Page 10

Chapter 10

Rise and Shine

Cian

D espite their supernatural abilities, the cave passage was too dark even for their party, and Daniel sent a small trio of silver and blue suns flying overhead and in front, illuminating the way.

Daniel was once a mortal practitioner, and retained his magics from his human life even as his abilities were expanded when he became a High Court Sidhe. Cian could not fault him for needing the comfort of mage lights—the passage was entirely devoid of light, and who knew what lay at their feet or ahead in the darkness.

No traps hardly meant no dangers—crevasses and weak floors might spell doom if someone fell far enough. Though Cian was certain he could coax the mountain into releasing an unfortunate compatriot if they fell.

Fenric walked ahead of Cian in single file, letting him see his old friend in a new light from the miniature suns spinning above. Fenric’s black hair was turned blue in the light, shiny and full, looking as soft to the touch as his fur coat in cat form. A part of him wanted to run his fingers through Fenric’s hair and see if that was true, or perhaps it was even softer.

The cat-sidhe stepped lightly, no sound of his passing, even more sure-footed than the sidhe or vampires, his nature one of stealth and ambush, perfectly fitted to the cave environs they walked through—the passage at times narrow, with barely enough space for one person to shimmy through, and at other times wide enough that three of them could walk abreast, and Fenric navigated it all with ease.

They walked for what felt like a long time, but surely was no more than an hour, before they came to a wider space that held many different passages, all heading deeper into the cave. Cian asked the stone, and knew which one to take before Connie had a chance to point to the right tunnel.

“Are we close?” Fenric asked Cian, speaking in a whisper. He was close enough that he leaned ever so slightly into Cian’s chest.

“We’re almost there,” Cian promised. He assumed it was less that Fenric was scared and more that he was getting bored with all the walking—Cian was too.

They followed the group down the right fork and continued on in silence, their feet scraping and the occasional scuff of leather armor against stone walls the only sounds to be heard. The air was close and damp, heavy with the scents of earth and stone. There was more of a breeze the deeper they went—ahead there must be an opening of some kind.

The tight passage opened up into a larger cavern, this one easily the size of the Salvatore library. The walls were dark-gray stone, water dripping down the far wall into a small pool, droplets catching the light from Daniel’s miniature suns as they spun higher into the air, coming to rest on the ceiling of the cave.

Cian had never met Rageshi, and knew little of him aside from what information Connie had shared about his sire since the medallion came into his possession, and the fact that he was very old for a vampire. Bituitus, Connie’s father, had held the medallion and controlled Rageshi before his death, and exploited the ancient vampire for his own gain. Connie was a far better choice to hold the medallion–he was not likely to use his sire for selfish and greedy purposes.

That Rageshi had been a kind of proto-blood mage in his human years made sense—the magic that permeated the cave was old, older than anything Cian had seen humans practice in an incredibly long time. It was akin to the age of the first human magic users, when they first learned they could use magic, long before humans developed different branches of magic.

The cave was large enough for them to spread out. Connie approached the stone platform where a shrouded figure lay in repose. Ricon stayed back near the entrance to the cave, Fenric beside him, and Cian followed carefully behind Connie. Daniel took a spot on the far wall at Rory’s urging, the youngling not arguing with his husband at the caution, eyes wide with some growing anxiety.

Cian and Rory shadowed Connie as the vampire knelt beside the figure shrouded in pale cloth from head to toe. The cloth shroud was bespelled—a shield of sorts, meant to keep out dust, bugs, and the deprivations of time. An object doing the work of modern-day preservation spells —and it fluttered, very slightly, in the breeze stirred by their entrance.

“Is he really asleep?” Daniel asked in a whisper. “He looks dead.”

“Use your other senses, beloved,” Rory said softly, smiling over his shoulder at Daniel. “He sleeps, nothing less.”

“He is as I left him, all those many years ago,” Connie said.

“All this talking has to wake him up?” Fenric asked, brows raised as he looked between Connie and Rageshi.

“Let us not tempt fate,” Connie said, leaning forward. Medallion in one hand, and the other reaching out, Connie carefully peeled the shroud back from Rageshi’s face.

Dark-brown hair braided and swept back from a high brow spilled out from under the shroud to the stone, and rich golden-brown skin was revealed, almost seeming to glow under the light of the tiny suns. An aquiline nose and high cheekbones, and a full mouth with lush rose-hued lips complemented a handsome and striking face, and broad, strong shoulders were revealed next as Connie pulled the shroud halfway down his chest.

Rageshi was quite handsome, and power thrummed and eddied around his still form. He appeared the palest around his lips and eyes, signs of hunger, cheeks slightly sunken, clavicles sharp. He was naked as far as Cian could tell, though Connie only revealed him halfway down his torso.

Connie placed the medallion on Rageshi’s bare chest over his sternum. He swung the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped the main compartment, reaching in and then pulling out a large bag of preserved blood. He unsnapped the tubing from the side of the bag, the preservation spell dissipating as he did so. The bag was bespelled—the blood within was kept free from magic contamination, though Cian knew that Rageshi was old enough to drink magic-laced blood without growing ill.

Connie worked the end of the tube between Rageshi’s lips and clicked the release, prompting a slow flow of blood through the tube. He held the bag a foot or so above Rageshi’s head, gravity doing the work, and with his other hand, removed the last of the shroud from the ancient vampire’s body.

“Rageshi,” Connie whispered. The rest came out in ancient Gaulish, a language Cian and Rory knew well—the language they first spoke to Connie in, as a matter of fact. It was the language of the Arverni, the language of Constantine Batiste’s mortal father, and one Rageshi would know. “My sire, wake.”

Connie placed his free hand on top of the medallion, and repeated his words, speaking louder, the blood flowing faster.

Rageshi was clothed in a simple kilted skirt in red cotton that tied snug at his lean waist, legs and feet bare. He wore no jewelry, unblemished by injury or time, his skin was a burnished gold that molded to a lean, muscled torso and strong legs. He was barefoot, with clawed toes.

His hands were elegant and long, fingers tipped in pristine white claws. A faint sigh went through the cave. A shift in energy. The claw-tipped fingers twitched.

Rageshi was awakening.

Connie continued to speak in a soft monotone to his sire in ancient Gaulish. “Master, my sire, it is Constans. I bid thee wake, master.”

His eyes opened.

Icy-blue depths glowed with a feral energy, fangs extended as his mouth opened, a deep snarl echoing through the cave.

“Sire,” Connie warned in a stern tone that did nothing to calm the rousing vampire. Connie held the medallion down on his sire’s chest. Cian sensed the magic within the medallion react, but not to the extent that it reined in Rageshi’s growing outburst. Connie was hesitant to wield its power.

“Master, you are safe.”

Rageshi spat out the feeding tube and lunged upward, biting directly into the blood bag, ripping the plastic, making blood explode everywhere. It rained down on Rageshi and the stone floor, splattering in a thick wave that covered Connie’s boots. Rageshi swiped at the falling blood, hitting Connie.

Cian dodged the worst of the blood, backing away. Connie was knocked on his ass, but Rory caught him, keeping him mostly upright. He held the medallion in one hand, keeping a tight grip on it.

Rageshi fell on the backpack with a snarl, tearing the fabric. He held a large unit to his face and bit into the plastic, sucking it dry in seconds. The gauntness was stark and even more pronounced now that he was mobile and drinking in great gulps, attacking another bag, the plastic ripping under the pressure and spilling half of the contents down his neck and chest.

“Master,” Connie said as he approached slowly. “Slow yourself, and you will not rip the bags.” That part was awkward in Gaulish, but the meaning came across.

Rageshi growled. There was nothing of the thinking man in his gaze, only a feral creature hungry for blood. Rory moved until he was standing between Rageshi and Daniel, who held his position at the wall, hand over his mouth, a bit pale, eyes wide in alarm.

“Ricon, he needs the other bags now,” Connie said softly, not taking his eyes off his sire.

Ricon carefully left his spot by the entrance, and Cian got out of his way, letting Ricon pass him on his way to Rageshi. The ancient vampire tracked Ricon’s movements across the cave floor, zeroing in on Ricon with intense focus.

“Did we bring enough?” Ricon asked even as he knelt in front of Rageshi and opened his backpack. Plastic crinkled as Rageshi downed the remnants of the unit he held in his hands.

Ricon went to his knees in front of Rageshi, the ancient vampire watching him with sharp eyes, growling softly as he drank. Ricon unsnapped the tube from the first blood bag he pulled from the backpack and unsealed the tube, allowing blood to drip.

“Do you speak Latin, old one?” Ricon murmured as Rageshi watched, entranced by the dripping blood as Ricon put the end of the tube in his own mouth and sucked on it, hollowing out his cheeks as he pulled in a mouthful. He swallowed, then took the tube from his mouth, holding it out to Rageshi. “ Pone os tuum in terminum. Bibe. ”

Put your mouth on the end. Drink.

Rageshi growled, head jerking back a bit as Ricon leaned forward, holding out the tube that slowly dripped blood. Rageshi’s eyes zeroed in on the blood, and with intense focus, he surged forward into Ricon’s space, grabbing the tube and sucking on the end.

“ Bene, meus amicus ,” Ricon murmured. He whispered bene over and over, praising the ancient vampire as he slowed his drinking. Rageshi slumped to the side, Ricon catching him, cradling him to his chest, Ricon looking at Connie with some concern.

“My Master will recover his mind shortly,” Connie promised in English, sitting back on his rear and wiping at the blood on his hands. “He’s never seen plastic before, so the bags are confusing.”

“Wait until he sees a smartphone,” Fenric said quietly. “That’ll rock his world.”

The only sound in the cave was that of Rageshi drinking, faint growls coming from the vampire between mouthfuls.

Rageshi

What magic was this, or whim of Fate, that gave him his mate upon waking? The strangers gathered around were allies, judging by the way Constans spoke to them and they to him—and then there was the young striga who held him with care.

Who was his mate. Or, would be his mate once he recovered his strength and spoke to the younger striga.

His magic told him the striga was young, a thousand years old to Rageshi’s many forgotten thousands. His inner essence was strong—and he shared bonds with fledglings, a handful at least. This striga was a sire with healthy, well-maintained bonds to fledglings, which explained the tender care he gave Rageshi as his mind and nature sought balance after so long in slumber. This one was a caretaker.

The potential to be mates was there, two glowing threads that reached out into the darkness between their souls.

Constans, his child, was there, dressed strangely in tight-fitting clothing and odd boots, his hair shorter than he remembered the young prince wearing it last. And now so much older, perhaps over two thousand years since he saw him last.

“Master,” Constans moved closer, one hand holding the dreadful medallion, the other empty as if showing he was no threat. He spoke in Latin, presumably so the young striga who held Rageshi so tenderly would understand as well. “Do you recognize me?”

Rageshi sucked on the strange device and drank the fresh blood from the clear bag, confused at its construction and amazed at its contradictory strength and fragility. He paused in his drinking, barely lifting the hollow device from his lips to speak in Latin. “Constans, my child.”

His voice was thin, thready, and rough from disuse.

“Yes, Master.” Relief filled Constans’ voice and expression. “Hello, again.” Constans grinned wide, sitting close, a hand on Rageshi’s arm, clearly happy to see him again after what must have been a very long time.

Rageshi resumed drinking from the clear line, and leaned harder into his potential mate. It was surely an act of divinity for this one to exist, to be here at his waking, and so willing to help as Rageshi reclaimed himself after so long asleep.

“I am Ricon Dumond,” his mate said, squeezing with the arm around Rageshi’s shoulder, holding him gently.

“A strange name, young one,” Rageshi said in Latin, since it was a language they all seemed to know.

“A name I picked myself, old one. I outgrew my first name many years ago.” This was said teasingly, with a smile, and Rageshi dropped his head to rest on a strong shoulder and he breathed in the striga’s scent, thrilled at how it lit up his nerves and awakened his body.

He wondered how long it had been. Constans was now far older, at least two thousand years, and Rageshi mourned the missing years but was pleased that he made the trip through time intact and unmolested. His mind was clearing rapidly, his body regaining its strength from the blood. A wondrous invention, these bags, with hints of magic on them for keeping the blood from spoiling.

“How long have I slept?” Rageshi asked, finally finished with the last blood bag. He set it aside, and let his head fall back on Ricon’s shoulder. His body was absorbing the blood—muscles and tissues were renewing themselves after being in the sleep-like trance for what felt like forever. Thankfully, the deadly and dreadful boredom and listlessness that plagued him during his last waking years was gone. He was renewed.

“Two thousand years,” Constans replied. “You wished to sleep until the world was different.”

He was right, then. Two thousand years. He had wanted to see a changed world when he woke, something new, and he hoped it had been enough time.

“And I was to be awakened if enemies were hunting me as I slept,” Rageshi said sharply, eyeing his fledgling. “Who hunts me now?”

Constans grimaced, but answered him, using Latin again for their audience.

“A coalition of human practitioners who seek to subjugate supernatural peoples, including vampires, to steal their lands, wealth, and control their lives,” Constans replied. “They call themselves the High Council of Sorcery. There is much to tell you Master, but the short version of the tale is that they either seek your destruction or your enslavement, and they are hunting you now.”

“Humans,” Rageshi growled in disgust. “Always so greedy.”

“They conspire against us and our allies,” Constans said, “and we need you out of danger.” Constans appeared slightly worried then, as if afraid he had erred.

“You did the right thing, my child,” Rageshi reached out and brushed a bloody finger along Constans’s jaw. “I will not let anything happen to you and yours.”

“Can you stand, my friend?” Ricon asked in the same tongue. Rageshi was nearly recovered from his long sleep, but Ricon was a soothing, gentle comfort and one Rageshi was happy to rest upon while he could.

“Not just yet,” he leaned in and sniffed along Ricon’s strong neck, breathing the striga’s scent deep into his lungs. “Give me a moment more.”

Cian

It took another full bag of blood for Rageshi to calm, and he began to respond to Connie and Ricon as the vampires spoke to him. Daniel stayed where Rory had put him, far from the ancient vampire, though he smiled and waved to Rageshi when he spotted Daniel sitting against the wall. Rageshi stared at Daniel for a long moment as if trying to understand what he was looking at, then turned to the twins and did the same.

Cian and Rory were far, far older than the ancient vampire, but for a vampire, he was very old, the oldest Cian had met in eons. He’d met a handful of First Vampires thousands of years ago, and Rageshi felt almost like one of those primordial beings, if a bit more familiar. The First Vampires hadn’t all been homo sapiens sapiens —some had been other species of the genus homo , or a mix. And from the hints Cian was getting from Rageshi’s physiology, it was possible Rageshi had a mixed ancestry of human species as well.

Rageshi eyed them with caution, seemingly as aware of their ages as they were of his—though the vampire curled a lip at Cian when he got too close to where he leaned on Ricon, pulling the other vampire closer in a proprietary manner. Cian smiled and retreated, hands up to show he had no intention of taking Ricon away.

Connie went through the second backpack and pulled out a bundle of clothing, a simple white cotton t-shirt and what appeared to be another length of white cotton for making a kilted skirt, much like Rageshi was already wearing.

“Master, I have brought fresh clothing if you wish to bathe in the pool.” Connie said in Gaulish, the words flowing from the City Master like water from a pitcher.

“You will stay,” Rageshi ordered Ricon, who went to back away to give Rageshi room, and Ricon quirked a brow but stayed put. Rageshi’s accent in Latin was one Cian had not heard in ages, and he struggled to recall it. There had been so many languages over the years. So many accents.

Something Mesopotamian, maybe with a touch of even earlier Indo-European, Rory thought to him, sensing the question in their mental connection.

Cian went to where Rory and Daniel were sitting against the wall. “How old do you think he is?”

“His accent won’t help much, though the hint of early Indo-European in it suggests a significant age,” Rory admitted. “We picked up all sorts of accents ourselves over the years, depending on all sorts of factors.”

“True,” Cian agreed, sliding down the wall and leaning on Rory’s shoulder, needing the connection of touch.

Rory leaned into him a bit, and Daniel shifted to follow his husband until both of them were leaning toward him. Fenric saw the growing cuddle pile and came over, sliding down the wall to the hard stone floor like Cian had, but he leaned into Cian from the other side, squishing him just a bit.

Cian sighed, but let his brothers and friend squish him. It felt good.

The vampires stayed beside Rageshi, talking to the old vampire in hushed tones, speaking a mixture of Latin and Gaulish.

“He’s a second generation vampire?” Daniel asked softly. “His sire was one of the First Vampires?”

“According to Connie,” Cian confirmed.

“Doesn’t that make him many thousand of years old? Historians think the First Vampires came into being around 40,000 to 70,000 years ago.”

“Not that old,” Cian said, shaking his head. “Though he’s not entirely modern human, either. His scent reminds me of the others.”

“The others?” Daniel asked, leaning around Rory to see Cian better.

“Other species of humans.”

Daniel’s eyes went wide in astonishment. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“He knows you’re speaking about him,” Connie called over his shoulder in English. “Perhaps your conversation can wait until later.”

“Apologies, Rageshi,” Cian spoke louder in Gaulish, Rageshi meeting Cian’s gaze across the cave. “We meant no disrespect.”

Rageshi narrowed his gaze but nodded once, and then leaned harder into Ricon, sniffing the younger vampire’s neck discreetly.

“What language was that?” Daniel asked Rory quietly.

“Historians would call it Gaulish now, a type of language spoken by the Celts on the Continent around the second and first centuries BCE.” Rory explained to Daniel. “It’s the language we spoke with Connie when we first met him in his youth. And Ricon is speaking to him in Latin.”

“I know Latin well enough, though I’m horrible at speaking it except for spells. I’m not much of a conversationalist in Latin.” Daniel said, settling down, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. Rory kissed his brow and rested his head on top of Daniel’s.

Fenric leaned harder into Cian’s other side, as if he wanted to make sure Cian wasn’t left out of being offered comfort.

He enjoyed the closeness to Rory and Daniel…and Fenric. It was nice.

Rageshi

Rageshi slipped into the pool of water, which came up to his waist. Ice-cold and clear, he was able to see the bottom of the pool with the light provided by the mage-sidhe. The pale one’s magic was a familiar oddity, a mixture of human and sidhe. The pale one was one of the awakened sidhe, a former human mated to one of the green-haired demigods.

Rageshi sank into the water and went under, closing his eyes as the gentle current rinsed away the tacky blood that spilled from the odd bags. They had given way like flesh but tasted of nothing alive, and left a horrid aftertaste in his mouth. Constans, his child, had called it plastic, and said it was a modern invention.

He rose from the water and tugged off his kilt, tossing it aside where it flopped, soaked, on the stone floor of the cavern. The young striga who called himself Ricon was washing at the edge of the pool, covered in blood where Rageshi had leaned on him before his mind and senses returned to equilibrium. He set aside a pair of swords by the water’s edge.

Rageshi had awakened rather sharply, the medallion an aching presence in his chest, familiar and hated even when wielded by his beloved child. The bonds to the medallion weighed on him, a weight he had carried since his rebirth as one of the undead many eons ago.

Constans was no longer so young—he was over two thousand years old now, if he was to be believed. Rageshi felt rejuvenated and awake in a way he had not felt since the earliest days of his immortal life, even with the medallion’s magic weighing on him.

“Come here,” he held out his hand to Ricon, speaking in Latin so the younger striga would understand him. Ricon looked up from where he knelt at the water’s edge. “No need for weapons now that I am awake. Your enemies will be ground to bloody dust beneath my feet. Bathe with me.”

Ricon was lovely, with an odd name, but it was pretty and suited him. And Ricon spoke Latin like a scholar and carried two curved swords like a warrior. Rageshi wondered if the young one knew any poetry. He smelled of blood and flowers, a sweet honey and lily mixture that reminded Rageshi of blooming flowers along the banks of a river, bees humming in the late summer sun. Lovely and delicious.

“Are you going to protect me, ancient one?” Ricon replied in Latin, smiling at him. His eyes were dark pools of night, hair a dark brown that looked black in the light from the tiny mage suns. Pale as all undead were, his skin tone was not quite as dark as Rageshi’s own golden bronze, but close.

“No harm shall come to you while I am with you,” Rageshi swore, and he saw Constans smile and shake his head at his grand promise.

“Master, Ricon Dumond is one of my children,” Constans informed him in Latin, speaking so the young striga might understand, teasing and fond. “He is a member of my bloodclan, and a powerful warrior. He came to help protect you.”

“You are mine, Constans,” Rageshi reminded his fledgling. “So this lovely one is mine as well.”

“As you say, master,” Constans sighed, though with a rueful smile, and where once he might have rolled his eyes and argued, this older, wiser Constans held his tongue and humored him.

“You did not sire him,” Rageshi said, noting the absence of such a blood bond between the two striga, though their bloodclan bond shined bright.

“No, Master Batiste did not sire me,” Ricon replied instead. “My sire is long dead, but she was a wise woman in her exalted years and I miss her still.”

“You were and remain a welcome addition to my bloodclan, Ricon,” Constans told the other striga, who nodded his head in thanks and continued washing the blood from his arms at the pool.

“You have changed, my child,” Rageshi told Constans. “You have grown in manner and heart.”

“Two thousand years have passed, master,” Constans assured him, crouching at the pool’s edge to wash the drying blood from his hands and arms as well. “Not so young, not anymore.”

“And a bloodclan master,” Rageshi said, speaking in Latin so that the young one would continue to understand. The language barriers would need to be rectified if he was to seduce the young one properly. He wondered what language Ricon spoke when not using Latin. “You have done well.”

“Thank you, master,” Constans said. He patted the pocket of his odd shirt over his breast, as if to remind himself he still had it, and Rageshi sensed the medallion, the hated object that kept him stable and bound to the bearer. His child was the best of all the bad choices available to him, and he was glad Constans survived the intervening two thousand years to awaken him according to his wishes.

Rageshi sighed, temporarily abandoning his plan to seduce the young Ricon, no longer in the mood. He knelt in the pool, washing away the thick blood remaining on his face and neck.

Constans had awakened him, which meant enemies were closing in and he had been in danger of being used as a weapon again. He had had enough of it when Bituitus, Constans’ mortal father, had been alive. He trusted Constans not to abuse the power inherent in the medallion. Yet even then, he chafed at the magical bonds that by necessity bound him to the medallion and the one who wielded it.

The familiar ache was there, situated over his silent heart, but it lacked the bite he recalled from previous years. Perhaps it was due to Constans being the master of the medallion? He had yet to use it against Rageshi—yet to command him as Bituitus had almost daily all those years ago.

As Rageshi rubbed a hand over the ache in his chest, Ricon noticed it.

“Are you in pain?” Ricon asked, concerned. “What is wrong?”

Rageshi strode to the edge of the small pool, water at his hips, and smiled at the striga who would be his mate, and soon. He was close enough to touch.

“The ache is minor, and familiar,” Rageshi told him. “It is where the magic binding me to the medallion anchors the spell set with my last heartbeat.”

Ricon’s dark brows flew upward and his lips parted in surprise. “The binding spell was fueled by your mortal death? That is powerful magic.”

“Yes,” Rageshi agreed. “Only a few things are stronger.”

“Like what?”

Rageshi reached out and gently ran his claws through thick brown hair, Ricon watching him carefully, frozen in place. “Desire, death, and…love.”

“Desire….?” Ricon whispered, lush pink lips parting slightly, a faint glow of power in those dark pools. This young striga wanted him.

He slid his hand down to cup Ricon’s chin and pressed his thumb to Ricon’s lower lip, careful of the claw, not wanting to hurt his mate…unless asked, of course.