Page 79 of The Salvation

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Bartie approaching from the side of the court with Aislynn in his arms before handing her to Drago. My heart throbs, and all of me liquefies into a defeated mess of emotions at the thought of losing her. Reaver will go back on his word. He’ll bind me to that altar, probably put the crown upon my head, plunge the dagger into my heart, and spill my blood into the chalice.

He raises his hand to quiet the Court. A wicked, twisted smirk on his face. He glances at me. My heart digs a shallow grave. I lose all breath.

And then, he turns to the vampire I love. “Merikh, if you would be so kind...” he gestures to the altar.

Choking on my rushed breath because he would add insult to injury, I turn to gaze at Merikh. Tears sting my eyes as he advances to me—and sends a jolt into my very blood cell matterwhen he seizes the back of my neck and kisses me fierce and hard. There is something different in this kiss. Something in how he stokes my blood so powerfully, the adrenaline rears up and sparks within me. Not just a spark. This is more like an inferno—a raw power shooting through me that makes it seem like I’ve woken from an ancient sleep. Like I’m ready to fly off the side of a cliff.

When he finally pulls away, I gaze up at the vampire I love and narrow my eyes, bewildered. Such a black force in his eyes, it reminds me of the other night when he carried me to the depths of the Sea of Bones. But no luminescent lights grant me hope.

I turn around, prepared to let Merikh guide me onto those bloodstones. Only for him to twist me to the side, step in front of me, and take his place on the altar instead. My eyes widen. Menacing shadows deepen his eyes—as if he is absorbing all the darkness in the Court of Hollows.

“What?” I ask in a stunned breath.

“Why, Merikh, don’t tell me you never shared the details with her...” Reaver clicks his tongue in a mockery of an admonishment.

My nails scrap against the altar’s edge as I gaze down at him. “Merikh, what’s going on? What’s happening?” What didn’t he share? Veins pulsate in his forehead with wrath and turmoil festering in his eyes. I feel every ounce of those emotions, his dangerous energy. And yet, my blood heats up more.

While Merikh says nothing—only pierces me with those slits of eyes—Reaver approaches from the side and pats my cheek. I stiffen as he remarks, “You are quaint to believe you would be a vessel for Malachor’s resurrection, Your Highness. But you have half a soul. And since the God of Blood simply requires a soulless vessel?—”

“No!” My chest lurches, arms straining, but Reaver already hauls me back, away from Merikh. Ripples of laughter echo all over the Court.

A burst of pain in my hand freezes me in my tracks, and I look down to find the traitorous bastard clutching the dagger—now dripping with my blood—before gripping my palm and trickling the blood into the chalice resting on the altar. All I can do is stare at Merikh, his hell-bound determination but also the defeated weight of his shoulders betraying their resignation.

Tension thickens the air. The Court vampires are restless, the energy practically crackling in the air—their bloodlust and hunger for sport on full display.

When Reaver finishes straining my blood into the chalice, he shoves me hard, and I catch myself on the altar’s edge. Catching Merikh’s hand, I gaze down at the true God of Blood, the true Lord of the Court of Hollows. An undercurrent of sorrow lingers beneath all his primal wrath and predatory broodiness.

With tears streaming down my eyes, I trail my bloodied fingertips across his scars and plead, “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracks.

Out of the corner of my eye, Reaver cuts his own hand, adding his blood to the chalice with a flourish before he takes the dagger to Merikh’s palm on the opposite side. I feel the weight of the ominous eyes of the Court, the vampires leaning in as Reaver sheds my vampire’s blood into the chalice.

But all I see is Merikh. And the gravity of the painful truth he has kept from me held in the abyss of his eyes. “Because you always perform best when kept in the dark, little dove.” I almost buckle. “Perhaps we are similar that way.”

A hint of something tugs on one corner of his lips like a wicked smirk. How could he possibly smirk at a time like this? My blood overheats, sizzling in my veins. Whether it’s his doing or my own feminine fury toward him, I can’t tell.

“Quintessa...” He steadies his gaze upon mine while Reaver mixes all three blood sources in the chalice and approaches Merikh’s face. “If you’d known, you may not have come out of the Hollows. We both know I couldn’t take that risk. I’ve played this out as long as possible, hoping for another way. But sometimes, there is no other way.”

A grueling ache throbs in my chest. That can’t be true. After all this time, three curses broken and ended, our daughter, everything we’ve shared since the moment I stabbed Drago in those woods...it can’t all have led to this. It can’t all be in vain.

As Reaver places the rim of the chalice against Merikh’s mouth, commanding him to drink, I briefly scan the Court, expecting some guttural incantations or Reaver to chant some ancient ceremonial words.

On the opposite side of the Court, closer to the obsidian arched entrance, my other three monstrous boys stand, observing with jaws harder than diamonds. Kyan is holding Aislynn, and my lips part with the recognition. Because if we need to run, he will get her away from the Court of Hollows faster than any other while Mayce and Drago protect their retreat.

If I die tonight, at least she will live. All my hopes rest on Reaver living up to his end of the bargain after Malachor rises.

Merikh devours the blood in the chalice, swallowing it in one gulp.

An inferno tears through my blood, urging me to run. I should. But Merikh’s hand in mine has become a cruel and heavy anchor. No matter how much my heart pounds in my chest, battering against the rib cage to escape, I can’t move.

A sadistic gleam manifests in Reaver’s eyes as he places the now empty chalice and the bloody dagger on each side of Merikh’s body. All his muscles have turned to steel, his wings flaring upon that altar. Every vein in his body throbs.

My breath hitches as Reaver takes up the crown. The final piece. While the Court hangs on the edge of their seats, on a macabre precipice as sharp as that brutal dagger’s edge, all I see is the jewel. A raw energy that was not awake before now pulsates inside it with a terrible shimmer.

Blood needs no chants or incantations An extension of the soul, blood becomes.

“Quintessa...” Merikh summons me. “Run. Run now, little dove.”

Reaver doesn’t object. Nothing but that twisted, malicious grin as he advances to Merikh holding the humming crown. The jewel gleams brighter the closer it gets to the God of Blood’s head.

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