Shadow Keepers: Midnight (8 page)

“Tiberius?”

They’d arrived, and he tugged her to a halt. “Keep your dagger ready.”

She nodded, her face set, her grip firm.

The lock was solid, but the wooden door broke easily with a single kick. Even with the presence of hematite, he hadn’t faded too far, his many years upon this earth coming to his aid. But they were still outdoors, the impact of the mineral weakened. Soon they would go down narrow passageways and would be surrounded by walls, floor, and roof mortared with the dreaded infusion. He would weaken more; that was certain. The only question was how much.

“Stay close,” he said as he began down the stairs, his senses acute. He had expected more guards, more trouble; the fact that penetrating Baloch’s lair was so simple reeked of a trap. But what kind of trap?

“There,” Caris whispered, pointing to a passage that led off to the left. It seemed to descend further into the bowels of the earth, and he nodded. If Antonio was being held here, his cell would likely be deep inside the fortress.

They turned—and as they did, Tiberius heard a sharp
clang
and a contemporaneous
snap, snap, snap
even as
he felt the sharp sting of something fast and hard embedding itself in his thigh. He didn’t think, he only reacted. The
snap
was still echoing in the air when he grabbed Caris and tossed her in front of him, then leapt forward himself, just out of harm’s way.

“Caris!” She lay on the ground, a wooden stake gouged into her right shoulder, another in her left thigh.

“Go,” she said, her voice weak and her face pale as she sat up, her features contorted with pain. “Go and find Antonio.”

He ripped the stake from his own thigh. The pain was intense, making his leg tingle and his muscles cramp, and he realized that Baloch had coated the tip with hematite. A clever booby trap for encroaching vampires. “I will not leave you here,” he said, turning his attention to the stakes still embedded in her body.

“I can’t walk,” she said. “And you must hurry. Baloch will be back soon.”

“No,” Tiberius repeated. “If there are any weren in the dungeons, they’ll surely smell your blood. They’ll come. They’ll kill you.” He pushed away the memories that threatened, forced down the rising daemon. Now was not the time. He knelt in front of her and gripped her hands tightly. “They’ll do worse than kill you.”

“No, Tiberius. Dammit,
no.
” She shifted, then winced from the pain of her wounds. “Please, if you care anything for me, go get my brother.”

His heart twisted—he could not willingly sacrifice the boy any more than he could sacrifice her, but his choices were untenable. Leave her, and she would die. Carry her to safety, and the boy likely would. There was only one solution that made sense, and it was the solution he most dreaded. There was no alternative, though;
he reached out and gently tilted her chin so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “I care everything for you. And I can heal you. Do you trust me?”

A flicker of astonishment crossed her face, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She simply nodded, slowly and firmly. “I trust you.”

“Very well.”

He shifted his position, then closed his eyes, thinking of blood until he felt his fangs grow and sharpen. He didn’t look at Caris—he didn’t want to see her reaction. Instead he bit his own wrist until the blood flowed freely. “I’m going to pull the stakes out,” he said. “It will hurt—and for that I’m sorry. But once I do, you must drink.” He lifted his wrist as if in explanation. “Drink,” he said, “and you will heal.”

Drink?

The word was still echoing in her head as Tiberius pulled the stakes from her body. She screamed, the pain almost unbearable. And then before she had time to think, Tiberius had one arm around her neck and his wrist in front of her lips, and he was begging her again to drink, and by the Blessed Virgin, she knew then what had been tickling at the back of her mind. His strength. His swiftness. And most of all her father’s fear.

He was a vampire.

Dear Lord, she’d fallen in love with a vampire.

Love
. She turned the word over in her head, but there was no uncertainty. Her heart didn’t lie. She loved him. And when she lifted her head up and looked into his eyes, she was certain that he loved her, too.

“Drink,” he repeated. “My blood can heal you. It can strengthen you.”

“Will I—”

“—change? No. The effect is only temporary. Please, Caris. Loathe me if you will, but do not deny me now. Every moment we waste, the danger grows.”

“Loathe? No, I—”

“Please.” His voice held such anguish that she couldn’t argue. She closed her mouth over his wrist and drank deep, surprised by the intense, coppery taste, but even more surprised by the intimacy of the act. This was the man who’d kissed her and stroked her, who’d touched and filled her in ways that no man ever had. When she pressed her lips to his wound and drank, she could feel his strength coursing through her like the warm glow of good wine. Her shoulder and thigh itched and burned, and she realized with mild surprise that her skin was knitting, the wound vanishing in an instant.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice low and powerful. “Just a bit more. There, there now.”

She pulled away, afraid that if she kept going she would never stop. She wanted this too much, wanted him too much. And the power of her need terrified her.

“Antonio,” she whispered. It was the only word she could manage.

“Come.” He reached for her and as she took his hand and climbed to her feet, she saw the movement behind him.

“Tiberius!” she cried, flinging the dagger even as she called out the warning. He whipped around and did the same, his blade landing hard and true in the heart of one and killing it instantly, hers missing the heart only by inches, but still buried to the hilt.

Tiberius leapt up, then knocked the living weren back against the wall. It landed with a thud, then
bounced back, rushing Tiberius, who ripped the blade from the creature’s chest and used it to slice the weren’s throat. Blood spurted, and the creature fell to the ground, his life pumping out of him.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to her. “Your placement of the blade was most convenient.”

Despite the horror of the attack and her wounds and the situation as a whole, she couldn’t help but smile. “I—” she began, looking wide-eyed at Tiberius. “Did you see that?” She’d thrown the blade with a power she’d never known before—and while she may have missed the target, she’d come close, and hit deep.

“You have uncommon skill,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“I think it is more fair to say that
you
have uncommon skill.”

“Which I am happy to share. Hurry, there will undoubtedly be others.”

After a few more twists and turns in the dim, dank corridors, she was beginning to think he was wrong about that. True, they’d encountered—and handily avoided—a few more traps, but for the most part their path was clear.

“Wait,” Tiberius said. “Hold still.”

She froze, watching intently as he turned in a circle, breathing deeply and peering into the musty shadows.

“There,” he said, pointing to a heavy, rust-covered door.

“Antonio?” Eager, she rushed toward it, only to be stopped by his arm, firm against her chest.

“Watch.”

He turned slowly, scouring the ancient tunnels. “Here,” he finally said as he tugged down a brass candleholder.
He stepped on the metal, holding one end firmly in his hand as he straightened it, until finally he had a two-foot length of brass. “Stand back,” he said, then rammed the lock with the end of the makeshift pole. Immediately a flurry of stakes flew from hidden springs within the doorway and a spray of dust exploded from above. Tiberius turned away, his hand covering his nose and mouth. Caris did the same, uncertain why, but not willing to breathe anything that Tiberius wouldn’t.

When the dust settled, she clutched his hand. “You would have been killed if you’d approached the lock.”

“That was Baloch’s plan. And if I wasn’t killed, the additional hematite would have weakened me sufficiently that he could have easily subdued me.”

“Hematite?”

“The dust. It is a metal—a mineral—and a bane to vampires. And while I do not have to breathe to exist, it is a habit I enjoy. Had I caught a lungful of that stuff, I would be so weak now I could barely stand.”

She tensed, the thought of Tiberius reduced in such a way troubling her deeply. She touched his shoulder, wanting to comfort, but he was already moving toward the open door—and the cell beyond.

She followed, terrified of what she might find there. Her brother, alive or dead? Another prisoner? Or perhaps nothing at all.

She stepped carefully over the threshold, walking where Tiberius walked in case there were other traps, then gasped when she saw the muslin-covered heap in the corner. It didn’t move—for all she knew it wasn’t even a person, but then Tiberius nodded gently. “It is
him,” he said, and she didn’t doubt. She ran toward him and pulled the cloth down, then cried out in joy and anguish when she saw the boy who lay beneath. A mere shell of himself, curled up and fetid, barely breathing, so thin he might be a skeleton. But he opened his eyes, and she saw the recognition flicker in them. His lips parted, and she shook her head, her tears falling onto his papery cheeks. “No, don’t speak,” she whispered, her heart overflowing with relief that he was alive, and fear that he wouldn’t survive the night. “There will be time enough to talk.”

The effort of opening his eyes seemed to have exhausted him, and he faded back into stillness. Panicked, she turned to Tiberius, who stood beside her now, a calm port for her terror. “He lives,” Tiberius said. “I’ll carry him.”

She caught his sleeve. “Heal him.”

He exhaled, and she watched the conflict play out on his face. Finally he shook his head, and she thought her muscles would go slack with disappointment.

“Why not?”

“This entire fortress is imbued with hematite, not only the dust we encountered. Just being here has greatly reduced my strength. I cannot transform into an animal,” he said, the implication of his words shocking her, but she didn’t question him. “I cannot transform into mist. I am, right now, not much stronger than a mortal man, and he is so far gone. With the hematite and the blood I gave to you, I don’t have the strength within me to pull him back from the brink, and you do not have the strength to carry two of us out.”

She had to concede the point—and hope that their
path getting out of the palazzo was as clear as the one going in.

Naturally, it wasn’t.

The first thing they saw as they stepped out into the night was Baloch himself—heading straight toward them.

At least two dozen men flanked Baloch—and they were spreading out, filling the courtyard and destroying Tiberius’s planned line of retreat.

“Come,” he said, tugging her back down into the dungeon. He hated the thought of retreating but hated more the possibility of losing Caris. Or Antonio, for that matter.

With the boy flung over his shoulder, he raced through the tunnels, Caris’s hand tight in his. She was keeping up, but her strength would fade soon. They needed to get out, to get away from the palazzo. Away from the hematite and to a place where he could fight Baloch and not be at a disadvantage.

With luck, he knew just the place.

The trouble was, he needed more than luck. He needed blood.

If what he planned had even the slightest chance of working, he needed to feed; he needed strength. He could not feed on the boy without killing him, and he would not feed on Caris. If anything should happen to him, she would need all her strength to survive. He could not tap what he’d given her.

Which left him only one option, a despicable one. And even that relied on chance.

“Where are we going?” Caris asked.

“Up,” he said. He pointed to the right, to a small
passageway he’d noticed as they came in. He’d caught the scent of it—yeast and meat and sour milk—and if he was right the passage led to a kitchen that was either part of the palazzo itself or separated only by a small atrium. The palazzo was his goal, specifically the tower. It might work—it might be suicide. But if he didn’t try, they would all three undoubtedly die this night.