by Of Night
“Luka’s powers are no more than mine, a shadow of the powers of the Great One. How did he learn of Adelaide and her daughter?”
“His mother, Selene. She read the cards and told him of them. How to use them to destroy me.”
“And who is this Selene?”
“An Immortal, gone from us now. In our youth, she believed me to be her intended. When I explained to her she was mistaken, she refused to relinquish her claim. She seduced me to her bed and tried to trick me into completing the ritual. As a member of the Council serving the Triad, I banished her. This was her way to take revenge on me.”
Deafening silence pounded in Valya’s ears. This was like something from a bad daytime soap opera—tragic love affairs, illegitimate children, and sadistic revenge. But he had to get beyond that and focus. He would not let Richelle become the hapless victim of a badly written melodrama.
“Where do we go from here?”
“Luka contacted the Triad to behold his victory as he enslaves Richelle in the same manner he intends to enslave mankind.”
Nicolae reached down and gripped Valya’s hand in a warrior’s hold, his body and words as hard as tempered steel.
“We must not allow Luka to carry out his malevolent design for domination. He must be destroyed, no matter what the price.”
There was no room for doubt as their eyes met. Valya would rather take Richelle and face the dawn together than allow Luka to win this battle. He vowed Richelle would never endure the antipathy of the Living Death, and he nodded to Nicolae in agreement.
“No matter what the price.”
Chapter 16
Preacher climbed the stairs slowly, leading a processional of Vampyresses bearing gifts, resembling a twisted Magi, he thought dryly. The moon had not risen yet, the sun barely asleep beneath the horizon when Luka summoned him. He lolled in bed, the room reeking of blood and sex while he dismissed the females who had lain with him to go with Preacher and prepare Richelle for the Beltane Feast.
Preacher kept a tight lid on the revulsion he felt as the three Vampyresses left. Luka stretched, not bothering to cover his nudity or open his eyes as he gave his commands.
Nor did he hide the fact he had spent the night with three lovely seductresses, all the while declaring that Richelle was his destined life mate and that he planned on completing the bonding ritual as part of the festivities of the feast. The Vampyresses tittered as he averted his eyes from their nakedness, refusing to look at them until they clothed themselves. Of course, the flimsy layers of silk did little to hide their bodies. They even taunted Preacher, flaunting their nipples and pussies, daring him to look as they seduced him.
Preacher was sickened by them and at Luka’s idea of his destined love, Richelle. Luka’s preferred ways of expressing his love were repugnant to Preacher.
Love. Luka didn’t know the meaning of the word and of what love truly was, Preacher thought. Not that he knew any better what love was anymore.
In the dark recesses of his memory, he had a vague recollection of love. He had loved mankind, his congregation. God. But years of watching mankind deteriorate, becoming more and more amoral, a race with no conscience or compassion, had drained him of his hope and faith until all that remained of his belief in God had faded away like an unfulfilled Christmas wish, leaving him bitter and cynical.
It was then, when his despair and despondency had left him wallowing in a pool of misery with thoughts of suicide, that Luka had approached him. Luka was a strong and shining beacon, a light in the darkness of his life. He prophesized about a new world, where the wicked and unjust would be destroyed and a new race would rise to bring order to the world. Preacher willingly pledged his allegiance to Luka in the hopes of saving mankind.
Little did he know that rather than saving mankind, he was damning them.
Luka’s vision did include destroying the wicked and unjust. What Preacher didn’t know was that Luka considered all humans wicked and unjust. The new race Luka spoke of would be his prodigy, who would annihilate the Immortals who opposed him, leaving him the omnipotent ruler of those who remained.
By the time Preacher realized his mistake it was too late—too late to save mankind and too late to save his soul. He had sold his soul to the Devil. So whether he lived or died, it made no difference. He was in Hell, damned beyond all redemption at his folly of a perfect world comparable to that of idyllic Eden.
He followed Luka’s commands, not because of some higher ideal but because he was a coward—afraid of Luka, afraid of Luka’s wrath, afraid to live, and afraid to die. As much as he hated his master, he hated himself more.
Without knocking, he opened the door and was taken aback by the picture Richelle made lying in the majestic bed. The red satin sheets framed her porcelain skin. Her hair cascaded over the pillows as one hand rested lightly against her forehead and her other arm lay draped over her stomach.
He stepped closer as he gazed, mesmerized by her lovely face, slightly blemished with dark circles under her eyes. Reaching out, he picked up one of the tendrils of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers before abruptly releasing the strand and letting it fall back on the pillow. If he still believed in them, he would believe she was an angel.
Richelle’s eyes fluttered as she woke slowly. Preacher expected her to be startled by his nearness, at the very least be upset by his presence, but she merely looked at him with an expectant expression. Ah yes, he remembered. Second blood. That would work in his favor.
“Good morning, madam,” he bid in a patrician tone. “Did you sleep well?”
Slowly she sat up, covering herself with the sheet and looking over her surroundings with an expression of puzzlement.
“I said, did you sleep well, m’lady?”
“I, um…I’m sorry,” she replied absently as she raised a hand to brush her hair away from her forehead. Her fingertips strayed to lightly rub her temples. “I don’t seem to… Do I know you?”
Preacher chuckled. Yes, this would work very well.
“Yes, m’lady. I am the major-domo at Tower of the Red Dragon. You may call me…Victor.”
“Victor?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
* * * *
She looked around slowly, trying to remember, but it was like trying to catch raindrops with a sieve. If not remembering who or where she was wasn’t distressing enough, the leers she was getting from the three women giggling in the shadows behind Victor completely intimidated her. She pulled the sheet up, wrapping it around her tighter as she watched the women from beneath hooded eyes, their giggling more pronounced at her modesty.
One thing was certain. She had a strange feeling of déjà vu. She had gone through something like this before. Her brows furrowed and she tried to remember.
“I…didn’t sleep very well. I don’t seem to remember…”
“That is understandable, m’lady. You were up rather late…celebrating.”
“Celebrating?”
“Yes. The entire household was celebrating late into the evening. Master would let you sleep longer, but then there would be no time to prepare.”
“Prepare?” I sound like a dimwitted parrot.
“For your wedding.”
“My wedding?”
“Yes, you and Master are to be wed this evening at the Beltane Feast. It is no wonder you didn’t sleep well with the excitement of your nuptials.”
“No. It was the dreams.”
“Dreams, m’lady?”
“Yes. I kept having these dreams, and they kept waking me. There was a red haze and people coming in and out of the mist. They kept reaching out to me but disappeared into a fog. And then there was…him.”
“Him?” Preacher questioned, his face impassive.
“He was so…so…I couldn’t see his face as he kept calling to me, Richelle, Richelle… Richelle! My name is Richelle!”
“Go on,” Preacher urged, his voice calm. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” Richelle replie
d, shaking her head. “I never saw his face. I only heard him calling my name over and over again.” She rubbed her temples, trying to remember more, but everything was cast in darkness. She could make out his shadow, large and steady. His muscular frame swaggered from the mist with the grace of a panther.
Although she couldn’t see him, she could feel him. She could feel his intensity, hear the need in his voice. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And when he stood before her, his face shrouded by the murky miasma, his dark eyes raked over her through the darkness. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Instead she felt alive with an exhilaration that resonated a chord embedded deep within her soul and wanted to make her heart sing.
“I couldn’t see him, but I knew him.” The memory of his dark gaze bore into her brain. No matter what else she couldn’t remember, she would never forget those eyes.
“Well, that explains it, m’lady. The master is a very handsome man indeed.”
“The master?”
“Luka cel Rau. He is the master here at Tower of the Red Dragon. It’s no wonder you would be having dreams before your wedding. The two of you are very much in love.”
“We are?”
“Yes.” The three women sniggered from across the room. They stopped when he shot them an icy glare before turning back to her. “You two have been nearly inseparable since your arrival here.”
Richelle eyed Preacher suspiciously and then the three women. They stiffened at her gaze, but were unable to maintain a stoic expression as they smirked and whispered among themselves. Richelle’s gaze returned to Preacher.
“So where is he now?”
“He awaits in a lower chamber. Sleeping, before his wedding night. I daresay, he admits to having a sleepless night as well.” The women laughed outright, tapering off to annoying tittering.
She gripped the sheet tighter, drawing it up to her chin. Becoming increasing uncomfortable with several people in the room while she lay in a bed naked save for satiny sheets to guard her modesty, she became a little stiff in her conversation.
“So why are you here?” she asked, a little more curt than she would have liked.
“Why, we are here to prepare you for the Beltane Feast.”
Yes, Richelle thought. Beltane, the celebration of new beginnings.
“And your wedding,” Preacher finished, clapping his hands. The three women emerged from the shadows, their arms outstretched bearing several gifts.
One carried a clear jar holding a liquid. From the scent of patchouli and cloves, Richelle surmised it was some type of scented oil. The strong scent permeated the room and served to further addle her disjointed thoughts and memories.
Another woman carried a red gown, draped over her arms so Richelle could not admire the style, although the color was as rich as rubies shimmering in the limited lighting of the chamber.
The third carried a red bejeweled crown. It had to be at least a foot tall with a widow’s peak in the front where a teardrop jewel hung.
Richelle frowned and her eyes darted back and forth from the gown to the crown and then back.
“Red? For a wedding? Aren’t brides supposed to wear white?”
“In this case, the red gown is in honor of the master’s lineage from the old country as well as your duty to carry on his bloodline.”
* * * *
Preacher waved for the blonde carrying the tray to come forward. He poured red liquid from the decanter to the goblet, picked it up, and then offered it to Richelle. Hesitantly, she took the goblet, bringing it to her lips. She stopped. Sniffing at the contents, she eyed him again.
“What is this, Victor?”
“It’s a special vintage from the master’s private cellars.” All she had to do was take one sip and then there would be no more need for explanations. Her tentativeness was wearing his patience thin, not to mention amplifying his feelings of guilt.
“You’re sure to enjoy it. Drink.”
Again, she brought the goblet to her lips and stopped short.
“Thank you, Victor.”
Preacher swallowed hard. She was…thanking him? He was left speechless. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. She just stared at the contents of the goblet as she spoke. “It’s very disconcerting, not being able to remember. I’m…grateful…for your assistance.”
Preacher just continued to gape at her. If she had her memories, she wouldn’t be thanking him. She would be running from him in fear. She would hate him. And yet, in her vulnerability, when she was the most defenseless, she had shown a hint of trust, of faith that he had lost oh, so long ago. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.
He had been called to the priesthood to study and be a man of God. Nevertheless, when his faith had been put to the test, he failed miserably. Richelle had lost so much, her mother, the Scot from the mountains, her Guardian. Indeed, being on the run, she had lost most of her life largely due to him. And still, she had faith and trust in her fellow man.
In that moment, he despised what he had become. He fought an internal battle to turn away from Luka’s dominion and take Richelle away, returning her to the Immortals. But before he could do anything, Richelle took the decision away from him as she brought the goblet to her lips and drank. He leaned forward but it was too late. Preacher watched as Richelle suppressed the urge to gag while she drank. She lowered the goblet and began to sway. Her head lolled from side to side. She looked at the liquid in the goblet again before she met Preacher’s gaze. Her hand began to tremble, and Preacher reached out and snagged the goblet before she dropped it.
“What was…what did you do?” Her speech was slurred and she fell back onto the bed.
Preacher watched in silence. He idly swirled what was left of the liquid in the goblet as the Vampyresses took Richelle away to prepare her, both physically and mentally. Once they had finished their brand of brainwashing, Richelle would have no will left when she appeared at the Beltane Feast. There would be no fight as Luka took Final Blood and completed the bonding ritual. More’s the pity.
There was much about Richelle he was coming to admire. His self-loathing weighed heavily on him as he thought of what lay ahead for the evening.
* * * *
Quickly the Vampyresses approached, laying their items at the end of the bed and pulling back the sheet to help Richelle to her feet. Two led her to an adjoining room where a bath had been prepared. The blonde picked up the bottle of oil and followed with Preacher on her heels, bringing the goblet.
They lowered Richelle into the tub and began to wash her. The blonde poured some of the oil directly onto Richelle’s hair and then some into the water. Richelle struggled against the fog clouding her brain as some of the memories she recalled vanished into an unnatural haze. She closed her eyes and focused on one memory that gave her the most comfort—the man from the mist with the blazing dark eyes.
Heedful eyes peering from the darkness filled with passion and need watched over her. Strange as it was, though, it was almost as if she could hear him calling to her. I am coming…remember me.
She tried to ignore the hands roaming over her body, stroking her hair, and the combination of her drink and heady perfume flooded her mind until all other thoughts had been pushed away, leaving her mind empty and needing to be filled. The women began to speak in her mind, their voices blending into to one.
“How fortunate you are, my dear.”
“Fortunate.”
“Luka is a handsome and powerful man.”
“Many have wanted him.”
“But he chose you.”
“Chose you.”
“To become his bride.”
“To become mistress of Tower of the Red Dragon.”
“He is so very handsome.”
“Yes, handsome.”
“Powerful.”
“He will rule the world.”
“The world.”
“And you shall be his queen.”
The women stood her on her feet and began to m
assage the remaining oil into her alabaster skin, leaving it glistening and smooth. She spied Preacher glancing in her direction while the women caressed and stroked her body, seemingly enjoying her jerky movements and discomfort. He glared at the women before averting his eyes.
“Cease this moment!” he ordered.
They ignored him, giddily giggling as they continued.
“Cease this moment, or I will tell Luka of your disobedience.” His warning was effective and they stopped immediately but with deadly glares at him. Helping her from the tub, they wrapped a large towel around Richelle. Preacher turned and approached, offering her the goblet.
She looked up at him. She tried to concentrate, his features fading in and out of focus. Her mind was a whirling with disconnected thoughts tumbling in her head: Where am I again? The tower…something…something. Who are these people? What are they doing? What am I doing here? Yes, the Feast. A wedding? My wedding. To whom? They told me…Luka. I am here to marry Luka. But I don’t know him, do I?
She hadn’t taken the goblet from his hands so Preacher held it higher, nodding his head as she reluctantly accepted it.
“You must drink to your impending wedding and husband-to-be,” Preacher insisted. “To Luka cel Rau, master of Tower of the Red Dragon, and soon, the world.”
“To Luka,” Richelle uttered softly before she drank more of the vile liquid. Her brows furrowed at the distaste of Luka’s “special vintage.” She didn’t finish it all but handed the goblet back to Preacher
Preacher handed the goblet to the redhead, who walked into the bedchamber and returned with the gown and crown. They removed the towel to let it pool at Richelle’s feet. Her unsteadiness was more pronounced as she swayed on her feet.
She gazed at Preacher, but he became misty, vanishing into a thick fog. She heard him issue one more command before the haze engulfed her in mind-numbing darkness.
“Finish preparing her for the feast.”
* * * *
The night air sparked with agitated electricity. Valya was non-approachable, and anger roiled off him like surging ocean waves. Even Nicolae wouldn’t approach him. It was safer to let Valya pace from one end of his loft to the other while he growled his dissatisfaction. They awaited the arrival of the rest of their compatriots so they could plan their stratagem in their battle against Luka and his army.