Page 5

Chapter 4

T wo sides warred within Ariadne. The first quailed at the room filled with the people she had long been taught to fear—the people she had believed to hate her and want her dead. Despite their curious expressions, the various hues of red eyes studying her every move set her on edge. To ease that tension, she searched for familiar faces amongst the dhemons: Kall. Whelan. Lhuka. Gavrhil. Jakhov. Even Sasja.

The second side, however, sent her mind spinning. Her body grew more and more aware of Azriel’s every touch. Every breath on her neck. Every soft promise. In response, her body melted into him. She wanted nothing more than for the prying eyes to go away so she could indulge in her husband in a way she had not been able to in too long.

Azriel raised his voice again, his tone low and commanding as he spoke in the dhemon language. It washed over her in waves of words she had heard over the last several weeks, but did not know the meaning of. It tripped through her mind when phrases she had yet to hear rolled through the great hall.

To combat her own confusion, she focused her keen ears on Madan’s words as he translated to the other vampires and fae.

“You have answered my summons,” Azriel said, “as you once did for my father before me. By doing so, you have shown interest in putting an end to the fighting and death that has haunted our people and those of innocent vampires for millennia. Where once you journeyed to Auhla to pick up the sword and rid our sacred Valley from outsiders, you now seek peace.”

Ariadne adjusted her seat on Azriel’s lap as he straightened, one hand still splayed across her inner thigh and the other now curling around her waist. The hold on her felt possessive. Claiming. A challenge to anyone wishing to take her from him.

When he continued, the words fell heavier, as though he had warmed to the possibility that what he said held weight with those before him. “My father lost his way for centuries thanks to a broken bond after my mother was taken from him. He raised my brother and me to hate vampires from all walks of life—to see them as monsters. After witnessing my mother’s brutal murder by the hands of Valenul’s General at the time, Markus Harlow, neither of us needed much convincing.”

Air caught in Ariadne’s lungs at the mention of her father. His death, still so raw, had been one of the many things she ran from when training. If she did not think on it, the pain could not creep in. Hearing his name, particularly associated with Mariana Caldwell’s death, drove a spike through her heart. He had not been a kind man, but he had been her father and he had done his best for her and Emillie with what he knew.

Sensing her tension, Azriel paused. His fingers curled a little tighter on her, and when she turned to look at him, his eyes met hers. He shifted, bringing her head into the bone cage of his horns and pressed his forehead to her cheek for a moment. As he pulled away, he whispered, “Are you well?”

She offered him a small smile. “I will be.”

Azriel scanned her face for a long moment before turning back and addressing the crowd again. “I never suspected I would bond at all. With my mixed blood, I’d been certain such a gift would be out of reach. Therefore, over recent decades I found myself curious about my mother’s family. My mother’s heritage. My mother’s gifts.

“It was that curiosity that drove me into Valenul. I told myself—told my father—I’d join the ranks of guards to get close to the Caldwells and learn their secrets.” He looked then to Margot, who nodded her approval. The motion seemed to spur him on, for Azriel rushed forward with his tale, the words spilling from his lips as fast as they came to him, “At first I did just that and reported back to my father. Until, of course, my grandmother uncovered who I was. Who my brother was. She unlocked happy memories of our childhood, taught us things about my mother that I never knew, and shared her regrets as a mother and grandmother.”

He paused for a long moment to scan the dhemons before him. Some shifted on their feet. Others whispered to one another. Still more waited patiently for what would come next. But no one left. No one interrupted. No one questioned him.

So Azriel took a long breath and plunged back in. “My grandmother, brother, and I worked together to change the minds of our respective leaders. Madan and I spoke with the Crowe. She spoke with Lord Governor Caldwell. Before long, the two met face-to-face and a tentative alliance grew.”

Ariadne had not known Azriel had done all of that. She had assumed the Crowe and Garth Caldwell began their negotiations on their own. That he and Margot started it all put an entirely new spin on the history she had begun to piece together in her own mind.

“Though my father and Lord Caldwell are no longer with us,” Azriel continued, “it is my hope to continue their work by healing the wounds throughout the Keonis Valley. I once had a hand in an attempt to tear vampires and dhemons apart. Now it is my wish to honor both sides of my family by bringing us together in peace once and for all.”

A murmur grew amongst the dhemons now. Many nodded their heads in agreement, and for the first time since stepping foot into the great hall that night, Ariadne’s fears dissipated. Hope and determination shone from the gathered crowd.

“My bonded wife,” Azriel said, looking at her with devotion before turning back to the hall at large, “showed me what such alliances could look like. Her story is long and complex, horrific and enlightening. The pain she endured by our people came from the hands of Ehrun, a man many of us once knew to be loving and kind and who is now tortured in the same way my father had once been.”

Ariadne curled her fingers around his hand on her thigh. She looked over the heads of the dhemons before her to the open doors that led to the entry hall. Though she could not see the dungeon steps, she felt the same tightening of her chest as she always did.

In response, Azriel turned his hand over so their palms met and squeezed hers hard and continued, “Ariadne is the daughter of the vampire who killed my mother. She is the victim of a dhemon lost in his own misery. Still, she remains by my side of her own free will and has embraced me for who I am despite my past. Despite her pain and my own hand in it.

“Ariadne is who we all should strive to be.” He pulled her in closer, his hand running from her waist to her hip. His touch and his words sent a warm heat flooding through her. “But compassion and understanding do not come from remaining separate. Like her, we must be willing to grow through the pain of our past and build something new and beautiful from the carnage.”

Gods. Ariadne had never seen nor heard Azriel speak this way before. She had never met this side of him. Though she knew of his past as a commander in the Crowe’s army—someone dhemons looked up to and respected—to see it firsthand and witness the impact of his words was something else entirely.

“Unfortunately,” Azriel continued, “peace between our peoples is impossible without a fight. Princeps Markus Harlow of Valenul is dead and in the wake of that tragedy, Loren Gard has taken up the mantle of King.”

Now the dhemons’ voices rose in alarm. They knew the name, then. They knew that Loren had been responsible for many of their deaths over the last century. They knew there would be no negotiating with such a man.

Azriel pressed on, “Likewise, Ehrun has raised himself as King without approval of the clans and builds his army with others like him: dhemons with broken bonds, broken families, and broken hope. Both Loren and Ehrun are dangerous. In order for us to begin anew within the Keonis Valley, we must bring them to heel.”

The dhemons stamped their feet in unison. Ariadne jumped in surprise, and Azriel’s grip on her hip and hand tightened in reassurance. But when Madan joined in the beat, then the fae and mages, she felt it for what it was: a war beat.

And Azriel’s voice rose to meet it, his energy lifting with that of the room. “I propose we take back what is ours by liberating the sacred grounds of Keon and the people of Eastwood Province. We must reconnect with our patron and bring an end to tyranny across the Valley by eradicating those who stand in our way: the false kings who rule with fear and hate.”

A roar of approval came from the dhemons. Though stunned by the raucous noise, the vampires near Madan applauded. The Lords nodded and spoke to one another, then with Margot, who glowed with pride as she looped her fingers around the crook of her grandson’s amputated arm and looked upon Azriel.

And for the first time in her life, Ariadne could see dhemons and vampires uniting in peace.

Madan bent his shorter arm, providing a place for Margot to rest her hand in solidarity, and reached for Whelan’s with his only hand. His partner took hold and grinned down at him. Hope filled the great hall. It swelled with the cry from the dhemons and beat like a living heart with each stamping boot. It’d been years since someone had given such a rousing speech within the walls of Auhla . The last had come from the Crowe as he ignited a similar fire with the same desire: peace.

As Azriel spoke, and Madan subsequently translated for those who could not understand the dhemon language, his brother transformed into the Crowe. Sitting on the same obsidian throne as the previous Dhemon King, Azriel found the strength to step into the position for which he’d been destined. Becoming Lord Governor hadn’t held the same weight of responsibility, and though Azriel avoided such powerful titles all his life, he could never outrun fate.

Leading an army in a war was different somehow. Uniting people under a single banner to march forth and claim what was rightfully theirs to share brought to light a man, half-vampire and half-dhemon, that Madan had always known existed.

“How will you reconnect us with Keon?” The question came from a dhemon near the front of those gathered. By the way the dhemons of his clan shifted uncomfortably, he could not be their leader. When no one silenced him, however, Madan turned to study him.

On the platform, Ariadne looked to Azriel for clarification. They exchanged quiet words, and to Madan’s endless surprise, it was she who sat forward and addressed the dhemon, “I do not pretend to know your customs, but I was given several lessons on your history.”

Azriel repeated her words in the dhemon tongue, his red eyes boring into the man who asked the question as though daring him to so much as turn his nose up at her.

When he finished his translation, Ariadne continued, “I am aware the line of priestesses who kept your people connected to Keon ended a long time ago, taking your traditions with them.” Another pause for Azriel, then, “It is my mission to rectify what my people have done to yours by uncovering the rituals which were stolen and return them to you.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” the dhemon demanded. “Vampires destroy everything they touch.”

Again Ariadne looked to her husband. Again he spoke to her quietly. This time, her face paled. She looked around the room, from face to face as though searching for answers, and Madan hated that he could not go to her aid. Neither could Azriel. This was a test—one she must pass or fail on her own.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, then found her composure and returned her regal gaze to the dhemon. “If there is one thing you should know about my people, it is that they covet ancient practices. There will be a written record of these rituals somewhere in Valenul, if for no other reason than to attempt to use them against you. I will find them. For you. For you all.”

The silence that followed her proclamation weighed heavy after the uplifting rumble of their war beat. A dhemon woman leaned to the man who spoke and hissed something to him, her features taut and stern.

But the man narrowed his eyes and snapped back without attempting to lower his voice, “The little prince is one thing, but now we are supposed to trust a vampire ?”

Madan tensed. Beside him, Whelan drew himself up, jaw flexing. On the platform, even Ariadne froze. If there was one word she knew, it was dhomin . She didn’t need a translation of what else the dhemon had said to know better than to let Azriel go. Her hold on him tightened, her fingers gripping hard.

That word meant one thing: the dhemon was a sympathizer for Ehrun. With that information, they had two options: remove him immediately or see what else he had to say. By doing the former, they would demonstrate intolerance. Perhaps for such a radical, that was best. Yet taking away his chance to speak would only cause doubt to leak into the clans. They couldn’t be perceived the same as Ehrun with his insular views.

Somehow, however, Azriel kept a level head. He ground his teeth and after a moment, leaned forward. He spoke again in the dhemon language, “You all have questions. Speak freely. I don’t sit here for any reason other than to address you all. I don’t pretend to be your leader, merely someone seeking support and allies as I move forward with or without you. One way or another, my wife and I will see to the end of the tyranny demonstrated by vampires and dhemons alike.”

The mouthy dhemon looked ready to speak, his mouth curling down in a frown. Before he could say anything, however, a large man from a different clan said, “My clan and I stand with you, King.”

A woman from the back of the room echoed his statement. Then another dhemon repeated the words. And another. And another. A dozen clans of the eastern Keonis Mountains raised their voices and before long, a new chant began: “ Vhaltrin ! Vhaltrin ! Vhaltrin !”

“What are they saying?” Margot whispered, green eyes wide as she turned them up to him. Worry etched into every line of her face.

Madan gaped at the dhemons around him, then back down at her. “King.”

Up on his obsidian throne, Azriel stared out at them, as taken aback as Madan felt. They had gathered the dhemons here to build alliances and nothing more. Though his brother agreed to lead in whatever capacity he could, taking the title his father had left vacant was not in the plan. Azriel certainly never expected to earn it as those before him had.

Light flashed from the corner of Madan’s eye, snapping his attention across the room as his heart lurched into his throat. He released his hold on his grandmother and Whelan. The chant continued around them. Time slowed. A dagger turned tip over hilt straight for Ariadne. His cry of alarm drowned in the chaos around him.

He was too late.

Azriel twisted in the obsidian throne, forcing Ariadne behind him, and the dagger’s point buried into his back.

Madan shoved toward the dhemon who’d thrown the blade—the dhemon who’d called Azriel dhomin . The voices faded and those around the attacker rushed into action to protect the one they had just proclaimed King.

Thanks to his vampiric speed, Madan wove through the crowd to the dhemon before anyone could so much as draw their sword. He grabbed the dhemon’s still outstretched arm and yanked it toward the ground.

The dhemon snarled in response, turning to face his new adversary. Madan dropped his stance low, narrowly avoiding a punch, then used his hold on the dhemon’s arm to drag him closer. With the distance gone, Madan pivoted to the side and leapt onto the dhemon’s back where he locked his legs around the man’s torso.

Now blades flashed into view.

“ Tohs !” Madan wrapped his good arm around the dhemon’s neck. “Don’t kill him.”

Grappling for a hold on his arm, the dhemon let out a roar of fury. But Madan ignored him, locking his grip onto the bicep of his shortened arm and the end of his amputation to the back of the dhemon’s head. He held tight as the man’s knees buckled before he collapsed to the stone floor. Only when he stopped struggling did Madan release him.

Whelan was there in an instant, helping him to his feet as a clan leader took hold of the attacker’s arms so when he woke, he could not escape. He thanked his partner quietly, then turned toward the platform. His mind went blank.

Blood coated Azriel’s back. The only thing keeping Madan from sheer panic was that his brother remained upright and breathing. But Ariadne’s face, speckled red, spoke volumes.

If Azriel hadn’t moved in time, she would be dead.