Chapter Twenty #2
“They’ll return, yes,” he says with a quiet laugh as he nods. “Along with winged fae, and dragons, and pixies, and countless other creatures once lost.”
My laughter dies as he holds my stare.
He’s serious.
Light take me.
Long extinct creatures returned?
All because we ascend some throne?
“Even if your stories carry some truth, the pantheon would never allow for powers greater than theirs,” I say, fighting to keep my bitterness from seeping into my tone. “They’re selfish.”
Netharis’ influence was far wider than I could ever have known.
It’s been months since his death, and I expect threads of his corruption and deceit to continue to unearth themselves for decades, if not centuries still.
Ryc robs me of the warmth of his touch against my cheek. “And we’re not?” He asks, moving across the room to retrieve my boots. “Are we not doing what we can to safeguard ourselves?”
My stare grows incredulous.
“We’re not gods,” I laugh, snagging my bracers from the thinning pile upon the couch.
“Perhaps not,” he says, shortening the distance between us. “The gods wouldn’t accidentally start a demonic House,” he teases.
My eyes snap to his as he laughs. “No, they’d do it intentionally,” I retort, bristling as he continues to grin. “I’ve already explained how it’s not possible—”
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” he says and I snatch my boots from his grasp. “Eve would absolutely be your first pledge or initiate.”
“First General,” I correct and his damned grin broadens.
“See.” He arches a playful brow. “You’ll have to forgive my unfamiliarity with the hierarchy of a demonic House.”
My bewildered laughter fills the room.
“Consider dedicating an hour everyday to lessons. You’ll need to clear time in your schedule,” I taunt in return, swinging around the couch to claim a seat. Setting the boots beside me, I reach for my other bracer. “I’ll torture you with demonic celebrations as Lilith has tortured me.”
Ryc laughs, perching himself against the mantle of the fireplace. He folds his arms over his chest. “You mean like the Reaping, Catamenia, and the Abyssal?”
My fingers freeze on the bracer’s buckle and I lift my chin to meet his amused stare.
“You know about demonic celebrations?”
“I had three centuries to learn as much as I could about my demon mate,” he muses with a curling smirk as he lowers himself to a knee before me. “This will be the first year I don’t watch for you during the Reaping.”
“You…” I give a breathy laugh. “Watched for me?”
Stared into the veil searching for me?
For three hundred years?
“Every year for the entire week,” he replies as he takes my bracer, ensuring it sits where it should. “In numerous cities across Eldoterra.”
“Why?”
Why would he waste the time?
“The same reason I’m not letting you walk into a nest of vampires without guard,” he answers as he fastens the buckle.
?????????????
The letter served as a warning.
One I foolishly didn’t realize.
The overwhelming scent of blood assaults my nose the second we ferry into Ashemere. It smothers me—fills my nose, floods my lungs, sinks into my stomach and leaves me nauseated. Even the artificial icy-sweet scent of vampires doesn’t stand against it.
Resisting the urge to raise my cowl and hide my nose away, I clench my jaw. Ryc and I trail behind the fae vampire messenger Sabien sent to Ollora, and Eve and Cyran keep close behind us.
Our pace is more leisurely than I’d like and our female guide peers over her shoulder more often than she should. Each time she does, her eyes linger upon Ryc as if she’s waiting for him to say something—as if she expects him to recognize her.
If he does, he doesn’t show it.
And I admit, there’s something familiar in the shape of her face and chestnut curls. Something I can’t quite name, can’t quite place. One thing is for certain, if she doesn’t quell her curiosity, I’ll start my own collection of eyes.
Unfortunately, hers are not the only staring pair.
Slews of vampires sit in the shadows, their glowing red eyes following our every step. They line the walls, cowering over the degrading meal running beneath them.
Rivulets carved or perhaps worn into the stone floor flow with crimson through the hall. Many drink, their faces lowered or from cupped hands, all dignity aside—anything to stave off withering for another night.
By the time the seeping crimson reaches these creatures in the halls, it’s long-cold. And cold, congealing blood is the furthest thing from a vampire’s preferred meal. It’s designed to be a slight. To remind these creatures they’re indebted to have their new “life.”
Cold blood is all they’ll have until they prove themselves worthy of the privilege of feasting in the same room as Indui’s Blessed.
Just as I used to struggle with understanding why mortals would sign away their souls to Netharis, I fail to understand how such a “life” in the dark could ever be appealing.
“Sabien will be receiving you during breakfast,” our vampire guide says as we pass beneath another golden brazier overhead. The dim glow casts her face in racing shadows. “He’s interested in hearing from Netharis’ spawn.”
I remain silent.
If she’s trying to rile me, she’s going to have to try harder. She’s not the first to refer to me as Netharis’ spawn, nor will she be the last.
“Address her as spawn again,” Ryc warns, his voice a low rumble.
A tiny smirk curls my lips.
Apparently, though, it’s enough to rile Ryc.
A coy grin appears on her face. “You always were the territorial kind of fae.” She swings her face over her other shoulder, to me. “When you inevitably grow bored as all demons do, send him my way.”
“Consult Sabien to discuss what happens when you lust after what’s mine,” I counter calmly in Malbolge.
Her brow quirks and she turns her face forward.
“I believe I recognize her,” Ryc’s voice ripples through my mind. “But her scent, her eyes… they’re different. I’m not sure I’m right.”
“Tell your friend to keep her eyes forward,” I reply and he chuckles.
“She is no friend,” Ryc says, placing a hand over mine as it rests in the nook of his arm. “Especially now. If she’s who I think… it… could complicate things.”
As if things aren’t complicated enough.
Ahead, dark doors swing open, revealing more darkness beyond and unleashing a bitter wind. As the cold strikes against my skin, the sickeningly sweet scent slams into me, robbing me of any reprieve from the scent of blood.
Like the hall, the room we walk into is a poorly lit space, the same barely glowing braziers hanging above. But unlike the hall, as unnerving a scene as that had been, this room is worse.
Narrow, wooden tables travel what might be the length of the room—it’s hard to tell as they vanish into the darkness. Upon them lie dozens of bodies—a feast of humans and fae alike—all nude, motionless, and with at least one pair of fangs sunk into each limb.
They feed in utter silence.
No scuffling, no cries, no resistance.
Few eyes turn in our direction as we approach the center of the room.
“Welcome to Ashemere,” an amused, deep voice curls through the darkness.
A voice I recognize.
Sabien.
But hearing his voice with these fae ears—it’s different. It’s richer, warmer, more welcoming. It’s the kind of voice capable of creeping into the dreams of his prey.
Our guide stops, lowering herself to a knee and dips her chin. Ryc and I stop a short distance behind her, exchanging a wary glance.
“Presenting Sovereign King of Erus, Alaryc Witherhorn and Vestaris Moonshadow.” She rises.
“Find Morgana,” he says, remaining hidden. “She waits in the cistern, my pet.”
“As you wish, my love,” she replies.
Love?
In a quick stream of coppery light—a healer’s light—the vampire vanishes. Lifting my chin, I wait.
“This realm suits you, Ves,” Sabien says. “You’re a beauty like your mother.”
Ever the vain creature.
“I’m not here to discuss my resemblance to my mother,” I reply and his laugh echoes through the room.
A tall figure steps into the light, his hands clasped behind his back. Eyes the color of the night sky, waist-length deep crimson hair, and sable-toned skin… he flashes a fanged smile.
Sabien is as beautiful as I remember.
And he’ll remain beautiful—as long as he feeds.
His white robes swirl about his ankles as he strides forth. His steps are silent, but the swirling of silk and the heavy gold chain clasped about his waist herald his approach.
It hurts to look at him. Memories of centuries past resurface, all painful things—hellish celebrations, Kassil, Netharis, the court, the dancing, the blood, the gluttony, the screaming, the tears…
Ryc’s hand tightens over mine, drawing me out of myself.
“No,” he says, his smile lingering as he studies me. “Of course not. Forgive me.” He stops, well outside striking distance. “I’m assuming none in your party are gifts.”
I scoff. “No.”
“Pity.” His eyes roam over Ryc.
Ignoring him I ask, “Are you attending the Dark Hunt?”
Sabien takes a full step closer, his head tilting. “The tradition stands. Do you miss the hells already?” he asks, laughing. “If you wish to attend, I’m certain we can arrive at an arrangement.”
It’s an offer to turn me.
An offer I couldn’t be less interested in.
A wicked and wild gleam sparks in his eyes. “Think of the chaos you’d sow. You’d upturn the hells again.”
It would start a war in the hells.
“Take your time,” Sabien says in response to my silence, smiling. “Consider it.”
“I’d much rather you take a message to Ylara,” I reply.
His smile vanishes, turning into a tight line. “I see your audacity remains the same despite your changed appearance. What do you need from her?”
The urge to lie strikes and it strikes hard.
And I listen.
“Can a demon not miss her sister?”
Sabien scoffs.
“Would you not inquire after Aymer or Alavana were you separated for months?” I ask.
The vampire king remains silent as he studies me. “You come here, without gifts, and request I become your messenger?” He steps closer, still outside reach. “So be it, Vestaris. Let us barter as your kind then. What are you offering in exchange for this service?”
“Barter?” I repeat, brows high. “Does my silence on your involvement with Kassil earn me nothing?”
“We both know that was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Sabien says slowly. “And with him dead, it doesn’t much matter anymore does it?”
Shit.
I can’t barter. Not only do I have nothing to offer, but I promised Ryc.
“This isn’t the hells, Ves. You’ve little to offer me here,” he says with a shake of his head. “But through your consort—”
“No,” my voice is swift, firm, and final.
Sabien laughs a wickedly delighted sound. “I do not seek him. I seek his influence.”
I glance up at Ryc as he stares at the vampire, silent.
“I’m fae. I rule a prosperous country,” Sabien says, swinging his hands to his sides. “I want my children to thrive and unlike my mate and siblings, I believe a peaceful existence is possible.”
I’m not following what Sabien is saying.
“The Vugura Kingdom lacks a seat upon the High Council,” Sabien says and I fight to keep my surprise from showing. “It’s about time I was given one.”
“Absolutely not,” Ryc says with little hesitation.
Sabien… a king on the council?
A ridiculous notion—predators invited to sit at the table with their prey.
“You’re overreaching, Sabien,” I add with heavy contempt.
“Am I?” he laughs. “Do not give me that look, Ves. I see the gift of silver upon your hand. Once you ascend you’ll have the power to do as you wish with the council. What’s one more seat?”
“We’re done here,” I send the thought to Ryc.
It’s clear I’m not going to get what I need from the vampire.
Not without going against what I assured Ryc.
Sabien has made it too easy to keep my promise today. He’ll never hear my thanks on the matter.
“Agreed.” Ryc’s reply is swift.
“Thank you for your time, we’ll find another way to reach Ylara,” Ryc says, using the same austere tone I’ve heard him use with the council.
Sabien sighs. “You’re making a mistake. We have the opportunity to sunset this era and dawn the next.” He takes a couple steps backward. “The offer stands until tomorrow at dawn.”
With a few more steps he sinks into the darkness.
“Rose, see our guests out.”
Our vampire guide emerges from the darkness, a pretty smile upon her face. Chestnut brown hair, heart-shaped face…
Rose…
“I tried to warn him the council will never have him,” she says as she approaches. “I spent centuries listening to that lot and I’m thankful to be away from it.”
Rose Grayflame.
I stare at the fae, wide-eyed as she stops before me, gesturing with an open palm toward the doors behind Ryc and me.
How did I miss it before?
The resemblance to Tanila is clear, especially in this light.
“It’s been near a century since I’ve lost her and I have yet to put her to rest.” Rowen’s words weren’t metaphorical, they were literal.
Rowen isn’t in mourning.
He’s been hunting his turned mate.
Fate isn’t simply cruel.
She’s merciless.