Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
JADEON
I awoke with a start.
“It is time,” Lord Artimas said as he loomed over me.
Rubbing my eyes still bleary from sleep, I squinted at his ominous silhouette. My head throbbed, a painful reminder of the previous evening when Alex and I had consumed an entire bottle of rum. I was scared Father would get a whiff of my breath and poke me with his stick again.
“Wear something dark,” he instructed. “Meet me downstairs in the study.”
He withdrew.
“Yes!” I leapt out of bed and promptly fell over.
I checked the door to make sure he had gone.
I dressed quickly, eager to discover what all the fuss was about.
My boredom was slipping away. For some reason, my trouser leg seemed to elude me, and I hopped round like a crazy person.
My head throbbed and I cursed my brother for making me drink so much rum. Or was it the other way around?
Fully aware that if I was not to anger Lord Artimas, it would be wise to be within his presence immediately, I descended the stairs two at a time.
On entering my father’s study, five of his acquaintances addressed me. This looked serious. I was taken aback by the assembled entourage. Immediately, I recognized the garments of the assembled men, all clothed similarly to my father in black attire with masks around their necks.
Catherine’s father, Father Edward De Mercy, was present, dressed in his priest’s garb.
He nodded in greeting. I still blamed him for Catherine’s decision, but per etiquette, politely nodded and acknowledged two of the other men as Lord Hawke and Lord Theron, whom my parents entertained frequently.
Still, it was difficult to subdue my enthusiasm which was hardly in keeping with the mood.
The men provided me with a dark robe and handed over a mask.
I hoped they did not notice that my hands shook.
They all fussed about me, checking the mask’s fit.
This accomplished, they pulled my mask around my neck, like theirs, revealing my confused expression.
I wondered what Alex would make of all this.
“Listen carefully,” my father began, “for on this night and those following, you will be initiated into the oldest order. I am the Master of the Stones, and you will one day take my place. This honor, bestowed upon you by your ancestors, carries with it much secrecy. It will be up to you to continue with the occupation that has gone on for thousands of years. You will maintain its concealment at all times. That even means keeping this secret from your brother. Alex can never know of who or what you are. Do you understand?”
I nodded. What the hell was this?
Lord Artimas continued. “We are an Order that has existed since the year 2900 before the birth of Christ our Lord. Our ancestors were chosen to maintain peace and safety within the land from those who would fulfill the will of the evildoers.
“We continue these duties today. Witches, demons, walkers of the night who suck the very life from humans by drinking their blood, these and many other such beings exist. And it is our duty, as it will be your duty from this day forward, to destroy any and all such creatures that exist.
“There are many of us. That you will learn. We send out men to find and study the evil ones, the Devil’s own.
And upon finding them we decide their fate and the manner in which they should die.
The responsibility is far-reaching, and I do not expect you to comprehend it immediately.
But before this night is out and before you reach your twenty-sixth year, you will become our loyal apprentice in all things. Are you ready?”
Everything that I had witnessed over the years finally fell into place—my father’s distant disposition, his constant immersion in matters of state such as these, his indifference to his sons.
I remembered the young woman who was dragged from the room near the dungeons.
The woman with those unusual turquoise eyes.
Recalling her fear . . .
Was that not an isolated incident?
Irrevocably, I was being drawn into something scary and I wanted to resist the pull, but it was too late. I checked the serious expressions of the other men and wondered if I could decline the offer.
“Well, speak, boy,” my father said.
“Lord Artimas, I am honored, but I—”
“You have much to learn. Soon, you will gather the true magnitude of who and what you will become, and the responsibility therein.”
Lord Artimas, escorted by the five men, led the way down into the castle vaults and I followed behind.
All this time I had been eager to be in on the old boys’ club, and now all I wanted to do was withdraw.
I wondered how much of my time would be taken up with wearing this outfit and hanging out with the oldies.
We came to a stop before the room that I had been banned from.
The men secured their masks, and I followed suit.
The mask stifled my breathing, and I couldn’t wait to take it off.
As though reading my mind, Lord Hawke instructed me, “Until we say otherwise. Understand?”
I nodded.
On taking a large key from his pocket, my father turned the lock and stepped inside, then gestured for me to follow. My eyes adjusted to the dim candlelit room.
I flinched, quickly composing myself so as not to annoy my father.
A woman lay splayed out upon the sizable oak table at the room’s center, tied down with shackled limbs to the floor. She was a Cornish beauty, her locks a cascade of burnished copper that caught the light like flame on water.
My flashback to the beautiful woman of sixteen years ago came with waves of dizziness that unsettled me. I walked around to see her more clearly, noticing she too was as beautiful as the first. Brass chains secured her.
Her eyes fixed on me. “Jadeon, please help me,” she begged.
My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth.
“Silence!” my father said. “See how they manipulate, Jadeon. They use their evil to read your thoughts. Guard your mind.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She calls herself Athena. Do not let the appearance of the body of a young woman fool you. She is unimaginably old.”
My once-innocent life dissolved as I viewed the seemingly harmless lass. I considered rescuing her, but when she spat at my father and revealed her fangs, I changed my mind, glancing at her shackles and hoping they would hold.
Her cries faded with my lightheadedness. I resisted gravity’s pull toward the stone floor and leaned against the wall to support myself.
“Let’s begin,” my father said.
I was wary. There was more to it.
Father’s men guided me to stand at the feet of the redhead. A sickening churn in my stomach told me I was playing some part in it.
Father Edward De Mercy stood in the corner of the room, holding holy water in a golden cup, occasionally splashing it upon the terrified victim.
The other men positioned themselves on either side of the table—two men on one side, two on the other—as my father, lord of ceremony, took his place at the head of the table.
Could it get any worse? My question was soon answered.
The men chanted an eerie noise—at first a muffled echo that increased to a distinctive vibrant echo. My father picked up a baroque knife from the altar behind him. One of his assistants held the silver chalice below the woman’s outstretched hand. She squealed as my father cut into her wrist.
Rum rose in my throat.
Her blood trickled into the cup.
To my amazement, the wound healed immediately, only to be incised again.
“We drain their blood,” my father said, “not so that they will die. It is impossible to kill them this way. But it weakens them.” He cut into her wrist again. “See how the wound heals quickly. We must not allow her to regain her strength. Come, son, take this knife and do as I have done.”
Beads of perspiration spotted my forehead. I stared at my father. His displeasure forced me to approach her. Shaking, I took the knife and studied it, hoping this would cause his impatience to grab it off me.
He glared at me with an insistence that was impossible to ignore.
I offered the knife back. “Perhaps next time?”
My father’s gaze bored into mine. “Now,” he ordered.
Her cold arm pulled away from my grasp. I glared down at her veins. “Is this really necessary?”
Her shrill screams pierced the room.
“Gag her!” my father shouted.
“What has she done?” I asked.
“Murder.”
“Still,” I reasoned.
Again he glared.
“I can’t,” I said.
“You are my son.” He glanced at the others.
His words ran deep. Biting my lip, I made a light incision with a shaking hand, mesmerized with the speed that it healed.
“Deeper,” Father instructed.
I cringed.
“I know the first time is the worst.” He pointed to her wrist.
Clenching my jaw, I dug the tip into her flesh.
More screams.
I felt monstrous. It was as if I was a stranger to myself—this wasn’t me. This cruelty, this unnecessary harm.
Blood poured into the ornate cup. Father emptied the overflowing chalice into a large rococo bowl set on the altar behind us.
She struggled. Her wound healed with preternatural speed. This was an abomination.
“Take me with you,” the girl begged. She read my mind again.
“Silence,” my father said.
Please, she begged, sending her thoughts through mine this time, ensuring others would not hear. Your father keeps you prisoner within these castle walls. Your brother Alex, too. Let me go, release me, and I will help you escape.
I shuddered. “She is in my head. I hear her!”
“So is the way of the Devil,” my father said.
As the ceremony progressed, I observed the woman weakening. She fell in and out of consciousness only to regain some strength and plead. I lingered by the door until Lord Hawke grabbed me and directed me to watch from a better vantage point.
I quietly cursed him.
Her chains were removed and they rebound her hands and feet with coarse rope. Forcefully, they pulled her upright and placed a blindfold. Once it was securely fastened, they dragged her out of the room.
Thank God it was over.
Having had enough of the barbaric, I reluctantly followed them toward the corridor that led to the dungeons, wondering where we headed.
My father led us to the furthest of a long line of cells, and upon entering pulled one of the stones that jutted out innocently from the wall, camouflaged by its surrounding stones. With such a movement, the wall shook and a stone doorway swung open.
We continued along a passageway that led beneath the castle. This was where these men had disappeared all those years ago when I had followed them round the corner only to lose them. We trekked on for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, a glimmer of light hinted that our exit neared.
Perhaps I could slip away.
My father was a fit man, and now I realized why.
The men roughly hauled their staggering prisoner out into the night and through the locked doorway, completely hidden by trees, where I recognized the shadowy woods of mainland Marazion.
Cautiously, with our prisoner in tow, we descended the steep slope toward the three horse-drawn carriages stationed below.
My father reassured me that when we arrived at our destination, I would have a greater understanding of our purpose.
It did little to comfort me.
Everything that I believed I was dissolved into my past, and I emerged altered forever.