by Tessa Dawn
Achilles Zahora.
The Executioner.
The bestial soldier of the Dark Ones’ Colony Guard.
So, Ian had made an alliance with the house of Jaegar?
Before Julien could process the full meaning of that statement, the banks of the river filled with lethal vampires from the house of Jaegar: three additional Dark Ones, with bands around their arms, all members of the Colony Guard; one familiar, evil persona, Salvatore Rafael Nistor; and of course, his own wicked brother, Ian Lacusta.
The dark twin still remained.
Santos, Ramsey, and Saber shimmered into view as one, each deadly warrior armed to the teeth and prepared to take on the enemy in a violent, brutal clash, and it was clear as day how the combatants were matched: The sentinels were paired with the Colony Guard; the sorcerer had come for the wizard; and the two Lacusta twins were the match that would set the deadly inferno ablaze.
It was also as dark as midnight—the sky had filled with looming clouds.
The earth began to tremble beneath them.
And the water in the river began to rise in sudden, turbulent waves, the peaks spouting crescents of fire as the ancient, half-celestial beings prepared to go to war.
Ian immediately fell back into the protective arms of a semicircle, ensconced by his dark, twisted allies, and Nachari Silivasi did the same: He retreated like a ghost, falling seamlessly into line with the sentinels, and that’s when Saber Alexiares sauntered to the zenith of the skirmish and smirked.
“Julien,” Saber snarled brazenly, “brothers”—he placed a special emphasis on the familial word—“a soldier should know the names of his enemies, those who are about to die.” He spat in the direction of the Dark One’s lineup, and then he pointed at each member of the Colony Guard, one by one. “Achilles Zahora, the bastard with the creepy orange eyes; Silas Slovinsky, the brain-dead mute with a ring in his nose; Nuri Bolasek, the demon with albino skin; and Falcon Zvara, the jackal with a Mohawk—watch your back with this one; he likes to hide poison beneath his claws.” He eyed each male from head to toe with unconcealed disdain, and then he turned toward Salvatore Nistor. “And of course, this one needs no introduction: Salvatore Egomaniac Nistor. Apparently, he never grows tired of being humiliated; he’s obviously addicted to defeat; and he’s far too stupid to recognize when he’s facing a superior magician. He shouldn’t be hard to take.”
Salvatore Nistor shook with rage.
His fangs descended like two venomous daggers from his gums, and he lunged at Saber’s throat.
Saber raised his forearm to block him and countered with a roundhouse kick that sent the sorcerer flying backward toward the sharp, gangly branches of a nearby tree, but before the limbs could impale the evil sorcerer, Salvatore extended both arms, spit out a curse in ancient Romanian, and threw back his head in raucous laughter as the coiled black mambas encircling each of the dark soldiers’ arms instantly came to life as living, hissing serpents, and dove into the fray.
Nachari immediately released five bands of light from the tips of his curled fingers, and five enormous scorpions, their pincers soaked in blood, besieged the mystical snakes, one magical apparition challenging another.
From that point forward, it was absolute mayhem, a clash of mighty beasts: From the corner of his eye, Julien saw Ramsey Olaru thrust the tines of his trident deep into Silas Slovinsky’s gut; he saw Santos Olaru summersault over the head of Achilles Zahora and drive an iron stake into the top of Nuri Bolasek’s skull as he made his perilous descent; and he could’ve sworn he saw Saber Alexiares dive onto Falcon’s back like a crazed rodeo cowboy mounting an angry bull, as Salvatore and Achilles double-teamed Nachari, who drew his beloved sword and began to fight like a knight of old.
None of it mattered.
It was all background noise.
Julien had only one objective, and it was encased in tunnel vision as he sought to locate Ian, the brother he had come to kill.
As if illuminated on a stage of their own, where all the other warriors were props, Ian sauntered forward with a cocky, lazy stride and presented himself to the tracker. “Brother,” he drawled in a noxious tone. “At long last, we meet again.”
Julien bristled, and his heart constricted in his chest. “Grigori,” he mocked. “Cute, Ian. Cute.”
Ian smiled, and his razor-sharp teeth shone like the moonlight against his blood-red gums. “Did you get my birthday cards?”
Julien didn’t reply, nor did he react.
“No?” Ian furrowed his eyebrows in a mock-gesture of deep disappointment. “Aw, that’s too bad. And to think, I chose each one so carefully. For you.”
Julien held his brother’s stare, even as he followed his every subtle movement: the right leg that was shifting backward to sustain a forward lunge; the open palm that was sliding downward to cover the hilt of a blade; and the barest twinkle in Ian’s gray eyes, the same one that had flashed a millisecond before he had attacked Harietta, signaling his intent to kill. “You should’ve died nine centuries ago, Ian, and I’m here to set that straight.”
Ian licked his lips. “Mmm, I see. Well, I’d be impressed if you could.”
Once again, Julien declined to respond—chitchat was not his thing. He would rather speak with his weapon and his fists. Raising his battle axe, he sliced crosswise at Ian’s throat, and in the exact same moment, orchestrated with uncanny, identical alacrity, Ian drew his dagger and countered with a similar move. It was like shadow-boxing in a mirror, the exactness of each brother’s timing, his movement, and his aim.
Both drew blood.
Neither sliced the jugular.
And each dropped down into a crouch…
At the exact same instant.
Two jabs connected with two temples. Two uppercuts rattled two jaws. And two elbows struck two throats, as each male jolted, coughed, and took a stutter-step back.
They were perfectly matched as opponents.
Julien drew deep into a pocket of inner silence, the eye of a turbulent storm. He could not let the sameness of their instincts unsettle him, the fact that they were truly homogeneous as twins...
And warriors.
He would have to beat him with his mind.
He rotated his wrist, spinning his axe in a loop, even as he countered Ian’s sideways steps, circling his brother in a deadly tango, hoping to lull him into a metaphorical sleep.
Ian chuckled, a fiendish sound, as he rotated his dagger in his fingers. “How long shall we dance, dear brother?”
Julien struck with his left hand first, landing a crisp, lightning-fast strike to Ian’s right cheek before the Dark One could see it coming. It was an act of condescension, an insult meant to inflame, and the last maneuver Ian would expect. The tracker followed it up with a brittle backhand, a punitive forehand, and another harsh slap, snapping the Dark One’s head backward, like a bobber on a line, and dislodging an entire row of teeth before falling back into the familiar dance.
Ian howled with rage, and then he thrust his dagger upward, aiming the blade at Julien’s chest. The Master Warrior blocked the razor with the head of his axe, rotated his wrist 180 degrees, and shoved the blunt end into Ian’s rib cage, luxuriating in the sound of the crackling bones.
Yet Ian didn’t flinch.
He took advantage of the moment by dropping his dagger, releasing his remaining claws, and striking swiftly at Julien’s heart.
Julien saw it coming. He inverted his chest, and he flew backward about fifteen feet, releasing his wings to propel him.
And then, Ian struck with an onslaught of relentless attacks, none of them involving his fangs or his fists, none of them requiring close proximity, none of them a physical assault. Like an arrow piercing through the center of Julien’s skull, a stream of images impaled the tracker’s cerebral cortex: Micah Lacusta being claimed by the Blood; Harietta Lacusta having her throat torn out; and century after century of Julien tracking Ian through village after village, while the bastard hid in the shadow
s…and watched.
Julien had been that close…time after time.
Within striking distance!
Yet he had never flushed out his evil brother.
What kind of tracker was he?
A voice like pure, unadulterated thunder resounded in the tracker’s ears: “Julien! Snap out of it. Let go of your rage!”
Julien blinked three times.
It sounded like Napolean Mondragon.
“Half of Silverton Creek is in ruins: The farmlands are burning; the roads are imploding; and the dam has broken from a flood.”
Still grappling with the endless barrage of images, the stream of insanity that Ian was flooding into his mind, Julien glanced at the midnight sky, and for the first time, he realized it was pouring down rain, icy torrents mixed with fragments of hail, accentuated by the crackling of thunder and backlit by blazing bolts of lightning.
Were those sirens he heard in the distance?
Were his feet sinking deep in the mud?
His eyes shot forward, only for a moment, and that’s when he noticed the wall of flames.
The forest was on fire!
But when had that happened?
He thought he heard Napolean prodding him again from some great distance, but he couldn’t be sure. The images were coming too quickly—they were fast and furious now—and they showed no sign of letting up: Analise and Evangeline, two innocent young girls, helpless and being ravished, brutalized, and murdered, every morbid detail of their violation displayed in living color for Julien to see; the village people dying, burning, screaming, falling through the cracks in the earth; and a scene…another scene…that made no sense!
Rebecca Johnston, Julien’s own immortal destiny, being spiked to an ancient stone wall. Her limbs were being torn from her torso, her eyes were being pried from her skull, and all the while, she just screamed and screamed…and screamed.
It had to be a hoax.
It had to be a threat.
Rebecca was safe at Napolean’s manse.
She had to be.
Narrowing his vision on Ian, Julien fought to block out the rain, the thunder, and the lightning. He shoved Napolean’s voice out of his head, and he became nothing but a feral beast, a warrior from the house of Jadon, and a final instrument of death.
Remove the heart.
Sever the head.
Incinerate the body so that it can’t come back.
There were only three steps involved, one way to kill a vampire, and Julien had run out of time.
Ian would never, ever get to Rebecca.
And he would never haunt Julien again.
The Dark One’s life had been a foul aberration of nature, brought about by an evil curse, and he had left death and destruction and abomination in his wake for as long as he had drawn breath.
Today would be his last.
For the first time since a ten-year-old boy had hardened his heart and fought his emotions, struggling to keep the madness at bay, Julien Lacusta gave full vent to his rage. And his vengeance.
He sprang from the mud like a tiger, slammed his body into the frame of his twin, and drove them both forward and upward, over the embankment, well beyond the river, and right into the center of the flames.
May the gods burn to ash that which should never have been.
twenty-six
Saxson Olaru could not believe his eyes.
Had he just witnessed an act of murder and suicide?
No.
No!
Julien could not be gone!
Not after diving into a fire. Not like that. Not when he had just found his way.
His destiny.
Not when there was so much life left to live.
He cautiously approached the convulsing wall of flames and turned to regard Napolean.
The sovereign leader of the house of Jadon had appeared on the scene within moments of the mayhem breaking out. He had checked on young Braden first, offered a stream of his venom to insure the healing of the fledgling’s chest, and then immediately faced off with the Colony Guard: One look into his blazing, crimson eyes; one glance at his towering, muscular form, trembling with barely concealed wrath; and one glimpse of the moonlight coalescing around him like a medieval, celestial cloak, and the soldiers from the house of Jaegar had retreated, vanished into the night.
Apparently, their loyalty to Ian hadn’t run that deep.
And Ian, the dark twin of Julien Lacusta himself, had been as oblivious as the tracker: oblivious to the natural phenomena occurring all around him; oblivious to the violent changes in the earth; enraptured in the bizarre, intimate dance that he had shared with his brother; determined to conquer his nemesis, at last.
To finalize the kill.
Whatever chain, or link, or mystical cord tied the two Lacusta brothers together in their lethal, vengeful tango, Napolean had been unable to break it.
No one had.
Nachari’s magic hadn’t worked.
Ramsey’s harsh shouts hadn’t penetrated their stalemate.
And neither Saber nor Santos had broken through their paralytic bond.
Finally, Napolean had sent the wizard, the boy, and the other sentinels to Silverton Creek, commanding them to help the residents: to put out fires, reinforce the roads, and stabilize the dam, to remain invisible if they had to. He didn’t care how they did it, as long as they preserved human life and countered the celestial fury that was rocking the earth and scourging the land. He had asked Saxson to remain, to ward off any potential enemies while he had tried to reach the soul inside of Julien.
“Julien! Snap out of it. Let go of your rage!” The warrior had blinked three times. “Half of Silverton Creek is in ruins: The farmlands are burning; the roads are imploding; and the dam has broken from a flood.”
Nothing.
Not a single reply.
The tracker had glanced at the midnight sky, and he had seemed to notice the rain, the hail, and the lightning. He had seemed to finally hear the sirens in the distance; but then, his eyes had locked on Ian’s, and something dark, dangerous, and determined had passed through them. The next moment, he was lunging at the Dark One, launching them both into the air and diving into the flames.
“Saxson! The river!” Napolean had barked, sweeping his hand in a wide arc to indicate the narrow, roiling channel. “Great goddess, Andromeda, buy us some time!” His prayers had been like smoke, billowing to the heavens.
Saxson had immediately leaped into the center of the water and began to draw the elements into his hands. Channeling the molecules with every ounce of his being, he had sent stream after powerful stream in a furious, frantic deluge into the wall of flames. He had continued to pump the water like a living, breathing hydrant into the blazing, noxious fire, praying as he went. Great Hercules, god of war, protect your beloved son.
And he had watched.
As Napolean Mondragon, the fearless leader of the house of Jadon, had stretched out his hands, threw back his head, and blown shards of ice, channeling winter into the terrifying blaze.
Seconds had felt like minutes.
Minutes had felt like hours.
As they had waited for the flames to recede, for the furious animation of molecules to become the sluggish slumber of inertia, for the fire to become subdued.
Finally, when the crackling, hissing, and popping of the golden serpent had died down, Saxson had swallowed his trepidation, leaped from the riverbed to the edge of the smothering fire, and joined Napolean in a morbid expedition to find what was left of Julien.
Now, as they padded through the ice, the sludge, and the ash, searching the ground with their transcendent vision, listening for the faintest beat of a heart, begging the gods for mercy as they crept along, Saxson felt a horrible sense of foreboding.
And then he saw them.
The two Lacusta brothers…
Their arms and legs intertwined like four spindly, charred logs.
He stifled a gasp.
Their fe
atures and their hair were no longer recognizable—they were simply two scorched heaps of cinders and slag.
Despite his determination to be strong, Saxson retched and choked on the rising bile. “No,” he muttered absently, “no!” He turned to glance at Napolean and began to tremble. Finally, when he had regained his composure, he cleared his throat again. “Which one…” He had to stop to modulate his words. “Which one do you think is Julien?”
Napolean bit down hard on his bottom lip, and his shoulders stiffened like iron rods. He followed the lines of the blackened arms down to the melted hands and studied the head of an axe, an uncharred piece of iron, still gripped by a forefinger and a thumb. “The male on top.” The king immediately dropped down into a crouch, released his incisors, and began to apply a liberal amount of venom to the area near the top of the heap, as close to the jugular as he could surmise. When he finally came up for breath, he squinted at Saxson through tear-stained eyes. “Call Kagen Silivasi, now! Tell the healer we’re on our way. His body is still, somewhat, intact.” The king choked over the words. “His heart…and his head…they’re not…completely gone.”
Saxons grimaced and took an unwitting step back. “As you will, milord,” he mumbled, too shaken to say any more. And then he watched as Napolean Mondragon encased the mangled form—the body of the tracker ravaged by fire—in a solid block of ice and lifted the mass, as if it weighed nothing more than a feather, out of the rubble, cradling it as best he could against his trembling chest. “Burn the rest of that crap to smithereens,” he ordered, his voice as cool as the cradled ice. “Make sure there is nothing left of Ian to revive.” As he stepped out of the remnants, the ash, and the strangled fire, he dropped his anguished head and shielded the beloved figure in his arms with his hair, almost like a shroud.
And then he released his glorious black-and-silver wings and shot into the sky, heading for Kagen’s clinic.
Saxson watched as the magnificent figure receded into the night, illuminated by the light of the moon, and once again, he prayed…