Chapter 13 Remnant
~Remnant~
The savagery belonged to her.
I could see it clear as day and as deep as the darkest night.
Barely checked ferocity, the brutality.
It was Rhyza, without a shadow of a doubt.
The ruthlessness, however?
Ah, that was all me.
Calculated, cold. Necessary.
Our son fought with both.
My arms folded across my chest, I stood at the rear of our underground training facility observing him in combat with several of my agents.
I’d picked them for specific reasons.
Vampires his age.
Vampires centuries older.
Two sorcerers who were loyal to The Shadowed.
An eclectic mix in which for me to properly gauge his abilities.
I’d watched him destroy the youngest with merely two blows between them and they now were sprawled unconscious on the concrete floor.
Whenever a hit landed against him, he didn’t just take it on the chin, as a facet of combat, he saw it as a personal slight.
Hmm.
He’d also disposed of a five-hundred-year-old vampire using shrewd tactics, but while also sustaining a great deal of damage.
Now I steeled myself as I took in him trading blows with my seven-hundred-year-old vampire, Eduardo, his long brown hair flipping around wildly as he used bursts of vampire speed to move in and around Lazriel to subvert his expectations and make it near-impossible for him to land a hit.
Or so he thought, until he burst forward, but Lazriel executed a wolf leap, sailing over his head, landing barely stably, then spinning around and wrenching at Eduardo’s throat. Lazriel then used the hold to flip him down onto his back with a brutal thud.
He straddled him—again, like a wolf.
That was where he shone—when he had an opponent pinned.
I saw him register a blow before my vampire executed it, snatching his wrist, snapping it, then doing the same with his neck.
Hmm.
He jumped back to his feet, just as my magic-wielders moved in.
Two blasts of streaming magic—one from either side of him—knocked him to his knees.
But it was merely a moment before he reared back and used the momentum to spring to his feet. He remained upright, withstanding the onslaught of two of my strongest magic-wielders.
His endurance was impressive.
One so young should not be capable of that—neither wolf nor vampire.
Merely twenty-one years of age.
It took centuries to be able to endure a magical assault of this caliber.
Proof that his Ancient Vampire blood was able to be harnessed.
He was just clearly caught on using it merely for durability during combat.
And not consistently either, given what I knew of his brutal battle with Victor where he’d barely employed it.
Outside of combat, I was already aware that Lazriel drew on his Ancient Vampire blood when it came to his sensory perception, something Victor had also noted.
“I have to commend you, Lazriel, evading the protection of The Shadowed is not an easy thing to accomplish. It takes tremendous skill. Yet, you have succeeded.”
He’d applauded him snidely, then gone on to condemn him as outmatched, slow, arrogant, stupid, impetuous.
In fact, Lazriel was none of those things.
Victor, of course, knew that.
He didn’t misread people. Not when he intended to make them his playthings.
The truth was, my son unnerved him.
My agents had reported the proof to me through something Victor had said during his first encounter with Lazriel.
“I do love demonstrating to perceived apex predators that they’re really the prey.”
He had recognized my boy’s potential to become a true apex predator.
It had taken him longer than I’d expected, actually. Perhaps he was missing a step, due to aligning himself with the despicable madness that was Puritas.
No matter, his true motive was more than just Lazriel’s connection to me—it was fear.
Of what my boy could become.
What he would become now that he was here with me.
I snapped my fingers.
My magic-wielders pulled their power back and stepped away, leaving Lazriel panting, bloodied, and looking mighty confused.
With his fighting experience at Graverun, he was used to ending a fight definitively.
What he’d learned there was both good and bad.
He had experience from three years of engaging in brutal battles with no rules enforced, facing off with opponents of varying experience levels, different species, a wealth of abilities.
However, it also had him entrenched in a particular way of fighting that did not draw enough on his vampiric abilities, especially the Ancient aspect.
“Leave us,” I spoke to the room full of two dozen spectators lining the walls.
They moved instantly at my word, dragging out the unconscious as they went.
The last one through closed the steel door behind them.
“I had that,” Lazriel told me, slamming his fist into his hand, his eyes wild, his hair matted with sweat.
“Perhaps.”
Those wild eyes narrowed. “No perhaps about it. I would’ve trounced them.”
When I didn’t speak to it, he pushed, “Let me guess, you think it’s arrogance, right?”
Guess. The question. All too unsure.
Not good enough for my son.
“You are not arrogant. That’s a misinterpretation by those who cannot delve beneath the surface level of assessing someone.”
He started. “What? What exactly does that mean?”
“You are too easily rattled.”
“Excuse me?”
“You crave approval too deeply, which puts you on the defensive when you should lean into your strength, hold your ground. I would understand if this reaction was specific to me, as your estranged father. But the issue is that it is not. Not by a long shot, in fact.”
I burst toward him as he moved to open his mouth and bite back at me.
I grasped his jaw, leaning over him, his wide eyes meeting mine.
“You are a warrior. In heart. In spirit. And in strength. Do not let your thirst for approval and acceptance undercut that. It’s a rarity and not something that can be taught.
It’s something to be proud of, to revel in.
” I released him, but didn’t step back. “You are my son. Remember that.”
He just stared at me, stunned into silence.
There was a first time for everything.
I knew well that he was highly vocal.
“Show me.”
He frowned. “Show you what?”
“You are hurt.”
“I had two experienced magic-wielders streaming their potent power at me, and right after I’d battled four vampires—two of them near-Ancients. It’s par for the course.”
“I see. You hold true to the walk-it-off mentality.”
“Of course. I’m no weakling. I can handle damage. You have to in a fight, especially in a back-to-back situation like I’m used to anyway.”
He went to step back from me, but I held up my hand, drawing his attention, making him still. “Listen.”
“What are you—”
“Listen to your blood, what your cells and your body are telling you.”
He hesitated, but then narrowed his eyes in deep focus.
In moments, his gaze snapped back to mine.
“You hear it, yes? Your body is slowing down because you are hurt.”
“It’s just a little.”
“A little to an Ancient like Victor, like myself, is an extraordinary advantage.”
He did step back then.
But he stopped after just a couple of steps and then lifted his black tank to show me the damage he’d sustained.
Deep slashes from vampire talons, the mark of internal bleeding also.
I already knew he had a cracked rib from hearing it happen during the fight.
The assault from the magic-wielders had opened up said wounds when they’d previously begun to heal.
The entire expanse of his torso was covered in char marks and deep bruising and redness.
The blood splatter across his face was mostly from his opponents, aside from the slash down his left cheek which was slowly healing. I could sense a scrape down his right calf too bleeding beneath his jeans.
“Your healing factor is compromised. Are you aware of this? Or do you believe it’s normal?”
“Victor mentioned it… ridiculed it, actually. I thought because of my age it was just how it was.”
“You don’t spend time around vampires so that makes a great deal of sense. You are also not just a regular vampire. Ancient blood runs in your veins. The fact that your durability is so great and, honestly, off the charts, already proves that.”
I reached out and grasped his arm, noting that he didn’t tense, not like the first time I’d reached out to touch him with affection.
He let it land and gazed up at me.
“As for what that filth said to you, bear in mind that every word out of his mouth was calculated and spoken with twisted intent, to elicit specific reactions in you. He does not see you, Lazriel. Don’t grant him power that doesn’t belong to him.”
“I don’t want to grant that motherfucker anything,” he snarled.
I chuckled. “Very nice.”
“Wow,” he said, eyes shooting wide.
“What is it?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“I didn’t think you could actually laugh.”
“Well, I have to admit, it is a rarity.”
A knock at the door had him blinking and tensing once again.
“Come in, Arthur.”
“You can tell who it is through that reinforced steel door and the concrete walls?”
“Yes. So can you. Unfortunately, you are using your wolf to subdue the vampire, because adrenaline and the thrill of the fight has you on edge and fearful that the vampire will lose control if you do not.”
“How do you—”
“It’s how you are able to feed from an Immortal without turning rabid, when you have only just recently experienced the intoxicating sensations associated with such potent blood.
” I gestured at his wounds, even though he had since dropped his shirt back down to cover them.
“It’s also a large part of the reason why your healing factor is compromised. ”
The door opened then and Arthur walked in, his many golden chains, rings, and earrings, glinting harshly in the fluorescent light, a stark contrast to the all-black ensemble I had all my agents wear.
His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that extended halfway down his back.
He held two long-stemmed glasses filled to the brim with blood.