Blood Redemption

by Tessa Dawn

  Get out of the sun! Get out of the sun!

  The light! The light!

  The sounds that came from his throat were inhuman; the contortions of his body, as he bucked and pulled and twisted and turned in a feverish attempt to break his bonds, were desperately grotesque. His arms snapped like twigs, and the vertebrae in his spine popped like corn behind the effort, yet he still continued to struggle mightily, his frenzied psyche driving him over a ledge from which he would never return. The flesh on his feet grew bloodied and torn as the appendages tore against the stones on the ground. As he tried in vain to run.

  Run!

  But the air wouldn’t move through his lungs!

  His body wouldn’t budge—not even when he broke his wrists in an effort to free his hands from the manacles.

  Saber could not escape.

  As his world became nothing but a living, breathing ball of fire, scorching away even the last remnants of what had been his sanity, Saber Alexiares descended into a world of madness where the sun was the devil, and he was the greatest sinner on earth.

  Napolean Mondragon watched in morbid fascination as the macabre scene played out before him. He had sentenced Dark Ones to die in the sun before, and the brutal taking of their bodies by the great ball of fire had never been a pleasant thing to witness, but this was beyond gruesome.

  Beyond comprehension.

  The male tied to the stake was suffering unlike any other he had ever seen, but not from the sun’s rays, and not because his wicked body, soul, and mind were burning.

  He was suffering because his flesh remained untouched.

  Saber Alexiares was not burning in the sun!

  And that simply wasn’t possible.

  Napolean turned to Nachari Silivasi and the council of wizards who sat beside him on the ground, those with a front row seat to the execution. “What is this?” he demanded.

  Niko Durciak shook his head. “Milord, he isn’t—”

  “Burning?” Napolean clipped, his impatience getting the best of him. By all that was holy, would somebody stop that screaming? He had never seen the likes of it. “Why not?” he demanded.

  Nachari Silivasi turned his attention inward and began to chant softly beneath his breath, trying desperately to divine what his sovereign lord requested. And then, in an abrupt halt, he raised his head and furrowed his brows. “I heard something, but I don’t know what it means.”

  “You don’t know what what means?” Napolean asked calmly. He had to keep his composure despite the ghastly display persisting in the canyon.

  “The word that comes to me is Serpens.”

  “Serpents?” Napolean asked, seeking clarification. “Snakes?”

  “No, milord,” Nachari answered. “Serpens. Like the celestial deity of rebirth.”

  Napolean spun around, trying to make sense of Nachari’s words. He stared at the spectacle taking place before him, his own heart now racing in his chest, while his mind processed what he had been told: Serpens…the celestial deity of rebirth.

  All at once, understanding dawned, and the earth stood still around him. “Who has the keys to the manacles?” he shouted.

  There was a moment of confusion as the warriors searched their pockets and coats. Finally, Ramsey Olaru stepped forward. “I have them, milord, but why…” His voice trailed off in disbelief. Clearly, he couldn’t even form the question because the meaning was so absurd: Why would they release the Dark One?

  Napolean gestured toward the keys and met Ramsey’s stare head-on. “Get him down from there and take him out of the sun—before he kills himself with fright.”

  “Milord?” Ramsey’s voice was harsh with disapproval.

  “He isn’t from the house of Jaegar, and he isn’t going to burn,” Napolean explained.

  Nachari’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

  Napolean blinked several times and slowly shook his head. “Somebody find Rafael and Lorna Dzuna; I believe this male is their son.”

  one

  The red haze of madness that enveloped Saber Alexiares began to dissipate slowly; first, in small increments of lucidity—thoughts and feelings broke through the darkness like distant pieces of a conversation drifting from another room—and finally, in larger blocks of acute awareness, until, at last, he sat up straight on the narrow cot beneath him, swung his aching legs to the side, and stood on unsteady feet.

  The room still spun around him, and he grasped his head in both hands. “What the hell happened?” he muttered beneath his breath. Memories began to flood his cerebellum in disjointed pictures: the torture and questioning that went on for days; the sons of Jadon draining his body of blood to the point of veritable weakness, nearly death; being strapped to the posts in the Red Canyon while awaiting his final execution by…the sun.

  Oh dark lords, the sun.

  He ran his hands furiously up and down his body, testing for substance and injuries: first, his arms and legs; next, his chest and torso; and finally, his back and head.

  Nothing.

  Everything seemed to be intact, neither melted nor burned.

  What was he—dead or alive? Where was he? In the colony or the Valley of Death and Shadows? Instinctively, he tried to reach out to his brothers with telepathy, but the transmission hit a firm, implacable barrier. Something was blocking the wavelength.

  He spun around in wild circles, a dangerous predator, confused and alert, trying to scent his enemy. His eyes swept the long, narrow cot beside him, raised to assess the two small windows at the top of the cell—there was light shining through the openings!—and quickly flicked to the thick iron bars, each imbedded with thousands of inset diamonds that locked him into the cell.

  A feral hiss escaped his lips as he spun around again, glaring outside the bars at a huge figure pacing back and forth. He would know that six-foot-five, muscle-bound frame anywhere. He should—after all, he had worn it for weeks during his plot to kill Kristina Silivasi and ultimately, Nachari’s new destiny, Deanna.

  It was Ramsey Olaru.

  And the cocky, self-important sentinel was standing post as a guard.

  “Hey, you,” Saber growled, more confused than ever. “What the hell is going on? Where am I? What happened?”

  The sentinel turned around lazily, and a slow, derisive smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Well, would you look here; it would appear the dead has risen.”

  Saber flew at the bars, grabbing two thick slabs with clenched fists and wrenching back. When the iron didn’t budge, he spat in Ramsey’s direction. “Open the door, son of Jadon! Open the door, and we’ll see what has or hasn’t risen!”

  Ramsey slowly shook his head from side to side, chiding Saber with a tsk-tsk of the tongue: “Really, Saber? Is all that bravado truly necessary?” He sighed, slow and long. “After all, I just watched you scream and holler like a stuck pig in front of the entire house of Jadon.” He cringed, his face wrinkling up in disgust. “Extremely unbecoming of a soldier, wouldn’t you say?”

  Saber took a measured step back from the bars and stared at the ground beneath him. The floor was made of stone and mortar, and there were enough diamonds imbedded in the stones to start a new mine. The sturdy walls, which appeared no less than six feet thick, were made of the same material—there was no way he was tunneling out of the place or using his superior vampiric strength to crash through the barrier. So, what the hell had happened then?

  Clearly, Ramsey did not belong in the Valley of Death and Shadows, which meant Saber couldn’t have perished in the sun. But why not ? What. The. Hell?

  Saber sat down slowly on the cot, realizing he was still incredibly weak. His blood volume felt almost nonexistent, which meant that his enemy wasn’t taking any chances—the sons of Jadon were still keeping him drained of life force. His throat felt parched. “I need to feed,” he mumbled absently, to no one in particular.

  Ramsey approached the bars then, actually sauntered up within clawing reach as if he didn�
�t have a care in the world. “Sorry, Chief: The kitchen is closed for a while. At least for you.”

  Saber shook his head, wishing he could clear the cobwebs. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the sun never came up. Maybe the sons of Jadon had decided to keep him a little longer, torture him for more information before offering him to that great fiery orange ball in the sky. He rubbed his temples. But why? He could’ve sworn he had been in that meadow…dying.

  Maybe it had all been a bad dream, a terrible nightmare. He groaned as he began to accept the possibility: This meant he would have to do it all over again. Great lords, he would have to find a way to commit suicide. He simply could not endure what he had gone through in that dream: waiting for the sun’s wrath, his body giving way to full-fledged panic, his mind descending into an endless pit of insanity.

  Ramsey watched him like a hawk, his gold-speckled, hazel eyes flickering with amusement as well as condescension. “I guess this means I’m going to have to start calling you brother,” he said mockingly, a deep taunting laughter echoing in his throat. “How d’ya like them apples?”

  Saber swung both legs back onto the cot and reclined gingerly—he wasn’t feeling well.

  At all.

  He shut his eyes to stop the room from spinning and drew in a slow, deep breath. “What the hell are you talking about, asshole?” He opened one eye and peeked at Ramsey through his peripheral vision.

  Ramsey raised one muscle-bound arm above his head, rested it on the outside of the bars, and leaned in toward him. “I’m talking about your predicament, brother.”

  Saber snarled instinctively, and the pit of his stomach turned queasy. “You got something to say—say it.”

  Ramsey’s face lit up with unbridled anticipation. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got a whole helluva lot to say, Chief.”

  Saber shifted back and forth on the cot, trying to find a more comfortable position. He was naked from the waist up, wearing a pair of loose-fitting scrubs on the bottom, and the heavy wool blanket beneath him was scratching his back. “This century?” he mocked.

  Ramsey shrugged, his demeanor nonchalant. “This century. Last century. Hell, the last eight centuries, apparently.”

  Saber frowned. “Quit talking in riddles, Sentinel.”

  Leaning next to the heavy iron door of the cell, Ramsey pushed off the bars; sauntered along the length of the cubicle; and came to stand directly in front of Saber, across from the cot. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders. “Why do you think you’re still here?” he asked. His voice was a mere whisper.

  Saber shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you assholes haven’t killed me yet.”

  Ramsey shook his head. “Try again. We staked you out in the sun all right. It’s just…you didn’t burn, Chief. Why do you think that is?”

  Saber felt momentarily disconnected from his body, virtually cast away from reality. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Ramsey asked. “We tied you to the posts and watched…waited…as the sun rose high in the sky and poured all those wonderful gamma rays all over you, head to toe. And you? You just screamed and writhed and panicked like a stuck pig, but nothing happened. You didn’t burn. Now, I repeat: Why do you think that is?”

  Saber opened both eyes and turned his head in Ramsey’s direction. So, it hadn’t been a dream then. He shook his head, confused. “I…I…” His voice trailed off.

  “You didn’t burn because you aren’t who you think you are.” Ramsey’s voice was strong with insistence. “Your real name is Sabino Dzuna. You were born eight hundred years ago under the Serpens Blood Moon to your real parents, Rafael and Lorna Dzuna. Apparently, someone from the house of Jaegar wanted a baby and took you.” He paused, apparently for effect. “You’ve been raised all this time with the hyenas, only to find out you were meant to be a lion. Damn, that’s rough, brother.”

  Saber shot off the cot in a rage, his large crimson-and-black wings shooting instinctively from his back as he flew at the cage and swiped a clawed hand at Ramsey.

  The sentinel simply backed away. “Don’t blame me; I’m just the messenger.”

  “You’re a lying piece of—”

  “Whoa, brother.” Ramsey held both hands up in front of him. “I’m a lot of wicked things, but a liar isn’t one of them.”

  Saber hissed and snarled, wishing like hell he could come through the bars, if only for a second. He would tear the miserable bastard to shreds. Sabino Dzuna—what the hell kind of name was that? And what the hell kind of game were these fools trying to play? He ran his hands through his thick mane of hair—hair filled with characteristic red and black bands—the signature coronet of the Dark Ones, the crown of the King Cobra. The irrefutable proof that he was exactly who he knew he was: a son born of Damien Alexiares and some unfortunate human wench. A soldier in the house of Jaegar. “You’re full of it, brother,” he mocked in return.

  Ramsey remained undaunted. “All right, believe what you want, but tell me then—why didn’t you burn, Saber?”

  Just then, a powerful male rounded the corner just outside the cell and began to walk in Saber’s direction. His purposeful gate, regal shoulders, and the way he held his head up as if the earth and moon would bow down to him at will left no question as to who the male was: Saber Alexiares was staring at the ancient king of the house of Jadon, the formidable warrior who had lived from the time of the original Blood Curse, Napolean Mondragon, himself.

  Despite his anger, he stepped away from the door. When Napolean simply passed through the bars without bothering to unlock the cage or open the door—the king moved through the considerable diamond barrier as if it wasn’t even there!—Saber took a healthy step backward.

  Holy crap.

  He had never seen anything like that. The male was immune to the absolute powers of diamonds. Unheard of.

  “Greetings,” the ancient king said. His long black hair, with silver stripes of antique highlights interspersed throughout, swayed ever so slightly as he moved, and his predatory eyes flashed like molten fire. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the cot.

  Saber was not one to take direction so easily. Under any other circumstances, he would have told the male where to go and how to get there, but there was just something in the powerful leader’s eyes that backed him up, something that said not only could Napolean kill him with a glance, but he wouldn’t hesitate if Saber defied him. Scowling, Saber took a step back and sat on the cot.

  Napolean glided forward, his harsh, ancient eyes boring into Saber’s. “I am your king, whether you know it or not, and you will avert your gaze when you are in my presence.”

  Saber blanched. What the hell? Had the entire world gone mad? What he wouldn’t give to rip those haughty eyes right out of the king’s head. Still, discretion was sometimes the better part of valor, and he was at too great a disadvantage right now. Hell, he didn’t even know what was real. He lowered his head and stared at the floor, all the while seething in his soul.

  “Better,” Napolean said. He walked right up to the edge of the cot, not even remotely concerned that Saber posed any threat, and squatted down in front of him.

  Squatted down in front of him.

  Making himself vulnerable.

  Was he really that sure of himself?

  Such a thing was like holding an arm behind one’s back while facing a tiger; reaching out to slap a towering grizzly bear; or exposing one’s belly to an alpha wolf—the ancient king was in the most vulnerable position imaginable, and he was obviously doing it for effect, to make a point: I can and will destroy you at will, and I don’t even have to feign concern.

  Saber swallowed hard, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and his lips turned up in a sneer. Still, he held his tongue.

  “Good boy,” Napolean said. “Now then, our wizards have been able to discern a great deal of information over the past hour or so.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Eight hundred years ago, following the Serpens Blood Moon, a child
from the house of Jadon was stolen out of his crib following the Blood Sacrifice of his dark twin by his father, Rafael Dzuna. You were that child, Saber, and it would appear that your abductor, whom we now know was Damien Alexiares, beseeched the Dark Lord S’nepres to consecrate you into the house of Jaegar.” His eyes swept over Saber’s hair. “Perhaps this is why you have crimson-and-black hair—we don’t fully understand the extent of the dark magic that was performed on your behalf.” He glanced around the room absently before meeting Saber’s gaze once more. “We do know, however, that you still have a soul”—he swept his hand out in a derisive gesture—“such as it is, or you would have surely perished in the sun.” He reached out his powerful hand and clasped Saber’s face boldly by the jaw. “What we don’t know is if there is anything worth saving inside of you; if your soul is not beyond redemption.”

  Saber jerked away, his sharp fangs instinctively shooting forth in his mouth, even as his lips curled back in a snarl of warning.

  Napolean didn’t react. “My sentinels will take you to shower, and you will clean yourself up.” His nose turned up in disgust. “Remove this stench. And we will keep you here, for a time, in this cell, alive but weak…harmless. You will be given enough blood to sustain your life, but not enough to rejuvenate, while we consider—while I consider—your fate. Is that understood?”

  Saber had never wanted to destroy anything in all his life—to kill anyone—more than he wanted to kill this haughty being in front of him. There was no way he was going to agree to such absurdity. He knew who he was, and the entire house of Jadon could be damned. Bring on the sun…again. Bring on the Valley of Death and Shadows. He was Saber Mikhael Alexiares, firstborn son to Damien Alexiares, brother to Diablo and Dane, and soldier in the house of Jaegar. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever change that. And these light vampires, these scourges of nature who strutted around as if they were entitled to all the favors the gods had bestowed upon them, they could weave all the fanciful tales they wanted trying to convince him otherwise. He knew better.