by Tessa Dawn
Chapter Eleven
Achilles could not make sense of what was happening.
One moment, he was heading to see Zeus. The next, he was staggering sideways in the underground passageway, his body flailing, flipping, cartwheeling backward, his vertebrae snapping against the cold limestone floor, his neck throbbing, his jugular on fire…the sense that something or someone was about to tear his throat out.
Then snow…
Icy cold.
He had called out to Salvatore in hopes that the sorcerer could put an end to the…witchcraft? The otherworldly assault. But Salvatore had only shouted—“Get up!”—and then things had gone truly haywire…insane…utterly inexplicable.
Achilles’ body had no longer been his own.
Like a puppet dangling from the masterful strings of a marionette, he had started to levitate to his feet—
And that’s when the Colony had faded out.
Gone black.
That’s when a gale-force wind had hit Achilles like a freight train, tunneling in through the back of his head, ping-ponging around his brain, and streaming down his spinal column, before spreading throughout his arms and legs.
Now, Achilles was flailing again…
Flailing, falling, and tunneling backward into a dense, thick void formed from mist.
Clouds?
Smoke?
A hot vat of inky tar?
The whirring drone of that damnable passing freight train!
He was traveling too fast to make sense of it, summersaulting backward, yet again…and again.
And then just like that, he stopped.
The sound subsided.
The spinning ceased.
And Achilles was ejected from the tunnel like a ball from a catapult, swiftly deposited— without fanfare or preamble—into a dark, barren, haunted forest.
Salvatore Nistor spat a wad of phlegm tinged in blood, braced both hands, palms facing backward, against either side of the underground cavern walls, and wrenched his body off the prehistoric spike, falling like a heavy sack of potatoes to the ground.
He swiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand and stared fixedly at the Dark One before him—he could heal the damnable hole in his back later, assuming Achilles allowed him to live.
Shit, fire, and brimstone…
Not Achilles…
Not.
Achilles.
Salvatore stared intently into the stark onyx orbs leveled directly back at Salvatore, and for a moment, his labored breath left his body: Achilles Zahora, The Executioner, had pale, rich, citrine-colored irises—these were the eyes of death.
Dark.
Ageless.
Consumed by rage, if not madness.
Yet sharp, intentional, discerning.
Determined.
And in an instant, a rare moment of magus clarity, everything his cube had been telling him for the last two and a half months came back in a flash...
King Silvano’s grandfather, 988 BC.
Maiden voyage, North America, 799 BC.
A hawk. A raven. Achilles Zahora, blood, blood, blood—The Executioner bathing in an ancient tub of blood, imbibing the substance through his mouth, ears, and nostrils, swirling it around on his tongue—Achilles Zahora, The Executioner, rising from a shallow grave like a mythical phoenix ascending from ash…
Light cleaves to light, and darkness cleaves to darkness.
Drink this blood and welcome life.
Drink this blood and welcome death.
Salvatore had no idea when…or how…but the evidence was irrefutable—and glaring—and standing right in front of him. Somehow. Someway. Achilles Zahora had imbibed the blood of a very ancient and deadly creature, an infamous tyrant, patriarch, and prince. Nay, the very genesis of the house of Jaegar, himself.
Salvatore sank to his knees.
And then he fell forward onto his face, prostrating his body before the hulking, murderous vampire. “Your Majesty,” he crooned. “Welcome to the house of Jaegar—your house, your legacy, the descendants of your venerable line of loyalists, all such surviving Vampyr of darkness, those who owe their eternal allegiance to the greatest soul who has ever lived: our most cherished forefather, Prince Jaegar Demir.”
Prince Jaegar strode forward and grunted. “Get off the floor.”
Salvatore scrambled to his feet, careful to keep his head bowed, low.
“You are?”
“Salvatore Rafael Nistor, son of Johann Nistor and whatever suffering wench he used to spawn me: an elder in the house of Jaegar, a member of the esteemed Dark Council, and a highly skilled practitioner of dark magick—the Colony’s most revered sorcerer.”
Prince Jaegar listened attentively, and Salvatore could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind—in the mind of Achilles Zahora—as the ancient prince processed every utterance efficiently…strategically.
Salvatore needed to make his next move, and quickly. “Should you allow me to live, Your Excellence”—he spoke delicately, eloquently, and above all, submissively—“I believe I can be of service. Much time and history has come and gone since you last walked among your followers.”
Prince Jaegar rocked back on his heels, ran his hand through Achilles’ chin-length, black-and-red banded hair, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. He stared down at the faded black denim constricting his waist and thighs, and tugged at the constricting crotch, pulled at the hem of the odd cotton muscle-shirt. “Can you fix this shit?”
Salvatore startled. He blinked three times. And then he slowly raised his head and nodded. Holy crap—nearly 2,807 years since he purportedly died, and the first thing the prince of our colony has to say is, can you fix these foreign clothes? “Of course, Your Majesty,” Salvatore assured him, searching his memory for an image—the portraits of the ancient monarchs stored in the Colony’s library, recorded in the annals of history. With the tentative wave of a trembling hand and a few cryptic Latin incantations, Salvatore focused all his energy on the too-tight T-shirt and faded jeans, and voilà: a loose-fitting pair of cloth trousers, falling just beyond his knees, plenty of room in the crotch, high, supple boots, and a long-sleeved tunic, with ruffled sleeves and girded wrist cuffs—nothing too snug around his chest.
Silence hovered in the limestone hall while the reincarnated semi-deity checked the feel, fit, and familiarity of his conjured garments.
Salvatore bit his lower lip. “Do you have any—”
“This body,” Prince Jaegar interrupted. “Whose is it?”
Salvatore nodded. “Your corporeal flesh belongs to an incredibly powerful soldier, one who defends the Dark Council as well as the entire house of Jaegar as the de facto head of the Colony Guard. He is, in point of detail, known as The Executioner, due to his unusual delight and brutality in carrying out—”
“Fucking-A!” Prince Jaegar snarled. “Do you always speak so much? Because let it be known, right here and now, I would just as soon behead you as listen to you ramble. I do not require such frivolous detail—I’ve already absorbed your language; I can see a mental blueprint of this underground settlement; and I have a fairly crisp concept of how the government is structured—but his name is just outside of my reach. So, let’s try again: I asked you his fucking name.”
Salvatore shuffled a few steps back. “Achilles Zahora.”
“Finally,” Prince Jaegar groused. “Achilles…Zahora.” He held his right hand in front of his face, focused intently to rearrange the molecules, and glimpsed into his palm like a flesh-and-blood looking glass. “His appearance. Can you change it?”
Salvatore mulled that over.
This prince was a male of considerable ego—that was swiftly becoming clear. As well as he should be, Salvatore thought. “Yes,” he said, foregoing the words Your Majesty in the interest and demonstration of brevity. “May I expound?” He winced and held his breath.
Prince Jaegar rolled his eyes. “You may but take caution.”
“If you would like, I can res
tore your former appearance, but it will only be an illusion—I believe you will still walk within Achilles’ body; you will still have access to his mind and knowledge. But if you feel it might be beneficial, I can do one better—I can provide you with the ability to go in and out of both personas, to sound and appear as yourself, Prince Jaegar, when you wish, or to sound and appear as The Executioner when it suits you.” He folded his lips around his teeth to force his mouth to stop moving.
Prince Jaegar thought it over. “The latter.”
Taken aback once more by the prince’s brevity, Salvatore nodded tersely. He referred again to the likenesses of the ancient monarchs stored in the Colony Library, and commanded every neuron in his brain to fire correctly—by all the dark lords, he had better get this right—until a full 3D image of Prince Jaegar’s ancient features—his body, his stance, his expression—were crystal clear in his parietal lobe.
This time, as he waved his hand, he also weaved his fingers in several intricate pattens, adjusting the configuration and the mystical spell as the visage of the prince transformed in front of him: thick, wavy, raven-black hair, streaked with red veins as a result of the Curse, stark onyx cutthroat eyes—soulless, merciless, and dead—six feet tall rather than seven, with broad, muscular shoulders and a large, ornate royal crest ring on the prince’s right hand.
Salvatore bowed at the neck and waited as, once again, Prince Jaegar gazed into his palm.
Seemingly satisfied, the prince transmuted the glassy surface back into flesh and bone. “Very well,” he said curtly. “Now then, is the High Mage, Fabian, yet living?” He raised one hand, looked up and to the left, then answered his own pointed question. “Ah, yes…he is. And the son of Sebastian is now a king—King Napolean Mondragon—hmm.” He chuckled sardonically. “The descendants of Timaos Silivasi…Petraeus Olaru’s line…and yes, oh, yes, my beautiful, no-longer-virgin sisters. Where is this…manse? This compound which houses Napolean and his ilk?”
Salvatore almost recoiled, but he caught the reaction and stifled it. Um, not the place to go, he thought. “It’s, uh, directly above us, across a ribbon of thick forest and slightly northeast,” he said. “About fifteen miles north of a gorge we refer to as the—”
“Red Canyons,” Prince Jaegar cut in. “Yes, I see how the valley is situated. This night—it is the Millenia Harvest Moon?”
“Yes,” Salvatore said.
“And this has something—no, this has everything—to do with why I am standing here before you?”
“That, I do not quite understand. You see—” Shut up, Salvatore—short and sweet. He linked his hands behind his back. “I don’t know.”
“This blood, my blood, the life-force which animates this body; tell me this much, sorcerer: Has such a mystery—such a miracle—also occurred with my brother, Prince Jadon?”
“That, I do not know.”
“I see, but—”
“But I do recall a premonition which foretold your resurrection, Your Majesty: Light cleaves to light, and darkness cleaves to darkness. Drink this blood and welcome life. Drink this blood and welcome death. I do not know how Achilles came to imbibe your essence, nor do I know who may have imbibed the essence of light. But if the portent was accurate—and we can hardly refute it—then the odds are quite strong that your brother now lives in the body of a vampire from the house of Jadon.”
Prince Jaegar nodded thoughtfully.
He furrowed his brows as if deep in thought, and took two casual steps forward.
Then he drew back his arm, balled his fist, and slammed the full force of his knuckles into Salvatore’s prostrated jaw.
The bone shattered.
Salvatore’s teeth scattered.
And blood pooled from his nose, drenched his lips, and meandered like a river along the curve of his mouth, staining an ivory canine lodged sideways in his cheek.
“If you ever interrupt me again, I will kill you.” Despite Prince Jaegar’s barely audible whisper, the words rang out like clamoring cymbals. “You may heal that shit with your venom in a moment but first, I have one last question.”
“My Phlence?” Salvatore slurred the words, unable to pronounce prince properly. He stared at the ground, ignored his double vision, and waited.
“Who the hell is Kristina Silivasi, and why did Achilles want her?”
Chapter Twelve
The Forests
Braden’s breaths were steady and even, and he felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off his shoulders as he strolled further into the resplendent forest toward a massive, perfectly symmetrical, ageless tree imbued with radiance. At first glance, it looked like a mighty oak—the trunk was strong, robust, and wide; the thick, heavy branches curved in multiple directions, some nearly touching the ground, others stretching toward the sky; and the foliage, the leaves, were bright and healthy, not a single sparse section on the limbs, only, some were green, as found on earth, while many others were white or gold. At second glance, he knew it was something more, a species nonexistent on earth.
A literal Tree of Light.
As he rolled his ethereal shoulders and stretched his back, he realized he was no longer wearing his familiar clothes: His waist was covered in a simple, crude tie of cotton voile cloth, which fell to mid-thigh and cascaded as he walked, his feet were wrapped in simple leather sandals, as weightless as the burdens he had just shrugged off, and his arms, chest, and legs were bare. Somehow, it did not seem peculiar or off-putting. Nothing about his surroundings concerned him…at least not yet. He noticed a swaying scrap of parchment hanging from a lower branch in the tree, and immediately strolled toward it, inexorably drawn by its golden light. He clutched the parchment in his hand and plucked it from the limb like a delicate piece of fruit, feeling the fine, silken texture between his thumb and forefinger before bringing it to his eyes.
It was a missive.
A decorative note, written in an elegant, ancient hand: calligraphy for sure—but more—the golden letters were both raised, embossed, yet also part of the paper.
He narrowed his gaze on the words:
My son,
The forest you have entered is a bridge between two worlds, the life you have come to know on earth and the realm of eternal life, the Valley of Spirit & Light. I have brought you here so that you might remember—remember and make a choice—for what lies ahead of you, should you return to the former, will require courage, contain great sorrow, and demand the use of every badge you collect. But again, the choice will be yours. Pay attention. Learn. And remember, my son. Nothing that has ever befallen you is by accident, and I am ever near.
Lord Monoceros
P.S. I chose you on purpose.
A flock of small birds flew overhead, chirping a joyful song, and Braden glanced upward to watch them flutter, glide, and dance in the sky before returning his attention to the missive.
Remember and choose.
Courage, sorrow, badges…
And just like that he remembered everything, each detail in perfect clarity: Kristina offering her heart and her passion, leaving her alone on the couch; waking on the morning of the Millenia Harvest Moon, visiting his family and Conrad; spending the afternoon and evening with the warriors by the shore, and spinning…falling…traveling. He knew, without a doubt, that Prince Jadon’s blood had truly awakened inside him, and that the prince had taken his place on earth—the ancient one had usurped and inhabited Braden’s corporeal body…for a reason.
Nothing was random.
And he was here.
In this enchanted forest, standing in front of a tree of light…
Tasked with remembering…collecting…badges?
And ultimately making a choice.
A serene smile curved along the corners of his mouth as he thumbed the parchment again—Lord Monoceros had scribed this missive with his own celestial hand, and he had done it for Braden Bratianu!
For Braden…
Of all vampires.
Holy crap.
An empty leather satchel appeared in Braden’s free hand, connected to a long loop of cord, and he instinctively slipped it over his neck and one arm, causing it to fall at his hip, before carefully—and with reverence—folding the missive into a perfectly proportioned square and slipping it into the pouch.
“I’m ready,” he said out loud, understanding intuitively that there was much more to come, and time was somehow of the essence.
Achilles Zahora staggered forward, extending both arms outward to catch his balance.
What the actual hell—where was he?
His breaths were ragged as he sucked in air and spun around in a wary circle: The ground was cold beneath his bare, exposed feet, his clothing had been replaced by a bearskin loincloth, and smack-dab in the middle of the parched, fruitless woodland stood one lone gigantic tree, blood seeping from the trunk like thick, gooey sap.
Achilles stopped turning.
He drew back his shoulders, raised his chin, and bounded across the cracked, dry ground to get a closer look at it: asymmetric, ancient, and twisted, yet the wide trunk was sturdy and powerful. The copious gnarled branches were covered in ancient foliage, leaves of brittle green, scarlet, and black, and if he listened carefully, he could hear the tree moaning, the sap faintly hissing—it was a literal Tree of Darkness.
And without knowing why—or how—he knew, Achilles instantly understood that he was here to draw sustenance from both the tree and the forest: Somehow, it would make him stronger. Even more defiant…ready.
A murder of crows flew overhead, screeching an ear-piercing chorus, and Achilles welcomed the clamor and the discord as he extended his claws, dipped them in the crimson sap, and striped two lines beneath his lower eyelids like war paint. He pressed his bare back against the trunk, slid down to the ground, and extended one leg in front of him, drawing the other knee up as an armrest.
“Whatever the hell this corrupt shit is, I’m here, I’m ready…so bring it.”
Chapter Thirteen