When Passion Lies: A Shadow Keepers Novel (9 page)

They’d expected him to die quickly, but he’d surprised them. He’d been forced to work first in the mines, then removed to the ring as he gained age and strength. He killed his first man at the age of eleven, and that kill had earned him his life.

His master had decided to train him, and for years he had lived in the training ring, beaten when he did poorly, beaten less brutally when he didn’t. He learned Claudius’s secret when he was fifteen—the master was a werewolf, and a damn brutal one at that.

In truth, Tiberius wasn’t surprised or shocked. By then, all emotion had been stripped from him. He knew only that Claudius was a monster. The new revelation that he was a werewolf didn’t really change anything. The beatings grew bolder, more fierce, more excruciating as Tiberius grew older, as if Claudius and the trainers feared Tiberius’s growing strength, and yet so wanted
the coin that his presence could command in the ring that they simply wouldn’t kill him.

When freedom finally came, it was wrapped in its own kind of nightmare. Claudius came to him in the night—this time not to beat him, but to use him. And
that
Tiberius would not abide. He fought, not caring that Claudius’s guards would surely gut him. He lost his mind in the melee, knowing only that he could not allow Claudius to take that one, final part of him. To rape him. To taint him. If he did, Tiberius knew his humanity would be lost, and he would become as much the monster as his master.

He threw himself into a frenzy, battling and fighting and hitting and kicking. No practiced moves there, just a wild beast chained too long in a cage. And when he exploded out, it was with rare fury.

How he made it out of the compound he didn’t know. Even more, how he was not discovered as he lay passed out in a ditch was as much a mystery as it was a miracle. But escape he did, though not into the warm arms of safety. He’d escaped one fate only to die of starvation and thirst, and though he wandered down a sand-covered road for three days, he saw no travelers who could offer him comfort.

He lay down on the ground and prepared to die. And the next thing he saw was those eyes—
Caris’s eyes
, though he had no way of knowing that yet.

The old man who knelt in front of him was her ancestor, and though Tiberius at first believed him to be a mirage, the old man proved to be quite human. His name was Horatius, and he tended to Tiberius’s wounds as best he could, but Tiberius hadn’t been restored. Instead, he lay dying, his head in the old man’s lap, his
story on his parched lips. He told Horatius everything, including his lust for revenge, and how it had kept him alive well past another man’s breaking point.

When he was finished, he believed that his time on this earth was done. But blood still coursed through his veins and his lungs still drew breath, though ragged and painful.

Horatius had stood then, and he’d looked into the sun as if praying. Tiberius never learned what he’d asked, but the old man hunched over and hoisted Tiberius gently into his cart. As Tiberius slipped in and out of consciousness, they made the long trek to the village where Horatius left Tiberius in the care of the one creature on all the earth who could save him—Magnus, a vampire.

The vampire did not change him right away, but he fed Tiberius his blood and restored him to health even as Horatius watched. And that very night, Tiberius swore an oath to protect Horatius and his family, for he owed the old man a debt that could never truly be repaid.

Throughout the years, Magnus continued to feed him blood, strengthening him. And at the end of five years, he told Tiberius what he’d learned about Tiberius’s heritage. About his royal blood, and about the cousin who had betrayed him. He offered Tiberius a choice—Magnus could either help Tiberius return to the life from which he’d been banished, or he could grant Tiberius the gift of immortality.

Tiberius had accepted the latter without hesitation. The human world had almost destroyed him. He had no desire to return. Within the shadow world, however, he wanted power. And revenge.

“Kill Claudius,” Magnus said calmly. “I have no objection to that plan. But do not build your future on vengeance. The blood of leaders flows in your veins, but you are stepping into a new world where such things do not matter. It is your character and not your blood that will see you rise. Lead them, Tiberius. You have suffered much, and that is your gift to the masses. You can lead because you understand what it is like to have no voice. It is your privilege and your duty. Lead the vampires, and then lead the world.”

And so Magnus had changed him. And exactly one year later, he’d walked off into the desert, and Tiberius had never heard from him again.

Magnus had saved him, fueled his purpose, given him the strength to find his destiny. Horatius had shared his own strength, had shown him common kindness, and had ultimately led Tiberius into love’s embrace.

How ironic that it was ultimately the clash of duty and love that had lost him that which he’d valued most in all the world.
Caris
.

A sharp knock sounded at his door, fast and urgent, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Come in!”

The door burst open and Mrs. Todd bustled in. “Are you all right, sir? I’ve been knocking and knocking.”

“I’m fine. What is it?”

“It’s Caris, sir. The guard just buzzed from the gate. She’s entered the grounds.”

For hours he’d been waiting, and yet now that she was here the thought of seeing her again weighed heavily on him. It pained his heart to look upon her. To remember what they once had—and the reasons why she was no longer part of his life.

But that was the man in him talking.

The politician needed to know why she’d killed Cyrus Reinholt.

And the man?

The man curled his hand around the photograph, and counted the seconds until he saw her again.

The mansion looked the same as it always had. Sprawling. Stodgy. English.

It was massive, containing both residential and office wings, not to mention the ballrooms for entertaining and the recreation and workout facilities. A self-contained little paradise populated by more than three hundred vampires including guests and permanent staff.

There’d been a time when Caris had walked the halls freely. When she’d been the one eyeing strangers and wondering if they might be bringing mayhem into their world.

She didn’t want to spread mayhem. She just wanted the hell out of this place that once upon a time she couldn’t have imagined leaving.

“This is our home now,” Tiberius had said back when they’d walked in triumph through the doors after his victorious return to London following the death of the hybrid. Tomas had conceded his position, and Tiberius and Caris had moved in.

She’d been the one to help decorate the public rooms. She’d tossed out Tomas’s moldering settees, replacing them with beautifully carved tables and chairs, pricey at the time, now priceless.
Important things happen within these walls
, the decor announced, and they did. They truly did.

Back then, she’d had a hand in those decisions. She’d
strode through the double doors that led to Tiberius’s office with impunity, always welcomed by his smile, always drawn to his side. He’d asked her opinion, sought her counsel, and trusted her above all others.

But that was a long time ago.

Now Caris had an escort. Now the vampires she passed in the hall sneered and whispered and called her a traitor.

Before, happy memories had enveloped her, triggered by little more than the scent of the hallways. Now those memories of happy times were subsumed under a dark haze. He’d shot her. He’d knocked her out.

And he’d sent her away from this place that she’d once loved so very much.

She forced her steps to stay even as she walked beside her guard, concentrating on picking her feet up and putting them down. Trying to keep her mind empty of everything except the physical necessity of moving down the hall.

It wasn’t working.

The things she wanted to forget were pressing up against her. Memories were writhing like black clouds. Circling her. Haunting her.

And as she walked, those dark memories swallowed her, as deep and black as the oily, roiling sea of pain she’d swum through as she clawed her way back to consciousness so many years ago.

She’d been shaking. A nightmare swirling inside her head, and she’d awakened in a terrorized state, confused, freaked, her daemon roiling and the wolf snapping for release. She’d fought desperately to pull it in—tried to prevent the change, but she couldn’t. The
wolf wanted to come out, and even all her vampiric strength couldn’t hold it back.

It came
. She changed. Her body shifted, pulled, ripped itself out of her control, muscles stretching, bones elongating. Pain so vivid it seemed alive.

Beside her, Giorgio screamed, and her eyes flew open. She realized too late what it meant that he was there—and she couldn’t have done anything about it even if she’d realized in time. The change had her, and she was too new to have gained any control in the weren state.

She breathed, and the plague burst out upon him.

He knew it, too. He grabbed her arm, tugged her toward the containment chamber, then thrust them both inside. As she writhed and snarled on the ground, trying to force the wolf to retreat, he tapped a code into the keypad, locking them in. He took a step toward her, but already he was unstable. She watched through a lycan haze as his skin festered and his nose bled. As his mouth turned black.

By the time the wolf was in retreat and she was Caris again, he was delirious. And by the time Tiberius arrived at the safe house and peered through the containment room window, Giorgio was dust.

Caris looked up, her chest tight with self-loathing and regret, only to meet Tiberius’s horrified eyes.

“I didn’t—When I woke up. I couldn’t—” Her throat was thick, her mind unable to process what she’d done. What she’d become.

“He had a family,” Tiberius said, his measured words filtering through the intercom. She knew him well enough to know that he was holding in an explosion.

“I—I can learn. I can control it.” She felt the tears stream down her face. “I just need time.”

Their eyes met and held, and it seemed as if all the time in the world passed between them. Then he shook his head. “You fought the last hybrid at my side, Caris. You know exactly why we had to kill it.”

“Please.” She wasn’t sure what she was begging for, because right then she believed he was right. She looked at the pile of dust that had been Giorgio, and she knew that, yes, she deserved to die.

But this was Tiberius, the man who was supposed to protect her. To save her even when she couldn’t be saved. He was the man who was supposed to love her even when she didn’t love herself.

And yet he stood there and told her that she could destroy the world.

“Do you know what this room is?” he asked.

She did, of course. She’d helped supervise the team that had designed it. One of the sad facts of political life in the shadow world was the occasional need to keep a captive. And when captives had the ability to transform to mist, airtight rooms were often required. More than that, rooms sometimes needed extra features. Such as the capability to incinerate. To completely destroy an enemy so no trace was left. Not even dust.

Giorgio had dragged them into that room and locked them in.

Now Tiberius stood on the outside with the power to either activate the incinerator or open the door.

“I know,” she said.

“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking. “But there are no second chances,” he said. “Not for something
like this. You can’t go back. I can’t risk it. I took an oath to protect my people, Caris. You know that.”

She clenched her hands, her eyes going to the pile of dust as she readied herself for the pain of the fire. The death she deserved. “I know.”

He pressed his hand to the glass, and she saw her own torment reflected in his eyes. She wanted to hate him for what he was about to do, but she couldn’t. All she could be was numb.

“I’m sorry,” he said.