Page 43 of The Salvation

To the right of the ruins, stagnant corpses drift along a slow-moving river, the banks framed by decaying vegetation.

Reaver gestures to the few shadowy figures lingering in the area. Upon closer examination, I determine they are born vampires. Ones who fell prey to the Waste Curse as we all did, but they have not met with my restorative deity hand. Because they chose to forsake and reject my Court of Hollows and live like masquerading sun-walkers.

Though they have fallen to the same decrepit state as that of my Court dwellers, I can judge they’ve taken more of an increased blood supply to preserve themselves. Similar corpse-like features with gaunt cheeks, once lustrous porcelain skin turned ashen and sickly, sunken eyes, and brittle hair. Their fangs, alone, remain intact and strong, which is why they’ve thrived above ground, surviving off the blood of willing captives as their venom evolved beyond their creator—after he stole Malachor’s fangs and blood to form his race. One legend spread that he or she mixed the venom of a serpent to bite their first victim.

It’s why bitten vampires hold the serpent as a sacred symbol. And why Malachor used the serpents as a means of torture. My choice of my Blood Crest and Court symbol was not bysimple chance. Whenever I look upon it, I’m reminded of that fateful night when I chose Kyan, ripped out all the fucking serpent fangs, and shot dozens of them straight into Malachor’s bloodstream to weaken him. I didn’t fight fucking fair. Not then. Not ever.

The mark of the serpents upon my little dove’s fair skin is simply another reminder of my greatest night of pain that became my ascension to the throne of the God of Blood.

“Wait here,” I command my brothers, as I would be a fool not to gather close intel first.

Drago snorts. “Why do you get all the fun?”

“Because the last thing you are, bellowing behemoth, is subtle. You’ll get to roar and cause as much ruckus as you want in due time. Mayce, control your reptile,” I finalize and depart, directing Reaver to follow while Drago’s muttering protests fade behind us. I’ll be keeping a close eye on the reborn vampire.

The thickets and trees mask our approach. I use the shadows to my advantage, passing the guards’ notice while isolating the area’s blood scents. Deviating down a forsaken dark corridor with Reaver at my side, I seek the surroundings where human blood clots the air the most.

“If this proves to be a trap of any kind, Reaver,” I warn him, speaking the low promise, “nothing will be left of your body for me to desecrate. And I will ensure your soul meets the same fate.”

“My Lord Merikh...” He nods to something behind me at the end of the long corridor.

We’re still canvassed in the shadows, but I narrow my eyes, making out the humans with their vacant expressions and the prominent fang marks along their necks. Both males and females wear long white outfits with capes that sweep to the floor. Some are as young as children. Vampires flank them—one for every six humans.

Once they’ve passed beyond view, Reaver whispers, “They’ve rounded up many humans from dwellings all over the regions, Lord Merikh. They’ve even trespassed into the restored realms to gather more.”

I growl under my breath. Restored realms—my brothers’ realms.

“And their goal?”

Reaver heaves a sigh, his eyes darkening with his confession, “They wish to resurrect Malachor.”

I open my lips in a silent snarl of retributive fury. “Impossible. I harnessed his soul myself. And hid it in the Hollows where none may tread. Not even the bloody Unseen god himself.”

Reaver shrugs, shifting his weight. “Their necromancer believes he has a way.”

Fuck. A necromancer is the last thing I need. Little matter. My brothers will handle the main hoard tonight. The necromancer ismine.

We dispatchthe outer guards first.

I preserve much of my strength and surrender the task to Drago and Mayce while reluctantly admitting how it was a wise choice to bring the Fae.

Reaver bashes one of the guards against the stone, crushing his skull before tearing into his throat. At least the bastard’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.

He never was.

I also must admit how Drago and Mayce work together is a feat worthy of respect. Mayce employs his steely vines tostrangle the vampires, forbidding them from making a sound or clotting their mouths with soil, rocks, moss, or anything within the hearty surroundings with which he has to work while Drago melts their skin and claws out their very hearts before his jaws close over the pulpy organs.

Mayce has no qualms about the bloody mess when the fiery god crushes his mouth in a smoldering kiss before shifting into his half-dragon form.

Fire and Earth. They fight and fuck in flawless synchronization.

Kyan and I do not work together. He attacks from the sky. I attack from the shadows. He creates violent storms as a means of chaos and fear. I am the storm breaking through the veins to destroy the blood. My victims do not have the opportunity to feel fear, much less scream, before they meet their demise. Unlike Malachor, I do not toy with my prey.

Only Quintessa.

Only Kyan.

The angel and I did not form a foundation of battling together. Our foundation was battling one another, followed by my torturing him, then fucking him. The torture and fucking exchanged so many times, we hardly knew when one ended, and the other began. Pain and pleasure, masochism and sadism, torture and lust—they wove such a tangled web within us, that we cannot exist without the extremes to this day. Nothing about our dynamic was mutual, slow, or balanced. It was survival. Survival that grew to hunger, need, and whatever form of fucked up, dark, and twisted love we hold for one another.

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