Vampire Legacy (Book 4 of the Dragon Heat series) (23 page)

“No, the desert bastard did, not you.”

Kalaur saw red. He would make this cockroach of a rebel eat those words.

He jumped forward and grabbed the insolent bastard by the collar, smashing his pretty face against the bars. “The only thing saving you from dying by my hands right now is the prospect of serving my plan.”

“What if I told you who was helping me?” Milek choked out.

Kalaur smiled inside. He had suspected all along that this prick had no morals. “Spit it out.”

“First, you release me.”

“I will do no such thing. I told you already, your days are over, and your little rebel cause will roll into oblivion along with your head.”

“Are you certain about that?” the barefaced replied. “My supporter is a member of the ton, with friends in very high places. I mean, I escaped your claws so many times with this person’s aid, who knows what’s in store for the Closing Ball.”

Kalaur let go of Milek’s collar. Any other day, he would not have thought twice about crushing the bastard’s skull against the bars, but not tonight. Tonight, he smelled the sweet scent of betrayal in the air.

“My, my, someone has finally decided to show their true colors. What a remarkable evening this is coming to be.”

Pure fire danced inside Milek’s eyes, the kind only triggered by rage and the need for revenge. The one Kalaur was very well acquainted with. He wandered why Milek had suddenly had a change of heart deciding to backstab his rebel friends, but he could care less for the reason. All he wanted was the truth. “How do I know this is not another one of your ploys?”

“Because I can prove it to you.”

“Tell me the name of your consort and I will release you,” Kalaur consented.

“No, my price has gone up. I want more.”

Yes, the sweet scent of betrayal indeed.

Chapter Twenty Seven

“Would you like parsnip in the soup, milady?”

“Yes, please,” Talia replied to the cook. “Father is very fond of them.”

After the horrible evening when Kalaur announced their impending marriage, Talia had spent most of her waking hours focusing on helping her father get better. He was awake, but still very weak. The recovery, he had regained before they came to the Castle of Kings, was now a thing of the past. For some strange reason, his health was deteriorating at a rapid pace, in keeping with Talia’s desperation. She hadn’t dared ask him about Kalaur’s marriage announcement for it was obviously not a good strategy to question one’s decision while one was ill. She needed her father to get well enough to explain himself, and to listen to her arguments on why it was best he retracted the agreement. She still had to work on that aspect though. She had no idea how she would convince her father that her marriage to the most powerful draco in Eastern Europe, who owned a territory twice the size of theirs and was as rich as than Petran, would be a bad decision on his part—and hers.

Petran.
Her breath stuck in her throat at the mere thought of him. She hadn’t heard from him or seen him since that awful announcement.

How cruel the Soartas had been. Their time together, the happiness he had brought to her heart forever tainted by the announcement of her death sentence.

How can mere hours make such a difference in a woman’s life?

On top of that, Petran had not sought her after that dreadful eve. She had no idea why he was keeping his distance, but it hurt. It hurt far too much. She missed him in such a way, it disturbed her rational mind. She craved his touch, his crooked smile, and his presence. She even missed their little spats, his imposing commands, and her need to disobey them openly. She felt an extra layer of delight in doing so, and in seeing his eyes go hard at her defiance. But even then, they always carried a hint of amusement, as if she was the only one who dared go against the king’s will.

“Damn the Soartas,” Talia muttered under her breath.

She didn’t want to feel this way. She had tried to forget him, to forget what happened. Her mind was screaming for her to get a grip but she couldn’t deny that his silence was painful. Maybe she was overthinking things. Perhaps he had returned to his castle to take care of pressing business, or maybe Tardieh had gotten into trouble again needing his father to leave urgently for the rescue.

Talia let out a long sigh.

Or maybe he was simply keeping to his promise.

On their first time together, Petran had asked for one night only. Not two or three, not a lifetime, but just one night, and in the heat of passion, she had consented to it fully knowing the consequences. Well, that was what she had thought anyway. She hadn’t taken her heart of butter into account.

Was it possible? Was Petran so coldblooded as to take what he wanted, take her the way he had wanted, and now leave her to face the world by herself?

No, she could not believe that, she would not. Something was preventing him from seeking her—

“We ran out of parsley,” the cook announced in an embarrassed voice. “I’m so sorry, milady, I’ll go grab some from the front garden.”

“Not to worry,” Talia replied. “I’ll go.”

The cook tried to stop her but she simply ignored the old woman’s patchy arguments, and dashed out the back door. She knew it sounded very unlady-like to have offered herself to do such a manual job, but she couldn’t care less. The more mundane tasks she had filling up her nights, the less idle time she had to think about Petran.

“Stop thinking about him then,” she chided herself as she walked to the herb garden.

Once she reached the edge of the beautiful front orchard, she crouched low and started foraging for the little aromatic leaves. There was nothing like a good hearty soup to lift someone’s spirits.

The full moon lit the bed of herbs, casting a white light over the many varieties of basil, sage, parsley, and many more. In the distance, she could hear the cheers from the crowd watching the fourth day of the Open Games. It would all be over soon. The Closing Ball was set to take place tomorrow night preceding the rebel’s decapitation. Her stomach churned at the memory of her encounter with Ivan. Talia took pride in her astute mind but this time around, she hadn’t seen it coming. Not in a million years would she have foreseen Ivan’s reaction. His bitter words had cut her deep for they had been good friends for over a year after all, or so she had thought.

“Oh, Mighty Soartas,” she sighed, rubbing the palm of her hands on her tired eyes. “What was happening to her life?”

It felt as if her life was being trailed by wild horses.

“Lady Natalia?”

Talia looked up to find Yerik, the vampire councilor, standing by the garden gazebo but he wasn’t alone. Petran stood just a few feet away.

Their eyes met and her heart somersaulted in her chest.

Petran was at the castle, he hadn’t left, as she feared.

Standing there, he looked absolutely jaw dropping handsome in his usual black suit jacket with matching vest and trousers.

“May I…err…help you?” Yerik offered, clearly uncertain of what she was doing crouched down like a serf in the middle of the bush garden. The strange double vibrato in his voice was more prominent than usual.

“Good evening, Lady Natalia,” Petran murmured. His low voice did strange things to her belly.

“Good evening, King Petran,” she replied cordially, but inside she was about to burst from excitement, from longing—from everything.

“Collecting herbs for your father’s soup, I presume?” he remarked.

Talia looked down at her uncouth position, crouching in the dirt, and suddenly felt very conscious of her outfit. She hadn’t planned to attend tonight’s games, so she had chosen a modest dress, one that wouldn’t get in the way of her errands. For the ton, it mattered not that her traditional draconian tunic was made of the finest fabric and adorned with intricate embroidery made of gold. Even though she was proud to honor her ancestors, she was well aware her dress was nothing compared to the other ladies’ dresses such as the ones worn by those who had just stepped out of the Great Glass Hall and were coming toward them.

“Petran, darling,” Hillia called as she and two other royal wives stepped out into the gardens. “Did you hear what silly Oberon did?”

Petran didn’t reply, but his gaze turned to stone.

Hillia’s gaze shifted then from her husband to the crouched lady in the bush.

Great, that was all Talia needed right now.

She stood up quickly and brushed back a rebel strand of hair, which refused to stay in its place inside her braided-knot.

“Oh, Lady Natalia,” Hillia exclaimed. “How odd seeing you crouched like that. I almost mistook you for a servant.”

Her silly friends giggled in unison.

Talia felt her cheeks burn, but she didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or anger. “I was just leaving,” she replied simply. “Please don’t mind me.”

“Oh, but we do,” Hillia replied. “Is that not true, husband?”

Talia held her breath, waiting for his reply.

“I am needed somewhere else,” he uttered with an indifferent sigh. “Good evening to you all.” He bowed curtly then disappeared through the tall doors without giving Talia another glance.

Her heart cracked into a thousand little pieces.

Hillia and her friends were talking about dresses and bows but Talia’s mind did not register any of it. She stared at the bunch of parsley in her hands, thinking how insignificant it looked without a purpose. Just like her.

She bowed curtly, as a good lady should, and dashed away in a calm manner. Well, at least as calm as the pounding in her chest would allow her.

Mighty Soartas, Petran was in the castle. He was still here, at the Open Games, gallivanting around, and having his share of the fun. Her chest hurt as reality sunk in. He had
chosen
to stay away from her. He had purposely kept his distance from her. If he had wanted to, he would have come find her. After all, he could cloud his way around the castle, could he not? He could get into her bedroom at any time he wanted, not even the ancient magic protecting this castle could stop him. Only his unwillingness to see her.

Hillia’s words rushed back at her. “
How long do you believe it takes for him to get bored with an unexperienced virgin?
”

As it turned out, only two nights it seemed.

Her chin trembled and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Yes, she was truly alone now. Her father was dying, her friends were soon to die by the guillotine, and her lover had thrown her away like a piece of used cloth. Wasn’t that the perfect title for what happened between them?
Lover
. The vulgar name reeled in her mind, making her dizzy as more tears cascaded down her face. She wiped them away with the backs of her hands, angry with herself for falling into his trap. Ivan had been right, for she was a wanton woman. She had known exactly what was going to happen when she invited him to help her clean up by the pond. He hadn’t offered it at all. No, she had requested it. And later, she was well aware of what would come to pass when she found him in her bedroom, and chose not to send him away—like a good daughter would have.

Talia stepped into the kitchen thinking she could face the others, but she was wrong. The choking feeling had returned and although the tears had stopped, her throat was tight, and her chest constricted.

“Here’s the parsley,” she said placing the meek branches on the counter. “I must attend to an urgent matter. I’ll return shortly to take the soup to my father.”

She darted out of the kitchen, and through the back gardens in no particular direction. She just needed air. She needed to run.

As if she had consciously made the command, her legs picked up the pace from a fast walk into a canter. She dashed past the Sculptures Sanctuary, through the daffodil plains, and turned into the maze of tall hedge plants located on the back end of the property. Only then, after she was sure there was no one else around, had Talia allowed her legs to slow down.

She stopped by the hedge wall, her chest heaving, her blood coursing madly through her veins, and allowed the tears to roll freely down her cheeks.

She covered her face in her hands as her knees buckled and she landed heavily on the ground. In the back of her mind, she didn’t know what hurt more—Petran’s indifference or the way she was crumbling like a damned foolish girl. She was a strong draconian duchess, for Hiad’s sake! It was a disgrace to her family’s name the way she had allowed herself to be fooled by one of the most predictable vampire seducers in history—not to mention the oldest enemy of her race.

But she couldn’t help it. She had fallen madly for him somehow along the way, without even noticing. And now here she was, crouching on the dirt floor like a lost child.

Shuffling noises in a nearby hedge grid caught Talia’s attention.

She jumped up to her feet, startled. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, a cold shiver ran up her spine.

Someone was watching her. She could feel it.

“Who’s there?” she called out, but it came out more like a whine rather than an enquiry.  

Silence.

Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe it was nothing, and maybe she should return to the safety of the main area. She suddenly realized she was on the edge of the property, far away from anyone who could come to her aid if someone attacked her. Not that the Open Games were dangerous, but with so much going on lately it was not prudent to roam around unattended.

She turned around to make her way back when she spotted a pair of bright golden eyes watching her from behind the tall hedge.

“Argh,” Talia yelped startled.

“Shhh, you will ruin it all!”

“Zoricah?” Talia gasped.

Right there, not even ten feet away, her old friend stood half hidden by the shrub.

“By Apa Dobrý, Zoricah, you startled the inmã out of me.”

“Sorry,” Z replied with a chuckle, and then stepped out of her hiding place.

“I thought you were in Dubrovnik. Did Ivan’s sister find you?” Talia asked, trying to order her heart to settle.

“Yes, she did,” her friend confirmed. “She and her boys have safely sailed to Malta.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I was worried sick about them.”

“Hey, no need to thank me. That’s what rebel friends are for,” she replied with a shrug as if that maneuver had been no trouble at all.

But Talia knew better. Like her, Zoricah was risking her own life to help Ivan and the others win the battle against serfdom. But unlike Talia, Z was never invited to royal gatherings, even though she was as royal as one could be, being the offspring of a draconian aristocrat and Ucidhere, the god of Death. Nonetheless, their society had shunned Zoricah because she wasn’t a pure draco, because she was a
sujha
—a bastard, a plague of their race. Since only humans had proven to be able to bare a mixed-race child, sujhas were seen as weak-links, accused of diluting their blood and powers. Some traditionalists, like Kalaur, were determined to rid their world of them.