The Sanction

by Reeyce Smythe Wilder

  “He never speaks of his parents,” she hinted softly.

  Rhys shook his head before stoking the fire again. “It is not my place to speak of such things.”

  “What does your place allow you to speak of then?”

  “I would rather not speak at all.”

  She considered him from the comfort of her furs and smiled. Rhys could almost sense the cat like contentment she felt and resented her for it even more. “You do not like me, but you will risk your life to see me safe. Why?”

  “I am loyal to Graeme. How I feel about you has nothing to do with that.”

  “He must be a very good man to warrant such honor from you.”

  He met her eyes and paused for a long moment before finally speaking again. “He is. I charge you to remember that. Remember what you have cost him, what you are going to cost him when your Coven comes looking for you. Remember that he has betrayed all that he loves, for you.”

  Her head fell forward, the hair shielding her eyes. Rhys saw her cheeks flush and ignored her fully.

  “It was never my intent to hurt you, or the horde,” she finally croaked. “But none of us can choose to whom we are mated. One day, you will understand.”

  “To be mated to a vampire, I will never understand.”

  She turned away, her back facing him, her hand laid protectively over her stomach. Rhys cut her another glance, his face stiff. He would not again allow himself to be caught in a verbal battle with her. Of course this was not her fault. She did not ask to be captured. She did not ask to be mated, and neither did Graeme. Still, he needed time to come to terms with the fact that Graeme might not be the only Were to be mated to a vampire. And how would the masses react to such a revelation? He swallowed hard and shook his head at the irony of it all. If he were ever mated to a vampire, he would be better off slitting his own throat.

  ****

  Rain fell throughout the following day. Even clad beneath the furs Rhys could hear her teeth chatter. He glanced at the sky and did not think to pause in their journey. He had pushed hard, wanting to get to the safety of the village before nightfall. The rain however had slowed their gait so that even now as the sun sank low into the western sky, they still had many miles to cover. He spared a glance toward his charge and waited as her mount joined his.

  “Seven more miles before we arrive,” he announced matter of fact. She huddled deeper into the wet furs and shook her head pitifully.

  “I cannot.”

  Rhys studied the sky once more. There was nowhere to take shelter, and the drops fell in stinging sheets. She sneezed in the cuff of her hand for several moments and sniffled, and he sighed heavily. “There is nowhere to rest lass. We are in the open, exposed to the elements and all kinds of danger. We must keep moving.”

  “My legs hurt, I am cold, and I have not felt the babe move since dawn. Please, let us stop.”

  His eyes fell to her protruding belly and the paleness of her cheeks. If anything happened to her or the babe in his care, Graeme would never forgive him. “We push on.”

  “Ash!” Her sharp cry forced him to face her again. This time, the concern on his face was genuine.

  “What is it?”

  Hand clutched to the bulge before her, she sniffled, eyes wide and reflecting only worry. “I felt something.”

  Annoyed, he aimed a dark glower toward her. “Aye, babes have been known to move. You said so yourself.”

  “Not like this. It hurt.”

  “Then it’s getting bigger.”

  “Bigger?”

  “Oh aye. Were pups weigh at least nine or ten pounds at birth. Didn’t Graeme tell you?”

  She fell silent instantly. Rhys bit his inner lip to hide a smile of victory until she cried out again minutes later. “What?” He snapped in irritation as he spun around in his saddle - and felt the blood drain from his face. In the darkness figures moved swiftly, blurs of shadow against the quickly darkening sky. In an instant he scanned the hillside, looking for the safest place for her to hide. There was nothing but rock and hill, and hundreds of valleys. He was on his feet and out of his shirt in a flash. The change came so suddenly he heard Amarinda’s frightened gasp, felt her panic and uncertainty.

  “We are being followed,” he began thickly, eyes blazing amber. “Ride hard vampire. The Hunters are here.”

  She did not have to be told twice, but kicked the mount into a gallop. Rhys retrieved the length of a whip from this saddle and sniffed the air expectantly. Beneath his feet, now bare of boots, he felt soft rumbles of the cold earth hum with life through the thick layers of skin and hair beneath his feet. In the dark they were nothing but moving shadows – darkness within the dark. He caught the scent of filth, and his eyes burned. Fifty yards away, three of them rushed forward with the speed of lightening, one moment there, the next moment, upon him. Rhys battled vampires all his life, had learned their methods of attack from study and experience. He had trained the men, had bred an expert horde of fighters that were second to none in hand to hand combat against a vampire. But this he had saved for a special occasion. The whip he began to banish was an easy ten feet long. One foot from the bone and leather handle that was woven with horses hair, it became three individual lengths, each tipped with the blade of a scythe, sharpened and honed to perfection.

  With rhythm borne of years of practice and perfection, he waited, dancing the weapon upon the rise and fall of the wind and the motion of his own body as he stepped forward. The Hunters surrounded him carefully, now suddenly still and focused upon him, swords drawn, and blood in their eyes. Rhys closed his eyes, and heard, felt the slightest shift in the wind when they moved forward as one. In that split second he swung the blades beneath him as he leapt impossibly high. Blood stained the ground where he landed mere seconds later. The three decapitated bodies were at his feet, the heads pitched and lost amongst the rocks and tufts of grass that had survived the winter months. He grunted his satisfaction and glanced around, only to discover that his horse was nowhere to be seen.

  Peeved, he retrieved the swords from cold, lifeless fingers and scanned the hillsides. There was no sign of the vampire or the mount. Carefully, he fell to his knee and studied the tracks well. That was when thunder echoed across the sky. It would not be long before the full force of the storm would be felt. He hoped he found her before then.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amarinda rode until she was forced to slow the horse to a steady walk. With each step a pain as sharp as a dagger pierced her lower abdomen so much so around the midnight hour she forced herself to slip out of the saddle. Sweat matted her brow, and she had not fed since she left the stronghold. Something was wrong. The fact that she was alone did not help the vulnerability she bore. The pain eased slowly, and for the moment she breathed in the cold air, trying to lay as comfortable as possible half concealed in the trees she had blindly ridden into. At the time and in her pain it had seemed a safe place to hide – until she heard the first high pitched scream that sliced through the otherwise still night. Shocked, she watched in distress as the horse reared and bolted. The pain in her stomach began again, a dull pulse that built to a tearing sensation. Tongue between her teeth, she bit hard. Blood flooded her mouth. Tears stung her eyes. It became worse with each passing moment. And just as it came, it faded, allowing her another moment of rest. That was when she focused on the screams and the smell of fire. Awkwardly she craned her neck and half crawled, half pulled herself upon the rock-face. Through the trees, unknown to her, there was a village. And it was under attack. Women and children ran. Men and were cut down swiftly. Fire blazed, projecting heat that was not available ten minutes before. In the chaos her sensitive ears could hear the screams of babies. Her heart tightened in agony the same moment her stomach clenched again. She opened her mouth and screamed with them, for even in her distress she noted that the attackers were not human or Were, but vampire. Her very own race. Fingers outstretched, she opened her mouth again, willing the massacre to stop, wishing sudd
enly that the Fates had never erred in mating her so unjustly.

  “Do you see the handiwork of your precious Hunters?” So caught up in grief and her own pain, she did not hear Rhys approach. “The men had women here…some had children. Boys to carry on their names.” She crumpled and clutched her stomach, hollering in the pain that seized her again, shedding tears for the sons and daughters being killed. Rhys bundled the fur about her body and lifted her effortlessly to his chest, his face a mask of determination. “If it were up to me vampire, I would hand you over to your Coven this instant.”

  “They will stop if you do,” she whimpered, weeping for the innocent, for herself. “Please, they will stop…”

  He shook his head in a sorrowful manner that did not become his frown. “No. They will not.”

  The pain seized her again, and she groaned and muttered her apologies in agony. For a long time she heard the cries of the people until there was none left, for the Hunters were thorough, and Rhys had taken her far into the hills where the cold was intense and the mountains dangerous. With each step he took, she sank deeper into the fur. When much time had passed and the night turned to day, Amarinda realized that she had slept, and he had not stopped to rest. He did not speak, did not look at her and did not acknowledge that he even held her heavy weight for staggeringly long hours. When the noon hour drew near they rested. That was when the fever set in.

  ****

  Rhys raked numb fingers through his hair and cursed again. Frustrated, he paced for a few feet before her prostrate form on the ground back and forth until the grass had become trodden to the point of death. Each time she cried out, it became more intense. The babe was coming soon, and they were out in the open, in the cold, with Hunters close by and soon, the scent of blood on the wind. Why had he ever agreed to this? He should have been the one to stay with the Scouts. Rhys had never been in a situation where he did not know what the next step was. As he stood before her, half disgusted that he should be there to witness the birth of a child born of Were blood from a vampire female, it was fear that made the skin on his body pull tight and his heart pound just a little faster in his chest. Curse his loyalty to Graeme! She hollered again, and this time there was a gush of blood and water. Stunned, he froze.

  “Rhys…” Her voice was a mixture of panic and concern. Still, he could not move. Beneath her the grass was wet with the reality of it all. “Rhys!”

  His eyes snapped up to hers and cleared instantly. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sunken from pain and stress. Still, she was coherent – more so than he.

  “Everything is wet and cold. When the babe is born, you must keep it warm.”

  A heavy frown pleated his brow, but the urgency of the situation forced him to nod. Pain glazed her eyes once more. He turned around abruptly, unable to see the distress that crossed her features, unable to shut out the sound of her cries. Minutes pressed on, and it seemed like forever before a sharp little squeal pierced through the chill of the evening. His pores rose, and his hands fisted in relief. He did not make to turn around, unsure of what was expected of him. It was several seconds of the babes crying before he cocked his head to listen for her breathing.

  “Are you still living vampire?” he managed to croak finally.

  Her chuckle was weak but reassuring. “Yes…but I must ask you to be a nurse-maid and do what I cannot.”

  Stiffening his spine, he faced her. The child was held to a breast, suckling greedily. Thick black hair crowned its head, and it shivered from the cold with a mixture of sudden outbursts of protest and screams in-between gulps. Rhys considered the scene before him and felt shaken to his core. The vampire had just birthed the first of a new race – a new species. She looked up then and graced him with a beautiful smile, one that spoke the words of gratitude she did not say. Rhys stepped forward awkwardly and studied the pair as something strange.

  “A boy,” she offered, dislodging the child from her breast to present him in all his naked glory. “And he is more cold than hungry.”

  Instantly, Rhys removed his fur and shirt and wrapped the babe snugly. He sheltered him in the crook of his arm against the heat of his hair and chest – and swallowed with difficulty. The heartbeat that thundered there was swift and strong, and as he looked up, he considered the dusk and the mountains they still had to face. The Grampian Pass was less than two miles away. They needed to continue moving. Just as he was about to speak, the wind lifted, and putrid flesh stained the air. Hackles raised, he deposited the child in her arms before she could voice a protest and motioned for her to be still. Carefully, he scanned the moor, testing the air in small sniffs, ears alert. There was nothing but the damp air.

  “We have to go – now.” She gasped and struggled to stand, only to stagger and fall. Rhys was at her side in a flash. “This is not the time for weakness vampire. You have to get up.”

  “I cannot!” she snapped, clutching the child and her midriff. “I just had a baby you fool! I am weak and I have not fed in almost two days!”

  Rhys snarled and drew the knife that was strapped to his calf. “Open your mouth!”

  Shocked, she complied, and watched as he opened the flesh of his palm and squeezed generously into her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and sighed in contentment. Rhys considered her well before guiding her to the rocky path. Their steps were swift and unfailing, him alternating between taking the lead and falling back to ensure that their tracks were covered. Darkness was fully upon them by the time they arrived at the Pass. This high up, a light snow still brushed the ground.

  “The bridge,” he motioned softly. She took one look at the wooden structure and shook her head instantly. Rhys sank his fingers into her arm and pushed her forward impatiently. He had no doubt that they had been followed, and he knew that the Hunters waited. He would make a stand here, but she needed to get to safety. “When you are safely across, I will join you.” Eyes wide, she ventured, clutching the babe to her breast and holding onto the half rotted rope awkwardly as she tested the narrow pieces of wood she stepped upon. The wind slapped hair into her eyes and rocked the structure precariously so that she slipped more than once. Rhys waited patiently, his back toward the bridge, eyes scanning the sparse trees ahead. The fog came in thick, rising from the valley in heavy curtains that did not make recognition easy. He had not lost the scent of the Hunters, and self-preservation demanded that he attempt to cross as well, but if they were attacked on the unstable bridge, there was no telling if or when it would break apart.

  Snow and stone crunched beneath his feet as he stepped back, but it wasn’t until he had come to the edge of the cliff did he hear her panicked voice.

  “Please…”

  Amarinda hugged the infant tightly to her chest in a feeble attempt to protect him from what was to come. Before her a Hunter stood, poised and waiting. Weapon in hand, its blade grazed the ground as he brought it up ever so slowly. She whimpered and shook her head, unable to force the words from her tight throat. The wind took strands of ash blond hair into his face and eyes – eyes that were as cold as the steel in his hand. This was not a Hunter from her Coven she knew. This Hunter bore no relation to her. There was no mercy to be had tonight.

  “You cannot have my son,” she declared in a shaking whisper. Behind her she heard a beastly cry of agony and knew that he was not the only one. The clank of steel and groans echoed in the valley. Trembling, she braved a step back, her eyes peeled upon the Hunter before her. He had yet to move, considering her with an expressionless countenance that gathered to a mild frown only when her back connected with something large and very hard. Sparing a glance up, she noted Rhys – and cried out in shock.

  He was bathed in blood. His chest boasted many wounds, most of which were neat, deep incisions, the trademark of the Hunters. His face was swollen and drenched in blood. Even as he stood there, heaving in breaths, she heard the gurgle of blood echo in his lungs and knew that he would die. Hot tears stung her eyes – of remorse and rage. Amber ey
es met hers as he fell to his knees. There was no strength left within his body. Unspeaking, he toppled over, facedown at her feet.

  “He is not yet dead.”

  So stunned she had not noticed the several others that had joined them from behind his prone form. A pool of blood seeped from beneath his body and spread swiftly in the snow.

  “Throw him over,” the Hunter before her intoned. Just as quickly, an unidentified foot connected with his limp midriff. He disappeared into the fog below. Amarinda whimpered helplessly moments before the child was torn from her embrace. “And this.”

  “Nooo!” she screamed, lunging forward. The child wailed at the sudden movement and the cold wind that lashed his fragile body. “Oh please! Please do not kill my baby!”

  The infants cry echoed throughout the mountain side. The Hunter considered her well. “Bring her.”

  She retaliated, swinging her fist and catching one in the jaw. He snarled and returned the gesture. She spat blood and coughed pitifully. Just at that moment, the child was flung into the darkness, it’s screams slowly fading until she heard nothing .

  Weak with grief, she could not bring herself to move. Hot tears burned her throat, so much so that when she finally gave into the need to weep, the Hunters dragged her to her feet. She was lead blindly through snow and across rocks, and when the pain in her chest proved too intense to bear, everything thankfully went black.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Graeme smelled blood on the wind long before he arrived at the village. Everything was destroyed. A thick cloud of smoke and ash concealed the first brush of dawn that staggered awake beyond the trees. The breaths he heaved burned his nostrils and forced the pain in his chest to expand. He was too late.

  At his back the handful of men he selected sat upon their mounts in stoic silence for the moment – until one of them dismounted and stumbled upon a pile of wood ash not ten feet away. Graeme did not look at him as his bellow of anguish echoed in the overcast sky. His tears were his alone, just as the agony that sliced through Graeme was not to be shared. He nudged his mount forward and took his time about walking through the debris. The men did not venture.