Vampire Legacy (Book 4 of the Dragon Heat series) (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

It took them just a quarter of an hour to arrive at the destined place—a small clearing in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Petran kept his eyes and ears wide open, on the ready for any surprises. This entire journey was a bad idea. Balaur’s guards could still be around, searching for the rebels who escaped their attack at the mines. Natalia was playing with fire, and this time, Petran was afraid she would get burned.

The thick pine tree forest opened up to reveal a small pond followed by a wooden hut further ahead. The thick smoke coming out of its rustic chimney wasn’t the only sign of life in the shed—muffled screams and grunts could be heard from a good mile away and the badly battered draco guarding the door wasn’t any more discreet. He might as well be holding a sign—
Rebel Head Quarters Here
.

So much for an inconspicuous safe house.

The draco called Dimitri nodded to the other one before passing through and entering the house. Natalia followed suit, and so did Petran, but the thug blocked his path as he tried to enter.

Great.

He glared back at the guy almost wishing the swine dared to touch him. It would be the perfect excuse to break every single joint in his body, starting with his flat nose.

And Petran was itching for a release.

Tagging along hadn’t been his plan. He had wanted to stop Natalia from coming, not finding himself following her. He disliked her connection with the rebels—well, he disliked her connection with a particular rebel. He just hoped the contests at the Open Games would distract the royals for a while, but eventually someone might notice his departure. The proverbial clock was ticking.

“It’s all right,” Natalia expressed to the bouncer. “He’s with us.”

Petran simply lifted an eyebrow at the guard dog, then brushed past and went inside.

The inside of the cabin was as ridiculously small as it looked from the outside. The mid-height ceiling was just high enough for Petran to stand straight without knocking his head on the doorsill. On the left side of the room, a large pot was bubbling over a fire stove, on the right, the source of the screams and grunts lay flat on his stomach on a bed, which looked much too small for his size.

“Ivan Milek. What an honor,” Petran thought sarcastically, but his humor vanished when he saw the horrendous device attached onto the draco’s spine.

It was made of some sort of metal and it looked like a centipede with its torso consisting of several small cylinders to give it mobility. Long claw-like arms had sprung out from the length of the device and lodged themselves deep into Milek’s flesh.

“Ivan,” Natalia cried rushing to his side.

Petran cringed at the proof of her familiarity with the rebel. Bloody Hiad.

“Talia,” the bastard wailed from the bed.

“Oh, Merciful Soartas, what happened?”

“We were ambushed,” her fallen hero whimpered in reply.

Petran couldn’t ignore the tinge of satisfaction, which fueled his pride. For some reason, he absolutely despised the way Natalia said the draco’s name with such esteem. The bloody rebel was nothing but a pseudo-intellectual with too much time on his hands.

“Found it!” A weasel-like voice uttered from somewhere below.

Petran took a moment to spot its owner—an impossibly short man with long arms and an ugly face.

Great, the rebels had brought twergs into their fight too.

Petran didn’t dislike twergs, a dwarf-like race known for their amazing blacksmith abilities, as much as for their sharp negotiation skills. They looked like humans, with normal size heads and arms. What made them vertically challenged was their short torso and tubby legs. That unfortunate body structure resulted in twergs losing their home territory to the Desert Daemons a millennium ago but instead of crying over spilled milk, they decided to avenge their forefathers by becoming the ultimate masters of craftsmanship, and make every sword known to man for anyone who were willing to defy the daemons. And Dragons, by the look of things.

“Orel, get this bloody thing off me at once,” Milek grunted.

“I had to find the final herb to add to my concoction first,” Orel replied not showing any sympathy for his patient. He crossed the hut without giving Petran or any of the newcomers a second glance, then lifted the lid off the boiling pot and threw the bunch of wild herbs in. Sparks popped out from the container and suddenly, what had looked like a badly made vegetable soup became a gelatinous salve.

“Perfect,” Orel said as if patting himself on the back for a job well done, then turned around and pointed at Dimitri. “You, bring the pot to the bed.”

Petran crossed his arms over his chest and waited. This should be good. The twerg was about to put hot lava onto Milek’s open wounds. He couldn’t wait to see Natalia’s hero screaming like a girl.

But he didn’t. As Orel splashed the salve on the open skin, the bloody draco released a sigh of relief and settled down on the tiny bed, like a kid after a hot bath.
Damn the Soartas.

“His muscles are completely relaxed now,” Orel uttered. “But we must be quick. It won’t last long.”

Natalia stepped forward folding up her sleeves. “How can I help?”

“Hold his shoulders and make sure he doesn’t move,” Orel commanded. His disproportionately long fingers waved around like a master’s wand. “You,” he growled at Dimitri. “Hold his feet and legs. And you,” he uttered, finally pointing at Petran. “Come here and help me pull these claws out of his back.”

“Excuse me?” Petran replied, without moving an inch.

Orel wobbled his tubby little legs forward and stopped a few feet away. Petran regarded him from up above, knowing very well how imposing he must have seemed to the short little fellow.

“You can pretend that you were forced to come, but I know that the King of Vampires doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. So, why don’t you drop the act and help us out. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to your little games.”

Petran was speechless. He stared at the bloody dwarf unable to decide what to do next—rip the insolent prick’s head off with his teeth, grab him by the throat and squeeze the miserable life out of his stupidly tiny body, or just lift his foot and kick the fucker’s mouth shut. So many options.

But when he raised his gaze to meet Natalia’s and saw the silent plea for help in them, his resolve melted along with his murderous plans.

“Watch it, twerg,” Petran grunted as he shrugged out of his cloak and hat. “I can make you eat that sharp tongue of yours before you can even blink a smart reply.”

Orel ignored his comment and climbed on top of Milek. “On my count of three, you pull the claws out, one by one.”

As commanded, they all performed their roles according to Orel’s plan. At first, Milek didn’t even flinch when Petran ripped the metal talons off his back, but there were so many that soon painful screams echoed in the cabin again.

A small part of Petran cheered in satisfaction at every yelp the draco issued, but deep inside he was raging in disgust for Kalaur’s warfare methods. As a descendant of one of the most ruthless rulers in history—Vlad Tepes, also known as Vlad the Impaler—Petran was very acquainted with the many obscene measures taken to win wars, but seeing it firsthand taking place in front of him was very different from reading about it in history books. He couldn’t help but feel utter wrath against the creator of a device that was only a danger to his own people. After all, the
metal centipede
would be useless against vampires and other wingless creatures.

After three quarters of an hour, he finally pulled the last claw out. A strange silence descended on the hut when Milek’s cries of agony finally ceased.

“Is he dead?” Dimitri asked with a shaking voice.

“No, you goose!” Orel scolded. “He just fainted from the pain.” He climbed off the bed and went to his kitchen. “Now, make yourself useful and help me clean up this mess.”

“King Petran,” Natalia called. “Would you be so kind to accompany me to the pond? I’m afraid I must clean up also if I intend to return to the tournament.”

Petran was surprised by her request but was more than willing to do her this favor—he had been looking forward to finally having some private time with her. In truth, she was right about cleaning up. There was mud and blood splattered all over her beautiful gown.

“It will be my pleasure, milady,” he replied softly, as he offered his hand to walk her out.

They strolled side by side in silence. The narrow path contoured the hut and ended at the small pond behind it. It wasn’t far, but enough to give them some privacy.

Natalia crouched down clearly intending to scoop out water with her hands, but her large skirt made it impossible for her to do so. As she bent over, she lost balance and slipped down.

“Oh, dear,” Natalia yelped as her feet gave way.

Petran lunged forward and caught her up just in time to prevent her from falling face first in the pond.

He hadn’t meant to be mischievous but her warm body felt much too snug in his arms, her breasts squashed against his torso, looked much too succulent for him to ignore. His shaft grew heavy as raw thirst stirred inside. 

“Thank you,” she murmured as she tried to stand on her own feet.

“Here,” he offered in a husky voice. “Let me do it.”

After ensuring she was safely standing, he crouched low and scooped some water onto her skirt. He noticed the weave was silk and cetin so some of the dirt washed off without too much effort.

“If someone had told me that one day the King of Vampires would be knelt at my feet cleaning my dress with his bare hands, I would have laughed.”

Petran looked up and narrowed his eyes at Natalia but he couldn’t help the small smile lifting his cheek at her wicked comment. “Maybe milady would rather do it herself and go for a late night swim in this fantastically murky pond?”

“Oh, no, your majesty,” she replied sheepishly. “I am incredibly comfortable right here.”

The cheeky little wench!

Petran flicked his wet fingers toward her beautiful face. She cringed in reflex, but her lips opened up in the most striking smile.

Petran’s breath caught in his throat, his stomach churned, and his cock throbbed for her. Out of the blue, Mother Nepú’s words invaded his mind.
If you go after her, you will trigger one of the most powerful prophecies of all Apa Sâmbetei, carved by The Mighty Soartas themselves.
It had the effect of a cold bucket of water thrown over his head.

Damned witch.

He stood up and gave himself some distance, trying hard to ignore the slight crease between Natalia’s beautiful brows. It was clear she felt the change in his mood.

“May I ask how you found me?”

Her odd question made him pause.

“When Dimitri pulled me into the woods,” she explained. “I thought I had been far enough from the crowd for anyone to have seen it.”

Oh, right, that. “I had come looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” she asked surprised. “Why?”

Because for some insane reason, I had to see you
. He lifted his eyebrow in reply implying she should have known why, but in truth he was trying to buy some time to come up with a good excuse for having done so.

“Oh, of course,” she added before he said anything else. “You came to see if I had followed through with your order.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue, so he didn’t deny it.

She folded her arms on her chest, and utter disappointment marred her delightful features. “Well, you will be pleased to know that I intend to communicate to my father and Kalaur my decision to not accept his marriage proposal at tomorrow’s feast. I hadn’t done so yet only for lack of opportunity. The Dragon Lord has seemed to be always surrounded by his followers and my father, well, my father has been feeling better lately, but just before we came here, he had another seizure, out of nowhere, so he is far from being completely cured.”

Natalia was babbling, Petran noticed. Had she expected him to want to come see her? Would she have liked him to?

“Natalia,” he said softly, putting an end to her prattle. “I came looking for you because I may have found out how the plague in your country came to pass.”

She froze in place and gaped at him. “How?”

“The wells seem to have been contaminated.”

“Oh dear Soartas!” She gasped. “But why? Who? How?”

Before she started panicking, he took her hand and led her to sit down on a nearby fallen tree, then took a place next to her.

“I’m still trying to figure it all out, but from what I gather, the sickness started after a couple of merchants holding your father’s insignia passed by. This is not conclusive,” he added quickly when her jaw dropped open ready to utter a retort. “I’m not saying that your father’s staff is at fault, but the connection has been made.”

She pursed her lips and looked at her hands resting on her lap. Petran could almost hear the wheels in her brain turning.

“And if you are right,” she mumbled. “If my father’s own crew is responsible for contaminating those water wells, they would have had no trouble poisoning my father’s drink too.” She gazed up at him again. “Or mine, for that matter.”