Blood Redemption (26 page)

Saber pressed both palms flat against the rough mosaic tiles in front of him. He shifted
his weight onto his rear leg, arched his back, tilted his head, and closed his eyes,
as the warm water rained down on him, the large, circular showerhead providing a steady
stream from above. It had been seventeen hours since his son was born, sixteen since
he had made the required sacrifice, and this was the first chance he had had to reflect
on the day’s events. The water felt incredible, better than anything he had experienced
in a long time. Blinking several times to rinse the soap from his eyes, he watched
as foamy gobs of shampoo and body-wash rolled off his chest, fell to the shower floor,
and snaked in haphazard streams down the spherical drain.

What in the world was he supposed to do now?

He let his head fall forward, allowing the water to wash away his stress, if only
for a moment, while he replayed the sequence of events in his mind.

Vanya’s pregnancy had proceeded in a normal, uneventful manner, at least as far as
pregnancies in the house of Jadon were concerned. She had chosen to remain asleep
for the duration of the ordeal—perhaps it was a reaction to the conversion, or perhaps
she couldn’t bear to spend one more moment than necessary with the fire-breathing
dragon she had come to despise.

Saber
.

Saber took in a mouthful of water, rinsed the remaining residue of toothpaste out
of his mouth, and spit it on the shower floor. What did it matter why she had chosen
to remain unconscious for the birth of their son? The outcome was the same. Saber
had sat alone in the dark, beside the princess, as she slept on the gurney. He had
kept one hand firmly on her belly in order to block the discomfort of her pregnancy,
hold it in his own body, instead, while she had remained unconscious, no doubt, dreaming
of better days.

Days without Saber.

As if that had not been degrading enough, Napolean Mondragon had coached him telepathically
throughout the entire process; and while the king was at least judicious enough to
wait outside the curtain, allow them some small measure of privacy, his overwhelming
presence had felt like an iron fetter around Saber’s neck.

He had not even been allowed to catch his own son as he materialized.

Kagen had done it for him.

Saber shifted his weight from his left leg to his right, stretching the opposite calf.
Kagen Silivasi had cradled Saber’s newborn son in his arms
, while Napolean Mondragon had stepped beyond the curtain to receive the Dark One,
keeping him securely tucked in his ancient arms. Saber had followed behind like a
servant, accompanying the implacable king to the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement
in order to relinquish the child to the Blood. In order to recite the required supplication.

He didn’t even know if Vanya had named the Light One.

He ran his hands through his hair, combing it out with his fingers, his thumb and
forefinger working through a particularly thick mass of black-and-red tangles. Had
Vanya been excited when
Kagen
awakened her? Had she reached out for the babe, or turned away in disgust?

Saber had no idea.

He only knew that he had left the room like a banished specter, cast out into the
night, with the unwanted, unnamed one to fulfill the demands of the Curse. And wasn’t
that just the most contrary, offensive experience of his life.

Saber had been raised in the house of Jaegar—not the house of Jadon. His whole life,
he had expected to see two dark sons emerge from a tortured soul, a human woman who
would be no more than an incubator for his future, should he have ever chosen to pursue
that eventuality. He had simply accepted that the demands of the Curse were inevitable:
The firstborn child would be relinquished to the Blood, while the second born would
return with him to the colony, to be raised as his own cherished offspring. Never,
in eight hundred years, had he expected to see two distinctly opposite twins: one
born with coal black hair, absent of even the hint of red tendrils; the other bearing
the signature
crown of the cobra
, a brand identifying him as dark, soulless, and damned. It had seemed impossible,
wrong, and foreign to every cell in his body to take that child of the Curse to a
platform, exalting a granite altar, and place him in a smooth, rounded basin while
a dark, inky fog swirled eerily around him. To watch as the Blood shrieked, gloated,
and claimed the evil offspring…until the child was no more.

For a moment, Saber had struggled against his own impulse to oppose Napolean and the
whole damn Curse, to snatch the child from the basin, return him to his rightful home
in the Dark Ones’ colony, and to go back to life as it was supposed to be. As he had
been raised to believe it one day would be. But for the first time, he had known that
he had to submit, allow fate to unfold against his will, acquiesce to the vilest of
revengeful omens.

After all, the truth was no longer deniable: Saber Alexiares had been born to Rafael
and Lorna Dzuna, into the
house of Jadon
. He was ruled by a celestial deity—not a dark lord—
Se
rpens
, the god of transformation, to be exact. And that same god had heard his plea for
mercy in a moment of absolute confusion and desperation. He had spared Vanya and his
rightful son.

Saber shook his head briskly, wishing he could just wash it all away. Wake up from
what surely had to be a never-ending nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

And he couldn’t.

He reached forward to turn up the hot water, aggressively adjusting the spray until
it was nearly scalding his skin. The heat felt stimulating on his back, cleansing,
somehow purging in light of all the recent events.

Saber could not have saved that child without condemning himself to die.

Not only would the Blood have come for him at the end of the thirty-day Serpens Moon;
but after his agonizing and vengeful death, he would have spent all of eternity in
the Valley of Death and Shadows, having forfeited his immortal soul. A soul he didn’t
even know he had a month ago.

And beyond that inescapable truth, the dark offspring would have been like him, a
son without a home, a being without a people. Even if the house of Jadon had let the
creature live, which was doubtful, what would he have grown up to be? A murderer?
A rapist? A dark cauldron of hatred and base instincts who sought only to destroy
and procreate? Would he have turned out like Salvatore Nistor?

Saber slammed two fists against the tile wall, immediately checking to see if he had
broken any bones. He then scanned the mosaic to see if he had damaged any of Napolean’s
rare, expensive tiles. Nope, they were still in place:
T
hank
the lords
for little favors
. It was just that he couldn’t wrap his head around all this darkness and light. Saber
believed that his sons, both of them, deserved to have life; but that was because
he was viewing the world through the lens of his own existence. As much as it pained
him to admit it, he had always had a soul; and that meant that even in his darkest
hour, he had seen the world differently than the other males around him. There had
been something, however small, redeemable in his heart. How could he understand, then,
the type of monster his dark son would grow up to be? Sure, he had lived with them—in
the case of Damien, Dane, and Diablo, he had even cared deeply for them. Loved them.
But that was because in his own demented way
he could love
.

“Shit,” he whispered beneath his breath. It was all just too much to consider.

And it was all water under the bridge anyhow, too late to go back and change things.

Saber bit his bottom lip so hard that he drew a trickle of blood, wishing he could
call on his father—on Damien, that is—and just talk to the male. Try to understand
why he had done what he had.

Ask him for advice…

Punch him right between the eyes and pummel his smug face until his jaw caved in.

And wasn’t that really the crux of it?

Damien had made the most selfish, destructive choice imaginable when he had taken
Saber from Rafael and Lorna, and what the hell had he been thinking, anyway? Did he
really believe it would never come out…be discovered? That the two distinctly different
fates, those awaiting the males in the house of Jaegar versus those awaiting the males
in the house of Jadon, would never rear their inevitable heads?

Gods
…
Dark Lords
—
whatever
the heck he was supposed to pray to now—
what had the fool been thinking
?

As the water began to turn cold—he had been in the shower so long his skin was beginning
to shrivel up—Saber couldn’t help but wonder
what if
. What if Damien had never made that ill-fated choice? What if he had left him in
the house of Jadon? Sure, he would’ve grown up surrounded by a bunch of arrogant,
sanctimonious, jackasses; and he would’ve probably been sporting some ridiculous title
like Master Wizard or Master Warrior about now—although he had to admit, both Nachari
and Marquis Silivasi were a couple of bad-ass vampires—but at least he would have
been prepared for his Blood Moon. He would have known what it meant; and he might
have approached Vanya differently.

He might still have his son.

As it stood, what did he have now? He had lost the house of Jaegar, his father, and
his brother.

And he had lost his child. And the princess.

He winced at the realization: What did that mean, anyhow? Saber knew about as much
concerning relationships and love as a fish knew about a bicycle. The two articles
were simply diametrically opposed: Saber and love. Still, he did know something about
family…and loyalty. He knew how to hold onto what was his and how to fight for his
tribe.

He knew…something.

He knew…nothing.

Not a damn thing.

Unable to withstand the cold, frigid water that was now pouring out of the spigot,
he turned off the spray, reached for a large white towel, wrapped it around his waist,
and stepped out of the shower. He had to stop
thinking
. His head was going to explode.

He regarded a pile of fresh new clothes, stacked neatly on a knee-high, folding table
beside the bathroom door, and almost smiled.
Almost
. It would take a heck of a lot more than some fresh duds to raise his spirits at
this juncture; but still, the idea of a fresh pair of Jockey shorts, some clean cotton
socks, and a new pair of smooth black jeans to cover his neglected body with, at this
point, sounded pretty good. The crisp red shirt and the sturdy Timberline boots were
a welcome sight for sore eyes in their own right.

He dressed quickly, ran his fingers through his hair one last time to remove any remaining
tangles—at least push it away from his face—and then he stepped outside the door into
the clean, night air.

Napolean was waiting as expected. “Saber,” the monarch said, taking Saber’s full measure
with a subtle, almost indiscernible, sweep of his eyes.

How was he supposed to address him
now
?
Saber wondered.
Ah, hell
… “Milord,” Saber replied. The word would never fit nicely on his tongue, but Saber
was just too tired, too emotionally exhausted, to fight the whole free world this
night.

Maybe tomorrow.

“You look better,” Napolean commented halfheartedly.

Saber smirked. “Yeah.”

To Napolean’s credit, the king did not try to fill the silence with words. He simply
stared off into the distance at a large grouping of pine trees, and Saber followed
his gaze. The night was quiet, peaceful. The sky was a deep, midnight blue, and there
were stars shining as far as the eye could see.
How ironic
, Saber thought absently. He watched as a blazing torch shot across the darkened canvas
at dizzying speed, a shooting star, a meteor, burning out in the earth’s atmosphere
in real time, maybe milliseconds, after possibly existing in the cosmos for millions
of years…or more.

Saber couldn’t help but find the omen appropriate. “So what now?” he finally asked.

Napolean shrugged. “Indeed, that is the question.”

Saber restrained a smart-mouthed retort. He wasn’t in the mood for posturing. “So
am I free then?”

Napolean shook his head slowly, his deep, dark eyes, always brimming with silver light
in the centers, growing even darker with intensity. “Are you?”

Saber sighed in frustration. “No riddles, Napolean.” He caught the disrespect and
tried to rectify it. “Please, milord, not tonight.”

“No riddles,” Napolean agreed. “Only truth.”

Saber waited, not entirely sure if he was ready to hear this new
truth
.

“If you’re asking, are you going to be restrained, taken back to the cell? Then the
answer is no. So, I guess, in that sense, you are free,” Napolean said. “But no one
is going to hold your hand, or try and lead you back to the light, either.”

Saber squared his shoulders, facing the powerful monarch directly. “You trust me?
To move freely through Dark Moon Vale?”

Napolean chuckled then, the sound utterly absent of humor. “Trust you? No. I don’t
think you even trust yourself at this juncture.” He brushed a seeking mosquito off
his arm. “But the thing is: I don’t have to trust you, Saber. I took your blood. I
can feel you, sense you, no matter where you are. And unlike any other vampire walking
this earth, I possess a unique ability.”

When the king did not elaborate on the statement, Saber decided to just bite the bullet
and ask: “And that is?”

“I can kill from a distance.”

Despite himself, Saber shuddered. Although his curious mind wanted to inquire
how
, he thought better of it and simply nodded instead. “So if I mess up, I’ll just,
what? Drop dead?”

“Pretty much,” Napolean said, his tone betraying no humor. “Only it won’t be quite
that pleasant.”