Chapter 12 Jonathan Varenthrall
Jonathan Varenthrall
Ican barely contain my anger as I exit my ungrateful daughter’s room. Pausing to adjust my suit, my gaze catches—once again—on the lock of her door.
Someone was in my home last night. In the short hour I was gone, someone unlocked the girl’s door.
I make myself breathe deep. Think.
It could have been the staff, but I very much doubt it. It’s taken a few years, but I’ve finally assembled a staff competent enough to leave unsupervised. There are no second chances in this house, and they know it. One mistake, and they’re gone.
Permanently.
No one has dared to cross me since the maid who snuck Idril food when she was on rations. When she disappeared, I ensured the entire staff knew she was no longer with us. That was the point.
The current staff have lasted years without incident. Mara especially. She’s been with me since I Bonded Annalise—Idril’s mother—and brought her here as my wife and Mate. She allows Idril her little rebellions, and I let the girl believe she has an ally.
Just like her mother.
It kept them both compliant. Predictable.
By the time I arrive at my study and close the door behind me, I have myself under control.
Yet, as I cross the room toward the bookshelf, something makes me hesitate. My eyes narrow and flick around the room. Something… isn’t right.
I pivot toward the door. The door—
It wasn’t locked.
I always lock it. The only items of importance in the entire house, outside of the girl, are in this room. It isn’t something I simply forget.
I scan the room with a critical eye. Everything looks untouched, exactly as I left it. The desk is organized, the books are aligned, and the window is shut.
I can sense it, though, like a disturbance in the air. Someone was in here. It wasn’t the staff. They know better. They’re only allowed to clean in here when I’m present to watch them.
Whoever was in here was careful. Precise.
Someone with training. Which means—
Someone is targeting me, specifically.
I stalk to my desk to the phone, nearly tearing the receiver off the cord. I call down to the main guard station and wait for one of the men to answer. It rings for half a second before someone picks up.
“Why,” I ask, keeping my voice deadly calm, “was I not informed of a break-in last night?”
“S-sir?” The guard on the other end of the line stutters. His voice cracks. He sounds scared, and that pisses me off even more.
“Are you deaf?” I slam a hand down on my polished maple wood desk, ignoring the pain that radiates up my forearm. “Someone was in my house last night. In my study. In my daughter’s room. Explain to me why I have security if someone can walk right past you?”
“I’ve been here since 5 a.m., sir. I promise, no one has made it past my patrols, and the night shift didn’t report—”
“I want the names of every man who was working last night between 9 p.m. and 10:30 p.m.”
“Absolutely, Sir. I’ll send someone up—”
“No. You’ll come yourself.” I check my watch. “I expect you to be here in ten minutes.” I hang up without waiting for a reply. He’ll comply, or he’ll join the maid.
Another slow scan of my study doesn’t reveal anything obviously missing, but that doesn’t mean anything. The only thing in here worth protecting is hidden. And if they found it—
I stalk to my bookcase and pull out the leather-bound edition of Beyond Good and Evil, relishing the snick of the hidden compartment sliding open at my waist.
This is my real prize.
This freezer holds everything. All the answers to a prophecy I spent years pursuing, armed with nothing more than hatred, a thirst for revenge, and my father’s dying words.
And there it is. Encased in the sterile cold of my cryo freezer is the culmination of decades of work.
Ten perfectly labeled vials of shimmering, deep red blood.
I count.
Count again.
“No.” I lean over, hands gripping the shelving. “No, no, no.”
I blink, but the image staring back at me doesn’t shift. The empty slot at the very back looks like a gaping wound. A black hole that might as well be a blinking neon sign advertising the crime committed.
I don’t count again. The black hole that held a vial just yesterday doesn’t lie. There were ten. Now there are nine. One is missing.
Someone came into my home, unlocked my useless daughter’s room, broke into my study, and stole my legacy.
My chest tightens. I close my eyes, struggling to get through the panic that threatens to choke me.
I run my hands through my perfectly styled hair and tug on the strands, like that will somehow wake me from this nightmare.
It doesn’t, but the pain helps to center me.
Think. Think.
The one saving grace is that whoever stole that blood has no idea what they have. Hell, they probably wouldn’t believe the truth if someone told them.
Sure, they can run tests, but it won’t matter. None of the results will make any sense. The thought calms me. I have time. Plenty of time. But I need to recover that vial before Alexander hears that it’s missing.
If he finds out…
My fists clench.
No. I am the one in charge here. Not him.
I turn back to the vault and stare at the remaining nine vials, taking comfort in the sight of them.
All my work. All my sacrifices.
The memories flood through me, unbidden and unwelcome.
Annalise.
I shudder. Fates, I can’t even think of her name without it leaving a sour taste in my mouth.
It should have been easy. After all, she was a beautiful woman.
There had been no physical hardship to Bond her.
She resented me, of course. Resented the life I “stole” from her.
But that first year wasn’t terrible. Just knowing I had her—that I found the key to my power—was enough to keep a smile on my face despite her clear dislike.
And when she got pregnant, I was overjoyed. It happened so quickly, too. I could scarcely believe it was all going so well.
And it was going well. That is, until she gave birth and presented me with a useless girl instead of the Alpha son I desired.
I took one look at the squalling infant with her mother’s bright blue eyes and nearly cast them both aside.
For years after Idril was born, I was sure the prophecy I spent decades researching was bullshit. Nothing more than a dying man’s ravings. Worthless words that sent me on an equally worthless goose chase.
It was either that or Annalise somehow tricked me. It was possible I took the wrong girl. Maybe I made a mistake and tracked the wrong lineage. And if that were the case, it meant I’d tied myself to an Omega with meaningless DNA.
I was wrong, though.
Her DNA wasn’t meaningless. I was just looking at it all wrong. The power was there all along; it simply manifested in a different way than I expected.
The child doesn’t even really matter. Not nearly as much as her mother. The entire time I spent stressing about an heir with powerful blood, I had ignored the blood that was already in my possession.
Once I reassessed, it was embarrassingly easy to keep Annalise compliant. Simply threaten her daughter, and she’d fold like a house of cards.
The memory sours further, and I sneer.
Omegas are always so weak. Soft. Useless. My mother was the same. As soon as my father died, she simply faded away.
Both of my parents worked for House Noctis, a mid-level vampire stronghold known for its macabre tradition of burying their enemies in pits of blood and ash before setting them on fire.
They’re one of the oldest vampire houses still standing, obsessed with prophecy and bloodlines. They keep meticulous records of deaths, births, rivalries, and debts of all Supernaturals, and their records are still regarded as the most accurate in the world.
Ironically enough, it was a rivalry of their own that caused the deaths of two vampires and nearly twenty of their staff, including my father.
He was an accountant, and thanks to his diligent reporting, was allowed access to the first levels of their personal libraries.
Books were his first love, before my mother.
Grandfather once told me that he would abide a scholarly son, but not one who would Bond a piece of trash Omega with terrible breeding. That’s why he cut my father off, forcing my parents to find work with the Leeches.
Dad spent hours in that library, and as a young boy, I often accompanied him. I remember playing Matchbox cars under a large polished oak table, while he muttered to himself and flipped through ancient scrolls and dusty tomes.
He died in that library—shot once through the chest and once through the abdomen. It wasn’t until he lay dying in a pool of his own blood that I finally discovered what he researched so diligently all those years.
He saved his last words for me, and only me. A piece of prophecy he found in the Noctis’ vaults.
“Find the daughter of flames…”
At only eight years old, I didn’t care what he was saying at the time. The only thing I could concentrate on was stopping the blood pulsing from his wounds. I remember the feel of warm, sticky blood on my small child’s hands as I worked unsuccessfully to stop the bleeding.
I was frantic. Terrified. I certainly wasn’t listening to his ramblings. At least, not until he grabbed me with a strength belying a dying man.
“Listen to me, Jonathan!”
His command was little more than breathless words hissed between blood-covered teeth.
“Listen!”
He tangled shaking fingers in my shirt and pulled me closer until I was the only one who could hear his gurgled words. I distinctly remember the wet warmth of his blood flying from his mouth and covering my cheek.
Like little droplets of water misting out of a hose.
“The daughter of flames. Find her. Four became one, and she is the key. Find her, Jonathan. If she ends up in the wrong hands…”
He said no more, but the implication was clear. His eyes glazed over, his fingers—still tangled tightly in the fabric of my shirt—went limp. No matter how hard I begged, he never said another word.
Shuddering, I shake away the morbid memory like a bad dream.
That was over fifty years ago, and I did what he asked of me. I found the damned girl, and I made sure she wound up in the correct hands—mine.
Thirty years. That’s how long it took to track her down.
A search that led me through restricted libraries, I had to bribe my way into. Through dirty catacombs and ancient legends about Houses that had crumbled to dust centuries ago. I tracked genealogies and lineages and spent months translating dead languages in dusty vaults beneath vampire estates.
I even bartered with a wolf for a bedtime story his grandmother once told him as a pup. I pieced it all together, fragment by fragment, and a little over two decades ago, I did it. I found her.
The Daughter of Flames was mine.
Even better, the transfer process is finally, after years of failure, showing results. It’s almost perfect.
And once it is, everything will change.
The thought makes me smile. No more snide remarks from vampires about “lesser bloodlines.” No more being dismissed as merely a human. No more being treated as disposable.
My grandfather was right about one thing. Ambition is the only legacy that matters. And mine will outlive them all.
The first step is my deal with Alexander. Profitable for me in many ways. He funds my research, we work to gather the Omegas together, and he’s allowed to take the defects off my hands.
I scowl. Of course, Alexander seems to think he’s the one in charge, conveniently forgetting that without me, there would be no transfer. No power to be had at all. His dream of an army to take down the vampires and force them into submission will be nothing more than smoke in the wind without me.
He wants the girl.
He overestimates her importance. She is nothing more than a backup, but he doesn’t need to know that. Let him believe what he wants. He can go on pretending he will eventually stand at the head of my army with my daughter in chains for as long as he likes.
Once I take what I need from Idril, no one will find her body. Problem solved. To be fair, his suggestion to sell her first heat does have a bit of merit. I can admit that much.
I turn back to the vault, jaw tight.
Nine vials. Not ten. Nine.
I can handle this myself, of course. Track down the thief and recover the vial with no one the wiser. Alexander certainly doesn’t need to know.
And yet…
If I’m wrong, and whoever took it figures out what they have…
I’ll need backup. And Alexander has resources I don’t.
I pull out my cell and open the contacts list. I don’t have to scroll far before finding the name I’m looking for.
Alexander.
This isn’t a weakness, I remind myself. This is a strategy.
My finger hovers over the name for only a moment before I force myself to make the call. He picks up almost immediately.
“Yes?”
His voice is clipped. It slithers into my ear like a parasite, taking up residence in my brain. I fucking hate it.
I flex my fist by my side, unable to tear my eyes away from the cryo-vault where all my hopes and dreams stand. All lined up in neat little rows.
All but one.
Turning my attention back to the call, I open my mouth to explain. I mean to reassure him that I have the situation under control before divulging specifics. I mean to downplay it. I mean to assert my dominance.
To my horror, what comes out instead is, “We have a problem.”