Chapter 25 | Sephania
Sephania
We return to Manor Marquin bruised and bloodied. The acolytes bandage our wounds, an eerie silence filling the grand ballroom of the mansion as it turns into a makeshift infirmary.
As members of Lord Ashfen’s ragtag nobleblood rebels trickle in throughout the rest of the night, we wait until an hour before dawn to judge the final count.
Out of eighteen members, nine of us return. There’s me, Skartovius, Vallan, Garroway, Indokkus—who strikes a strong, paler resemblance to his brother Vanison—as well as Demilord Tymon Aldion, Helget and one of her mates, and one other. Helg’s second mate didn’t make it back.
“I’ll find two more to replace him,” Helget tells me in the ballroom, wiping blood from her chin where she must have bitten into an assassin, like me.
My old friend’s eyes are anything but friendly these days.
Her previously soft, round features have morphed into hard muscle and scowls during her short years as a vampiress.
Helget doesn’t show grief at the loss of one of her mates.
There’s only fierce determination etched on her face as her other mate embraces her from behind.
“This one made me,” she says, patting the tall man’s arm draped over her front. “Ferar was an exciting third wheel, yes, sweet? But he can be replaced.”
The stern nobleblood nods into her shoulder, his voice raspy as he says, “Yes, my bleak mistress.”
There’s more pain in his eyes than Helget’s. I have a feeling this nobleblood, named Demilord Godial, is responsible for turning Ferar as well as Helget. The loss of his bloodthrall must pain him.
Godial and Ferar acquired Helg during a shadowgala I attended with Lukain and Rirth, what seems like a lifetime ago. They had her disrobed, pulled between them—an instant obsession—in a matter of minutes. I remember being horrified at the time I witnessed it.
Then again, the obsession seemed mutual.
Helget always wanted to leave the Firehold and was more than willing to seduce a nobleblood to ascend out of the depths of Nuhav to Olhav.
I wonder if she ever planned on getting turned by a vampire, too.
Most human broodstock remain human, pump out dhampir babies, and are then cast aside. Not Helget.
I find it interesting Godial refers to her as “bleak mistress,” rather than Helget calling him “master.” It’s a strange instance that’s antithetical to everything I’ve learned—the bloodthrall being at the whims of his or her master.
Instead, Helget appears to be the dominant force in the threesome . . . or former threesome.
My old friend has turned into a bloodthirsty killer. But she’s a vampire. Being a bloodthirsty killer is in the job description.
So what’s my excuse?
I give Helget a sad smile and pat her on the arm, murmuring, “I am sorry for your loss, Helg.” She doesn’t seem to hear me, already tilting her head to lock lips with the demilord over her shoulder.
At another table in the ballroom, Indokkus Shirin sits across two chairs, legs stretched over one. His left leg is shattered, a sharp bone sticking out of his shin in a grotesque display. The nobleblood frowns at the wound as two white-robed mutes work on correcting the fracture and bandaging him.
“Met your brother,” I say as I saunter up. “Seems like a nice fellow.”
Indokkus barks a laugh. His hair is cut short, where Vanison’s is long and lustrous across his shoulders, yet their faces betray the same cunning and intellect.
“Don’t try to fool a bloodsucker, Lady Lock.
Vani is as despicable and corrupt as humans come.
I’m impressed he hasn’t taken the plunge to vampirism yet, given his love of a boastful life. ”
He’s not wrong. I likened Vanison Shirin to a snake, and it seems his older brother, who looks twenty years younger, has the same opinion of him.
“You think he doesn’t care to live a boastful life forever then?” I ask, sitting on the chair next to him and drawing my legs up. “For him to stay human all these years?”
“He’ll come around.” The vampire shoots me a wicked smirk, so similar to his silversmith brother’s. “Too ambitious not to.”
It’s odd how nonchalant these monsters can speak about others. How little they feel. As if Vanison turning isn’t the most intense, jarring experience the man might ever go through.
“How is the little viper these days?” he asks.
I shrug, enclosing my arms around my lifted knees. “Still fighting for the cause, it seems.”
“Doing our dirty work.”
“Just so, Lord Shirin.”
He laughs again, glancing over my shoulder. “Go away, Lady Lock, before your knights stare swords into my heart and kill me.”
I follow his gaze over my shoulder to see Skar, Vall, and Garro studying me from across the ballroom, near the dais where Skar usually sits.
With one more smile for Indokkus, I rise to my feet, heading toward my mates.
“What are you doing, love? Tempting the rest of my court?” Skartovius asks as I approach.
I roll my eyes. “You once told me I should ingratiate myself with your court. That they needed to know me. So I’m getting to know them.”
His eyes narrow, scanning the room. “Yes, well . . . not like that.”
A crooked smile stretches across my face. “You jealous, jealous man.”
He wraps an arm around my waist and tugs me into his angular body so swiftly I yelp, drawing many eyes of the survivors in the room. “Mine,” he growls in my ear.
Goosebumps skitter across my arms. My face warms. Nestling my lips against the cut of his jawline, I pepper a kiss on him and murmur, “You don’t know how happy it makes me to know the four of us made it out alive. Even you, my jealous lord.”
“Especially me, you mean,” he answers, taking his typical smug approach.
Vallan sidles up beside us. At first, based on the blank expression on his face, I think he wants a kiss also. Then he says, “My bloodsight failed me, silverblood.”
I look down at the gauze wrapped tight around my thigh. I lost a bit of blood from the flying dagger that knifed me. Garroway tells me I’m lucky the damned thing wasn’t poisoned.
Garro wasn’t so lucky. “Wasted the poison on me, with his arrow.” Looking more pale than usual, he currently rests on a chair nearby, breathing deeply and layered in sweat as his half-blood body attempts to fight off the poison.
Whereas I would be fighting for my life, he appears to be going through a mediocre inconvenience.
“Your bloodsight didn’t fail you, my big brute,” I tell Vallan. “Everything happened so fast. What could you have done diff—”
“I could have shielded you better. Protected you. Moved faster.” Vallan scoffs in disgust at himself, bowing his head in shame. “I shall spend the next weeks training all hours of the night.”
Skar shakes his head. “No time for that, brother.”
Vallan lifts his head, his bushy brow furrowed.
“We’ve started a war,” Skar continues. “Every section of our land, every property we oversee, will need to be on high alert in the coming days. That includes the North Mines.”
“We don’t own the mines, brother,” Vall points out. “They are owned by Overliege Liolen and protected by Overlord Barnabac.”
“Yes. Your master.” Skar’s eyes turn to slits, his voice lowering to a hiss. “We must learn how Barnabac Craxon and his soldiers arrived so quickly in Trithea Plaza. I fear there are more traitors in our midst. You would do well to learn who it might be, Vallan.”
“You’re giving the big ogre mixed messages, Master,” a voice croaks.
It’s Garroway, who has his eyes closed as he sweats out the assassin’s tincture.
“Vallan can’t protect the North Mines and tail Overlord Barnabac at the same time.
He can’t be in two places at once. Only you seem able to achieve such a feat. ”
Skartovius angles his head, and I share his confusion at Garro’s statement. The nobleblood wanders over to his thrall, standing over him with his hands on his hips. “Are you resentful of my shadowwalking, graybird?”
Garro snorts with an ugly laugh. I wince, and Skar draws back, looking like he’s been struck by the mere sound.
In the past, Garroway would never think to answer his master in such a dismissive tone.
My Loreblood is changing all of us, but it’s ruining the connection between Garro and Skar worst of all.
I don’t think it’s your shadowwalking he’s resentful of, Skartovius. I think it’s the loss of companionship with you.
I don’t have the heart to say my thoughts out loud. I only wish to delve deeper into the connection between my two mates—dhampir and nobleblood alike—to see if there’s any way to patch together their bond. Or has my Loreblood forever fractured it, never to be the same again?
I wish to use my Loreblood across Olhav to sever the master-slave bond between countless vampires and their bloodthralls. At the same time, I also have to wonder if there’s any way to reverse the effect once it begins.
To know, I need to learn more.
A decision comes to me then. It’s time. It’s been time.
Skartovius leaves the ballroom with chilling words before the night is through. He walks onto the dais and speaks in a booming voice, drawing the eyes and ears of every vampire in attendance.
“We have struck at our enemies and caused mass confusion this evening between the Five Ministries. We can expect Overlord Barnabac and Overlady Alacine to convene, to try and find out who attacked them. They will likely attempt to reshape their alliance, since they’ve killed each other’s people tonight, however unwittingly.
This is our opportunity to dig the knife in deeper—to further separate them.
“We cannot rest for long, my court. The knives of rebellion have flashed in the moonlight, and the Five Ministries will be coming for us. I have no doubt Alacine Mortis knows of our involvement tonight, how we’ve duped her.
She will want revenge . . . and she will make mistakes in seeking it. That is when we will strike next.”