Blood Shadows (37 page)

And what in the world would happen next?

twenty-three

One Week Later

Deanna shut her eyes and poured all of her concentration into making her voice sound steady…even…unaffected. Kagen was knocking on the door for the third time in the last five minutes, and it was all she could do to hold it together. “I’m all right, Kagen,” she called out, the vise around her heart tightening with every word of the lie. “I’ll be out in a few. I just”—her voice began to quiver—“I just need a minute…alone.” She hoped it was good enough.

Kagen paused for a moment, no doubt trying to find a way to collect his own emotions. “Okay,” he murmured through the thick oak door, “but if you need us, we’re…” His voice trailed off. “You don’t have to be alone right now; that’s all.”

Deanna clutched the thick white bath towel wrapped around her slender body, her typically tan fingers turning blotchy red and white with the effort. “Thanks.” The word came out as a whisper. It was the best she could do.

The moment she heard Kagen’s footsteps recede from the door, she padded toward the shower like a robot, cold and unfeeling, and turned on the spray in an effort to create some white noise: to block out the world. Stepping away from the stall, she let the glass swing shut, and then she pressed her back against an adjacent wall and slowly slid down to the floor.

With her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, she drew in a deep, unsteady breath and began to tremble as the tears finally broke free.

They were out of time.

All of them.

Nachari.

Her.

The Silivasis…

The day had begun like any other, with one exception: The heavy awareness of time had risen with each of Nachari’s loved ones as they awoke from their slumber.

Day twenty-eight.

Fifty-seven hours until the end of the Blood Moon. A nine-hour window for Nachari to return. Even less time than that for Deanna and Nachari to conceive a son
in time…

To avoid the ultimate penalty of the Blood Curse.

Deanna had been a nervous wreck all day, waiting on pins and needles for some miraculous event to take place: half expecting to see the Master Wizard levitate from the bed like a true vampire of old, rising from a coffin, and half expecting to see him stroll into the lobby as if nothing had ever happened, wearing that infamous smile so many of his friends and family had told her about. She had battled terrible fear—what if he actually showed up? What if he never did?—and the uncertainty had taken its toll. She had already taken three cold showers, hoping to shock her system into some sort of normalcy, to clear her mind; and she had jumped at every knock on the door, every creak of the building beneath the gusty wind.

What she wanted more than life itself, she feared more than death itself—for Nachari to return in time. And if he did, she would likely run the other way. And if he didn’t…she would never be the same.

She wasn’t even human anymore.

Dearest angels in heaven, what had she done?

As the seconds ticked by, minutes passing as slowly as hours, she battled both terror and relief, guilt and remorse. She soothed herself, forgave herself, and hated herself all at the same time.

Now, staring absently into the shower, she watched as the cold spray hit the mosaic tiles, met in a swirl at the center, and rapidly disappeared down the drain. A part of her wished she could blend her essence with the water and simply wash it all away. Wash
herself
away.

“Oh, God,” she murmured, hugging her knees to her chest and hiccupping a sob. “Help me.” She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and glanced up at the solar clock for the millionth time: It was six-fifteen PM. The sun would be setting in thirty-seven minutes—and wasn’t that just an appropriate end to a horrifying situation—and Nachari had simply not returned. There had been no miraculous resurrection, no peaceful rise from slumber, no trumpets sounding to herald his return.

Absolutely nothing had happened.

An inappropriate laugh escaped Deanna’s throat, the sound a mixture of nervousness and incredulity: If she wasn’t pregnant in the next forty-five minutes—
pregnant in the next forty-five minutes!
—Nachari was dead. And his brothers would be—

She slammed her hands over her ears and pressed hard. No
. No!
She couldn’t think of their devastation, their grief…the funeral. Her body began to slowly rock back and forth as her mind clung to a very thin thread of sanity.

Get up. Get dressed
, she told herself.
Yes, fix your hair and put on clothes. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t….don’t….don’t…

Anything.

Nachari Silivasi ran both fingers through his thick, wavy hair and paced along the uneven stone floor, his heart pounding in his chest.
By all the gods,
we are
running out of
time! Where the hell
is
Noiro?

His mind was swimming with thoughts—recalculating his every move, questioning his every decision: Had he pushed Noiro hard enough? Had he emphasized the importance of the timing strongly enough? Had Ademordna found out? Was Noiro dead? Was it over?

Deanna.

What was she going through right now?

She had to be half mad with anxiety and dread, fearing his return yet dreading his loss.

Confused!

She had to be in a living hell all her own.

And his brothers—were they providing her comfort or coming unglued themselves?

He threw his head back and shouted his frustration. Tears stung his angry eyes, he grit his teeth, and he slowly exhaled. “Lord Perseus,” he cried, knowing nothing else to do, “for the sake of all that’s holy…for my brothers…for Shelby…for
me
. Please…I have yet to curse you; I have yet to ask you why; but now I am begging you—get me out of here!”

A key turned in the lock, and Nachari spun around swiftly, half expecting to see the Celestial god himself walk through the door.

When Noiro entered, dressed in a tight black mini dress and heels, her hair shimmering flame red, he felt a moment’s disorientation. And then he quickly recovered. “Do you have them? The remaining talismans?” He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

Noiro smiled as if they had all the time in the world. At least she had replaced her customary jagged fangs with the illusion of straight white teeth. “So anxious, are we, lover?”

Nachari took a deep breath and nodded, staring down at the ornamental box in her hands. “We are committing treason,” he reminded her.

“For love?” she asked whimsically.

There were only so many lies a being could tell before they no longer sounded believable. “For vengeance…and a child,” he reminded her. “Perhaps love will come in time.”

Noiro rolled her eyes. “You do realize, Wizard, that I may be banned from the underworld for all time—that I am trusting you with my eternal soul?” She frowned then. “Will you ever come to love me?”

For
the gods’
sakes
, Nachari thought. The witch was a demon. “Taste my answer,” he said convincingly. And with that, he encircled her waist with one strong hand, pulled her tight against him, and covered her mouth with his. He poured all of his longing, desperation, and desire to return home into the kiss, leaving the stunned demoness breathless. When at last he pulled away, she stumbled to regain her balance.

Nachari opened the rectangular box and sighed a deep exhale of relief as he stared down at the small scorpion and spider, both oozing darkness and lethal energy. “From the western and southern kingdoms?” he asked, just to be sure.

Noiro smoothed her dress. “Y…y…y…yes,” she stuttered, “of course.”

“Good.” Nachari immediately spun around and crossed the floor to retrieve the other two talismans—the frog and the snake—and set them carefully on a makeshift stone altar he had constructed beside the bed. Kneeling before the aberration, he laid both hands across the stone, palms up, and began to chant an ancient incantation.

As the frog began to croak, the snake slithered over his wrist and bit him. As the scorpion stung him again and again, the spider pierced his skin and began to burrow beneath the outer layer. Yet Nachari held fast—chanting and praying and visualizing the way home.

Noiro crept up behind him and placed both hands on his shoulders. “I will be right behind you, lover. Do not forget your promise.” Her words were as much a threat as a reminder.

In an instant, Noiro and Nachari were flying backward, speeding through a narrow tunnel at a pace that defied comprehension. Darkness swirled around them, endless gradations of gray, black, and divergent light. Shrieks, moans, and shrill cries of agony rang through the air like symbols clashing against one another. As they sped further and further away from the Abyss, the terrible sounds grew fainter and fainter.

Noiro kept her eyes focused on the wizard’s back so she wouldn’t lose her way. His ever-increasing spirit of light acted as a lantern, guiding them both through the cavern from hell as a Magick more powerful than any she had ever seen conjured by an earthbound soul drew them earth-ward. She smiled inwardly, knowing the wizard’s true plan—yet trusting her own implicitly.

Noiro, the twin dark energy of Orion, was not stupid.

She was as old as time, as dark as night, as cunning as a fox, and she knew what she wanted: to rule the Middle Kingdom of hell. And for that, she needed a son of unequaled power and strength. She wanted the prowess and stealth of the Vampyr, the Magick and authority of a Master Wizard, and the darkness and cunning of a demon to embody the child who would usher her rise into power.

And she wanted revenge on the dark lord Ademordna.

Of course, Nachari would seek to trick her. He would run into the arms of his and the honor of his house; and through it all, his immortal soul would remain protected by his carefully crafted lies. But it wouldn’t matter—in the least.
destiny

She was a demon, a dark deity, a goddess over their kind. He was no match for her, and he never would be.

Noiro shut her eyes—only for a second—in order to savor her soon-to-be victory: Nachari would enter the earth through the portal in which he left, the meadow by the cabins. She, however, would enter in Deanna’s room. She would kill the
destiny
; rape the wizard; and return to hell impregnated before Ademordna even knew she was gone. Of course, she could blame the pregnancy on any number of sadistic rapists.

The point was—the vampire’s escape would become legend in the underworld, no doubt talked about for eternity, and so would the name of her son.

twenty-four

Deanna sat down on the soft queen-sized bed in her private quarters; she just couldn’t bear to wait another moment in Nachari’s room. She avoided looking at the clock on purpose. There was really no point—she knew what time it was: six-thirty PM. In one-half hour, Nachari would be as good as dead, and they could all begin the process of making final arrangements, preparing his unconscious body for the Death Chamber—and just how the hell did something like that work anyway? Handing him over to the Blood for final retribution?

Deanna would not think about it a moment before she had to.

She would survive this—if she could survive this—by living one moment at a time, placing one foot in front of the other, allowing time to carry her through the inconceivable, one painful emotion and event at a time. She finger-brushed her hair to remove any remaining tangles, and tightened the knot on the heavy bathrobe—dressing had seemed an insurmountable exercise, after all. It had been all she could do to wash her face and dry her hair.

Turning to open the blinds on the window—perhaps she could watch the sunset and buy herself another five minutes of sanity—she felt a strange stirring in the room, and an inexplicable feeling of panic began to rise in her heart. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and it felt as if she were suddenly in the presence of a very dense energy, a distinct vibration of evil.