Blood Redemption (14 page)

Saber turned his attention back to Napolean then and frowned. “My father…and my brothers…when
were you going to tell me?”

“When I was damn good and ready.”

“And when would that be?”

Napolean arched his brows in astonishment. “You have a never-ending death wish, don’t
you, boy?”

Saber shrugged. “Perhaps.” He lowered his tone—as well as his eyes—in reluctant submission.
“For now, I just wish to know the truth.”

The king let out his breath slowly, regarding the prisoner with unconcealed disgust.
“So be it,” he said, and then he gestured at a nearby boulder. “Sit, Saber. Because
if you react poorly to this news yet again, I won’t be able to restrain myself this
time.”

Saber took two steps toward the boulder and slowly lowered his body onto the stone.
Ignoring the blood that was gushing from his face, he looked up at the king and blinked
to clear his vision. “I won’t react,” he murmured, waiting.

As Napolean explained the details of the missive, the argument that had ensued between
the king and his warriors—leaving out those details that would betray personal conflicts
within the house of Jadon or overemphasize their low regard for Saber’s life—Vanya
watched the dragon closely. The male was as still as a statue, as quiet as a mountain
pond. He was as cold as a cavern wall, except for his eyes.

And if the eyes were truly the seat of the soul, then in this frozen moment in time,
Vanya Demir knew, without question, that Saber Alexiares did, indeed,
have
a soul—because his eyes burned with unspoken anguish; his pupils reflected an overwhelming
dread that could not be concealed beneath their blackened depths; and his tear ducts,
while they never released a single tear, failed to hide the pressing moisture that
threatened to surface as he listened quietly to the news of his father’s execution.

As the king’s words sank in, Saber struggled to remain calm, cool, and detached. He
could not afford to provoke Napolean’s wrath again. Not now. Not when he was so close
to meeting up with his brothers, to seeing his father, perhaps for the last time.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the meeting of delegates, how the whole thing would
turn out; for surely, the Dark Ones were up to something. And as the thoughts drifted
around in his head, he shifted his gaze to the princess, who was standing off to the
side, so unassuming, waiting patiently beneath the branches of an aspen tree, while
the males talked of war, strategy, and subterfuge.

Princess Vanya had been born to stand among, within, and at the head of such circles.

She had been reared to foster diplomacy, to consort with kings, and her unique, dusty-rose
eyes were as keen with intelligence as they were soft with compassion.

For a moment, Saber couldn’t help but wonder about the strange woman: After all, the
princess had come to his defense, even against Napolean. She had told him the truth
when no one else had bothered; and she had backed off appropriately when he had warned
her away. She was an enigma to say the least. A surprising twist in an ever-changing
story.

Their eyes met for a brief second, and he refused to look away.

What was she thinking now
?
he wondered.

She should have been afraid of him—terrified, in fact—yet she faced his blackened
soul with courage, defiance, and tenacity. She had even reached out to help him.

It just didn’t make any sense.

And for a fleeting moment, he thought he almost
felt
something.

Something he couldn’t name.

Perhaps it was respect…or admiration.

Salvatore Nistor sat back in the plush, contemporary sofa in the receiving room, just
outside the council’s chambers. Those who were not on the council were not allowed
inside the inner sanctum, but they could come and go in the waiting room as they pleased.
He looked around the pristine environment and turned up his nose: Outside of being
at the bottom of a cave, it looked like something out of
Interior Décor
M
agazine
, an opulent display of wealth, power, and intimidation. The place was meant to let
all who arrived know they had just entered into the heart of the house of Jaegar.

He shifted lazily, feeling his oats. Indeed, he was one of the most powerful males
in the colony. Not only did his sorcery make him an invaluable asset, but his many
years serving on the council had given him a certain level of prestige and notoriety.
He was just beginning to replay all of his notable accomplishments in his mind when
the heavy iron door swung open, and two giant guards entered with Diablo and Dane
in tow. Both males were handcuffed and drained of vital life-blood.

He immediately rose to his feet. “Well, it’s about time.”

Achilles Zahora, a giant of a male who stood to the left of both prisoners, snarled,
but not in challenge. It was more of an automatic instinct—one Alpha male responding
to the perceived dominance of another. “You said to have the prisoners here at two
PM.” He eyed the grandfather clock, pressed up against the lacquered cave wall, and
snickered. “It’s two PM.”

Salvatore followed the soldier’s eyes, made note of the time, and shrugged. “Ah, well,
I suppose it is.” He turned to regard the second soldier, Blaise Liska. The male always
gave him the willies. To begin with, he was short but stout, maybe five-foot-ten at
best, and his cropped, spiked hair stuck up in all directions. In addition to his
unruly appearance, his upper chest and arms were so overdeveloped that it almost made
his lower body seem slight in comparison. Did the vampire not know one should always
seek balance in every endeavor, even weight lifting? He sighed, returning his attention
to the matter at hand. “
Prisoners
is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of Dane and Diablo as my honored guests.”

Dane yanked his arm free from one of the guards and held his shackled hands out in
front of him. “Do you always manacle your guests?” His eyes flashed with heat.

Salvatore smiled apathetically. “Just a precaution, my friend. Just a precaution.”

Diablo glared at him with blatant insolence—
t
his one was not to be toyed with
, Salvatore thought—he was the most volatile of the two, and by the keen look of intelligence
in his deep obsidian eyes, it wouldn’t take much to set him off.

“Please,” Salvatore said, gesturing toward two chic, modern club chairs, each flanking
a separate side of the sofa, “have a seat.” He turned to eyeball the guards. “The
handcuffs are no longer needed. I’m sure my guests will behave appropriately.” His
eyes bored into Dane’s, and then Diablo’s, each set in turn. “Won’t you?”

They didn’t respond, and kudos for that. It would have been weak and subservient at
best. “Very well,” Salvatore said, waiting as Achilles gruffly unlocked the diamond-embedded
handcuffs. “There is much we must talk about before tonight’s meeting of delegates,
when we rendezvous with our spoiled brothers of light in an attempt to rescue Saber,
return him to his rightful house.”

Now this got the brothers’ attention.

“You mean the house of Jadon actually agreed? The king is willing to meet with us?”
Dane took a careless step forward, covering the floor in one long stride, and Salvatore
snarled to back him up.

“Sit, boy. We talk…while seated.”

Dane looked down at his feet and slowly backed away. “My apologies.” He sat in the
closest chair, waiting as patiently as possible, and Diablo followed suit.

“Yes,” Salvatore finally answered. “The meeting is a go. We shall rendezvous with
our mortal enemies just shy of midnight in the Red Canyons.”

“How did you pull that off?” Diablo asked, his tone both suspicious and condescending.

“Does it matter?” Salvatore retorted. “We pulled it off—that’s all you need to know.”

“Okay,” Diablo said. His jaw tensed. “So what’s the catch?”

Salvatore’s smile was much too broad for his face, and it literally hurt his jaw to
stretch his skin so tight. An eyeless insect scampered across the floor, not far from
Salvatore’s feet, and the sorcerer took great pleasure in lighting the creature on
fire, using only his eyes to do it. He wriggled his nose. “I love the smell of burning
flesh, even when it’s bug flesh. If only it could be that easy with our brothers of
light.”

“So we are going to fight then—wage an offensive?” Diablo asked.

Salvatore rolled his eyes sadly. “No, Diablo, not tonight. Napolean Mondragon will
be there…” He shrugged as if to say,
W
hat would be the point
, and then he perked up. “But I do have a foolproof plan if you and your brother would
like to be quiet for a moment and listen.”

Dane angled his head, only slightly, to regard Diablo, leveling a pointed glance with
his peripheral vision. “Please, brother; I’d like to hear what our councilman has
to say.”

Salvatore nodded with appreciation. Respect was capital. He waited while both brothers
got comfortable in their respective chairs, and then he reseated himself in the center
of the sofa, where he could watch each male equally and react just as quickly, if
need be. Achilles took a strategic position behind Diablo, even as Blaise stood like
a hideous gargoyle statue behind Dane. Both guards stared straight ahead, their faces
iron masks of indifference. “Now then, my plan centers around Dane gaining access
to Saber, and—”

“Why Dane?” Diablo interrupted.

Salvatore cut his eyes at the insolent visitor, his patience growing thin, and Achilles
looked down and growled in warning. “Because you, Diablo, will not be there.” Before
Diablo could speak out of turn, yet again—or worse, object—he added, “You will not
attend the delegation. You are needed here.”

Diablo sat back in his chair warily, crossed one leg horizontally over the other,
and rested a forward elbow on his knee. “Come again,
s
ir
?”

Salvatore frowned. He would be damned if he was going to explain every detail of his
decision—correction, of the council’s decision—to the sons of a traitor. He would
tell them what he needed to tell them in order to gain their cooperation, and that
was all. “Diablo…” He practically purred his name. “You would do well to remember
your place.” He held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and middle finger back and forth
in a taunting manner. “It would take no more than the snap of my fingers to have your
head, and your heart, on this coffee table.” He took a measured breath. “However,
I am trying to exercise at least some measure of decorum and hospitality. Do try
harder
to appease me.”

If looks could kill, Salvatore would have been six feet under as Diablo cast daggers
at the elder statesman with his devilishly cold eyes. He sat back, plastered a fake—just
shy of insolent—smile on his face, and nodded. “By all means, go on, Counselor.”

Salvatore returned the smile, wicked grin for wicked grin. “Thank you, Diablo.” He
turned his full attention on Dane. “Now then,
Dane
;
you are the youngest in the Alexiares clan, no?”

Dane nodded cautiously.

“You were born just minutes after Diablo?”

“I was,” Dane answered, his eyebrows raised in question.

Salvatore rolled his eyes. “Then that would make you the youngest.” He relaxed his
shoulders and nodded. “So, it has always been your role to feed your family then,
correct?”

“I hunt…yes,” Dane said, putting a more virile spin on the subservient custom of feeding
one’s elders.

“Good.” Salvatore clasped both hands together and cracked his knuckles. “Very good.”
He leaned forward in his seat. “Because we will be relying upon this
s
acred duty
in order to free Saber from the house of Jadon.”

Diablo contorted his features in confusion, but to his tribute, he held his tongue.

“You want me to feed Saber? When we meet tonight? Right out in the open—in front of
the sons of Jadon?”

Salvatore narrowed his gaze. “My boy, it is
imperative
that you feed Saber tonight, right out in the open, in front of our delegation and
the house of Jadon—it is our only chance of rescuing your brother.”

Dane frowned, his forehead creasing in consternation. “How would—”

“May I speak?” Salvatore said, failing to conceal the clipped edge in his voice.

“Of course.”

Salvatore reached into the pocket of his black silk shirt, retrieved the vial of sterilization
serum, and held it up in front of the vampires, preparing to lie with grace and ease.
“Do you see this bottle, son? It contains a very potent, mystical substance, one that
took a great deal of expertise to prepare, I might add.” He raised his chin in a prideful
gesture, then set the bottle down on the expensive cocktail table in front of him.
“We know that the house of Jadon has not exactly welcomed Saber with open arms; they
are keeping him closely guarded, drained of blood, and weakened—”

“Sounds faintly familiar,” Diablo growled beneath his breath.

“Pardon me?” Salvatore said.

“Nothing.” There went that malevolent smile again.

Yes, well, smile while you can
,
boy,
Salvatore thought. “As I was saying, they are keeping Saber in a weakened state. They
are using diamonds to keep him from dematerializing, and Nachari Silivasi has him
constantly surrounded with insulation wards and energetic barriers.”

“English,” Diablo prompted.

Salvatore froze. To kill or not to kill—that was the question. Would it be better
to just have Achilles slit the boy’s throat where he sat? He pondered the pros and
cons. Perhaps not. If it was Zarek or Valentine—Dark Lords rest the latter’s soul—in
the clutches of their enemy, Salvatore would also be on edge. He could make an allowance
for temporary insanity. He forced himself to summon more patience. “Yes, well, in
English
: The Wizard is blocking all transmission from coming or going in Saber’s presence:
He can’t dematerialize out of there; we can’t speak to him telepathically; and it
is impossible to conjure any spells on his behalf.” He pointed at the blue vial. “This,
however, will level the playing field. One hour after Saber ingests the serum, his
body will return to full strength; we will be able to speak to him telepathically,
in spite of Nachari’s barriers; and he will have a fighting chance of escaping on
his own. I, of course, will be able to create a small diversion to assist him, to
summon some sort of magic on his behalf.” He smacked his lips for emphasis. “It’s
our best chance—no, it’s our only chance—of getting him back safely.” He locked his
gaze with Dane’s and squared his jaw. “Son, you
must
ingest this serum so that it is thick in your own blood, and then you must feed Saber
liberally
so he can absorb it through you. No matter what else occurs this night, the potion
is the purpose for the meeting. You will either doom or save your brother. Do you
understand?”

Dane nodded slowly as he processed Salvatore’s words.

Diablo looked at him suspiciously. Very suspiciously. “You would do that…do this…for
Saber?”

Salvatore shrugged languidly. “Why not?”

Diablo looked off into the distance, and something icy and cold glossed over his eyes,
darkening his expression. “Did my father really do what he is accused of?”

Salvatore sat up straight. “He did.” Slowly licking his lips, he paused to prolong
the moment. “Why?”

“Then Saber was truly born to the house of
Jadon
?” Diablo asked.

“He was.” Salvatore was practically salivating. Where was this angry male going with
this?

Diablo shrugged, feigning indifference, but the quiver in his throat betrayed his
regret. “Then he can’t be allowed to live. Saber, that is. He is our enemy—no matter
what.”

Salvatore swallowed the sweet secretions in his mouth and shifted erotically in his
seat.
Well done, Diablo. Well done
, he thought
.

The rebellious male could not possibly have known that the serum was not exactly as
Salvatore had described, that in truth, the serum would make Saber infertile for the
next thirty to sixty days, rendering him incapable of siring sons and fulfilling the
demands of the Blood Curse. He could not possibly have known that, ultimately, the
potion would ensure Saber’s death at the hands of the Blood. And yet, he had spoken
wisely.

Loyally.

Salvatore had no intentions of telling Diablo the truth, not right now.

After all, it would only work if Dane could get it into Saber, and as Salvatore had
predicted, Dane was beyond desperate to save his beloved sibling, regardless of the
change in Saber’s origins. The council could not count on Dane to murder Saber with
the serum, so the ruse of transferring the potion as a means of escape, while deceitful
at its core, was absolutely necessary. The good of the colony always came first.

Always.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed for the first time, Salvatore held Diablo’s pointed stare
with an equal amount of intensity, regarding him for the first time with a modicum
of respect, and then he continued to lie for Dane’s benefit: “Of course I would do
this for Saber, Diablo—or any other male in the house of Jaegar.” He sought a plausible
explanation. “Your brother is innocent; it is your father who has committed treason.
As far as I know, Saber has always been loyal to our house; there is no reason to
assume that anything has changed.”

In truth, they both knew there was
every
reason to assume that
everything
had changed. Saber was a descendant of Jadon, not Jaegar, and despite his loyalty
and upbringing, that meant he had the favor of the celestial gods and the potential
backing of the all-powerful king, Napolean Mondragon. Saber had a
destiny
now and perhaps a reason to embrace a freer, easier life. He could never fully be
trusted again. Not to mention, Saber knew far too much about the colony, its history,
government, and ways. Saber Alexiares needed to be extinguished at all costs; and
clearly, Diablo understood this, too.