The Phantom King (The Kings)

by Heather Killough-Walden

But now?

  Not long ago, a female vampire by the name of Ophelia had handed Ramses all of the information the Hunters would need to completely eradicate at least one supernatural race from the planet. The Vampire King Roman D’Angelo was very old, having ruled for three thousand years, and Ramses had never met him.

  Ramses had fully expected D’Angelo to be like his forebears – cruel, selfish, and blood-thirsty. However, once he’d been given the vampire’s location and background information, Ramses had delved full-long into a thorough investigation, and what he’d turned up confused him.

  Rather than continue with the senseless destruction of those who had ruled before him, D’Angelo took hold of the vampire kingdom in a mercilessly firm grip, strangled the vast majority of its cruelty into submission, and initiated new laws. Opponents to the laws were destroyed. Proponents were made law keepers.

  As a result, D’Angelo’s people ceased murdering innocents, and the method for turning mortals into vampires was hidden away, bringing the disease-like spread of the vampire nation to a halt.

  It wasn’t what Ramses had expected. Ophelia, had no doubt intended for Ramses to use the information she supplied him with to put an end to the vampire sovereign and his people. But Ramses hesitated. He wasn’t so certain that doing away with D’Angelo would be the best thing for humanity – much less even possible. D’Angelo had remained king for three thousand years; it took a massive amount of strength to retain a leadership of any kind for that long, to say nothing of a group of creatures as powerful as the vampires.

  The werewolves were no different. Something had happened to them during Amon’s absence. They’d gone from ravenous beasts to a struggling society of close-knit family and love. They’d suffered a curse that had seen them nearly to extinction. And then they’d come out of that curse – only recently – to find themselves banding together in solidarity in order to fight the adversity that this sudden change had caused.

  The warlocks were now ruled by a man as enigmatic and game-changing as Roman D’Angelo had been for the vampires. And the same story of metamorphosis and innovation seemed repeated over and over again when it came to the other kings and their supernatural kingdoms.

  Ramses was thrown by this shifting of antipathy to altruism. It was disorienting, to say the least. As of a few weeks ago, he’d brought all homicidal Hunter activity to a halt, and now the Hunters were restless. Not that he cared. The anxious trigger fingers of a few mortals were the least of his concerns. The world was turning underneath him, tilting until he felt he would fall off.

  And there was something else.

  It was the reason he was here now, walking the halls of this hospital on North America’s west coast. He was no closer to locating Amunet than he’d been when he’d first taken mortal form, but he had located someone else. Someone he could not comprehend, could not fathom, and who should not have existed: Amunet’s daughter.

  She was here in this hospital. He’d been watching her over the last few months, though she and her multitude of protectors had no idea he was there. She looked like her mother; her eyes were similar. Dannai Caige had eyes like muted rainbows, green, blue, brown and gold. Her husband lovingly referred to them as “kaleidoscope eyes.” Her hair was similar. Her bone structure. And she carried her mother’s ability to heal.

  It was hard for Ramses to look upon this woman while his queen was out there in this new and strange world, her heartbeat so weak he could barely feel it. It was hard for so many reasons. Dannai Caige had no idea who she was. She had no clue what kind of blood ran through her veins.

  Ramses would make certain she knew in time. For now however, she had more important things on her young mind. Under the May sun and moon, she had given birth to Amunet’s grandchildren.

  He had to see them. He had to see her. He had to know… who Dannai’s father had been. All it would take was a look, a touch, and he would have the answer he sought. It burned in his veins, this question unanswered, a rhythmic threat that pulsed with every beat of his ancient heart. Someone had touched his mate, his bride. His Amunet.

  And Ramses wanted his name.

  Dannai’s room was up ahead and to the left. Ramses released thin tendrils of his magic as he walked, clearing his way of any curious or questioning individuals. Nurses and attendants moved around him like currents in a stream around a stone, affording him room and leaving him alone.

  Amunet’s daughter had sent most of her would-be protectors away for the night. Aside from her husband, she’d wanted to be alone with her newborn children. That even the Warlock King had acquiesced to her stern wishes bore credence to the goddess soul she carried. She was her mother’s daughter through and through.

  He felt proud. He was anxious, confused, and angry; she was not even his child. But against reason, he felt proud all the same.

  The door swung open on quiet, well-oiled hinges when he turned the knob, and he hesitated only slightly before moving forward into the darkness. Dannai’s werewolf husband lay sprawled on the large chair beside the bed, his dark head thrown back over the chair’s rest. Dannai slept on the hospital bed, her mass of ebon hair spilling over the pillow and sheets, her sleeping fingers clutched around the bar of the bassinet beside her even in slumber.

  Ramses’ gaze cut to the husband, and knowing that he would have a “new father’s” fight on his hands if Caige awoke, Ramses used a good deal of his magic then and there to place a cloak of deeper unconsciousness over the dangerous man.

  Then he turned his attention back to Amunet’s daughter – and the bassinet beside her. With legs that felt like lead, the god of gods made his way to the bed. Inside the bassinet rested two tiny, perfect infants. One was wrapped in pink, the other blue. Atop the babies’ heads were soft knit caps to keep them warm. From beneath these caps, wisps of hair peeked. The boy’s hair was thick and black. The girl’s was lighter and finer.

  Like Amunet’s.

  Ramses could hear his mortal blood racing through his avatar veins as he reached out to touch the female child. It seemed to take forever; time adopted a stretched quality, blurring the rest of the world and tunneling his vision.

  With the tenderness of someone who was already aware of the truth deep inside, Ramses placed his fingertips to the infant’s cheek. She opened her eyes. A kaleidoscope of color greeted him, utterly at odds with how a newborn’s eyes normally appear.

  He looked into those irises, focused on the pupils, and met the baby’s spirit half way. And he knew. The girl’s name was Jazarah – princess. It was fitting. Because though it was impossible, though he hadn’t seen his bride in five thousand years, Dannai was his daughter. And these twins were not only Amunet’s grandchildren.

  They were his as well.

  *****

  Dannai felt as if the entire world had strapped itself to her body and was pulling downward on it. And maybe it had, technically. After all, that was gravity in a nutshell. It was just that the laws of physics were absolutely broken that morning, and gravity had more of an effect on her, she was sure, than on any other living being on the planet.

  She was exhausted. She had never known a person could be this exhausted. She’d faced real evils in her life, but none had drained her more than the last twenty-four hours had.

  With tremendous effort, Danny pushed her eyelids into an open position and tried to focus on the hospital bassinet beside her bed. Inside, two tiny forms slept side by side like a yin-yang. Kavanagh’s dark hair was already thick on his head. Jazarah’s hair was finer, and had golden highlights. Where those had come from, Danny had no idea. Both she and Lucas had jet-black hair, as did Lucas’ brother Byron. Clearly her parents must have possessed traits that were now becoming evident in her children.

  Very slowly, Danny sat up in the bed. She’d healed immediately after the birthing process, and of course they’d been careful to insure that their doctor was also a werewolf, so the secret of her “miraculous” healing abilities as a female wolf were never in jeopardy. Howe
ver, she was sore and tired on a deeper level, and she also didn’t want to make any sudden moves that would awaken Lucas, who still slept soundly in the large chair against the wall.

  Her babies were wrapped in blue and pink blankets, more to help the nurses and staff tell them apart than anything. Danny didn’t need the blankets, of course. They were as different as night and day to her already, and each as precious.

  She watched them in silence, held immobile in the peace and wonderment that came with gazing into your newborn children’s faces. And as she did, their eyes opened. At the same time.

  Danny’s brows raised. She smiled. “Hungry?” she whispered, placing her forefinger within Kavanagh’s tiny grasp. He squeezed, and his lips parted, his small legs kicking once in a baby stretch. “Okay,” Danny told them, lifting Kavanagh lovingly while bending to place a tender kiss on Jazarah’s forehead. “One at a time, then.”

  Her breasts had grown several sizes over the last few days, and either through the help of Lalura’s various teas or all on her own, she was now producing enough milk for both of her children – and then some. She was ever grateful for that now as she sat back on the raised bed and cradled her son in her arms.

  And then she felt something hard beneath the blanket over his chest. Frowning, she pulled the edge of it loose and unfolded it from his tiny body.

  A medallion had been placed around his neck. The chain was impossibly thin, and wrought of gold. The symbol on the pendant winked up at her in intricate secrecy. Dannai gazed at it in shock and wonder. It looked familiar to her.

  Without thinking, but working on autopilot, Danny reached over and pulled the blanket off of her daughter as well. Jazarah fussed a little as the cool hospital room air caressed her exposed skin.

  A second medallion rested against her tiny chest, twin to the one her brother wore.

  Chapter Seven

  Roman D’Angelo remained in the doorway to his wife’s office and watched her in silence. Her long sun-streaked brown hair cascaded over her back and shoulders like a silken waterfall. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks as she blinked, and her perfect skin seemed to glow from within. His chest felt tight as he looked upon her, and for the ten millionth time since she had agreed to marry him, he thanked whatever lucky star had blessed him.

  She didn’t know he was there. It wasn’t that he was cloaking his presence, it was just that she was absorbed at the moment, her head bent, her beautiful gaze narrowed, her long, slim fingers clenched tightly around what appeared to be some kind of newsletter.

  An empty paper cup that had once contained coffee rested beside her hand on the desk. Coffee was one of the few things Evie still imbibed in since becoming a vampire. In fact, he wasn’t certain whether her veins carried more blood or caffeine at any given point in time. When she badly wanted one and was too busy writing to go after it herself, their butler, Jaxon, seemed to appear out of nowhere just in time with a fresh cup. That was what you got with a good butler.

  At the moment, Evie was angry. That much was patently clear.

  For a fraction of a beat, he considered reading her mind, before he remembered that such a thing was not possible with Evie and hadn’t been since shortly after they’d met around three months ago. Besides, it wasn’t necessary. It didn’t take a vampire to know she was thinking homicidal thoughts.

  “If you want a someone killed, as my queen you have men who will do that for you,” he told her, pulling her attention from the paper. She looked up, her eyes glazed over with indignation and fury, and slowly her gaze re-focused. “They called it crap,’” she said, her voice nearly quaking. “They said that if this was what all of the creator’s work was like, she should reconsider her vocation.”

  Roman went still, his vampire firing to life. “They said that about you?”

  Evie rolled up the paper and slammed it down on her desk hard enough to knock the candle off of the end. It fell toward the ceramic tiles below, but before it could connect, she waved an irritated hand, and it stopped in place and then jumped right back up onto the desk to settle into the spot it had been knocked from. “No,” she said, scowling at the candle and at nothing in particular. “Not me.”

  Now Roman was confused. He felt his fangs slide back from where they’d extended as he came into the room. He made his way to her side of the desk and leaned against it. “Then who?”

  “A friend of mine, a playwright. Her opening night was this past Saturday. This is one of her reviews.” She shook her head, pushing back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve known her for years, since way before either of us earned any kind of publicity. She’s one of the kindest people I know, and her work is anything but crap.”

  Evie gritted her teeth, and Roman could see that her fangs had come out. “What would they know about writing plays? God, she’s gonna to be devastated when she reads this.”

  Roman considered that in silence for a moment. He’d lived a long time, and in those eons, one of the many things he’d learned was that in the end, those who often had the least to contribute to an art form were very often the ones who had the most to say about it.

  “Be kind and considerate with your criticism,” he said softly, “It’s just as hard to write a bad book as it is to write a good book.”

  Evie was taken aback enough by the sudden quote that she blinked and looked up at him. “Who said that?”

  “Malcolm,” he said.

  “Cole?” Evie questioned, clearly surprised.

  “No,” he told her, smiling. “Malcolm Cowley.” He reached out with one hand and gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “American author, journalist, poet, and literary critic who died in ’89. And you’re right,” he said. “They probably don’t know anything at all. Some people simply get bored if they’ve gone too long without being cruel.” He could think of a few off hand.

  Evie closed her eyes as Roman’s fingers trailed gently from her ear to her jaw line, and finally brushed softly against her bottom lip. “If you’d like, I can pay her a visit and see that it doesn’t bother her.”

  She didn’t answer; he could see her pulse speed up in the side of her slender throat, and his fangs were back to their full length in his mouth.

  “Sometimes it’s good to be married to the Vampire King,” Evie whispered.

  Roman smiled, fangs flashing.

  “Tell me something,” his wife said, frowning a little, her eyes still closed. “Do all vampires consider you their sovereign? Even if they’ve never met you?”

  “Not all vampires are aware of the way our society is set up, just as not all Akyri or warlocks or werewolves are aware – especially now. Sometimes we are brought into the fold blindly.”

  Evie was silent as she thought about that. A minute later, without bothering to open her eyes, she said “By the way, why are you here?” Her voice was soft, distant. She was referring to his presence in the mansion where she had an office and the vampire council often held meetings.

  “The council is meeting in fifteen.”

  Her eyes opened. “What for?”

  “Some of the council are becoming restless in the face of the Hunter withdrawal. It makes very little sense, and they’re worried that the Hunters are pulling back only to regroup in a more dangerous manner.”

  Evie nodded and pushed her chair out to stand. “I was worrying about the same thing, to be honest.”

  “We’ll be arranging a series of contingency defenses throughout the kingdom,” Roman told her. He hesitated before adding, “I think it’s also time we discuss Marius and his practices. They’re getting out of hand and Alberich has stated that some of his warlocks were being hounded by Akyri warriors.”

  “That’s a bit of a departure from the norm,” Evie stated, no doubt referring to the manner in which warlocks had always used Akyri as slaves due to the Akyri dependency on black magic for survival.

  “It is,” Roman agreed. “And not necessarily for the better. The Akyri seem to be taking on
a bully’s cast, going after warlocks who are not capable of defending themselves.”

  Evie frowned. “What warlock isn’t capable of defending himself?”

  “A warlock who doesn’t necessarily like the powers she has and who tries very hard not to use them for anything but good.”

  Evie bit her lip, squeezing the plump flesh between two white teeth. Roman’s vision shifted slightly red. “A good warlock,” Evie said softly, talking to herself. “A walking oxymoron.”

  “Indeed,” Roman agreed. “And one that drains the warlock, making them easier prey.”

  “Of course it does,” Evie remarked sarcastically. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  Roman could see the frustrations written across his bride’s lovely face and he knew that they were placed there, not by the bad news of the day, but by the hardships of humanity in general. She was a sensitive soul. Today’s events were merely straws weighing heavily on the camel’s back.

  “I was hoping you would consider attending this one,” he said, referring again to the vampire council’s upcoming meeting. His wife was a highly intelligent woman, and she had a vast imagination. Such qualities were helpful when brainstorming both defensive and offensive tactics.

  Evie inhaled through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. “You know how I hate meetings.”

  “I do,” he said. And then he leaned over her, his body towering as he gently cupped her chin and tilted her head so that she once more looked into his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  Evie’s pupils dilated, her lips parted, and he could see that her fangs were again extending behind them. He went in for the kill.

  “I’ll have Jaxon bring fresh, hot coffee to the meeting.”

  “Deal.”

  Roman smiled, feeling the warmth and vitality of his wife deep in his bones. He leaned in for a kiss, and she closed her eyes.

  An unsettled wave coursed through him, a frisson of something starkly negative. He froze, his senses spiking, his fangs at once fully bared, his eyes shifting to red.