Vampire Legacy (Book 4 of the Dragon Heat series) (27 page)

“How? That’s not possible!” Oberon replied.

“I don’t care. Get him!” Kalaur roared.

A couple of confused-looking guards stepped forward with their swords in their hands. Petran laughed at their brainless attempt to stop him. After circling around them, he regained his full shape and plummeted onto their backs, toppling both face first onto the ground. Without missing a beat, he kicked them down ensuring they stayed there.

“Let me go!” Talia’s shout reminded him there was no time to waste.

Leaping into the air at vampire speed, Petran perched on top of the guillotine for a better vantage point. Since Kalaur’s guards still stood stunned, the Sultan’s deamon servants had grabbed Talia and were dragging her away toward the castle.

Petran
clouded out
again, and floated toward her as fast as he could.

“Quick, block his path! Surround her at all costs,” he heard the Sultan bellow.

The daemons obeyed immediately barring Petran’s attempts to reach Talia. He ripped through two of them, just to find himself blocked by two more.

Bloody Hiad!

He couldn’t teleport through the deamon horde because the mage’s magic prevented him from dematerializing completely. The only way was to float around them, lift Talia up, and then
cloud
them out of here. He would have to be fast and stealthy, so the guards would only realize what he’d done a second too late.

With renewed resolve, Petran pulled back and flew his cloud to higher levels. Everyone’s eyes were on him, his greatest secret now revealed. All knew what or who the green cloud was, but it did not matter. They still could not stop him.

He concentrated on the small gap between Talia and one of the deamon sentinels holding her, and prepared to materialize.

At once, something pulled him down. What in Hiad?

The more he fought against it, the more powerful it got. It felt like he had just plummeted into a pool of thick jelly and it was getting denser by the second making his cells do the opposite of what was asked of them. His arms tingled, and his legs froze.

The blathmac mages.

Their tall figures, which resembled a bunch of freak humans with tree-like limbs and elephant trunks for noses, stood side by side just a few feet away from Talia, humming strange words. They were increasing the spell protecting the Castle, which also prevented him or anyone from
clouding out
inside its borders.

Petran’s desperate gaze landed on Talia. She was fighting against the guards, but her eyes were on him. In them, he saw hurt, desperation, and then, resignation. She did not believe he could save her.

With a grunt, he pulled back and gave up on his plan. He would just have to go old school and take those pricks down one by one with his bare hands.

Without wasting more time, he materialized behind the cluster of guards surrounding Talia. Tearing one guard out of the way, he then
clouded out
before the next one could catch him, materializing again on the opposite side. At vampire speed, Petran repeated the drill once, twice, three times. It was working, he calculated that in less than ten seconds he would be able to cut through the thick horde of guards and reach Talia.

But then, Oberon appeared in front of him.

His friend’s robust figure blocked Petran’s path almost completely.

He wasn’t in attack mode, but his legs were solid on the ground, his stance reflected his powers—the king of the oceans.

How bloody marvelous.

Petran took a deep breath and prepared to attack his old friend.

“Petran, don’t,” Talia shouted, halting him in place. “Please, don’t.”

“There’s no use, my friend, we must follow the law and decide this in an official enquiry,” Oberon stated, knowing fully well how Petran would have to go against him to get to Talia.

And that meant war.

Bloody fucking gates of Hiad, no!
His mind screamed at him.

With his heart in his hands, Petran witnessed Talia be dragged inside to disappear between the doors of the Castle of Kings. He had never felt so helpless in his life but if he let himself be captured as well, there would be no future for either of them.

He had to retract.

So, he did, and it felt like one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his entire life.

He floated high above and fled like a coward.

Chapter Thirty

Talia’s knees hit the stone floor one more time. She struggled against the guards’ hold with all she had for she would not go down without a fight. She kicked them, she roared in protest, she bit them, but to no avail. Step by step, inch by inch, the open garden disappeared and the darkness of the dungeon approached.

Her dress ripped even further apart with every pull of her arms, and every shove from the guards. All she could think was how this could not be happening.

“Call my father! I want my father,” she shouted out to everyone, and no one at the same time. But her cries for help met deaf ears.

Suddenly, the air got damper, and the stench of mold and excrement reached her nose.
The dungeon.

She felt a firm grip on her hair then her head was shoved backwards, almost breaking her neck. Kalaur’s contorted face came into view only inches from hers.

“You will rot in Hiad, you little whore, I swear to it,” he growled, and then he thrust her inside one of the cells.

The slimy floor made her feet skid and skate, stripping the last ounce of balance from her. She fell heavily against rock, splitting apart the skin on her hands and knees in the process.

“You cannot do this, Kalaur,” she bellowed, refusing to give up. She jumped up and ran forward until the bars stopped her. “You cannot lock me up in here. I am a free draconian land lord!”

The bastard didn’t even look back at her. His shiny Italian shoes clomping on stone was the only thing she had in reply. The sound of locks and chains echoed against the dark walls, and then there was just silence.

Talia held on to the bars, as if they were her only hope, not her prison. The realization that she was doomed hit her like the rocks keeping the castle upright. Her chest heaved in desperation, her mind reeled at a million miles per second trying to think of a way out, of something to hold on to, to believe in. Her knees buckled, and gave way underneath her.

A low chuckle reached her ears.

“Who’s there?” she asked meekly, almost wishing there would be no answer.

“Your mistake, Talia, was to think you were untouchable,” the disembodied voice replied. “You thought you could do anything, hurt anyone, and your status and loving father would always protect you.”

Talia waited for the owner of the evil voice to show his face.

“But you see, there are always consequences,” Ivan drawled, his profile coming into view.

At once, Talia’s frightened heart took a different leap. It went from thumping in desperation to drumming in rage. Pure wrath pumped through her veins, so potent that a wave of power rushed through her body, energizing her limbs, giving her the strength to stand up straight and face the coward at eye level.

“Why, Ivan,” she growled. “Why did you betray us all? What had Dimitri and Grotzki done to deserve the death you brought upon them?”

“Me?” he retorted. “No, my dear Talia, not me. You.
You
brought that end upon them when you decided to betray me.”

“I was never yours to betray!” she shouted, losing her temper completely. “You are a chauvinistic, selfish coward who could never, ever, be even remotely considered as competition to Petran. Yes, I gave myself to him, willingly! But I never betrayed anyone. That, Ivan, is on your hands, not mine.”

“I will be glad to see your head fall from the glass pedestal you’ve created, Talia,” he sneered then stepped away.

“I would say the same, Ivan, for both of us have been clutching at straws for a long time.”

Chapter Thirty One

The spring moon seemed colder than usual, and higher in the sky as Petran paced up and down his study. The mountains below his castle delineated his vast territory, so vast yet claustrophobic at the same time.

After fleeing like a rabid dog from the Castle of Kings, Petran came straight to his home and started drafting a plan. But so far, twenty four hours later, it was still just that, a lousy draft. 

“Yerik,” he bellowed for his counselor. “Yerik!”

“He’s not in, your majesty,” Arthur replied from the open door. “He has yet to return from the Open Games.”

“Bloody Hiad,” Petran cursed. “What in Hiad is the vermin—”

“Yes, your majesty,” Yerik uttered apologetically coming in from the opposite door of the study, which led to the back terrace.

“There you are,” Petran grunted. “What took you so long?”

“The queen, your majesty,” Yerik replied with a bow. “She needed an escort. After you left, the situation turned…err…well, difficult for all vampires at the Games.”

“Define difficult,” he commanded.

“Your majesty, Kalaur and his men took over the entire castle claiming whoever was in favor of your majesty was an enemy of justice.”

That bloody swine.
Petran scratched his trimmed beard, a tired habit he couldn’t help. He would have to gather an army in order to fix this now. A war with Kalaur was the last thing he wanted, but he would not let the draco get away with it. “What of Lady Natalia?”

“She was charged for high treason and taken to the underground prison, your majesty,” Arthur replied.

“High treason?” Petran’s blood rushed from his brain to his gut. “What of Somenski? Surely her father intervened.”

Yerik shook his head. “He retired to his castle, right after disowning the girl for giving herself away, for shaming his family name.”

“Stupid fool,” Petran cursed, letting his rage lose at the first thing in front of him. His mahogany desk got the worst end of his anger. Tons of solid wood flew into the air and crashed against the opposite wall.

He wanted to punch something, vent his wrath on something, anything, so frustrated he was…with himself.

How could he have let this happen? How in Hiad had he let Kalaur outsmart him like this? They had been sparring on the brink of battle for decades now. Kalaur had tried one too many times to overthrow Petran, so he could claim his lands for himself. On all occasions, Petran saw him coming and blocked his advances expertly and with style, without a drop of blood being shed. But this time, his mind was somewhere else, somewhere it shouldn’t have been—on Kalaur’s beautiful red-haired neighbor and future wife.

Petran turned toward his large window and stared at the mountains once again. Talia was out there. She was alone, imprisoned, and all because of him. He ran his hands along his dark hair.

“I must free her,” he mumbled more to himself than to Yerik.

“She’s locked up in the Castle of Kings, under the protection of the ancient spell," Yerik replied, his double-vibrato voice carried an extra layer of doom. “If I may ask, how did your majesty teleport out? How was it that the ancient spell did not block you?”

Petran just grunted in reply. His frustration was making his patience run thin.

“The other royals were very puzzled by the event. Some even think the other vampires are also hiding their true talents.”

Petran narrowed his eyes at his councilor. “What are you saying, Yerik? Did Kalaur imprison anyone else because of me?”

“No, your majesty,” Yerik answered quickly. “I’m just saying the royals were wondering how—”

“I do not give a damn about the other royals,” Petran as much as growled. Yerik had been instrumental in Petran’s first years of reign but as of late, his advice had come with a price tag or had an ulterior motive behind it. So far, Petran had not had any true reason to doubt Yerik’s loyalty, but he had not any confidence either. The vampire was just that, a vampire—selfishness coursed through his veins like many others, including his own son. Was Petran any better though? He had used Somenski’s illness to get close to his daughter and had seduced Natalia to destabilize Kalaur. It had worked, but at what cost? 

“Your majesty,” Arthur called quietly.

“Yes.”

“There is more.”

“Speak freely, Arthur.”

“Prince Tardieh has not returned home yet. He was last seen at a tavern in Dubrovnik where he was supposed to take part in a poker tournament.”

"Tardieh has been to those annual poker tournaments before,” Petran replied. “The only crime will be against my pockets.”

“He missed the game, your majesty.”

“Oh, ‘tis nothing, your majesty,” Yerik added, waving his hand in dismissal. “The prince probably lost his time between the legs of one of the many whores with whom he shares company.”

Petran frowned. “My son is a womanizer and a lousy gambler, but he takes those tournaments very seriously. He would not miss a game.”

“Your majesty, did I mention the Draconian Senate will judge Lady Natalia’s fate in two nights hence,” Yerik said, changing the course of the conversation back to Petran’s wound. “You may be able to speak on her behalf then.”

“Kalaur gathered the Senate already?” Petran asked, not believing his ears. “My, oh, my, he really planned this one well, did he not?” He ran his hand along his short beard and exhaled heavily. “Two nights hence will be too late. I do not trust Kalaur. Taking from the way he judged the other rebels, he may not wait for the trial to get revenge.”

He needed to get Talia out as soon as possible. Now that she was adulterated, fatherless, and penniless, there was nothing stopping Kalaur from having his fill. The thought of the swine forcing his way inside her made the veins in Petran’s forehead pop. “We must free her tonight.”

“Your majesty, I understand why you are enamored with the wench, she is a fine looking arse but she is done. Let her deal with the consequences of her actions. Milek spilled the beans in overflow. She was colluding with the rebels. The letter Lord Kalaur had in his hands was a coded message. She was probably fucking both of you at the same time—and only the Soartas know who else. Think about it, your majesty, if she welcomed a vampire into her bed, she probably let others in as well.”

Petran clutched at the royal chair with so much force it cracked between his fingers. He glared at Arthur, who stared back wide-eyed.

“Oh, well,” Yerik carried on, not noticing how much his life was in danger at every pitiful word he uttered. “It’s not a vampire matter anymore. As your royal councilor, I advise your majesty not to concern yourself any further. Lady Natalia is done for and after the trial, Kalaur will have his revenge and everything will return to normal.”

Petran’s roar muffled Yerik’s last words. He lunged at the lick-spittle’s neck and squeezed. His councilor was a tall man and somewhat robust, but his strength was no match for Petran’s rage.

“And as your king,” Petran growled, coming nose to nose with Yerik. “I advise you to shut your filthy mouth before I rip your bloody vocal cords out.”

“I’m sorry, your majesty,” Yerik gurgled out. “I did not mean to offend you.”

“You
should
be sorry.” Petran released his throat, trying to remind himself that the weasel was not the enemy. Kalaur was. He needed to focus in order to find a way of rescuing Natalia. Her life was in his hands. No matter what Yerik said, it was Petran’s fault she was in danger.  After Kalaur saw his mark on her skin, the draco had completely lost it. Apparently colluding with the rebels was less of an offense than fraternizing with a vampire.

How hypocritical.

He knew he had to do something and fast. The problem was—what? He could call a vampire assembly and gather support from the other vampire kings in the West and South, but that would take time. He could go to the Draconian Senate himself and make her case, but the way Kalaur was influential over them, they would shun Petran on the spot.

He looked out of the tall window at the dark hills beyond. There was only one solution.

“Yerik, I’m leaving you in command of my castle,” he ordered already putting his fur coat over his shoulders. “Watch the gates and the air, the dracos have not had the guts to attack me on my own territory, but that does not mean Kalaur won’t try.”

“May I ask where his majesty is going?” Yerik enquired rushing out of the room after Petran.

“I’m going to fix this the only way I can.”

“But your majesty, Kalaur wants your head. It’s not prudent.”

“To Hiad with prudence,” Petran replied opening the great front doors of his castle. “I cannot let an innocent woman take the blame for my mistakes.”

“She’s not innocent, your majesty, your mark is on her skin for anyone to see.”

“Exactly,” Petran took a long breath welcoming the cold air on his cheeks, waking his mind up. “My mark is on her skin.”

**********

Arthur watched as King Petran disappeared into the dark night. The strange feeling of unsettlement clutched at his gut, but the King had spoken and they were to follow his orders, no questions asked. He knew his majesty was heading out on a suicidal mission, but who was he to interfere? Maybe there was enough time for him to visit his cousin in Oxford, and check if there was any progress with the antidote.

He released a long sigh and turned on his heels intending to return to his chores, and stopped midstride when he saw Yerik’s contorted face. The councilor was staring into the night, in the direction of where the king had disappeared, his eyes were pure red, like rubies reflecting in light, and his fangs fully extended as if ready to attack an enemy in sight.

“Lord Yerik, what is the matter?” Arthur asked, filled with concern.

At his words, Yerik blinked a few times as if waking up from a trance. “Mind your own damn business, servant,” he barked then walked back inside, calling out for his henchmen.

Arthur didn’t reply, nor did he dare move. Yerik was a royal councilor, a land lord, and Petran himself had assigned him to take care of the reign’s affairs in his majesty’s absence. By law, he was the king for the night, and that made Arthur’s gut churn even more than before.