by Alix Adale
To save Xerxes, she had to turn him. There was nothing else to do. The choice was hers. “Armando, wait.”
He paused in the doorframe, a specter in black. “Yes?”
“Please. Help me do it?”
The smile that broke out across his face was so unexpected, it was like a cloud lifting before the sun. He clapped his hands, eager to get to work. “Doctor Qin will monitor his vital signs, physical and metaphysical. I will assist. But once we start, your instincts will kick in. You’ll know what to do.” He kissed her head. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Qin detached the hospital equipment keeping Xerxes alive. Lights blinked and signals flatlined. Armando dimmed the lights and set out four candles, one in each compass direction. He added four more between each pair, creating an eight-sided ward to prevent discorporate entities from interfering. Then he handed her a blade—the Braden’s ceremonial dagger.
Silver as the moon, it gleamed in Dez’s palm, Goetic runes flashing in the candlelight. That flicker recalled the terrible scene from a few nights ago, seeing this same knife take a life. The symmetry and balance struck her. Good cannot exist without evil, love means nothing without death. She drew the blade-point down the inside of her left wrist. A crimson line appeared, the fateful cut that would forever link their lives.
Armando and the doctor flanked Xerxes. They turned his head so he faced the ceiling. Her sire opened the immobile, lifeless mouth, parting chalky lips.
Instinct kicked in; she knew what to do. She put her wrist to her lover’s lips, letting the stolen essence trickle down his throat.
Nothing happened. It was too late! She’d dithered and wavered far too long. He would die in spite of her last, final effort to stay together. The irony would be too much. How appropriate, how fitting, for her to fail at this as she’d failed at everything else in life—and in undeath.
What was that? His lips moved against her wrist. The first, faint signs of a revival showed in the corner of his mouth. Small muscles moved as he licked.
Yes, let him drink, let him take more—he could take all of her, if only he lived. She stretched a hand across his strong chest, feeling the faint rise and fall of his lungs, the beating of his heart. “Xerxes, come back. Stay with me.”
His lips moved with more fervor, suckling the faint trickle. Color flushed back into his cheeks, his arms twitched. All good signs, the doctor announced. He’ll make it, Armando agreed.
Their words washed past her, almost unheard. She remained locked on her lover’s face.
His eyes had just opened. A silver sheen illuminated them from behind, lending an eerie glow to his face as he stared up. He managed a single word, “Dez.”
“I’m here. We’re together, forever, and nothing will break us apart.”
And it was so.
Chapter 19: Crimson Dawn
Xerxes
Six weeks later
Little Prasino nosed ahead, tail wagging as she explored the orchids and rose bushes of Braden House as she did every morning during their walks. She didn’t need a leash on this posh estate, tucked into a seaside community on the Oregon-California border, but she wore her green collar.
He would never admit it, but Little Prasino had been his favorite, the runt of the litter, though she was not little anymore. The Dalmatian barked and scampered across the lawn back toward the manor, hot on the scent of a gopher.
The puppy’s joy mirrored his own. He still hadn’t grown used to his heightened, underworld senses, but already he could smell and taste things beyond the narrow human range, saw the world in broader terms, full of infinite mystery. He held Dez’s hand in his, walking along the garden path, toward the gazebo and the tree-swing. Braden House was no Eibon Manor dominating the surrounding countryside, but the secluded Victorian mansion with its sea-views, sweeping lawns, and wooded tracts provided more than ample comfort and privacy.
Every morning since the end of his isolation, they walked the grounds together, defying the sun with their nanorians. Armando had provided one from the Braden’s precious stockpile and the Queen had inserted it while he was unconscious. Dez got hers back too, that same night. It was an honor and a privilege to wear one. Most immortals lacked such a blessing.
No immortal was more blessed than he. He kissed his lover’s cheek—his lover and his sire. Both their hands ran chill, but pressed against each other, they warmed to the touch, vitality responding to vitality, love to love. The peculiarities of his new physiognomy still startled him, but the period of his savagery had passed and not a moment too soon. For five weeks, as the vampirism reshaped the inner workings of his body, his conscious mind lost complete control and his unconscious took over, feral and snarling.
The Bradens kept him in a padded cell all through this time, feeding him blood and meat through the window, a necessary period of solitude every turned new-risen endures. Not all newborns survived this dangerous period, remaining feral forever, but in time, with Dez’s help, he did. She came and talked to him through the bars, played music, soothed his feral state with cheerful conversation and new drawings until his conscious mind reasserted control. He left the neonate state of a newborn, becoming a fledgling. He could control his urges now.
Most urges. He turned toward Dez, wrapping her against his chest in a full embrace. “Have I told you I loved you today?”
Her laughter graced the sunrise. “Yes! Are you trying to set a record?”
He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the tree-swing. They settled in and nuzzled, getting cozy. They’d made love this morning, would make love again today, possibly several more times, but for now, there was no need for that or even words.
The broad sweep of the Pacific stretched out beneath the cliffs, sending breakers toward the rocky shore below. Gulls spun on the breeze, their distant cries a backdrop to the nearer, noisier chatter of crows and blue jays. The tree-swing creaked, almost in time with the distant breakers.
Days like today stretched out forever. When he’d first regained his conscious mind, the first thing Dez did was apologize—over and over—for his vampiric condition. Day by day, he was convincing her that he preferred this life. It was fun, like an adventure, riding a big red fire truck every day. She’d handed him a supernatural lottery ticket and life was great.
Dez squirmed under his arm, slipping closer. “What do you think of Port Selkie?”
“Quiet. I like it. Good home for a fitness instructor.”
She smirked. “Who has only one client.”
“One is all I need.”
“That’s right! But not too quiet, compared to Portland?”
Was she worried he would get bored? Did she think turning into a vampire wasn’t excitement enough for many lifetimes? “We’ve had our adventure. I want to settle in, help with clan business. Like you.”
Desiree smiled at the recognition. Before his turning, Dez had stayed in her room and worked on her comics, denying her undead status and ignoring clan affairs. But she’d broken out of that shell. Now Armando and Colin handed her new clan business on an almost daily basis. She now ran their modest media and hotel empire, in fact would visit Paris soon to oversee some holdings. They would be apart a few weeks, but after all they’d faced together, a brief separation would be no challenge.
She squeezed his hand. “Is everyone treating you okay?”
“Yes, they’re great.” That was true. “Colin’s taking me under his wing in the detective business, Braden Services. He brings me along because I’m big and we get in less fights that way.”
“Good for you.” With a possessive loop, she wrapped an arm around him. “Poor Colin, still mourning his lost Rosalita.”
Tragic, but understandable. He kissed her neck. “I would mourn you if the unthinkable happened. A hundred years, it’s a promise.”
“That’s sweet, but fifty years will be enough.” They laughed and she asked, “What about Armando? Is he a dick?”
“He’s greeted me with
open arms.” That was a relief; the clan leader had shown not a spark of jealousy, treating him more like a new son-in-law than a romantic rival, which was weird and hard to wrap his head around. Immortal bonds were odd like that, he was learning.
Even Cherise acted friendly, announcing she was glad there was another fledgling around so she wasn’t the youngest anymore. She even tried to fob her chores off on him.
Not on his watch. He would not to speak to her any more than politeness demanded and even that was a struggle. Forgiving Oil-Can Mike’s murderer might never happen, especially without the least sign of remorse on her part. But for the sake of household peace, he buried his animosity and focused on the good parts of the clan, which far outweighed the negatives. Cherise spent her time away on mysterious errands, anyway.
Only one Braden remained unaccounted for. He squeezed his lover’s hand. “Still no news of George?”
George’s disappearance bothered her because she was the last to see him. It was another small cloud in their sunny skies. “Not a word. It’s like he stepped off the edge of the world. But he’s not dead; Colin and Armando would sense that. They’ve been brothers in blood for centuries.”
“Bet he turns up with a story to tell.”
Dez kissed his nose. “I hope so.”
The disappearance was strange, but he’d only met George in unpleasant circumstances. But the elder’s absence cast a pallor over the clan. Armando and Colin talked in hushed, muted voices about the disappearance, or gathered in conference rooms to consult with the Eibons.
His new cell phone rang, snapping his attention back to the present. He checked the number and grinned. “Morning, Mom.”
“Xerxes. How’s the new job?” Mom sound bright and cheerful. In the background, her wooden spoon slapped a ceramic bowl as she whipped pancake batter around. Even now, with no need for mortal food, the familiar sounds triggered his hunger reflex.
“It’s great, Mom. This town needs fitness instructors. My phone’s ringing off the hook.”
“Mm-hmm. And your apartment? It’s not some rat-trap in a trailer park?”
“No, Mom! I told you, I’m renting a room in this big house. It’s gorgeous.”
The spoon whipped around, batter churning. “That’s good. And this woman you’re seeing?”
“She’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?”
That took Mom aback. Then she chuckled. “Sure, put her on.”
He handed the phone to Dez, kissing her cheek. “Here, it’s Mom.”
She panicked, tried to push the phone away. “What? What do I say?”
“Take it.” He pushed the phone into her hands.
“Hello, Mrs. Pontides?” Dez spoke, nodding along. “No, I don’t cook … we, uh, eat out a lot. … A visit? I guess … Fourth of July weekend? … Sounds great … Okay, bye!” She broke the call and handed the phone back. “You said she’s pushy. I think she’s sweet.”
He squeezed her tight. “Life is sweet, and so are you.”
“Mmm, Stud Puppy.”
“Amazing Woman.”
“Are you ready to do more than snuggle?”
“Race you to the beach!”
And Little Prasino came bounding after.
Epilogue: The Shape of Things to Come
Mabon
For a supposed Special Agent of the Department of Homeland Security, Mabon Conreal was not often at his desk. It was a champion among desks too, a steel-and-glass designer’s special, located within a private office in the executive wing of Portland’s Fusion Center. He sat behind his desk today, though. How the email piled up. Mortals filled their days with trash, with hollow screeds full of nothing. It was unbelievable. Didn’t they know how brief their lives were? He held the delete key down, deleting message after message unread.
Sunlight flowed through the high, vaulted windows of his private office. His nanorian preserved him—so vital for his job, his role as the Queen’s Chancellor. Unlike these Blooded clans who handed out the demon hearts like so much candy, he’d earned his only after decades of loyal service to his Queen. Few clanless vampires were ever trusted enough to receive such a gift, but he’d made himself indispensable over the years. A single purpose drove him, a holy task he worked toward every moment of every hour. By earning Ursula’s trust, he wanted from her that most precious of gifts, the right to re-establish the Conreal bloodline with spawn of his own. Then, only then, could he rebuild his power and avenge his fallen sire.
The door opened, revealing a lean, weathered figure holding a compact disc. The silver plastic caught the fluorescent lights and sparkled in the man’s hand.
“Detective Zenkowski, what a surprise. Come on in.” He gestured toward the chair opposite. “How’s that eHarmony gal of yours?”
“Suzanna,” Zen said, settling into the chair. “I don’t call her the eHarmony gal anymore—we’ve been dating about six weeks.”
“Must mean it’s serious.”
“It is. But so is this.” The detective leaned forward, his demeanor all business as he handed over the disc. “We’ve been tracking down leads on this ‘Moog’ guy—the Yukon biker in the Mike Malone killing.”
“I remember.” Did he ever—what a fucking mess that had been. Armando Braden couldn’t keep his damn fledglings in line, causing no end of misery.
Zenkowski gestured. “That’s video you should see, some kind of underground fight club in weird costumes.” Zenkowski rose and, with a final nod, slipped out the door.
Mabon contemplated that statement. He tapped the compact disc against his jaw before slipping it into his desktop. Lycans, no doubt. As the video started to play, he leaned in.
Blurry, shaky cellphone footage appeared, lacking audio but still watchable. It showed Moog the Mad, in full werewolf form, shouting into a microphone outside a steel cage. All around, an audience of lycans stamped their feet and shook their fists. Money changed hands. Two fighters entered the ring—one, an obvious crowd favorite, a massive, red-bearded, red-furred were-bear. The second was a grizzled, shirtless human, stripped to the waist. Sweat, grime and scars covered his massive chest and biceps. A cigar wreathed the man’s features in smoke.
Only when the camera zoomed in did the man pull out the stogie, open his mouth extra-wide, and drop his fangs in. The crowd of lycans went insane with fury, howling for the blood of the ancient enemy.
The match began. And the video ended.
Mabon sat back in his chair, one hand under his chin. What was that one up to, sniffing around Moog’s circus of blood? It could only mean one thing. Not good. Not good at all. He took out an encrypted phone from his vest pocket and dialed Queen Ursula.
“Majesty, I found George Braden. He’s searching for his sire’s killer—and he’s on the right track.”
THE END
Afterword
Thank you for reading Night is Magic! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m hard at work on two more novels about the Braden clan, and I hope you’ll join my mailing list receive news about future releases and a bonus vampire romance:
alixadale.com/newsletter
Turn the page for a special preview of Fire is Magic, the next book in the Hearts of Dagon series. It tells the story of George Braden as he moves incognito through a dangerous world of lycans under the name ‘Dreck.’ He’s searching for his sire’s killer, only to find unexpected romance with that most deadly of enemies: a vampire slayer.
Preview: Fire is Magic
Jordan
SLAYERS burn their dead. That was the first thing she learned. Cremation prevents vampires from desecrating the bodies. Her mentor’s teaching returned during the rainy funeral. Only ashes remained of his wizened smile, his fine gray mesh of hair, his vast store of occult knowledge. No more mentor, no more friend.
Rain lashed the cemetery, the headstones, and the dark knots of mourners with equal indifference. As the ceremony drew to a close, the priest placed a silver-wrought urn into a silk-lined casket. �
�May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.”
Yet a strange, high-pitched keening sound rang in her ear. Strange. What was that? Her earlobe tingled, suggesting magic. It wasn’t the prayer tripping an alarm, either. Her senses hadn’t picked up anything this loud or urgent since—since the massacre. The source must be both strong and close.
Did anyone else feel it? She stared at the dozen mourners around the open grave. None showed alarm. Most were older priests and Order guardians, friends and colleagues of her mentor. She’d met only a few before, but that wasn’t surprising. The Order divided its membership into small cells. That structure reduced the risk of retaliation but didn’t eliminate it. This funeral proved that.
The skin at the nape of her neck ran cold, the fine hairs tingling. The body reacted like that when the Blooded neared. That was another teaching: Listen to your skin. Feel for the touch of the invisible spider tiptoeing down your spine. That’s a warning sign, loud and clear. She searched the crowd. The source of danger must be near.
One of the mourners—a massive specimen of humanity, as large as a sumo wrestler—returned her gaze. His vast body was swathed in an immaculate black suit. A cape rippled on his back as he went into motion, making his way around the open grave. In his hand, he held an open umbrella with perfect solemnity.
Peculiar, the size of this one. Too old for a hunter. Must be a guardian, even a lodge master. She shifted in her boots, but the tingling had stopped. Still, this massive stranger was spooky. There was something almost undead about his complexion, but vampires can’t stand the sun, no matter how much it rained. Daylight turned them to ashes. How many times had she seen that?
The powerful man halted a foot away, extending the umbrella and its protection. He spoke in a thick, ponderous voice, like water rushing over gravel. “Jordan Rivers?”