Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
REMUS
I’m constantly aware of Lauren’s presence as we walk down the ramp and into enemy territory—every shift of her weight, every quickening of her breath, every spike in her heartbeat.
My nose takes in every scent with predatory focus. My brothers and their women and children—familiar, comforting. The summer air carrying pine and wildflowers from the forest beyond this mountain fortress. The ancient stone and timber of the compound itself.
And of course, the group of cold, deathless creatures standing in front of us like an honor guard, faces grave with anything but warm greeting.
I search the face of each of them methodically. Granted, the one I met so long ago was covered in blood—drenched in it, really—but I have an excellent scent memory. Better than excellent. And I don’t think he’s here among these twenty identical faces.
These all smell wrong in the same way—like preserved corpses, cold meat that somehow still moves.
“Hi, I’m Phoenix,” says the woman who rode in on the motorcycle, stepping up boldly and holding out a hand to Abaddon. A welcoming smile lights her face as if she’s not standing in front of a host of vampires. As if this is all perfectly normal.
I frown and tilt my head, studying her more carefully.
This one’s scent is quite different. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before, and I’ve traveled everywhere there is to travel on this small globe over thousands of years. She certainly doesn’t smell undead—no cold preservation, no absence of life.
She smells like... magic? But different magic. Warmer. Living.
My eyes flick to Layden, whose gaze bounces nervously back and forth between her and the men behind her. We wasted valuable time on the plane. We should have been grilling little brother more thoroughly about the dynamics of the tenuous situation we were walking into.
What the hell has he gotten us into?
Abaddon introduces himself and his little family—Hannah and Raven—then gestures to the rest of us. We all nod curtly when he says our names. Professional. Controlled.
The man Layden first approached steps forward—Phoenix’s Grandpa Vlad, apparently.
“Layden never told us of his extensive family when he last visited us,” Vlad says, his voice smooth and cultured. Eastern European accent, though softened by centuries.
The man is tall by human standards—six feet at least, maybe six-two.
He has perfectly smooth skin, pale as moonlight, not a single line or blemish.
Dark hair slicked back from a widow’s peak.
Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. He watches everyone with his dark eyes—so dark they’re nearly black, pupils barely distinguishable from iris.
Ancient eyes. I recognize that look. I’ve seen it in mirrors.
“I would think one such as you would understand the need to be... circumspect in matters of family,” Abaddon responds carefully.
Vlad’s eyebrow lifts ever so slightly—the first real expression I’ve seen from any of them. “One such as me. And what might one such as you be called?”
“I’ve already told you my name is Abaddon.”
“I was not referring to your name.”
I know my brother well enough to sense the danger crackling beneath his smile when he responds, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean—” Vlad bends forward at the waist, inhaling deeply through his nose, “—that I can smell the power emanating off of you.” His nostrils flare. “But you are not witches, nor dybbuks, nor any other wielder of magic I’ve ever encountered before. And I have encountered many in my long years.”
“Yet my brother spent time amongst you,” Abaddon counters.
“We thought he was an anomaly. A singular oddity.” Vlad’s eyes narrow slightly. “It seems we were mistaken.”
Abaddon shrugs, the gesture casual despite the tension. “Everyone comes from somewhere.”
“You dance around my question.”
“I was informed my family and I might have sanctuary here.” Abaddon’s voice and stance become harder—shoulders back, chin up. Authority radiating from him despite the glamour. “Is that the truth, or should we leave now?”
The air goes taut as a bowstring. Several of the identical vampire sons shift slightly—the first movement I’ve seen from them.
“Of course we’ll provide sanctuary,” Phoenix says, butting into the conversation with surprising boldness.
Her grandfather shoots her a look that would shrivel the soul of most beings—cold and sharp as an icicle through the eye.
Phoenix ignores it completely. Fascinating.
Even more fascinating, her grandfather allows the interruption. He seems like the beheading-first-ask-questions-later type rather than the benevolent kind. Yet he lets her speak.
“We appreciate powerful allies in these tumultuous times,” Phoenix says smoothly, diplomat-like. “And we don’t have to tell all of our secrets on the first day. We barely know each other.”
She shoots her grandfather a significant look—pointed, challenging.
He glares back silently for so long I don’t think he’ll ever respond.
Finally, though, he turns back toward us, putting on a smile that’s clearly disingenuous. Too practiced. Too perfect. “I am Vlad Dracul. Welcome to our home. We are glad to offer sanctuary to your family.”
Vlad Dracul. Of course. I suppress a grin. The actual Vlad Dracul. Or perhaps a descendant? Hard to tell with vampires and their naming conventions.
He makes a quick gesture with one pale hand, and a man from behind him scurries forward obediently. Instantly.
“I’m happy to take them—” Phoenix starts, gesturing her arm toward the imposing building behind her.
“You will stay here,” Vlad says, voice gruff but clearly authoritative. Brooking no argument.
I don’t miss the twitch of Phoenix’s mouth at being ordered around—irritation flickering across her features before she schools them back to neutrality. But she nods, tilting her face toward the ground in submission.
There’s some sort of fascinating power play happening between these two. A struggle for control, for authority. Usually, it would be the sort of thing that would fascinate me. Delight me, even. I love watching hierarchies crumble and power shift.
Right now, though, I only frown seeing it, because I don’t like my consort and I being caught in the middle of a vampire family power struggle.
Too many variables. Too much we don’t know.
My family is usually raucous and loud no matter where we are—arguments and laughter and constant motion. But we’re all quiet and on guard as we follow Vlad’s ‘son’ out of the courtyard.
The courtyard itself is impressive—ancient cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet.
High stone walls on all sides, easily thirty feet tall, topped with what looks like modern razor wire incongruously mixed with medieval battlements.
The fortress is a blend of old and new—medieval architecture updated with modern security.
We pass through a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands and enter a corridor.
The transition from outside to inside is stark—the temperature drops immediately, making Lauren shiver against me.
The air smells of old stone and older blood.
Not fresh. Decades old, maybe centuries. Soaked into the very walls.
The corridor is dim, lit by electric sconces designed to look like torches. Stone walls on either side, worn smooth in some places, rough-hewn in others. The floor is flagstone, our footsteps echoing despite our attempts at stealth.
Finally, we enter the main fortress proper—wood and stone construction, timber beams across high ceilings, tapestries hanging on walls. Medieval but maintained. Clean. Organized.
Are all the other twenty or so men in the courtyard really Vlad’s sons? I can tell they’re vampires by scent—all that cold, preserved wrongness. But we have so little information on these creatures. We don’t even know how they’re created. Born? Made? Some combination?
“We will send someone to the local town for food,” says the man leading us—another reminder, as if we needed it, that our hosts don’t eat.
Which makes me curious about how they meet the needs of their peculiar dietary requirements. Do they hunt? Keep blood bags? Have willing donors? The possibilities are numerous and mostly unpleasant.
“Here is our guest wing,” the man says once we reach an inner corridor branching off from the main hall.
He gestures ahead down a hallway lined with heavy wooden doors.
“You have your pick of five guest suites. Father suggests you rest for the evening. He and Phoenix will meet you, Layden, to discuss security concerns in an hour.”
“And me,” Abaddon adds firmly. “I am the patriarch of this family.”
The man looks like he wants to argue—his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing—but finally nods with obvious reluctance. “And you, then. But the rest of you—” he looks us all over briefly, dismissively, “—can rest until we meet again in the morning to discuss the details of your stay.”
Like we’re children being sent to bed.
Kharon nods, already moving. He puts a large, glamoured arm protectively around Ksenia’s shoulders and heads toward the closest room, obviously only wanting to get his wife and newborn daughter somewhere safe to rest.
It’s understandable. The woman just gave birth in a helicopter while fleeing through a dragon dimension. She looks ready to collapse.
I don’t know much about human females and their biological processes, but I understand that birthing another being is generally quite an ordeal. Especially under those circumstances.
Normally, I would be feeling that familiar flutter inside—excitement at all the possibilities of this place. The potential for mischief, for chaos, for finding out exactly how these vampires tick and what makes them scream.
But I find myself also experiencing some strangely mundane protective feelings instead.
The need to keep Lauren safe overwhelms everything else. Even my curiosity. Even my usual hunger for excitement.
I decide to be annoyed about that another time.
At the moment, all I want is to put a thick door between Lauren and anything with fangs.
I put an arm around her shoulder possessively and start to direct her toward the door beside Kharon’s. At the last moment, I detour one room further down the hall.
Babies cry. A lot, apparently. And I don’t want us to be disturbed tonight.
I have plans for tonight that require privacy.
And quiet.
And Lauren’s complete, undivided attention.