Blood Redemption (28 page)

“Mm…maybe just a little bit,” Vanya said.

Ciopori chuckled softly, but the compassion in her voice betrayed her regret. “Tell
me,” she coaxed. “Your thoughts.”

Vanya dropped her head into her hands and simply shook her head. “He’s living in a
cave,” she whispered. “Just like in my dream.” She raised her eyes in order to meet
Ciopori’s searching gaze. “Napolean gave him money, but we all know he hates the sun,
more than most of us can fathom. And I imagine growing up in the colony, underground
in a lair, there’s probably some strange comfort in burrowing deep into a mountain…”
Her voice trailed off. What was the use?
Gods be merciful
;
he was
living in a
cave
.

Ciopori stroked Vanya’s hair softly. “I know, sweetie. And I’m so sorry.”

Vanya nodded absently. “Sometimes I think my cell is going to ring, or there’s going
to be a knock on the door, and it’s going to be Napolean calling to tell me that it’s
finally over. That Saber gave into some dark impulse or another, perhaps he killed
a human or lashed out at someone in the house of Jadon, and the king has finally…put
him down.” She cringed. “And the worst part is: I would almost be relieved, thankful
to hear it, because waiting for it, never knowing when it’s going to come, is torture.”
She stirred restlessly then. “During the conversion, in the very beginning, he was
chanting, almost singing to me in Romanian, which was so
intimate
and powerful. Surprisingly gentle. It was so beautiful, Ciopori. And how could something
so beautiful come from someone so dark?”

Ciopori exhaled slowly. “Can you tell me what he said?”

Vanya smiled. “He said, ‘Fi linistita, Micuta. Vino departe cu mine. Asculta vocea
mea. Pluteste...pluteste…departe. Totul este bine,
totul
este
bine
, totul va fi facut sa fie bine.’” 

Ciopori drew back. “Be still, little one. Come away with me. Listen to my voice. Float...float…away.
All is well,
all
is
well
, all will be made well.”

“Yes,” Vanya said. “He knew I was in a place so
elemental
that I couldn’t hear in English. He just instinctively knew that I needed to hear
him speak in my native tongue.” She paused briefly. “And it wasn’t the first time—he
did it once before.”

Ciopori placed a soft kiss on the crown of Vanya’s head. “I see.” When Nikolai set
his stuffed tiger aside, crawled into Vanya’s lap, and reached up to give his aunt
a big, slobbery kiss of his own, both females chuckled.

“Thank you, Niko,” Vanya said. She scooped the child into her arms, in order to hold
him close, and then she paused to select her next words carefully. “He never had a
chance, you know. Saber, I mean. And I don’t mean from us, the house of Jadon, I mean
in life, from the day he was born. Ultimately, he’s still responsible for every choice
he’s made—every soul alive is—but still…”

“Still?”

“It’s just so unfair.”

“On that point, we truly agree, sister,” Ciopori said.

Vanya stiffened. “And gods forgive me for saying it—because I know Saber never would—but
wherever Damien Alexiares is, I hope he is suffering.
I
mmensely
.”

Ciopori smiled. “Me, too.”

Vanya pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, struggling to contain her emotions;
she refused to shed unwanted tears over the likes of Saber Alexiares,
destiny
or not. “Nachari says he hasn’t fed—not in weeks—maybe not since the night of my
conversion when Napolean gave him blood to help him…so he could help me. It’s been
six weeks.”

Ciopori squeezed her shoulder. “He won’t starve, sister. He’s a survivor. He’ll feed
eventually.”

“Without killing his prey?” Vanya said.

Ciopori wisely avoided the question. “Your heart isn’t just hurting, is it?” she asked.
“It’s breaking.”

Vanya shook her head slowly then. “No, I have Lucien, our son, and a bright future
ahead.” She cleared her throat and steadied her resolve. “Once Lucien is old enough
to travel, probably around three months, we’ll return to Romania. It should be easier
then, with some distance. It’s not like I want to undo anything, change it. Saber
is who he is. And honestly, I don’t think he can change, not even if he wanted to.
It’s just…difficult. That’s all.” She took a deep breath and held it in a few seconds
longer than was natural. “And as for my heart? It is…painful…at times—sometimes it
actually feels as if it’s bleeding—but it’s also healing. Truly.” She handed Nikolai
to his mother, stood up, and made her way to the stroller, where she lifted her own
newborn son out of the cradle and held him to her heart, needing to feel the sweet
warmth and promise of her future. “We are survivors, too, you know.”

Ciopori balanced Nikolai on her hip, rose to her feet, and nodded with compassion.
“I know, sister. I know. So let us pray then that your healing is swift and complete.”

Saber dusted a scattering of sandy earth off his jeans and wiped his brow. With a
lack of anything better to do, he had spent the last six weeks pouring his energy
into mindless work: excavating a large, hidden cave he had discovered at the outskirts
of the Red Canyons and renovating the inside to reflect a modern, architectural wonder.
He had called upon many of the skills he had learned over the long centuries of his
life: basic carpentry as well as artistic woodworking; the ability to sculpt clay
and stone in his powerful hands; his innate understanding of color, contrast, and
harmony in order to paint, tile, and mold each crevice, each rocky ledge, into an
original work of art, even as each remained a naturally occurring phenomenon. He chewed
on his bottom lip as he stepped back to survey the entrance to his dwelling.

He had carved a sophisticated arch into the apex of the opening, supporting it with
two large wooden beams, shaped roughly like Roman pillars, only far more rustic and
reflective of the native landscape and surroundings. He studied the carved images
of an eagle, a mountain lion, and a bear he had whittled into the wood by torchlight,
searching for minor imperfections, unfinished slopes, and angles that were not yet
perfected, before he set about the task of staining the individual totems in the likeness
of their woodland counterparts.

The whole thing was ludicrous, really. What difference did it make if he hunkered
down in a cavern fit for a king, or a muddy hole in the ground, like a rodent? Either
way, his life had no meaning anymore. It was tedious, monotonous, and without purpose.
And trying to stay three steps ahead of this reality with grueling, mind-numbing work
didn’t quite cut it. His impulses nagged at him constantly. He wanted to fight, to
hunt, to
kill
something, anything, just to feel alive again. He wanted to break the laws and provoke
Napolean’s wrath.

He wanted to see his son—at least to know his name.

He wanted to scream and shout and unleash his rage on the whole unsuspecting valley,
prove once and for all that he was a demon, a vampire, a soul drowning in the abyss
of his existence.

But he could hardly stand upright without swaying.

Saber Alexiares was hungry. Starving, really.

He was dying.

And that suited him just fine.

He reached into the leather belt firmly attached to his hips and withdrew a chisel
in order to work on the eagle’s beak, and then he stumbled sideways and had to catch
himself on a nearby pillar. “Son of a jackal!” he swore, feeling his head swim beneath
the dizziness, his vision go blurry before him.

He slowly slumped to the ground and rested his arms on his knees, waiting for the
vertigo to pass. He let his head fall back until it rested against the stone behind
him, and stared up at the sky. At least the night was littered with lots of stars,
and the moon was bright, offering him plenty of natural light. It was ridiculous that,
even after all this time, he still had to wait to work after dusk—that he still preferred
to avoid the sun. “I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbled angrily. “
I have to feed
.” But where could he go? He doubted he even possessed the strength to exert mind-control
over a human, and the blood of an animal would never sustain him. Not hardly.

So, where did that leave him?

In order to drink his fill, Saber would have to hunt like an animal. Stalk, attack,
and devour his prey. And then Napolean would kill him.

But if he didn’t hunt, he would die of starvation anyway: Either way, he was truly
and summarily screwed.

As his vision grew even dimmer, he felt his heart begin to slow, to beat at a pitiful,
lethargic pace, and for a moment, he almost welcomed what was coming next.

Death.

Final, inevitable, and longed for.

And then his survival instincts took over:
Diablo…

He sent the telepathic communication out into the cosmos on a private, familiar bandwidth,
not caring if Napolean intercepted it before it had a chance to be heard. If there
was one being on the face of the planet who would still welcome his communication,
feed him if he could, and if not, soften the blow of his final moments on earth, it
was his last remaining brother.
Diablo
!
He made the plea more insistent.
Can you still hear me?

Brother?
The answering reply swept swiftly into his mind.
Where are you
?

Saber sighed with relief.
Just on the edge of the Red Canyons, on the southwestern corner of the gorge, before
the valley merges into the thick of the forest
.

And you’re alone?
Diablo sounded incredulous.

Yes, they set me free
.

When!
Diablo demanded.

I don’t know
, Saber mumbled, feeling his life-force wane even further.
Weeks ago
.

And you’re just now calling me
?

Diablo
, Saber whispered.
I’m dying
.

The connection became silent for what seemed like an eternity.
How?

I need to feed
.

What the hell are you doing, Saber! What the hell has happened to you?
As always, Diablo led with anger first.
Come to the
c
olony—now
!

Can’t
, Saber said. His heart stopped for a series of two beats before beginning again,
and his stomach began to turn over in growing waves of nausea. When he didn’t get
a reply, he began to get concerned.

Diablo?

Still nothing.

Diablo!

Be quiet!
Diablo demanded.
I’m trying to listen…to hone in…to track the vibration of your blood
.

Hurry
, Saber said.
I don’t have a whole lot of
time…or a whole lot of
blood
left
to track
.

Shh
, Diablo repeated.

Then just like that, the air began to shift into subtle colors in front of him. At
first, Saber wasn’t sure if he was seeing a mirage, if his vision wasn’t, at last,
fading into blindness; but soon enough, the outline of a tall, muscular male with
deep, piercing eyes and red-and-black banded hair began to take form in front of him.

Saber’s mouth turned up in a half sneer, half smile as his brother fully emerged at
the cave’s entrance. “Diablo.”

Diablo smiled in return. “What’s up, son of Jadon.”

At first, Saber didn’t catch the slur. Everything was still so hazy. But when Diablo
took a swift step forward, wielding a deadly, sharpened scythe in his left hand, Saber
was sentient enough to understand that the weapon had no place in feeding. To his
own surprise, he didn’t react. After all, wasn’t that just the proverbial cherry on
top of the never-ending, jacked-up Sunday he had been scarfing down ever since the
day of his intended execution? So Diablo wasn’t there to feed him—he was there to
kill him.

“
Damn
,” Saber swore, pressing his palm against his stomach, trying to quell his nausea
at least long enough to talk some shit before he died. “So it’s like that?”

“Yeah,” Diablo snarled. “It’s just like that.” He bared his fangs and began to walk
in slow, predatory circles around Saber. “My twin is gone. My brother lives with the
enemy. And my father was executed for treason, all because he cared more about some
illegitimate, privileged son of Jadon than he did his own kind.”

Saber shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He wanted to see Diablo’s eyes.
“I never turned on you, Diablo. I never committed any treason.”

Diablo squatted down in front of Saber and brandished the scythe, turning it over,
then swiftly back and forth, in his iron fist, before pressing the blade taut against
Saber’s neck. “You’re one of them,” he whispered, his voice completely absent of affection
or compassion, almost as if it had never existed in the first place. “
You’re one of them, Saber
.”

Saber held up both hands in a gesture of surrender, and forced his head to nod toward
the cave. “Yeah, as you can see, the whole house of Jadon is out here with me. I’m
definitely in the inner circle.”

With a lightning-quick flick of the wrist, Diablo nicked Saber’s artery, stained the
scythe with his brother’s blood, and brought it up to his wicked lips to taste it.
As his tongue swept over the blade, he growled. “Tastes like the blood of a traitor
to me.”

Saber drew in a deep breath, and then he ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes
were stinging—and not from hunger and disorientation—but from pain.

And betrayal.

As much as he told himself it didn’t matter—what else could possibly happen?—he could
no longer maintain that nothing other than an organ beat in his chest.

Because this hurt.

It hurt somewhere he didn’t even know he had.

Diablo took a step back and laughed. “Damn, you really are one of them, aren’t you?”

Saber struggled to shift his weight onto his knees, first the right, and then the
left. “You know,” he bit out beneath the grueling effort, “until this very moment,
I would have argued that point with my dying breath.” He laughed then, not knowing
where he found the energy for sarcasm. “No pun intended.” He steadied both hands against
the ground to keep from toppling over. “Because until now, I never understood all
this talk about souls, how some vampires have them, why others don’t, what difference
it makes anyway.” In an act of total submission, he bowed his head as a sacrificial
offering. “But now…now I think I get it.”

Diablo regarded him suspiciously, raising the scythe in both a defensive as well as
threatening motion. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Saber said forlornly, “that the only reason I’m not going to draw on every
ounce of strength I have left in order to come off this ground and take you into the
afterlife with me is because I have a soul.” He paused to consider the utter absurdity
of it all. “And the reason you’re going to wield that scythe like the monster you
are—and take my life without consideration—is because you don’t. You were my brother,”
he whispered in resignation. “But I was never yours.”

Diablo stood like a granite statue: cold, hard, and unfeeling. “I feel sorry for you,
brother
. Maybe the next life will be better to you than this one.” With that, he raised the
scythe above his head and brought it down in one clean motion.