The Sanction (19 page)

A headache drummed directly above his
eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked in rapid
succession. The rest of the men had been sent to the stronghold
with instruction to ready the horde for battle. They would move in
at night, and bring the battle to the Coven at the stroke of dawn
the morning of Amarinda’s return. Granted that he was strong
enough, Rhys himself would lead the battle in Graeme’s stead. The
rank and role of leader would be his to bear – a reward Graeme had
called it upon their discussion the night before. For saving the
life of his son.

Rhys did not feel like a hero. And he
didn’t like deceiving the masses, no matter how much or how often
Graeme justified his actions. The babe stretched and yawned and
blinked slumber-filled eyes against the flicker of the light in the
hearth. The harsh lines around Rhys’ mouth softened. Wide blue eyes
looked up at his hovering form, and a surge of protective energy
warmed the ache in his chest. He thought of his future, of the mate
he would one day claim for himself, and wondered if the babe he
would plant in her belly would favor him the way Graeme’s son
favored his father. With light fingers he brushed the ebony hair
and marveled at the thistledown texture there.

“
He has the look of his
mother,” Graeme announced.

Rhys jerked his hand away and cleared
his throat awkwardly. “Her hair and eyes – but your
features.”

The Were entered and closed the door
behind him gently. “How do you fare?”

Rhys crossed the room and returned to
the cot. It creaked in protest against the force of his weight.
“Still sore, but stronger.”

Graeme nodded and awkwardly lifted the
child. For a few moments he was silent, then met Rhys’ eyes and
grinned like a lad. “I have named him Ulleam.”

“
A strong name.” Rhys nodded
his approval and stretched out upon the cot. “Amarinda might not
approve.”

His face darkened into a frown and he
took the child to the only stool in the room. There he sat and
adored the babe. “She will be reconciled.”

Rhys grunted. He had no doubt of that.
“Did you meet the vampire?”

Graeme nodded, not looking up. “He has
agreed to bring her to me three days hence. Have you already
dispatched the men?”

“
They rode at dusk.” Silence
filled the space between them. It was Rhys who finally broke it.
“What am I to tell the horde when the battle is over?”

Graeme’s sigh was a heavy one. “It
matters not what you tell them.”

Rhys clenched his jaw and kept his eyes
fixed on the rafters above. He had ample reason to justify the
anger that did a slow burn in the center of his chest. War was
something he lived, a part of him that he considered honorable
simply because he protected the masses. Scouts and soldiers kept
the safety of those entrusted to them. He considered the women and
children who found refuge in the coastal villages because of the
threat of war. He remembered the cries of the children in the
village a mere three nights ago before the vampire female had given
birth. Rhys questioned the wisdom of the Fates once more and
clenched his jaw tightly, wishing he held something less than love
in his heart toward Graeme, for that was the only reason he had
almost given his life to save the child and his mate.

Once he had promised never to choose
the vampire over the horde. Now he was here, deep in vampire
territory, body half broken and bruised, agreeing to claim
leadership of the horde so that Graeme could sneak away with his
family.

Rhys would be the one left to answer
the difficult questions. He would be the one to look upon the faces
of the men and see their anger and shock and utter disgust when he
confessed the truth. He had the strangest premonition that the
betrayal they would feel in the coming months ahead would leave a
heaviness in his chest, the burden of which he had no wish to
carry.

But according to Graeme, it mattered
not what they were told.

He ground his teeth together and shook
his head without apology. “No,” he stated, his voice like starch.
“You tell them.”

Graeme’s sigh was deep and patient. “I
am torn Rhys. If I disclose the truth about my mate, she will never
be accepted. Nor will my son. They will want blood, and I will not
allow them to have it. If they scatter, there will never be another
horde of this magnitude in a hundred years to come. The men will
not survive without numbers. This is my biggest fear.”

Rhys’ deep eyes flickered in
consideration. He had not thought of such things. “Your son has
proved that breeding is possible between the two species. A new
race, so to speak.”

Graeme looked doubtful, although awe
graced his eyes. “More than a vampire, more than a Were…” he
whispered. The half-smile was wiped clean off his face. “They might
also view him as a threat – unable to accept him because of his
vampire heritage.”

Rhys nodded. “Aye. Tis
possible.”

“
Which is another reason why
they must never know the truth.”

“
Without a leader
–“

Graeme shifted and offered his
forefinger to the babe wrapped quietly in his arms. Pink lips found
his flesh and latched powerfully, greedily. “I have appointed you
–“

“
I beg you remember our
bargain – I leave as soon as my part in this is done. You have your
son, and in a few days, your mate. I want no part of this
deception.”

Graeme did not speak for a long time.
When the wet nurse came in fifteen minutes later, he had yet to
speak. Her bulky weight rolled forward and she claimed the fussing
infant in her spiced arms. Graeme watched with calm satisfaction as
she took him away to ensure that he was warm, dry and properly
fed.

Rhys was right of course. The masses
were his responsibility. No matter how long or how many different
ways he tried to procrastinate, the truth remained the same – he
would have to tell the horde the truth and let them decide if their
lives were worth hers.

The response he knew he would get
forced his heart to almost seize within the confines of his chest.
He felt like a bastard.

“
I will tell them, but only
after my family is safe and out of harm’s way,” he heard himself
croak.

Rhys closed his eyes. “You have made
the right choice.”

Chapter Seventeen

“
What?!” Macer’s voice was
nothing but a raspy croak in the stillness of the night. Beside
him, his wife’s indrawn breath waited upon his nephew to repeat his
words. Silas stood expressionless before the blazing hearth and did
not lose a breath when he recited exactly as before.

“
Sutter comes for
her.”

Vilirus planted himself upon the single
chair closest to the window and swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t
understand. He would risk capture, death, for her?”

His father’s shrewd eyes flashed in
awareness. “The Were…”

“
It was the only logical
thing to do given the situation,” Silas continued, his pale eyes
almost flat. “He has sent a message to you.” It was Macer he seized
with his almost lifeless eyes. “If you want her unharmed and
reunited with her mate, then spare yourself death and stay out of
his way.”

Amalea twisted her fingers, her face
wretched. “If the Elder finds out…”

“
I say we let him take her.
He is swift. In and out in a breath and the Hunters would be none
the wiser unless we inform them.” Vilirus pushed to his feet, his
face flushed with the idea of her escape. He turned to his father,
a pleading look in his eyes. “She will be whipped like an animal if
we do not allow it.”

Macer turned his back pointedly and
considered the dense forest outside. For the Were to approach one
of their own brothers to demand such a thing was unthinkable. Yet
Sutter was loyal to no one but himself. He couldn’t help but wonder
exactly what was demanded and what was given to have this done.
Surely not more heads. And Sutter had opened his mind to his twin
to let them know he would be daring the impossible. In a way, Macer
was happy the bastard was half-crazed, for no sane vampire would
dare to come into the Coven in an attempt to take a female. It was
utter madness!

“
Macer…” He turned his head
and caught sight of his mate. Amalea shook slightly, her fear
hanging over her like a cloud of despair. “This is her only
chance.”

He knew it to be so. “We cannot assist
in any way, or be implicated if he is caught,” he offered, his
voice laced with agony. “When she is gone, he will still be hunted
as the Elder has commanded.”

Silas’ face was somewhat strained by
the information that was sent, and moments later a rare pull of a
smile touched his chilled lips. “No love lost, he says.”

Amalea stood and approached her
husband, her fingers like a vise as they sought his hand. “All will
be well,” she muttered, as if reassuring herself. Macer pulled her
to his side and planted a heavy kiss at the top of her silken
flaming hair. Inside he felt like dying. He had failed to save his
daughter. He should have listened those long weeks ago when she had
begged him to understand. But how could he? How could he have
trusted her to the very wolves he was sworn to protect her from?
The irony hit him in the chest like a mallet.

To think that he would now have to
trust something far worse than a Were with the most precious cargo
he called his own…

Breath hitched in his throat and he
closed his eyes in anguish. In that moment he hated the Elder and
all the traditions the Old Way held. Rules that were used to
measure the way he thought and acted, predestined laws that forced
him to adhere to only the will of his father.

One day, he swore with vengeance hot in
his veins, he would look upon the cold corpse of the old man and
bless the Fates. He prayed the day would come sooner than
not.

****

The waiting would be the death of
her.

Amarinda sat in the darkest, coldest
corner of the cell and was conscious of only the hot tears that
made their way silently down the course of her cheek. Rats the size
of rambunctious kittens infested the dungeons, scuttling across the
floor and the hem of her gown with large egos, for she did nothing
to deter their advances. Since the Hunters had thrown her in the
cell last night, she had not moved. No meals were delivered and no
one visited. Not that she minded. She had shot her last nerve
though when she embraced the rage that took the place in her
stomach where her baby once grew. Killing the Hunter brought her
great satisfaction. Still, it did not bring back her
son.

Anguish visited her in waves of
incoherence. One moment lucid, the next lost in the past. One
moment the shift of guards told her it was daylight. The next time
she became aware, night had fallen. Even the ones chosen to keep
her secured behind the iron gates did not spare her a glance. She
recalled what it felt like to be held inside the stronghold that
first night of her capture. She was afraid then of the enemy, of
the unknown, of the stories and the legends she heard from her
brothers and the Elder. She never knew the monster she should have
feared all along had once cuddled her upon his lap.

A key grating in the lock snapped her
out of her musings, and she glanced up in the darkness. Two
Hunters, bare from the waist up, opened the gate and considered her
thoroughly before one of them spoke.

“
It is time. The Council
convenes.”

Time. For the whipping. She pushed to
her feet numbly and felt tiny pin pricks cover her flesh. Within
her there was only the slightest hint of panic. She had been bound
to a post once before. This time there was no sunlight to spare her
pain, but the sure hand of the whip master. They did not touch her
when she allowed them to sandwich her in as they walked through the
halls. The narrow, winding staircase that led to the roof four
stories above was lit with high lamps that were nestled in alcoves
carved within the stone. Amarinda had been privy to using this exit
only once as a child. It had seemed large and frightful then. Now
it was nothing but the walk to the gallows, in a manner.

By the time they got to the top of the
manse, every trace of panic and fear she fancied she felt was
locked away behind a mask of indifference. Three of the Council
Members stood as witnesses. The Elder himself stood to the side and
gestured for the deed to be done. Her eyes scanned the condemnation
that was carved on her audience’s faces and was thankful her family
chose not to be there to witness what was no doubt going to be the
ultimate shame. Vilirus had said that to her once. To bear the mark
of shame was the ultimate sacrifice for ones sins. She had a
feeling no matter how many times they hit her, she would find no
absolution in his resolute features.

Chains were presented, thick and heavy.
One of the Hunters approached her and eyed the dress she wore.
Something flickered in his eyes, and just as quickly it was gone,
only to be replaced with sold reserve. The other Hunter secured her
wrists around the stone column that stood before them, a staggering
ten feet tall and two feet wide. Her face was pressed to the
coldness there, and as her hands were being bound, she blinked back
another wave of tears.