Mr. Vrana (A Soulmark Series Book 4)

by Rebecca Main

  I smile sweetly back at her. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “You’re just as bad as him,” she tells me flatly.

  “Both of you go and hurry back. And do try not to get yourselves killed,” Jax says with some exasperation. “Jakob gets so testy when his family dies.”

  The Dark Court | 1866

  Jakob’s tribunal was solely for show.

  He was well aware of this fact, as was the gathered audience and the vampyrés acting as both judge and jury. What Jakob wondered was why. Why was he left alive? He awoke in a dingy, damp cell, stripped of his clothes and all of his belongings, his body still inflamed and raw from its unconscious beating.

  Jakob kept his eyes trained on the red-stained stones before him.

  They had him kneeling before them in the Pits. Jakob thought it both poetic and ironic to find his beginning and end here.

  “After hearing the charges laid out against you—conspiracy against your household, the spreading of false and treasonous propaganda against the Royal Households’ reign, and the murder of Cordelia Vrana, Cecil Vrana, Jasper Vrana, and Maximilian Vrana—how do you plead?”

  Jakob was pleased with the wary look present on Count Delacroix’s face when he met Jakob’s blank gaze. “Not guilty.”

  The court broke out into a symphony of muffled gasps and appalled mutterings. The heads of the Royal Household did nothing to stop the commotion, too entrenched in looking just as emotionless as the defendant before them.

  “Silence,” Adrian Thorburn finally decreed. “The members of the Tribunal Elite shall now recess to make our decision... and we would prefer the accused to be in one piece when we return.”

  The crowd simmered with anticipation, but Jakob paid them no heed. His thoughts churned at the true betrayal he faced. Surrounding him here, and hidden in plain sight, was the real enemy. Had they known Jakob would be absent from their great assault? Or had it all been planned to set him up?

  A ferocious need to strike out claimed Jakob to avenge his family who were so cruelly taken from him, but he refrained with shuddering force.

  What use are dreams of a future that will never come to pass?

  Jakob bowed his head. The disdain was growing amongst the crowd. Those in favor of Jakob’s demise made their claims loudly, while harshly whispered rebuttals of his innocence provided a small amount of comfort to the man.

  Jakob knew the tribunal had returned with the sudden quieting of the crowd. Oddly enough, as they sat upon their thrones, a sense of peace settled in his bones and a flame of hope lit in his heart. Whatever true death might bring, perhaps he would find his family on the other side. He could find some relief to this pain, this devastation that had sucked the very life from him and turned his limbs to ice.

  “The accused will stand for the Tribunal’s verdict.”

  Two vampyrés hoisted Jakob to his feet, their hold exceedingly tight. Jakob looked past the three vampyrés before him and into the shadows beyond their thrones. A trickle of apprehension wound its way down Jakob’s back, so suddenly and vibrantly he startled forward. The guards responded immediately and yanked him back with feral snarls.

  The crowd let out muffled noises of alarm, but Jakob did not care. He searched the shadows and the darkness for what he swore he saw… a face. A smile so familiar and placed so close—so intimately—to his face not long ago, that he knew precisely whom had killed his family. Or rather, what had killed them: demons.

  “… with that said, given your motive and evidence, the Tribunal has found you guilty. The Tribunal hereby rescinds your title and place at court. You shall leave these hallowed halls to roam the world alone,” Madame Roux stressed, capturing Jakob’s unwilling gaze in her own. “The weight of your actions shall rest upon your conscious for the rest of your nights. And should any of our kind dare associate with this rogue… their death will be delivered swiftly, and that of their family slowly.”

  It took Jakob several moments to make sense of the verdict. He was to live? The notion turned his world upside down once again. This trial had not been meant for him alone… but for the entirety of the court. No one would be foolish enough to go against their order. Not for Jakob’s sake. Not for that of a rogue.

  Jakob lifted his chin high, a savage smile slashing across his bruised face as he drew up his plan. He would put aside his hate and anger until there was nothing left. Nothing left but a clear mind and one single driving purpose: revenge.

  Jakob would find the amethyst ring rumored in the Americas and fulfill Max’s last wish. And he would return here.

  He would find his family’s enemy and make them pay.

  The wicked smile stretched to his narrowed eyes. Yes, he would find them and make them pay, no matter how long it took.

  Patience would conquer.

  Chapter 17

  Irina | Present

  “This is the worst idea,” Nova grumbles. To her fifth lament, I make some noncommittal noise in my throat.

  The tops of my fingers collect grime and dust from the unpolished stone walls. Like its successor, the room contains three pits in total. The largest, and most prominent, sitting at the center of the room. It is only half the size of what is used now. Similar tiered seating curls around the pits in half circles or horseshoes. But whatever luxury this room might have held to entice the masses is long since gone, perhaps removed to some other area of the underground palace to serve a different purpose.

  “Anything of note catch your eye yet?”

  “No,” I reply.

  There is nothing to garner from the clammy stones or the seams that lie around them. Nothing yet anyway. The dethroned arena is left with nothing of its former life. Unless one counts the stains of death upon its walls and floors. We don’t. I don’t.

  I cannot fathom how different this place is from every other cubic inch of the Dark Court.

  Though death walks the marble floors in corseted gowns and black tails, life permeates this den of sin. It’s there, like a shadow, in every drop of blood spilled, in every spell cast, in every gleeful holler of triumph and moan of pleasure. The vampyrés fill every room and hall.

  But not here.

  The ruins are avoided at all costs. Life flees from here, as it might have, once upon a time. A tingling sensation darts across the back of my neck as my fingers continue their inspection of the wall. Up and down. Around each woebegone rock. My eyes drift to the largest of the pits.

  When did this tomb cease its usefulness? At which mark of time was it abandoned?

  You know....

  The phantom voice of my gut rings true. I do know. There is no doubt this pit last played audience to Jakob Vrana’s banishment. I stray to the lip of the pit and earn a curious look from Nova. She shuffles along on crouched heels, inspecting where the wall meets the floor.

  I inspect the shallow venue in which Jakob must have stood—no, knelt—amongst his fellow vampyrés as the proverbial lesson and message to all others not to break their precious rules.

  But why not kill him, if that was the case? What could be gained from leaving Jakob alive?

  A whisper reaches my ear, something softer than a whisper, really. It circulates the room, tailing off before I can hope to catch its end. Or beginning. Yet, it lingers in my ears and trails lazily down my arms to my fingertips.

  Something is wrong. I can taste my heart in my throat. The dampness of the stone gives way to my sweating palms. I smell the air for a clue, but little is to be garnered. There is only the scent of centuries of decay and dust motes keen on staining my clothes and hair.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask.

  Nova becomes static, every limb and feature going still as she absorbs the noiselessness that surrounds us. After a moment, she tilts a frown my way.

  “No. What did you hear?”

  I shrug and stride back to the wall's edge, scrutinizing every dip and brash side even as the feeling of unease persists inside of m
e.

  “Just the wind, apparently. Maybe voices carrying from afar?”

  “Maybe… let’s keep at it. Aren’t you supposed to be using that keen sense of smell you possess to hurry this process along?”

  I send a scowl the warrior’s way, but it merely scorches her back. “I’m not a hound dog,” I snap. “Besides, I don’t actually have the scent of the rings to go follow. You’re sure they’re here? How do you know he wasn’t lying?”

  Nova pauses. “We don’t.”

  ++

  Iris | Present

  Two women walk down a narrow hallway, parallel to the main thoroughfare that dips into the larger of the salles: the Grand Salon, the Lamia Den, and the White Drawing Room. It’s deserted, which is exactly what they prefer—no hawkish eyes to follow their movement or canine ears to overhear their conversations.

  Along the thoroughfare, the pair would have drawn every pair of eyes and ears to their purposeful stroll. For it isn’t every night you see an owl shifter walking alongside one of the Roux Household's upper echelons, especially not when said Roux makes no disguise of her disgust for those not of her own kind.

  The vampyré sneers elegantly down her long nose at the shifter but only briefly. She cannot deign to waste her energy on the common fowl, and yet…

  “Did he say why he needed to meet with me in the chapel?” Iris questions. A hand goes to pat down the nonexistent errant red hairs while waiting for an answer.

  “No.”

  Franklin Baum smirks. Her hands, poised behind her back, draw meaningless patterns against the tight leather bindings that cinch her waist and make the silver chiffon of her dress flare out just so against her slim hips. She dresses not in the style of the elite on her right, but rather to the comfort of her kind. She likes the feel of the breeze shifting through delicate layers of chiffon or habutai or mousseline as if she was about to take flight. Sometimes she did.

  Her talons scratch the leather accessory.

  The chaste mingling of Iris's brows is the only clue to her extreme displeasure. Tonight her world has been upended. Demons—the filthy rot of the supernatural world—have been granted a voice. To fathom a member of the Celestial Court would cast their vote in that vile sort’s favor is inconceivable. This atrocity can be the only reason Adrian wishes to speak with her. To plot and plan and scheme the demonkind out of existence.

  A dreamy expression flashes over the vampyré's face, with only a hint of maniacal intent. She and Adrian have seen the impossible accomplished before. This time will be no different. Iris’s confidence and delight grow as she relents to her delusions of grandeur. She will bring glory to her family and rise to head of household, a position she will gladly share with her sister, Briar. Iris has no qualms of felling any who stand in her way.

  A dark smile twists her ruby-stained lips. Her plans will succeed, as always.

  Eager to begin the new game, Iris lengthens her gait. Franklin shoots her piercing blues eyes at the vampyré in a sidelong glance, then quickens her pace to match the strides.

  “Make sure we are not disturbed. I don’t want the riffraff interrupting us: shifters, sorcerers, or”—Iris’s nose wrinkles in distaste—“demons.”

  Franklin makes a sharp ninety-degree turn, a scoffed “whatever” coasting past her lips when a perfectly manicured hand snatches her by the vest and yanks her to a stop. Franklin sucks in a short breath and stares into deranged green and silver eyes.

  “Watch your tongue,” Iris hisses, “and remember your place.” Iris releases Franklin with a harsh shove. “Beneath me. Now, be a good underling and fly away.”

  There is something in the vampyré's malevolent tone that begs for a rebuttal. Iris wishes for the chance to let off some steam... by breaking every bone in the shifter's body and leaving her for her kind to find. She displays it in the haughty tilt of a brow and the puffing of her chest.

  Franklin’s narrowed eyes pierce the ground. She knows better than to cause a scene now.

  Instead, she says not a word, but takes a running leap into the air, heading back toward whence they came. In a twisting of light, she transforms. Her arms sweep out into a glorious wingspan. Her clothes shed to become feathers and talons. A sound near a shriek bursts from her hooked beak, and then she soars out of sight.

  “Filthy rat,” Iris scoffs once she is out of sight.

  Iris brushes the nonexistent dust from her dress and opens the arched doors to the cathedral. She strides inside, confidence and excitement buzzing inside her chest as she walks the aisle.

  While tonight has its shortcomings, at least the future looks bright.

  Together, she and Adrian will once again put their brilliant minds to work and spoil the demons return. They will make them wish they never set foot in the court at all.

  Another thrill whirls through her body as she recalls the rumor she heard not long ago... that Sebastian Vrana is in bad shape after a scuffle with some disgruntled courtiers.

  At least that has gone right.

  Her sister’s lover will soon be out of the picture for good, and nobody will be any wiser as to her involvement in the matter. Iris stops in front of the pulpit, head cocked to one side as her steely eyes roam the chapel. No audience. Good.

  “Iris,” a voice rumbles from the leftmost aisle of pews. “A pleasure, as always.”

  The vampyré stills, all former confidence and eagerness replaced with a hollow dread. Iris shifts her body, letting her legs fall wider apart, and her arms relax at her side.

  “Jakob,” she said. “All this effort, just to get me alone? I thought you had lost your taste for the Roux long ago. Though, your protege seems to have inherited your former taste for it.”

  The honeyed words are pitched to strike, but they miss their mark. An irksome notion, but not wholly implausible. So Jakob knows about Sebastian's affair, but does he know what’s been done to him? A gracious smile graces Iris’s red lips.

  “Where is your little protégé?” Iris asked. “Fucking your bitch or one of my sisters?”

  Jakob strolls out of the seating and into the central aisle. “He's recovering in his bed. He suffered a most unfortunate and malicious attack,” Jakob says solemnly. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”

  “Oh dear,” she says, her smile making a U-turn into a pout. “How tragic. Whoever would do such a thing?”

  Jakob’s narrowed eyes are Iris’s only warning. She darts to the chapel doors, but he dashes in front of her path.

  “Come now, Jakob. Let’s not play this foolish game. You know as well as I, you won’t hurt me. Why, an attack against a Royal Household is treason.”

  “As is collusion against vampyrékind and unsanctioned murder,” Jakob quips.

  Iris’s smile returns in full force. “Too true, but then those rules have never applied to the Royal Households. Have they?”

  Her laughter ruffles the unseen feathers of the ravens loitering above in the darkest corners of the chapel rafters.

  “Tonight,” Jakob answered, “they do.”

  She does not expect to be slammed into the ground nor the choking fingers wrapped around her throat. Jakob's knees pin her thighs to the ground. The tip of a dark blade presses at the corner of her eye. Green eyes, with their mercurial tendrils, stared wide-eyed and furiously back up at Jakob.

  “Tonight, with the gathering of the Celestial Court under the roof of the Dark Court, the rules apply to everyone.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Jakob smiles something real and genuine... and utterly terrifying. “I’ll take your confession now. Or we can do it the hard way, Iris Roux.”

  “I have nothing to confess.”

  “No?” A brow bobs up with mock incredulity. “Not to the murder of the Vrana Household by use of contract demons? Not for the theft of the collection of Vrana signet rings?”

  “Nothing,” she hisses, chest heaving.

  Jakob leans closer. He presses the knife down
and urges her head to the side so his mouth can graze her ear. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  The squawk of a raven calls from above.

  “I was hoping you’d say that too,” Ruby announces, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

  ++

  Irina | Present

  We canvass the walls and floors, retracing each other's steps until all that is left to inspect are the three pits.

  A feeling of wrongness consumes me upon stepping foot into the principal “arena.” The familiar stirring of damp air wraps around me as I find my balance, and with it that chilly whisper that sings of death. This shallow grave holds many ghosts, and at this moment, I swear I feel them all.

  My fingers cruise over the corroded stones. Each one bears their own unique patterns of discoloration and mildew. I push and press against each layer’s piece, my hope shriveling up with each failure. And then…

  A stone shifts beneath the pressure of my hand.

  The packed sediment outlining the massive stone crumbles to the ground. Frozen, I can only stare. This is—

  “Is that it?” Nova asks, suddenly at my side and utterly breathless.

  My breath hitches, and then I answer, “Maybe.”

  A look passes between us, something undefinable—a jumble of hope and fear and opportunity that is all at once both intangible and not.

  “Help me.”

  It comes out under our persuasion, which involves much wiggling and tugging and some well-placed hits.

  “Whoever put this back into place really knew what they were doing,” Nova concedes. The stone, once dislodged, is discarded on the ground and shoved out of the way. “Well?”

  Nova takes a step back and places her hands on her hips, then folds them over her chest. “You don’t want to check?” I ask. She shakes her head.

  “You ‘found’ it,” she says, with the help of air quotes. Her dark chestnut eyes quickly scan the perimeter. “Just check, all right? We’re running out of time.”