Blood Redemption

by Tessa Dawn

  “Do not try to make light of this, Vanya,” Ciopori said, incredulous. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t a humorous thing about it.”

  “Fine,” Vanya replied. What else could she say?

  Ciopori shook her head and tried to gather her own wits about her. “It is true: Saber’s reaction, calling on Serpens the way that he did, was so…” She paused, as if searching for the right word.

  “Raw? Vulnerable? Astonishing?” Vanya supplied. “Especially for a Dark One.”

  Ciopori nodded. “I believe he had a rare, unadulterated moment. And thank the gods he did. But it certainly doesn’t make him a saint or erase all of the unforgivable, destructive moments that came before.”

  Vanya threw her hands up in exasperation then. “Why are you being so preachy and condescending, sister?” She squared her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I’m truly unaware of this? That I, of all people, cannot enumerate Saber’s infinite faults and shortcomings in brutal detail? For heaven’s sake, I’m not defending the male. I’m simply saying that life is not that simple: Souls are not that simple. You asked me what I meant, and I was trying to answer you.”

  Nikolai squirmed in distress, and his unique amber eyes, with their deep centers of blue, began to cloud with tears. “Shh, vampire,” Ciopori whispered, gently rubbing his back. “It’s okay.” She lowered her voice then. “Perhaps I’m overreacting because I think there might be something else going on here.”

  Vanya reached for Nikolai’s favorite stuffed tiger and wiggled it up and down in front of him until he finally reached out to take it. “Like what?”

  Ciopori looked positively afflicted. “Like … perhaps … feelings.”

  Vanya shook her head adamantly. “Rest assured, Ciopori, I feel nothing for the spawn of the underworld. While I may have seen sides of him you have not—the loyalty he felt for his family, the skills he has honed as a soldier and a vampire, even the sharp intelligence that is overshadowed by all that duplicity and rage—I also know him to be reckless, bitter, broken, and utterly unreachable. Believe me, I know who and what he is.”

  Ciopori sat back, seemingly satisfied, and Vanya let the subject rest.

  For a moment.

  “You must admit, however, he is sexier than Adonis when he wants to be,” she whispered distractedly. She had no idea where the words had come from, or why they kept coming. “His eyes…his mouth…all that wild hair. Even his attitude has an air of carnal mystery about it.”

  Ciopori looked positively stricken. “Carnal mystery?”

  “Yes, sister, carnal mystery.”

  “I guess,” Ciopori said, clearly aghast. “I suppose if a female looked hard enough, she might find him appealing in some global terrorist, serial-killer kind of way—sexy until the pick-axe comes out.”

  Vanya grew intensely quiet then. She nodded in agreement, forced an insincere smile, and looked back up at the sky. When her eyes drifted shut, her smile gave way to a frown, and her lips began to quiver, ever so slightly. Ciopori froze.

  “Oh, gods…” Ciopori whispered. She shifted onto her knees, shuffled over to Vanya, and wrapped her elegant arms around her shoulders. “Oh Vanya,” she crooned. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?” Vanya said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Ciopori strengthened her embrace. “For being so stupid. So single-minded.” She bowed her head and rested her chin in a soft patch of Vanya’s hair. “You are his destiny, aren’t you? Chosen by the gods. Of course there are feelings.”

  Vanya swallowed a lump in her throat, but she didn’t reply.

  “How long have you been hiding this?”

  Vanya didn’t answer.

  “Are you hurting…deeply?”

  Vanya blinked rapidly, holding back a reservoir of approaching tears. “Not so badly,” she murmured.

  “And you’ve had no one to talk to—because we all despise him so intensely?”

  Vanya tried to shrug it off. “That’s okay.”

  “No,” Ciopori argued. “It isn’t. It truly isn’t. I feel like a complete…ass.”

  “Mm…maybe just a little bit,” Vanya said.

  Ciopori chuckled softly, but the compassion in her voice betrayed her regret. “Tell me,” she coaxed. “Your thoughts.”

  Vanya dropped her head into her hands and simply shook her head. “He’s living in a cave,” she whispered. “Just like in my dream.” She raised her eyes in order to meet Ciopori’s searching gaze. “Napolean gave him money, but we all know he hates the sun, more than most of us can fathom. And I imagine growing up in the colony, underground in a lair, there’s probably some strange comfort in burrowing deep into a mountain…” Her voice trailed off. What was the use? Gods be merciful; he was living in a cave.

  Ciopori stroked Vanya’s hair softly. “I know, sweetie. And I’m so sorry.”

  Vanya nodded absently. “Sometimes I think my cell is going to ring, or there’s going to be a knock on the door, and it’s going to be Napolean calling to tell me that it’s finally over. That Saber gave into some dark impulse or another, perhaps he killed a human or lashed out at someone in the house of Jadon, and the king has finally…put him down.” She cringed. “And the worst part is: I would almost be relieved, thankful to hear it, because waiting for it, never knowing when it’s going to come, is torture.” She stirred restlessly then. “During the conversion, in the very beginning, he was chanting, almost singing to me in Romanian, which was so intimate and powerful. Surprisingly gentle. It was so beautiful, Ciopori. And how could something so beautiful come from someone so dark?”

  Ciopori exhaled slowly. “Can you tell me what he said?”

  Vanya smiled. “He said, ‘Fi linistita, Micuta. Vino departe cu mine. Asculta vocea mea. Pluteste...pluteste…departe. Totul este bine, totul este bine, totul va fi facut sa fie bine.’”

  Ciopori drew back. “Be still, little one. Come away with me. Listen to my voice. Float...float…away. All is well, all is well, all will be made well.”

  “Yes,” Vanya said. “He knew I was in a place so elemental that I couldn’t hear in English. He just instinctively knew that I needed to hear him speak in my native tongue.” She paused briefly. “And it wasn’t the first time—he did it once before.”

  Ciopori placed a soft kiss on the crown of Vanya’s head. “I see.” When Nikolai set his stuffed tiger aside, crawled into Vanya’s lap, and reached up to give his aunt a big, slobbery kiss of his own, both females chuckled.

  “Thank you, Niko,” Vanya said. She scooped the child into her arms, in order to hold him close, and then she paused to select her next words carefully. “He never had a chance, you know. Saber, I mean. And I don’t mean from us, the house of Jadon, I mean in life, from the day he was born. Ultimately, he’s still responsible for every choice he’s made—every soul alive is—but still…”

  “Still?”

  “It’s just so unfair.”

  “On that point, we truly agree, sister,” Ciopori said.

  Vanya stiffened. “And gods forgive me for saying it—because I know Saber never would—but wherever Damien Alexiares is, I hope he is suffering. Immensely.”

  Ciopori smiled. “Me, too.”

  Vanya pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, struggling to contain her emotions; she refused to shed unwanted tears over the likes of Saber Alexiares, destiny or not. “Nachari says he hasn’t fed—not in weeks—maybe not since the night of my conversion when Napolean gave him blood to help him…so he could help me. It’s been six weeks.”

  Ciopori squeezed her shoulder. “He won’t starve, sister. He’s a survivor. He’ll feed eventually.”

  “Without killing his prey?” Vanya said.

  Ciopori wisely avoided the question. “Your heart isn’t just hurting, is it?” she asked. “It’s breaking.”

  Vanya shook her head slowly then. “No, I have Lucien, our son, and a bright future ahead.” She cleared her throat and steadied her resolve. “Once Lucien is old enough to trave
l, probably around three months, we’ll return to Romania. It should be easier then, with some distance. It’s not like I want to undo anything, change it. Saber is who he is. And honestly, I don’t think he can change, not even if he wanted to. It’s just…difficult. That’s all.” She took a deep breath and held it in a few seconds longer than was natural. “And as for my heart? It is…painful…at times—sometimes it actually feels as if it’s bleeding—but it’s also healing. Truly.” She handed Nikolai to his mother, stood up, and made her way to the stroller, where she lifted her own newborn son out of the cradle and held him to her heart, needing to feel the sweet warmth and promise of her future. “We are survivors, too, you know.”

  Ciopori balanced Nikolai on her hip, rose to her feet, and nodded with compassion. “I know, sister. I know. So let us pray then that your healing is swift and complete.”

  Saber dusted a scattering of sandy earth off his jeans and wiped his brow. With a lack of anything better to do, he had spent the last six weeks pouring his energy into mindless work: excavating a large, hidden cave he had discovered at the outskirts of the Red Canyons and renovating the inside to reflect a modern, architectural wonder. He had called upon many of the skills he had learned over the long centuries of his life: basic carpentry as well as artistic woodworking; the ability to sculpt clay and stone in his powerful hands; his innate understanding of color, contrast, and harmony in order to paint, tile, and mold each crevice, each rocky ledge, into an original work of art, even as each remained a naturally occurring phenomenon. He chewed on his bottom lip as he stepped back to survey the entrance to his dwelling.

  He had carved a sophisticated arch into the apex of the opening, supporting it with two large wooden beams, shaped roughly like Roman pillars, only far more rustic and reflective of the native landscape and surroundings. He studied the carved images of an eagle, a mountain lion, and a bear he had whittled into the wood by torchlight, searching for minor imperfections, unfinished slopes, and angles that were not yet perfected, before he set about the task of staining the individual totems in the likeness of their woodland counterparts.

  The whole thing was ludicrous, really. What difference did it make if he hunkered down in a cavern fit for a king, or a muddy hole in the ground, like a rodent? Either way, his life had no meaning anymore. It was tedious, monotonous, and without purpose. And trying to stay three steps ahead of this reality with grueling, mind-numbing work didn’t quite cut it. His impulses nagged at him constantly. He wanted to fight, to hunt, to kill something, anything, just to feel alive again. He wanted to break the laws and provoke Napolean’s wrath.

  He wanted to see his son—at least to know his name.

  He wanted to scream and shout and unleash his rage on the whole unsuspecting valley, prove once and for all that he was a demon, a vampire, a soul drowning in the abyss of his existence.

  But he could hardly stand upright without swaying.

  Saber Alexiares was hungry. Starving, really.

  He was dying.

  And that suited him just fine.

  He reached into the leather belt firmly attached to his hips and withdrew a chisel in order to work on the eagle’s beak, and then he stumbled sideways and had to catch himself on a nearby pillar. “Son of a jackal!” he swore, feeling his head swim beneath the dizziness, his vision go blurry before him.

  He slowly slumped to the ground and rested his arms on his knees, waiting for the vertigo to pass. He let his head fall back until it rested against the stone behind him, and stared up at the sky. At least the night was littered with lots of stars, and the moon was bright, offering him plenty of natural light. It was ridiculous that, even after all this time, he still had to wait to work after dusk—that he still preferred to avoid the sun. “I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbled angrily. “I have to feed.” But where could he go? He doubted he even possessed the strength to exert mind-control over a human, and the blood of an animal would never sustain him. Not hardly.

  So, where did that leave him?

  In order to drink his fill, Saber would have to hunt like an animal. Stalk, attack, and devour his prey. And then Napolean would kill him.

  But if he didn’t hunt, he would die of starvation anyway: Either way, he was truly and summarily screwed.

  As his vision grew even dimmer, he felt his heart begin to slow, to beat at a pitiful, lethargic pace, and for a moment, he almost welcomed what was coming next.

  Death.

  Final, inevitable, and longed for.

  And then his survival instincts took over: Diablo…

  He sent the telepathic communication out into the cosmos on a private, familiar bandwidth, not caring if Napolean intercepted it before it had a chance to be heard. If there was one being on the face of the planet who would still welcome his communication, feed him if he could, and if not, soften the blow of his final moments on earth, it was his last remaining brother. Diablo! He made the plea more insistent. Can you still hear me?

  Brother? The answering reply swept swiftly into his mind. Where are you?

  Saber sighed with relief. Just on the edge of the Red Canyons, on the southwestern corner of the gorge, before the valley merges into the thick of the forest.

  And you’re alone? Diablo sounded incredulous.

  Yes, they set me free.

  When! Diablo demanded.

  I don’t know, Saber mumbled, feeling his life-force wane even further. Weeks ago.

  And you’re just now calling me?

  Diablo, Saber whispered. I’m dying.

  The connection became silent for what seemed like an eternity. How?

  I need to feed.

  What the hell are you doing, Saber! What the hell has happened to you? As always, Diablo led with anger first. Come to the colony—now!

  Can’t, Saber said. His heart stopped for a series of two beats before beginning again, and his stomach began to turn over in growing waves of nausea. When he didn’t get a reply, he began to get concerned.

  Diablo?

  Still nothing.

  Diablo!

  Be quiet! Diablo demanded. I’m trying to listen…to hone in…to track the vibration of your blood.

  Hurry, Saber said. I don’t have a whole lot of time…or a whole lot of blood left to track.

  Shh, Diablo repeated.

  Then just like that, the air began to shift into subtle colors in front of him. At first, Saber wasn’t sure if he was seeing a mirage, if his vision wasn’t, at last, fading into blindness; but soon enough, the outline of a tall, muscular male with deep, piercing eyes and red-and-black banded hair began to take form in front of him.

  Saber’s mouth turned up in a half sneer, half smile as his brother fully emerged at the cave’s entrance. “Diablo.”

  Diablo smiled in return. “What’s up, son of Jadon.”

  At first, Saber didn’t catch the slur. Everything was still so hazy. But when Diablo took a swift step forward, wielding a deadly, sharpened scythe in his left hand, Saber was sentient enough to understand that the weapon had no place in feeding. To his own surprise, he didn’t react. After all, wasn’t that just the proverbial cherry on top of the never-ending, jacked-up Sunday he had been scarfing down ever since the day of his intended execution? So Diablo wasn’t there to feed him—he was there to kill him.

  “Damn,” Saber swore, pressing his palm against his stomach, trying to quell his nausea at least long enough to talk some shit before he died. “So it’s like that?”

  “Yeah,” Diablo snarled. “It’s just like that.” He bared his fangs and began to walk in slow, predatory circles around Saber. “My twin is gone. My brother lives with the enemy. And my father was executed for treason, all because he cared more about some illegitimate, privileged son of Jadon than he did his own kind.”

  Saber shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He wanted to see Diablo’s eyes. “I never turned on you, Diablo. I never committed any treason.”

  Diablo squatted down in front of Saber and brandishe
d the scythe, turning it over, then swiftly back and forth, in his iron fist, before pressing the blade taut against Saber’s neck. “You’re one of them,” he whispered, his voice completely absent of affection or compassion, almost as if it had never existed in the first place. “You’re one of them, Saber.”

  Saber held up both hands in a gesture of surrender, and forced his head to nod toward the cave. “Yeah, as you can see, the whole house of Jadon is out here with me. I’m definitely in the inner circle.”

  With a lightning-quick flick of the wrist, Diablo nicked Saber’s artery, stained the scythe with his brother’s blood, and brought it up to his wicked lips to taste it. As his tongue swept over the blade, he growled. “Tastes like the blood of a traitor to me.”

  Saber drew in a deep breath, and then he ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes were stinging—and not from hunger and disorientation—but from pain.

  And betrayal.

  As much as he told himself it didn’t matter—what else could possibly happen?—he could no longer maintain that nothing other than an organ beat in his chest.

  Because this hurt.

  It hurt somewhere he didn’t even know he had.

  Diablo took a step back and laughed. “Damn, you really are one of them, aren’t you?”

  Saber struggled to shift his weight onto his knees, first the right, and then the left. “You know,” he bit out beneath the grueling effort, “until this very moment, I would have argued that point with my dying breath.” He laughed then, not knowing where he found the energy for sarcasm. “No pun intended.” He steadied both hands against the ground to keep from toppling over. “Because until now, I never understood all this talk about souls, how some vampires have them, why others don’t, what difference it makes anyway.” In an act of total submission, he bowed his head as a sacrificial offering. “But now…now I think I get it.”

  Diablo regarded him suspiciously, raising the scythe in both a defensive as well as threatening motion. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”