Fated In Secrets (Nocturne Vampire Clan #2)

Chapter 42

42

MALACHI

I t was true what they said.

Old memories never faded.

They only grew sharper, like time was a whetstone.

The weight of all that time clung to my chest, even now, thousands of years later, as from my perch high above the Hall of Mirrors, I watched a pissed off Blake Marten stalk down the Hall of Mirrors, completely unaware of my presence.

He moved with that self-assured ease all natural warriors possessed, oblivious to the blood on his hands— innocent blood, my brother’s blood. I clenched my fists, feeling anger burn hot under my skin, until I tasted the bitter tang of centuries-old hate.

And surprise, surprise, he dragged a familiar mantle of shadow behind him, the writhing darkness spilling onto the floor like spilt ink.

So Evangeline, the desperate, wicked little thing, had forged a new bargain with Aria to restore her mate’s power.

Well, that made my job a lot easier.

In another world, I may have allowed Blake Marten to survive what was coming. Tyberius hadn’t really been all that innocent. In fact, he’d done dreadful things. But vampires were violent, unforgiving creatures, believing in blood for blood, and my plan only worked if Evangeline was alone and mateless…so Blake Marten had to die, in order for my plan to work.

Which was a shame, because that magic of his was truly something I didn’t see every day. He might have been a descendant of Acheron himself, if I wasn’t mistaken. But soon, he’d become another sacrifice to the cause.

Tyberius and I had been brothers, joined by bonds of blood sealed long before we’d been turned vampire on a forgotten battlefield by a ruthless Elder.

We served Rome, but not by choice.

Conscription in those days was a brutal matter—if you could walk and hold a sword at the same time, you were forced into the legions, stripped of home and family and humanity. Tyberius and I had only each other and a single purpose: to survive, by whatever means necessary.

Our two oldest friends—Noctarian and Romulus—were conscripted on the same day and for twelve years we all managed to survive, through fierce, unquestioning loyalty and mindless bloodshed that still kept me awake some nights.

We thought we’d die on some muddy field in the west, a thousand miles from Rome.

But then Caine descended upon us with his Thirteen.

Those thirteen Elders were the oldest of Caine’s brutal creations, the first Made Vampires—which gave an especially ironic twist to Tyrell’s pureblood bullshit—hand selected for their dark magic, ruthlessness, and utter lack of a soul.

As we’d knelt in the dirt and prayed to our pagan gods, Caine had turned Tyrell, and from that day forward, the old bastard never stopped driveling on about the honor of having that fucker’s teeth in his throat .

All these years later and Laurent Marcellus Tyrell was still lording his supposed superiority over the rest of us and it was a blessed day when the little slayer had jammed that knife through his throat and finally shut him up for good.

Even before he was turned, General Laurentius Talarius, later known as Tyrell—had been driven to subjugate Rome’s enemies. Tyberius, my friends and I witnessed firsthand his atrocities, the way he carved a path of death and fire across the Empire, basking in the blood and horror left in his wake. But he’d always wanted more.

Then his prayers were answered when Caine came calling.

Tyrell accepted Caine with open arms—giving his entire army over to the most brutal creatures I’d ever seen. They’d forced us to bow before them, shaking, pissing ourselves while they chose the ones they wanted.

Only the strongest, most ruthless fighters would do.

The Elder who chose Tyberius and I—a dark-haired male of ancient and unearthly appetites—turned us that night. He meant to kill my brother and my friends, but I offered him the only thing I had of any value—my sworn oath, written in blood, offering him my undying loyalty.

An unbreakable covenant, forged in ancient magic and a monster's blood, binding me until the day I died.

His blood was still wet on my palm when he tore out my throat.

When the four of us woke—disoriented and starving—we found the rest of the army still on their knees. We tore through them like they were nothing. And when we’d glutted ourselves, when we’d killed our brothers, our cousins, our friends, Tyrell yanked us to our feet and marched us to the next town.

Then the next .

And the next.

I stormed through the castle, spinning the ancient set of iron keys on my fingers. Vampires these days believed they were vicious, monstrous creatures, but they were soft. Weak. They wouldn’t have lasted a day, back then.

Not a single fucking day.

Tyrell reveled in his newfound power, used his bloodlust—and his immortal army—to carve an even deeper path of destruction in the name of the empire, extending his ruthlessness beyond human limitations.

But Tyberius and I… along with Noctarian and Romulus…we were cursed.

We returned to Rome as conquering heroes, where the four of us waited, biding our time for the perfect moment to kill the man who’d made us monsters. Eventually, Noc and Rom grew impatient, anxious to get out of the stinking city, and left.

Ty and I stayed in Rome, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Killing him, we’d reasoned, would right all the wrongs.

By rights, that fucking monster should have hung for his crimes.

Instead, he was honored by Marcus Aurelius himself, in a ceremony granting him a title, lands, his own personal guard and a pretty silver dagger forged by the most famous craftsmen of our time.

He destroyed our lives and became a fucking hero.

The next day, Tyberius and I abandoned the plague-ridden city. Years later, after my brother and I parted ways, I watched Rome teeter on the precipice and I realized I could become the force that pushed the once-great empire over the edge .

I had the time, I had the patience, and I sure as fuck had the rage.

I founded my own kingdom in Bavaria, organized the barbarians, upgraded their weapons and tactics, pushed their most ruthless, morally bankrupt chieftain onto the throne, then began a campaign to defeat the Roman armies. Fueled by my knowledge and their brawn, fifty years later, a Germanic chieftain was crowned emperor.

Rome was mine, and victory had never tasted sweeter.

Of course, after destroying Rome, undermining a kingdom proved far easier. And admittedly, somewhat anticlimactic. But destroying everything Laurent Tyrell had built…

This I was enjoying.

I gripped the keys tighter, cursing these memories that came and haunted me at the most inopportune times.

After the fall of Rome, it would be fifteen hundred years before I found Tyrell again.

My marrow went cold at the memory.

That smug bastard corrupted everything around him, ruined everything he touched. Including my brother, who’d become his trophy, of a sort. I hardly recognized Tyberius when I next saw him, a dissolute, craven laggard more interested in blood slaves than seeing his own brother again.

But Tyrell…he was the same. Domonic Graves sat on the throne, a puppet to his master, and this clan, which could have been one of the greatest in the world, was nothing but a pit of sin and debauchery.

For months, I tried to convince my brother to come away with me.

I pleaded, offered him every possible bribe, but nothing was enough. He liked who he’d become. One of the monsters , he used to tell me. This is what they made us, Mal. Just give in and enjoy the ride. He’d been high on opium at the time, the bodies of dead slaves strewn around him, his face haggard and gaunt.

That was the night I launched my failed assassination attempt that ended up getting my brother killed. Because what better way to punish me for my sins than force me to live with the knowledge I’d caused my own brother’s death. Tyrell’s final piece of revenge, taking away the one person in this world I had left.

Blake Marten swung the blade.

But I was the one who’d put the axe in his hand.

I begged for Ty’s life before the High Council. They called my brother a traitor. And so, with nothing more than Tyrell’s word and a nod from Dominic Graves, Tyberius’s life was extinguished, his body left for the crows outside these walls as a warning.

I’d been betrayed by the council, by Tyrell, by Domonic Graves.

They had all paid.

And it still wasn’t enough .

I forced myself to breathe as Blake disappeared around the corner. I doubted he remembered my brother. He certainly was ignorant of the machinations that led up to Domonic giving him the order. But this was war, and innocent people died.

This clan would burn.

Then I would rebuild it from the ashes, like I’d built so many kingdoms before. No one would be spared from my wrath—not Riordan, not the royal houses, not the witches, not the sycophants who had spent centuries licking Tyrell’s boots.

Evangeline’s blood would give me the strength to finally deal with the secret hidden in the depths of this castle .

The albatross around my neck.

My Achilles heel, so to speak.

I had spent centuries carefully planning, quietly gathering allies, hiding my true face. Now I was close—closer than ever to my final objective. And the justice was too poetic. Riordan, clinging to the tattered remains of his legacy, when all it would take was a nudge and everything would fall apart.

Collum, poised to attack like a rabid dog.

Silas and the Silverwoods ready to continue their unholy partnership.

Valaine…off doing whatever craven things he got up to in his spare time. Twice I should have killed that fucker, and if I didn’t need him alive for a few more days, I would have finished him last night for daring to touch Evangeline.

Seeing his hands on her body …I sucked in a shuddering breath and spun the keys faster around my finger, letting their familiar weight and all they represented ground me.

When these fuckers were dead and I finally held all the power, I would make this clan the powerhouse Rome once was. Every fucking vampire in the world would bow before me, or die.

Because that was all that was left.

My power and their obedience.