Blood Redemption

by Tessa Dawn

  Diablo swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that he was going to lose his father and both of his so-called brothers; his next words were forced out of what sounded like a suddenly dry throat. “Allow me to accompany the delegates this night, Councilman.” He spoke out loud for Dane’s benefit, trying to sound defiant as usual. “Please don’t exclude me from the delegation.”

  Salvatore chose his words carefully. “Diablo, we have a firm agreement with the house of Jadon; there will be five delegates from each of our respective houses, ten males in total, and this includes Saber.” He gestured at the mountain of a guard standing behind Diablo’s lavishly upholstered chair. “Achilles is needed for obvious reasons, as am I. Oskar is our head of state, so his presence is imperative. That leaves room for two more: Saber is accustomed to feeding from Dane, so Dane it is. And I’m sure you would not deny your father one final opportunity to say good-bye to his beloved son.” He carried on the lie for Dane’s sake. “The way I see it, you and Saber will be reunited soon enough if our plan works.” His words hung cruelly like phantoms in the air, their meaning abundantly clear: Diablo Alexiares would never see Saber alive again.

  Diablo began to tremble in his seat, but in the end, he slowly nodded his head in consent.

  Understanding the depth of Diablo’s loss, yet still needing to push forward, Salvatore reached for the vial filled with sterilization serum. He broke the top of the bottle on the edge of the cocktail table and slowly extended it to Dane. “There is no time like the present, son. Drink. Every drop.”

  He watched as Dane lifted the vial to his lips, and his heart felt truly heavy for the first time: Diablo’s unexpected reaction had made him optimistic. For the briefest moment, he had hoped that Dane would do the same, refuse to go along with the plan to save and rescue Saber, demonstrate his unyielding fealty to the house of Jaegar through a willingness to kill his own brother, and buy himself a pardon in the process. As Dane sucked down every ounce of the liquid, Salvatore’s hope vanished along with the serum: Dane was doomed by virtue of consuming the forbidden potion, but even if the dark lords forgave him, the house of Jaegar would not. He was no longer just the son of a traitor but a traitor himself.

  And the penalty for sedition was death.

  Dane Alexiares would ultimately be executed along with his father for doing the very thing his council was asking him to do. He just wasn’t as sharp as his wicked brother.

  Sighing heavily, Salvatore slipped the empty vial into his pocket. If it was any consolation, Diablo had proven himself worthy of life. Salvatore would explain what had happened to the council, and the assembly would surely let the remaining Alexiares boy live. At least the Alexiares line would not be wiped entirely from the earth.

  “It is finished then,” Salvatore said cryptically. He tried to look at Diablo, but the look of anguish in the male’s eyes was too great to bear. Diablo understood exactly what had just happened.

  And he was going to let it be.

  Survival was one powerful instinct.

  “Achilles,” Salvatore said, turning to regard the giant soldier instead, “keep Diablo and Dane detained in separate cells until the meeting tonight.” There was no point in pushing providence, giving Diablo a chance to have a change of heart…or spill his guts to Dane. As they were all so painfully starting to realize, grief could be a terrible and unpredictable thing.

  “As you wish,” Achilles bit out in a gruff, no-nonsense tone. He held out Diablo’s cuffs, and the male stumbled while trying to stand before submitting once more to the shackles.

  Salvatore sauntered over to Diablo and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Be strong, son.” He spoke quietly in his ear. And then, he strode to Dane’s chair and altered the gesture, kissing the male on the opposite cheek—the kiss of Judas. “Tonight, my dear cohort. Everything hinges on what happens tonight.”

  Vanya Demir reached for her journal and tried to quiet her mind. It had always soothed her in the past to put pen to paper, and tonight she was in great need of solace.

  Tonight, Saber would be meeting with his dark family in the Red Canyons, and the matter of his life…or death…might be settled once and for all.

  The dragon and the treasure.

  She recalled the distant, almost foreign look in his penetrating eyes, just one night past in the forest, and shuddered: He had stared at her with such intensity, such scrutiny, such curious…need. It was as if he had seen her in a new light for the first time, and his eyes were trying to adjust to the glare. She bit the end of her pen in consternation, hoping to dismiss the thought—maybe she was just being too cryptic. Maybe she was imagining something that wasn’t really there.

  Or maybe she had actually felt his…wondering.

  His searching for unveiled answers.

  His seeking for some sort of clarity.

  His feeling something he couldn’t name.

  For her.

  She reached for her journal and began to write: By all the gods, I am so conflicted…because I know I felt it, too.

  fourteen

  The night was filled with shadows—ominous, layered, and threatening in their silhouettes. The temperature was frigid, maybe thirty-two degrees, and a light frost had accumulated along the branches of the native trees, surrounding the large circular clearing in the Red Canyons. The tall evergreens and pines hovered ominously, like soldiers in their own right, come to pay tribute to the uncommon meeting of bitter enemies.

  The delegates from both houses materialized in the clearing at the same time: the Dark Ones coming from the west, the house of Jadon from the east. Each group appeared about ten yards away from the other, facing off like warriors of old in two loose semicircles. Ramsey Olaru and Nathaniel Silivasi flanked the sons of Jadon’s delegation on the far right and left, respectively, with Napolean Mondragon, Saber Alexiares, and Nachari Silivasi in the center of the circle.

  Saber drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold mountain air and slowing his heartbeat to make his senses more alert for the upcoming encounter.

  Tell me what you see, Saber, Napolean commanded telepathically, the moment the Dark Ones came into view. He spoke on the common house of Jadon bandwidth so that all who were present from their delegation could hear.

  Saber swallowed hard. It was still hard to believe that he was truly a son of Jadon, at least by birth, but the fact that he could communicate on the common bandwidth sealed the deal.

  He had no intentions of betraying the house of Jaegar—or his father and brother—but if he refused to give the king immediate and truthful answers, the meeting would end before it began. His tongue snaked out to lick his bottom lip nervously. The three males in the middle are Achilles Zahora, my father Damien, and my brother Dane. The male across from Ramsey, on the outer edge, is the Chief of Council, Oskar Vadovsky, and I believe you know the male on the far left, across from Nathaniel: It’s our councilman and sorcerer, Salvatore Nistor.

  Napolean’s answering growl was barely audible, but Saber heard it just the same. The king looked ready to strike at a moment’s notice, his harsh onyx-and-silver eyes flashing an instant, deep crimson red. Yes…I know of Salvatore.

  What’s with the giant’s damn tattoo? Ramsey asked, eyeing Saber from the end of the row with his peripheral vision, unwilling to look away from his enemy.

  Saber sighed. Ramsey was referring to the larger-than-life black mamba, with jeweled red eyes and daggers crossed along its scales, tattooed around every inch of Achilles’s right bicep.

  It’s the official insignia of the Colony Guard, Saber said. All who protect the council bear the tattoos around their arms like bands of honor; it simply means that they will live and die in the service of their people.

  So, they’re the official bad-asses of the house of Jaegar then? Nathaniel snarled.

  Something like that, Saber said. Achilles has a serious reputation. He’s also known as The Executioner. He swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. I think they
chose him for effect.

  Indeed, Napolean whispered, his bile rising. As if I couldn’t squash the seven-foot bug with a wink.

  Salvatore Nistor stepped forward slowly, breaking formation with his cohorts. With an eerie, old-world charm, he bowed low and swept a graceful arm outward, encompassing the canyon. “Greetings, house of Jadon,” he said to no one in particular, and then his eyes pinned Nachari Silivasi. “And you, wizard. It is nice to meet again, no?” A wicked smile of contempt distorted his features. “How was your time in hell? Painful, I suspect.”

  Nachari took a bold step forward, the strength of his restrained magick radiating around him like a dark halo, expanding outward and rising upward like a cloud of perilous smoke. “Why don’t you ask Valentine; I think he’s been there longer.”

  Salvatore’s deceptively handsome face drained of all color, and all the males in the clearing tensed.

  “If you came to taunt and goad,” Napolean said, his voice thick with authority, “then this meeting is over. We have neither the time nor inclination to play your petty games.”

  Oskar Vadovsky stepped forward then. “Very well, Sir Mondragon.” He slanted his head in a stately manner. “Perhaps you would do better to address your equal, as opposed to my underlings.”

  Salvatore noticeably bristled, and his right hand began to tremble slightly, but he held his tongue.

  Napolean chuckled, obviously finding the comparison absurd. “So, you’re the infamous Chief of Council?”

  Oskar raised his chin far too high to be dignified. “I am.” He smiled an arrogant grin. “It is good that warriors such as we meet in the struggle of—”

  Napolean waved a dismissive hand. “Heard the quote—it’s from Ten Bears, a fictional character in a Clint Eastwood movie. Not interested in the plagiarism. We are meeting because I am a being of honor, something unequalled in your house. And you are standing”—he waved his arm in a wide arc, indicating all of the Dark Ones in front of him—“all of you are still standing, and still breathing, because I have chosen not to strike you down out of benevolence. But make no mistake, I have no equal on this field, or any other.” He turned to regard Dane Alexiares then. “You are Saber’s sibling?”

  Dane swallowed a lump in his throat and stepped forward tentatively, leaving the protection of the Dark Ones’ formation. “I am.” His voice was almost respectful. He raised both hands in front of his body in a gesture of peace and strolled forward cautiously. “Saber is my brother.”

  Saber felt his heart constrict in his chest, but he didn’t make a move. He simply stared ahead, meeting Dane’s sharp ebony eyes for the first time in days. Brother.

  The telepathic communication went through.

  Saber.

  Thank you for coming.

  Dane nodded. What Father did…we didn’t know. I swear—

  “That’s enough,” Napolean Mondragon said. “Speak out loud or not at all.”

  Dane cut his eyes at the king, and then quickly turned back to Saber. “You look hungry…starved.”

  Saber shrugged, indifferent. “I’m fine.”

  Dane intensified his stare, his eyes narrowing with purpose. “No, you’re not. Feed.”

  Saber drew back, surprised. Dane wanted him to feed, here? Now? He nodded slowly, more of an acknowledgment of his brother’s diligent attention to his lifelong duty than an assent to the request.

  Dane took it as an invitation, just the same.

  Refusing to look to the left or the right of Saber, he held his brother’s eyes as he approached him casually and with confidence. When he was, at last, a couple feet away, he spun around in a smooth, graceful motion, turned his back to Saber, and dropped effortlessly to one knee before him, scooping a thick pile of hair away from his neck.

  Instinctively, Saber dropped down behind him. It wasn’t a conscious decision as much as an automatic reaction, like a baby rooting at his mother’s breast. Placing his right hand on Dane’s right shoulder, his left palm just above his ear to wrench his head further to the side, he released his canines and struck with swift, agile precision.

  “Not so fast, Chief!” Ramsey was there in an instant, his own large palm snaking out just in time to slip between Dane’s neck and Saber’s fangs. The sound of enamel striking bone was audible across the silent valley, even as the warriors from the house of Jadon drew in sharp intakes of breath, and the soldiers from the house of Jaegar held theirs.

  Ramsey drew back his hand and shook it out violently. “Son of a bitch! That’s the second time you’ve bitten me, soldier.”

  Saber’s head snapped to the side, his feral eyes trying to focus on Ramsey. His hunger was severe, his desire to complete what he had started, palpable. Although he tried to speak, explain what had just happened to the irritated warrior, what came out of his mouth was nothing more than a primal grunt.

  Nathaniel flanked Saber on the left side and withdrew a razor-sharp stiletto with a hand-crafted grip and a polished silver blade. “Back up.” He gave the order to Dane, and by the tone of his voice, not to mention the way he was wielding the stiletto, he wasn’t playing. “No contact.”

  Dane was barely coherent, just this side of feral himself. “Feeding is our custom,” he snapped, struggling for the right words. “It is how we greet…communicate… Saber is my brother. You have no right.”

  Napolean Mondragon seemed to simply appear in the mix, towering over both of them. With one sharp tug, he yanked Saber up from his knees and planted him on his feet. “Breathe,” he commanded, watching for signs of sentience—bloodlust was a very real condition, especially for a starving vampire. “Just breathe.”

  Saber drew in a deep, frantic breath, but his fangs still twitched. He…wanted.

  Needed.

  By all that was unholy, he hungered.

  “Shit,” Ramsey snarled. He glanced at Napolean, and the king nodded his head in a thin reply.

  Too quick to track, Nathaniel tossed his stiletto to Ramsey. Ramsey caught it and sliced his own wrist, and the offering was placed against Saber’s mouth.

  The vampire devoured the blood like a starving lion being tossed a rare piece of meat: He latched on with ferocity, made a tight, intractable seal, and began to suck in earnest.

  Nachari stepped forward and placed an open palm over Saber’s throat while chanting some strange Latin combination of words, over and over, softer and softer, until the words faded out.

  And so did Saber’s unbearable thirst.

  For the first time, Saber realized what he was doing, and he shrank back.

  He released Ramsey’s wrist, spat on the ground, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, utterly disgusted. There was no greater honor in the house of Jaegar than to feed from one’s youngest sibling, to perpetuate the cycle of life in such an intimate manner; and there was no greater insult than to refuse a much-needed offering, only to take it from someone else. And a son of Jadon, at that.

  Saber felt like he might vomit. “Dane, I’m—”

  Dane’s stunned expression registered his sentiment. “Forget it,” he snarled. “You…you don’t have any choice, do you?”

  Saber shook his head slowly. “I’m not free here.”

  Ramsey, Nathaniel, and Nachari stepped back in an awkward attempt to give the brothers some small measure of privacy. “Don’t try that again,” Ramsey warned, his own deep, gravelly voice registering a measure of disgust.

  Saber’s lip twitched involuntarily, and he leveled a malevolent glare at the sentinel. “Unless you want to kill me where I stand, don’t push it, son of Jadon.”

  Ramsey raised his wrist to his mouth, dripped a lavish amount of venom over his wound, and sneered. “You’re welcome,” he bit out, still retreating.

  Saber turned back to Dane. “How is Diablo?”

  Dane shook his head, his tangled hair swaying along his angular jaw from the motion. “As expected, I guess. This is…things have been crazy.”

  Saber nodded slowly. “And Father?”


  Dane stood up to his full height then and twisted around to point at Damien. “He’s here.”

  “He’s been convicted—”

  “Of treason, yes.”

  Saber looked up as Achilles escorted Damien forward. The moment the male came within five feet of Saber, he yanked his arms free from Achilles and shuffled forward frantically, shackles and all. “Saber!”

  Saber embraced his father, not caring what the warriors in the house of Jadon might think or do. “Dark Lords, Father—what have you done?”

  Damien squeezed him hard, then drew back abruptly and raised his shackled hands to grasp Saber by the chin. “You are my son. You have always been my son. You will always be my son.”

  Achilles snatched Damien by the collar and yanked him away as if tugging on a rag doll. The look in his eyes was one of pure revulsion, and Saber’s six-foot-two father stumbled before the guard caught him and steadied him on his feet.

  “Tell me you know this,” Damien insisted.

  Saber worked his throat convulsively, afraid he couldn’t speak. “I…I do.”

  “Well, isn’t this just lovely,” Salvatore drawled, all at once appearing beside Achilles, behind Damien, and far too close to Saber.

  Nachari was back in an instant, responding to the growing threat: “Don’t be stupid,” he whispered to Salvatore, his eyes reflecting his willingness to strike.

  As tensions elevated, Napolean cleared his throat. “Everyone, take five paces back.” He never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. All of the males complied.

  And then, the oddest thing happened.

  Achilles flanked Damien on his right side, reaching across to secure his shackled wrists with his right hand, even as his left hand hung loose behind him, and Salvatore flanked Dane on his left side, reaching across to secure Dane’s wrists with his left hand, even as his right hand hung loose in a similar position. Then, in the blink of an eye, both males released their claws, drew back their arms, and punctured their respective prisoners with dizzying speed and force, breaking through their backs and penetrating their chest cavities with supernatural ease.