Chapter Nineteen
Seb’s body went numb, his brain like a block of ice. Inside he was screaming in white-hot agony, but outside, all he could do was stare. Before him was the last face he’d expected to see—the first he’d beheld after his gruesome death.
Ancient Egypt. When Seb was born, Egypt was new, fresh, and vibrant. The great pyramid of Khufu was already towering nearby as he grew into a strong young man.
He’d wanted to be a peacekeeper, like his father before him. It was all he’d wanted to be. The day he donned the badge of Ma’at, the god of truth and justice, for the city of Ineb-hedj, was the happiest of his life.
A life that sharply changed directions when, a few years later, he gave up his badge to become a warrior in Pharaoh’s army, marching to his god-king’s drum.
The day Pharaoh declared war on a much more powerful enemy started auspiciously enough. Four divisions strode out to meet them, Pharaoh himself leading Seb’s division. Pride had burst in Seb’s chest as Pharaoh, tall and strong, struck out in front. His division had quickly outpaced the rest, marching leagues ahead of the lesser troops—until they were ambushed.
Instead of retreating, Pharaoh called his small army to meet the challenge. Pharaoh’s profile was noble as he roused the troops with his speech. He instilled certainty and purpose in Seb’s breast.
When Seb charged alongside his brothers, he was supremely confident they would win the day, despite being severely outnumbered.
The fight was bloody and grim. Seb slashed and hacked with every bit of the passion his god-king had instilled in him. He cut down enemy after enemy.
Still they came. Seb’s leather armor wasn’t enough to protect him. Swords sliced into his legs and knees, though the pain, the bleeding, barely distracted him. Then, surrounded, he missed blocking a hatchet to the spine.
The pain in his legs disappeared. His legs themselves seemed to disappear, and he fell.
Around him, his brothers lay dead and dying. It was the first he’d seen them in his battle haze.
Then, when the day was about to be lost, Seb’s god-king mounted his chariot. Roaring his defiance, Pharaoh rode into the thick of the enemy. His charge was berserk, slicing with such ferocity, he left only bits of flesh and sprays of blood on the sand.
He saved the day. Seb’s side won.
But Seb’s wounds festered, and he nearly died. Losing the use of his legs and more, he wished he had.
That was the beginning of the end for him.
He slid into darkness and despair. On the worst day of his life, he indulged in a set of four bearers to cart him around the city, and got roaring drunk.
Between one tavern and the next, in the dead of night, thieves attacked Seb. His bearers deserted him. Out of his head with grief and drink, he didn’t fight back as the thieves beat and robbed him.
Crying out to the gods, aching, destitute, lying in his own piss, he thought things couldn’t get worse.
A rogue vampire attacked him.
Seb died cold, terrified, and alone.
He woke to a ravaging bloodthirst—and a familiar, unexpected face looming over him, a male Seb had thought human.
His god-king was an ancient vampire.
“Hello, Seb.” Kai Elias, head of the Iowa Alliance and onetime Pharaoh over all Egypt, had a voice that made Seb think of standing in a cool grove of giant redwoods.
Seb had mixed feelings about Elias. Or Pharaoh or Marius or Alexei or whatever the hell he’d called himself over the ages. There was a time the Ancient One had been Seb’s role model and mentor. His strength of character, depth of understanding, and scope of knowledge was unsurpassed by any living being.
But he’d made a helluva lot of mistakes getting that understanding. Including on Seb.
“It’s been a long time,” Elias said.
Seb locked gazes with the male. “Not long enough.”
At the challenge, something glittered at the back of Elias’s eyes. As if something primeval had woken deep inside, something lethal. Seb shifted to the balls of his feet.
Elias’s glitter backed off to amused.
“Um.” Julian Emerson gave an uneasy cough. “You know each other?”
Seb spared a glance for the male. “When you share a little planet for four thousand years or so, you end up meeting everyone.” Immediately, his full attention returned to Elias, by far the deadliest threat in the room. “Why are you here, now?”
“A citywide festival, bringing in hordes of tourists, is an excellent time for vampires to meet and negotiate.”
“You mean parley.”
“Parley is for enemies.” Elias shrugged massive shoulders. “While I enjoy a good haggle as much as anyone, I hope I may call the Northwest vampires my friends.” He waved a hand at the lithe, shadowy male.
Seb nodded. He sensed the youngster was barely a couple of centuries, but he didn’t make the mistake of dismissing Blackthorne simply because of that. The male seemed to be made of shadow, and not because of his black hair and all-black attire. No, that darkness was something intrinsic, bred into his bones.
Or perhaps tragedy had beaten it there.
The shadowy male’s gaze on Seb was alert. “You’re an ancient, too.”
“You’re perceptive for a fledgling,” Seb retorted.
The male just grinned.
Then Elias’s eyes went to Brie. “Rikare, maybe you’d like to introduce your ma—”
“Associate,” Seb said quickly, cutting off the word “mate” before the other male gave it away. He hadn’t wanted Brie in on the council of war, but apparently these Meiers Corners vampires were soft on their females.
Julian’s mate was included; therefore, Brie was included.
Seb wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Glancing at her, Seb caught her frowning in concentration. He’d averted disaster for now, but she was smart. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out what was going unsaid.
And when she did, he wasn’t sure how she’d take it. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how he should take it. Only that it was fact.
When Elias introduced Camille as Ms. Lebeau, Seb pretended he didn’t know her. He thanked everything that Brie was wise enough to play along.
Although, from the shadow of a smile on Elias’s lips, they weren’t fooling the ancient.
Seb had more important things to worry about. But staring at the newly arrived Elias, memory assailed him. “You. When Officer Keydew left town because someone was coming he didn’t want to meet, that was you.”
“Officer Keydew?” Elias’s dark eyes actually widened a fraction—and then a tiny smile played on his lips. “Ah, my old trickster friend. What first name was he using, Norbert? Nate? I hope he wasn’t too difficult.”
“He was annoying. Dropping hints without really saying anything.”
“Yes. That’s Keydew.”
As Emerson asked to convene the meeting, Seb led his mate…led Brie around the table to the opposite side from Elias, easing into a chair across from his ex-god-king. When everyone was seated, Seb said, “We have a problem.”
“When don’t we?” Nixie Emerson muttered.
“A real problem. There’s a Soul Stealer in town.” About to name Cleomenes, Seb stopped when Elias’s gaze sharpened on him.
Seb knew the nuances of that black gaze. Anger stabbed him at what he read there. “You expected it?”
“It was always a possibility, after the first.”
So, no, Elias hadn’t known. Simply suspected, as he suspected everything. Seb glowered at the insufferable male. “Yeah, well, Cleomenes is insane. We need to eliminate him.”
“Why do all these guys have such fucked-up names?” Nixie mused. “Nosferatu, Ruthven, Cleomenes? Why aren’t vampires named Bob?”
“How can we eliminate him?” Blackthorne’s gaze narrowed at Seb. “Soul Stealers are indestructible.”
Julian Emerson shook his black head. “We destroyed one once—but it took a highly specialized team of tightly focused vampires and humans. It nearly killed us all. It did kill some of us.”
Elias said, “The original team is dispersed about the globe. We might be able to create a new team, but the first Soul Stealer had a particular weakness. Cleomenes may not. For now, I don’t think a team is a viable solution.”
“Dude,” Nixie said. “Viable solution? You’ve been taking syllable lessons from Julian. Double points for viable.”
Emerson glanced at his wife then leaned toward Elias. “If we can’t fight him, we should evacuate the Alliance households.”
“That may not be enough,” Seb said. “This Soul Stealer has an agenda beyond simple power or destruction. I don’t know what, but it has to do with someone he calls Shadow Lord.”
“Wait.” Emerson’s blue gaze came to him, intense. “A Soul Stealer is a made ancient, right? If you’re over four thousand years old, you’re an ancient, too. Why don’t you just fight him?”
“Ancient against ancient,” Elias said. “Seb might lose. In which case, this Soul Stealer would learn advanced fighting techniques he’d otherwise not know, and become even harder to defeat.”
“Don’t you mean ‘additionally more laborious to obliterate’?” Nixie needled.
Elias slanted her a black glance.
She gave him a grin and a shrug, but she subsided.
Seb found himself wishing he could package Elias’s ability, for the times he’d need a surefire win, arguing with Brie.
Arguing with her. He was looking forward to that.
That brought him up short. Sex, yes. Working alongside her, maybe. But he was looking forward to arguing with her?
Mating was weird.
“One ancient might lose.” Seb locked gazes with Elias. “But two stand a much better chance. How about it? You, me, Soul Stealer beat-down? We can take him together.”
“Like the old days? The thought has merit,” Elias mused. “Unfortunately, there are two problems with that. I would enjoy fighting at your side again, but with this male, I cannot.”
Surprise registered around the table in slight gasps.
Seb also pulled in a shocked breath, but for a different reason. Elias’s speech pattern had changed to something older, ritualistic. His reason was going to be locked in vampire tradition.
Fucking tradition.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Seb said. “Why can’t you fight him?”
“First, because as a head of state, I cannot fight another head of state without essentially starting a war.”
“Ouch,” Nixie said.
“Second, I made a promise long ago that stays my hand. A promise made to a desperate, pregnant woman not to harm her baby’s father.”
Elias had an ego like Jupiter, but his word was bond. Seb almost respected him for that.
But this needed to end. He met Elias’s black gaze, knowing the ancient could read his intentions. Then I’ll try to kill this Soul Stealer. I’ll appreciate any support the Alliance can give me—but I will see this through to the end, whatever that end might be.
After his near-defeat at O’Hare, he wasn’t easy about it.
Elias nodded, a single dip of his black head. He’d read Seb’s intent loud and clear.
Out loud, Seb said, “Elias—if you can personally look after Brie, that would help.”
“Of course.”
“I can look after myself,” Brie ground out. “And you’re not fighting that asshole without me.”
Seb’s attention snapped to her neck-wrenchingly fast. She’d understood, too?
“You promised not to harm Cleomenes?” Beyond her, Blackthorne’s eyes were narrowed on Elias, but his gaze was turned inward as if searching his brain. “But you made that promise about Nosfer…fuck.”
Blackthorne leaped to his feet, fast enough to blast his chair onto its back behind him. “I claim the right to fight him. Cleomenes is mine.”
“No.” Seb scowled at the youngster. “You’re no match for him.”
“I defeated him once. I can do it again.”
“I heard about the Battle of Linesville. But Cleomenes isn’t the decrepit old has-been he was then. He’s pumped up on ancient blood, and someone’s taught him a helluva lot of advanced fighting tricks.”
Mildly, Elias said, “Blackthorne is disciplined and has trained in a thousand and one forms of mayhem. I know it’s a risk—”
“A risk? Not for Cleomenes. Nearly indestructible, remember? He’ll simply outlast Blackthorne’s technique and discipline, then bite his head off.”
Elias raised one black brow, a trick he had that had made even popes question their infallibility.
Seb threw his hands into the air in disgust. “Why do I even argue with you? You’ve been ancient so long you don’t even remember being personally vulnerable. Risk,” he spat disgustedly. “The word means nothing to you.”
This was just like Elias, exactly why Seb mistrusted him. Pharaoh boldly charged into impossible situations, but he was nearly immortal—when his troops were not.
Elias was all about the glory of battle, fighting against seemingly overwhelming odds. But the game was rigged. Pharaoh would win, no matter what happened to the pawns.
Seb had been a pawn. He’d trusted his god-king and followed him into battle—and had gotten the legs taken out from under him. Yes, Elias had taken Seb in when he woke as a vampire and trained him in the ways of the night. Yes, Seb would have died the second death if not for that. Pharaoh had also sentenced Seb to living thousands of lonely years. Not much of a gift.
None of it excused the fact that it was Elias who’d lost Seb everything in the first place.
“There’s another problem.” Camille spoke for the first time. “You’re forgetting Cleomenes is Blackthorne’s maker.”
“Fuck.” Seb turned, incredulous, on Blackthorne. “You didn’t think to remind us of that little issue?”
Problem was an understatement. The maker’s blood coursing in a youngling’s veins made the new vampire highly susceptible to the maker’s commands. “You can’t fight Cleomenes if he made you.”
“‘Made’ isn’t the way I’d put it. He slaughtered orphan boys.” Blackthorne’s eyes gleamed with old anger and pain. “Raised the ones who made the transition as his own private assassins.”
About to snarl another objection, Seb caught the steel in the other male’s voice. “It’s personal?”
“The worst kind of personal.”
Slowly, Seb shut his mouth. Blackthorne’s situation resonated inside him—Pharaoh had used his men like Cleomenes used the young male. Although Seb hadn’t been abused, too. Still, he had to admire the young male’s grit.
Though that grit would get Blackthorne killed.
“This is ridiculous.” Emerson shook his head. “Go up against an ancient? Defy his maker? There’s no way.”
“There is one way,” Elias said.
The emotions roiling around the table, anger, fear, resentment—all froze in shocked silence.
Then Emerson roared, “What? Why have you withheld this? We could have used the information the first time, when Gravloth nearly wiped us out.”
“I said nothing for many reasons.” Elias shrugged, but Seb recognized the angry glitter in the back of his dark gaze. He wouldn’t like what was coming. “It is…taboo.”
“I don’t care if it’s illegal,” the lawyer said.
“It is also dangerous. And fatal for the donor.” Elias locked eyes with Seb.
Seb’s blood chilled. He really wouldn’t like what was coming. “What?”
One corner of Elias’s lips raised, the ghost of a smile. “Blackthorne is young, but as I said before, he’s disciplined. Disciplined enough to head the Northwest vampires—and disciplined enough to not go utterly insane drinking ancient blood.”
Drinking ancient blood. Gazes met around the table as the information was digested.
Seb’s gut churned ice cubes. Taboo, dangerous, possibly fatal… Elias was talking about—
“You want to make Blackthorne a Soul Stealer?” Brie gasped.
Emerson’s expression was part disbelief, part astonishment. “Where are we finding a nice, compliant ancient who’ll let him drink him to death?”
“You volunteering?” Nixie added.
“It might not be to the death,” Elias said.
“That’d be worse.” Camille shook her head. “He’d be able to find you anywhere through the blood sense. Maybe even control you.”
Each donor’s blood smell/taste was unique, but more, the blood-taste…resonated, for lack of a better word. Using that resonance, a vampire could more easily compel a donor.
Even if that donor was a vampire, resting in the soil and helpless.
An elder taking a youngster’s blood to control him was one thing. Ancients sharing their blood with a youngster? Never.
“He’d have to drink your heart’s blood,” Seb blurted. “Drain you, to give him any kind of chance against Cleomenes. Fuck, Elias. Your blood might not kill Blackthorne, but losing all of yours would definitely kill you.”
Elias’s smile never wavered. “Yes. But as I cannot fight Cleomenes, do you see a better option?”
Seb blinked. Pharaoh was no sacrificial lamb. It didn’t make sense…unless Elias was really asking Seb to step up instead.
“Me. You want me to let Blackthorne suck my heart’s blood.” Gods. Fighting Cleomenes, knowing he’d probably die—even dying itself was actually less scary than what Elias was asking of him. Horror ripped past his centuries of discipline to seize him, and he grabbed the table to steady himself, with a hand that trembled.
Brie’s arm stole around his waist, bracing him. She whispered, “He drinks directly from your heart?”
She was worried for him. He loved her for that. Running a caressing hand along her hair, he shook his head. “It’s a euphemism for our most potent blood.”
“There’s so much I don’t know. Can I ask you later?”
“I look forward to it.” If there was a later.
She smiled tremulously.
But her smile faded as she turned to Elias. “Why does it have to be one or the other? If two ancients have a better chance to defeat the Soul Stealer than one—can’t you both do this heart’s blood thing?”
A slight tilt of Elias’s black head signaled his pleased surprise. “Yes. Well, theoretically. It’s never been tried. But it’s an idea. Time would tell whether it’s a good idea.” He turned his attention to Seb. “If we both donate, that would give Blackthorne more than enough power. And it probably wouldn’t kill us.”
“Only age and incapacitate us,” Seb retorted.
“For as long as Blackthorne keeps the blood, yes. But after he defeats Cleomenes, he can allow us to drink from him, essentially returning our power to us.”
“For the gods’ sake, what about Blackthorne?” Fury scoured Seb’s breast. Elias has a fucking answer for everything, said with that damned smug ancient almost-smile. “What will happen to his mind, drinking from not one, but two ancients?”
“Blackthorne’s right here,” the youngster muttered.
Seb turned his anger and irritation on him. “Drinking ancient blood drove Cleomenes to the edge of sanity, and he’s over two thousand years old. What will it do to you, a vampire less than five hundred years dead?”
“Discipline isn’t age-dependent,” Elias replied with another tiny shrug.
“You fucker.” Seb’s attention cut back to Elias, and he let his vampire show, a dangerous challenge as the male was over twice his age, but Seb was too furious to care. “You haven’t changed. You’re still sending others to do your dirty work. To die for you.”
“Am I?” Elias’s reply was mild, a mere breath, but his eyes gleamed.
“You’re wrong.” Blackthorne tapped the table to try to reclaim their attention. “This is my fight. I made a promise to take that bastard out. I swore to it.”
“A sworn promise, you see?” That damned almost-smile. “His honor is at stake. We wouldn’t want to take that away from him, would we?”
“If it’s insane? Yes we would, or at least anyone with half a conscience would. That bastard Cleomenes is his master—”
“Not a problem,” Blackthorne cut in, too stupid or too invested to be wary of interrupting his elders.
Snarling, Seb sliced him a red glare that would’ve killed a mortal.
Brie’s fingers snaked into his fist, her bracelets jangling. Seb’s snarl faded, along with some of his irritation.
Strange, when the sound had always meant irritation before.
“Cleomenes being my master is an advantage here,” Blackthorne insisted. “He trained me. I know everything he knows, and more besides. Look, I understand your objections, and I’m grateful you don’t want me to bear the risk. But I promised the next time he threatened me or mine, there’d be no gangs and no lieutenants. Just him and me. I promised to destroy him.” Blackthorne’s tone was pure grit. “And I keep my promises.”
“What other options are there?” Elias spread his hands. “We could form an army to fight Cleomenes, but he would almost certainly form one as well. Casualties on both sides would be high, with no promise of a win. I could fight Cleomenes, but my promise would make me hold back. I’d die, and if he learned any new techniques from me during the fight, you’d be worse off than before. You can fight him, but with his stolen blood he is almost your equal. On any day, luck or treachery could more than even the score.”
And if Seb died, Brie might too, if she’d bonded.
Elias left unsaid the only possible conclusion. If we both give Blackthorne blood, he will be strong, stronger than Cleomenes. He will win.
“I’ll make it an official challenge,” Blackthorne said. “A Challenge Fight in front of his gang. He can’t back out without losing any credibility he has.”
Elias nodded. “Good idea.”
Seb stared at Elias. “You don’t want it?”
“Want what?”
“You don’t want to avoid the risk, and you don’t want the glory?”
Even the shadow of the ancient male’s smile disappeared as he leaned on the table toward Seb. “What I want,” he said clearly, “is for all our people to be safe. The best chance for success with minimal casualties is for you and me to pick a warrior champion and blood him in the ancient rite of Transfiguration.”
Seb blinked. This wasn’t at all the Elias he knew. Pharaoh grabbed the glory and foisted off the risk on others. This Elias was stepping aside to let another male take the glory? Helping him to take it? More, helping him to take it by giving up his own ancient invulnerability? It would mean, for the first time in eons, Elias could actually die the final death.
Ephemerals changed, sure. Was it possible ancient vampires could, too?
“What is your answer, Seb Rikare?” Elias’s black eyes gleamed. “Are you in?”