Vampire Legacy (Book 4 of the Dragon Heat series) (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

“The passage from our lands to Croatia must be secured. The rebels against Kalaur are spreading like weeds, your majesty,” one of the councilors said.

“My lands have been raided thrice already,” another one added heatedly. “I am unsure how much longer I can withstand these thieves.”

“So far no evidence given proved it was the rebels,” Petran retorted. He had to contain his councilors. Otherwise, this meeting would go from a boring monthly update to a revolution in the making. “I will support you as much as I can. I will send my personal troops to guard the route to the coast.”

“Your majesty is very generous,” Yerik replied with a generous bow. “These rebels have been attacking every village and every crop they come across. They need a strong reprimanding hand like yours. Unfortunately, I do not see Kalaur extending any support in his council.”

“Here, here,” the group cheered in support.

That was not true, and Petran knew it firsthand from the night he’d ambushed Natalia in the brothel but unfortunately, he could not disclose why or how he had come about such information.

“My fellow land owners,” he spoke up raising his hand for them to be quiet. The room fell silent at once. “I will personally go to the draconians and ask for a report regarding how they are planning on extinguishing the rebel forces. And be certain your voice will be well represented in mine. In the meantime,” he added quickly. “Do not retaliate against any draconians you find in your lands. We do not want a war to start because of a few rebels who are unhappy with their sewerage system.”

His statement was met with mixed reactions, some lords were agreeable, others not so much but for the moment, that was good enough for Petran. His land lords looked up to him to represent them in international affairs. If they got wind that Petran had a certain redhead in mind when he asked them not to engage with the rebels, their support, and gold, would easily change direction.

“We believe in our majesty’s word and bless the Soartas for his kindness,” Yerik spoke up evoking an air of certainty in the small crowd.

Yerik had been his father’s royal councilor, a very influential position for a vampire prevenient of a plebe family. Unfortunately, for Yerik, Petran disliked having a personal councilor, having seen one too many great rulers fall under the treacherous knives of their right-hand men. He created instead, a group of advisors, his very own senate, to assist him in the managing of local affairs. He was expecting retaliation from Yerik, either directly or indirectly, but it never came. Yerik was always the first one to support his decisions, no matter which ones. Petran had a feeling that if he proposed a law to ban vampires from drinking blood, Yerik would support that too. Maybe the vampire was just tired of carrying the extra weight on his shoulders after being a royal councilor for so long. Petran knew too well, how strenuous it was to be in a governing position.

The door to his Grand Apartment creaked open and an exasperated Arthur stepped in. Sensing his chamberlain’s distress, Petran held his palm up once again. “I am afraid I will have to cut our session short. There are urgent affairs that need my attention.”

At once, the group of councilors started making their way out without protest. They knew better. Arthur rushed in the room and whispered some disturbing news in his ear.

“He’s doing what?” Petran asked, not believing what he had just heard.

“Balaur is travelling with an entourage toward Somenski’s castle, your majesty,” Arthur replied. “I too was baffled by the news, but it is true. Our sentinels have confirmed, Kalaur’s brother is on a horse.”

Petran’s brow dipped low. That didn’t sound good. Why would Kalaur send his brother with an entourage? And why in Hiad were they traveling by horse, not flying? Even though it was unlawful for Draco serfs to shift without permission, Balaur was a member of the lordship’s family, so rules of the land didn’t apply to him.

“Get my cloak and kalpak,” Petran commanded. “I’m afraid we’ll have to pay Somenski another visit.” He stood up from his desk, walked to his cabinet where he retrieved his hunting blades.

“Are you going to Somenski’s again?” a female voice came from the door.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, Hillia,” Petran replied to his wife, without lifting his eyes from buckling his sheath.

“The door was open, husband,” she replied coming in, even though he hadn’t invited her.

Arthur returned with his travelling gear—his long fur cloak and his pointed Turkish-style kalpak.

“Urgent matters cannot wait,” Petran simply replied and turning around to allow Arthur to put his cape on, but it was Hillia’s long fingers that did the job.

Great, how much did she want now?

Oh, yes, because for Hillia to be this caring, it only meant one thing. She wanted gold.

Petran took a deep breath and curbed his bitter thoughts. He shouldn’t feel repulsed by her, for she was a woman of rare beauty but he couldn’t stop himself. His marriage to Hillia had been a political arrangement between the two most powerful houses of Romania. They had nothing in common and from the very first week sharing the same roof, Petran had learnt his wife only cared for his status, and fine clothes. As soon as she bore him a son, their already strenuous relationship became even more distant with Hillia disappearing to her beloved Paris for many months in a row. She only showed her face when she wanted something, usually gold coins.

She took her time, massaging his shoulders and neck. “Apparently Somenski’s daughter is back from London.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I’ve heard she’s flowered quite nicely,” she added. “And that Lord Kalaur is very…intrigued by her. I believe they make a great match, do you agree?”

Petran didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened of its own accord.

“Deep inside, I pity her. Kalaur is well known for his bad temper as much as for his voraciousness in bed. Some say he likes exerting them both when bedding his women. The poor girl will probably have to retire from public life altogether after the wedding night.”

“Hillia,” Petran bellowed, shrugging her hands off his shoulders. “You know how much I despise gossip and, as my wife, you should set the best example and keep your indiscretions to yourself.” He finished tying his cloak himself. “Besides, if I can help it, there won’t be any wedding.” He put his hat on and walked off with Arthur in tow, leaving Hillia behind.

Chapter Thirteen

Talia hurried along the corridors of her castle as Martha adjusted her gown. She had already retired for the evening when her guards announced Balaur’s sudden arrival. What was he doing here? Kalaur’s last missive had confirmed quite adamantly he was going to announce their horrid engagement at the Open Games, in a week’s hence, so she had hoped they’d all leave her alone until then. She had yet found the right time to talk to her father and was anxious to do so, not only because of King Petran’s threat, but for her own sake. She’d rather die than to be wedded to a despot.

She took a deep breath, plastered a frozen smile on her face, and entered the waiting room. “Good eve, Sir Balaur, what an honorable surprise.”

Balaur stood up from the couch he had sunk into and greeted her with a short bow. “Lady Natalia, I am humbled by your beauty.”

Talia managed to stop her eyes from rolling just in time. Like any young lady of the ton, she enjoyed a compliment, but only when it came without a cost. “You humble me, Sir. I was quite taken aback by your sudden visit. Not that I lament it, sir—not at all. It’s just that my father needs my full attention at all times.”

“That is one of the reasons Kalaur sent me here, milady,” Balaur uttered, overtly rolling his r’s. He was dressed in a full set of jacket, vest and trousers made of a thick lilac material with large flowers woven onto its surface, which made his plump figure look even more engorged. His traditional white socks went all the way to his knees, and his feet were hidden within very fluffy, pointy shoes. How charming.

Balaur waved his hand at one of the five members of his entourage then clapped twice, ceremoniously. Two of his men lifted a large trunk and brought it to her feet.

“A present?” Talia asked, panic building in her gut.

“From your fiancé,” Balaur replied with a low bow.

“Future,” she corrected him, trying to force her fake smile to stay put. “Future fiancé.”

“Please open it,” Balaur requested, ignoring her comment.

Talia took a deep breath and did as she was told. A bundle of white lace and silky fabric lay inside. She dug deep and brought it up and out of the confines of the trunk, and froze when she saw what it was.

A white wedding gown.

She had heard of the latest trend in Paris which dictated brides to wear the insipid color as proof of their purity. It wasn’t a terrible idea but this dress was everything Talia could not tolerate. It was luxuriously made of silk and taffeta, embroidered with pure gold and embellished with diamond studs. By Apa Dobrý, even if she were to go ahead with the wedding, how could she, a member of the rebel army, wear such a sumptuous gown when so many serfs were dying?

“It is made in the latest fashion,” Balaur drawled proudly.

“I’ve noticed,” Talia replied weakly. All her energy was focused on trying not to run away screaming. “It’s too much, Sir, I am very flattered by the gift, but I’m afraid I cannot—”

“Nonsense,” Balaur replied, cutting off her response. “My brother only wants the best for his bride.”

“Future bride,” Talia repeated, but it came out almost a snarl. She averted her eyes trying to keep her rage at bay. She took a deep breath, and then another.

“My brother also asked me to advise you it is not prudent for a betrothed lady to leave the confines of her quarters. Not even to roam around the castle. Many a lady has lost their purity to household boys…”

As Balaur went on about high society ladies, who met their downfall at the arms of page boys, Talia had to purse her lips not to scream. She looked at Martha, who replied with a small shrug, as if saying, “Yes, it is hideous, but what can you do?” Maybe the pretty flowers of her garden beyond the glass door would help keep her temper down. It wasn’t a good strategy to kill the brother of one’s future fiancé.

Talia took a few steps toward the tall glass doors, thinking about how amazing it would be to simply disappear, when a dark green cloud whooshed past.

What in Hiad?

Seconds later, the tall shrub in the far corner quaked, confirming Talia’s suspicions—someone had just teleported onto the balcony, and was listening to their conversation. Had King Petran sent someone to spy on her? Mighty Soartas, she was really getting tired of these political games. Her life wasn’t her own anymore, and she was about ready to snap.

“Excuse me for a moment, Sir Balaur,” she murmured between clenched teeth, handing over the horrid dress to Martha.

“What is it? Do you not like the present?”

“Uh, no, I mean, yes…I very much like it,” she lied. “So much so, that I’m feeling quite overwhelmed by it all. I need some fresh air.” Before anyone could stop her with more great ideas or gifts, she dashed out the double doors.

Right, it was time to face whoever was spying on her.

It could be Arthur, Petran’s valet-turned-jack-of-all-trades, or it could be any other one of his guards. She knew not all vampires shared the same talents so maybe Petran had taught his closest servants to do the
cloud out
thing. Whoever it was, it was vampire, therefore it was an emissary of the king, and he would definitely face her wrath...

Secretly, however, she wished it would be the King himself. Since that dreadful encounter in the red light district, Talia had not been able to stop thinking about Petran. It was pathetic the way she would close her eyes and see his dark green gaze and his mischievous crooked smile. Then, she would curse the Soartas for her weakness, and force her mind to remember what Petran was really after.

Right, vampire spy, her wrath, now
.

She stepped outside stomping her feet on the ground, determined to start yelling but before she could, a cold hand blocked her mouth and a strong arm dragged her into the shadows. Talia tried to scream but no sound would penetrate the strong hold on her.

The distinct scent of wild mint filled her nose.

It wasn’t Arthur or any other vampire spying for his king.

Her treacherous body reacted almost immediately. Her heart picked up speed drumming in her chest, her hands shook, her breath caught in her throat, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach
.

“Is this your idea of breaking up the betrothal?” Petran whisper-growled in her ear.

“No,” Talia replied from behind his hand, but only a squeal came out. She cleared her throat and tried again when he dropped his hand away. “No, Kalaur’s present is unprecedented, and unwelcomed.” She pulled her arm free from his hold and turned around to face him.

Mighty Soartas, he was so close.

The crescent moon above was casting a tunnel of brightness across the veranda, leaving only a patch of safe shade. A small step back could mean being spotted by her tower guards straight away. Petran didn’t seem to want her to move either, for his hand still rested firmly on her waist.

“I thought I had made it clear what would happen if you failed to terminate this bloody engagement.”

“Yes, King of Vampires, you did make yourself very clear. I have not forgotten. Thank you for stopping by. Good night.”

“Not so fast, missy,” he retorted, pulling her back when she tried to dash away. His cold touch was doing nothing to help ease the butterflies in her stomach.

“Balaur may be getting suspicious about my absence,” she chanced. “I must get back.”

“Not until you tell me what in Hiad is that thing he brought you.”

“A wedding gown.”

“A wedding gown?”

“Yes, a wedding gown, King Petran. That’s what brides wear on their wedding day,” Talia rejoined pushing him away, but for some reason her hands got stuck as soon as they landed on his very well-defined torso.

“Funny lady,” he replied, somewhat lightly. “I wouldn’t be jesting though, milady.” He leaned closer and whispered in a devilish tone, “The clock is ticking.”

“I know that,” she growled in reply. “But I need more time.”

“No.”

“I need to fabricate a reason to break the betrothal and a week is too little time.”

“So stop wasting it with hideous wedding gowns,” he replied with his signature crooked smile.

Argh, the rascal! From his light tone, which was borderline jovial, she could sense he had come here just to tease her. And it was working. The way he gazed at her, with a mix of angry and hungry, was doing strange things to her body. Damn him. For some reason, deep inside, she was rejoicing that he had sought after her.

“Petran, you must give me more time,” she said trying to negotiate a way out. “Believe me when I say you’re not the only one who is unhappy with this situation. Ivan isn’t celebrating it either. I will use all that is in my power to—”

“Ivan?”

She paused. “Yes, Ivan Milek, the leader of the draconian rebels.”

His gaze turned dark. “I know who Ivan Milek is. I was simply not aware you were on a first name terms with him.”

“I’m not,” Talia replied shrugging, slightly confused by the sudden interruption. “As I was saying, Ivan has a plan but we need at least one more month before—”

A wave of energy rushed through Petran’s body, shaking her with it and muffling the rest of her explanation.

“You think your
Ivan
will save you from this mess,” he sneered. It wasn’t a question, and he wasn’t teasing her any longer. His jaw popped, along with a vein on his forehead. Petran was clearly furious.
What in Hiad?

The force of his sudden rage took Talia aback but for some insane reason, she wasn’t scared, or rather, her body did not register the danger.

“Ivan has many connections, and he is close to deposing Kalaur, which will ultimately force my father to terminate the engagement.”

“I sense appreciation in your voice,” Petran purred in a dark tone. “You admire your Ivan.”

“He’s not my Ivan,” Talia replied, but immediately regretted it when she saw Petran’s eyes turning into a stone-cold green, his lips curled up in a snarl revealing sharp fangs underneath.

Oh dear.

“Has he…” Petran closed his eyes shut as if whatever he was thinking was too painful to bear. “Has he
touched
you?”

“Excuse me?” Her jaw dropped at the bold question.

“Keep your voice down,” Petran murmured, looking around to check if anyone had discovered them. Then he pulled her by the waist and dragged her deeper into the shrub.

Now they were completely out of sight from anyone.

“Has Ivan Milek ever touched you?” he growled again.

“How dare you ask me that?”

“Answer my question, Natalia.”

“It’s none of your business, King Petran.”

His eyes flashed red. “Be careful, milady,” he drawled. “Or I’ll be tempted to
make
it my business.”

This would have been a good time for Talia to clarify that Ivan was just a good friend, nothing else, but she simply refused to let Petran intimidate her. So instead of cringing away from his harsh tone, she lifted her chin up, and murmured in blunt defiance, “And how are you going to
make it your business
, King of Vampires? Are you planning on challenging Ivan to a dual or something?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “No. He would certainly fall against my sword, and that would just hasten your betrothal, not terminate it.”

“Then you have no other choice but to grant us more time.”

“Oh, that’s where you are sorely mistaken, milady.” His fangs glistened against the moonlight as a sly grin lifted his cheek. Then the rascal lazily slid his hand down her torso. “I can make your Ivan believe he is not the only one who has captured your heart.”

Talia’s mouth got suddenly dry. “What are you implying, King Petran?”

He lowered his head closer, stopping inches from her cheeks. “All I have to do is leave a small mark on your delicate... smooth... unspoiled neck,” he drawled, blowing cold air against her skin but never touching it. “A small mark, maybe two little punctures, right here.”

“You wouldn’t,” she breathed, trying to sound appalled, and failing miserably.

“Are you daring me, milady?”

Talia thought of answering something clever, if only her mind could form the words. Her heart was drumming in her chest like a band in a parade.

“Or maybe you believe I am not as bold as your Ivan?” Petran whispered. His long fingers were now tracing imaginary circles in the air, just below her earlobe, yet again, never truly touching her.

Delicious goose bumps arose along her skin, making her even more aware of his other hand, pressing on her lower back. She gasped silently. “Yes...”
What was she saying?

“Your reputation precedes you, your majesty,” she mumbled, managing to find her voice again.

He ignored her comment, and continued his virtual exploration of her collar.

“You are a great player, but would do anything to avoid the battlefield.”

“Would I?” he drawled. Cold breath tickled the sensitive spot under her chin.

“You would not stir a disagreement between Ivan and me. It’s too risky, for I might take offense, seek revenge against you and ruin your plans just out of spite.”