This isnotwhere I thought this evening would end up. After finally reviving my bond with Lukain and riding the hell outof the maddening dhampir for the first time in years the other night, I had hoped me and my four mates could find some alone time in Manor Marquin to . . . explore. Search and roam through this new understanding between us—even with two of my mates being half-brothers—and find some, erm,common groundwe could all agree on.
It’s me. I am the common ground these vampires can all agree on, and my strong, curvy body is the land on which I wish them to plant their flags.
Instead, we’re running for our lives from a crazed vampire lord who holds a grudge against our leader. The strongest nobleblood in all of Olhav is after us, and I have no idea what to expect once we reach the end of the catacombs. We have no home now, no base of operations.
The end comes after a dismally long time running through the labyrinthine tunnels. We turn a corner, and abruptly there’s a mingling of glowing yellow with the torchlight, brightening Skar’s front. His long mane of auburn hair glistens purple in the sudden sight of the moon just beyond the next bend.
We push out of the exit, coming to a rocky landing high above the grasslands below. We’re somewhere in the middle of the Olhavian Peaks, on a landing. A cold wind whips my hair about, ruffling cloaks. This strip of land has narrow passages leading every way down the cliffs.
My heart, which has been lodged in the base of my neck and pulsing irregularly during the entire descent through darkness, finally plunges to its rightful place behind my ribs. I let out a deep breath and hear the wheezing sounds of my mates doing the same.
Lukain says the first words in an hour, spouting, “Saved by the Damned, but thesmellsin there.”
“Like a dying rat fucked a bog full of rotting bones,” Garro adds, his hand at levity earning only wrinkled nostrils and lurching faces from the rest of us.
At the end of the landing, close to one of the trails, sits a tent. Behind us, the rock face is sheer and high, disappearing into the clouds as the mountain rises. Somewhere back there, Aramastun Wyvox is trampling through the estate Skartovius has called home for generations.
A face emerges from the tent, ashen and twisted with concern. The dhampir walks out, hands on his hip near his sword. Tense. Then he notices Skartovius and loosens, letting out a soft breath.
I can imagine this guardsman has not seen another living soul—or undead soul, in this case—in many, many nights.Did Skar really see fit to place a guard here, in the middle of nowhere, at all times?
“My lord?” the half-vampire croaks, his voice froggy from disuse.
Skartovius strides up to him. “Carres,” he says. With his tall narrow frame and his cloak-covered shoulders, Skar towers over this shorter grayskin. “You’ve kept steeds prepared?”
“Aye, sire, just down the way. Is something amiss?”
Skar looks gravely into the concerned half-blood’s face. Carres looks like a middle-youth, his young face hardly seeing more than sixteen winters. Of course, dhampir age slower than humans, so for all I know he’s thrice my age.
“Manor Marquin has fallen into the hands of the Night Judge,” Skar announces.
Carres’ shoulders sink. “Why, my lord? Is Overlord Aramastun not an ally?”
“I thought so. Or I hoped so. Alas, he’s proven himself as craven and bloodthirsty as the rest.”
“We always knew Aramastun was the worst of the Five Ministers, brother,” Vallan quips.
Skar looks over his shoulder. I notice how Skar’s eyes veer from Vallan and narrow on Lukain, histruesibling, as Vallan says the word “brother.”
This might get confusing. For decades, Vallan and Skar have called each other “brother.” Now Skar’s true and honest half-brother appears and they hate each other.
I worry a fracture is building in my group right before my eyes. It’s infuriating, because I have no control over it. It’s only made worse by the factIcurrently hate Skartovius, too, so I don’t particularly give a damn if it all crumbles beneath my feet.This whole cliffside could break apart under me and I would thank the avalanche for swallowing me whole.
“Three Ministers now,” Garroway points out, raising a finger.
“Three?” Carres asks, confounded. His red gaze veers between the various heads in front of him.
Skar flaps a hand in front of his face. “Worry yourself not, Carres. The story is too long in telling. You are positive the horses are saddled and ready?”
Carres nods encouragingly. “Saw to it myself, sire, just last night. Got a new batch after the old ones died out over winter. Three hale, gaited mares.” He looks over our group. “Might have to double up.”
Skar makes a small grunt. “Quiet good. I thank you for your service, Carres.” He touches the smaller vampire’s cheek, almost tenderly, if such a thing were possible for Skartovius Ashfen.
Carres stares into Skar’s gold-flecked crimson gaze and begins to smile—
Before athwupof ripping cloth and torn flesh breaks the moment. Carres’ face twists in confusion. He looks down at Skar’s arm, which is plunged fully into his chest, spilling awaterfall of blood down his front and splattering onto the ground.
Carres’ mouth opens, trembling—