits so Kagen could conduct his endless experiments. And Serena, his mother, brought every written text she could find into the house to encourage Kagen’s burgeoning interests: tablets, scripts, and the mad writings of deceased alchemists, anything that would keep the young vampire occupied. Kagen had devoured everything he could get his hands on, memorizing it instantly with his innate photographic ability.

  It wasn’t like Kagen had been a nerd.

  Not really.

  He had enjoyed playing the sporting games with the other vampires as much as the next kid, especially psychic fishing, where the vampires sat on the edge of a stream, covered their eyes with a loose leather tie, and felt for the psychic vibration of a fish moving through the water before them. The first vampire to toss a stone with enough accuracy to score the fish, stun it, and then retrieve it from the water, using only telekinesis, won the game.

  And then Kagen got to dissect the carcass, of course, at least until Serena had finally put a stop to it. She had insisted that the stench was too vile to tolerate in the house.

  Kagen smiled at the memory.

  Okay, he had to admit—at least if he was being honest—he had been a fairly nerdy child, especially for a vampire. But luckily for him, by age sixteen, the young males had discovered human girls, and more importantly, the human girls had discovered the vampire males. True, the mortal females had no idea what the Silivasis were—the vampires attended a wholly separate private academy, and any true romantic interaction between the species was strictly prohibited by Napolean Mondragon, not to mention Keitaro and Serena. Just the same, the natural magnetism of the species had done wonders for Kagen’s self-esteem, and frankly, now that he was a thousand years old as of last July, he was somewhat ashamed to admit to some of the games he and his twin had invented to amuse themselves back in 1025 A.D.