by Tessa Dawn
The air around them began to pop and sizzle like sparks from a macabre fire. The atmosphere grew inexplicably dense, as if ghosts were swaying rapidly in the background, and Salvatore’s palms did not just fill with combustion—they became the flames of hell. He hurled a wicked conflagration at the powerful king, forcing him out of his circular pattern of assault, and then he shoved him hard against the chest, with two flaming palms, sending him spiraling back into the stony wall.
Napolean landed on his feet, as graceful as a lion. He growled deep in his throat, measuring the demon-vampire from head to toe, and then he released a wicked-long pair of fangs, his own blackened pupils beginning to glow.
“The sun isn’t out,” Salvatore snarled, taking several brusque, long strides in the direction of the king. “You will have to find something else in your bag of tricks.”
Napolean’s hand went to his beltline, and three diamond-tipped daggers flew through the air, each in rapid succession of the last. The first planted itself in Salvatore’s forehead, the second lodged between his nose and his mouth, and the third pierced him straight through what looked like a partly exposed, six-chamber heart.
Salvatore groaned, rolled his shoulders as if to stretch, and shook his body in sweet reclamation. “It’s hard to kill that which is already dead!” And then he sprang across the room like a rabid animal: crazed, determined, and insane. He caught the king by both shoulders and spewed some sort of acid from his mouth.
Napolean froze the discharge in midair and sent it careening across the room with telekinesis. He threw a lightning-quick, resounding punch, breaking the Dark One’s jaw, and then he withdrew the first knife from the vampire’s forehead and staunchly carved out his heart.
Salvatore grew a new one. “That felt… funny,” he mused.
Napolean took a deep, hesitant breath and glanced askance at his warriors. Ramsey shrugged and transported himself to the king’s side, even as Santos, Saxson, and Julien surrounded the seemingly invincible sorcerer in a perilous circle.
They took turns inflicting mortal injuries. Julien crushed his skull. Santos ripped out his entrails. Saxson gouged out his eyes, and Ramsey literally tore his limbs from his putrid body.
The bloody heap rose again.
It reformed itself into another vampire, demon… monstrosity: bigger, stronger, and seemingly more powerful.
Napolean reached for Salvatore’s neck in order to wrench it from his shoulders, and by the look of the twin, red-hot beams pulsing from the king’s eyes, he had every intention of incinerating the skull to ashes, perhaps eating the ash when he was through. The king intended to burn the Dark One, again and again, until he could finally rise no more. Napolean Mondragon was beyond wasting effort. He was ready to get vicious—he was ready to conjure the devil.
And he never saw the unearthly strike coming.
From the tips of Salvatore’s claws grew two hideous forms, each slithering into the night like a singular, demonic serpent, each growing the head of a cobra. They were enormous; they were noxious; and they were clearly possessed, each occupying a pair of malignant fangs that contained the kiss of death.
How did Ramsey know this?
He just did.
Like two hellish entities conjured from the grave, they rose up like specters, drew back their heads, and struck the king at once, each sinking their odious fangs deep into the king’s beating heart.
Napolean gasped and staggered backward, a piteous grunt of pain and fury escaping his constricting throat. The sound of the serpents feeding was unlike anything Ramsey had ever heard before—the craving, mania, and thirst.
This just wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be happening.
Great celestial gods, have mercy!
In the blink of an eye, Ramsey surveyed the chamber and all of the destruction he had unintentionally wrought: Tiffany was dead. His own days were numbered. And now, Salvatore Nistor, their black-hearted enemy, had returned from the grave, as a result of the sentinel’s reckless actions, with some ungodly amount of power. And he was about to destroy their king.
“No!” Ramsey heard himself shout, as if from a distance, as he reached for the necks of the snakes. His brothers and the tracker were right there with him, trying to wrench the king free from the otherworldly bites, trying to destroy the bewitched aberrations.
Napolean sank to his knees, and the snakes followed his motion, tightening their feral jaws as he started to convulse and topple to the floor.
And then the room grew deathly quiet.
The chilling air grew still.
And a light so bright that it pierced the eyes streamed into the room in the form of a funnel, striking like lightning behind Salvatore and the ancient king.
“Cease this blasphemy!” a glorious, thunderous voice resounded through the hall. “’Tis not the will of the gods!”
nineteen
The incandescent funnel of light began to take form like a pillar of fire, planting its foundation in the hall, and out of the brilliance rose the most hauntingly beautiful creature Ramsey Olaru had ever seen.
The female’s long auburn hair cascaded from her shoulders like living waters flowing through a stream. Her bare back and shoulders glistened in the torchlight like luminous particles of sand, and her silver gown sparkled like it was made of ethereal jewels. As her snow-white wings fluttered down from her sides to drape behind her like a train, she raised her elegant arms, held a graceful hand in the air, and slowly inclined her noble chin. “Rise, my king,” she said to Napolean.
The snakes screeched a terrified hiss, withdrew their fangs, and released the dying vampire, even as Napolean Mondragon stumbled to all fours. He was just about to shift his weight onto his calves in order to do as the woman had bid when his eyes met hers. He winced from the brightness and immediately fell to one knee. “My goddess, my lady, my queen. Blessings, Andromeda.”
The celestial goddess Andromeda nodded her head in reply even as Salvatore Nistor gasped in terror and tried to retreat. She flicked her wrist in his direction, and he flew backward like a rocket, slamming into the wall, where both arms were immediately pinned to his sides. “You, be still… until we sort this out.”
She gazed in the direction of the three sentinels and the tracker, and they all dropped to their knees as well, bowing their heads in supplication. “Honor and exaltation, my queen,” Ramsey bit out, his voice sounding far too raspy. He had no idea, whatsoever, how to address this original being. He shrank down further toward the floor, hoping he would not offend…
“Children… ” she whispered softly. And then she drew a deep, tranquil breath. “Alas, my shadowed brother Ademordna has lost his immortal mind. Brother!” she shouted, shocking the vampires into frozen postures as her voice ricocheted like shrapnel across the hall. “Audience, now!”
The room began to rock to and fro as thunderous, pounding footsteps descended the center aisle of the hall. Ramsey gaped, then looked away as the dark lord Ademordna simply strolled into their midst. “Sista, you seem to fare well.” His voice was a discordant, abrasive snarl.
“And you seem to fare like a witless parody of a mule.” She wasted no time going straight to the point: She drew back her shoulders and raised a graceful hand, commanding the very ether’s attention. “What is it you have done, you fool?” He started to reply, and she shushed him with a glance. “Do not speak in this moment—just listen. There is very little time. You have challenged the laws of creation by reanimating this abomination.” She gestured toward Salvatore, still hanging limply from the wall, and Ademordna’s eyes quickly followed.
He held up both palms in a satirical gesture. “Oh, he’s not that bad.” He glanced at Salvatore, winced, and then chortled.
“You laugh?” Andromeda said. “’Tis not funny in the least.” She lowered her voice, and it was as if the very walls and the furniture strained to hear her words, as if the very molecules, gathered inside their foundations, responded to her voice. “Gods and l
ords may be creators—’tis certain that we are—but we are also an extension of creation. It is one in the same, and the laws that brought forth light and darkness; sound and substance—nay, life and death itself—cannot be altered. They are the foundation on which all creation stands.” Her voice grew ominously serious. “You have created a rift in the cosmos, Ademordna, a tear reaching back as far as time immemorial. Nay, you have begun to unravel the very threads of creation. You may not undo the design of the universe without undoing the laws.” Her voice rose in proportion to her angst. “Without undoing yourself. Without undoing the gods. Without undoing All That Is. Do you understand what I am saying, brother?”
Lord Ademordna puckered his rancid lips. He cocked his head to the side and thought it over, and then he cleared his gravelly throat. “I thought I had accounted for that.” His chin jutted out in hubris.
“You arrogant ass,” Andromeda clipped. She began to move about the hall, pacing rapidly up and down the aisles, staring at the crafty dark lord and the impaled vampire on the wall. “We must act quickly, before there is nothing remaining to act upon. We must restore balance in the universe.”
Ademordna frowned, and for the first time, it appeared as if the lights had finally turned on. His hideous face displayed the barest hint of contrition. “I’ll take him back with me.”
“’Tis not that simple,” Andromeda said. “What is done lives on. The energy of a thing, of an action, or a thought—of an intention—remains in perpetual motion. One can never remove it, only counter it with something else of equal vibration.” She rubbed her forehead, thinking, as she kneaded her flawless temples. “Life and death, eternal souls,” she mumbled to herself. “Life for death? Death for life? A soul for a soul?” She spun around on her heels and held her hand out to Ramsey. “My son, arise. Quickly.”
Ramsey shot to his feet, desperate to comply.
To obey.
He glanced to his left, then his right, certain she was speaking to someone else. When she simply stood there waiting, her kaleidoscope eyes, which changed with her moods, fixed on his basic hazels, he tried very hard not to tremble. “Yes, my god… goddess… Andromeda.”
She chuckled softly beneath her breath. “What has been destroyed today is the result of free will, the power of a single soul’s intention, of multiple souls’ interaction, to create their own prosperity… or demise. You made ill-conceived choices, as is your right, and the consequences drew nigh; however, what was wrought was undone by an idiot”—she glanced sideways at Lord Ademordna and scowled—“and that must be repealed. Lord Ademordna interfered with the death of Salvatore Nistor, a death the vampire brought on himself. It can only be counterbalanced with an equal death… or an equal life.”
Ramsey had no idea what the goddess had just said, but he watched with faultless attention as she splayed out her fingers and a golden dagger appeared in her palm, glistening in the light of her countenance like a prism in the sun. “The right of Blood Vengeance is yours, and I grant you the authority to restore the imbalance in the heavens, the netherworld, and on earth. Take this golden dagger and carve out the Dark One’s heart, and his death will be permanent; he will return to the Valley of Death and Shadows, and his evil will haunt you no more.”
She closed her fist, and the dagger vanished. Then she opened it again. This time, there was a small crystal vial lying delicately within her palm, containing a bloodred substance within its borders. “Or, you may pour this substance into your beloved’s mouth, and her heart shall beat again.” She gestured elegantly toward Tiffany’s lifeless body and swiftly inclined her head. “But decide quickly, or we shall all meet a similar fate.”
Ramsey’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he immediately began to process the alternatives. He had to make an impossible decision—and quickly.
He turned to look at Salvatore, and something inside of him festered. He wanted the vampire’s death more than life itself, to carve out his blackened heart and spare the house of Jadon his never-ending atrocities: Blood Vengeance was Ramsey’s by right, and he was itching to reach out and take it.
At the same time, Tiffany was his destiny, his responsibility, and his life. He had promised to keep her safe. He had gone against his intuition by granting her three more days, and her death was his unforgiveable failure. With the potion, he could make it right. He could give her back the life she had lost so suddenly, so needlessly.
So violently.
He clenched his hands into fists, bit down hard on his bottom lip, and locked his jaw in concentration. His heart was beating like a bass drum, rumbling in his chest, as he tried to make sense of his options—oh goddess, forgive him, but he needed more information: “My lady,” he said reverently to Andromeda, “I must ask one question first: If I save Tiffany now, will the abomination live?” He glared at Salvatore’s disfigured form, wanting to spit fire across the room and incinerate him where he hung. “Will he still be just as strong?” He closed his eyes because he dreaded the next question. “Will he be capable of destroying our king?”
Andromeda drew a deep breath. “Aye, my son. He will. ’Tis how my brother recreated him. However, to balance such an act, Tiffany will rise with equal power, also indestructible.”
Indestructible…
Ramsey had to let that sink in.
Tiffany would be indestructible. There was nothing he wanted more, but—and it was a major but—Salvatore Nistor would be indestructible, too. And unless Tiffany took him on, which was all kinds of wrong on all kinds of levels—not to mention, she couldn’t actually destroy him—he would surely kill the king, if not every male in the house of Jadon, one by one. Salvatore would be like a god living among men, an evil, imperishable entity that could never be stopped.
Ramsey groaned inwardly, and for the first time in many, many years, bitter tears stung his eyes and began to roll down his cheeks as he stared at the beautiful woman he had failed to save, lying on the dais. “Tiffany,” he whispered with a heavy heart, his shoulders beginning to shake. “My angel, I’m sorry.” He unclenched his fists, relaxed his jaw, and squared his shoulders to his destiny. “I will be with you soon.”
Just then, Saxson Olaru jumped to his feet, took two brazen strides, and grabbed his twin by the shoulder, shaking him abruptly. “Ramsey!” he roared. “We’ve got this. We’ve got this! We may not be able to destroy him, but we can find a way to contain him, cage him, keep him somewhere locked away. Don’t even think of relinquishing your life.”
Ramsey frowned, meeting his brother’s grief-stricken eyes, feeling as if he was staring into his own hazel orbs. “Saxson—”
The male shook his head briskly to cut him off. “No. You have a chance to live. Take it.”
Santos stood up warily and nodded his head. “Take it, Ramsey. Please.”
Ramsey turned toward Julien, who crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged his shoulders in an anguished gesture. “Damn, warrior. That’s a hell of a choice to make. Either way, we’ve got your back.”
Ramsey nodded, knowingly. “Can you save Napolean, Julien? In the next five minutes—in the first ten seconds—the instant the deed is done? And Santos, can you swear to me that you can overpower Salvatore and keep our king alive?”
Napolean cleared his throat, capturing Ramsey’s attention. “I’m not going down without a fight, warrior.”
Andromeda smiled graciously, sweetly, a subtle parting of her faultless lips. “Time, my sons. There is little time.”
Ramsey glanced back and forth between his two choices—Salvatore and Tiffany—several times in a row. His heart was breaking. His chest was hurting. And his soul was literally weeping. Napolean Mondragon had lived for 2,820 years. He had brought the house of Jadon together, raising it from the ashes of the Curse, and he had dedicated his entire life to its service, to making sure that the celestial progeny lived on. Not to mention, Prince Phoenix was so very young. He had not been trained to be a king. Not yet. And the Dark Ones, they were living right below
the vale, just waiting to usurp and conquer their reviled cousins. It all sounded so easy, the way Saxson and Santos framed it: Just choose to live, and everything will be all right.
But Ramsey knew better.
Salvatore Nistor would never give up.
He would go after the princesses next, Ciopori and Vanya; he would hunt the warriors one by one. If they couldn’t contain him—and who could say with absolute certainty that they could?—the male would be like a swarm of locusts, devouring everything in his path.
Ramsey couldn’t take that chance.
He just couldn’t.
He was a sentinel.
Yes, he was beholden to Tiffany, first, as her protector and her mate, but he had sworn eternal fealty to the house of Jadon, and he would die as he had lived, boldly and with no apologies, putting his people first.
“Forgive me,” he said to his brothers, wishing he had something more than words to convey the depth of that sentiment. He turned to the goddess Andromeda and nodded. “I claim my right to Blood Vengeance. On behalf of the house of Jadon, I voluntarily surrender my life, and I recall the life of Salvatore Nistor.”
“Very well,” Andromeda said in a sober tone. She closed and reopened her fist once more, and the golden dagger reappeared. “Take this, and do what you must. But first… ” She held up her hand to keep the hall silent. Turning to face Napolean, she whispered, “My most beloved child has a question he has always wanted to ask. Speak, Napolean.”
The king cocked his head to the side, and his eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated longing. “Forgive me for questioning the gods… ”