The Sanction

by Reeyce Smythe Wilder

  Amalea twisted her fingers, her face wretched. “If the Elder finds out…”

  “I say we let him take her. He is swift. In and out in a breath and the Hunters would be none the wiser unless we inform them.” Vilirus pushed to his feet, his face flushed with the idea of her escape. He turned to his father, a pleading look in his eyes. “She will be whipped like an animal if we do not allow it.”

  Macer turned his back pointedly and considered the dense forest outside. For the Were to approach one of their own brothers to demand such a thing was unthinkable. Yet Sutter was loyal to no one but himself. He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was demanded and what was given to have this done. Surely not more heads. And Sutter had opened his mind to his twin to let them know he would be daring the impossible. In a way, Macer was happy the bastard was half-crazed, for no sane vampire would dare to come into the Coven in an attempt to take a female. It was utter madness!

  “Macer…” He turned his head and caught sight of his mate. Amalea shook slightly, her fear hanging over her like a cloud of despair. “This is her only chance.”

  He knew it to be so. “We cannot assist in any way, or be implicated if he is caught,” he offered, his voice laced with agony. “When she is gone, he will still be hunted as the Elder has commanded.”

  Silas’ face was somewhat strained by the information that was sent, and moments later a rare pull of a smile touched his chilled lips. “No love lost, he says.”

  Amalea stood and approached her husband, her fingers like a vise as they sought his hand. “All will be well,” she muttered, as if reassuring herself. Macer pulled her to his side and planted a heavy kiss at the top of her silken flaming hair. Inside he felt like dying. He had failed to save his daughter. He should have listened those long weeks ago when she had begged him to understand. But how could he? How could he have trusted her to the very wolves he was sworn to protect her from? The irony hit him in the chest like a mallet.

  To think that he would now have to trust something far worse than a Were with the most precious cargo he called his own…

  Breath hitched in his throat and he closed his eyes in anguish. In that moment he hated the Elder and all the traditions the Old Way held. Rules that were used to measure the way he thought and acted, predestined laws that forced him to adhere to only the will of his father.

  One day, he swore with vengeance hot in his veins, he would look upon the cold corpse of the old man and bless the Fates. He prayed the day would come sooner than not.

  ****

  The waiting would be the death of her.

  Amarinda sat in the darkest, coldest corner of the cell and was conscious of only the hot tears that made their way silently down the course of her cheek. Rats the size of rambunctious kittens infested the dungeons, scuttling across the floor and the hem of her gown with large egos, for she did nothing to deter their advances. Since the Hunters had thrown her in the cell last night, she had not moved. No meals were delivered and no one visited. Not that she minded. She had shot her last nerve though when she embraced the rage that took the place in her stomach where her baby once grew. Killing the Hunter brought her great satisfaction. Still, it did not bring back her son.

  Anguish visited her in waves of incoherence. One moment lucid, the next lost in the past. One moment the shift of guards told her it was daylight. The next time she became aware, night had fallen. Even the ones chosen to keep her secured behind the iron gates did not spare her a glance. She recalled what it felt like to be held inside the stronghold that first night of her capture. She was afraid then of the enemy, of the unknown, of the stories and the legends she heard from her brothers and the Elder. She never knew the monster she should have feared all along had once cuddled her upon his lap.

  A key grating in the lock snapped her out of her musings, and she glanced up in the darkness. Two Hunters, bare from the waist up, opened the gate and considered her thoroughly before one of them spoke.

  “It is time. The Council convenes.”

  Time. For the whipping. She pushed to her feet numbly and felt tiny pin pricks cover her flesh. Within her there was only the slightest hint of panic. She had been bound to a post once before. This time there was no sunlight to spare her pain, but the sure hand of the whip master. They did not touch her when she allowed them to sandwich her in as they walked through the halls. The narrow, winding staircase that led to the roof four stories above was lit with high lamps that were nestled in alcoves carved within the stone. Amarinda had been privy to using this exit only once as a child. It had seemed large and frightful then. Now it was nothing but the walk to the gallows, in a manner.

  By the time they got to the top of the manse, every trace of panic and fear she fancied she felt was locked away behind a mask of indifference. Three of the Council Members stood as witnesses. The Elder himself stood to the side and gestured for the deed to be done. Her eyes scanned the condemnation that was carved on her audience’s faces and was thankful her family chose not to be there to witness what was no doubt going to be the ultimate shame. Vilirus had said that to her once. To bear the mark of shame was the ultimate sacrifice for ones sins. She had a feeling no matter how many times they hit her, she would find no absolution in his resolute features.

  Chains were presented, thick and heavy. One of the Hunters approached her and eyed the dress she wore. Something flickered in his eyes, and just as quickly it was gone, only to be replaced with sold reserve. The other Hunter secured her wrists around the stone column that stood before them, a staggering ten feet tall and two feet wide. Her face was pressed to the coldness there, and as her hands were being bound, she blinked back another wave of tears.

  Their footsteps softly retreated.

  She heard the soft kiss of leather upon the snow beneath their boots.

  Instinctively, she tensed and closed her eyes, thinking of her son, thinking of the mate she would never again see, thinking of her own desolation if she were unfortunate enough to live through this. But the Elder promised beheading, hadn’t he?

  Arms pulled taut against the binds, she sank her teeth into her tongue and waited. The whistle of the first last preceded the cutting sting that ripped through the material of her dress. Her scream of agony echoed in the night, lifted with the wind and was carried across the moors until in settled upon the heights of the hills to the west. On its heels, another landed. She screamed again, her eyes closed shut. One after the other, they took turns. The length of the whip caught her shoulder and curved like a lovers hand upon the right side of her breast. The tender flesh pulsated as the skin was sliced evenly through.

  Time fazed, and by the time she counted twenty strokes, she no longer found the strength to stand. Blood ran like a river down her very legs. Everything burned. Her eyes closed of their own accord. She anticipated the twenty-first stroke, left her body weak and unprepared for the force behind the whip – it never came. Through swollen eyes she found the strength to blink. Her back was a furnace.

  Behind her there was a growl – not a Were, she thought with disappointment. She had heard her brother make the same noise when he was furious, but never so viciously, never to brutal. There was a scuffle, curses, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, footsteps that ran and choked noises of panic and fear. Then all was silent.

  She swallowed with difficulty and felt her knees weaken once more. The chains that bound her hand were broken apart with hardly any effort. When she fell, it was like a sack of grain. Powerful arms held her close. For a dazed moment she dared to look into the face of her savior.

  It was Silas, her uncle. She blinked. There was something different about him. His hair was short, his eyes wild and full of rage, his face sunken and drawn…No…not Silas. His twin. The Lost one. Sutter.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and he considered her with agony and horror upon his face.

  “Well, your mate will have the Elder’s head for this, wouldn’t he?” he mused softly. The deep resonance of his tenderly spoken words
filled her with shocking warmth. He cradled her to his chest as if she was naught but a child. Her holler of pain did not deter him. “There is no help for it now Mandy.”

  He had called her than many long years ago when her head reached all the way to his waist. Just before he disappeared. Another stream of tears filled her eyes, but she held them at bay. She would not cry. She would not cry.

  He took off at a run and then leapt clear off the manse. If he fell and broke both their skulls she did not care. The pain was overbearing. His movements did not sooth her in the least. She did not know where he ran or how long he carried her in his arms. She knew only that he was warm and his embrace safe, and he smelled of the moist earth and fresh blood, metallic and rich. And he may have been Lost and senile, but he helped her.

  In her mind, that made him more than a relative.

  It made him her savior.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Macer lifted his head and felt every pore on his body raise to an alarming degree. Across the room, his son tensed, also sensing the presence of danger that triggered not only alarm bells in his head, but sent Hunters from the halls and the courtyards pounding through the manse in a frenzy.

  It was a summons – a call from the Elder in times of distress…or war.

  As a unit they made it to the door, only to be blocked by Silas’ somber features. He cast a quick glance around and backed them into the room before shutting the door. Understanding and emotion swelled in Macer’s chest as he struggled to speak the words. “Are they gone? Did he get her out?”

  Silas inclined his head but once. The rush of relief that escaped his tight throat made him lightheaded. Short of laughter, he turned to Vilirus and slapped him on the back, a growl of victory in his throat.

  “Two Hunters were killed in the fray. The trio of Council members that were present are shaken, but otherwise unharmed.”

  For a second it took the men to register exactly what was said. Macer opened his mouth to speak. It was Vilirus whose voice carried dead weight. “Why were there Council members present?”

  Slowly, pained, Silas presented his fisted hand and unwrapped the fingers which were clutched upon a piece of white ribbon. It was stained with fresh blood. Macer recalled the frivolity that had been braided in the coils of her hair two nights ago and the moisture from his tongue left him. He staggered. Vilirus’ powerful shoulders braced him even as he took it tenderly and clutched it to his chest. The beat of his heart there twisted so that the agony almost seemed unbearable. Imploring eyes met Silas’. “She was…” He swallowed the words, unable to voice them aloud, unable to think that she was so treated, and was alone while it happened, without her mother or those close to her weeping to show support.

  He felt himself being taken to one of the chairs. A heavy glass was pushed into his palm. He considered the water within and shook his head. Water would not patronize him tonight.

  “I will kill him,” he finally offered when time lapsed and the drone in the air that should have demanded him to attend the Elder faded and became more than a distracting hum. It burned to breathe, to move, to think.

  Silas turned away, his head lowered, eyes focused outside. “I cannot allow you to do that.” His words were level and softly spoken.

  Macer’s large hand grabbed onto the front of his son’s shirt and he pulled him forward, his gaze intense. “Find her. Help them.”

  Vilirus nodded and was out the door in a flash. When he stood, it was to calmly tuck the length of ribbon into his breast pocket. The fortifying breath he inhaled made him light-headed.

  “You are right,” he conceded tightly. He could not do what he wanted to this night. The Hunters were alert, and he already sharpened Silas’ instincts by speaking his emotions aloud. He would wait, he decided bitterly. He would wait patiently until he could avenge the injustice of this beating.

  The image of his daughter, cut and bloodied and screaming made him almost lose the strength in his knees. Anger rose within him to mask the agony in his chest, but he clamped his jaw and said nothing. His faced closed, emotions shuttered just in time, for his mate sailed into the room, her face pale, features pinched.

  Oh by the gods, someone had told her! She flung herself into his harms and held on tight, her breaths ragged and raw. “Tell me the news I have just heard is not true Macer,” she pleaded, her body sagging against his. “Tell me it is not true…”

  Silas’ footfalls were swift to leave the room. The door was closed with a purpose. Macer found the strength to embrace her. When he spoke, his voice carried a hard edge.

  “Fear not my Amalea,” he whispered, stroking her riot of curls. “I swear, the time will come with the Elders’ reign will come to an end, and you shall know the sweetness of vengeance for his manipulation and his deeds this night.” Sobs racked her body. He held onto her even more. “Hush my love.” Her wet cheeks he took into his hands and tiled her face to meet his eyes. His mate, so beautiful, so passionate, was brought to her knees with pain. His pain. Amarinda’s pain. All to save the Coven’s pride. At the deadly glow that sparked in his eyes, she calmed. Her fingers were white where she held onto his shirt for dear life. “Do you trust me ma cheri?” She nodded. “Then believe me when I say, the Elder will pay dearly for this.”

  He sealed the promise with a chaste kiss and tender words of assurances. Only when she was settled did he make his way to the council chamber. Everyone was in an uproar. The Elder sat as stiff as a statue, his eyes flaming.

  “Something must be done!” one of the counselors demanded viciously.

  “He has grown stronger.”

  “Stronger or not, he has completely gone senile to come here. To kill two of his own brothers!”

  “To snatch the female – while she was being punished!”

  “Silence!” The Elder stood, his face as cold as death. “The Hunters shall pursue them for as long as it takes. I want Sutter’s head. And you will bring Amarinda back here for due punishment. Henceforth they were both hunted, one dead and one alive.” Macer refused to show emotion when his father met his eyes. “You seemed distressed at my decision.”

  He bowed curtly, his voice as convincing as he could manage it. “I live only to serve your desire my lord. I am a Hunter before I am anything else.”

  His reply pleased the Elder, for his deep breath was exhaled easily enough. When next he considered those gathered before him, he summoned Silas forward. “You my son, are charged with bringing Sutter to justice. You have seen how blatantly he has disrespected and dishonored this Coven. If he is left unchecked, I fear we will suffer for it.”

  Silas bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord.”

  “The Council members shall leave immediately. All necessary arrangements are being made. The countesses shall stay with them for safety. The Hunters shall gather to Silas. Macer, we leave for Latvia posthaste.”

  “But my lord –“

  “It is decided. We will go to the coast with the Council and take the ship to Latvia. Narelle and Amalea must be protected at all costs.”

  “My lord,” he nodded again, for there was truth in the words spoken. He took his leave and paused in the hall. The Elder did not want him involved in the hunt for his daughter. He was too close to the situation, too emotionally attached. Now, he would be completely helpless, unable to offer assistance to her should she need it. Still, the time would come when all the pain he suffered now wouldn’t be for naught. He would wait, would use the upcoming time with the Elder to plan what must be done.

  ****

  The wooden windows slammed open and violently reverberated against the stone walls. Graeme and Rhys were on their feet in a flash, eyes aflame, and swords in their grasps. Outlined in the dark a vampire crouched, breaths violently drawn. Graeme’s clasp on the hilt of the weapon slackened instantly, for the sweet scent of his mate dispersed through the cold wind and stunned him with relief. He rushed forward in a flash, ready to receive her into his embrace. In the yellow light of the fire she appeared pal
e. The breaths she took were labored. There was a rattling on her chest.

  “Do not touch her.” Sutter’s voice was laced with much more than a chilling command, but rage, so much so that Graeme paused in his hasty advance. Only when he approached the cot Rhys had vacated did he understand why. The breath he drew was loud and intense. The marks of a whip…all over her body…

  Hands clenched to fists at his side as the vampire laid her as gently as possible on her stomach. She was neither aware nor awake, but a frown of pain remained etched upon her brow.

  “When did this happen?” Graeme growled, unable to bring himself to move. Sutter slipped a dagger from his boot and did swift work cutting the dress off her back, from her neck to the base of her spine. At the crisscrossed lacerations that shone black and ruby, Graeme turned away, eyes wild, chest heaving in agony.

  “Midnight,” he replied finally, softly, coldly. “I heard her scream. There was no time to wait.”

  Rhys pulled on a pair of trousers swiftly and leaned over her body, his features grim. “She has lost much blood. If she does not feed, it will take her longer to heal.”

  “Time you do not have,” Sutter sliced in, his face tight and expressionless. “The Hunters are following.”

  Graeme fought the heaviness in his feet and dressed, ever so often stealing glances at his female, wounded and in so much pain…It was Rhys who gripped his shoulder tightly.

  “Plans must change now. The horde has not yet left the stronghold. Still, you cannot go there. This will not end well for you.”

  Graeme shook his head, eyes ablaze. “Aye.” Once again, he turned to Sutter. The vampire took his time about peeling out the garments that were caught in the wounds. The tenderness he exhibited was a blatant contradiction to the harsh lines of murder on his face.

  “I will lead the Hunters away,” he offered heavily, matter-of-fact, then added, “for a price.”