At the center of the village where the old stone well still stood, a pile of bodies was left to burn. Graeme noted dismembered forms of men, women and children. Smoke still rose from the heap where embers had yet to extinguish. Weak, he struggled to keep his back erect as he continued on. On the outskirts of the village he noted several haphazard tracks in the blood-stained earth. Ever so slowly he returned to the men, only to find the few of them who indeed had families there searching for the bodies of loved ones.
For two days he had waited upon an attack that never came. That was when he suspected she had been captured. The Hunters would not risk more of their numbers if they already retrieved what they marched for in the first place. Numb, he considered the men before him and felt the weight of their despair burdened upon his shoulders. They did not know why the Hunters had done this, did not understand the need for war when thus far, they had been living in relative peace with the Covens. Still, they faced him, ready for battle. And he would risk their very lives for his vampire mate.
It was the worst betrayal.
“Those of you who have lost a child, or a woman, find your dead and bury them. And if you do not wish to continue this ride, find your families at the coast and protect them there.”
They hesitated, each pair of eyes asking the question no man would voice. Graeme presented them with his back and nudged his mount forward, barely relieved when it was discovered that only ten had turned back. With fifty strong, he pressed on, thankful that more than a hundred and fifty had been left behind to defend the castle. Close to noon they arrived at the Grampian Pass. The sharp rock at the edge of the cliff face was stained with blood, Hunter and Were. Graeme felt his heart thunder just a little faster as a glimmer of hope flickered in his chest. He dismounted swiftly and stepped forward. The tightly woven rope that had held the bridge taut was cut clean through. He glanced into the valley and considered the many sharp rocks beneath. Slowly, he shrugged the fur from his shoulders and handed over the reins of his mount.
His men said nothing as they watched him make the precarious descent. The chilled wind slapped hair into his face and eyes, and with each leap lower he paused to gently sniff the air-currents. Twenty feet from the ground, he paused to listen. There was nothing save his own ragged breaths of anxiety. The final leap brought him to his knees, and when he stood it was to survey the rocks. He moved slowly, half afraid of what he might find when his search was over, his eyes and ears sharp. Weakly, in the silence, there was a muffled groan. Claws extended, he moved forward, scenting the wind until he came upon the body of Rhys. The man lay upon his side, back bare to the cold chill of the wind.
“Rhys!” he exclaimed, so relieved that his voice trembled. He rushed toward him and reached forward to clutch his shoulder. “Rhys, by the gods I thought you were dead!”
Moss green eyes flecked in gold considered him, unfocused and dazed for a second before recognition cleared the fog from his face. “Graeme?”
“Aye, tis me.”
“I think I broke all of my bones,” he greeted with a hoarse cough.
Graeme nodded, probing along his body with a steady hand. “Aye, but you’re healing. Can you not move?”
The man shook his head and swallowed hard before he continued. “The Hunters came.”
Graeme’s knees could no longer support his weight. He sat beside him heavily and braced himself for the worst. “Did they kill her?”
Rhys licked his dried, cracked lips. “I do not know lad. But…”
Graeme watched as he forced himself to roll upon his back. In his arms, held close to the warmth of his chest, caked in blood and dirt and streaks of tears, was a baby. Graeme’s eyes filled with hot tears and left him weaker than any wound ever had. Shaking, he reached forward to retrieve the babe. Clear eyes met his, a pristine blue that reminded him of a summer’s sky. Awkwardly, he cradled the child in his arms and studied him from the crop of thick black hair atop his head to the ten very cold toes he stretched. Emotion swept him, and he snagged the length of hair upon his friends head to pull him forward until their foreheads kissed.
“You have saved the life of my son,” he croaked thickly.
Rhys cleared his throat and attempted to speak once more. “If you do not get us out of the cold we will both die and my effort will have been in vain.”
Graeme laughed and stood on unstable knees before he turned toward the men high above. “Come down and help us men! I have found two alive!”
****
Several men joined then in the ravine carrying enough rope to make a harness that would keep Rhys strapped to the wooden pallet they had managed to put together. Graeme secured the child to his chest with his sweat-stained shirt and fur, and was the last to make the treacherous climb. The rest of the men greeted their General good-naturedly, some even joking that he had become a hero for saving the life of a wee babe. No one questioned why their leader held the child so protectively in his arms, nor did they murmur among themselves when he saw it fit to ride into vampire territory and take shelter in one of the villages. It was Rhys who finally cut him a curious glance as they rested in the evening.
“I know you want to ask, so just say it,” Graeme muttered behind a tankard of ale. They sat before a roaring fire in the only tavern the village boasted. Most of the men had already found rooms or places on the floor to rest their heads, and only a few customers were left, chatting softly in the dim lights. Those toppled over from excess drink slumbered in a symphony of coughs and snores.
Rhys shrugged his good shoulder and shook his head. “Nay. I’ve come up with my own theory.”
Graeme cocked a half-amused brow. “Aye?”
“Oh aye. The sight of your son has muddled your senses is what it is.”
Graeme took another deep gulp of ale and glanced over to where a buxom wet nurse in her late thirties fed his son. For the price of a few gold pieces, she would see him cared for until his return. “For the first time I see things clearer now,” he spoke softly. He rolled the tankard in his hands and focused upon the flames. “I have to find her.”
He sighed deeply. “It has been many hours since her capture. Even if she is alive, how are you going to rescue her? And the men? What will you tell them?”
Graeme drained the cup and shook his head in despair. “I do not know.”
“Then take my advice and do what your father would have done – return to the castle, regroup the horde and forget about the woman.”
Their eyes clashed. Graeme clenched his jaw tightly. “This is not some woman. She is my mate. The mother of my child. Dead or alive, I will find her.”
Rhys exhaled a sigh of defeat and leaned back into the thick furs before sipping from his own cup. “Aye, and I suppose you’re going to march up to the Coven and demand to see her like a whipped pup?”
Graeme snorted in mockery. “I have thought on it.”
Rhys flexed his shoulder and closed his eyes for a few moments. “Then you need a diversion.”
Graeme glanced toward him and studied his profile in the light of the fire, cast into shadows and sharp angles. “I’m listening.”
Rhys met his eyes and frowned. “I do not like this idea.”
“Tis your idea.”
“Nevertheless, one of us might end up getting killed.”
“Tell me.”
He grunted and took another swallow of ale. “Villages are littered throughout these valleys. We know that the Cronus Coven is three days ride from here. Go to the Coven and have the men attack one of the villages close to the boarder. The Hunters would send their best men for fear that you would breach their lines.”
“But I will not be with them,” he continued, nodding.
“She will be guarded but not heavily so. You and I can get her out of the manse. By the time the Hunters return, you would have rescued her, returned for the child and have disappeared.”
Graeme clasped his hands together and exhaled a puff of hot air within his palms. “Tis a simple plan.�
�
“The simple ones work the best.”
“And if news of the attack forces them to have her moved? Or worse, if she is dead?” The words broke as they were forced from his throat.
Rhys closed his eyes once more. “Then you need to be honest with the horde, because there will be a bloody battle anyway. If she is dead...”
Graeme sighed heavily and leaned back, his eyes red and grainy from lack of sleep. “There might be another way…”
Rhys considered him by the firelight and frowned as the words that were spoken made his blood turn to ice. “Tis madness!”
“Be that as it may, it’s the only thing that will work. We need someone on the inside.”
“But her family has done this to her! Why would you trust them?”
“Tis not a matter of trust,” he muttered, finishing the drink.
“I hope you know what you’re doing Graeme.”
He considered the general and offered a tight smile. “You have yet to tell me about the birth of my son,” he invited lightly.
“Some stories are better told by women,” he responded quickly.
Graeme eyed him curiously and allowed the escape without further prodding as conversation slipped into exactly how he proposed to put his plan into action.
Chapter Fifteen
A baby’s cry echoed like a thousand voices in the oblivion. There was much pain as mothers and children ran screaming for their lives – lives that were not spared as blood stained swords descended upon their helpless bodies mercilessly. She tried to help them, tried to demand that the Hunters stop the massacre, but none would hear her, for her throat was being gripped menacingly by a Were. Graeme! It was Graeme…and yet it was not, for his eyes flamed red and the look on his face spelt retribution.
I can explain she wanted to cry. I tried to protect our son!
“Murderer!” he snarled, moments before his clawed hand connected with her throat.
Amarinda gasped for breath and darted up instantly, only to feel the full impact of the concussion she had suffered. Slowly, her fingers journeyed to her forehead where a large lump was tender to the touch. She glanced around, recognizing the thick drapes and lush eastern carpets that she had chosen for her room here at the Coven. Hot tears stung her eyes. They had succeeded. The Hunters had brought her home.
Home.
She sniffled and allowed her hands to journey to her stomach. For a confused moment she stared stupidly there, face pale and confused. Then all at once the memories came rushing back, of Graeme’s quick kiss before he entrusted her to his friend, of the cold and the fear and the wail of a newborn babe. Her newborn babe.
Of the heartless reflection of nothingness she saw in the Hunters eyes when they brutally tore her son from her arms and…
Her scream was released in a surge of anger and agony, one that echoed throughout the Coven, so blood curling that the very walls shuddered at the emotion there. Footfalls thundered, and in moments the door to her chamber was slammed open to reveal the familiar concerned face of her brother. Already his sword was drawn as if he had expected an attack. They eyes met, and she noted nothing but the intense pain reflected in his orbs when he spied her disheveled form.
“Murderers!” she screamed, rising to stand upon the center of the white satin sheets she had once taken such pleasure in. “Cowards! You killed my baby! You killed my baby!”
He was upon her in a flash, attempting to cradle her shaking form in his arms. She pushed him away violently, her blood hot and close to her skin. “Father tried to protect you,” he whispered thickly. “The Elder sent Hunters from anther Coven. He did not trust us to…”
She whimpered and sank her fingers into the sheets, ripping them apart as she did so. And still, she screamed. Her cries were heard echoed throughout the manse and across the hillside where even the darkness felt her agony. She screamed until weakness overwhelmed her, until she could do nothing but weep. Crumpled upon the pillows, Vilirus attempted to approach her again. A gentle brush was felt across her heated cheek as he tucked strands of hair from behind her ear.
“We did not want you to be returned to us little one,” he barely said. “There will be nothing but pain for you here.” The sheets were soaked with her tears. Her crying could not be stopped. “Mother will be distraught to see you like this.”
She shook her head and found the strength to clutch onto his shirt. Her eyes were swollen and water-logged and filled with a lifetime of torture. When she spoke it was with a trembling voice. “I beg you brother, I beg you if you love me have mercy upon me and cut me down. I cannot bear to live without them…without my baby…”
Horror filled his face and he put her away from him swiftly, darting to his feet. “No…”
“Vilirus! Kill me! Kill me or I will see you all pay with your lives for doing this to me!”
He stumbled back and darted out of the room, shocked when she swiftly followed him to the threshold. Her nails sank themselves into the flesh of his shoulders, and with strength borne of desperation, spun him to face her. She saw her reflection in his orbs, saw her riotous hair and the wild way her eyes darted this way and that, and it occurred to her suddenly that if she did not put her emotions to rights, she might very well go insane. Stunned, her crying stopped, and she released him quite suddenly.
“Deliver a message to your precious Elder,” she said finally, still trembling, still hurting. “Tell him I take full responsibility for my actions, and the consequences to bear I shall do so gladly.” He clenched his jaw and stepped back slowly. She lifted her chin and met his eyes once more. “If I am not sentenced…I will ensure that he pays with his very life for destroying mine.”
Vilirus held his breath but simply nodded before closing the door in her face and bolting it from the outside. He found his parents moments later in their room. Macer responded to the gentle tap on the door swiftly, his blue eyes glazed in worry. Behind him, his mother’s red hair flamed in the firelight.
“She is awake,” Macer began thickly.
Vilirus nodded. “Awake, weeping incessantly…I could not calm her.”
“I should go,” Amalea stepped forward. Vilirus stayed her instantly.
“No mother, you should not. She is…different somehow.”
“Of course she is different!” the woman exclaimed. “She gave birth exposed to the elements and have lost her mate and child. She will never be our Amarinda again.”
Macer turned away, his head hung low in defeat. “This is all my fault,” he croaked. “If I had only listened to her...”
Vilirus hesitated when he faced his mother once more. “She has a message for grandfather.” Both pair of eyes looked up, alert. “She requests full punishment for her crimes.”
Amalea shook her head swiftly. “No!”
“She does not wish to live without them.”
“We are her family!”
“We are the ones who killed her child!” his father erupted frustrated. His wife sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands, sucking in large amounts of air. “She loves us no more than she loves the Elder. We are just as guilty.”
Her broken sobs was met with tender eyes. “What are we going to do?”
He cupped her face gently and pressed his lips to her forehead. He did not have a fitting response.
****
They came for her just before the midnight hour. Amarinda studied her reflection in the full length mirror and thought she no longer recognized the flawless image that greeted her there. Her eyes were ice – as cold as the Nordic sea. She showed no emotion, but hatred boiled, raged within her. During the past twelve hours she had done nothing but weep. Now, with only the faintest blush of pink in her eyes to betray her, she secured the last pin to secure the tightly wound braid at the top of her head. The gown she wore tonight was nothing but black lace, so elaborately decorated and strategically pattered that she opted to neglect the corset and the knickers. They all thought her a whore after all. She dressed like one.<
br />
The knock on the door was sharp and swift. On silent hinges it swung open. Two hunters dressed in ceremonial attire stood in the hall, both boasting shoulder length black hair and piercing green eyes. They were from yet another Coven, she knew. The Elder would show no mercy to her now that she was home. She prayed for his brutality, prayed he would give her a death befitting treason and send her to an early grave, for she could not live another moment without her mate, or her son.
Hot tears snagged at the back of her throat but she stiffened her spin. She would not beg, would not be seen as broken before them.
With chin held impossibly high, she approached the duo. They considered her and stepped aside as she swept by. It did not occur to them that they should be escorting her, but fell into step behind her. After all, she was the Elder’s granddaughter, no matter how grievous her crime.
Amarinda approached the Council Chamber with a numb calm. As the doors opened, she sailed in, taking in each scent, not once averting her gaze from the chair that was situated directly before her upon a raised dais. There sat Demetrius, the Elder. Her grandfather. How many times as a child had she snuggled upon his lap in this very room when the winter nights were long and her young heart pined for stories from the past? How many times had he smiled his gentle smile and tweaked her nose, and promised that one day she would revel in the gift of eternity? How many times had she believed him?
Now, she loathed him. Although her body did not sway, she felt the rage simmer in her blood, so close to her skin she feared she would explode. Five feet from his perch a Hunter stepped forward and blocked her path with his sword. She lifted her eyes to consider him. His length of blond hair fanned around his shoulders. Eyes just as colorless spoke of distrust, and retribution if she moved to quickly, or deceptively.
It was only then she realized that the chamber was full. Each chair was occupied, each corner filled with Hunters. She was not the only female in the room however. To the far left sat cousins from the east, Lilah and Leah, miracle females that were highly praised in their beauty. Her mother’s hand was linked tightly with her fathers’, who she pointedly acknowledged with a shallow nod. Beside him, her brother stood. Vilirus looked handsome in his uniform, but his eyes were haunted, grieved. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but hesitated instead. She turned her back and once again faced the Elder. Her grandmother was nowhere to be seen.
The Sanction Page 12