Blood Ties Page 21

  The tension broke and Darian turned to the horizon with a small smile. “If I would have warned you, you would not have enjoyed the celebration. And it was quite entertaining, watching you attempt a dance.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? It’s not my fault you guys don’t keep up with popular culture. I’d like to see you do the Cha-cha slide.”

  After a moment of silence, Reykon shook his head. “That’s just the beginning, you know. The vampires won’t be okay with this.”

  “They will accept this arrangement in light of the impending battle. Violence has a strange way of uniting even the most hateful enemies. But once the war is done, I cannot make any promises. The next time this happens, though, I would counsel you, Robin: do not hesitate to finish the job.”

  Her eyebrows pulled together. “You think I should have turned him human?”

  “Vampires are much like wolves,” Darian said, his lips pressed into a thin line. “They will snap and bite at each other until an alpha arises, and even then, the alpha must be constantly tested by squabbles and fights. If they think they are more powerful than you, they will try to assert that presumption. Cut it off at the outset, or it will come back tenfold.”

  “Great,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Good to know. Now I’ll really be able to sleep at night.”

  Darian smiled. “The term you used earlier was quite correct… for you, there is a steep learning curve. Though it appears the task extends to dancing as well as the subtleties of politics.”

  Robin rolled her eyes and slipped her hand into Reykon’s as they rejoined the party and let the warm air envelope them.

  Chapter 11 Perspectives

  Megan

  Two weeks had passed since the strange moment of honesty in Fausta’s bath. Megan spent the days in a fevered, agitated state, looking for anything to distract her from the mounting tidal wave of hatred, sorrow, and guilt that rose in the recesses of her mind. She drank, she would walk up to the vampires and say nothing, just giving them the look, and then she’d wake up the next day with a hangover, tangled up with the other humans, sometimes missing her shirt, her clothes. The days bled together, blurred by intoxication, her fragile mind taped together with increasing amounts of alcohol and morphine. Fausta had left a few days after the incident – you know, the night she viciously maimed the only friend she’d ever had. Megan had woken up, and she was gone, along with the vampires that usually congregated in her chambers, and many of the humans. Todd was still there, and Magnus, as always, and Megan. Some of the more established vampire guards were there as well, and the servants. But the chambers felt empty, dead, and now more than ever, Megan craved that constant buzz of people, moving around her, laughing, or sighing in pleasure. Now, she needed the distraction the most. No matter what she did, every time she closed her eyes, her mind flashed to that image of Clay’s limb, that lifeless hand, cleaved by the axe, the sharp sting of wolfsbane in her nose.

  The next time Megan woke, she was surprised to see a vampire standing by the window, looking out at the horizon. It was morning, mid-morning maybe. The fire crackled softly, and Megan rose, her eyes fixated on the vampire’s form. She recognized him from some of the meetings with Fausta. His name was Duncan, and he’d been her advisor at the outset of the siege, though recently Megan had seen him less and less. He turned, looking at her with a small smile. “Hello.”

  Megan said nothing, but just sat up straight, a silent observer.

  More time passed, Duncan growing restless, until he came from the window and sat on one of the couches by the fireplace. “There’s food on the table,” he called back to her. “One of the servants just brought it in.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Megan said softly. Her stomach was empty, she realized. Very empty. She didn’t even remember the last time she’d eaten, and she rose, her feet softly padding against the ground, to the table. Pastries, ripe fruit, and breakfast meats were piled high on platters. Megan got a plate and filled it up with some meat, some fruit, a little bit of everything, and then grabbed a mug and poured coffee into it from the fancy silver warming pitcher. She brought them over to the large bed, where Todd and another human woman were still unconscious, fading bitemarks like shadows on their skin. She set the tray on the nightstand and nudged Todd’s shoulder until he stirred, looking at her with bleary eyes. “Coffee,” she muttered, holding the cup out until he pushed himself up and took it.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, blinking a few times. The woman next to him rolled over and sighed, falling back asleep.

  She walked back over to the table and got herself a plate, her stomach grumbling at the scent of bacon. She felt Duncan’s eyes on her the whole time, but it didn’t bother her as much as it did when the vampire heirs and heiresses watched her. Duncan seemed harmless compared to them. “Join me, Megan?” he asked, a moment before she had made it back to her bench.

  She changed her course, passing the bench and walking down the two steps, sitting on the curved loveseat adjacent to Duncan’s couch. Her eyes trailed to the fire, to the flames that licked the air and devoured the logs. She could see Duncan’s agitated fidgeting, strange tension rolling off of him in waves. “Something bothering you?” she asked softly.

  His red eyes snapped to hers, and he gave a strange little smile. “Many things, and more with every day.”

  Megan shrugged, picking apart a croissant. It tasted greasy in her mouth and sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She set the plate on her lap and picked up her coffee instead, nursing the burning liquid with small sips.

  “She wasn’t always like this, you know,” Duncan muttered, gesturing to the grand room around them. “I’ve been with her since the beginning, seen her all the way through, counseled her through trial after trial.”

  Megan nodded, half listening and half eating, her mind wandering in its own wretched sobriety. A headache formed behind her eyelids, and Megan couldn’t tell whether or not it was from the wine she’d had last night or the lack of wine she’d had this morning. Or a combination therein.

  “I told her not to take those wolves,” Duncan continued, turning to Megan. “I begged her not to do it. But she has closed herself off to criticism, and it falls on deaf ears.”

  Again, Megan didn’t say anything. She wasn’t afraid of Duncan, but she absolutely was afraid of the vampire servants whispering to Fausta that Megan had taken part in badmouthing her behind her back. Especially while she was out in battle, sealing the victory. Megan had no doubts that Fausta would win against Darian Xander, and that when all this was over, Fausta would come back to House Xander to see her precious pet. After all, what was the alternative? Fausta could lose, and then… what happened to everybody here? Megan shook the thought away, her headache surging.

  Magnus stirred from his sleep, rattling the chains slightly as he moved within the cage. Duncan noticed this, looking over to it with a bitter grimace. The vampire rose, walking to the table and preparing a plate before bringing it back to the cage and pulling the curtain back. Magnus flinched, shielding his eyes from the light, cowering against the bars. Duncan opened the door and set the food in front of him, returning to the couch and leaving the curtain drawn back, as Megan bit her tongue, wanting to tell him that they weren’t allowed to help Magnus. She stopped herself; he was a vampire, and it wasn’t her place. She didn’t want to intervene, anyway. It went against Todd’s ‘keep your head down’ philosophy. Megan’s eyes trailed on Magnus for a moment longer before his snapped up to hers and she looked away quickly, feeling like a jerk for watching him. It was probably humiliating. He had enough humiliation without her adding to it.

  “You are very brave, you know,” Duncan muttered, pulling her out of the deliberation. “Very brave to face all that you have and preform in the way you have.”

  She didn’t reply. Duncan’s words were hollow against her ears, negating the prayer that she’d told herself, the words that she’d clung to this whole time, as she felt herself slipping further and further into
the dark abyss that Fausta’s rule had become. It could be worse. It could be worse. It could always be worse. She didn’t want Duncan’s sympathy. She wanted to wallow, and she wanted to be miserable, because the only thing that pulled her out of it was knowing that no matter how sad she was, it could always be worse, and there was no hope of rebellion.

  “I am sorry that-”

  “Do you want something?” Megan asked sharply, scaring herself with the force of her words. Duncan watched her for a moment with a guarded expression, and a hint of sadness. She swallowed hard, and spoke carefully, stepping on eggshells over a bed of knives. “I’m sorry.”

  The thick tension broke when Duncan gave her a warm smile. “Don’t be sorry, dear. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Megan let out a slow breath and picked at her food, forcing herself to eat something solid. Something that would at least take the ever-present nausea away from her. “So when will Mistress Fausta come back?” Megan asked after a few moments.

  Duncan’s lip twitched slightly, his fingers drumming against the side of the sofa as he looked at the painting. “I do not know when, or if she will be back. She has been remarkably lucky for such an ambitious leader, but I fear that she has stretched too far this time, young wolf.”

  Megan scowled, her eyes dropping to her lap, concern wrapping its claws around her throat.

  “Do you know much about this painting?” Duncan asked.

  She looked up to it once more, the painting she’d looked at a thousand times, the painting she could draw in perfect detail with her eyes closed. “No.”

  “It is an interesting piece indeed,” Duncan said. “This painting was made by Peter Paul Rubens, a famous artist during the renaissance, when old Greek revival was a rising trend with all the ‘cool kids’. He was only twenty-eight at the time… but anyway, the painter had a knack for capturing particularly destructive moments in history and myth. This work was modeled after Phaethon, the son of Helios. Are you familiar with the tale?”

  Megan shook her head.

  “Of course not, I apologize,” he said, shaking his head at his own presumption, and waving his hand in dismissal. “The titans gave birth to children who were regaled as gods in Greek mythology. One of these gods was named Helios, and he was in charge of steering the solar chariot across the sky each and every day.”

  “The sun god…” Megan murmured, tracing over the brushstrokes.

  “Right,” Duncan echoed. “Helios had a son with an ocean nymph named Clymene, and named him Phaethon, which means ‘the shining one’. But his upbringing was one of ridicule and disbelief, as many of his peers did not believe he could truly be the son of a god. Phaethon, distraught by this, consulted his mother, who advised him to go talk to his father. When Phaethon arrived, he was blinded by the sun rays on Helios’s head. See, Phaethon had never seen anything like this, or been so close to a god. But his father was truly overjoyed to see him, and removed the rays to speak to his son, and in fact, he was so affectionate to Phaethon that he promised to give the boy whatever his heart desired. Phaethon, being a young boy, so impressed by the blazing god before him, asked to steer the chariot across the sky for just one day. Now, Helios knew that this would end in disaster, but he couldn’t make himself deny his son, whom he loved more than anything. He attempted to protect the boy by anointing him with a protective oil, and tried to teach the boy how to drive, but Phaethon was eager, he was impatient, and he was very, very rash. He took the reins and he drove the sun across the sky too boldly. The horses, sensing this inexperience, became skittish and ran for the earth, scorching a large part of the land and killing a large number of humans, all because of Phaethon’s foolhardiness and because his father, who knew better, let him do it in the first place.”

  Megan’s eyes traced over the figures, the humans cowering in fear, the blazing chariot tipping over and the horses’ eyes, too wide, too white. “Wow,” she murmured.

  “Yes. It is quite a tragic tale, so as I look at it, I wonder why Darian Xander kept it in his quarters, to stare at day in and day out, if it is so depressing.”

  Megan nodded, chewing on her croissant, deep in thought.

  “So why do you think he did it?” Duncan asked.

  “What?”

  “Why do you think Darian had it hung here, in this spot?”

  Megan shrugged. “Maybe he thought it was pretty.”

  A small smile touched Duncan’s lips. “Perhaps. But I have a theory about why he did this,” Duncan muttered.

  “Let’s hear it,” Megan said between another bite of muffin.

  “There is a long and complicated history attached to the vampire Darian Xander.”

  “Really?” Megan asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Oh, yes. He wasn’t always the all-powerful grand master. He was once a young vampire heir. His story begins in the old world, with the most ancient vampires of our race. One of these creatures adopted Darian and brought him up in the old order, when humans worshiped vampires as gods. But soon, Darian and his generation saw problems arise. Humans began doubting, began creating weapons and rising up against the vampires. There was a schism, and Darian and the younger vampires had to overthrow their makers or face the doom that the elders would bring upon the entire race. After one of the bloodiest wars our kind had ever seen, there was chaos, and a period of darkness and human bloodshed like none other. Darian and his compatriots were imprisoned by sympathizers, and for a century, this continued, until those vampires that terrorized the humans had been whittled down by rebellion. Finally, Darian and his conspirators escaped prison. They fled, concealing themselves until they realized that the vampires needed leadership. They came up with a new order, a system, and began bringing vampires in with strict rule and order and killing those that would not conform.”

  “Now, they relocated to western Europe – at the time, the frontier of the world – and they began building their empires, or royal houses. Many vampires adopted heirs and began training them in anticipation of a population surge; you see, the humans were doing very well at this time, and vampires began creating more of their kind in turn. More vampires meant a need for more enforcers, and you wanted someone you could trust. Your own flesh and blood. Darian was eager to hop on board, and he chose a prince of the human world. His name was Louis Phillippe. He was an arrogant, vain young boy, but he was beautiful, handsome, with near-white hair, just like Darian’s. Some say Darian was enthralled by the boy, and others say he was willfully ignorant to what a tyrant Louis Phillipe truly was. But the day came when he needed to grant power to the boy, to give him something to build upon. Up until then, Darian had been relaxed with him, coddled him even. Darian was excited to share the gift of immortality, and he let the boy go soft with unfettered indulgence and aimless exploration. But the boy jumped at the chance to take control of a rebellious house of rebels and begged his father to allow him to lead the siege. Darian told him that the situation must be put under control, as quickly and as quietly as possible. And so Louis Phillippe attacked the task with all the vigor he had, and regained order of the house in only four days.”

  “Wow,” Megan said.

  “Yes. Some would think that Louis Phillippe had done a good job. He was congratulated immensely and showered in praise by Darian, but unfortunately the leader was too blinded by admiration to see what he had sparked in his heir. Louis Phillippe got a taste of blood that day, and he became a slave to it forevermore. His benders would last months, and he would leave a wave of destruction behind him. The boy was so cruel that he would actually send dismembered humans to Darian, to try to get his attention. Obviously, this angered the leader, but more than anything, it hurt him, I think. This was Darian’s first heir, the legacy of his realm, and he was tearing the human world apart, limb by limb. The true turning point was when Louis Phillippe turned a vampire without telling Darian. Had the boy consulted Darian, there was no way the human would have been considered. He was a monster, abused as a young boy at the hands of t
he Turks, which spiraled into such manic instability that he quickly drew attention from both vampires and humans. You might actually know of him.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Have you heard of Vlad the Impaler?”

  Megan’s eyes widened. “Yeah… everyone’s heard of him.”

  “Well, then you know that his name is self-explanatory. A horrible, insane psychopath, and he’d been given the gift of immortality and strength beyond belief. His massacres totaled eighty thousand humans, a significant number by any hand, human or vampire. So significant, in fact, that the church began launching campaigns against these night-demons. I believe a book was written in his memory, but the name escapes me now… In any case, Darian had no choice but to act. He ordered that Vlad be killed and set out in search of his son and found the boy in a human tavern that he’d taken hostage, either killing or commanding the humans to his cruel will. When Louis Phillippe refused to come back with Darian for sentencing by the collective masters, Darian had no choice but to kill his own son. When he returned, there are accounts that he was not the same man as he was at the outset of his journey. Killing his heir changed Darian somehow. He was once reckless, once foolhardy, enjoying too much wine and too many women – actually, he boasted a famous reputation for his bacchanalia – but after that, he retreated inward, and became incredibly careful. He never exceeded the lines of his territory, never let greed get the better of him, and he never permitted any behavior that would alert the humans of their existence. Louis Phillippe and Vlad had triggered church persecution like none other, persecution that far exceeded that of the humans at the end of the old order. Many vampires starved and degraded into half-forms, and many more were forced to live in caves, like animals, becoming the very demons that the church preached about. It was a very dark time for my people. I believe that in part, Darian Xander blames himself for this.”