Napolean bucked beneath them. With one swift kick, he booted Ramsey all the way to the ceiling, and then he began to twist and turn his hands, rotating his long claws like a set of nunchucks—effortlessly slicing the wrists that held him. Hissing, Napolean sat up and reached for the hood.
Marquis threw another punch then. This time, he connected front and center with Napolean’s jaw.
The possessed king only laughed.
“Son of a jackal!” Marquis growled, as exasperated as he was astounded. “Go to sleep, already!”
Maybe it was time for plan B.
Marquis reached into the front pocket of his long, leather coat and drew out a vial of chloroform encased in a silk handkerchief. He broke it in his hand, and before Napolean’s hood could come completely off, shoved it up the length of the cloth and forced the anesthetic over Napolean’s eyes and nose.
A pair of painfully sharp fangs sank into his hand, and an even sharper set of claws pierced his breastbone, puncturing his chest cavity on the way to extract his heart.
Marquis Silivasi did not let go.
He could feel the painful daggers digging…clawing…finally grasping his beating organ in an iron fist, and he braced himself, prepared for the pain—prepared to die—as he knew Napolean would immediately incinerate the organ before any of the warriors could attempt regeneration. In that frozen moment, Marquis understood—far too clearly—the sacrifice Nachari had been willing to make…
It had never been a choice.
Fortunately, the combination of Kagen’s sedative and the chloroform spared Marquis from such a fate.
The iron fist relaxed around his heart, and he was able to extract Napolean’s hand, holding the arm up and away from his broken, bleeding chest as the king’s eyelids grew heavy and his body began to slump to the ground.
“See you in hell,” Napolean whispered as he finally went unconscious.
Marquis exhaled deeply and sank to his knees.
A pair of strong arms caught him from behind. “Be still, brother,” Nathaniel whispered in his ear. “Allow me to heal you so we can get the women in here to attend to Brooke—and move on to the real battle.”
Marquis nodded slowly. “Warrior,” he whispered. “You may have been right to give Nachari your blessing.”
Surprised, Nathaniel paused for a second, then chuckled softly. “I’m sorry, but did you just say I was
right
?”
Marquis grumbled. “Do not misunderstand—”
“Brother,” Nathaniel teased, “as far as I am concerned, it is the chloroform speaking.”
As much as Marquis ever did, he smiled.
And then he passed out.
Napolean’s disembodied spirit had hovered helplessly over Brooke’s battered body—unable to wrench her from the room, unable to help his warriors—as they had battled to subdue Ademordna.
Brooke’s screams of terror and pain—the shock and revulsion she had felt the moment her spirit had re-entered her damaged flesh—had pierced the ancient king’s heart. And he had poured every ounce of his considerable power into blanketing her frail form…absorbing her pain…willing her into a deep state of unconsciousness.
Now, as he replayed the battle-scene in his mind, Napolean felt more than just a little pride for his warriors.
Son of a gun, his males had been clever…and skillful…and quick.
Marquis had managed to engage him while Nathaniel had injected him with some sort of tranquilizer, and the sentinels had neutralized his powers with a diamond-studded hood. Wisely, they had kept Ademordna from using Napolean’s eyes to incinerate them on the spot. And when the anesthetic had not worked quickly enough, Marquis had followed it up with a powerful dose of chloroform.
Excellent strategy.
Expert execution.
Despite Ademordna’s furious resistance, Napolean’s able warriors had won the hasty, life-and-death battle.
Napolean would have expected no less from this group of vampires.
He mentally sighed. Step one was over. Now all that was left was to pray…
Pray for the women to provide Brooke with swift and competent care. Pray for his
destiny’s
peace. Pray for his unborn child.
And pray that Nachari Silivasi—an incredibly talented, but relatively untested Master Wizard—would win the favor of the gods. For the male was about to engage in the spiritual battle of his life, and everyone else’s future depended upon the outcome.
twenty
Nachari Silivasi reclined against the stiff cot and tried to relax while Kagen hooked machine after machine up to his naked body. He adjusted the tubes that would drain Nachari’s blood from his major arteries onto the ground several times before he appeared satisfied. He ran an IV to the vein in his left arm and lined up several syringe packets next to a set of carefully marked glass vials. He took out
another
container filled with Marquis’s powerful venom—
just in case
—and then, oddly, moved Nachari’s thick, wavy hair away from his neck, as if he didn’t want it to come in contact with his blood.
This was not going to be a neat procedure, no matter what lengths Kagen went to, and all of the preparing, double-checking, and rearranging was beginning to make Nachari even more nervous than he already was.
He glanced up at the sky and searched the heavens for courage, praying for the fortitude to do what had to be done. It was around six in the evening, the sun had recently set, and the sky was a beautiful, mystic blue—deep, dark, and enchanting—stars sparkling like jewels in a divine auditorium. It was as if the earth itself knew.
And waited.
Nachari closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, reveling in the rise and fall of his chest, the simple movement of air flowing in and out of his lungs, such an effortless gift, so often taken for granted. His eyes blinked open, and he regarded Kagen thoughtfully. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the healer was sweating: His brother’s nerves were completely frayed, and he hadn’t even begun.
He lifted his right hand and clutched Kagen’s forearm, wanting his full attention. “It’s going to be okay, brother.”
Kagen nodded and wiped the back of his forearm across his forehead, drawing it slowly downward. Maybe he really was sweating. “I think everything is ready,” he mumbled.
Nachari forced a smile. “I know it is.” He glanced across the field at the second cot—the makeshift bed holding Napolean Mondragon’s sedated, unconscious body—and reminded himself of why he was about to do this. “Let’s not procrastinate,” he said, hoping Kagen understood his urgency. This had to be done before he lost his nerve.
Kagen reached for a bottle of iodine, poured it on a square, cotton cloth, and cleaned Nachari’s neck just above his jugular. And then he repeated the process on the flat of his wrists and just above the femoral artery at both inner thighs.
Nachari sighed. “Iodine, brother? Vampyr do not get infections.”
Kagen shrugged. “I know, but I just want to cover every contingency…just in case.”
“Kagen.”
The tall, muscular, but lean vampire blinked his dark-chocolate eyes, brushed his soft brown hair away from his face, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He lifted a sharp titanium scalpel from a steel tray lying next to the cot and tested the weight in his hand. His eyes met Nachari’s and a thousand unspoken words passed between them.
Nachari nodded and held his breath.
Kagen bent over, gently tipped Nachari’s chin back, and pressed the steel blade against his flesh just above the artery. He gulped and steadied his hand.
“Ramsey.” It was Marquis’s voice that pierced the silence. His firm hand intercepted Kagen’s before the healer could make the incision, and the massive blond warrior with spiked hair, crazy eyes, and the demeanor of a pit bull stalked to the side of the cot.
“What’s up, Marquis?”
“You do it,” Marquis said.
Ramsey didn’t hesitate. He rarely did. He brushed the dirt from his hands, squatted down beside the cot, and gave Nachari a crooked smile. “Sorry about this, friend.” And then in businesslike fashion, he took the blade from Kagen, leaned over, and sliced his throat in one deep, harsh gash.
Nachari jolted, shocked by the sudden invasion and the severity of the pain. And then he instinctively tried to sit up, his free hand going to his throat as he choked on his own blood.
Kagen caught Nachari’s arm even as Marquis held his head in place. “Try to relax,” Kagen said, “don’t fight it.”
Nachari’s eyes grew wild with discomfort and fear. He thought he had been prepared, but he was wrong. Ramsey made quick work of both his wrists, and Nachari felt certain he was about to lose it.
Just then, Nathaniel appeared at his side. “Look at me, wizard.”
Nachari’s eyes latched onto Nathaniel’s like the hands of a circus acrobat latching onto a trapeze two hundred yards above the ground: He was clinging for dear life.
Nathaniel restrained Nachari’s bloody hands—both to comfort and control him—as Ramsey made two swift cuts along the length of his left femoral artery. Despite the sharp pain, the sensation in his thigh was nothing compared to his throat—he still wanted to breathe…
He desperately
needed
to breathe.
“
Can’t breathe
,” he gasped, part audibly, part telepathically.
Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably, but held his gaze. “I’m here.”
He indicated Kagen, then Marquis with a nod of his chin. “We are all here.”
Nachari nodded rapidly, then steadied himself as Ramsey sliced his remaining femoral artery, and the added pain made him dizzy. Or was it the loss of blood? His eyes shot back and forth from one brother to another; he was searching for reassurance, pleading for…something…he couldn’t name.
Son of a jackal…it hurts!
he thought.
Nathaniel’s hand tightened around his own, and Nachari thought he heard strange, distant sounds in the background—like gurgling, choking…stuttering—and then he realized that the sounds were coming from him. His throat no longer worked. It didn’t…belong. It was making everything impossible…so impossible. He couldn’t swallow or breathe—or make the pain stop.
He needed to concentrate.
Shit, he was really about to lose it—something he had never done in battle before—but then, he had never prepared to battle a dark lord before…
Holy deities
, he was going to completely—freak—the—hell—out!
Great Perseus, he couldn’t do this! “Stop!” he tried to shout.
“Shhh!” The smooth sound of Marquis’s voice echoed in his mind. “You have lost a tremendous amount of blood…very quickly.” Marquis’s voice was unbelievably steady despite his inevitable emotional turmoil. “It won’t be long now. You can do this.”
Nachari felt his body shaking and wished he could make it stop.
He couldn’t.
It won’t be long now…
That was what Marquis had said.
He could hold on just a little bit longer. Yes, hold on…just a little bit…
Longer...
His skin was sticky and wet. It was so uncomfortable. He thought—absently—that he would really like a shower.
When Kagen’s demeanor suddenly changed, Nachari knew something major had happened. But he wasn’t sure what. He had expected some grand finale—a chorus of trumpets or a bright white light—something to herald the transition from one state of existence to another, but there had been nothing other than the telltale signs of his brother, the healer, going into serious-as-a-heart-attack doctor mode. Kagen was furiously checking the monitors now, rapidly connecting fresh blood to transfuse through an IV…steadily preparing a BMV resuscitator—or Ambu bag—to begin breathing for Nachari.
In other words, he was in the process of placing Nachari on full life support. Which had to mean it was over.
Nachari had already died.
And his spirit had already left his body.
After all, Kagen would never risk stabilizing him too soon, not after all they had gone through to insure his…demise.
Nachari was momentarily confused.
“Time is short, wizard. Quit dallying.” A crisp laughter echoed through the meadow, and Nachari looked up to see the most brilliant, serene green eyes he had ever seen, shining peacefully in a chiseled face framed by soft blond curls.
“Shelby,” he said, smiling from ear to ear, as all of his pain and fear instantly abated.
Shelby held out what appeared to be a very firm, corporeal hand, and Nachari took it. His twin pulled him straight up—out of his body and onto his feet—where he was suddenly clothed again, and the two brothers embraced like it had only been minutes since they were last together. Side by side, they became reanimated—as males, as brothers—two powerful beings no longer walking the earth, but both vibrantly alive and infused with joy and energy.
“You look well,” Nachari said. He didn’t have any other word for it.
“Well?” Shelby mocked. “I look better than you!” He held out his arms to showcase his magnificently sculpted frame. He positively glowed.
Nachari threw back his head and laughed, his thick mane of hair swaying from the vibration. “I thought you knew, Shelby…”
“Knew what?”
“Nobody looks better than me—haven’t you heard the women talk?”