Chapter 48 | Sephania
Sephania
After three long, agonizing evenings pass, I’m starting to pull my hair out staying put at Manor Marquin. I’ve promised Skartovius I would give things time to play out, though he’s said little about what that means.
I simply have to trust Lord Ashfen. And I do. I know he has my best interests at heart. He also knows I would never forgive him if the worst happened to my mother and there was a way we could have stopped it.
The fact is, I feel helpless. Alacine Mortis may have lost the battle at the Firehold, but she is winning the war.
While we were so focused on defending the Grimsons, she managed to swoop in and steal my mother from me, as well as any knowledge she might have about the silverblood concoction Jinneth and Old Endolf were working on.
Slaying the old alchemist was catastrophic because it will set us back from our mission.
The trust I’m affording Skar cannot be extended to Vallan, unfortunately. Not after what Garroway told us about following Vall into the Military Ward with one of his charmed animals.
Vall being a possible turncoat is the other half of my anxiety, even though it shouldn’t be. I keep coming back to his foreboding words early on: “You can’t trust a monster born in the dark.”
He was telling me, directly, what he was.
That he couldn’t be trusted. So why have all his actions following that statement been antithetical to that warning?
I wonder. When I’ve needed a protector, he has been there—usually first before anyone because of his innate bloodsight that notifies him when I’m in danger.
He’s fought for me on numerous occasions, saved me from assassins, always with a stark grunt to follow. Vallan has never wished for accolades, never taken pride in what he does. Yet he has pushed Skar’s mission as much as anyone, doing the nobleblood’s tasks without question, killing when needed.
Vallan even went to the sinister Faith Ward without telling anyone other than Garroway, and killed countless people of his own kind because he thought it would make me happy and was the right thing to do for Sister Cyprilis.
His actions to not belie the mark of a traitor.
And yet, I can’t look past it. The fact remains Garroway followed him into the Military Ward, home of our enemy, Barnabac Craxon.
I ask Skar and Garro to expand on that on the second night alone with them in Manor Marquin. We’re walking through the halls, headed for the lower level jail cells, doing the usual inspection we’ve started doing ever since Lukain came here and attacked Skar.
“Are we sure Vallan would betray us to this Barnabac character?” I ask. “He’s hardly ever spoken of him to me.”
“By design, little temptress,” Skar tells me.
His face has been lined with grave concern and anger ever since Garroway dropped the news three nights ago.
“Barnabac Craxon is Vallan’s master. The man responsible for turning him.
Bloodthralls are in the unique position of being at the mercy of their masters. ”
“I can attest to that,” Garroway mutters from my other side, giving Skar a sidelong scowl.
“When Barnabac calls, if the pressure is great enough, Vallan is forced to follow. The fact our big brute disappeared so soon after our joint defenses of the Firehold and Manor Marquin tells me he received a coercive call from his master.”
“Well, if it’s coercive . . . then he can’t be blamed for it, no?” There’s hope in my voice.
Lord Ashfen frowns. “He can’t be blamed for arriving at Castle Galfeld, no.
He can be blamed for what he says at Castle Galfeld, and what actions he takes on Overlord Barnabac’s behalf.
If we didn’t place blame where it is deserved, love, we would never get anything done around here.
Nothing would ever be settled, because a vampire could always fall back on the bloodbond to his or her master. ”
Skartovius is nothing if not a knowledgeable teacher on the subjects of vampirism—the only bloodsucker I’ve ever seen with stacks of books in his study.
I have to take him at his word. What he’s saying makes sense, anyway: We can’t minimize Vallan’s fall into betrayal simply because his master tells him to do something against us.
Whatever Vall does is still Vall’s fault.
The entire thing depresses me. Jinneth missing, Vallan missing, both with heartbreaking impacts on our group if the situations turn for the worst.
As we reach the lower level of the manor, stomping down the hall toward the cells, Garroway instinctively slashes his arm in front of us, barring our movement.
Our eyes whip over to find him with faraway eyes and a creased brow.
“What is it, cub?” Skar asks.
“Trouble on the outskirts, Master. Just outside toward the eastern woods.”
My heart thumps and jumps to the hollow of my throat. All has been quiet in the three evenings since we returned from our missions, painfully waiting for something to happen. Now it seems to be.
“Good trouble or bad trouble?” I quip.
Skar scoffs. “In what world is trouble ever good—”
“Vallan is good trouble, you ask me,” I snipe back.
That shuts Skar up. He tilts his head at Garro, waiting.
Over recent nights, Garroway has become attuned to his power enough to bounce between critters in the fields and woods—seeing out from their eyes—without needing to be locked in a full-on trance.
If he wants to order the beasts to do something, such as move their bodies or spy on a particular soul, he has to concentrate fully.
But this passive level of scouting from the eyes of creatures close to our borders has been incredibly useful from a tactical, defensive point of view.
“It’s a figure,” he explains. “Shadowed by the trees, though I can’t tell who—no. It’s two people. One of them slumping along.”
Curious and heart-hammered, I share a confused glance with Skartovius.
“Then let us greet our troublesome guests,” Skar says, and draws his steel.
I’ve noticed Skartovius hasn’t had his silver saber hanging from his hip over the past few days. I haven’t had time to think much about what that might mean.
We stalk through the tree line, melding into the woods like specters, swords drawn. Our eyes dance in every direction, scanning for danger. We’re not going to be caught unawares after everything that’s happened.
Skar takes the point. Garro and I fan out to the left and right, stepping over gnarled roots and overturned trunks.
A scuttling sound, followed oddly by a groan, comes in from my right. “Over here,” I hiss to my mates, who hurry over under the moonless canopies. I raise my swords. “Show yourself!”
“Little grimmer,” comes an achingly familiar voice.
Only one man calls me that.
“Lukain?” I say hopefully, and then steel my mind against the hope. “Oh fuck no. Where are you, bastard?”
He appears from behind a tree. Tall, broad-shouldered, and intimidating. I can’t see much from how dark it is, though there doesn’t seem to be a weapon in his hands.
That doesn’t stop me from growling at him, ready to charge—
When a second, rounder figure limps into my sight behind him, holding onto his shoulder for stability.
A gasp rips through me. “Mother?!”
“H-Hello, dear,” Jinneth murmurs in a pained tone.
Once Skar and Garro are at my side, I rush over, sheathing my swords. Lukain steps back to let my mother pass into my arms. I embrace her fully, not caring about her ripe stench or the tattered state of her clothing.
I only notice the stump of her left wrist when she tightens her hold against me, thumping against my back.
“By all that’s True, what the fuck happened to you?!” I wail, pulling her back. Jinneth’s face is bruised, yellow and purple and sickly. She’s been tortured, and her fucking hand is missing.
Despite all the evident pain stretching across her features, the resilient woman gives me a small smile. “Your half-blood menace saved me, daughter. Turns out they’re not all as evil as I thought they were.”
Everyone’s eyes lift to Lukain behind my mother. Garroway and Skartovius are still armed, I notice.
“Alacine Mortis is dead,” he announces. “I killed my mother.”
The rest of the evening goes in a flurry. Our long nights of anxious rest and disquiet drown away, replaced by blurring action.
Skartovius sends a vampire scout to the Chained Sisters, to report Jinneth has been safely returned to us—mostly intact—and Iron Sister Keffa can expect her shortly. We give my mother the most comfortable room in the manor to rest, and she’s out like the dead before I can ask anything of her.
Garroway keeps our borders under close watch with his woodland friends, bouncing between birds in the sky and rodents on the ground. Alacine’s death has changed everything, and rather than filling us with relief, it only seems like a dark omen as to what might happen next.
We force Lukain to tell us what he did to Alacine. I’m perplexed and astounded at his story of redemption, betraying his vile mother, though Skartovius seems less surprised. Clearly he knows something I don’t, and I’m tired of waiting to learn what it is.
“How did you do it?” I ask Lukain.
We’re sitting in the conference room on the first level, where most of these important meetings take place.
Lukain draws his sword with a rasp, setting it flat on the table, and I notice the silver gleam of it’s thin blade. “Wasn’t difficult with this. I’ve alerted the Five Ministries of Alacine’s death, as a fair warning.”
“That was stupid of you,” Skar grumbles. “Takes away our advantage.”
“Our advantage, brother?”
Their gazes lock across the table—Skar’s gold-tinged orbs meeting with Lukain’s lavender-hued eyes, both pairs tinged with a red tone belying their vampiric nature.
They look ready to leap across the table and tackle each other.
I stand, pounding a fist on the table, drawing everyone’s attention. “Just what in the Truehearts and Damned is going on here?!” My voice is shrill. “He has your sword,” I say to Skar, “and you just called your sworn nemesis ‘brother,’” I chide Lukain.
“It’s not my sword,” Skartovius answers softly, nodding his sharp chin across the table to Lukain. “It’s your father’s. Keep it.”
Lukain nods curtly, reaches into his tunic, and pulls out a small leather-bound tome. “This explains it better than I could, little grimmer.”
He slides the thin tome across the table at me.
I begin reading the pages, written in elegant script I notice as Skar’s handwriting. By the end of it—all one hundred fifty years of detailed explanation—my mouth hangs open, jaw to the floor.
“You truly are . . . brothers?” I croak, gazing up.
“Half-brothers,” Skar mutters.
“Believe me, I didn’t know either,” Lukain says with a sigh. “Alacine was keeping the truth from me my entire life, to paint Skartovius in a bad light. It appears she indoctrinated me to her beliefs in a way I’ve only recently come to reconcile. She couldn’t deny any of the claims in that journal.”
Skar sits back, smug. “I’m surprised she didn’t try.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I finally saw through her web. The writing was on the wall just as much as it was on the page.”
Deathly silence falls over the room. It’s the first time I’ve seen Skar and Lukain vaguely cordial in . . . well, ever.
When my former master’s eyes land on me, there’s a plea in them, and it almost brings me to tears. Losing Vallan is unbelievably awful and heartbreaking . . . but the only thing that might make it better is gaining Lukain.
“The only thing that matters,” Lukain says in a soft, choked voice, “Is if you can forgive me, little grimmer.”
I want nothing more than to do exactly that—to reach across this table, take his hands in mine, and accept him. To press my lips against his like we did so many years ago, now that the confusion and anger and betrayals have started to wash away.
But it’s not just me. I’m not alone in this world, this endeavor, and I have to take Garroway’s and Skartovius’ opinions on the matter into account.
So I look sidelong at my mates, impossibly hopeful, a painful fist squeezing my heart.
Skar says, “Whatever is good for my little temptress is good for me. It is her decision alone.”
Garro adds, “Lady Lock is my mistress, Lord Ashfen is my master. Whatever Sephania decides, I will defend with my life.”
The fist at my heart tightens unbearably. I could die from relief. My gaze turns to Lukain, dewy and blurry from the building tears. “What is it y-you want, Lukain?”
He stands, taking up my entire vision, my entire world.
“I want you, Sephania. I want to join your cause and fight by your side, because I am tired of living under the lies of the Five Ministries. I am tired of not being able to accept who I am, a dhampir bastard born to a vampiress nobleblood and her Silverknight enemy. I am a contradiction, and you are the key to making me whole.”
My chin trembles. I open my mouth to say yes, unequivocally. So much fucking yes—
But the door of the conference room bursts open before I can answer. That happens a fucking lot here.
Vallan Stellos, in all his gigantic glory and menace, strides into the room.
Skar and Garro are on their feet in a blink, weapons out. Lukain sweeps his silver sword off the table and holds it firm, sliding over the table to stand in front of me in a protective stance.
My trembling chin stops. My dewy eyes dry. I bare my teeth at the huge vampire, looking so handsome and dangerous as he towers over us, standing twenty feet away, having the gall to show himself in this manor after what we’ve learned about him.
Vallan says, “Quite the hostile greeting, comrades.”
I hiss, “We know where you’ve been, Vallan. What you’ve done.”
His head tilts curiously. He lets out a customary grunt, and it pains me how much I’ve missed those wordless sounds in the few days he’s been absent.
“Then I’m sure you’re overjoyed to know you haven’t toppled just one of the Five Ministries in a single evening. You’ve toppled two. Barnabac Craxon is dead.”