Page 1 of Dance of the Phoenix (Cloak of the Vampire #3)
Aileen
Miserable emptiness filled my stomach as I watched Tansy’s face, serene in her slumber. She seemed far younger and more fragile than usual, with her long strawberry blond hair spread around her petite, pale body like a halo.
It had been a few days since the incident, and I’d spent all my time here, watching her.
According to Leah, the nurse in charge of Tansy, my former suitemate hadn’t awoken since the night the incident occurred.
Since she was a vampire, and vampires shouldn’t be able to go into a coma, Leah’s thesis was that it was the result of psychological damage.
Leah had tried to make me leave in the first couple of days. She didn’t say Tansy’s state was my fault, but she sure insinuated it by showing her ire at my being in the infirmary. But at some point, it seemed the nurse took pity on me, as though she could feel my anguish, and let me be.
The sound of the curtain surrounding Tansy’s bed drawing open made me turn around. Isora, my former suitemate from the Atalon League and a friend, stood there wearing her infirmary gown, a bottle of fresh blood in her hand. “Care for company?” she asked, giving me a worried look.
It was almost funny that she was concerned about me , considering she was still recuperating from being used as a blood slave.
Yet she definitely looked better than she had when I’d rescued her, with her braided brown hair shining and healthy, her blue eyes no longer bloodshot, and her skin losing the last of its grayish tint and blemishes.
It was only a matter of time before she would be released from the infirmary.
“Be my guest,” I said quietly, returning my gaze to Tansy.
I was glad Isora was doing well. While it didn’t entirely relieve me of my guilt where she was concerned, it did lessen it a bit.
Because even though I hadn’t been able to stop her from being exploited by a vampire Lord who was supposed to care for her but instead misused her almost beyond repair, I’d managed to save her in the end.
Unlike Tansy, whom I had failed many years ago, and then again just recently—so much so that her mind had tried to protect her from everything, from me , by putting her into what could very much be an eternal slumber.
Isora grabbed a chair and put it next to mine, sitting down. “It’s not your fault,” she told me quietly, putting her palm gently on my fisted hand. “You’re not responsible for me, Zoey, or this girl.”
I tensed. Isora didn’t know about my connection to Tansy, since both were my suitemates at different times, but I figured she guessed enough to understand there was one.
But she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know about the darkest part of my past. The part that I was now 100 percent sure Tansy belonged to.
When I didn’t respond, Isora took a deep breath and let my hand go, uncorking her bottle and sipping the blood. Part of her treatment, I knew, was to drink about seven liters of blood a day.
We sat in silence; the only sound breaking it was her drinking.
I stared at Tansy, as if looking at her might wake her up and make everything better.
What could I have done for her a few days ago that might’ve prevented this?
Knowing there was nothing I could have done, really, made me grit my teeth.
“Aileen.”
Isora’s careful voice made me whip my head toward her and snap, “I’m fine, so stop nagging me.”
She lowered her now-empty bottle and gave me a narrow-eyed look. “You’re obviously not fine, so I’ll keep on nagging you as I see fit.” She rose from her seat. “But since it seems I can’t get through to you, I’m going to call Lord Rayne .”
I grabbed her wrist. “Don’t,” I said, glaring at her. “I’m fine .”
Shaking my hold, she drew the curtain and stepped away. Irritated, I jumped to my feet and strode after her. She was somehow almost at the exit of the infirmary, but before she could leave, the door opened, revealing the very man she was going to call.
Ragnor Rayne, vampire Lord of the Rayne League, walked inside, his midnight blue eyes darting from Isora to me.
His dark-brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and his tall, muscular body was draped in black sweatpants, an indigo tank top, and his worn-out combat boots.
His golden-toned skin was glistening with sweat, indicating he had just finished training before popping in.
I hadn’t seen him since the incident with Tansy and our heart-to-heart that followed. He’d been so busy, he’d resorted to leaving me letters saying we would talk the next day. Unfortunately, every following day he would go AWOL again.
I didn’t blame him for being busy. With the whole Lord Atalon situation going on, and the impending war between the Atalon and Rayne Leagues, I had no doubt he was up to his neck in work.
I didn’t even try to seek him out for that reason, and to be honest, after our far-too-painful conversation in which I spilled the beans about my past, the space between us was welcome.
Yet here he was now, walking toward me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. I paused, watching him watching me as he drew to a stop a step away. “Come with me. We need to talk,” he ordered, low voice taut with what sounded like anger. But why would he be angry at me?
Narrowing my eyes, I studied his face. He was as handsome as ever, this infuriating man, but there was something amiss in his eyes. He seemed to be on edge.
My first instinct was to refuse his command on principle, but since he seemed jittery, shifting from foot to foot, his broad shoulders tense and his hands curled into white-knuckled fists, I knew this wasn’t the time or place for that.
Giving him a stiff nod, I glanced at Isora. She went back to her bed, watching us with big worried eyes.
Without another word, Ragnor turned around and walked out. With a flash of annoyance—and not just about his strange behavior but his general attitude—I took a deep breath, swallowed my ire, and followed him out.
Ragnor’s office was a mess.
Paperwork, both printed and handwritten, covered the wooden desk and some part of the floor.
The cabinets, their contents usually stacked in an orderly manner, were now wide open, folders and documents haphazardly thrown in.
There were two large monitors, their cables twisted messily toward the computer itself, seated on the chairs.
That, combined with the stifling smell of dust and barely dried ink, made the office feel like a storm had come through, leaving this disaster in its wake.
I stared, gaping, at the bizarre sight. This wasn’t like Ragnor. I’d been inhabiting his private suite ever since I returned to the Rayne League, and it was so neat and orderly, I could hardly bear it myself, as a naturally unkempt person. This was so out of character, I was struck dumb.
Ragnor was a control freak. That also showed in his tendency to like clean and organized spaces.
Out of all the Leagues I’d visited, the Rayne League was definitely the tidiest. Even the Atalon League, while polished and tasteful, always had dirt here and there from all the artsy stuff being moved around constantly.
I was about to speak, to ask what the hell was going on here, but Ragnor put away one of the monitors, took his own seat in the plush chair—the only furniture that hadn’t had anything on it—and motioned for me to sit. Biting my tongue, I carefully tiptoed around the papers lying about and sat down.
Then, Ragnor spoke. “In three weeks, there is going to be a Hecatomb.”
I wanted to tease him, to lighten up the air that had suddenly turned heavy with tension, but with his dead-serious gaze, I knew jokes would not be appreciated. Not now. So I warily asked, “What’s a Hecatomb?”
He leaned back against his chair, jaw ticking.
“A Hecatomb is a way for vampires to ... ‘war it out,’” he explained, voice foreboding.
“Since all vampires are signed to the Secrecy Agreement, in which we vow to hide our existence from humans, when two Leagues go to war, they obviously can’t do it out in the open. That’s what the Hecatomb is for.”
Pulling out a drawer in the desk, he retrieved a printed sheet of paper and set it on the desktop.
With a pen in hand, Ragnor began writing something at the bottom of the page as he spoke.
“The Hecatomb is a contest of sorts, gladiatorial in style. Each League brings ten members, five Gifted and five Common, to fight against each other, two versus two. The battles can only end in one of two ways: death or surrender. Ties are not possible.”
Gifted vampires referred to humans with special talents that transformed into some sort of magical ability after the human received the Imprint. Common vampires, on the other hand, were regular vampires without any special powers whatsoever.
Ragnor stopped scribbling and raised his eyes to me. “Raking in victories is mostly for the League members’ sake. Because, in truth, the final battle is all that really matters.” He paused, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s a fight to the death between two Sacreds—or rather, the two Lords.”
Sacred referred to vampires who’d lived for a few centuries and developed magic with age. Magic that had nothing to do with their talents, if they had any. To become a vampire Lord, one had to be Sacred.
A fight between two Lords who packed a lot of magical power was bound to be absolutely brutal.
Just the thought of it made my heart stop.
“The results can vary,” Ragnor said, pushing the paper he’d just written on toward me. “Read this.”
With trembling hands, I took the paper and read:
“In the event that League X wins more rounds, and its Lord wins the final battle, League Y’s both Common and Gifted members will submit to be put in a special Hecatomb Auction.
“In the event that League X wins more rounds, but the Lord of League Y wins the final battle, League X members have three choices: