Blood Redemption (2 page)

Napolean Mondragon watched in morbid fascination as the macabre scene played out before
him. He had sentenced Dark Ones to die in the sun before, and the brutal taking of
their bodies by the great ball of fire had never been a pleasant thing to witness,
but this was beyond gruesome.

Beyond comprehension.

The male tied to the stake was suffering unlike any other he had ever seen, but not
from the sun’s rays, and not because his wicked body, soul, and mind were burning.

He was suffering because his flesh remained untouched.

Saber Alexiares was not burning in the sun!

And that simply wasn’t possible.

Napolean turned to Nachari Silivasi and the council of wizards who sat beside him
on the ground, those with a front row seat to the execution. “What is this?” he demanded.

Niko Durciak shook his head. “Milord, he isn’t—”

“Burning?” Napolean clipped, his impatience getting the best of him.
By all that was holy, would somebody stop that screaming?
He had never seen the likes of it. “Why not?” he demanded.

Nachari Silivasi turned his attention inward and began to chant softly beneath his
breath, trying desperately to divine what his sovereign lord requested. And then,
in an abrupt halt, he raised his head and furrowed his brows. “I heard something,
but I don’t know what it means.”

“You don’t know what
what
means?” Napolean asked calmly. He had to keep his composure despite the ghastly display
persisting in the canyon.

“The word that comes to me is
Serpens
.”

“Serpents?” Napolean asked, seeking clarification. “Snakes?”

“No, milord,” Nachari answered. “Serpens. Like the celestial deity of rebirth.”

Napolean spun around, trying to make sense of Nachari’s words. He stared at the spectacle
taking place before him, his own heart now racing in his chest, while his mind processed
what he had been told:
Serpens…the
c
elestial deity of rebirth
.

All at once, understanding dawned, and the earth stood still around him. “Who has
the keys to the manacles?” he shouted.

There was a moment of confusion as the warriors searched their pockets and coats.
Finally, Ramsey Olaru stepped forward. “I have them, milord, but why…” His voice trailed
off in disbelief. Clearly, he couldn’t even form the question because the meaning
was so absurd:
Why would they release the Dark One?

Napolean gestured toward the keys and met Ramsey’s stare head-on. “Get him down from
there and take him out of the sun—before he kills himself with fright.”

“Milord?” Ramsey’s voice was harsh with disapproval.

“He isn’t from the house of Jaegar, and he isn’t going to burn,” Napolean explained.

Nachari’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

Napolean blinked several times and slowly shook his head. “Somebody find Rafael and
Lorna Dzuna; I believe this male is their son.”

The red haze of madness that enveloped Saber Alexiares began to dissipate slowly;
first, in small increments of lucidity—thoughts and feelings broke through the darkness
like distant pieces of a conversation drifting from another room—and finally, in larger
blocks of acute awareness, until, at last, he sat up straight on the narrow cot beneath
him, swung his aching legs to the side, and stood on unsteady feet.

The room still spun around him, and he grasped his head in both hands. “What the hell
happened?” he muttered beneath his breath. Memories began to flood his cerebellum
in disjointed pictures: the torture and questioning that went on for days; the sons
of Jadon draining his body of blood to the point of veritable weakness, nearly death;
being strapped to the posts in the Red Canyon while awaiting his final execution by…the
sun.

Oh dark lords, the sun.

He ran his hands furiously up and down his body, testing for substance and injuries:
first, his arms and legs; next, his chest and torso; and finally, his back and head.

Nothing.

Everything seemed to be intact, neither melted nor burned.

What was he—dead or alive? Where was he? In the colony or the Valley of Death and
Shadows? Instinctively, he tried to reach out to his brothers with telepathy, but
the transmission hit a firm, implacable barrier. Something was blocking the wavelength.

He spun around in wild circles, a dangerous predator, confused and alert, trying to
scent his enemy. His eyes swept the long, narrow cot beside him, raised to assess
the two small windows at the top of the cell—there was light shining through the openings!—and
quickly flicked to the thick iron bars, each imbedded with thousands of inset diamonds
that locked him into the cell.

A feral hiss escaped his lips as he spun around again, glaring outside the bars at
a huge figure pacing back and forth. He would know that six-foot-five, muscle-bound
frame anywhere. He should—after all, he had worn it for weeks during his plot to kill
Kristina Silivasi and ultimately, Nachari’s new
destiny
, Deanna.

It was Ramsey Olaru.

And the cocky, self-important sentinel was standing post as a guard.

“Hey, you,” Saber growled, more confused than ever. “What the hell is going on? Where
am I? What happened?”

The sentinel turned around lazily, and a slow, derisive smile curved the corners of
his mouth. “Well, would you look here; it would appear the dead has risen.”

Saber flew at the bars, grabbing two thick slabs with clenched fists and wrenching
back. When the iron didn’t budge, he spat in Ramsey’s direction. “Open the door, son
of Jadon! Open the door, and we’ll see what has or hasn’t risen!”

Ramsey slowly shook his head from side to side, chiding Saber with a tsk-tsk of the
tongue: “Really, Saber? Is all that bravado truly necessary?” He sighed, slow and
long. “After all, I just watched you scream and holler like a stuck pig in front of
the entire house of Jadon.” He cringed, his face wrinkling up in disgust. “Extremely
unbecoming of a soldier, wouldn’t you say?”

Saber took a measured step back from the bars and stared at the ground beneath him.
The floor was made of stone and mortar, and there were enough diamonds imbedded in
the stones to start a new mine. The sturdy walls, which appeared no less than six
feet thick, were made of the same material—there was no way he was tunneling out of
the place or using his superior vampiric strength to crash through the barrier. So,
what the hell had happened then?

Clearly, Ramsey did not belong in the Valley of Death and Shadows, which meant Saber
couldn’t have perished in the sun. But why not ? What. The. Hell?

Saber sat down slowly on the cot, realizing he was still incredibly weak. His blood
volume felt almost nonexistent, which meant that his enemy wasn’t taking any chances—the
sons of Jadon were still keeping him drained of life force. His throat felt parched.
“I need to feed,” he mumbled absently, to no one in particular.

Ramsey approached the bars then, actually sauntered up within clawing reach as if
he didn’t have a care in the world. “Sorry, Chief: The kitchen is closed for a while.
At least for you.”

Saber shook his head, wishing he could clear the cobwebs. Something must have gone
wrong. Maybe the sun never came up. Maybe the sons of Jadon had decided to keep him
a little longer, torture him for more information before offering him to that great
fiery orange ball in the sky. He rubbed his temples.
But why?
He could’ve sworn he had been in that meadow…dying.

Maybe it had all been a bad dream, a terrible nightmare. He groaned as he began to
accept the possibility: This meant he would have to do it all over again. Great lords,
he would have to find a way to commit suicide. He simply could not endure what he
had gone through in that dream: waiting for the sun’s wrath, his body giving way to
full-fledged panic, his mind descending into an endless pit of insanity.

Ramsey watched him like a hawk, his gold-speckled, hazel eyes flickering with amusement
as well as condescension. “I guess this means I’m going to have to start calling you
brother
,” he said mockingly, a deep taunting laughter echoing in his throat. “How d’ya like
them apples?”

Saber swung both legs back onto the cot and reclined gingerly—he wasn’t feeling well.

At all.

He shut his eyes to stop the room from spinning and drew in a slow, deep breath. “What
the hell are you talking about, asshole?” He opened one eye and peeked at Ramsey through
his peripheral vision.

Ramsey raised one muscle-bound arm above his head, rested it on the outside of the
bars, and leaned in toward him. “I’m talking about your predicament,
brother
.”

Saber snarled instinctively, and the pit of his stomach turned queasy. “You got something
to say—say it.”

Ramsey’s face lit up with unbridled anticipation. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got a whole helluva
lot to say, Chief.”

Saber shifted back and forth on the cot, trying to find a more comfortable position.
He was naked from the waist up, wearing a pair of loose-fitting scrubs on the bottom,
and the heavy wool blanket beneath him was scratching his back. “This century?” he
mocked.

Ramsey shrugged, his demeanor nonchalant. “This century. Last century. Hell, the last
eight centuries, apparently.”

Saber frowned. “Quit talking in riddles, Sentinel.”

Leaning next to the heavy iron door of the cell, Ramsey pushed off the bars; sauntered
along the length of the cubicle; and came to stand directly in front of Saber, across
from the cot. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders. “Why do you think you’re
still here?” he asked. His voice was a mere whisper.

Saber shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you assholes haven’t killed me yet.”

Ramsey shook his head. “Try again. We staked you out in the sun all right. It’s just…you
didn’t burn, Chief. Why do you think that is?”

Saber felt momentarily disconnected from his body, virtually cast away from reality.
“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember?” Ramsey asked. “We tied you to the posts and watched…waited…as
the sun rose high in the sky and poured all those wonderful gamma rays all over you,
head to toe. And you? You just screamed and writhed and panicked like a stuck pig,
but nothing happened. You didn’t burn. Now, I repeat: Why do you think that is?”

Saber opened both eyes and turned his head in Ramsey’s direction. So, it hadn’t been
a dream then. He shook his head, confused. “I…I…” His voice trailed off.

“You didn’t burn because you aren’t who you think you are.” Ramsey’s voice was strong
with insistence. “Your real name is Sabino Dzuna. You were born eight hundred years
ago under the Serpens Blood Moon to your real parents, Rafael and Lorna Dzuna. Apparently,
someone from the house of Jaegar wanted a baby and took you.” He paused, apparently
for effect. “You’ve been raised all this time with the hyenas, only to find out you
were meant to be a lion. Damn, that’s rough, brother.”

Saber shot off the cot in a rage, his large crimson-and-black wings shooting instinctively
from his back as he flew at the cage and swiped a clawed hand at Ramsey.

The sentinel simply backed away. “Don’t blame me; I’m just the messenger.”

“You’re a lying piece of—”

“Whoa, brother.” Ramsey held both hands up in front of him. “I’m a lot of wicked things,
but a liar isn’t one of them.”

Saber hissed and snarled, wishing like hell he could come through the bars, if only
for a second. He would tear the miserable bastard to shreds. Sabino Dzuna—what the
hell kind of name was that? And what the hell kind of game were these fools trying
to play? He ran his hands through his thick mane of hair—hair filled with characteristic
red and black bands—the signature coronet of the Dark Ones, the crown of the King
Cobra. The irrefutable proof that he was exactly who he knew he was: a son born of
Damien Alexiares and some unfortunate human wench. A soldier in the house of Jaegar.
“You’re full of it,
brother
,” he mocked in return.

Ramsey remained undaunted. “All right, believe what you want, but tell me then—why
didn’t you burn, Saber?”

Just then, a powerful male rounded the corner just outside the cell and began to walk
in Saber’s direction. His purposeful gate, regal shoulders, and the way he held his
head up as if the earth and moon would bow down to him at will left no question as
to who the male was: Saber Alexiares was staring at the ancient king of the house
of Jadon, the formidable warrior who had lived from the time of the original Blood
Curse, Napolean Mondragon, himself.

Despite his anger, he stepped away from the door. When Napolean simply passed through
the bars without bothering to unlock the cage or open the door—the king moved through
the considerable diamond barrier as if it wasn’t even there!—Saber took a healthy
step backward.

Holy
crap
.

He had never seen anything like that. The male was immune to the absolute powers of
diamonds. Unheard of.

“Greetings,” the ancient king said. His long black hair, with silver stripes of antique
highlights interspersed throughout, swayed ever so slightly as he moved, and his predatory
eyes flashed like molten fire. “Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the cot.

Saber was not one to take direction so easily. Under any other circumstances, he would
have told the male where to go and how to get there, but there was just something
in the powerful leader’s eyes that backed him up, something that said not only could
Napolean kill him with a glance, but he wouldn’t hesitate if Saber defied him. Scowling,
Saber took a step back and sat on the cot.

Napolean glided forward, his harsh, ancient eyes boring into Saber’s. “I am your king,
whether you know it or not, and you
will
avert your gaze when you are in my presence.”

Saber blanched.
What the hell?
Had the entire world gone mad? What he wouldn’t give to rip those haughty eyes right
out of the king’s head. Still, discretion was sometimes the better part of valor,
and he was at too great a disadvantage right now. Hell, he didn’t even know what was
real. He lowered his head and stared at the floor, all the while seething in his soul.

“Better,” Napolean said. He walked right up to the edge of the cot, not even remotely
concerned that Saber posed any threat, and squatted down in front of him.

Squatted down in front of him.

Making himself vulnerable.

Was he really that sure of himself?

Such a thing was like holding an arm behind one’s back while facing a tiger; reaching
out to slap a towering grizzly bear; or exposing one’s belly to an alpha wolf—the
ancient king was in the most vulnerable position imaginable, and he was obviously
doing it for effect, to make a point:
I can and will destroy you at will, and I don’t even have to feign
concern
.

Saber swallowed hard, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and his lips turned
up in a sneer. Still, he held his tongue.

“Good boy,” Napolean said. “Now then, our wizards have been able to discern a great
deal of information over the past hour or so.” He paused to let his words sink in.
“Eight hundred years ago, following the Serpens Blood Moon, a child from the house
of Jadon was stolen out of his crib following the Blood Sacrifice of his dark twin
by his father, Rafael Dzuna. You were that child, Saber, and it would appear that
your abductor, whom we now know was Damien Alexiares, beseeched the Dark Lord S’nepres
to consecrate you into the house of Jaegar.” His eyes swept over Saber’s hair. “Perhaps
this is why you have crimson-and-black hair—we don’t fully understand the extent of
the dark magic that was performed on your behalf.” He glanced around the room absently
before meeting Saber’s gaze once more. “We do know, however, that you still have a
soul”—he swept his hand out in a derisive gesture—“such as it is, or you would have
surely perished in the sun.” He reached out his powerful hand and clasped Saber’s
face boldly by the jaw. “What we don’t know is if there is anything worth saving inside
of you; if your soul is not beyond redemption.”

Saber jerked away, his sharp fangs instinctively shooting forth in his mouth, even
as his lips curled back in a snarl of warning.

Napolean didn’t react. “My sentinels will take you to shower, and you will clean yourself
up.” His nose turned up in disgust. “Remove this stench. And we will keep you here,
for a time, in this cell, alive but weak…harmless. You will be given enough blood
to sustain your life, but not enough to rejuvenate, while we consider—while
I
consider—your fate. Is that understood?”

Saber had never wanted to destroy anything in all his life—to kill anyone—more than
he wanted to kill this haughty being in front of him. There was no way he was going
to agree to such absurdity. He knew who he was, and the entire house of Jadon could
be damned. Bring on the sun…again. Bring on the Valley of Death and Shadows. He was
Saber Mikhael Alexiares, firstborn son to Damien Alexiares, brother to Diablo and
Dane, and soldier in the house of Jaegar. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever
change that. And these light vampires, these scourges of nature who strutted around
as if they were entitled to all the favors the gods had bestowed upon them, they could
weave all the fanciful tales they wanted trying to convince him otherwise. He knew
better.