Vampire Legacy (Book 4 of the Dragon Heat series) (35 page)

All in a matter of hours, and that was the key to his insane strategy—timing.

By dividing themselves into sections, they would strike Kalaur’s domain at the same time in several different fronts, leaving him little time to retaliate in an organized fashion.

Petran just hoped Hillia had managed to keep herself safe and that Zoricah would come through with her end of the bargain.

He had only one goal in this suicidal mission and that was to make sure Tardieh and Hillia were safe. They were his responsibility, his burden, his cross. 

“What if something goes wrong, your majesty, and you do not reach the rendezvous at the agreed time?” Arthur had asked when they bid farewell at the crest of the Moldavian Mountains. His eyes carried the resolution of a true warrior, not a chamberlain, even though his voice cracked slightly in fear of the answer.

“In that case, my friend,” Petran had replied. “It would mean I am already dead, and it will then be your charge to see the mission through, to use whatever information Zoricah gathered, and take whomever you manage to muster from my royal army to save my son.” Petran had placed a sturdy hand on Arthur’s shoulder and regarded the man who had become so much more than just a servant in such a short time. “You must forget about me, Arthur, I cannot emphasize this enough. You must forget about the queen, my fallen kingdom, and me. Tardieh’s health and safety are your priority and your only mission from this day hence.” He had made Arthur swear that if their worst nightmares came to life, he would flee with his son and live his life to ensure his son’s safety.

A strange ache had settled in Petran’s heart when the two had finally bid farewell and left to do their bidding. A part of him had wanted to share with Arthur his true thoughts and strategy, but he knew his chamberlain-turned-spy-turned-general would never be of agreement. No, it was best to keep him in the dark, until the right time came. Yes, precision and timing were the essence of his plan.

Shaking his head clear of useless uncertainties, he quietly
clouded out
farther into the castle and reached the underground wing, which was surprisingly empty of guards.

Invigorated by the thirst for revenge pumping in his veins, Petran floated through the entrance to the Dark Wing and descended the spiral staircase toward Hillia’s bedchambers. The Dark Wing was where the royal family spent their days, safely sheltered from the sun. It was as vast as the upper levels, housing two Great Halls, a large library, and a wide area for combat training, in addition to the vast royal quarters.

According to Arthur, Hillia was under house arrest in the Queen’s apartments. Petran just hoped she was alone so he could get her out of there and teleport away without alarming the draconian army. His castle, like any respectable stronghold, was fortified by cement—the only material vampires were unable to teleport through, not even him.

As soon as he reached the hallway, which preceded the Royal apartments, loud laughter reached his ears. How odd.

A frown creased Petran’s brow as a sinking feeling churned his guts. What in Hiad was going on? If Kalaur’s filthy men had also taken over the royal quarters, it could only mean Hillia had been taken to the dungeons or worse, the torture chamber. And if that was the case, Petran’s mission would go from difficult to virtually impossible.

He took a deep breath and forced his mind to think clearly. The Queen’s Grand Apartment was a vast suite of four connecting rooms. The fact that there may be people enjoying their evening in one of them did not mean she was in the dungeons. She could have been forced to stay within the limits of the inner rooms.

The smell of cooked food and cheap wine assaulted his vampire senses making him gag and almost reveal himself. Unfortunately, the provenience of such foul smells was exactly where he needed to go.

Decreasing the density of his cloud to the bare minimum, he entered the room.

And almost dropped to the ground in shock.

Kalaur, Balaur, Milek and other military-looking dracos were idly hanging out in the front room of the Queen’s apartments enjoying their evening as if the war had been already won. However, that was not the truly disturbing part of the spectacle. No, what took Petran aback was the woman poised in the middle of the grand living room, cheerfully waving a long feather-fan, performing a jolly song from the latest Parisian Operetta. Hillia.

By the gates of Hiad.

Hillia’s honorable guests looked captivated, mesmerized by her talents and her barely-covered body. They all looked like they were having the time of their lives.

And so did Hillia.

After she finished the song with an emphatic pose, which would make any Opera Diva sneer in jealousy, she leaned on the grand piano feigning exhaustion, while her guests showered her in applause and flowers.

Petran felt sick to the stomach. He would rather be slowly killed by silver needles than to have seen his queen turned into a vaudeville entertainer.

“All right, my lovelies,” the woman in question uttered. “I thank you for the visit to my humble apartments and for being a most joyful audience, but now I must retire. Even a queen needs her beauty sleep.”

Petran waited in the shadows. By Apa Dobrý, how hard it was not to strike and kill them all right here and now. Including Hillia. His blood boiled, his eyes silently zooming in on each one of his targets.

The all-male audience protested and showered her with more compliments and requests, but after a few coy smiles and a promise that a new number would be performed on the following evening, the filthy bastards made their way out the door.

When the last one had finally crossed the threshold, including Kalaur, Hillia closed the door behind her and all the merriment in her stance suddenly vanished like vapor in the wind.

“You too, scurry off,” she barked at a young chambermaid Petran had not met before.

“But Lord Kalaur told me to help you undress, milady,” the girl replied shyly.

Hillia bared her fangs at the girl. “I am no
milady
,” she uttered between clenched teeth, making the girl shiver on the spot. “I am the Queen and you had better address me accordingly.”

The girl quickly bowed low, visibly trembling to her bones. “Yes, your majesty.” 

“Leave now, you little tramp, or I’ll tell Kalaur about the necklaces you have stolen from me.”

“Necklaces? I didn’t take anything, your majesty, I swear.”

“Kalaur does not know that, now does he?”

The girl gasped in confusion but didn’t take long to understand what the vampire queen was insinuating, and to rush out the door.

Now that was the Hillia Petran had married, not the prancing bee who entertained armies. The realization brought him a strange sense of relief. Maybe she hadn’t sold herself to his enemies. After all, Hillia was a survivor, like him, and she was probably doing everything to do just that, survive. It had been wrong of him to judge her without understanding all sides of the story. In the past months of his exile, she must have gone through Hiad to keep her neck out of the guillotine.

A pang of guilt crossed his consciousness. There was no lost love between them but the reality was he had deserted her when she needed him the most. Soon he would fix that and all this plight would be a thing of the past.

Still cloaked in his cloud form, he followed her along the inner rooms toward the bedchamber, where she locked the door behind her and started undressing. Alone.

Perfect. Now was the time. Petran started materializing, ready to reveal himself and free her from the nightmare, which had engulfed both their lives.

A clicking sound echoed in the room, freezing him in place, and halfway into his solid shape.

Another clicking sound, and then the crystal cabinet in the far end of the room swung open and the profile of a large man emerged from the secret passage.

Kalaur.

The Draco sneaked out and darted across the room with open arms, claws out, toward an unknowing Hillia.

Petran saw red. Was the filthy swine thinking of having his way with her?

Only over Petran’s dead body. It didn’t matter that Hillia and Petran hadn’t seen eye to eye in decades, or that they had been living separate lives ever since Tardieh was born. No, this was a matter of honor and justice.

Not caring about the plan or the consequences of making himself known, he advanced on his rival with the intention of butchering the bastard to save the integrity of his race’s queen.

“Oh, Kalaur, not tonight. You know I detest it when you dine on cooked meat.”

What in Hiad?

At Hillia’s words, Petran stopped mid-strike, utterly confused.

“You never used to complain,” Kalaur replied, kissing her on the neck.

Petran’s jaw dropped, his mind went numb. Thank Apa Dobrý for the two were facing the other way, and had not noticed him in the corner.

“I am serious, Kalaur,” Hillia uttered, snaking out of the draco’s jolly hands. “You stink of cheap wine and stewed pheasant. Get out.”

“All right, all right, don’t be mad. I’ll go wash,” he replied with a pout and turned around to go back through the secret passage, like a puppy dog.

“Wait,” Hillia ordered.

Kalaur obliged.

“Any news?”

The draco shook his head. “Still nothing. The boy is much more resilient than we gave him credit for.”

“Tardieh is not resilient, you imbecile,” the queen barked. “He is stubborn, just like his father.”

What?

“You promised me Vrajitor would squeeze whatever we wanted out of Tardieh, in no time at all,” she carried on. “So, why in Hiad, is he yet to
squeeze out
where Petran is hiding?”

“He’s working on it, Hillia. Be patient.”

“Be patient?” She lifted a perfectly manicured eyebrow at Kalaur. Her voice was as low as a viper, her eyes as cold as the morning dew. “It has been three months. Three months, Kalaur! Only the Soartas know how many allies Petran has gathered by now. I did not risk all I have to be outdone by my playboy son. I certainly did not swim across the ocean, to die on the beach. No. We must find and crush Petran before he is strong enough to retaliate.” She walked to her dressing table after removing her royal ring from her finger. “Bring me one of the female servants—a vampire, preferably tall and slender.”

“What for?” Kalaur asked.

“Your Master Torturer seems to need some help,” she sneered, and then pulled a set of daggers out of one of the drawers. “Take these,” she commanded, handing Kalaur her ring and a small dagger. The silver blade sparkled against the dim light of the only lamp in the room. “Put my ring on the girl’s finger then chop her hand off with this blade, and give it to Vrajitor. Tell him to use it against Tardieh. My son may be too hardheaded to save his own skin, but he will not withstand the thought of his Mommy suffering because of him.”

Kalaur flashed an approving smile. “Oh, Hillia, you are the most cunning female I have ever met.” He advanced on her, his hips forward obviously wanting more than just a rub but once again, her majesty, the queen, shun him away with a wrinkled nose.

“All right, I’ll go wash but after that, my dear, we will celebrate our victory the way we did when we captured those rebels,” he groaned, running his tongue along the top of her alabaster breasts, then dashed out of the room through the secret passage behind the crystal cabinet.

Petran could not believe his eyes but the conversation he had just witnessed was proof enough of whom had been in charge all along.

By the love of Apa Dobrý, he had been so wrong. Kalaur had not been the brains behind the operation. He was merely a pawn who needed a queen to tell him what to do. And Petran did not doubt Hillia’s talents and calculating mind, knowing her as well as he did. She was conniving enough to plot the entire scheme and get away with it. He suddenly remembered Doctor Jenner, Arthur’s cousin, mentioning that the samples of the original bacteria he had found on his African trips were kept at the Université Paris-Sorbonne. Hillia spent an awful lot of time in Paris, supposedly shopping. It was obvious it had not been just for gowns.

By the gates of bloody Hiad!
Petran’s eyes turned as crimson as the blood which boiled in his veins. Feeling the wrath of deceit coursing through his body, he stepped out of the shadows letting his figure take full shape in the middle of the room.

“Hello, Hillia.”

His wife jumped in surprise, her eyes going wide with shock before they seemed to flood with a mixture of relief and happiness. But not before a hint of cold shrewdness swept through them—a shift nearly imperceptible, but clear enough to Petran’s trained eyes.

“Petran you are alive,” the viper cried out, covering her mouth with her hands. “Thank Apa Dobrý!” She ran toward him, but he stepped out of her way.

“Yes I am, despite your efforts.”

“Oh, do not believe what you’ve heard here, my dear. I am just trying to save our son. If Tardieh continues to refuse to tell Vrajitor what he wants to hear, I fear his life will not be spared.” She collapsed on the chair by the dressing table, as if her legs had just given way. “Oh, Petran, you have no idea how daunting this ordeal has been or how much I’ve had to sacrifice in order to protect our house, to keep our son alive while you were away. A mother should never have to make the choices I was forced to make. Ever!”