Bound By Blood

by C. H. Scarlett

  Dĩas believed that if Chymeŕah had too much influence over Samanthŕa, then that would be as bad as keeping all of the sisters under the same roof. By keeping her away from Chymeŕah, he could keep Samanthŕa under his watchful eye and control. Samanthŕa, he needed desperately to control and he made no secret of this.

  Mischief was but one of his many reasons for separating the sisters. His main fear, though, was their Awakening, which was fast approaching. He did not want Samanthŕa experiencing hers. He would take grave measures to make sure she didn’t.

  Grinding her teeth, Samanthŕa took a deep breath and attempted to put such thoughts behind her.

  “Have they begun lighting the tail of the Drągýn? That’s one of my favorite things, you know. I love the way it lights up the forest and the night.” Dezarãe swayed and spun around as if she were a thread underneath a Sephŕel's spell. Her question, however, snapped Samanthŕa completely out of her thoughts.

  “Yes they started, but the Phãegens have also stopped." Strange. "Maybe they are waiting for the wind to die down.” Samanthŕa looked to analyze what was stirring beyond the mountains, in the deep of the sky. She hadn’t even noticed the wind before, or the storm causing it. Her mind was in a million places this night. If only she could focus . . .

  She turned away and played with the flame of a candle, feeding on its energy. Perhaps, I'm hungry. Her hand moved back and forth over it. She was still leaning against the balcony doors, tired of waiting. She was awake and ready to go. What was keeping her other sisters?

  “What? What wind? It’s a clear night,” Dezarãe replied. “I must have checked the weather a thousand times before you finally woke. I shook out at least twenty verms, (fuzzy worms) throwing them before the fire. None of them showed the threat of anything other than fair spring weather." If storms were coming, verms would go gray and stiff. If cold was coming, they would thicken and turn white. If warmth was on the horizon, then the Verms shed their fur and began spinning their cocoons. "I made sure of it.” Dezarãe joined her at the window.

  "Then what is that?" A storm was brewing towards the Sea of Abyss past the mountains. “Looks to be something of power,” Samanthŕa observed while pointing to the dark scarlet colors erupting throughout the sky like a vein. A dark impervious cloud just as red and just as deep swallowed up the stars, but only temporarily, before it rolled outward into a transparent haze. “It’s obvious from the colors, and how it came out of nowhere, don’t you think?” She could recognize a storm of power from anywhere. Must be one of great power.

  Just then, Samanthŕa remembered the voice in her dreams. “A storm is coming. It is time.” She felt as though someone had rattled her cage. She turned her back to Dezarãe, though, forcing a blank smile, in an attempt to hide it.

  “Dĩas and the Elders better not have done any sinister magic to foul up this evening’s celebration!" Dezarãe clenched her fists, as her eyes changed into tar pits. "It’s not every night I get to visit the Lycãon Realm.”

  The Lycãon, were but one clan of the twelve bloodlines Samanthŕa and Dezarãe shared. Those of the Lycãons were wolves, who shared spirit with a Strygĩ man or woman. The beast in them dominated, as they kept themselves secluded inside the borders of their mountainous realm, away from the other eleven families. They had turned their back on Dĩas, claiming he had poisoned the bloodlines under his rule. Samanthŕa was the only one they would deal with, as their mistrust of the other bloodlines became worse and worse with each passing season.

  Samanthŕa knew that tonight's sacred affairs meant far more than what they normally stood for. The importance of the bloodlines joining in the rituals and ceremonies were crucial. Their attendance may have ended up being the only fine thread keeping any connection at all between the Lycãons and other families. It would take more than a storm to stop her from going . . . . The survival of her bloodlines depended on it.

  “It doesn’t feel like Dĩas or the Elders’ power. It feels stronger, older.” Samanthŕa admitted, having found herself hypnotized for a moment or two by the effects of the storm. She couldn’t shake the dream either. She had thought very little of it until now, since she had the same dream almost every day. And what the voice said was always the same. She had grown so used to it that she did not even notice when she awoke, that he had said something different this time. What was it . . . exactly? She struggled to remember, but the energy from that, and from the Beal-Tene festival, was enough to leave her feeling forgetfully intoxicated. The bloodlines were so sensitive when it came to feeling energy and its effects.

  Wait, she stopped. Someone is near. Someone I loathe.

  The door to the room flew open. Monéaklá of the Mãrquisŕa entered as if she were the bloody Queen of Hadãe. As usual, she was frosted with more jewels than the throat of winter. Her large oversized breasts were pushed higher than the diamante stars. The poor fabric of her dress struggled to keep them at bay. It looked as though it might rip at any second, letting loose the two imprisoned heaps, slinging them forth to beat them all to death. Instead of objects of temptation, they looked more like weapons of mass destruction.

  “Oh my, the two of you look so dressed up." The tip of her tongue touched the back of her teeth and she sucked air repeatedly, enough to make a high-pitched sound. "Well, as dressed up as your dull little minds can allow, I suppose.” She snorted, arrogantly. “I gather you were planning to go to the festival then? Too bad you won’t be making that trip.” Monéaklá glared brutally with dark tinted eyes.

  “What are you talking about, Monéaklá? Furthermore, what in bloody Hadãe are you doing in my chamber? You know how I feel about vermin squirming around and tainting up my things.” Samanthŕa rolled her eyes, causing Dezarãe to nearly spit out her wine.

  Monéaklá and Samanthŕa were like oil and water. The two had been fighting for centuries, it seemed. Why, even their mothers fought. In fact, the only reason Dĩas lay with Monéaklá's monster--dearest and she with Dĩas, was to spite Chymeŕah. With the Mãrquisŕa, everything revolved around power.

  “I have come to tell you that our father wishes to see you in the Great Hall. Might I add, he is none too happy either. Seems he thinks you are behind this storm and I can’t say as I blame him. You are always plaguing us with one curse or another. I wish he would just destroy you and rid us of having to deal with you any further.” Monéaklá threw up a hand with a wave, and literally hissed.

  Samanthŕa knew Monéaklá loathed her curious ways, which always led her to discovering new things that should not be discovered. Her naive curiosity brought the horrors home making the rest of them suffer for it. It was obvious Monéaklá still carried a grudge for the time Samanthŕa found a box buried in the old ruins known as the Goddess’s womb. She opened the thing right in front of Monéaklá causing her to be attacked with pestilence and blindness. Oh how the sores festered with such excruciating pain, until Dĩas finally found a cure to the affliction. Monéaklá missed the masquerade ball that year, all because of the High Priestess's mischief, and even now, Samanthŕa couldn’t help but giggle when she thought back on it.

  And Monéaklá made sure to moan and groan for all to hear that in the end, instead of Samanthŕa being punished, Dĩas simply babied her as always. She would say with deadly sarcasm, daringly, if not foolishly, mocking her version of Dĩas . . .

  “Everyone has to overlook dear Samanthŕa for accidentally stumbling onto things like that. Poor, dear Samanthŕa is just drawn to find such objects without knowing it. Everyone please turn the other cheek for poor, poor Samanthŕa simply cannot help herself!"

  And then she would break out into a rant for anyone who would listen. "Samanthŕa gets away with murder. I wish she would die a thousand unspeakable deaths. Why don't we all make a game of it, and see how many we can make happen!”

  “Monéaklá, stop being such a bitter wench,” Dezarãe whispered low in a very simmering but seething way. “I am sick to death of your desperate attempts to see Samanthŕa hung from the Great
Hall rafters.”

  Monéaklá shot her a look that would strike down the gods, but before her serpent’s tongue could speak the venom of it, Samanthŕa stepped in placing herself between the two.

  “I hate to disappoint you, Monéaklá, but this storm is not my handiwork. If it were, I'd have it swallow you up."

  "Only to vomit her back up," Dezarãe gave her two cents.

  "Of course, if you had any gifts at all you'd know this." Samanthŕa made sure to add. "Oh wait, that reminds me, you have no gifts, do you? Maybe that’s why I am High Priestess and you are not. Oh my, did I just speak such truths out loud?” She smiled without remorse.

  Monéaklá turned and started to stamp out of the room. The veins in her neck looked as though they might explode. Her rage clearly consumed her. “Some night, even if it takes a hundred years, I will see you suffer, Samanthŕa Lampiŕ, and when that time comes, I will, be standing right there, savoring every minute of it.” Her hand fisted the handle of her exit.

  “Look, Dezarãe, there she goes using the door. Tell me, is that by choice, Monéaklá, or is it simply because you haven’t enough power to mist yourself three feet without becoming stuck inside a wall?” Samanthŕa made sure to throw a few more chunks of salt on her wounds.

  Dezarãe nearly fell over, she was laughing so hard, as Samanthŕa stood there showing not one trace of guilt.

  Monéaklá deserved what she got. There wasn’t a night that went by that she didn’t try to get one of them into trouble, poisoned, or worse. This was yet another symptom of how corrupt their families were becoming. It was hard to know who was a true sister or brother, who was truly loyal, and who kept to the old ways.

  And just as they thought she would leave and stop plaguing them with her foul company, Monéaklá, turned around with eyes that wished a thousand miseries to befall them both. “Worry not for me and my power, sister.”

  “Or you mean, lack thereof,” Samanthŕa butted in something like a chopping block. Dezarãe spewed more wine all over the floor.

  “Worry for yourself,” Monéaklá raged, would have her say, “because Dĩas does not appear to be very pleased with you right now. Your charms will not save you this time…” She slammed the heavy wooden door, carved with ancient symbols that seared away her negativity with a thick blue light. Her cursing, though, was loud enough to extend beyond the deep stone walls, as she no doubtingly marched away.

  “Great Goddess, what do you think crawled up her skirts this evening?” Dezarãe asked.

  “That’s her problem. Nothing crawled up them at all.” This was just another reason for Samanthŕa to dislike and mistrust Monéaklá. Her family, the Mãrquisŕa, was a cause for concern. They had forgotten the old ways and it showed. Their hearts were turning, even if Dĩas and the Elders told Samanthŕa she was crazy for believing so.

  Like the ancient Vlachŕa of the Lycãon screamed, Samanthŕa, was seeing disturbing changes within their families. She couldn’t blame the Lycãons for distancing themselves from the other families. She would do the same if she had not taken an oath to serve all of TEŔAH and of the Goddess as High Priestess. Turning her back would be too easy. No, it was her duty to keep her bloodlines strong . . . and as one.

  Samanthŕa turned around and looked back towards the storm brewing over the mountains. “I am more concerned with what our father wants,” she admitted. He couldn’t possibly think she was behind this storm, could he?

  And even more so than that, even still, her dream bothered her. She was forewarned of the Storm, and that it was-- time.

  What did it mean? Storms of power could mean many things, but this one was bringing something or announcing the arrival of . . . what? This one was prophecy; she could feel it deep inside.

  She forced herself to put her questions and curiosities away for now. Dĩas wanted her for something and she had better go and find out before he sent something even more vile than the likes of Monéaklá to fetch her. Samanthŕa began to mist, when Dezarãe stopped her.

  “Is there anything you would like to confess, sister?”

  “First rule of our mother’s,” Samanthŕa smiled, for she inherited her curse of mischief and curiosity from Chymeŕah herself. “Never confess to anything before you are bluntly accused and proven guilty of it."

  "Oh?"

  "This way you do not confess to the wrong thing and find yourself in even more trouble.” She forced a laugh and then made her exit in the form of mist. She never wanted her sisters to worry, so she always blew off their concern. Truth was, though, she was a little worried herself, this time.

  ~Chapter 2~

  Dĩas’s Cage

  ***

  Foolish is he, who masters the cage,

  Gilded and clever, admired and depraved.

  Locking within the prettiest of his desires,

  Hiding her veil, and smoldering her fires.

  But alas, fate will have its vengeful way,

  For sooner or later . . . the jailor is tricked,

  His method, far too repetitive.

  And the lock will get picked.

  So foolish is he, tear on weak knee,

  Throwing a crumb or two on the floor.

  For the cage doth fall, none heeds his call.

  The whip is snapped forever more.

  Hark! The horizon she seeks, so did one speak,

  of the beauty who is free and now runs.

  No turning back, the past is black.

  And the phoenix doth fly toward the sun.

  ***

  “It’s about time.” Dĩas Lampiŕ growled impatiently from his throne, as Samanthŕa materialized before him. The area filled with her signature scent --sweet and exotic smell of jasmine and winter rose--once her body took shape.

  All the while, Dĩas awaited her arrival, without patience, inside the Great Hall, a very large space lit by hundreds of candles burning on black iron candelabras. Normally, they would have dimmed the room with large crystals, but the power of her father’s throne drained them all too quickly.

  His throne was large and embedded on a high pedestal at the farthest end. A black seamless pathway along the floor led to it, where fires burned in huge stone pits all the way down the center. The room itself seemed to lack walls; they faded into distant blackness while the ceiling opened towards the sky above. The sky, Samanthŕa noticed, was still swirling above, with the impending mystery of the storm.

  "As if I have eternity to simply wait on you." His unhappiness continued to brew.

  “I came as quickly as you called, father,” Samanthŕa replied. “I wish you would have sent someone else other than Monéaklá, though. You know how I feel about her.” She prepared herself for whatever may come. Small, truthful chattering words only bought her more time.

  He sat there saying nil while his expression remained unreadable. He was large, but very lean and extremely alluring for a man who held the reflection of forty-Phãegen-years. Lengthy sable hair hung down powerful shoulders. His large pale blue eyes were penetrating as always and his features resembled those of a Grecian sculpture.

  And at last, he spoke. “I knew if I sent her, you would be tripping over yourself to leave. Anyone else and you might have taken longer . . . attempting to pick their brains, instead of asking me directly.”

  “You know me so well.” She smiled sweetly, and without knowing it, worked the charms she inherited from her mother.

  "Do I?" Dĩas stood, black boots banging to the floor. They were tall, leading up over his knee, blending with matching pants and gathered shirt. He grabbed his jacket from behind him, a multicolored spun thing that had long tails in the back, giving him a wicked edge of rakishness.

  "Do you what, father?"

  “Know you so well?"

  "What sort of thing is that to ask?" She played coy.

  "Sometimes I wonder." He paused, perhaps dissecting her with his mind. And perhaps that failed, for he moved onto other things. "Regardless, the festival is called off for tonight. I assume you have no
ticed the storm?”

  Hidden panic gripped her chest. “How can the festival be called off? The Phãegens are already lighting the fires,” she told him. He cannot do this. We will lose the Lycãons forever if he does. Evil shall pick our bloodlines off one by one, then. Divided, we are destroyed. "The rituals are--"

  “Let me put it another way, then. The festival is called off for the families dominated by the Strygĩ and not by their beast. It’s not safe."

  "But father, it is our duty," she tried another approach, "To protect the Phãegens and--"

  "If the bloody Moppães of nature wish to go tramping about when there is danger afoot, so be it. But know this; our bloodlines will not be protecting them this night nor anything else foolish enough to go traipsing about. We shall keep to our Realms.” He raised a daring brow.

  "Danger or not, we should not defy the Goddess. Tonight is sacred. It is Beal-Tene--”

  “Do not begin to lecture me on the Goddess. I, more so than you, know her ways. This matter is finished. It’s not open to debate." He turned his back, as if turning yet another page of ever-changing subjects. "I have to attend a meeting in the Higher Realms. This storm brings great concern. We," he spoke of those with great power, "Cannot trace the source of it. We cannot connect an imprint to anyone or anything that we know. Items of great importance are missing. Items of powerful importance are missing. Which brings me as to why I summoned you here --"

  "Oh?"

  "You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?” He whipped around like a snake striking, staring Samanthŕa directly in the eyes . . . towering over.

  “Are you accusing me of starting this storm?" If only she had so much power . . .

  "Am I?" A brow rose to high depths.

  "If I had, then my imprint would be all over it." She stated the obvious without fear. "I can also assure you that I have not stolen anything either. I can’t believe you are now adding thief to the list of things you find unworthy about me.” Samanthŕa rolled her eyes but stood her ground. She was offended and her anger wanted to rear its head and bite him even if she knew that would be a death wish.