Drake of Tanith (Chosen Soul) (4 page)

Adonides, Malphas’s faithful servant and the devil he had entrusted with Raven’s safety a little over a month ago, had repeatedly asked for permission to go into the castle and extract her. But Malphas had denied him. The truth was, at the moment the Lord of Caina could think of no safer place for the princess to reside. As long as Raven Winter remained at Eidolon, she wasn’t out on the Terran realm or down in the Nine Hells causing trouble. Getting noticed.

And as long as that was the case, then there was the slightest possibility that whatever trouble was brewing in Abaddon’s kitchen would stay far away from her.

*****

Astriel gazed unseeing into the leaping flames of Oberon’s massive hearth. Lord Oberon gave a series of orders to guards at the doors and then allowed the doors to be shut. Now Astriel was alone with his father and could feel the elf king’s powerful presence dominating the great room.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Oberon gracefully took a seat opposite Astriel, glanced once at his son, and then turned his own attention to the dancing fire. The silence stretched between them.

At the moment, Raven slept peacefully in Princess Zeta’s quarters.

After she’d fallen under his father’s spell, Astriel had lifted her into his arms and had been about to take her to his own rooms where he could keep a closer eye on her and his guards were never out of ear shot. However, Zeta had intervened and insisted that Raven was already frightened and angry enough, pointing out that waking up in Astriel’s bed would almost certainly worsen the situation.

Astriel relented and allowed Zeta and her personal guard to take Raven to Zeta’s wing where Astriel’s sister promised to watch over her.

Astriel wasn’t overly worried; Oberon’s magic was incredibly potent and Abaddonian princess or not, Raven was going to sleep for some time. He simply felt the need to…. Where Raven was concerned, he wanted to…. Astriel’s jaw clenched and his gaze narrowed. In the massive hearth, the fire flickered strangely and its flames turned black.

“I can see what it is about her that has captured your heart,” Lord Oberon finally said, at last breaking the silence. Astriel glanced at his father. Oberon was watching the eerie black flames, his expression unreadable. “She’s certainly a challenge.”

Astriel said nothing. His father wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

“An interesting fact about Abaddonians is that in order for them to use their power, they must consume life on a regular basis.”

Astriel continued to remain quiet, and his expression gave nothing away. However, his muscles were flexed now beneath the royal garb of his uniform.

“If I’m not mistaken, Princess Raven does not consume animal flesh. How fortuitous then,” Oberon continued, “that my son has taken it upon himself to slip blood into her elven wine at every meal.”

Astriel straightened. He should have known his father would notice. But still, he said nothing.

“Keeping her here is draining you, my son.” Oberon’s voice had dropped and was softer now. More personal. Oberon sighed and sat back in the large overstuffed seat he’d taken. “You have lived a life of privilege as all elves do. Your will however, is like my own. You have never been satisfied with complacency. It is what has made you the most skilled swordsman in the realm. It has made you the finest hunter, and one day it will make you a great king. The down side is that you are not happy unless pursuing something which is difficult to obtain.”

Astriel felt his patience dwindling. The people of Trimontium were experiencing rare bad weather because of it.

“You have been shielding her with magic and hiding her from the world and from herself, but at the same time, you have kept Raven’s power at its full potential in the unconscious hope that she would fight you as she has tonight.” Oberon paused, letting the softly spoken accusation set in. “Am I mistaken?”

Astriel’s teeth were clenched behind his lips. The black flames in the hearth sparked and climbed. Lightning crashed just beyond the study windows. Lord Oberon was entering dangerous territory, touching upon something Astriel did not want to consider.

The king was undaunted. In a tone that remained infinitely calm, he went on. “Your mother was not an easy bride to win over. Lady Titania put up quite a fight. It was this defiance that turned my head to begin with. It was my tenacity that finally won her over.”

“Whatever it is you wish to say, spit it out and be done with it,” Astriel finally said. He could not recall ever being in such a dark mood. The black fire in the hearth before them was testament enough, but the thunder that rumbled around the castle was further proof. The prince’s power had taken a black turn.

“Astriel, look at me.”

Astriel blinked. The tone of his father’s voice was one he hadn’t heard in a very long time. It was gentle. Beseeching, even. It took him by surprise, especially after the lengthy discussion they’d just had concerning the upcoming Hunt.

He met his father’s heady gaze.

“You have chosen the Abaddonian princess because she is both beautiful and powerful. I cannot deny that an alliance with the Abaddonians would be beneficial. I also grant that sharing your bed with one such as Raven is a life-long proposition that promises a great many rewards. However.”

Here, he paused and Astriel’s magic crackled.

“If she continues to fight you, we will have a war rather than an alliance on our hands. And let me make myself very clear, my son. War with the Abaddonians is not something we desire. The Dark Lords are powerful in and of themselves. But together?” He chuckled, and it was without amusement. “To say nothing of Lord Asmodeus,” he said, as if the statement were self-explanatory. And it was.

Oberon shook his head and turned away from Astriel to gaze once more at the flames in the hearth. They continued to burn black. “So my advice to you is this, Prince Astriel. Either claim Raven Winter’s heart once and for all… or let her go.”

Chapter Four

Drake spun and ducked. His opponent’s blade glided over his head just before his second attacker swung once more. Unable to jump over the low-swinging sword, Drake dropped and rolled well out of the way and then came to his feet once more.

The soldiers vanished.

The mists coiled and roiled, kissing his exposed skin with stinging promise. Drake ran the back of his black leather sleeve across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that trickled and threatened his eyes. His black hair curled in the moist air; a strand stuck to his cheek as he turned a slow circle, his sword at the ready.

Drake heard the arrow before he saw it; a whistling in the air, fast and furious. Again, he attempted to duck and turn, but the arrow had been aimed low. He managed to avoid allowing the shaft to embed itself within him, but he gritted his teeth as the tip sliced across his upper thigh, slashing through his leather armor to leave a deep red gash behind.

Another whisper of a threat and Drake was dropping to his chest on the damp ground. The arrow sailed over his body and disappeared in the mist behind him. Drake rolled over onto his back, jumped onto his booted feet, and again turned in a slow circle, his ears pricked to the slightest sound.

However, it wasn’t sound that alerted him to the presence of the newcomer behind him. It was a shifting in the air, a change in the world around him so subtle but inexplicably profound, it instantly awakened Drake’s senses to a nearly painful degree.

When he turned and saw who it was that stood before him, Drake new why.

He stared into his own face, his own eyes, and his blood ran painfully cold. It was as if he were staring into a mirror.

“I see that in addition to everything else, you’ve mastered the art of wasting time,” the image of himself said. The tall, dark bounty hunter came forward, his every move mimicking the smooth grace that Drake had mastered over the centuries. Drake could only stare at himself, bewildered by the image and the power emanating from it.

And then his mirror image smiled – and shifted. His face changed, his eyes darkened, and the visage transformed into the only thing in any realm that could have frightened him more. Still, he stared, going from one kind of stunning astonishment to another.

It had been so long since he’d seen him.
So
long.

Drake felt his sword arm lower, his body tingling with the numbing effects of shock. The man’s dark eyes glittered with what Drake could only assume was amusement.

“Surprised to see me, son?”

Drake didn’t move. He didn’t know what to say. And then he frowned, remembered where he was, and wondered whether what he was seeing was actually real. Not that reasoning in such a manner would do him any good. Believing what the Witherlands threw at you meant that you fought and you went insane, but you survived. Disbelieving meant that what you saw and felt
became
real. Then it could kill you. Either way, he was going to be dealing with the figure that stood before him looking all too human.

Lord Asmodeus could do that – look human. None of the other lords of Abaddon possessed the powers he possessed. He watched Drake through eyes that appeared normal, if a touch too black. His face appeared human, if a tad too handsome, and possessing of a smile a little too cruel. His build mirrored Drake’s; both men were tall, both were strong.

Asmodeus sometimes appeared nine feet tall. Sometimes thirteen. He could take the form of an animal, a patch of darkness, a bad dream. The Lord of the Nine Hells was elusive, enigmatic, impossible to predict and capable of very nearly anything. In fact, there were times that Drake wondered whether there really was anything at all that his father could not do.

It remained to be determined.

At the moment, either Asmodeus or a dreamed up representation of him stood before Drake in one of his least intimidating forms. At least, that was the idea. However, anyone who knew what to look for would have recognized that there were signs – subtle differences – separating the King of Nisse from the rest of the world.

Asmodeus’s long, thick wavy hair and trimmed beard were both as black as night and shone like satin. They matched the deep pitch hue of the leather garments he wore over a blood red undershirt. Deep red and midnight black were the colors of the Hell Lord’s court.

His eyes were not only black, but the absence of light. If one stared too long into their depths, they would know the loss of hope. There was no ending, no beginning. To be trapped in Asmodeus’s gaze was to free fall into oblivion.

There was a scent about Asmodeus that reminded people of incense. Of candle light. And bonfires. It wasn’t brimstone or ash or smoke. It was the scent of ultimate destruction. Fire took everything. There was no going back.

His touch was infamous. A brush of his fingers could warm the coldest, most wretched soul. And it could burn like the sun, leaving ash in its wake. It promised ultimate pleasure and had been known to deliver transcendental pain. It was up to him.

“You’re not real,” Drake said.

Asmodeus grinned, flashing straight white teeth and a set of perfectly sharp fangs. He chuckled. At once the sound wrapped around Drake and sliced through the mists of the Witherlands like fingers of fire.

Drake’s strength was instantly sapped from his body and he fell to one knee. Through dizzy, half-closed eyes, he watched the fog dissipate. He felt the weight of the Witherlands lifted from him, sensed his mind clearing of the madness that had been creeping in a little further with each passing second of his stay in the horrid realm.

It was impossible. There was no way out of the Witherlands once you’d been sent there through the power of a promise. No way, but one. The Lord of Abaddon possessed the power to extract anyone from any realm at any time. He was the only one who could do so.

Real then,
Drake admitted to himself. And then he closed his eyes and concentrated on regaining his power. His father had only temporarily weakened him in order to brush his mind with the truth. He’d succeeded. Drake believed.

As the world cleared and then melted around them only to solidify once again as the carved stone walls of Asmodeus’s throne room, Drake felt his strength returned to him. He closed his eyes and stood, trying to prepare himself for something that nothing in the world could help him prepare for.

Without looking, he slid his sword back into the sheath at his back. Then he opened his eyes and turned around. His father was seated on a towering, intricately carved throne of solid ruby. And he no longer appeared even remotely human.

“Did you enjoy your vacation?” Asmodeus asked. He had retained his calmer, nearly human voice, probably for the sole reason that it was in surreal opposition to the monstrous form he now inhabited. His skin was black as night, his eyes glowed red fire, and he now stood twelve feet tall at the very least.

Drake’s skin was prickling. His true form recognized its birth place and yearned for freedom. But he expertly tamped down the inclination. “What do you want?” he asked.

It was insane for him to address the King of Abaddon in such a manner. But he was tired; the Witherlands had worn him down. He was angry; Prince Astriel had Raven. And at the moment, there was little room for a third emotion within his tall, strong frame.

Asmodeus eyed Drake enigmatically and chuckled softly. The human edge to his voice was suddenly gone; even the remotely quiet laughter rolled like thunder across the massive throne room and echoed along the walls. Around the platform that housed the king’s ruby throne was a giant mote-like ring of fire spanning half a mile in diameter. This fire now leapt and danced, edged into a frenzy at the evil sound of the Hell Lord’s amusement.

“
I want what I’ve always wanted,
Drake of Tanith
,” Asmodeus said, speaking Drake’s notorious title with obvious distaste. “
I want my son to accept his place at my side
.”

“You should have just killed me and sired another,” Drake told him plainly.

Again, Asmodeus laughed, this time appearing genuinely amused. The ring of fire roared, leaking a wave of uncomfortable heat into the room. Drake allowed no emotion to cross his face, showing no weakness.