The Salvation: A Dark Vampire Fantasy Romance, page 15
In fact, I’d be surprised if this battle, or perhaps skirmish, lasted more than an hour.
A vow of retribution flows within my veins as I lead my brothers through the hidden marsh paths, navigating according to Reaver’s word.
The scent of rot and decay thickens the air, not only the murky waters but also the burial havens for vampires and familiars alike. More bones, more corpses clot the watery grave of a swamp. Some have fused with the trees, growing into the twisted branches, the very bark and lichen.
“Swamps,” grumbles Drago as his heavy gait causes him to sink to his shins. “I hate swamps. Goddamned moldy sandwich of misery with mosquitoes big as dragons. Like wading through ankle-deep despair...with skeletal mermaids floating all around. What’s next? The trees grow hands and drag me down to their depths until I can’t breathe?”
“No, that’s my job,” Mayce quips with a knowing chuckle.
“Sure know how to treat a god, Merikh,” Drago mutters, his words beginning to needle into my spine and grate on my nerves. “Such a relaxing night—complete with leeches, quicksand, and carnivorous plants.”
Wings stiffening, I don’t bother to turn around but say through gritted teeth, “Trust me when I say, Drago, I am the most carnivorous specimen you’ll find here.”
Reaver flanks us on our right, strangely silent. I’m well aware this could be a trap, another betrayal. Part of me considered bringing more reinforcements, including a couple of the Founders, but Mayce and Drago are worth a small army. Following Quintessa’s word also mandated securing her protection by ensuring the Founders’ presence in the Court of Hollows.
An eerie silence permeates the landscape, unnatural like an ominous predictive grip of doom. But doom will fear us tonight. We move like phantoms beneath the glowing slit of a crescent moon. Drago’s emerald flame and Mayce’s amber eyes blaze with purpose. Mine always resemble lethal black ice, echoing the malice of death. Death will come to all those who would do her harm.
As we advance to the center of the marshlands, where Reaver has guided us, the wind kicks up, stirring our wings and clapping against the willow tree branches, causing them to writhe. As the trees, brush, and tall grass thickens, I know we are getting close.
The damper environs fade, but when Drago stumbles on a tangled tree root reaching out like a large skeletal finger, he curses. Flames rear up along the edges of his body, revealing his mounting frustration. I would have suggested he fly, but I didn’t want to risk it with the potentiality of sentinels and arrows.
A surgical approach to our entrance to maintain the element of surprise, followed by a quick and dirty attack of fire-melted flesh, blood-drowned lungs, and earth-crushed bones, is the most effective strategy. After the battle, Drago will thank me for the night of sport.
We pick our way through the thorny hanging vines riddling the area, the sound of our boots masked by the dank moss. The moon's light is unnecessary, thanks to the lantern-like pockets of bio-luminescent fungi and plants. Not that we require it when we are gods, especially a creature of the night as I am.
A few minutes later, the ruins of the cathedral emerge like sinister scars. Once a guardian of the nearby cemeteries, the massive cathedral was constructed as a means of sanctuary from Malachor and his born vampire forces. Ancient battles destroyed several wings while natural calamities of floods and storms damaged more. Considered both sacred and cursed, it is the ideal forbidden sanctum, one the Founder clans would not suspect.
To the right of the ruins, stagnant corpses drift along a slow-moving river, the banks framed by decaying vegetation.
Reaver gestures to the few shadowy figures lingering in the area. Upon closer examination, I determine they are born vampires. Ones who fell prey to the Waste Curse as we all did, but they have not met with my restorative deity hand. Because they chose to forsake and reject my Court of Hollows and live like masquerading sun-walkers.
Though they have fallen to the same decrepit state as that of my Court dwellers, I can judge they’ve taken more of an increased blood supply to preserve themselves. Similar corpse-like features with gaunt cheeks, once lustrous porcelain skin turned ashen and sickly, sunken eyes, and brittle hair. Their fangs, alone, remain intact and strong, which is why they’ve thrived above ground, surviving off the blood of willing captives as their venom evolved beyond their creator—after he stole Malachor’s fangs and blood to form his race. One legend spread that he or she mixed the venom of a serpent to bite their first victim.
It’s why bitten vampires hold the serpent as a sacred symbol. And why Malachor used the serpents as a means of torture. My choice of my Blood Crest and Court symbol was not by simple chance. Whenever I look upon it, I’m reminded of that fateful night when I chose Kyan, ripped out all the fucking serpent fangs, and shot dozens of them straight into Malachor’s bloodstream to weaken him. I didn’t fight fucking fair. Not then. Not ever.
The mark of the serpents upon my little dove’s fair skin is simply another reminder of my greatest night of pain that became my ascension to the throne of the God of Blood.
“Wait here,” I command my brothers, as I would be a fool not to gather close intel first.
Drago snorts. “Why do you get all the fun?”
“Because the last thing you are, bellowing behemoth, is subtle. You’ll get to roar and cause as much ruckus as you want in due time. Mayce, control your reptile,” I finalize and depart, directing Reaver to follow while Drago’s muttering protests fade behind us. I’ll be keeping a close eye on the reborn vampire.
The thickets and trees mask our approach. I use the shadows to my advantage, passing the guards’ notice while isolating the area’s blood scents. Deviating down a forsaken dark corridor with Reaver at my side, I seek the surroundings where human blood clots the air the most.
“If this proves to be a trap of any kind, Reaver,” I warn him, speaking the low promise, “nothing will be left of your body for me to desecrate. And I will ensure your soul meets the same fate.”
“My Lord Merikh...” He nods to something behind me at the end of the long corridor.
We’re still canvassed in the shadows, but I narrow my eyes, making out the humans with their vacant expressions and the prominent fang marks along their necks. Both males and females wear long white outfits with capes that sweep to the floor. Some are as young as children. Vampires flank them—one for every six humans.
Once they’ve passed beyond view, Reaver whispers, “They’ve rounded up many humans from dwellings all over the regions, Lord Merikh. They’ve even trespassed into the restored realms to gather more.”
I growl under my breath. Restored realms—my brothers’ realms.
“And their goal?”
Reaver heaves a sigh, his eyes darkening with his confession, “They wish to resurrect Malachor.”
I open my lips in a silent snarl of retributive fury. “Impossible. I harnessed his soul myself. And hid it in the Hollows where none may tread. Not even the bloody Unseen god himself.”
Reaver shrugs, shifting his weight. “Their necromancer believes he has a way.”
Fuck. A necromancer is the last thing I need. Little matter. My brothers will handle the main hoard tonight. The necromancer is mine.
We dispatch the outer guards first.
I preserve much of my strength and surrender the task to Drago and Mayce while reluctantly admitting how it was a wise choice to bring the Fae.
Reaver bashes one of the guards against the stone, crushing his skull before tearing into his throat. At least the bastard’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.
He never was.
I also must admit how Drago and Mayce work together is a feat worthy of respect. Mayce employs his steely vines to strangle the vampires, forbidding them from making a sound or clotting their mouths with soil, rocks, moss, or anything within the hearty surroundings with which he has to work while Drago melts their skin and claws out their very hearts before his jaws close over the pulpy organs.
Mayce has no qualms about the bloody mess when the fiery god crushes his mouth in a smoldering kiss before shifting into his half-dragon form.
Fire and Earth. They fight and fuck in flawless synchronization.
Kyan and I do not work together. He attacks from the sky. I attack from the shadows. He creates violent storms as a means of chaos and fear. I am the storm breaking through the veins to destroy the blood. My victims do not have the opportunity to feel fear, much less scream, before they meet their demise. Unlike Malachor, I do not toy with my prey.
Only Quintessa.
Only Kyan.
The angel and I did not form a foundation of battling together. Our foundation was battling one another, followed by my torturing him, then fucking him. The torture and fucking exchanged so many times, we hardly knew when one ended, and the other began. Pain and pleasure, masochism and sadism, torture and lust—they wove such a tangled web within us, that we cannot exist without the extremes to this day. Nothing about our dynamic was mutual, slow, or balanced. It was survival. Survival that grew to hunger, need, and whatever form of fucked up, dark, and twisted love we hold for one another.
Mayce and Drago’s bond is the polar opposite of twisted and dark. Nothing about them is depraved. They are the essence of fire and growth. Burning hot and flourishing with life.
The skeletal stones groan from the surge of wind whipping across them as we make our approach. Every bitten vampire who dares to widen their eyes or open their mouth meets their end before they can so much as whisper a warning.
Through desecrated aisles and ancient passages, I guide my brothers to where the scent of human flesh and blood is thickest. Not that they require a guide when they hold as strong of senses as me. But this is still my world, my territory.
“Preserve the humans at all costs,” I command them in a lowered voice as we approach the heart of the cathedral. Any who volunteered for such a life will return to the Court of Hollows. All others will be free to escape to their homes.
The nexus of the cathedral is more like a ruined amphitheater. A haunted stage for dark rituals. One filled with a host of vampires wearing ceremonial robes of black with a crimson crest stitched onto the back. The same crest of a crown and blood droplets was carved into the skin of the head Reaver brought.
The coppery tang of blood curls its scent into my nostrils, and I narrow my eyes upon the well hewn into the very stone floor of the dais just before the altar. A well filled to the brim with blood. All of it...human.
I’ve seen enough.
Caging the urge to growl at the sight of the altar stained in blood, I press my lips into a firm seam as a priest takes his place behind it. Clutched in his hand is a dagger. Much like all the other vampires in the audience, he bears gaunt and sunken-in features, skin ashen and loose.
A human, clad in white, lays across the altar, their chest heaving from their maddened breath. Icy cold fury knifes through my blood from the knowledge of how hard I worked to ensure humanity would be preserved in my realm. Not just empty threats and laws with words but through actions. Actions that required spilling more vampire blood in those early days of my ascension to Malachor’s throne.
Tonight, my hands won’t simply be dirty. They will drown in the blood and flesh of these cultists.
Dressed in a tattered hooded red robe, the priest chants a malevolent incantation. I don’t recognize the words. I don’t need to. More chants echo, thundering from the throats of the vampires.
Next to me, Drago balls his scaled paw, growing his claws, his massive wings lifting, flaring at their edges. Flames lick at the sides of his body. On my other side, Mayce fairs little better with his appraisal of the sight. Impenetrable stone grows along his skin in a precursor symbol of armor. The ground trembles beneath him. With one channeling of his power, the Fae could bring down the entire amphitheater.
Ever since Quintessa entered our lives, we have all taken a more protective perspective of human life, more than we did before the Curse.
Reaver stands at our right flank, where I can keep an eye on him. Thus far, he has presented no powers. Most bitten vampires manifest with their usual human binding power. Stronger than their mortal blood could manage. Rare ones will develop two powers at times.
I am the rarest.
Turning to the shifter god at my right, I level my eyes with his and command in a lowered voice, “Have fun, brother.”
Parting his jaws and spreading his muzzle into a toothy grin, Drago beats his wings and unleashes the full dragon god within him, transforming into Thiago. The name Quintessa gave him. At the same time that Drago roars, shaking the decrepit foundation, I nod to Mayce. “Watch his back.”
“I’ve been watching his back and front for ten thousand years, Merikh,” the Fae says with a sly grin. “And other impressive parts.”
Mayce doesn’t hesitate to vault into the air after his partner, rising on those dynamic wings that are a weapon in their own right. If Quintessa learns how grateful I am for the Fae’s presence tonight, she will not hesitate to use the knowledge against me. In the sweetest of tortured ways.
Directing Reaver to stay close, I move toward the dais, where the necromancer huddles against the altar. Reaver clears a path for me, bringing down any vampires who would choose to attack. It buys him another morsel of respect. Not trust but respect.
By now, the amphitheater has plunged into chaos. Vampires and humans scatter for the exits, but Thiago roars his flames to block all escape routes while Mayce brings down the pillars, crushing and battering whole groups of vampires. I respect the Fae for his prowess in stopping the stone monuments from destroying any humans. Casting illusions with his wings to confuse the host, Mayce gives him and Thiago an easy time to pick off the cultists.
Countless humans have gathered between multiple fallen pillars, hiding in the shadows as best they can. The one on the pillar is still bound as I approach. Judging by the glazed expression, I understand venom has been used to numb the pain and reduce the human to a thrall.
The sounds of battle begin to slow and fade behind me, a sign that Mayce and Drago have nearly finished their sport.
Sneering, I lower my head to view the spineless excuse for a necromancer who cowers against the stone, defensive hands raised to protect his face.
He’s not worth the effort to touch him. All I need do is slow the blood in his veins, turning his extremities numb and aching from the loss. His pained moans signal the beginning of the throbbing pain attacking his organs and tissues. His withered breath marks the lack of oxygen to his lungs.
Brandishing my hand into a fist, I spit at the miserable worm, “How many reside in the Court of Hollows? What regions? Tell me now, and I will give you a swift death, priest.”
He clutches his ailing chest but weakly rasps, “Everywhere, renegade. We are everywhere. Blessed be the crown and its rightful ruler.”
As I’m glowering down at him, the priest holds up his cross. I roll my eyes as he kisses it until I register he’s inhaling the damned thing. Fuck, inhaled poison. Deadly one. If it was ingested, I could easily prevent it from hitting his bloodstream, or dissolve it. Kyan could stop it, but it’s too late. Instant paralysis, followed by his undead form rendered to a corpse.
I don’t bother kicking the body.
When I turn to the side, Mayce is working his natural charm and charisma upon the quivering humans while Thiago tears into the singed flesh and picks at the bones of the vampires.
A feral growl rises within me, and my blood turns to pure ice when I take in the amphitheater and find one missing.
Where the fuck is Reaver?
16
“Give me back my child now,” I demand, stepping toward the invader.
QUINTESSA
After Bartie has failed at getting me to eat in my anxiety-ridden state, and after I’ve paced about the small library next to Merikh’s suite, I finally give up trying to distract myself.
“I could give you a little tour, My Lady,” Bartie offers, gesturing to the obsidian staircase leading to the base level.
I glance at the hall leading down to Merikh’s room, considering my daughter sleeping in the protected coffin. “Y-yes, I think that might help. But I’ll bring her with us.”
His brows taper. “After I changed her and rocked her until she finally went to sleep?” I muster a smile as the steward throws his hands up in the air. “I declare that child is just like you, sweet girl.”
I throw him a curious look. “I’m not sure what you mean. She’s far more like her fathers. All four of them.”
“No, My Lady. That child may be their spitting images for the most part, but the way she looks around, takes everything in with her inquisitive eyes, and how difficult it is to get her to sleep...it’s as if she doesn’t wish to miss anything. She is quieter than you, but that child has as much curiosity, daring, and life in her heart as you bear. And with four father gods, I rue the day when she sneaks off for the first time. Because you know she will, My Lady.”
A hearty blush finds my cheeks, and I press my lips into a smile. Oh, I can imagine the first day that will happen. Especially if she sneaks away to meet a boy. I only hope I am there to witness her fathers scolding her. And reminding them of the first time I sneaked away...through the Veil of Souls.
When something rough brushes my leg through the black lacy gown, I glance down and softly laugh. The one-horned wyrm warbles his familiar trilling sound while nudging my leg. Ever since Kyan left, Happ has kept close to me, much to Jinxy’s chagrin. On my other side, my little fox bats his tails at my leg, seeking attention.
I gather both of them into my arms, heaving from the effort. With Happ’s wings and Jinxy’s tails, they are a little heavier than Aislynn. But they’re my babies, too. I smile as I consider the contrast between the scaly one in my left arm and the soft, furry one in my right. They are little more than children’s age, though Jinxy is an old soul, thanks to his innate Rook magic.
