by Tessa Dawn
Perpetual suffering.
Perpetual injury.
Endless death, eternal agony, and punishment…
Nachari Silivasi was in the domain of the dark lords of the underworld. He was standing in the heart of the Valley of Death and Shadows. He had traded his soul for Napolean’s, and Ademordna had accepted the trade. The moment the demon had relinquished the king’s body, he had been cast back into his own private hell…and Nachari had gone with him.
Shelby, on the other hand, had returned to the Valley of Spirit and Light, where his soul would remain forever. It was a matter of degrees. Shelby was truly dead—his soul was already at rest—and as such, he could not enter the shadow of the abyss: He had already been claimed by the light.
“But you…my beautiful, exceptional wizard…” Ademordna circled Nachari and crooned to him like a baby. He reached out, snatched a handful of his hair, and sniffed it, causing blackened blood from his nostrils to seep out and soak the strands. It burned Nachari’s scalp like acid. He licked a dollop of the blood from behind Nachari’s ear, and Nachari jerked his head away in disgust. The saliva ate at his skin, but he refused to cry out. “You are neither alive nor dead, Nachari Silivasi. Your soul was traded before it was appointed.” Heckling, Ademordna gripped Nachari’s shoulders with both hands and clamped down hard, breaking the fine clavicle bones in two.
Nachari gritted his teeth against the pain and fought not to faint.
He would not give the demon the satisfaction.
His eyes rolled back in his head as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Dear celestial gods, was he really going to spend all of eternity in the Valley of Death and Shadows? Away from his brothers? Never again to see Shelby? Sentenced as Ademordna’s prisoner…forever? Had his eternal soul really been the price of Napolean and Brooke’s freedom? Had he truly made the ultimate sacrifice for the house of Jadon?
Even as he asked, he knew the answer.
Yes.
And his heart wept for Nathaniel and Kagen—for Marquis.
Dear Gods, for Braden.
The dark lord rearranged his molecules then, shrinking his giant form down to a human size, to stand as a man—albeit a giant, enormously powerful man—before Nachari. He held up both hands in a casual gesture. “Should you desire to try and escape, I will wait…and watch…with great enthusiasm.”
Nachari looked around him. The sky was black—not dark with iridescent beauty like on the earth—but black as in absent of form and light. There was no horizon, only vapor and mist so that nothing could be seen beyond a couple hundred yards. All was smoke and mirrors. Dark illusion and fog. This place did not contain the body—it imprisoned the soul.
The land and the vegetation were solid, but not with the intelligent energy of creation like on the earth; rather, with the cold, inky presence of evil—of creepy, crawly, scream-in-the-night-from-terror electricity—the kind that made one’s stomach churn and the hair on the back of one’s neck stand up. There was nowhere to go. All space was but a portal, looping in an endless circle of evil…of perpetual night.
Nachari drew in a deep breath. “Is any other form of death possible here?”
Ademordna laughed raucously. He seemed genuinely entertained by the question. “Ah, yes, wizard: Suicide would be so much easier, would it not?”
Nachari didn’t show any emotion, although he wanted to rip the demon’s heart out—again—to take them both out of their misery…together…permanently. But it couldn’t be done. Ademordna was already dead.
And so was he.
“No, Silivasi; I have something far richer planned for you.” Ademordna smiled—a look at complete odds with his twisted features.
Nachari closed his eyes and prayed, hoping somewhere, somehow, a celestial god or goddess would hear his petition. He reached out for his brothers—for Niko, then Jankiel, for Napolean—just to know that the king still lived, that his sacrifice had not been in vain.
No one answered.
Ademordna extended his arm—two decrepit hands flexed and contracted with demented grace—and then he covered Nachari’s eyes. “See your future, wizard.”
The world spun in dizzying circles, and Nachari felt as if his body lifted off the ground—but he couldn’t be sure. Then just as suddenly, he was transported to a castle where all kinds of demonic creatures and animals roamed the halls. He ended up in a great stone chamber, a throne room, staring down at his own naked body, manacled to a cold slab of stone. The stone sat beside Ademordna’s throne, and he knew that he was to be displayed for all time as the dark lord’s trophy—the prized soul he had stolen from the house of Jadon, the pure one, the magic one—as an eternal show of power…darkness defeating light.
There were spikes and swords, daggers and javelins piercing his body at the joints and through the bones…like an eternal crucifixion. And the myriad of puncture wounds—from his neck to his thighs…to the thin membranes surrounding his scalp—left no doubt that he would be continuously fed upon by countless demonic creatures, perhaps the various dark lords themselves, evil beings hungry to consume his light.
Next to the stone stood a cache of crude implements of torture, some rusted, some jagged, all designed to inflict the greatest amount of suffering possible. Inhabitants of the valley would pay for the privilege—for the pleasure of cutting him open, peeling back his skin, breaking his bones, and making him scream.
Despite his courage—his uncommon resolve—Nachari Silivasi sank to his knees and wept.
The horror of it was too much.
The loss of his brothers even worse.
He felt utterly destitute of hope, broken before his enemy.
Yes, he was a fighter. A male in the house of Jadon. A Master Wizard and a Silivasi! And he would struggle like the powerful being he was—he would use his magic, and he would wield it well. He would weave spells to lessen the pain. He would create illusions to deceive his mind. And he would strike back whenever he could, causing as grave of injuries to his enemies as possible.
But it would all be a perpetual dance without end.
Nachari Silivasi was a prisoner of hell…
And there was no Magick that could change that fact.
twenty-one
Napolean Mondragon flung open the door of his master bedchamber and stood silently on the threshold. It had been two days since the sentinels had moved Brooke from the cabin to the manse after treating the worst of her injuries. Almost forty-eight hours since his destiny had been impregnated by Ademordna.
It had taken Napolean just as long to completely recover from the possession, to regain full awareness in his body, and there was simply no measuring the eternity that had come and gone since Nachari Silivasi had left his lifeless, inanimate body—breathing but unoccupied—on a stiff cot…in a cold meadow. An unthinkable sacrifice for the house of Jadon.
Napolean saddened at the thought, even as he brought his attention back to his bedroom and stared for the first time at the trio of women before him: Brooke lay unconscious in the center of his bed, Jocelyn Levi sat next to her on the edge, gently leaning over and stroking her hair, while Ciopori Demir knelt on the floor beside her and dipped a cool washcloth into a shallow basin.
When Jocelyn turned around, her stunning hazel eyes were cloudy with concern. “Hi, Napolean.” She forced a smile.
Napolean knew that Jocelyn was not entirely comfortable around him to begin with. Under circumstances such as these, he could hardly blame her. He inclined his head in the faintest intimation of a nod. “Thank you for being here, Jocelyn. How is she?”
Jocelyn opened her mouth to speak but apparently thought better of it. She averted her eyes instead.
Ciopori glanced up from where she knelt on the floor. “Greetings, milord.” Her words were measured but kind. “I’m glad you were able to make it before the birth—it does my heart good to see you.” She glanced at Brooke. “She’s healing nicely.”
Napolean took a modest step forward, relieved. “Thank yo
u, Ciopori.” He noticed for the first time that there were no other medical personnel present—none of Kagen’s apprentices accompanied the women. “Is it only the two of you?” he asked, concerned.
“Yes.” Ciopori nodded.
“Where is Vanya?” He frowned. “I thought she would…want to be here.”
“She’s with Storm and Nikolai,” Jocelyn said.
“I see.” Napolean narrowed his eyes with apprehension, and then he took a longer look at Brooke. “And the two of you were able to provide her with all the care she needed…on your own?”
Ciopori shook her head and gestured toward the door. “Kagen’s nurse is outside on the veranda with Ramsey. She has kept her well sedated, and Ramsey has seen to her…comfort.”
Napolean knew that Ciopori was referring to the responsibility of a male vampire—usually the woman’s mate—to assist with the progression of her pregnancy. In order to assure the female’s absolute comfort from beginning to end, the males held all of the sensations in their own bodies throughout the extremely short—but intense—forty-eight hour gestation period. Normally, Napolean would have been the one to do it, but he had been trapped between this world and the next, fighting to get back to his body.
Ciopori tucked her thick, flowing hair behind her shoulder in a somewhat nervous gesture. “Marquis shared his venom as well. We wanted to keep the room quiet and dark…peaceful for the baby.”
Napolean swallowed a curse. He should have been the one there, taking care of Brooke…in every way. “Has she been unconscious this entire time?” he asked.
Jocelyn shook her head. “No. She’s been in and out. She knows what’s happening.” She locked eyes with Napolean, and he knew that she held her tongue out of great respect…and maybe a little fear. Either way, her thoughts were not hard to read: Although Ademordna had been the one to…violate…Brooke, the thought of such suffering occurring at the hands of the fearsome leader was…well, unfathomable. As women, they couldn’t help but be badly shaken up by the possession, and Brooke’s violation.
Napolean summoned his fortitude and walked to the other side of the bed. He looked discerningly at Brooke, and his very soul trembled. The women had done an incredible job of healing her injuries—over the last forty-eight hours, her bones had mended, her cuts had sealed shut, and her puncture wounds had closed—but the evidence of her struggle was still there. If only as faded remnants of the trauma, pale bruises still reminded all who looked of the viciousness of her captivity.
Napolean swallowed his anger and kept his voice neutral. “Leave us.”
The women looked slightly taken aback, and he immediately regretted the brusqueness of his tones. In truth, he wanted to inquire about Brooke’s mental health—ask more about her state of mind. He wanted to thank both women from the bottom of his heart for taking such loving care of his destiny, but he could not give voice to those sentiments just yet. He wasn’t at all sure that he could hold it together, and as the sovereign lord of the house of Jadon, he could not afford to lose control in front of his people. They needed him to be their rock—a constant certainty in an uncertain world—and Brooke would need his strength to get through what was soon to come.
“Yes, milord,” Ciopori finally whispered.
“No problem.” Jocelyn stood up.
Napolean shook his head then. “Do not go far. The time is close. In less than—” He hesitated.
Oh hell, what was the exact hour?
He should know.
He would know…if he had been there at the conception.
Ciopori seemed to sense his consternation. “It can’t be more than a half an hour, milord.”
All eyes went to the prominent rise at Brooke’s middle, the obvious pregnant belly that protruded beneath a soft, silk gown, and if someone had dropped a pin in the room, it would have sounded like a grenade.
Ciopori appeared to measure her words carefully before continuing. “I would never question your wisdom, Napolean, but I do feel that it would be best for a woman…for myself or Jocelyn…to be here when the babies are born.”
Napolean exhaled and tilted his head back and forth on his neck, releasing tension. His jaw was set at a firm angle. “Brooke has seen and been through far too much trauma. I will not put her through the pain of the sacrifice. When the moment arrives, I will call my sons to me while she sleeps; I will have Marquis take the Dark One to the Chamber of Sacrifice and wait for me; then we will meet our true son together.”
Ciopori raised her chin and cleared her throat. “Please reconsider, Napolean.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her. There was nothing harsh or judgmental in her eyes, only compassion.
Jocelyn shared the same look. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but it’s really a hard thing…the sacrifice…a terrifying moment for a human being, Napolean. You have to keep in mind: You have had thousands of years to understand the Curse, to know how truly evil it is and how dangerous that Dark Child will be. You have had centuries to accept the fact that there is absolutely no choice in the matter, but we don’t have near enough time to absorb it that deeply. That kind of magic doesn’t exist in the human world. And I don’t know if Brooke will be able to forgive you unless she sees it for herself. Maybe…at least…just consult her.”
Napolean interlocked his hands, stretched his fingers backward, and cracked his knuckles. “I don’t want to take anything away from Brooke.” He wondered if he looked as weary as he sounded. “I just want to spare her further pain.”
Ciopori nodded her understanding, grasped Jocelyn by the forearm, and nudged her toward the door. “You will make the right decision, milord.” She smiled empathetically. “We will be close by if you need us.”
Napolean inclined his head politely. “Call Marquis,” he said. “One way or the other, I will need someone to take the Dark One from the room immediately until I can…attend to what must be done.”
Ciopori nodded. “Very well.”
Jocelyn tapped a nervous foot against the floor, and then she walked away with a compassionate wave.
Napolean ran the pads of his fingers lightly along the surface of Brooke’s skin as she slept. He was memorizing every bruise, reliving every injury, using his highly tuned senses to recreate each moment of trauma from its faint cellular imprint.
He had to know what her body had endured.
Even though he had spared her soul—kept her mind from any conscious awareness of the brutality—it had been his body, his fists, his manhood that had violated her…and he had to know what had been done.
Every nuance.
He had to feel the pain because his body had inflicted it.
He had to experience the horror because someone needed to.
He had to relive each moment in order to reinstate balance, to adhere to his own deeply entrenched sense of justice.
Carefully—reverently—Napolean used his own venom to treat the remaining bruises and wounds, taking the energetic vibration of each act of violence into his own muscles, skin, and tissue as he went along, forever removing it from Brooke’s awareness, even at a molecular level. His eyes clouded up several times, but he refused to cry. He was too powerful of a being, and such depth of emotion would be too great: The earth would respond with storms unlike any the valley had ever seen.
So he measured his breaths—slowly drawing in air, then gently letting it out—as he set about healing whatever injuries remained in his destiny. When he was confident that her body had returned to a perfect state of health, he kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered a command to awaken in her ear.
Brooke’s eyelids fluttered, opening and shutting several times like the wings of a butterfly, before their stunning blue depths finally registered awareness.
“Napolean?” She tried to speak, but her voice was scratchy.
He smiled. He couldn’t help it. The situation was as grave as any could be, but the sound of her voice, the sudden emergence of her spirit in the room, was like th
e rays of the sun shining through a cloud after a heavy, violent storm. She radiated beauty.
She promised hope.
“Yes,” he whispered, adjusting his frame on the bed so that he was turned to face her. He ran his fingers along her cheek and held her gaze, unwavering. “How are you feeling?”
She swallowed and reached for her throat. “Okay, physically.” She looked down at her belly, and her eyes betrayed her fear. “But this…I’m scared to death.”
Napolean leaned forward. He extended his hand and was about to place it on her protruding abdomen, when he hesitated. “May I?”
She paused as if thinking it over. “Yes.” She didn’t sound altogether confident.
Napolean sent a strong wave of serenity into Brooke’s body with his touch, eliciting a grateful, unconscious sigh from her soft lips. “I don’t remember anything that happened in that cabin,” she whispered, “or even how I got to this room.” She looked left then right, appearing to notice for the first time that the two women were gone. “Where did Ciopori and Jocelyn go?”
“They’re just outside the door,” Napolean reassured her. “I wanted some time alone with you…if that’s okay.”
Brooke nodded, and then a slow, mischievous smile creased the corners of her mouth. “Did you really get your head stuck between two stones in a castle wall when you were a boy?”
Napolean drew back, surprised, and then he chuckled. “Woman, I return from the brink of hell after being possessed by a demon—just in time to share the birth of our first child—and this is what you ask me?”
She smiled broadly, and it made her face positively radiant. “No, it’s not that, it’s just”—she reached out to touch him, her fingers tracing the line of his chin—“your head is not that big.”
He opened his mouth and started to speak, and then he closed it, at a complete loss for words.
“No,” Brooke said quickly, “I mean, it’s big enough…” She bit her bottom lip and looked away.