by Tessa Dawn
Kagen had laughed out loud in that annoying yet endearing, roguish way he had of displaying his amusement. “Don’t worry, Miss Nightsong: I’ll catch you before you hit the ground.”
The thought had been too unsettling to contemplate, so she had gone with him without argument; and now, all she could manage to do was hold on, try to decipher which way was up in light of the overpowering vertigo assailing her, and pray that the ancestors would be merciful and keep her from slipping off his back.
“Are you okay?” Kagen spoke into the wind, his guttural words echoing past her ears like fragments of Nathaniel’s bullets ricocheting off the trees.
She tried to mumble an answer but couldn’t quite manage it. “I think I’m going to throw up in your hair,” she finally whispered.
He heard her. And he laughed again, that musical, infuriating sound. And then he stroked the outside of her thigh far too lovingly.
Far too intimately for the situation.
Arielle gulped and burrowed her head even further between his shoulder blades, between his magnificent outspread wings. If she vomited now, it would go down his shirt. Her stomach turned over in a fresh, violent wave as he dipped an outstretched wing toward the ground in order to get a better look at the wolves running beneath them, the lycans struggling to keep up with the vampires’ pace. From such a high elevation, they looked more like tiny ants scurrying along the ground than the fearsome, deadly creatures they were.
Her stomach roiled.
The contents heaved.
Oh well…so be it.
Arielle gagged three times in an effort to quell her retching, and then she simply let it fly.
“Open the portal, Braden!” Marquis shouted in frustration, punctuating the sentence with a string of Romanian curses. He glanced over his shoulder to glare at Nachari. “You sure you can’t get it open?”
All four Silivasis were standing back-to-back in a tight, defensive circle, with Arielle and Keitaro wedged protectively in the center, as they awaited the arrival of their enemy—they could hear them coming, dozens more lycans, dispatched from the southern pack’s keep, arriving from General Teague’s stronghold. The vampires were hovering in the exact same position they had arrived in the morning they had entered Mhier, waiting to exit through the portal; only this time, the lycans knew they were there.
“It’s not going to open from this side.” Nachari spoke in a clipped, solemn voice.
“How is Father?” Nathaniel asked, directing his question to Kagen.
Kagen peered behind his shoulder. “He’s still unconscious, but his heart rate is steady. We need to get him out of here and back to the clinic.”
Marquis grunted again. “Where is that boy? What time is it, Nachari?”
Nachari sighed in aggravation. “It’s coming up on two—Braden knows to open the portal every hour on the hour.”
Marquis snorted. “All of this—our fate and our father’s welfare—resting on the shoulders of that silly, impetuous boy. What the hell were we thinking?”
“He’ll be here,” Nachari insisted.
Kagen patted his waistband reassuringly, checking for the familiar feel of the custom-made belt and his trusted scalpels. He also had a silver dagger tucked into a sheath and an LC9, loaded with silver bullets, strapped to his ankle in a holster: He would use whatever he had to if the lycans came too close. As he watched a pack of five wolves approach slowly from the west, he reached behind his back to gesture at Arielle. “Get directly behind me, sweeting.”
Arielle placed a gentle hand on his shoulder from behind. “Give me my bow, Kagen. I can at least cover you from here.”
Kagen glanced at the determined female and nodded. He had completely forgotten that the simplistic weapon, and its associated quiver, were still strung over his left shoulder, that he had been carrying both since they left the arena. “Do what you must, Arielle, but do not leave the center of this circle, no matter what occurs. And even if I fall; when the portal opens, you must go through it with my brothers.”
Arielle looked momentarily surprised. “But I thought all of this”—she gestured toward the clearing; the primed, resourceful Silivasi brothers and the approaching werewolves, now twenty yards away—“was about your Blood Moon, Auriga. The possibility that I might be your destiny. If you are gone—”
“The rebel resistance has been broken. Your friends are dead or captured. Your parents are gone, and the lycans will be seeking a terrible blood vengeance. There is nothing for you here, Arielle, no way for you to survive. At least, in Dark Moon Vale, you will have a chance at a life, the hope of beginning again. Promise me.”
Arielle started to answer, but Kagen never heard her words.
All five lycans attacked at once.
twenty-four
Braden Bratianu drew a crude circle on the ground.
He placed the bark from a tree in the north and stones from the eastern cliffs in the east. He emptied a vial of clear water from the Winding Snake River in the south and tossed a chunk of uneven rock from the Red Canyons in the west. With each placement, he repeated the rhythmic Latin phrase he had heard Nachari speak five days ago; and then he placed a piece of Tristan’s hair, one-half of the lock Nathaniel had ripped from the lycan’s dead scalp, in the center of the haphazard circle, careful to bury it just below the surface, exactly as Nachari had done before. He had to admit, the hair was getting extremely filthy and gnarled; after all, he was burying it and digging it up over and over again.
He surveyed his handiwork and sighed. Yeah, yeah, yeah…
Open the portal—again—every hour on the hour.
Been there, done that, hoping to toss the T-shirt.
And it wasn’t like he didn’t take the duty seriously. On the contrary, he was both honored and humbled to be chosen for such an important task. It was just…
It was just that he had done this over four dozen times already; the Silivasis were never there when the portal opened; and everyone in Dark Moon Vale was growing restless and concerned. On some level, he wondered if they doubted his ability to handle such an important assignment, if they didn’t suspect him, already, of screwing it up.
He sighed, biting his lower lip as he went through the familiar motions like a robot. He understood his duty, and he would do it: Contact Napolean the moment the portal opened to give the king a report—up until now, the report had always been the same: nothing to report—transmit a telepathic summary to Ramsey Olaru and then Saber Alexiares, of all vampires, if he saw anything at all. In the event that there were werewolves bold enough to follow the Silivasis back into Dark Moon Vale, Napolean had wanted some badass warriors ready to greet them, prepared to fight…
Just in case.
Yeah, Ramsey and Saber could handle that assignment.
Braden fingered the smooth, leather scabbard at his side and smiled, imagining the amazing thrusts, downward slashes, and lightning-quick parries he could wield with the small dagger if he had to—well, okay, so he wasn’t all that good with the ancient weapon quite yet—but still, he could fight like a crazed lunatic if he had to.
He would fight like a crazed lunatic if he had to.
As blue and violet light began to rise from the ground, the pale, luminous beams radiating outward like a halo, the center of the circle began to glow, and once again, the portal opened.
Braden began to count backward from ten to one—it was how long he usually waited before closing the gateway—when all of a sudden, he saw the most primitive thing he had ever seen: Nathaniel Silivasi, drenched in the blood of an enemy, the head of a lycan still dangling in his outstretched hand; Nachari’s sword, slashing perilously through the air, slicing a werewolf in half; Marquis’s fangs, bared to their full, lethal length, stained with cherry-red chunks of flesh; and Kagen Silivasi, slicing the heart out of a werewolf with a fine silver scalpel, his crisp, clean movements too swift to be seen. On the ground, at the brothers’ feet, was an unconscious male lying next to a beautiful woman. She was st
anding over him protectively, dressed like a warrior princess, releasing arrow after arrow into the frantic melee with amazing speed and precision.
Braden stepped back and gasped. “Nachari!”
And then he remembered what he was supposed to do.
Napolean! The telepathic call was frantic. They’re here. And they’re fighting lycans! He turned his attention to Ramsey and Saber, calling out on a universal warriors’ bandwidth. Saber! Ramsey! The portal is open and the Silivasis are here…with lycans.
All three vampires shimmered into view instantaneously, faster than Braden could spit out the last word. Without hesitation, Napolean Mondragon shot into the portal—his eyes were narrowed with purpose; his pupils were burning flame red; and his jaw was set in a wicked hard line. Instinctively, Braden just knew: The ancient monarch was channeling the sun. He assessed the situation in an instant—counted the lycans, measured their strides, made lethal note of their various positions—and then, as if the sun were simply his to employ, he gathered the hot, roiling gases, sent a single stream of fire blazing from his eyes, and cast it outward in a wide arc, saturating the remaining lycans in intense, poisonous light.
His body never moved.
His face never hardened.
The only sign of his toxic wrath was a subtle but uncontrollable twitch in his upper-left lip.
It was enough.
The sweltering radiation engulfed the werewolves with agonizing results—it sizzled, hissed, and hummed on contact—consuming the beasts in a preternatural fire, leaving nothing in its wake but a pile of steaming ash.
The king stumbled backward and staggered out of the portal; Ramsey stepped forward to catch him. As Braden understood it, the king’s rare radioactive powers were as dangerous as they were lethal: Every time he used his solar ability on a grand scale, he risked his health; and in extreme cases, he even risked his life. Luckily, this had been a minor use of his power: short, sweet, and effective.
“Milord, are you all right?” Ramsey, one of the valley’s most-revered sentinels, was not taking any chances: Releasing his fangs, he tore a long, vertical gash in his wrist and pressed the offering to the king’s mouth. “I offer freely. Drink.”
The king didn’t hesitate.
He latched onto Ramsey’s arm like a viper, sucked what had to be a pint of blood in under thirty seconds, and then casually sealed the wound with his venom, appearing instantly revived and alert.
Braden swore beneath his breath, wishing he were as strong and brave as Ramsey. He turned his attention to Saber Alexiares, watching as the brutal soldier extended a long, muscular arm into the portal and grasped the first wrist that met his. He pulled Nachari out with a sharp tug, and then he reached back in for Nathaniel. Marquis came out on his own accord. His thick black hair was drenched in blood; his face was a wild mask of fury; and his arms were heavy-laden as he cradled the limp, unconscious body of a male vampire close to his chest.
Before Braden could study the vampire more closely, Kagen emerged with the wild-looking woman clinging to his arm. He fixed his gaze on Braden and practically snarled. “Close the damn portal, son. Do it now!”
Braden struggled to remain calm and focused. He waved his hand through the air three times, weaving a simple spell as he closed the portal. And then he stepped back and gawked at his newly arrived companions. “Holy shit!” The words left his lips unbidden: The Silivasis had returned with their father!
Napolean turned his still-blazing eyes onto Kagen, and the fiery red centers flashed back to haunting black. “Do you have her?” His voice was rough with demand.
Kagen met the king’s gaze with an equal amount of intensity, and something in his gaze spoke of such hope…such desperation…such need that Braden could hardly comprehend the question. Did Kagen have who?
“I have Arielle Nightsong with me,” Kagen said brusquely, even as he genuflected in a slight bow to the king. “She was a warrior in the land of Mhier, a healer, and…a friend. I could not leave her behind.”
Napolean sighed in obvious relief. “Then you know?”
Kagen swallowed hard. “I know nothing.” He seemed to consider his next words carefully. “However, I suspect…” His voice trailed off. “Tell me, milord. By all the gods, tell me what I am waiting to hear.”
Napolean nodded. He raised his right hand and gestured toward the sky. “The first night you entered Mhier, the moon turned as blood, and the celestial constellation Auriga, the charioteer, appeared in the night sky.” He reached out to take Arielle’s arm, and she drew back in alarm. Napolean placed his hand at his side.
“Shh, sweeting,” Kagen soothed the woman softly. He gently grasped her left arm on his own and slowly turned over her wrist, staring longingly at her sun-drenched skin. And then he nearly groaned in surprise—and relief—at the sight of the strange, enigmatic symbols etched so plainly in her flesh. “Dear Gods…just like that.”
Braden leaned forward to get a better look.
Sure enough, Auriga, the Charioteer—the entire constellation—was stamped on the wild-woman’s arm. “Holy cow,” he said. “Your destiny was in the land of the werewolves?”
“Braden,” Nachari chastised, shaking his head back and forth to silence him.
“Sorry,” Braden whispered. He turned to stare at Napolean, wondering what would happen next.
As if an enormous weight had just been lifted from his shoulders, Napolean’s entire bearing relaxed. His face lit up with an unexpected light, and he declined his head in deference toward Arielle. “Greetings, Daughter of Auriga. Welcome to Dark Moon Vale.” He shook his head in wonder. “You have no idea how many prayers have been said on your behalf.”
The woman took a cautious step back and turned to gape at Kagen, her eyes like that of a frightened deer. “Healer?”
Kagen met her unspoken query head-on. “Do not fear me now, sweeting. All is well. All will be made well.” With that, he turned his attention to Marquis—and to the male who was still lying limp in the Master Warrior’s arms. “As long as we can save my father…our father.”
Napolean appraised the unconscious vampire carefully, and while his eyes seemed to reflect a subtle recognition, there was also a hint of dread…and doubt. “Then this is Keitaro?”
Marquis nodded. “It is our father.”
“Is he—”
“Barely alive,” Kagen interrupted. “We must get him to my clinic, immediately.” He turned to face Napolean directly then. “Milord, I know such things are considered sacred—they are rarely done. But I must ask—”
“My blood and my venom are yours, healer.” Napolean spoke without hesitation. “Whatever we must do to heal this warrior, we will do.”
Kagen breathed out a heavy sigh and nodded his head. “Thank you, milord.” Then he turned to his brothers and gestured in the direction of the clinic. “Let’s go!”
twenty-five
Kagen sat on the edge of the hospital bed, staring intently at Keitaro.
At his father.
He appraised the outward signs of his physical condition in the space of a second: the increased flush of color in Keitaro’s skin; the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed with less difficulty; the heat emanating from his forehead, indicating that his current body temperature was rising; and the smooth set of his brow, indicating an absence of the terrible pain that had plagued him…up until now.
Kagen had been at it for twenty-four hours: operating, mending, healing…
Intervening.
And there was little more the healer could do at this point other than to watch. And to wait.
Much like the human process of dialysis, Keitaro’s blood had been siphoned from his body, no less than four separate times, and strained of vile poisons. Kagen had treated the plasma with venom to clear the offensive toxins and reintroduced it into Keitaro’s bloodstream, along with a pure mixture of critical healing agents, not the least of which consisted of Napolean’s ancient, powerful white blood cells. In addit
ion, Kagen had injected Napolean’s venom directly into Keitaro’s heart so that the potent, regenerating liniment could travel as organically as possible throughout Keitaro’s body, healing and restoring his vital organs in a natural process. Each wound had been cleaned, treated, and repaired with more of the king’s venom; and fresh, human blood had been infused directly into the ducts beneath Keitaro’s fangs so that he drew in constant vital nourishment of his own.
He had been bathed.
His hair had been washed.
And Kagen had even trimmed and filed his nails, for lack of anything more constructive to do.
He had wanted to make his father as comfortable as possible; moreover, he had needed to make him look more like the male he remembered: the handsome, powerful, vital warrior who had always loomed larger than life.
Yet and still, he waited like a helpless child for the faintest sign of awareness.
For his long-lost father to just…wake up.
Marquis had finally taken to pacing the hall, just outside Keitaro’s room, with Ciopori at his side. Nathaniel had finally fallen asleep in an oversized armchair in the front lobby of the clinic, while Jocelyn softly stroked his uncombed hair.
And Nachari?
He had practically sequestered himself in Kagen’s office, refusing to feed or come out, as he prayed to the celestial gods and offered sacrifices of his own blood on Keitaro’s behalf.
Deanna was never far away.
In fact, it seemed like half the warriors in Dark Moon Vale had stopped by the crowded clinic to offer a word of encouragement to the family. Or a prayer. Their massive vampiric bodies had quickly filled up the otherwise spacious waiting room, overflowing into vacant exam rooms, and even filing up the narrow staircase toward the upper levels of the clinic, until Kagen had finally asked them to go home.
In short, everyone’s presence had been felt, except for Arielle’s.
The beautiful, independent female—Kagen’s newfound destiny—had chosen to wait alone in one of Kagen’s private guest rooms, sequestered next door in the healer’s private residence like a captive bird, albeit by choice. She was confused by her sudden change in circumstances; overwhelmed by the sheer volume of family and potential friends who stopped by to wish them well; and her senses were drastically overloaded by all the foreign sights and sounds: computers flashing, appliances buzzing, apparatus humming or beeping at every turn. So she had retreated into herself, insisted upon being left alone, while the Silivasis worked feverishly to try and save their father. She had even refused to let one of the brothers’ mates keep her company while the critical rehabilitation dragged on.