Chapter 1 | Sephania #2
The end comes after a dismally long time running through the labyrinthine tunnels.
We turn a corner, and abruptly there’s a mingling of glowing yellow with the torchlight, brightening Skar’s front.
His long mane of auburn hair glistens purple in the sudden sight of the moon just beyond the next bend.
We push out of the exit, coming to a rocky landing high above the grasslands below. We’re somewhere in the middle of the Olhavian Peaks, on a landing. A cold wind whips my hair about, ruffling cloaks. This strip of land has narrow passages leading every way down the cliffs.
My heart, which has been lodged in the base of my neck and pulsing irregularly during the entire descent through darkness, finally plunges to its rightful place behind my ribs. I let out a deep breath and hear the wheezing sounds of my mates doing the same.
Lukain says the first words in an hour, spouting, “Saved by the Damned, but the smells in there.”
“Like a dying rat fucked a bog full of rotting bones,” Garro adds, his hand at levity earning only wrinkled nostrils and lurching faces from the rest of us.
At the end of the landing, close to one of the trails, sits a tent. Behind us, the rock face is sheer and high, disappearing into the clouds as the mountain rises. Somewhere back there, Aramastun Wyvox is trampling through the estate Skartovius has called home for generations.
A face emerges from the tent, ashen and twisted with concern. The dhampir walks out, hands on his hip near his sword. Tense. Then he notices Skartovius and loosens, letting out a soft breath.
I can imagine this guardsman has not seen another living soul—or undead soul, in this case—in many, many nights. Did Skar really see fit to place a guard here, in the middle of nowhere, at all times?
“My lord?” the half-vampire croaks, his voice froggy from disuse.
Skartovius strides up to him. “Carres,” he says. With his tall narrow frame and his cloak-covered shoulders, Skar towers over this shorter grayskin. “You’ve kept steeds prepared?”
“Aye, sire, just down the way. Is something amiss?”
Skar looks gravely into the concerned half-blood’s face. Carres looks like a middle-youth, his young face hardly seeing more than sixteen winters. Of course, dhampir age slower than humans, so for all I know he’s thrice my age.
“Manor Marquin has fallen into the hands of the Night Judge,” Skar announces.
Carres’ shoulders sink. “Why, my lord? Is Overlord Aramastun not an ally?”
“I thought so. Or I hoped so. Alas, he’s proven himself as craven and bloodthirsty as the rest.”
“We always knew Aramastun was the worst of the Five Ministers, brother,” Vallan quips.
Skar looks over his shoulder. I notice how Skar’s eyes veer from Vallan and narrow on Lukain, his true sibling, as Vallan says the word “brother.”
This might get confusing. For decades, Vallan and Skar have called each other “brother.” Now Skar’s true and honest half-brother appears and they hate each other.
I worry a fracture is building in my group right before my eyes.
It’s infuriating, because I have no control over it.
It’s only made worse by the fact I currently hate Skartovius, too, so I don’t particularly give a damn if it all crumbles beneath my feet.
This whole cliffside could break apart under me and I would thank the avalanche for swallowing me whole.
“Three Ministers now,” Garroway points out, raising a finger.
“Three?” Carres asks, confounded. His red gaze veers between the various heads in front of him.
Skar flaps a hand in front of his face. “Worry yourself not, Carres. The story is too long in telling. You are positive the horses are saddled and ready?”
Carres nods encouragingly. “Saw to it myself, sire, just last night. Got a new batch after the old ones died out over winter. Three hale, gaited mares.” He looks over our group. “Might have to double up.”
Skar makes a small grunt. “Quiet good. I thank you for your service, Carres.” He touches the smaller vampire’s cheek, almost tenderly, if such a thing were possible for Skartovius Ashfen.
Carres stares into Skar’s gold-flecked crimson gaze and begins to smile—
Before a thwup of ripping cloth and torn flesh breaks the moment. Carres’ face twists in confusion. He looks down at Skar’s arm, which is plunged fully into his chest, spilling a waterfall of blood down his front and splattering onto the ground.
Carres’ mouth opens, trembling—
As Skartovius squeezes his heart and explodes the bloody muscle in Carres’ chest cavity. Skar’s arm comes away dripping and slick. He leans forward, holding Carres’ cheek in a loving embrace, and bites into the dying half-blood’s neck.
Carres gurgles, spews bubbles of blood down his chin, and collapses to his knees.
“Come,” Skar growls to the rest of us, holding the dhampir watchman upright as he bleeds out. “Drink. Our journey may be long.”
Color drains from my face and flees off the mountainside as the vampires descend on Carres’ corpse. My jaw drops, practically unhinging at the abrupt, intense violence.
Vallan mutters, “You didn’t need to do it in front of our silverblood, brother,” before he turns away and rips into Carres’ flesh and veins with his fangs. Carres’ body twitches, feet kicking between Vallan’s legs as he sups.
To solidify the moment in my nightmares, the whole event is illuminated by the sparkling moon above us, piercing through a cloudless night and washing us in a soft glow that juxtaposes awfully with the feral feasting taking place here.
My heart takes residence in my throat once more.
“Where else would I have done it?” Skar sullenly asks Vallan, frowning at him before turning to me. I can hardly look at the demon. When he adds, “Besides, she knows what I am,” his eyes lock on mine.
I won’t look away. Won’t let the fear rattling my bones win. “Yes, I do know what you are, Skartovius Ashfen. You’re an absolute monster.”
When I use his full name, he knows my feelings plainly. I don’t need to ask why he killed this loyal guardsman. He tells me anyway. “Can’t let anyone who follows us know where we might have gone. Carres’ death ensures that.”
My eyes narrow dangerously on his, to tell him my words mean more than what he’s simply done just now—they’re a condemnation of the lie he’s told Lukain and continues to parade.
“And where are we going, Master?” Garroway asks. He hasn’t noticed the intense stare-off Skar and I are having as he absentmindedly drinks from Carres’ forearm.
Skar glares at me, lips pursed, as he answers his bloodthrall. “North, first. We must find somewhere safe to take refuge until this blows over. The good part about having a coven, graybird, it’s built me allies over the years.”
Garroway says, “Can we still trust those allies?”
Skartovius doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying to make me flinch with his dreadful scowl. There’s no apology in his eyes; he’s incapable of it. There’s only sheer death, danger, and malice. Not malice for me, I think, but for everyone else around—
No, not everyone around. For the dhampir closest to me, inching closer in a protective stance.
Lukain, I think, breathing heavily as my former master’s fingers brush over mine at my side. He’s come to protect me. He knows that deadly gaze better than anyone. They’re brothers, after all.
I know Skartovius would never hurt me.
At least I’m . . . almost positive he wouldn’t.
Lukain doesn’t share my reservations. He’s never truly trusted Skar. He didn’t even know they were half-brothers until a few nights ago, after reading Skar’s tome.
Skar flares his nostrils. I wonder if he sees lines are being drawn, very acutely, between us. Lukain and me on one side; him on the other.
Before wheeling around to take us off the cliff, Skar growls, “If I have to be a monster to guarantee your safety, little temptress, I’ll gladly become the worst you’ve ever seen.”