Blood Redemption (22 page)

Marquis shifted his weight more fully onto his knees and leaned forward over Saber’s
body. “As true and as certain as your death,” he replied. With that, he drew back
his powerful arm, plunged forward with all of his might, and burrowed deep into the
chest cavity, where he grasped the Dark One’s heart.

“Easy now, Warrior.”

Napolean Mondragon’s powerful voice reverberated in the cell, even as his noble hand
tightened deftly around Marquis’s fist, which was still lodged in Saber’s chest. The
wise king bore down with a gentle but exacting pressure, holding both Marquis’s hand
and the fragile organ tenuously in place. “Let’s not act too hastily,” he crooned,
as if to a small child.

The king had appeared out of thin air, and Marquis looked up at him in astonishment,
even as Saber fought not to writhe in torment, lest he dislodge his own beating heart.

While Saber panted in agony, the Ancient One calmly turned his head to regard the
sentinels. “Ramsey.” He spoke quietly, deliberately, as if he weren’t actually holding
the lives of several people in his hands, literally balancing life and death in his
cautious, all-powerful fingers. “Get Vanya out of here. Take her to Kagen’s clinic,
now
.” He gestured toward a pair of diamond-encrusted shackles hanging on the guard-room
wall, and inclined his head toward Santos. “Warrior, bring those for the prisoner….then
depart.”

The sentinels obeyed immediately. Ramsey stepped to Vanya, wrapped one powerful arm
around her back, the other beneath her legs, and lifted her effortlessly to his chest,
strolling out of the cell as if she weighed no more than a feather, even in her condition.
Santos followed suit: He quickly removed the manacles from their peg and laid them
noiselessly on the ground beside the king. And then, with a graceful nod of his head,
he simply dematerialized.

Napolean locked gazes with Marquis next. He transferred a visible light from his own
silver-lined pupils into the Ancient Master Warrior’s blue-black orbs, and spoke in
a dark, velvety voice, deeply laced with coercion: “Marquis…
r
elease his heart
. Slowly.” His eyes never left the warrior’s.

Marquis’s fist opened of its own accord, and the huge warrior rose from the ground
and floated backward through the air like a ghostly apparition, transplanted several
feet away. The king had taken absolute control of Marquis’s body with his mind. He
had broken his hold, levitated the giant vampire backward, and removed him from the
volatile situation as if the ferocious warrior were nothing more than an afterthought.
By the look on Marquis’s face, the ancient son of Jadon was as surprised by the sudden
turn of events as Saber.

“Leave us now,” Napolean said to Marquis. His tone was no-nonsense. Softening it a
bit, he added, “Go take a walk. Clear your head.
Feed
.”

Marquis grunted his disapproval, perhaps disorientation, and then he slowly shook
out the cobwebs and strolled out the guard-room door.

Saber groaned. Not only was he in insufferable pain, but he was now alone with the
most formidable being on the planet. His eyes moistened with pain-filled tears as
he fought for breath that just wouldn’t come. He half wondered if he wasn’t already
dead, half wished that he was, just to escape the agony.

It was unbearable.

Beyond anything he had ever endured before.

“Shh…breathe,” Napolean whispered, turning his full attention on Saber. He blew a
soft, breath toward Saber’s scalp, effortless and calm, and the pain from the burns
cooled instantly.

At least it was something.

Raising his free hand to his mouth, Napolean extracted several drops of venom onto
the pad of his forefinger, drew a line along the deep circular incision beneath Saber’s
hairline, and watched as the wound closed up as if it had never been. He repeated
the process, healing the wicked gash in Saber’s side. He then stared fixedly at Saber’s
open chest cavity and ever so slowly, carefully, began to massage the serrated organ
back into place. He raised his free hand to his mouth once more and fully released
his incisors in order to discharge more venom.

A lot more venom
.

He gathered the healing fluid in his palm, lavishly coated each of his fingers with
the viscous substance, and then he bent forward to insert a second hand into the gaping
wound, where he continued to knead the heart.

Saber jackknifed off the ground.

His back contorted in a terrible arc of pain, and he began to curse uncontrollably
in Romanian—perhaps interspersing a bit of Farsi and Japanese, who knew—while sucking
in air like a vacuum. His collapsed lung began to slowly inflate, even as his heart
knit back together, and the air gradually returned to his body.

“You think this is pain?” Napolean whispered hauntingly. “This is nothing.” He shifted
his gaze from Saber’s chest to his face, and continued speaking coolly: “If Vanya
dies, I will play in your heart for hours, shredding it, then healing it, slashing
your aorta to pieces only to repair it, until I finally tire of the game—which I suspect
could take weeks, perhaps months.” His resolve was as savage as his tone, despite
the calm, cool expression on his face.

Saber swallowed his fear. He had no doubt that the ancient king meant every word he
had spoken. He breathed a sigh of relief as the pain began to ebb; and then he locked
his gaze with the king’s as cautiously as he could. “Let me try and convert her,”
he said, knowing it was a long shot. Feeling as if he owed himself, if not the Ancient
One before him, at least some explanation, he added, “I didn’t know.” He repeated
the words with surprising sincerity. “I swear,
I didn’t know
.”

Napolean eyed him sideways. “What didn’t you know, Saber? That you were impregnating
her, or that she had to be converted first?”

Saber glanced away—but only momentarily. Now was not the time to lie to this king,
and he was trying to gather his thoughts. “Either…both.”

Napolean’s eyes flashed crimson, and a low, almost indiscernible growl rumbled in
his throat. “Explain yourself, son.
N
ow
.”

Saber recoiled at the command. He resented this male almost as much as Salvatore,
but now was not the time…

He inhaled deeply and tried to answer the question in as civil a tone as possible.
“I don’t deny that I knew…something…that I was aware she was my
destiny
, and that the whole purpose behind the Blood Moon was to fulfill the demands of the
Curse. But it was more like I felt it, remembered it. I didn’t consciously will it.
At least I don’t think I did. I just wanted to…exist…without pain; and somehow, that
must have transferred into intention.”

Napolean took Saber’s full measure, those severe, mystical eyes boring so deep into
his that it felt like the Ancient One was probing his mind. But he wasn’t. He didn’t
have to. He simply assessed him carefully and nodded calmly. “Go on.”

Saber took another deep breath, knowing that his next words would seal his fate. “As
far as conversion, the fact that she isn’t Vampyr…” His voice trailed off, and he
sighed. “You have to understand, as a soldier born into the house of Jaegar”—he caught
the slip and sought to rectify it—“
b
rought
into the house of Jaegar”—
d
amn, the
admission
was killing him!
—
“we never talked about the Blood Moon, not in that way. How could I have known? I
mean, who was there to teach me…about the Curse…the way it worked in the house of
Jadon? Damien?
Salvatore?
There were no circumstances under which I would have ever considered the thirty days
following a Blood Moon or what it really entailed. In truth, it never occurred to
me that she had to be converted first.” He held his tongue then, letting his words
linger, knowing that the king had never heard him speak a sincere, uncorrupted word
since that fateful day in the valley when his body didn’t burn. Truth be told, the
Ancient One probably didn’t even realize a Dark One was capable of candor…that
Saber
was capable of honesty.

He was.

He just didn’t choose it that often: Outside of his interactions with Damien, Diablo,
and Dane, it wasn’t usually the best tactic.

But this was different.

This was about earning the opportunity to try and save Vanya, to try and save his
unborn son. While wanting to save the latter was an obvious motivation—his son would
be his own flesh and blood, independent of what house he was born into—the desire
to save Vanya was more of a mystery to him: He hadn’t been raised to care about females
or citizens outside of the house of Jaegar. And maybe
care
was too alien of a word. Too strong?
Too different
. But just the same, he desperately wanted to try.

There was something so inherently wrong with what had happened: He and Vanya had made
a trade, an even exchange.

She had come to him without an agenda, save only to try and lessen his pain, however
ill-conceived her compassion might have been. And he had taken her up on the bargain.
Hell, he had taken her virginity and allowed her body to give him momentary sanctuary…however
it had occurred. And that meant something to Saber. His word—dark as it may be—was
still
his
word. Could he kill an innocent as prey? Yes, without hesitation. Could he plot and
scheme and callously use his enemy to achieve his own ends? Been there; done that;
tossed the tee-shirt. But could he lure Vanya to his bed in a moment of raw, uninhibited
need; convince her to step outside the boundaries of both their worlds; and then murder
her for consenting so loyally?

Not in this life or the next.

He may not have a soul, but such a thing went against the very fiber of his being.
Whatever that was.

Napolean shook his head slowly, bringing Saber back into the present moment. He seemed
to consider his next words carefully, before clearing his throat. “And it also never
occurred to you that Vanya was a cherished female,
an original princess
, when you stole her innocence and took her body so selfishly…in this filthy cell,
I might add.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Saber was not about to respond rashly. He had to control his anger, keep a handle
on his defiance. After all, he had his own agenda. Still, who the hell were these
males to constantly demean his motivations, to treat him like he wasn’t a grown-ass
male, capable of handling his own
destiny
? Respect, he didn’t expect. But recognition? He felt it was his due. Dark Ones may
have been soulless, a separate species in their own right, but they were still soldiers,
males—
vampires
—and they had come from the same legacy of celestial gods and humans as the sons of
Jadon. “She came to me,” Saber whispered, hoping not to provoke Napolean’s wrath but
determined to stand his ground.

“Excuse me?” Napolean said. His voice was laced with warning.

“Vanya,” Saber reiterated. “She came to me…on more than one occasion. The fact that
I was in a filthy cell—that wasn’t my call.”

Napolean chuckled, slowly, deeply. And the sound was akin to a set of brass claws
being raked across a blackboard, chilling in its dissonance. “You’re right; it wasn’t
your call. Your call was to go after Kristina Silivasi, to attack Nachari’s
destiny
, to act in a way that guaranteed your death and execution,
b
y me
.” He rocked back on his heels and glared at Saber in challenge, all the while continuing
to make repairs in his heart as if the two motivations were wholly separate. “
My call
,” he continued malevolently, “was to let you live…while we watched you…see if there
was anything worth saving in your blackened heart.” He narrowed his gaze, and his
piercing eyes contracted into two tiny slits, the silver centers glowing with barely
restrained wrath, even as he tightened his grip on Saber’s heart. “Tell me I was wrong,
and I will rectify it now.”

Saber swallowed a buildup of saliva. He swallowed his retort, and he swallowed his
pride. “I don’t know,” he said evenly, “if there’s anything but blackness in my heart.”
It was the frankest admission he had made yet. “But last night, it wasn’t about that…hatred…
or
what you call love.”

“What was it about then?” Napolean murmured.

Saber looked away, glancing off into the distance at a spot on the wall. “It was about
a son who had just watched his father get executed.” His eyes met Napolean’s once
more in the briefest of contact; but the intensity was too much to withstand so he
looked away again. “And a brother who had just watched”—he bit his lip and swallowed
a droplet of blood—“just watched his ally, his friend and brother, get slaughtered.”
He winced. “It was about falling…hell, spinning.” He tilted his head to the side swiftly,
cracking his neck as if he could snap the pain away. “Reeling.” His shoulders stiffened.
“And it was about a woman who, for whatever reason, had the power to make it all go
away. For a minute. Just one minute.” He closed his eyes in shame, hating that Napolean
had witnessed his grief so intimately in the Red Canyons, despising that he was surely
witnessing it now.

When Napolean didn’t speak—not a single word—Saber began to feel cornered, exposed,
inexplicably pressured. He forced himself to regard the fearsome leader of the house
of Jadon straight on, while he let his next words fly. “You are the king of the house
of Jadon, right? Hell, king of the whole freakin’ world. You’ve always known about
the Curse, about
destinies
, and protocol…and honor. Yet, even possessing all that wisdom, can you tell me you
never crossed a line, played hard and fast with the rules?” He continued to stare
directly at him, refusing to blink or look away. “Can you tell me you never felt the
weight of the world on your shoulders and wanted to ease the pain in the wrong set
of arms? In
Vanya’s
arms?”

Napolean jolted.

And then he froze.

Not a single muscle twitched. Not a hair on his head rustled. He simply stared back
at Saber with a look of fierce incredulity on his face, his jaw set in a hard line.
“You’ve glimpsed her memories?”

Saber shrugged.