Shadow Rising (18 page)

She’d gotten used to Damien’s acid tongue and quick temper, but it didn’t occur to Ariane until too late that she’d seen almost nothing of his skill as a fighter… and as he kept telling her, he was one of the best.

He hadn’t been lying.

Damien moved like lightning, throwing the doors to the conservatory open and crossing the room at a run so fast that he barely seemed to touch the ground. He leaped through a window and out into the darkness before Ariane could make a sound.

“No,” she breathed as a feline snarl echoed into the night beyond. She looked down at the small dagger in her hand, then looked at Vlad.

“Please,” she said, the blood beginning to pound in her head. Oren would kill Damien. Of that she had no doubt. And while the thought of being responsible for anyone’s death was unconscionable to her, the thought of Damien’s broken and battered body was somehow worse.

Wordlessly, Vlad pulled a long, elegant dagger with a simple silver hilt from a sheath on his belt and presented it to her. She took it and barely managed a “thank you” as she spun and set off after Damien, jumping the window ledge. But instead of taking the ground route after her would-be savior, she unfurled her wings and rose like a shot into the inky sky.

Vlad and Diana watched her go, catching a glimpse of shimmering wing as Ariane vanished.

“There’s more here,” Vlad murmured.

“Stay out of it, Vlad,” Diana said, her voice quiet but urgent. “Whatever stirs in the desert, we must wait for Mormo’s guidance. Right now all that stands between the Empusae and the abyss is the support of the Dracul.” Her hand gripped his arm. “She will wake. She always does.”

He turned pale blue eyes on her, the doubt in them evident. “Until the day she doesn’t, Diana. You and your
sisters need to begin preparing for that. And I have obligations of my own.”

She drew in a breath and seemed about to rail at him. After a moment, though, she simply inclined her head. “Do as you will,” she said stiffly.

And in a swirl of pale silks, she was gone.

Ariane saw them as soon as she cleared the trees.

Damien faced Oren at the water’s edge, and his taunts cut like a knife through the sultry air.

“Your interference is going to cost you and your bloody dynasty,” Damien said, his voice icy.

Oren’s voice was calm, eternally, infuriatingly calm. But Ariane knew him well enough to hear the dark promise beneath the surface.

“I interfere in nothing. My mission is my own. You seal your fate by standing in the way of it.”

Damien’s laugh echoed through the night. “What an unoriginal threat. You know I’m not going to let you have her. She’s valuable to
my
mission. One your master is paying me for, lest you’ve forgotten. I doubt he’ll take kindly to you destroying a lead.”

“Ariane is not a
lead
. She is a disgrace. A blight on our blood. She will be returned, and judged. And there is nothing you can do to stop that, little cat. Best you not try, if you value your sorry life.”

Oren’s words surprised her, but they were far less painful to hear than she’d imagined they would be. She’d known how he felt all this time, and he was far from alone in his assessment. This was not news to her. Damien, however, looked disgusted. The outrage on her behalf warmed her, even as her heart sank.

This was the part where he would get himself killed with that mouth of his.

She opened her mouth to shout down to them, but the words died in her throat when, with the barest flicker of movement, Damien opened up the side of Oren’s face with his claws. She saw Oren’s head snap sideways, saw the streaks of black blood well in long lines from temple to chin.

Gods, he was fast. And insane.

Oren closed his eyes, flexed his fists. It was only then that Ariane saw how much fury he had inside of him, all rushing to the surface. If he got his hands on Damien, he would tear him apart before continuing his hunt.

“Oren!” she shouted, even as Damien prepared to strike again. Both of their heads snapped up, and she would swear that Oren’s eyes flashed red in the dark.

“Damn it, Ariane, no!” Damien shouted, but it was too late. Without even looking, the male Grigori sent Damien hurtling backward with a simple swing of his arm. And then he was coming for her, massive wings snapping outward, his lips peeled back in some obscene parody of a smile.

She hesitated for only the briefest of moments, stupidly wishing she’d been able to say good-bye to Damien. Her chances of getting out of this were slim, and she knew it. But she had to reach for that slim chance for as long as she could.

Ariane watched him flying at her, then turned in midair and dove, hurtling toward the ground before soaring once again. The wind rushed over her as she lured Oren away from Damien, whom she’d glimpsed moving where he’d been thrown. It mattered that he lived. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t question it.

She dipped and turned, rose and spun, leading Oren on a chase out over the water. In her hand she clutched Vlad’s dagger, her knuckles white. Winning this last contest between them would mean driving it into his heart. He had always managed to best her, had always made a point of it in every lesson, every contest. Small, painful victories in his war of attrition.

This last time, it was winner take all.

Oren was close behind her but couldn’t quite seem to catch up. In strength, he had always been her superior, but never in speed. In races he had always cheated or enlisted others to take her out by hurting her. Robbed of his usual tricks, Oren was struggling to close the distance, and Ariane used her advantage the way she’d always wanted to. She pushed herself, her muscles protesting the speed, the rapid pumping of her wings. She banked quickly, taking them over more woods and darkened houses far below.

“I’ll catch you, Ariane. When will you learn you can’t beat me?”

His voice was behind, but far too close. She answered him, her voice strained from exertion.

“Why is this so important? You should be working this hard to find Sam, not to drag me back!” She had to force herself to say the next words, even though she knew they were true. “I’m nothing to the Grigori!”

“Weak little fool,” he snapped, his voice echoing through air that was rapidly cooling the higher they flew. “
You
became the priority as soon as you left the compound! You endanger us all with your stupidity! You should have been left to die on the ground, instead of being given the blood of an ancient!”

He was almost upon her, and she had to force herself
not to waver at his words. The blood of an ancient? Had she been sired by one of the ancient ones? It would explain a great deal… including the force of Oren’s hatred. Only the worthiest were sired by the ancient ones. And she… she was…

Oren’s roar of triumphant fury slammed into her as his hand caught her ankle, clamping down like a vise and yanking her backward. Ariane’s breath escaped in a single rush. She acted on instinct, snapping her wings shut and wrenching herself around. Her ankle snapped like a twig, the pain so bright and hot that she started to gray out. Strong hands caught her by the waist as she fell.

And yet, despite the haze, she knew what she had to do. She grabbed Oren’s shoulder and drove the dagger deep into his chest, straight through whatever passed for his heart.

She extended her wings again, catching her in the instant that Oren’s blazing eyes widened. The strike through the heart wouldn’t kill him, but the shock of it gave Ariane the opening she needed. She tore the dagger free, and as Oren began to flop gracelessly in the air, blood streaming from his chest, Ariane sliced neatly through one of his wings.

The sight of that beautiful appendage falling uselessly to the ground sent a sharp, stabbing pain through her own wings, twin bolts of hot agony that radiated from her back to the tips. Ariane arched in a silent scream, the pain too great to allow even a whisper. Her entire chest seemed to have seized. There was no air.

And then it was simply gone, vanished. Ariane drew in deep, convulsive breaths while she pumped her wings, reassuring herself that she was still whole. Below her, Oren was falling silently toward the ground. She dove
after him, wishing she could feel nothing, that she could feel as bloodthirsty as he seemed. But just as she’d never been able to push aside her emotions, she’d never been able to hold on to her fury. She had never killed, never really wanted to.

Yet here she was, with only one option if she wanted to live long enough to save Sammael.

Ariane landed lightly on the ground a few feet away from where Oren had fallen at the edge of a field. He was writing in pain in a pool of blood, his one good wing curling and uncurling. Nausea coiled deep in her stomach. She had done that.
She
.

He must have caught her scent, because he spoke to her without even looking at her.

“Treacherous bitch. More will come after me. You deserve a worse death than you’ll get for dishonoring the blood in your veins.” He ground out the words, his pain evident in every syllable.

She forced herself to walk slowly toward him, slightly favoring the ankle that was already nearly healed, a death grip on the blood-covered dagger in her hand. She wasn’t sure whether he had the strength to leap up and continue the fight, but she was taking no chances.

“I don’t… I don’t want to kill you Oren,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. “But I will if you don’t stop. I am not the enemy.”

He laughed, a pained, hollow sound, and turned his head to watch her approach. “You’ve already killed me,” he said. “So many secrets you don’t know. Secrets in the sand… in your blood.”

She stopped short as he tried to lift himself up on one shoulder, gave a pained cry, and slammed back to the
ground. There was nothing but the sound of him breathing heavily. She took a step closer, then another.

“Why are you hunting me?” she asked. “Just because I have the… the blood of one of the ancients? It shouldn’t matter. None of them will ever claim me. I’m nothing, no one. I don’t know any secrets, like you said.”

“Because,” Oren said, black blood leaking from one corner of his mouth, “every one of us is a living secret, Ariane. And you are a pathetic Grigori, but the ancient blood brightens your soul. You… you are perfect to stop the Rising… for another hundred…”

His words were interrupted by a spate of deep, painful coughing. When he stopped, his eyes were brighter but his breathing shallower. Oren seemed to be fading away while she watched. And she had so many questions…

“He stirs and hungers beneath the sand,” Oren rasped, his gaze going far off. “Go home before you destroy us all.”

Then, to Ariane’s horror, he burst into flames.

“No!” she shouted, rushing forward. The dagger fell to the ground, unnoticed, as she ran to Oren’s side, as she began to beat at the flames with her bare hands. She had wanted to get away—from him, from all of them. She’d wanted him to leave her alone. But the reality of Oren’s death shook her to the core, where something seemed to break.

As he burned to nothing but cinders and ash, Ariane staggered away and was wretchedly sick. She had killed one of her own.

The screams of barely remembered loved ones on a night soaked in blood echoed in her memory, mingling with Ariane’s broken cry beneath the same indifferent stars.

chapter
THIRTEEN

H
E’D THOUGHT
she would die.

Damien had thought that he would find Ariane’s battered and lifeless body on the ground or that he would see Oren carrying her limp form off to a delayed, but inevitable, death. Instead, he’d found her kneeling by the ashes of her attacker, improbably alive, but so grief-stricken that she’d been little more than a glassy-eyed wraith at first.

The relief he’d felt at the sight of her had nearly taken him to his knees.

It was the first instance of real terror he’d experienced in over a hundred years. That was why he hadn’t allowed himself to touch her, instead hanging back and waiting for her to collect herself.

“You should have let me handle it,” he’d finally said to her when she’d come to him, silent and haunted. “He doesn’t deserve your grief. He wouldn’t have gotten mine.”

Though he was serious, he’d hoped to provoke her.
Something, anything to snap her out of her hollow-eyed misery. Instead, she’d just given a small shake of her head.

“I can fight my own battles,” was all she said as they’d walked toward the road.

Yes, she sure as hell could, Damien thought. Why it bothered him so much that she
did
was a question that was going to plague him.

Which it did as he sat ensconced in the comfort of Vlad Dracul’s private jet.

Damien and Vlad sat across from one another, each sipping a cocktail. Damien wasn’t a huge fan of vodka, but with luck it would steady his frayed nerves. Ariane had taken up residence on the small leather couch behind Vlad, where she stared out at the night. She’d washed up as best she could in the small bathroom, but her blood-spattered dress was an ugly reminder of what had come before.

“Are you sure you want us staying right there at your house?” Damien asked, still rankling a little at what he couldn’t help but perceive as Vlad’s particular brand of high-handed charity. “There are plenty of bolt-holes in Chicago I can take Ariane to where no one will bat an eye at either of us. And it would cause you less trouble.”

Vlad waved his hand. “If I didn’t want you with me, I wouldn’t have come looking for you.” There was a knowing glint in his eye. “You don’t need to get your back up, Damien. I’m not trying to babysit you. But what you’re doing… interests me.”

“Of course it does,” Damien muttered, swirling the vodka in his glass. “You’re interested in everything you shouldn’t be.”

“A problem we share,” Vlad replied with a faint smile, inclining his head in Ariane’s direction. She was paying
no attention, but it annoyed Damien anyway. So he was attracted to her. So he’d allowed her to come along when he hated working with people. So he’d risked dismemberment by a huge winged vampire for her.