The Veiled Series Collection

by Stacey Rourke

  Micah.

  Carter.

  Rau.

  Thomas.

  Elodie.

  Knowing they were there, my wayward band of misfits, gave me the strength and courage to kick for that emblematic surface. Whatever fresh wave of hell crashed down upon us, we would crest that watery tomb in a spray of victorious truth.

  No longer did I fear the spiral into darkness. That’s where my kind lived. Where we reveled. Our enemies sought to imprison us there, chasing us back into the shadows with lashes, threats, and posturing. But we would meet their fight head-on, with fangs bared. The Nosferatu had clawed their way out of the toxic sludge of oppression, and I would gird for battle alongside them to ensure that slaving effort wouldn’t be undone.

  The journey was far from over, yet the destination had shifted.

  Listen close and you can hear the trumpets of war. Blood from both sides surges within me. Yet no longer do I harbor resentment for either. My fury is a special brew, bottled for those who corrupt and manipulate for their own devilish delight.

  I am not death.

  I am hope.

  I am a scientifically proven fact that humans and vampires can peacefully coexist. If it’s true in the blood sluggishly pumping through my veins, I have faith the same applies to the world around me.

  First, the fraud and exploitation pitting the two sides against each other must be eradicated. My fangs throbbed for a taste of that task. Rau had been taken. What had become of my brother concealed. With flames of unease licking up from all sides, I vowed to save them both by finding the thread of truth woven into a tapestry of lies.

  Lifting my chin from my chest, I rose to my feet, steeled for the fight. A slight smile tugging at the corners of my lips, I realized that when it came, I would be toting a weapon that would make the world tremble.

  I’m coming for you, Markus, and I’m bringing the Son of the Dragon with me.

  Copyright Stacey Rourke 2018

  Copyright 2018.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Anchor Group Publishing.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  “I have crossed oceans of time to find you.”

  -Bram Stoker (Dracula)

  Prologue

  In blood I am called.

  In blood I shall grow.

  A worthy vessel chosen,

  or … so the story goes.

  Kneel at the altar,

  Accept the sacrament on thy tongue.

  Freely give thyself,

  and stay forever young.

  Life immortal shall be granted,

  To those whose worth is measured.

  Unlimited power placed,

  in he who serves my pleasure.

  Now and forever,

  you and I could be one.

  I’m in your veins,

  in a bond that shan’t be undone.

  Fight, scream, struggle all you like,

  I’m sorry to say, it won’t amend your plight.

  Reborn are ye now,

  my first … child of the night.”

  --The Drákon

  Chapter One

  Vlad

  I was ten years old when the darkness first spoke to me. Comprised of shadows, it roiled and stretched all around, taunting me with malicious hisses of laughter that reeked of fire and brimstone.

  Barmaids carried steins full of frothy ale, weaving their way between tables of rowdy Hungarian soldiers. Fresh baked loaves were rushed from the kitchen’s kiln to sate the hunger of men ravenous from weeks spent in the field. Tucked into the corner behind the kitchen’s swinging door, I stood at a small spice table in the corner. Hands trembling, I dumped a vial of certain death into a pitcher of ale.

  Beside me, Dorian Gray—the only friend I’d made since being ripped from my family—pulled a frog out of the sack dangling from his hip. Caramel complexion brightening with a gleefully rosy blush, he glanced my way with a toothy grin. Thick currents of ebony hair waved from his scalp in every direction, gracing him with a crown of disarray.

  “Now,” he uttered under his breath, “for the incantation. Καλώ τον δράκο.”

  “Dorian!” Careful not to slosh the vial’s contents, I elbowed him in the ribs. “What, in the name of the Savior, are you thinking? You can’t bring such a filthy creature in here. It draws unnecessary attention to us. Put it away, at once.”

  Rolling his eyes, Dorian tossed a lazy grin my way. “If you want the magic, my little green friend is a key ingredient. That’s how it works, ο φίλος μου.”

  “I most definitely do not want magics! The devil delights in such sinister practices.” Feeling guilty by simple association, I jumped the instant the tavern’s keeper burst in, spewing a stream of profanities about the tables that needed tending. I waited for him to storm back out before dropping my voice to an urgent whisper. “What I need is your help. I’m pouring out poison to a room full of armed soldiers! I beg you not to make me go in alone!”

  “Remind me again why we were sent to deliver such a fatal brew?” Dorian countered, his eyebrows lifting in challenge. “Is it because you actually have a vendetta against the men out there singing loud and bawdy folk songs? Or, because someone else demands it of you?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure none amongst the bustling kitchen staff were listening in. “You know the answer to that.”

  “I do?” Dorian faux gasped, clapping his free hand over his heart. “Oh, that’s right! Because the mighty ruler, Sultan Murad II, demands it of us to ensure the stronghold of the Ottoman Empire. But, it doesn’t have to be this way, Vlad! He’s a cruel man who tore us—along with countless other children—from our families to prove his power and force them to bend the knee. Your own father, the ruler of the principality of Wallachia, had to hand you over to prove his obedience. Don’t pretend you don’t hate that just as much as I do.”

  “I do!” I spat, “But not enough to risk an act that could be perceived as paganism. The penalty for which is death!”

  The sorrow of life caged in captivation sliced deep creases between Dorian’s brows. “I’ve read all I could about this spell, from books children are never supposed to see. I can do this, Vlad, without us ever getting caught. It’s simple, really. I utter the incantation, offer up the frog as a blood sacrifice, and Drákon—The Dragon—will be called forth. It will fill my vessel and grant me a strength so powerful we will never have to kneel before anyone again. Either of us. Think of it! We can stand against Murad!” Clapping a hand to my upper arm, he gave a firm squeeze of understanding. “We can go home!”

  “That sounds glorious, indeed.” Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I peered down at the tainted ale. “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Well,” Dorian’s lips parted with a pop; as he spoke, he gently stroked the frog’s head with the pad of his thumb, “that’s the part where you carry on with Murad’s plan to cover our asses.”

  “Those steins aren’t going to fill themselves, lads!” the robust cook bellowed, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  “Da, madam! We’ll tend to the task, straight away.” Snapping to attention, I collected the frothy pitcher between sweat dampened palms. I swallowed hard, then turned on my heel toward the swinging door that led out to the tavern area. There, I hesitated. “How long do you think you’ll need?”

  “Everything I’ve read about Drákon says that he comes swiftly once summoned, craving blood in tribute. So, the longer I stand here talking to you, the longer I wager it will take.” With a formal roll of his wrist, he waved me toward the door.

  “By al
l means, hurry.” I managed through tightly gritted teeth.

  Cradling the frog in his hands, he didn’t waste another instant. Eyes closed, he whispered an inaudible chant against its back.

  “You! Go, now!” The cook barked in my direction, shaking her wooden stirring spoon over her head.

  Teeth chattering with fear, I pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the dining hall on quaking legs. Boisterous joy enveloped me. Soldiers sang off-color limericks at the top of their lungs. Laughter bounced off every wall. Some threw dice and gambled away a week’s worth of earnings. Others, discussed their favorite scripture passages over a pint. Cautiously, I inched my way amongst them. I meant no ill-will for any among them, not that it mattered. If Murad’s orders were not followed, I would suffer the cruelty of his hand once again. A fate I would wish on no man, woman, or child.

  It was out of fear of that tyrant alone that caused my shaking hands to pour out one serving of ale, then another. With each glass I poured, every pint I topped off, I told myself I was doing these men a service. What I was offering would be a peaceful death. If left to Murad and his men, they would face days of anguish on the rack simply for the amusement of the Ottoman warriors.

  Bumped by a stumbling soldier, I fumbled in a circle, careful not to spill what remained of my nectar of judgement.

  “You do a service to us all,” the bearded man slurred. Swiping the pitcher from my grasp, he slugged right from the rim.

  My soul screamed for me to halt him, yet I knew doing so would raise a slew of questions that could easily cost me my life. Watching him glug it down, I said a silent prayer that his death be fast and painless. He was a man following orders, same as I. By the way he slammed what was left of the amber liquid, I guessed death would claim him quick. Letting the empty pitcher fall to his side, he wiped the drops of ale clinging to his beard away with the bend of his wrist. His lips smacked in appreciation. A blink later, he froze. Eyes bulging, his closed fist crushed against his chest. Dreading this was to be the pivotal moment that marked my soul forever as a sinner, my heart pounded against my ribs with a force that rattled bone. The man’s jaw swung slack. It wasn’t his last breath that stole from his lips but an impressive belch potent enough to make my eyes water.

  “Another!” he roared, and slammed the emptied pitcher into my gut.

  Brow furrowed, I sniffed the rim. Yellow Jasmine was lethal if administered properly. If diluted too much, the most the solution would accomplish was causing extreme drowsiness. I had been schooled on the proper technique, and warned of what to watch for. The quiet hush slowly steeling through the tavern was not a good sign. Nor were the yawns being hidden behind the backs of hands. Blinks were getting longer. One soldier’s head fell to his chest. The abruptness of which jolted him awake with a snort. Knowing of my failure caused my back to tingle in fear of the lashes sure to come.

  Tears blurring my vision, I hugged the pitcher to my chest. Knees locked in a straight legged gait of desperate determination, I bolted for the kitchen. Images flashed behind my eyes of the torment to come. To be sure, I would feel the unforgiving crack of Murad’s whip. After he tired, his men would dump me on my cot in the bunk house. Unable to lie on my back, I would whimper into the thin mattress as my filleted flesh seeped and oozed.

  So focused was I on the horror already playing out in my mind, that I didn’t detect the threat coiling around me. A meaty hand clamped onto my shoulder, whirling me around. Stunned, I blinked up into the face of hate. A burly man—with one eye black as night and the other glacier blue—glared down at me. His lip curled into a malicious snarl, revealing teeth stained yellow with rot.

  Snatching the pitcher from my grip, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. “Heavy on the hops, this brew. Yet, it holds a particularly … floral aroma.”

  “I---I merely poured the d-d-drinks, good s-sir,” I stammered, gaze shifting toward the kitchen and the hope of escape.

  Fist gripping the collar of my shirt, he yanked me closer. The reek of his foul breath caused my stomach to lurch in violent protest. “Is that right? This pitcher smells of jasmine, and my men suddenly seem ready to hunker down for the night. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, now would ya, lad?”

  Stare darting about, I hunted for a weapon in a room full of wooden plates and clay steins. “If you’re displeased, I would gladly ask about it in the kitchen. Perhaps someone there will have answers—”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the man growled, jerking me back and forth hard enough to jostle my brain. “Someone told you to drug my men. I don’t have to ask who. This type of underhanded act reeks of that Ottoman pig-fucker. What I want to know, is why? What’s his play? And, I suggest you take special focus on the details.” Casting the pitcher aside, it bounced off the wall and shattered in a spray of shards. Hand freed, he drew a dagger from the sheath at his hip. He flipped it over the back of his calloused knuckles, letting it settle into his waiting palm. “Because the more I know, the less likely I am to skin you alive while all of these drunks watch.”

  Mouth opening and shutting, my body screamed for me to claim a breath around the lump of panic lodged in my throat. I had no way to know how things were progressing for Dorian in the kitchen at that same moment. I couldn’t hear his chanting reaching a fevered pitch. Couldn’t see his fist tightening around the body of the frog. Had I been privy to that crucial information, or understood what it meant, I would have let myself choke then and there. The sun has not set on a day since that I haven’t wished that’s how my story ended.

  As it was, self-preservation brought on a bumbling fiasco for freedom. Lacing my fingers together, I arced my joined hands back and swung hard at the soldier’s arm—once, twice, and again. With the final strike, he lost hold of me and the dagger. The blade skid across the floor, thumping against a neighboring chair. We dove for it in the same instant, my fingers beating his to be the first to close around its hilt. Knowing he could easily overpower me, I squeezed my eyes shut and blindly slashed in his direction. It sank into his thigh with a gruesome pop, chipping bone with the depth of the strike. Blood gushed from his leg in thick spurts, pooling at his feet.

  With a slick of gore spreading across the floor, a chorus of gasps echoed through the tavern. The soldier’s complexion grew paler with each second. A blue hue stealing over his lips, he sank to the floor.

  I thought to run. Fast and far, and never look back. Had I tried, I would have found it already too late. Vines of darkness writhed through the tavern, stretching from the shadows. The candles strung overhead dimmed, flickering their subservient obedience. Could those around me sense the palpable presence of evil? I couldn’t say. I can speak only of the shiver of unease that skittered down my spine, causing the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

  The Dragon had been summoned, and in that pivotal moment I unintentionally supplied a worthy sacrifice. Choosing me as its vessel over Dorian, it slithered my way like a ravenous knot of serpents. They coiled around my ankles, twisting up my legs and torso. I stretched my neck as far as I could, head jerking side to side to keep them from my face. Lips parting, a choked sob escaped me as they snaked over my cheeks and wriggled into the corners of my eyes. A black haze blocked out the world, the taste of rotten eggs assaulting my tongue.

  What followed was a haze of blood and violence. My dagger found its way through the room, delivering abrupt death without discrimination. Body moving of its own accord, I painted the walls with ruby spray.

  From the darkest recesses of my mind came the rumble of a sinister voice, Unlimited power placed, in he who serves my pleasure.

  I was ten years old when the darkness first spoke to me. Comprised of shadows, it roiled and stretched all around, taunting me with malicious hisses of laughter that reeked of fire and brimstone. In that moment, it called me … Slave.

  Chapter Two

  Vinx

  Traveling
in the private jet of an unnamed benefactor, we experienced mild turbulence flying over the Carpathian Mountains. Not that I noticed. Perched on the edge of a leather recliner, I stared without blinking at the TV fixed on the wall. A civil war was raging, gruesome images of hate and loathing strewn across the screen.

  “To update our viewers on the current situation, a nationwide manhunt is underway for Rau Mihnea, the vampire activist who spear-headed the Nosferatu Presumption of Innocence Bill. Mihnea is wanted for questioning in the open investigation in the murder of Amber Rawling, daughter of Connecticut County Commissioner Lawrence Rawling. Video footage leaked to authorities appears to not only place Mihnea in the airplane hangar the body was found in, but implicate him in her death as well. We must warn those watching, that viewer discretion is advised as this footage contains graphic violence.”

  Blood-tinged tears blurred my vision as I watched the manipulated footage for what felt like the millionth time. Rau paced a slow circle around Amber and I. Blood seeping from my gut, I tried to keep myself between him and the frightened girl. He faked right, then darted left to weave passed me and claim his victim. On no channel were House of Representatives Member Alfonzo Markus, or County Coroner Neil Rutherford mentioned. The world remained oblivious to the fact that those two men drugged Rau with an artificial sulfur substitute that causes vampires to lose control of their hunger. Even if they tested his blood, they would find no trace of it once the effects wore off. Armed with that malicious weapon, the anti-Nosferatu activists were dosing vampires and sending them on violent rampages in order to build fear and unease among the human population. They wanted everyone to view us as monsters. It was working. The NPI Bill Rau had been fighting for, would have made vampires equal citizens in the United States. In light of all that transpired, it had been vetoed by emergency executive order. Across the country, violent protests broke out in metropolitan and urban areas alike, lighting the fuse for a string of vampire hate crimes. While cameras rolled, vamps were forced out into the sun, their attackers dancing and cheering as they burned.