Page 48 of The Curse of Eternity (Descendants of Helsing #1)

“Bravo, Ignatius—bravo, indeed.” Unarmed, Lucian slowly clapped and took a single step closer.

“Right as I was charged with the duty of locating your whereabouts, you return home to heel. Although, I must wonder, what manner of idiocy compelled your actions?” His gaze held mine, but all I could see in his pupils was my last memory of the human servant at the manor.

Countless others owed their deaths to him. “Or whose ?”

My blood boiled, and I dared a glance at Drake. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed and refusing to look away from Lucian. Years of training kicked in as I assessed our surroundings.

“I have neither the time nor desire to explain myself to you, Lucian.” Drake took a subtle step in front of me, and my gaze dropped to the rectangular outline in his back pocket.

“You cannot protect her and combat me, Ignatius,” Lucian retorted, unashamed glee coloring his thick accent.

I moved to stand beside Drake, my left hand quickly plucking the matchbox from his pocket and palming it.

The slight curl to the corner of Drake’s mouth was reassuring, but he turned the smirk into one of derision to continue his verbal distraction.

“I have often wondered if it is in the nature of our undeath to have such a cowardly yellow streak in the face of adversity.” Drake took a meandering step toward the wall, and Lucian’s pale brow creased.

“It is my belief that, no, it is not a trait of our race, but mere complacency on your part. For when this false narrative of immortality is put to the test—” With one hand, I managed to thumb out a single match.

“It turns out that you are much too afraid of death.”

“You will be forced to embrace the nothingness of a true death long before I.” Lucian raised his pointy chin. “None too soon, for my liking.”

“No,” Drake agreed, and I dropped my machete to fumble with striking the match against the box. “None too soon.”

My vampire became a blur of movement when he reached to grasp the wrought-iron backplate fastening the oil lamp to the stone wall.

I struck the match, its shush of spasming atoms overpowered by the explosive crunch of metal being torn from stone.

Like a brilliant sun in deep space, the bud of fire glowed golden against my fingers.

Glass crashed to the carpet. Slick liquid spilled across its threadwork, soaking in. Armor squeaked, the guards torn between protecting Lucian and intercepting us. They would have been too late.

Flame fell from my fingertips, and Drake’s cool, familiar arms wrapped around me to haul me backward.

His grip spun me around, and I crouched low to snatch up my machete as heat erupted behind my retreat.

A glance over my shoulder revealed the extent of the damage.

The dry carpet caught like tinder, eating up the stagnant oxygen permeating the hall.

Lucian and his werewolf henchmen were forced back when the flames followed them.

Shifting light ignited the anger in Lucian’s eyes, but I was spared from being consumed by my need for revenge when Drake’s hand settled on mine.

Forced to face ahead or risk tripping, I sprinted in Drake’s wake while he pulled me along after him.

Smoke clouded our path, and my eyes watered.

Coughing, I clutched to Drake’s hand when he suddenly stopped, and the crash of wood against stone followed.

I squinted through stinging eyes as two double doors swung inward.

Drake pushed me inside, and I stumbled to catch my footing as he hurried to throw the doors shut behind us.

Ash was bitter on my tongue, choking my attempts to inhale the decay-scented air. Somehow, I sensed Drake inches in front of me even before he spoke.

“Were you harmed?”

“I’ll—” Swallowing, I cleared my throat and blinked away the moisture obscuring my vision. “I’ll live.”

Dark-paneled walls surrounded us, lavishly draped in shades of purple fabric that ran from floor to ceiling like gauzy wallpaper. The hexagon-shaped antechamber was grand, but only one piece of furniture rested at the center—if a huge statue made of stone could be considered that.

Atop a marble throne sat the depiction of a man, but no engraving was necessary to know who it was meant to immortalize.

It was eerie, and though distantly related, there was something about the square jaw and bridge of his nose that resembled my father and uncle, even my male cousins.

I could only guess at what color his eyes had been, but considering the smooth arch of his brow that I’d recognize in the mirror, I was glad the sculptor hadn’t painted any irises.

Beyond the statue, opposite the entrance, was another set of double doors. A sixth sense alerted me to whatever magick sealed the threshold. The very one we desperately needed to cross. Drake moved first, disappearing from view around the massive marble sculpture.

The squeak of my boots on the hardwood floor dissipated once I reached the carpet that must have been specially woven for this room since it made a perfect hexagonal perimeter around the centerpiece.

Once past the statue, I took in the doors stained so dark they were almost black.

Golden handles again glimmered in the darkness despite there being no sources of light.

Drake stood in front of the entrance, his focus on the enchanted handles, but an enormous painting above him caught my attention.

He didn’t so much as glance up at the woman portrayed in colorful oils.

A strange contrast to the room around, since the artist had painted her surrounded by so much vibrant imagery.

From her light pink gown to the sunlight streaming into the courtyard setting beyond latticed windows.

Something about her gentle smile struck a chord of familiarity, but not in the same way as Vladislav Dracula the Fourth’s immortalized image had.

A subtle sense of comfort accompanied my admiration of the deep, dark brown eyes framed by black hair, the long strands half up in a knot while the rest fell straight down over her shoulders.

Necklaces adorned her slender pale throat, highlighted by a pretty rose-tinted blush.

Brow scrunched, I found Drake already staring at me when I finally tore my gaze away from the woman in the portrait. Morbid curiosity got the best of me.

“Who is that?” I walked the final steps to stand at Drake’s side, but he didn’t look away from me when he answered.

“Ileana Petrescu.” His accent thickened on her name. “The fourth wife to have been betrothed to Dracula.”

“The fourth?” Only three wives ever made it into the stories Grandpa would tell us growing up. Even that was pure speculation, based on what Helsing had uncovered during his nearly three centuries hunting down Dracula.

Except, this was the only portrait of a woman I’d seen in the fortress so far.

Drake offered his hand, palm up. A sad smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but the effect it had on my heart made it too easy to place my left hand atop his.

Unexpectedly, he raised my hand to press a soft kiss against my knuckles.

Distracted by his touch, I cleared my throat when he lowered my hand.

“Do I just…open it?” I turned to face the doors when he nodded. An engraving circled the handles, and I bit my lip. Would anything horrible happen if we were wrong? Would it kill me on the spot if the enchantment recognized me as a threat? I had no other choice but to try.

Drake’s fingers squeezed mine, and I silently handed him my machete so I could keep holding onto him. When he took the weapon, unease tightened my shoulders, but I slowly exhaled and reached out.

“Whatsoever occurs, I will be here,” he whispered.

Encouraged, I bit the bullet and placed my damp palm against the brassy metal. Nothing unusual happened, except a chill climbing up my arm to make me shiver. I tried turning the knob. An audible click cut through the silence, and at the slightest push on my part, the doors swung inward.

Darkness greeted me, and I blinked fast to take in the vast room.

Where windows should have been, massive tapestries ran the wall from the ceiling to a few feet off the floor.

The room was indeed fit for a king. On the left was the bed, its frame expansive and carved with such expertise that it rivaled anything my family could produce.

Had its maker survived the commision, or was this their final creation?

Chaise lounges and chairs arranged around a cold fireplace created the sitting area, where a short stack of books were placed on a low central table.

Like their owners had forgotten to return them to the library before leaving this world forever.

An elongated vanity took up space between two dressers placed against the far wall.

While I stood there in awe, Drake strode ahead.

His gaze didn’t waver on his way to the vanity, where jewelry and crystal pieces were strewn across the surface, never put away.

In front of the vanity’s mirrors, Drake’s reflection was put into sharp perspective from every possible angle.

My first step inside was brought up short when my intuition flickered.

After opening and closing several small drawers, his shoulders relaxed an inch as he removed a maroon velvet box from the rich wooden vanity.

He pushed its lid open with his thumb, and nestled within the swath of silk were two nearly identical golden rings.

Thoughts emptied out of my head, but I forced my legs to move.

On my approach, I couldn’t help but glimpse Drake’s oddly nostalgic gaze while he stared down at his salvation.

Several feet away, I halted, and Drake looked up.

Mistrust built in my chest, and this was so not the right time for it.

We needed to get out of here, and fast .

Except I wouldn’t be able to take a step outside this room without knowing the truth.

“Who are you, Drake?”

Guarded emotion flickered behind his eyes, and the crease between his brows seemed apologetic.

“I am exactly who you know me to be,” he assured, taking a step closer, but he stopped when I backed up.

“I cannot help who my progenitor was, and I assume you have already guessed. Please, we must hurry to escape, I will explain everything once—”

“Dracula never had children.” It was one piece of the lore that could be certain.

The man who became the first vampire was barely older than I was now when he made his ‘deal with the devil.’ If he’d had any illegitimate children before that, then they would have been considered bastards with no claim to the Wallachian throne—hence why Helsing was always the imminent threat to Dracula’s seat of power.

That didn’t make the resemblance between Drake and the woman in the portrait any less damning.

To my knowledge, dhampirs were immune to the transformation magick of vampire venom. Even if a half-vampire was bitten, they wouldn’t turn after death. So what the hell was going on? Drake seemed to recognize my dismay, but he knew me well enough by now that when pushed, I wouldn’t budge.

“I was taken from my blood relatives, led to this fortress, and made into what I am.” Frustration laced his tone, but I didn’t fear his ire.

Even with my weapon in his hand, I trusted him that much, and recognizing that fact kept me rooted to the spot when he strode closer.

“It was much, much later when I became aware of the fact that my birth mother had me out of wedlock, and the family I lived with in my early years consisted of my grandparents and aunt, the latter masquerading as my sister.

“My family kept records of our genealogical history, and it was not until long after her death that I put the pieces together. Recognized her as the kind woman the voievod had taken for his wife. She must have requested that I be brought here, and in hindsight, I was favored among the other soldiers. Many, such as Lucian, grew to hate me over their own jealousy.” Drake’s dark eyes turned pleading, close enough now that he pressed the handle of my machete against the palm of my right hand.

I didn’t resist it when he opened my clenched left hand and placed one of the rings there.

Too tempted, I rolled the ring between my thumb and forefinger.

Calligraphy swirled in a foreign language along the inside rim.

Turmoil spun through my head like a tornado.

I’d known Drake was set apart, that he had turned out so much differently from the other undead.

Never would I have guessed his history was entangled so thoroughly with my own. Because if Dracula was dead, and his fourth bride was lost to time, I could only guess what had happened—about who had killed the woman that happened to be Drake’s mother. Strange, nonsensical guilt tightened my throat.

If Helsing had gotten to Dracula earlier, would Drake’s mother have still lived in his time? Except, then Drake would have gotten the chance to be human. To live and die like any man, and I never would have met him.

Finally, I understood what Drake found so beautiful about humanity— choice .

My eyes briefly squeezed shut, reeling from experiencing too much in too short a time, and I asked, “What does it say?”

“ Pentru preaiubitul meu, s? ?mbr??i??m blestemul eternit??ii .” The foreign words pulled my gaze up to meet his, and he helpfully translated.

“‘For my beloved, let us embrace the curse of eternity.’ There had always been two rings. One for the master of death, and the other for the only person he ever cared for more than himself.”

Before I could do more than open my mouth, with no idea what I would have said, an explosive bang echoed from the antechamber room with the statue.

I spun on my heel, grip tensed on my machete and fingers closing over the ring’s cold metal before I shoved it into my back pocket.

We weren’t out of the woods yet. A cloud of stone dust obscured the only exit from the master’s chambers, but the deafening stomp of armored boots was becoming familiar.

Drake stepped in front of me, but my view of the intruders past the chamber’s open doors was unimpaired. Through the smog, half a dozen armed guards entered one after another. Leading their charge was one truly pissed off vampire.

Soot and smoke blackened his face, his embroidered garb now singed with long streaks as Lucian glared daggers. “I will personally flay you both alive.”