by K. A. M'Lady
Table of Contents
Also By K.A. M’Lady
Dedication:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
K.A. M’Lady
Published by Mojocastle Press, LLC
Haymarket, Virginia
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Redeemed By You: Vranthian Vampires – Book 3
ISBN: 978-1-60180-026-8
Copyright @ 2014 K.A. M’Lady
Cover Art Copyright @ 2014 Fiona Jayde
All rights reserved.
Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Copying, scanning, uploading, selling and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission from the publisher is illegal, punishable by law and will be prosecuted.
Available online at:
http://www.mojocastle.com/
Also By K.A. M’Lady
Get Lucky
Song of the Wolf
Realm Book One: To Tell of Darkness
Realm Book Two: Shadow Slave
Realm Book Three: Illuminated Death
Faith Savage, Demon Huntress Series
Ramshackle Castle: Bent Poetry and Other Altered Verse
Rational Animals
A Walk in the Black Forest
Vranthian Vampires Series
Dedication:
For the readers, and the believers.
Because love heals all things
For my husband ~ Always my light, and my love.
Chapter One
The back corner of the club lay steeped in darkness, the shadows deep and the smoke thick with the scent of sex and blood-tinged alcohol. The noise level hummed a heavy bass of drums mixed with techno. Bodies swayed to the gyrating beat, anarchy and revelry thrumming in their veins. Anonymity was the guise and the seduction. It was the dance that fed the heat of the blood’s deadly game.
The lure of hot, sweaty bodies thinly dressed, grinding against each other on the dance floor, did little to pique his interest. This night his focus was elsewhere, the heat of the hunt burning deep within his veins.
Casually, he stalked through the crowd, blending with the shadows. Every step silent, each move obscure. The crowd parted, then consumed him, bodies swallowing him like a tide, flowing over his leather-clad form. Nearly-naked flesh swarmed and faded, consuming him into their wave as he made his way to the booth that sat in its deepest recesses like a dark yawning cove. The thirst rode the air, fangs flashing as desire and rebellion rose above the thunderous drone of the music.
The sight and scent of their writhing bodies, ripe with hunger and need, disgusted him. It was the same story time and time again. Blood traded for sex. Sex traded for blood. Centuries had passed, and still his people gathered in hellholes such as this, in search of donors. Some even craved the forbidden hint of darker magic; strange and evil powers that were only whispered about in quiet, darkened places.
He knew he’d find his target here; the lure of power was too much for him to pass over. It had become a game with them. For weeks he’d stalked this one, but Traegar was a patient man and an even more patient hunter. Time meant little. So he watched his quarry while he bounced from body to fluxing body, rubbing against each one he came in contact with. Male or female, it mattered little. Power had become a drug, as he searched for a source to fill his lecherous needs for the night.
Distractedly, Traegar watched him bound from one sorry victim to the next while his own thoughts wandered. The dream had come again, keeping him from the still, sweet calm the hunt usually provided. This time the visions had shown him far more of its vivid, bloody, and disturbing scenes than ever before.
Being one of the oldest of his kind, he’d seen much death and destruction in his long life. He had been the maker of much of that havoc himself. He was certainly no fool. Life was filled with betrayal and bloodshed. The Great Wars had proven that. But these visions…
If they were true, then great change was coming. But, was he prepared to do something about it? That was the question that haunted him.
If he cleared his mind of worries, he could still taste the sweet thickness of her blood on his tongue. He could feel the fire of her flesh in his hands. The carnal images of desire still thrummed in his veins, stoking the flames of memories and needs long thought dead to his jaded heart.
His people had shown him their capacity for depravity and power in the wars that had destroyed so many nations. The Darengy had been enslaved, bartered and traded for their blood. What was once seen as a gift had been diminished to nothing more than a commodity. Other races were wiped out entirely. The fractured few of the remaining cultures, the ones lucky or unlucky enough to survive, were marked as traitors and expelled to Outposts on Vranthia’s three moons. The things his people—the Elders among them—had done sickened him. They all sickened him.
Instead of choosing a side, he left them all. And he hunted. The Elders and the ruling families sought his council and feared his wrath, and if they were wise, they simply stayed clear of him. He hunted the seekers of the blood. No mercy was spared. He brought them death. And she expelled them.
A chill of awareness strolled down his spine, and he wondered what she had to do with his visions. Somehow he knew they were connected, but he was unsure how. Blinking back into the moment at hand, Traegar noted the shift in the level of power within the club; a definitive power that stalked toward him in sure-footed strides. He felt it like a soft hum against his flesh and the distant memory of companionship, at first, startled him. Then two bodies rippled through the crowd and stopped before his table. Traegar knew that the course of things to come had now and forever changed.
“You look well, for such an old bastard.”
Traegar couldn’t help but grunt at the greeting. Seeing Draven always amused. The young, brusque and menacing warrior always managed to bring trouble, entertainment and chaos with him wherever he went. Perhaps it is time for a change to my hunt, he thought, wry amusement twisting his lips. “And you look green, warrior. Who have you come to try to kill today?” he questioned, a lift to his dark brow.
Ooen had seen many Elders, and the ancient mercenary was not what he expected. For starters, his skin was the color of deep, dark soot, a gray so dim the ash and smolder of thrice died fires hid him in the depth of the club’s outline; so much so that he almost didn’t exist. The old ones he had seen had skin so pale it was almost translucent. Traegar simply blended with the shadows, an unseen force.
Then there was his hair, and his eyes. Both gleamed with darkness, but it was not just the shadows they held; it was the glint in them. Eyes rimmed in shimmers of storm clouds; secrets and knowledge behind every swirling shade. His hair stopped at his elbows, sleek and straight, glistening like coal, blurring in colors and shadows from the club’s lighted, frenzied haze.
His energy hummed just enough that you almost didn’t recognize it, like he was holding back the force of it—a subtle, raging tide seeking a means of release.
“A new friend?” Traegar’s voice was smooth and deep as it cut through the music’s boom. He turned those strange, intense eyes toward Ooen, thick dark brow arched in question.
“Family,” Draven replied. “Kuthar’s mate, Ooen.”
; Questions and answers briefly played behind Traegar’s calculating eyes. Then with a slight nod, he raised his hand before them, palm up in invitation and stated, “Sit. I insist.”
“Not here,” Draven told him. “There are watchers. We are close.”
“There are always watchers, warrior. You should know that well. Their turn will come. Now, sit.” His voice brooked no further argument.
Draven and Ooen sat on either side of him, each facing the other. Traegar could feel the anxiety and a myriad of other emotions roll through them. Feelings he’d not recognized, or remembered the names of in a long, long time. He knew then that the rumors were true. The Vranthian rulers had found their mates. The trion was real.
But what was the cost?
Setting his empty shot glass before him, he once again chose his future. Interest piqued, he casually watched as the Vranthian warrior and their rulers mate filled his drink cup with his next journey and their truth.
Draven couldn’t help the wicked smile that parted his lips. At times, he remembered his old teacher well. Traegar was one of the finest and most lethal of the Elders that he’d ever had the pleasure to train under. It was his zest and zeal for adventure and punishment that gave him his spirit and longevity. The other Elders could learn so much from him.
But no, they could never agree with his counsel. It was the Elder’s quest for gain and power that had led them down this road. They’d never be idle long enough to learn new ways. Their treachery and depravity knew no bounds. They would do anything for the power to control all. Traegar knew this well. He despised them for it, he and several others like him.
Hence the Great War.
The core of the Elders had sought this bid for power in the past and had to be put down. Many had suffered. Many had died. After the Great War, the surviving Elders and the ruling family led side by side, but even this tenuous relationship was fragile at best. History had a way of repeating itself. And once you had a thirst for power, you seldom seemed to lose it.
Draven filled half of the shot glass, his blood thick and clinging to its sides. Ooen silently did the same, filling it to the rim. With a subtle grace, Traegar tossed it back, the truth hitting his tongue like lightning.
The instant the fiery mix of blood and memories touched his lips, Traegar’s mind filled with a vivid catalog of events. Draven’s mates, Leah and Ook— human and Darengy—captured his senses. The female, tiny and lithe; gifted and blessed with a soothing spirit both Draven and his warrior match needed.
Their memories and emotions coiled through him picking up visions of lost friends and companions long dead. Sifting through the heat and filtering through the images, he touched Ooen, the Darengy healer with his waves of oceanic blue hair and fascinating eyes. He found the learned ruler Kuthar and their feisty, fiery human mate, Cyn; her warm skintone a rich, contrasting heat against her partner’s cool, fierce strength. He knew her secrets without meeting her, for the fire of her soul burned bright. She’d keep them dancing in her flames for a long time to come.
Then the truth of this chance happening came to the front of the images pulsing through his veins.
Old wounds and perceived deceptions warred with lies and betrayals; each treachery hidden in the shadows and forged in the blood. One image in particular struck him like a punch to the gut and the name coursed fire down his spine: Kantella. A name known and yet, not.
“The truth you seek,” he finally stated, opening his eyes and staring, unseeing at the gyrating bodies before him on the dance floor, “is darker and far more dangerous than you may be willing to endure.”
“My brother must pay for his sins,” Draven growled, pounding his fist on the tabletop, the shot glass rattling against its flat surface.
Traegar canted his head, faced his young student, now Vranthia’s most feared and revered warrior, and gazed into his anger-filled eyes. He could feel the hurt and fury radiate from him in waves. “The truth, as you know it, is a dual-edged sword, Draven. Darker forces are at work here. Many have crossed over in too short of a time, and the seeker of their demise whispers in my dreams.”
“What does she say to you?” Ooen questioned.
Traegar sighed. He’d unintentionally shared too much. “She calls to me to aid her. But I know not her name. Or where to find her.”
“I know how you can find her.” Ooen blinked calmly at the mercenary.
“Tell me,” Traegar growled, grabbing the Darengy by the arm and pulling him near. His fangs lowered as rage knifed through him like an inferno; a firestorm blazing in his belly. The need to extol destruction and death in her name—a name he still did not know—awakened his beast. The need to protect her warred with the need to take her, to keep her for himself. Possession was not an emotion he’d known before.
Ooen laid a calm hand on top of Traegar’s, waves of comfort flowing between them. “Not here. Come,” he stated, sliding over towards the edge of the booth. His arm stretched in Traegar’s grip, causing him to release him. “I will tell you her story, and we will piece this puzzle together. Then you will have the knowledge to find the first of your mates.”
Traegar blinked at the Darengy healer as his words settled in the pit of his stomach. The word mate rolled through him with uncertainty. Yet something about it, about her, felt so right. Was she truly the first of his mates? Was she in danger? Was that why she called to him?
“Her name, Healer?”
Ooen stood, smiling down at the fierce ancient warrior. A myriad of thoughts crossed his dark, intense eyes. Whatever the future held for each of them, Traegar was a part of the key to set it to rights. He would help them rebuild their nations.
“Onya,” he told him. “Her name is Onya.”
“Onya.” Traegar whispered her name, and the whole of his body trembled. He knew then with fierce certainty that she would somehow set him free.
Chapter Two
“You will never be free, witch. You will slaughter a nation and rebirth a new one, all in one fell swoop. How does that make you feel?” His vile words lingered in her mind; a cold blade slicing time and time again. There was nothing she could do to stop him. His hatred consumed him. It ate at his soul.
Nations suffered, and innocents died. His darkness corrupted all who crossed his path. All because of a need for revenge. Despite her own dire circumstances, Onya thought the saddest part of it all was that most didn’t even recall his name. His story long faded into history.
However, his tale was just the beginning of the end for so many people. For far too many darkened that history with their deaths. Too many had died too soon.
Varnak had chosen his mate, though she had not felt the connection. Srionna. His sweet and innocent Srionna. She shunned his many advances. He’d told himself that her betrayal had been because of them and the ways of their magic. They had forced her. They had caused him this pain. However, when he found that the betrayal was of her choosing, it wounded him mortally. Destroyed a piece of his soul. Yet, he loved her still, with a dark, touchable madness. He vowed he would never set her free. That they would all pay for their folly against him.
The trion and the Balacjek family had stolen her from him, and he’d vowed that all of them would suffer. That in the end, all would know his name. None of them would ever know the joy of the trion in their lifetime again.
Known as the silent Elder, Varnak was seldom seen and rarely heard. The day the Lady Srionna was promised before the Elders to a blue-tinged freak and a slimy pup of a ruler in training, he’d changed all of their fates.
Although young for an Elder, Varnak had ambitious plans. Plans of grandeur. Plans that would require a Queen by his side. Over time, he had watched the innocent Srionna come of age as a Vranthian. Watched her beauty grow, and wanted it for himself.
During the Promising Ceremony, in a fit of festering jealousy, he rose silently from his counsel chair and drove his dagger through the Darengy, Sabene’s, heart. His death was instant. Sabene’s soon-to-be mates, Srionna and
Kamet, watched in horror.
The court looked on, stunned. Immediately the Balacjek guards rushed him. They bound him with silver; swords and guns aimed at his heart. None of it mattered. In the end, Srionna still married Kamet, though their trion was never complete, while he spent the next one hundred and eighty years confined to the darkness of the Elders dungeons.
He could have escaped, had he wanted. Silver had no effect on him, a rarity among his kind. As time passed, he found many hated the binding ritual between the grave-walkers and the ‘bringers of fate’. A rebellion was in the making, and Varnak found he had conspirators among the ranks.
Over the next century, he used this to his advantage. Grew an army from the dark confines of his prison cell and when the time had come, he’d escaped.
“Now, all will know and remember my name.” His voice echoed off the wet stone with an edge of rough insanity. “The world will be cleansed of their evil, and all will know who brought their demise.” His booted heels resonated against the stones, his laughter mocking.
Onya clung to the chains that bound her to the wall. Apprehension chilled her already cooled flesh, uncertainty settling in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the two images that continually plagued her thoughts. The distraction of the visions thankfully blocked out Varnak’s maddening diatribe.
From the darkness, the first image wavered. Dark eyes haunted her dreams. The midnight of their depths called out to her, bidding her to tell him her secrets. Dark, intense eyes that she knew swirled with sparks of light when beset with the fire of passion, or anger. She longed to see them burn.
Those same intense eyes were set against the backdrop of a strong face with a stern jaw, a straight nose. All of which were surrounded by a length of raven hair, left long and straight. His flesh was the color of smoke, or the mist by a half-moon’s light. Onya longed to touch him. Longed to feel the strength of him against her flesh.